A Stranger's Touch (12 page)

“She couldn’t remember the plate number, so we kinda made one up. It was two in the morning. She was only gonna be here a few hours. It wasn’t gonna be a problem.” He flashed his baby blues at her. “You’re not gonna tell the boss, are you?”

On her best witness to date? “Not a word. Thanks for being straight with me.”

Dan smiled. Along with some acne cream, the kid could have used a trip to the orthodontist. Still, Maggie thought she’d never seen such a beautiful grin.

“Did the woman tell you where she was headed?”

“Up north,” he replied. “To the Territories.”

“That’s all? She didn’t give you any specifics?”

“Nope. That’s it.” A man of few words. Still, Dan had given her a solid lead.

She squelched the urge to do handsprings and dredged up her high school geography. The Northwest Territories were huge, spanning the width of three provinces. She knew next to nothing about the area. Had never been there. Never felt the desire. That was about to change.

“Thanks again, Dan.” Maggie settled their bill and left the building, fumbling with her cell phone as she walked.

Owens wasn’t in. She left a voicemail for him, giving him an update along with a physical description of the suspect, telling him to disregard the license plate number she’d given him earlier, and promising to check in at the next stop. Maggie tucked the phone into her pocket and hurried back to the room.

Stafford sat on the side of the bed, slumped over, his elbows leaning on his knees. He reminded her of a cowboy from the Old West, battle-sore and weary after vanquishing outlaws.

Warmth spread through her body, as she took in his still shirtless chest. When he looked up at her, she dipped her head, certain her cheeks were flushed.

“Anything?”

She sat down beside him. Not too close. “Lots. Looks like we’re on the right track.”

He nodded and tried to stand. She reached out to help and thought better of it. Would touching him with her bare hands threaten his recovery? Or just her resolve to keep her distance?

“Don’t worry. Your touch didn’t harm me.”

Electric tingles danced over her flesh. It was as though he’d read her thoughts. If she held him now, what else would he sense?

She veiled it all—her fear, her fascination, the affect he had on her—and grasped his arm. The current intensified. She kept her head down to avoid his eyes. “Think you’re well enough to travel?”

“I’ll sleep it off in the car.”

Stafford made it to his feet and steadied himself against the wall. Maggie withdrew her hand. The tingles faded, but her heart raced on, doing its own version of the 100-meter dash.

She wanted to ask him about the incident in the bathroom. How he’d connected with Davie. How fresh wounds had appeared on his flesh then dissolved like magic. How he got that scar across his chest. And how he felt about her—as a person, as a woman. But now wasn’t the time.

She grabbed his shirt, his jacket and everything else she could find. She wrapped a blanket around him and walked him out to the parking lot, encouraging him to lean on her. He made a protest, then gave in, still too unsteady to go it alone. Maggie opened the passenger side door of her car and helped him fold his long frame into the seat.

She glanced into the back. Everything there reminded her of Davie. Of his absence. His hockey stick, his plastic Star Wars figure, and a lone rain boot. She wanted to hold him. Feel him in her arms again. Smell him. Touch him. Love him. And with Stafford’s help, she would.

Maggie jogged around to the driver’s side, letting the wind dry her sweat, her tears. She yanked open the door and tossed their meager possessions alongside her son’s things, then she took her place behind the wheel.

Beside her, Stafford was still, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. She ran her hand across his forehead. For no other reason than to touch him. To get a sense of him.

He knew.
Somehow, he knew about the black hair.

She tousled his, the thick, moist strands gliding between her fingers. He’d been through hell for her. And was still game for more. She couldn’t say that about any other man in her life.

She wouldn’t doubt him again.

Chapter Nine

S
tafford lurched forward, instantly awake—the seatbelt tight against his chest, the dashboard inches from his nose.

A curse sliced through the air. He shot a look to his side. Maggie gave him an apologetic shrug. “Critter on the highway. Sorry I woke you.”

He glanced up in time to see the hind-end of a young coyote disappear into the woods. “Where are we?” He had to pry his tongue loose from the roof of his mouth but managed to ask the question in words that somewhat resembled English.

Using her nose as a pointer, Maggie gestured toward the windshield. “On our way to the Northwest Territories.”

Before him, lay a long strip of highway. In much better condition than he’d expected for the Great North. Trembling aspens, anorexic spruce and misshapen pines grew in thick formation along the sides of the two-lane road. Their spindly limbs strained to touch the misty sky.

Not a house, not a soul, for miles.

He flopped back, looped his thumb under the seatbelt and tugged. Able to breathe again, he stretched in his seat, his limbs heavy and dull, as if he’d been shot full of Novocain.

Maggie stepped on the gas. “How are you feeling?”

He glanced down at his chest, wondering what had become of his shirt. “Confused. Something made you think to come this far north?”

“Not something. Someone. The clerk at the hotel said our suspect was headed up here.”

Finally, somebody on his side. He should have been pleased. But damned if he didn’t feel something else.

Envy.

She’d jumped on Dan’s advice. Some kid she’d known for a nanosecond. Stafford wished Maggie would show that kind of faith in
him.

Leave it alone, man.
The woman was frantic. Of course, she’d latch onto any suggestion that came her way—his, Dan’s, or a rolled up note in a fortune cookie.

Still sluggish, but too wired to sleep, Stafford rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes and drew the scratchy yellow blanket closer. “Where’d this come from?”

“I borrowed it from the hotel.”

“You
stole
a blanket?”

“Borrowed,” she repeated.

“I see.” He suppressed a smile.
“
Do they know you
borrowed
it?”

Maggie’s lips twitched. “They do by now. Are you going to arrest me, Agent Webb?”

“Naw. Textile theft was never my thing. I investigated money laundering and insider trading.”

And offered his skills to help find violent criminals, hoping to bring closure to some of the families left behind. But his methods proved too unusual for his superiors. Though their dismissal of his abilities burned him at the time—burned him still—relegating him to white collar crimes had probably kept him sane. Seeing and
feeling
the pain and horror people could inflict on one another, would have landed him in a padded room before he turned forty.

“Besides, I’m a free agent now, tied to no one. So you’re off the hook.” He twisted to see her better, a twinge shooting up his neck. Payment for having kept it in the same position for too long.

The view was worth it. The soft morning light silhouetted a fine profile. Straight nose, full pink lips. She’d twirled her hair around and tied it into a knot. No elastics or bobby pins that he could see.
How did women do that?
“I thought you were supposed to uphold the law.”

“Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of unusual things.”

“Like?”

She licked her lips as she thought leaving them glistening and igniting a slow burn deep in his belly. “I don’t usually run off with men I hardly know.”

“You know me well enough.” Hell, she’d seen him at his worst. What more did she want?

Nothing. That was his problem.

Stafford rested his head against the window, the glass cold against his scalp. On his side of the road stood a large rectangular sign. It displayed the words Northwest Territories, 60
^th
Parallel and the image of a polar bear.

His heart beat out a quick drum roll. He’d seen the bear before. The crouching figure appeared in his first vision. At the time, he’d thought it
symbolized the perpetrator, a wild animal stalking its prey. He’d been wrong before. Many times. But never so thankfully.

Maggie pulled into a visitors’ center on the other side of the sign and parked. While she checked out the rustic, single-story building, Stafford took the opportunity to find his shirt and jacket. He stepped out of the car to dress. Moisture hung in the air, cooling his skin. And his ardor.

Body and heart concealed, Stafford turned his attention to the building, boarded up and closed for the season. Even the restrooms.

He found a secluded spot, relieved himself, then headed back to the car. He grabbed some cheese and crackers and a couple of pepperoni sticks from his stash of snacks, wolfing them down with the determination of a starving man. He finished his makeshift breakfast with a stick of peppermint gum.

Leaning against the car, Stafford crossed his arms over his chest and chewed while he sucked in the damp, woodsy air. He closed his eyes, searching his senses. Had Davie been here?

The crack of a breaking branch wrenched him back to the present. He looked in the direction of the sound and found Maggie, working her way through the trees—her shoulders slack, her head drooping.

The results of her search were obvious. No leads.

Her anguish reached out and jabbed him in the gut. She looked so vulnerable. So exposed. So unlike the bold lioness he’d first met outside the police station.

She stumbled and Stafford shot forward. He took two steps and stopped, digging his heels into the dirt.

She wouldn’t want him to see her this way. And he wasn’t up for another round of her evasion. Behind Maggie’s usual mask of bravado lay simple mistrust. If she believed in him, she wouldn’t have to put on an act.

Her lack of faith shut him out faster than a slap across the face. And packed more bite. Before she could catch him observing her, he turned away and slipped behind the wheel of the car.

He heard the passenger door open, felt the weight of her body as she slumped onto the seat beside him. Without a word, he turned the ignition key and pulled out onto the highway.

Silent minutes later, they passed a lone truck traveling in the opposite direction. Stafford zeroed in on the license plate, shaped like a polar bear and comprised only of numbers.

He sat up in his seat, the thrill of recognition wiping out the last of his lethargy. Stafford leaned to one side, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the penny he’d picked up in the schoolyard. He cupped it in his right hand, steering with his left.

“This is good, Maggie. Things I saw in my visions, I’m seeing here.”

He heard the shaky breath she drew and his grip on the wheel tightened in response. Stafford well understood the emotional ping-pong match going on inside her. Hope and despair knocked her back and forth at every turn. He stroked her hand to reassure her. “It’ll be okay.”

For a moment, she seemed to welcome his touch. As he had hers the previous night. He remembered her soothing hands caressing his skin, his hair. Or had he dreamed it?

Then she tensed. As soon as he sensed her discomfort, he slid his hand to his side.

“When did you discover you were psychic?”

Shit.
Back to the soothsayer questions. Did he really make her that uncomfortable? “First off, I think everyone is—”

“Psychic. Yeah, I heard that part. When did you discover your ability was special?”

Special? He wouldn’t have used that word to describe it. And he wasn’t about to tell her the truth. At least, not all of it.

He cringed at the hypocrisy. He wanted her trust but wasn’t above lying to gain it. He shook off the guilt and plowed on. Giving her the ‘safe’ version was the best way to go. For her own good.

“The kids used to call me Spider.”

“Because of your last name?”

“And because spiders have all those eyes. I could see things other people couldn’t.”

“Like what?”

“Lost things—mittens, keys. Once, my sister found a gold earring on the bus.”

He shifted in his seat. He needed about a gallon of coffee. And a shave. And a shower. And a night in a real bed. But right now, he’d settle for the coffee. Maybe it would ease the knot in his throat.

“When Brianna put the earring in my hand, I could see the person who owned it, knew where she lived. Bree and I rode the bus until we found the place. The woman from my vision answered the door. When she saw the earring, she started to cry.”

“Why?”

“It was an anniversary gift from her late husband. She told us those earrings meant more to her than anything else she owned. She sent us on our way twenty dollars richer. The money lasted all the way to the candy store.”

“Typical kids.”

“Psychics like sugar too, you know.”

Her lips hinted at a smile, making him glad he’d gone with the homogenized version of events. She didn’t need to know the rest.

“Wasn’t your sister surprised you knew where to find the woman?”

He clenched his jaw, battening down his emotions. “Brianna took it all in stride. Neither of us thought much of it.”

“What about your parents? They must have known.”

“Eventually.”

“Sounds as if they didn’t approve.”

A huge understatement. “My father didn’t want his family to appear strange in front of the neighbors.”

Stafford stretched his right hand, the joints feeling like old hinges in need of oil. The penny sat, warm in his palm, edged with the imprints from his nails. Those marks would fade. Unlike the scars he’d earned from his father.

“What does your dad think about it now?”

“Not much. He’s dead.” Dead to Stafford, at any rate.

“I’m sorry. Mine too.” Her voice caught, pinched with sadness. Grief over the loss of a parent, so natural to Maggie, didn’t come easily for Stafford.