Stranger in Cold Creek (6 page)

“Good for you,” he said, meaning it. Growing up, he'd seen his share of feral cats and kittens out fending for themselves and usually ending up as roadkill or coyote bait. “Nice of your dad to go feed them for you.”

“I think it was his apology for being such a bear last night about my driving over here.”

“He has a point, though. Beyond your very recent head injury, I mean. You're the victim. That's a pretty good reason why you really shouldn't be part of this investigation.”

“I don't know if you've noticed, but this is a small town.”

“No, really?”

She smiled at his tone. “We have fifteen deputies covering this whole county. And while that may seem like a lot, given the small population, we have a lot of miles to cover. I was a witness to what happened to me, even if some of the details are a little fuzzy. Who better to investigate it?”

“You still don't remember how the wreck happened?”

She shook her head. “I was out on a call—I remember that much. I talked to the sheriff, and he confirmed it. We'd gotten an anonymous call about a woman we've been trying to locate—a woman who seems to be missing.”

“Seems to be?”

“Well, she's gone off without telling anyone before. She doesn't hold a steady job, so it's not like anyone's waiting for her to show up for her shift or anything. And she doesn't really have any family to keep an eye out for her anymore.”

“Maybe she just moved without telling anyone.”

“Except all her stuff is still at her trailer. I mean, there might be some things missing, but a lot of her clothes and all of her furniture is still there.”

John could tell from the concern in Miranda's eyes that she was personally worried about the missing woman. “How long has she been missing?”

“The last anyone remembers seeing her was three weeks ago. Until yesterday, when that call came in. Someone claimed to see Delta—that's her name, Delta McGraw. Anyway, someone called and left a tip with the desk sergeant that he saw Delta hitchhiking on Route 7.”

“So that's why you were out here yesterday?”

She nodded. “I drove past the place where she was supposed to have been spotted, but I didn't see anyone. I made one more stop to check on a farmer who's been complaining about someone or something stealing her eggs, then it started to snow, so I decided I'd better head back to the station before I got stuck out here.”

“What happened next?”

“I don't know. I don't remember anything after I made the turn onto Route 7 heading back to town.” She poked at the remainder of her omelet. “It's very strange, having this big blank place in my memory. I know something happened. I remember the aftermath. But what happened before—”

“That's not uncommon with concussions.”

“That's what the doctor said. Knowing that doesn't really help, though. I need to remember what happened. Why it happened. My roof lights were on—and apparently I made a call to the station to tell them what was happening.”

“Right. I talked to the desk sergeant when I called for help. He said you'd said someone was following you.”

“I don't remember that at all. But obviously, someone was. Chambers—that was the sergeant at the desk when I called it in—said I gave a description of the vehicle. Dark blue Ford Taurus.”

“Same as the car we saw parked out on the highway. And apparently the car that was driving around here last night, too.”

“I must not have gotten the plate number, though. Someone would have told me.” She started to say something else, but the trill of her cell phone lying on the table beside her interrupted. She frowned at the display and picked up the phone, meeting John's gaze with an upward flick of her eyebrows. “Hi, Dad.”

Her mild amusement disappeared almost immediately, her gray eyes darkening with anger. “How bad?”

Her father's answer made her jaw clench tightly. “Stay put, I'm on my way. I'll call the station.” She hung up the phone and pushed to her feet, already halfway out of the kitchen.

“What's going on?” John asked as he caught up with her in the living room.

She grabbed her jacket and shrugged it on, turning to look at him, her eyes ablaze with fury. “Somebody tossed my house last night.”

Chapter Six

Miranda came to a stop in the middle of the living room, her head aching and her stomach in knots at the sight of the mess intruders had made of her normally tidy living room. Sofa cushions had been removed from the frame and ripped apart, despite having zippered covers that could have been easily taken off. Books had been pulled from the built-in bookshelves that flanked the fireplace and left scattered on the floor beneath.

In the kitchen, the cabinets had been emptied and any open containers had been poured into the sink, creating a mess that would be a nightmare to clean up. She'd probably have to have a plumber in to clean out the pipes.

Her mattress had been stripped and cut open, just like the cushions from the sofa, and her closets emptied, the clothes left scattered on the gutted mattress and floor. The sheer level of cleanup that lay ahead of Miranda was enough to make her want to curl up in a corner and cry. Instead, she finished her circuit of the vandalized house and returned to the living room.

“What the hell were they looking for?” she asked, lifting her gaze to meet the troubled eyes of her father.

“I don't know.” He made a helpless openhanded gesture toward her, and she crossed to where he stood, letting him wrap her up in a bear hug that made her feel both small and safe at the same time.

Boots on the front porch announced the return of Miles Randall, giving her time to extricate herself from her father's embrace and face the sheriff with her chin held high. Coy Taylor, who'd come on the call with the sheriff, gave her a sympathetic nod as he entered and closed out the cold behind him.

“The shed out back has been tossed, too,” Randall told her, his dark eyes apologetic. “Can you tell if anything's been taken?”

She shook her head. “Anything worth any money is still here—TV, stereo equipment, appliances. I don't own any valuable jewelry, and my laptop was in my truck, locked in the chest. Was the lawn mower still in the shed? And the generator?”

Taylor nodded.

“Then they didn't take anything worth anything out of there, either.”

“We can dust the place for prints,” Taylor said, “but I doubt we'll get much, and all it'll do is make a bigger mess for you to clean up.”

She couldn't argue with that. The destruction of property might end up being a misdemeanor, but she couldn't see that anything had been stolen. Probably a couple of kids, doped up or, hell, maybe just bored and looking for something to do. “I called my insurance man, but he's out on some weather-related calls, so he said he'd trust me to just take some photos of the destruction. Although he's not sure off the top of his head how much will be covered by my homeowner's policy.”

“Have you found the cats yet?” a quiet voice asked from the corner of the room.

Miranda looked past the sheriff to lock gazes with John Blake, who'd insisted on following her to her place earlier. He'd settled there in the corner, keeping out of the way while Miranda, the sheriff and Coy Taylor had taken a look around the house.

“They're hiding under the bed,” she said, blinking back hot tears that burned behind her eyes. “Once everything settles down, they'll come out.”

“Honey, if you need me, I can call Mary to cover the shop—”

Miranda put her hand on her father's arm. “I'm fine. It's just a matter of cleaning everything up, and I can handle that on my own.”

“I'll help,” John said.

Miranda's father looked at the man in the corner, his eyes narrowed in mild speculation. Miranda tugged at his arm, drawing his attention back to her. “Go open the shop. If you leave now, you won't be late.”

Gil gave her a kiss on the uninjured side of her forehead. “Don't overdo. And when you tire out, your bed's still waiting at the house.” With a nod to the sheriff and Coy Taylor, he left the house, his boot thuds heavy on the wooden front porch.

Sheriff Randall gave her a thoughtful look. “I could call some of the guys off duty to come give you some help—”

She nearly recoiled at the thought. It was hard enough to be seen as an equal without having to turn to the boys for help. “I've got it covered, sir. But thanks for the offer.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.” Randall nodded for Coy Taylor to follow him out. The desk sergeant turned and flashed a sympathetic smile at Miranda before he left, closing the door behind him.

She let go of a deep sigh and looked at John. “You don't have to stay and help. It would be asking too much.”

“You didn't ask. I offered.”

“You know what I mean.”

He stepped out of the corner and met her in the middle of the ravaged room. “You should be resting, but you won't. So I'm going to stick around and make sure you don't undo all my first-aid work from yesterday.”

Her lips curved at his dry words. “Your work, huh?”

He just let the corners of his mouth twitch upward as he nodded at the sofa. “I think that's a loss.”

“My bed, too.” She quelled the urge to cry. “Just the mattress and box springs, though. I think the frame is still fine. I guess I need to make a trip to Plainview to pick up a new set.” Her savings could handle replacing what she'd lost, though it would make a pretty big dent in her nest egg.

“I'm not sure you should drive to Plainview by yourself while you're still concussed, especially with the roads still messy for the next few hours. Why don't you take up your dad on his offer of a place to sleep tonight? Tomorrow, if you're feeling better, you can drive to Plainview and pick up a new mattress set.”

“You have no idea how easy—” She clamped her mouth shut, appalled by how much personal information she'd almost revealed to a virtual stranger. Her relationship with her father was loving but complicated, and admitting just how complicated would make her much more vulnerable than she intended to be with anyone, especially someone she'd met only a day ago. “I just—I just need to stand on my own two feet.”

“Okay.” He nodded slowly. “But it's just a bed for one more night.”

“There's a thrift store in Cold Creek. They might have a sofa I could buy to replace this one. I could sleep on the sofa until I have time to get a new mattress set.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her for a long moment. “How about this? We clean up as much as we can, then I drive you to town to go sofa shopping. That way, I can help you load it in the truck and you don't have to drive while concussed. And you can sleep in your own house tonight. If that's what you want.”

An odd tone to his voice gave her pause. “If it's what I want?”

He was quiet a moment, as if considering what he wanted to say. Finally, he walked over to the bookcases and started picking up books. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively casual. “Do you have any enemies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Not even someone you've arrested?”

She set another book in the bookcase next to the one he'd just restored. “Don't overestimate the number of people I've actually arrested. In a county this small, most police work is about keeping order and not much more.”

He waved his arm around at the mess. “This looks personal.”

Spoken like a man who knew what it was like to be a target, she realized. A dozen questions rolled through her aching head, but she had a feeling asking them outright, especially now, might send him running. If she wanted to know any of John Blake's secrets, she was going to have to be patient. Let him get used to her, feel secure enough to let down his guard.

“Well, look there,” John murmured, his gaze slanting to his right.

Miranda followed his gaze and saw Ruthie creeping slowly into the living room, her eyes wide with alarm as she scanned the room for threats.

“Hey, sweet girl,” she crooned to the spooked cat.

Ruthie's ears pricked at the familiar sound of her voice, but her green-eyed gaze darted warily toward John. He ignored her, straightening the books they'd returned to the shelf with small, economical movements.

So he did understand cats, she thought.

The longer John ignored Ruthie, the bolder she became, moving slowly across the room. Her tail rose finally in a question mark, and she looked up at Miranda, her mouth forming a voiceless meow.

Miranda bent and gave Ruthie's ears a scratch. “You hungry, sweet cakes?”

“Does she usually answer you?” John asked softly without turning his head, his voice tinted with humor.

“In her own way.” She led Ruthie into the kitchen, where she found that the canister of dry cat food had been dumped into the sink along with most of the other open containers.

The urge to cry overwhelmed her, and she sank into the only chair that hadn't been overturned. Ruthie jumped in her lap and rubbed her head against Miranda's chin, eliciting the tears she'd been trying to resist.

She pressed her hot face against the cat's tricolor fur. “Oh, sweetie, we're going to have to go get you some food, aren't we?”

“Your dad's shop carries pet food, doesn't it?” John's voice was a soft rumble from the doorway.

She looked up, blinking back her tears. “Yes.”

“I'll run get a bag.”

“He knows the brand they like.” She flashed him a grateful smile. “Tell him to put it on my tab.”

John gave a nod. “You sure you'll be okay here by yourself?”

She managed not to bristle at the question. “I'm armed. I'll keep cleaning up while you're gone.”

He disappeared down the hall. A moment later, she heard the door open and close.

Releasing a deep sigh, she eased Ruthie from her lap and started picking up the overturned chairs around the breakfast table.

* * *

“T
HOSE
BASTARDS
.” Gil Duncan's voice was a deep rumble of anger as he heaved the bag of cat food over the counter and handed it to John. “She worked damn hard to make a nice home for herself. I tell you what, it was like a gut punch seein' what they'd done to her things. A real gut punch.”

“Do you have any idea who'd do such a thing to Miranda?” John tucked the bag under his good arm. “I don't know her well, but everyone I've talked to seems to think the world of her.”

Gil's smile was genuinely proud. “She's a good woman, like her mama was. Smart girl, too. It had to be kids, don't you think? All those hormones and restless energy just wantin' to bust out all over, but nowhere in this little town to let it rip. And these days, folks don't teach their young'uns to respect other people's things. Hell, they probably recorded what they did and put it up on YouFace or whatever you call it.” Gil grinned sheepishly. “Lord, I'm soundin' just like my granddaddy, ain't I?”

John grinned back at him, deciding he liked Miranda's father. “Miranda mentioned something about a case she'd been working—a missing woman?”

“Yeah. Delta McGraw.” Gil shook his head. “That girl's had a hell of a life, and I don't reckon anybody'd blame her if she'd just picked up and left town for good. But Miranda seems to think she should've been back in town by now.”

“Is she a young woman?”

“A little younger than my Mandy—maybe a couple of years younger. But in some ways, she seems a lot older. Life's been harder on her. Her mama ran off when she was real little, so it was left to that daddy of hers to raise her. All he knew how to do was make her his accomplice.”

“He's a criminal?”

“Was. Con man, mainly. Small cons, get-rich-quick schemes. You know the sort. People liked him anyway, because he was that kind of fellow. Made you laugh even when he was fleecing you blind.” Gil shrugged. “I reckon folks tended to give him a lot of leeway, too, because his wife ran off when his little girl was so young and he was left to take care of her.”

“Is he dead or incarcerated?”

Gil gave him an odd look. “Dead. Big rig versus pickup truck. Big rig wins.”

John grimaced. “So you don't think this missing girl has anything to do with your daughter's problems?”

Gill gave him a narrow-eyed look. “You seem awfully interested for someone who just met her.”

“She nearly died in my side yard. We both ended up dodging bullets. I guess that makes me feel like I have a stake in her well-being,” he answered truthfully.

“You a cop or something?”

“I'm a carpenter,” John replied.

“Hmm.” Gil didn't say anything more, turning to greet another customer entering the store. John took the cat food and headed back to his truck.

The snow had melted off by midmorning, leaving the roads wet but clear, and traffic on the highway was starting to pick up. After John slid behind the steering wheel of his truck and buckled up, he called Miranda.

She answered on the second ring. “Checking up on me?” she asked.

“Just making sure you and the cats were still okay. Did the other one ever come out?”

“He did, and he's not very patient when he's hungry.”

“I'll be there in a few minutes.” He hung up and started the truck, but on second thought, he turned it off again and picked up his phone. He dialed another number and waited for the answer.

A moment later, Quinn's voice came over the line. “Marbury Motors twenty-four-hour hotline.”

“It's me,” John said. “Several things have happened since I talked to you last, and I guess you need to know.”

Quinn was silent while John gave him a succinct but thorough recap of all that had happened since their last phone call. “Everybody swears there's no reason for anyone to target her, but—”

“But you're wondering if it has anything to do with the BRI.”

“Del McClintock's still at large. He nearly killed me once—”

“He doesn't know your real identity.”

“That we know of. If I've brought that mess here to Texas—”