Her Own Best Enemy (The Remnants, Book 1) (9 page)

Good. Keith uttered a silent thanks to the bird who had broken the moment, then nodded, a firm snap of his head to let himself, as well as Grace, know that all conversation was officially over. “We’d better keep moving.”

She agreed by silently righting her backpack along her shoulders.

A few more hours and she’d hopefully have her son back. He’d take them all back to the lodge, they’d go back to their lives, and he’d continue on with his mission to see The Keeper rot in prison.

He’d never have to see her again. And he’d most definitely never have to wonder what it would have been like to kiss her.

Grace’s legs trembled in gratitude as Phantom Ranch came into view. Nestled in the valley at the base of the Grand Canyon, the eleven rustic cabins provided a refuge from the desert, surrounded by bubbling creeks lined with lush cottonwood trees.

Her shoulders and calves burned and her entire body felt drenched with sweat, but they’d made it.

She wanted to shout in relief. Call Ryker’s name into the rustling wind. He was here. Mark had brought him here to hide. She felt it in the anticipation that fisted in her stomach and sped through her heart.

Her aching feet pushed her into a run. Which cabin? Where to start?

“Grace.”

Keith’s shout brought her up short. She turned to look at him and her eyes stuttered across his own shadowed ones then slid to his grim mouth, which could have been chiseled in granite for the emotion lacking between the thin lines of his lips.

“You can’t just start barging into people’s cabins.”

He was right, of course.

A fact that irritated her almost as much as the smoldering look he’d given her back on the trail. She refused to think sexual chemistry could even be a possibility between them. A smile, a tease, hazel eyes filled with longing and desire...none of those things changed Keith’s fraudulent heart.

She followed him to Phantom Ranch’s lobby where Keith summoned the owner.

The portly man appeared behind the desk, his black hair and red skin hinting at a Native American heritage. “How can I help you?”

Grace clutched the counter, her fingertips digging into the scarred wood. “I’m looking for my son and his father. I believe they’re guests here.”

The owner shook his hair out of his eyes. “Name?”

“Um, Mark Stevens.”

His dark eyes squinted at the logbook on his desk. “I’m sorry. He’s not registered here.”

Her heart plummeted to her stomach.
No.
She couldn’t be wrong. She’d wasted an entire day...

She blinked to clear the fuzz crowding her vision, but fatigue and dehydration caused nausea to swirl up from her stomach.

Keith’s strong hand splayed across her back. From the echo that reverberated in her brain came his sharp, no-nonsense voice.

“It’s possible he’s registered under another name. There’s an issue of...ah...custody here and apparently the father took the boy on an unauthorized trip. She’s just trying to bring him home. Honey, do you have Ryker’s picture?”

Honey? Startled at the endearment, her gaze snapped to Keith’s. He shot her a reassuring smile and she shook off her unease with a nod as she turned to dig Ryker’s photo out of her backpack.

She slid it across to the owner. “He’s...eight,” she said with a crack in her voice.

The man nodded and rubbed his crooked nose. “I do recognize him. He was traveling with a man, I’d say he was in his late thirties. Never did get his name since he didn’t have a reservation. Paid a week’s lodging in cash for cabin three.”

Cabin three.

As soon as the words were out of the man’s mouth, Grace dropped her backpack and reeled for the door.

“Grace, wait!”

Keith’s sharp command didn’t slow her down. He couldn’t possibly understand she couldn’t wait another minute to see her son.

It was empty.

Keith clenched his fist around the key he’d gotten off the owner and surveyed the barren cabin with growing irritation.

They’d hiked away most of the day. And the damn room was empty.

Grace turned circles in the middle of the room, pressing a fist to her mouth.

“We must have the wrong room.” Desperation clogged her voice. Her eyes widened, fear and hope mingling in their cloudy green depths. “The owner said cabin three, right?” she asked. “This—this must not be the right cabin.”

She rushed past him.

“No, Grace.” He turned to grab her arm but she shook him off and ran onto the tiny porch.

She traced the number beside the door.

“Room three.” She blinked. “Room three.” Her face crumbled, tears spiking her bottom lashes. “But the owner said...”

He fisted his hands at his side, itching to...do something. Smash the flimsy knotty pine wall. Shout in frustration. Comfort her.

No way, not comfort her. What did he know about comfort?

He took a quick inventory of the room’s offerings. A pair of bunk beds along one wall with a small dresser and what looked like a closet on opposite ends, a miniature kitchenette behind him, and a door off to his far right that had to lead to a bathroom.

“He said Mark had paid for the week. Not that they were still here.”

“No.” She straightened, her eyes lit with desperate fire. “He has to be here.”

She dashed to the bathroom where she flung open the flimsy door. Her jaw worked and she shook her head until her eyes homed in on the bunk. She ran to it and tore off the ugly mustard blanket covering the bottom bed. Next, the crisp white sheets hit the floor. She gripped the mattress and flipped it, revealing the springs underneath.

She cried out and raced to the dresser where she yanked on the doors and sent them crashing to the scarred wooden floor, one by one.

His heart twisted. What was she doing to herself? She knew Ryker couldn’t be in the
there
. Damn it, the woman was going to have a breakdown if she didn’t—

“Stop.”

Her head jerked toward him at the sound of his rough command. She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Grace...” He held out his hands in a foolish, woefully inept attempt to console her. How could he do so effectively when he’d never been the recipient of such an act?

She spun away from him and stumbled to the closet. Her fingers curled around the handle, she froze and drew a shuddering breath.

Oh, hell, she wasn’t just looking for her son. She was looking for his body.

“Grace, let me—”

She shook her head and before he could reach her, yanked the door open. A cry strangled past her lips.

He leapt the remaining distance and pushed her aside.
Not the kid. God, not the kid.

He dragged his gaze to the bottom of the closet.

On the floor sat a bright red backpack, a whale key fob threaded through the zipper. Grace reached for it, her movements mechanical and stiff. She crushed the pack to her chest, her fingers digging into the coarse canvas. “Ryker’s.”

He looked away, unable to bear the sheer heartbreak on her face. He’d told her not to get her hopes up. Told her despite the odds, they may not find Ryker today.

But she’d been so certain, so damned determined. They’d wasted the day, coming up tired and empty-handed. Back at square one.

And Grace...

His eyes drifted to her, his stomach clenched, unwanted protectiveness welling inside him. He tried to force the tightness aside, but it grew and grew, forming a lump in his throat.

She buried her face in the front of the backpack, sobs wracking her body.

He touched her arm, running his thumb along it in an effort to soothe her shaking. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

“I was so sure...” She lifted her head, green eyes drenched with bewilderment locking on him. “Where could he be?”

Her knees buckled. He caught her around the shoulders and cushioned her drop to the floor.

His chin brushed the top of her head. “We’ll find him.”

The fervency in his voice surprised him. Even more so, the conviction that sprung in his heart.

“We’ll get him back.” He gathered her in his arms. “Safe and sound.”

She clutched the front of his shirt, burying her face at his shoulder. Hot tears leaked through the fabric. He stroked her back, feeling the bulk of the backpack crushed between them shift with his movements.

He rocked her side to side, remembering as a kid the way he’d once seen his neighbors locked in such an embrace after a devastating loss. Soothing. Consoling.

And yet, so foreign. Awkward.

She looked up into his face, her eyes a mask of confusion and need. He needed too. Needed to touch her.

His fingers skimmed her jaw, brushing away the wetness he found there. He traced her cheekbones, her smooth skin gliding beneath the roughness of his own.

“Keith...”

She’d never once complained. Not about the heat. Not about the steep trail. She’d even put up with his deliberate silent treatment. Never giving up, never losing faith, she was infuriating and tough. He respected that. Admired her determination and desired...

What?

Her.

His head snapped back.
Damn.

The thought dislodged from his brain and he couldn’t get rid of it. Blood roared through his veins. He wanted to taste her.

Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. “I don’t think...” Her voice wavered to a stop.

He couldn’t kiss her. It was wrong. Inappropriate.

But he needed to do it.

He cupped her chin, tilting her face. “Don’t wimp out on me now.”

He slid his hand across her jaw to cradle the back of her head and crushed his lips to hers. She tasted of sadness and salty tears, two things that pricked his conscience, but her soft, warm lips pushed him over the edge and made him forget all about his rigid principles. He deepened the kiss. With a flick of his tongue he coaxed her lips to part.

She should stop him. Slap him. Do something to stop this madness. He’d do it himself...in a moment.

Her tongue touched his, lighting a fire deep inside him. He pushed his hands through her hair, the silky strands sifting through his fingers as he angled her head back, devouring her mouth, exploring it with his tongue.

What the hell was he doing?

The thought ripped through him, his sense of right and wrong beating him over the head. He’d crossed the line. Comfort was one thing. Taking advantage of her distress an entirely different—and loathsome—matter. He nipped her bottom lip, allowing himself one last taste before pushing her away.

Their ragged breaths mingled in the silence.

She bent her head, hiding an intriguing glimpse of desire mixed with guilt and heartsickness. “Don’t do that again.” Her ragged voice was tempered with a confusing mix of steel, but it didn’t keep him from wanting to kiss her again…and again and again.

No. He couldn’t let himself slip that way ever again. He had a job to do. His name, his career was on the line. What in the hell was he doing kissing Grace and forgetting, for even one moment, what he was here to do?

“You looked like you needed it.” He knew he should apologize, but couldn’t summon the regret. She’d needed the solace, maybe not in the way he’d given it, but that’s the only kind he knew how to give.

“I don’t need anything from you. Except to find Ryker.”

“Fine by me.” Ryker’s backpack lay on the floor between them where it had fallen when they’d—yeah, he didn’t need a reminder of what they’d just done, lest he become tempted to do it again. He tipped his head to the pack. “Look inside it.”

Grace reached out a shaky hand and scooped the backpack off the floor. The zipper groaned in the tense silence. He held his breath, hoping the odds were stacked in their favor and they’d luck out with a clue.

She sighed, staring into the large compartment. “Wildlife magazines. God, Ryker loves those. A flashlight.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

He exhaled. “Try the front.”

She yanked the next zipper open and stuck her hand inside the smaller pouch. Her eyes shot to his. She withdrew a thin object and held it up. A credit card? He squinted. No, not a credit card.

A cardkey.

Tense excitement raced through him. They had a lead.

“Recognize it?”

She palmed the thin strip of plastic. “No.”

“Any idea what it goes to?”

“Never seen it before.”

“It’s not Ryker’s?”

“No. He doesn’t need a key for anything.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “Damn.”

“What do we do now?”

“Whatever that key is for, it has to be important. Its gotta be Mark’s.”

Finally, a solid lead. The key wasn’t the right type for a lockbox or a padlock. Not to mention the fact that it was too high tech to belong to something ordinary like a safety deposit box. Which meant it had to belong to an office or some other facility where Mark kept important files. Like research. Evidence.