Montana Wildfire (44 page)

Jake stiffened, his gaze narrowed. A long, tense minute ticked past. Another. A third.

Amanda's eyes remained closed, her face sleep-softened and relaxed, her breathing light and even. As he watched, a smile tugged at her lips. He felt his gut twist, his curiosity perk. Was she dreaming about him? And... dammit, did he really want to know if she wasn't? God, no!

She was still asleep, and right now that was all Jake wanted to know. All he
needed
to know. There'd be hell to pay if she woke up now and caught him sneaking out like a thief in the night. To say she would be angry would be an understatement.

If she caught him leaving, Amanda would undoubtedly be furious. She would demand an explanation and, not that Jake wouldn't have given her one—he would have—but he didn't have time to waste pacifying her. Not now. Not until after he'd found Roger Thornton Bannister III.

It was time the kid was found and returned to his father. No, it was
past
time.

The vow Jake had made upon awakening held firm. From here on out, he was following those tracks alone. Whether Amanda liked it or not, he was leaving her behind. For her own good. There was the extra set of prints now, along with the direction they were heading. No, as far as he was concerned, the situation was getting too damn dangerous, and he simply wasn't willing to risk her life anymore. Common sense said that anyone desperate enough to kidnap a kid was capable of anything. Survival instinct made a cornered rat bite... and a cornered
man
shoot.

Jake planned on cornering Roger's kidnapper—he'd do whatever it took to get the kid back and uphold his promise to Amanda—but there was no way he was going to let her get caught in the cross fire. No goddamn way!

His gaze scanned Amanda one last time. Then he sighed and hoisted the heavy saddlebag higher on his shoulder. The contents rattled as the worn leather bag slapped against his back. Careful to avoid any creaking floorboards, he crept to the door and quietly let himself out of the room.

Dawn was breaking over the mountainous, snowcapped horizon when, ten minutes later, Jake stepped onto the slatted boardwalk outside the hotel. He barely glanced at the pink-and-purple-streaked sky as he swaggered toward the stables.

His thoughts refused to leave a certain second floor hotel room. He couldn't stop thinking about the lady—the
white
lady—he'd left behind.

He told himself the separation would be short. This time. With any luck, the outcome of what he was about to do would be successful. What he couldn't understand was why, if that was true, he felt an unfamiliar squeeze in the region of his chest—an inexplicable, painful sensation that seemed to increase with each step that carried him away from Amanda Lennox.

Jake didn't analyze the feelings pumping through him—he pushed them aside and buried them. He concentrated on the sound of his denim pants legs brushing together, on the jostle of wagons or the muted voices in doorways. He concentrated on anything to take his mind off wondering why leaving Amanda hurt so badly.

The answer was there—simmering inside of him, just beneath the surface—but it was an emotion he wasn't ready to feel, let alone acknowledge. Not now. Not for a white lady. Not ever... if he was smart. That was half the problem. Because Jake had been questioning his intelligence ever since he'd taken his first step into that icy river days ago. Since he didn't like the answers he was coming up with, he wondered instead what Amanda's reaction would be when she woke up and found him gone.

"Gone? What do you mean he's gone?"

"Jesus, lady, don't you understand English?" The rotund, middle-aged clerk who was standing behind the desk didn't glance up from the three-week-old newspaper he was reading as he spoke. The limp paper rattled as he turned the page and, in an annoyed tone of voice, added, "Last time I'm going to say it. Your—er—
friend's
gone. Checked out.
Left-the-hotel."

A shiver of alarm coursed down Amanda's spine. As always happened when she was upset, her tone lifted and took on a haughty pitch. "Obviously, there's been some mistake. Jake wouldn't leave without telling me. He—well, he just wouldn't."

One corner of the newspaper sagged. A dark, bushy brow slanted high in the clerk's forehead as his gaze raked her from head to toe. The grin that curled over his lips was condescending and cold. "I hate to be the one to point this out to you, honey, but obviously he did."

"When?"

"How the hell should I know?" The clerk sighed heavily, snapped the paper closed, and slammed it down on the scarred oak desk with his fist. "Early, would be my guess. He was gone by the time I got here, so it would have to have been before eight."

Her eyes widened. Before eight? But that was
three hours ago!
Jake could be miles away by now, heading in who knew what direction. While she might not be trail-smart, Amanda wasn't stupid. She knew the chance of her catching up with Jake were questionable at best—and her chances of finding him decreased with every minute he was gone... and she remained in Junction.

If she'd been alarmed before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. Gripping her saddlebag in trembling fists, she glared at the middle-aged man. No, more correctly she glared at a three-week-old headline, for he'd picked up his paper again and was ignoring her.

Amanda gritted her teeth and cleared her throat. When the man didn't so much as glance at her, she stepped to the side and glared at him. He didn't even blink, the scum. Finally, she said in her loudest, most intimidating voice,
"Excuse me...!"

His lips puckered with annoyance, but he continued to read.

Left with no alternative, Amanda snatched the newspaper from his hands.
That
got his attention! Too much of it, if his quivering jowls, angrily slitted brown eyes, and tightly clenched fists were anything to judge by. She tipped her chin high, and smiled a contemptuous smile that would have made Miss Henry beam. "I don't suppose you could tell me where
Mr. Chandler
went?"

The clerk was unimpressed. "I don't suppose you're going to give me my goddamn paper back?"

He reached for the paper, but Amanda held it out of reach. His growl of annoyance was almost feral. She tried not to cringe. "I'd be happy to...
after
you tell me where Mr. Chandler went."

The clerk planted his huge fists on the scarred oak desk and leaned toward her. His expression was hard and threatening. Amanda's resolve weakened, and she took an instinctive step back. His grin made her blood turn to ice.

"I don't know where he went, lady," the clerk said slowly and precisely. His meaty jowls shook with each tightly uttered word. "Nor do I give a rat's
a—er...
nor do I
care.
What I
do
care about is reading my paper. You've got five seconds to give that newspaper back to me. If you don't, then I'm coming around this desk after it."

He wouldn't dare. Would he? Lord, Amanda hoped not. And was it her imagination, or were the man's voluminous cheeks redder than normal? His eyes narrower and brighter? Yes, yes they were. Uh-oh.

Amanda swallowed hard and hugged both her saddlebag and the clerk's newspaper to her chest. Her innate cowardice was telling her belatedly that perhaps pushing this man wasn't in her best interest after all. Of course, the paper she crunched in her quivering fists said it was too late for second thoughts now. Not that she could afford to entertain any. She had to know where Jake went. She
had
to! And this obnoxious clerk was the only person who could tell her. Or so she hoped.

"Three... two..." He pushed away from the desk. "Better move quick, honey."

"Please, Mister..." Amanda hesitated. The man hadn't told her his name and, judging by his hard, tight expression, he wasn't going to. She quickly changed tactics. "It will only take you a minute to tell me where—"

"One. Time's up." He moved around the desk. For a big man, she thought his gait unusually agile. His boot-heels made loud thumps atop the plank floor, like reports of gunfire echoing through the small foyer, echoing through Amanda.

He rounded the corner and stalked toward her. She smelled him—the sour, chickeny odor of days-old sweat—long before he drew close. Her gaze dropped to the meaty fists he clenched at his side. Unless she'd horribly misjudged the man, he was at that mo
ment
giving strangling her serious consideration.

Amanda's throat constricted. The paper crinkled as she clutched it tighter still. "If
you
don't know where Mr. Chandler went, then perhaps you know of someone else who does?"

"Give me back my newspaper, lady."

"I told you,
after
you—"

"What? Strangle you? Yeah, keep pushing me and I might do exactly that. The paper..." He was six steps away. Five.

The saddlebag tumbled from Amanda's suddenly slack fingers. It fell to the floor at her feet with a heavy thump. Any courage she may have felt evaporated like steam when she saw this large, burly man stalking toward her. In her life, she'd never seen a sight so menacing. The hand not clutching the paper lost all its strength, and dropped limply to her side.

And that was when she felt it.

Her heart stuttered, her breath caught. Six months ago, she wouldn't have believed herself capable of contemplating what she was about to do next. She was contemplating it now, though, and contemplating it hard. She was also shaking like a leaf. But that was something she would have to get over in order to find Jake. And she
had
to find him. Surely this man could tell her where he'd gone, or tell her someone who could—or, at the very least, give her a hint as to what direction Jake had set out in! She was sure he could. That knowledge pumped through her, bolstering her courage. Not much, but a bit.

He was four steps away her now. Three. In a fraction of a second, he would be almost on top of her.

There was no more time to think. As it was, Amanda barely had time to react. Tossing the crumpled newspaper to the floor, she slipped her hand inside the pocket of her skirt. Her fingers wrapped around the butt of the pistol. Her arms felt liquidy as she aimed it—accurately, she hoped—at the man's barrel chest.

The clerk froze. His eyes narrowed until the angry brown depths were barely visible in the meaty folds of his face. Of course, there was no need for Amanda to
see
his eyes to know where his gaze was resting: on the pistol. She could
feel
his attention perk,
feel
the fury rolling off of him in tangible waves.

Though the gun trembled in her hand, her aim never wavered. She was glad the clerk's chest was so big; it gave her more of a target. At this distance, she would have to work to
miss
him. He must have been aware of that fact as well, for he didn't move an inch.

His gaze shifted past her, scanning the small foyer. Though noises sifted out from a room off to the right, the foyer itself was empty. No help would be forthcoming unless he hollered for it, and he didn't want to do that. It would be embarrassing to be caught on the business end of a pistol as it was; it would be downright humiliating to have anyone see that the pistol in question was being held in the hands of a
woman!

His hands came up, meaty palms out. "Listen, lady, I don't want trouble. Put that thing away."

"After you tell me where Mr. Chandler went."

His tongue darted out to moisten his fleshy lips. "I already told you. I-don't-know."

"And
I'm
telling
you,
I-don't-believe-you." It was true. Amanda hadn't believed him from the first; she believed him even less when she saw the way his cheeks took on a splotchy red hue. He was lying, she was positive of it. Goddamn him! He knew which direction Jake had headed out in. He
knew!
Yet he wasn't telling her. Well, she'd just see about that! A surge of anger tingled through her. It felt nice and warm and soothing as it overrode her fear and fueled her determination.

"Which way did he go?" she asked, surprising even herself at the calm, demanding tone that echoed in her ears. Her voice was low. It didn't shake, didn't waver. It was amazing what a little desperation did to a body. "You saw him leave. I know you did. All I want to know is what direction he was heading in."

The man's hands dropped to his sides, his palms slapping his thick hips as he shrugged. "Why do you care? Christ, lady, the guy's a
breed.
A nice white woman like you shouldn't care—"

Amanda stared at the man, stunned. Good God, she thought, how did Jake put up with this everyday of his life? What gave complete strangers the right to judge him on sight and deem him lacking? It was annoying, frustrating, infuriating. It was so damn
unfair!
The anger pumping through her was reflected in her tone. "You bastard! That...
breed,
as you call him, is more man than you'll ever be. And
I
care where he went—enough so that I'll do whatever it takes to find out what direction he rode out in." The click of the hammer being jerked back was loud and ominous.

The lump in the man's throat, almost concealed beneath the layers of sagging flesh that spilled over his collar, rose and fell in a dry swallow. He glanced at the dining room, frowned, then returned his attention to the woman. "I... well, yeah,
I...
tell me something, honey. Do you—er—know how to use that thing?" He nodded to the pistol.

Amanda's smile was cold and forced. The gesture didn't reach her eyes, which remained frosty and determined. "No. But I'm a quick study. And I think you'd make a nice, big target to practice on. Don't you agree?"

"Hell, no!"

"Then tell me which way Mr. Chandler went!"

The clerk clamped his teeth together and glanced guiltily away. Grudgingly, he said, "I can't. He paid me not to."

"And I'll pay you with a bullet... somewhere, if you don't. It's your decision." Her pause was short and tense. "Just so you know, I doubt I'll be able to kill you with my first shot."