A Stranger's Touch (18 page)

But her son couldn’t wait while she figured it all out. She had to pull it together and come up with a plan of what to do.

First, she’d have another visit with the motel clerk, see if Davie’s abductor paid with a credit card, or left any other identification behind. After that, Maggie had no choice. She’d head further north. It was the only alternative.

Energized with a course of action, Maggie reached for the medical kit and slapped a couple of large Elastoplasts on her palms to cover the worst of her injuries. The dressings were flesh-toned, less noticeable than the white gauze and far more practical for gripping the steering wheel. And for holding her little boy once she found him.

She grabbed her things and bolted out of the room. She was about to close the door behind her
when her heart skidded to a stop. Stafford sat in the passenger’s seat of her car, his interest fixed on an open map.

Relief poured over her, making her feel light. Even giddy. She put a damper on it. Maybe he just wanted a ride to the airport.

Seeming to sense her, he looked up. Maggie made her boneless legs move and walked over to the car. She leaned against his door and spoke through the opened window, her breath a white cloud in the chilled air.

“How did you get in there?”

He smiled, managing to look sly and innocent at the same time
.
“A little trick I picked up at Quantico.”

More information than she’d wanted. The statement only confirmed that she was traveling with someone—had
slept
with someone—who held too many secrets. “Okay.
Why
are you in my car?”

“I did another reading.” He folded the map and dropped it into the door’s side pocket. “She’s taken him to Fort Providence. It’s about eighty miles from here. We can be there in just over an hour.”

She held onto the side of the car to keep her knees from buckling. “We?”

With a magician’s grace,
Stafford reversed their positions. He climbed out of the vehicle, eased her into the seat he’d just vacated, and waited until she’d settled before answering.

“I have to go with you, Maggie.” He knelt down, grabbed the crumpled newspaper and placed it in front of her, so she could read the headline.

COP DEAD AFTER HIT AND RUN.

Chapter Thirteen

A
s Stafford drove, Maggie reread the article, focusing on the vehicle’s description. An older model, tan two-door. She held the paper in her lap, needing something to lean it against because her hands were shaking so badly.

Their visit to the local police hadn’t gone well. The officer she spoke to was clearly grieving his colleague’s death and, though sympathetic to her cause, he had nothing to share with her beyond the newspaper’s account. Except for a warning.

Do not act in any official capacity while out of your jurisdiction.

Good advice. A week ago she would have taken it. Back then she followed rules to the letter, without question. She respected the blue uniform and trusted the men and women who wore it to save the day, to show up in the nick of time, like the cavalry in those old B&W Westerns.

Only, in this case,
she
was the cavalry. She had to find her son. Now
.
Before it was too late.

“Davie’s not in immediate danger,” Stafford said, seeming to read her mind
again. If he’d planned to reassure her, he’d failed. The invasion of her thoughts pricked at her scalp like a thousand steely barbs.

“I feel the woman is using him to replace the child she’s lost,” he went on. “As long as nothing shakes her reality, he’s fine.”

“But when things don’t go her way...” Maggie counted the passing seconds until he spoke.

“Then she doesn’t know how to cope.”

And anything could happen. She could run down a cop. Or kill an innocent child.

Panic, bone-deep and crippling, raced through Maggie like a cancer. Screaming wouldn’t help. Neither would crying. Though she felt like doing both.

She pushed the newspaper away, clenched her bandaged hands together, and wrestled with her fears by concentrating on the landscape, inviting the rushing images to hypnotize her.

Sky. Trees. More trees. Forests burned to shadows—the dead among them, dark carcasses, leaning on their neighbors for support. The only sign of civilization was the road beneath them.
Green, blue, grey, black.
The colors lulled her to another place. Another time.

She imagined pulling into the driveway of her house, the home she’d inherited from her father, and seeing Davie’s face at the front window—his nose pressed against the glass, his face breaking out into a grin, welcoming her back.

She’d done the same thing as a kid, waited at the window for her dad, her big, capable hero. Sometimes, the babysitter would let her stay up until he appeared. Most times, she’d be asleep before he returned. And he’d be gone the next day before she woke.

“We’re almost to the ferry.”

Stafford’s prediction jarred her from her daydream. She sat upright, her backbone rigid as a spear. “How do you know?”

He glanced her way, his brows lifted. “The sign back there said so.”

Maggie’s mouth opened and closed like a guppy’s. “I wish you’d stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Making cryptic announcements.” Her hands sliced the air, doing the dogpaddle as she struggled to express herself. “You make it seem like you know these things because of your superhuman powers, when really you’re just being...normal.”

His eyes narrowed, a muscle at his jaw pulsed. “I never said I wasn’t. I haven’t told you anything to make you think—”

Maggie shook her head. “No, you haven’t. Forget I said anything.”

Babbling. That’s what she’d been doing. Terror did that to her. And sitting next to a man she’d slept with and feeling a gigantic void.

He hadn’t shaved this morning. Stubble grazed his jaw, adding to his dangerous edge. It made his eyes look brighter, deeper. So did the dark smudges under them.

Her heart gave a kick. This was
her
mission. She had to look for her son. Stafford didn’t. He could have been home by now, digging into a juicy steak, or stretching out with a cold beer. Instead, he was here, crammed into her little car, without sleep or food. And he’d chosen to do it. For her.

“Thanks for coming back.”

He shifted his hands lower on the wheel. His mouth bore the whisper of a smile. “You’re welcome.”

She picked at a speck of imaginary dirt on her pant leg to avoid those lips. And the fire they lit in her belly. “That business you—”

“It’ll keep.” His words came out clipped, the message clear.
Don’t ask.

Fine. She had no right to pry. A one-night stand didn’t come with any kind of promises. She had no idea about his personal life. Maybe he had children of his own somewhere, a family he’d abandoned to help her, a lover who needed him to warm her bed.

If he did, Maggie envied the woman. She could still feel his mouth on her skin, see his perfect body, remember the confidence and power he exuded as he strode across their motel room, at home in his nakedness.

She leaned back against the headrest, battling her racing thoughts and the inappropriate desires she felt for the man beside her. The end of the road provided her with everything.

It came upon them abruptly. The pavement stopped, replaced by a short strip of beach. Not the tropical stretches shown on vacation commercials. This beach was more pebbly than sandy. Off to one side sat a large electric sign. Red words flickered on the screen:
DRIVE WITH EXTRA CARE...BISON ON ROADWAY.

She might have laughed, if she’d had any energy. The second Davie went missing she’d fallen into an absurd world and turned into Alice in Wonderland. But instead of a March Hare and a Mad Hatter, there were bison on the highway. And
she
was the one going mad.

Across the narrow McKenzie River, no Cheshire Cat awaited. Just more trees. Leaves of mustard and pink mixed with the ever abundant green. It would have been beautiful. If her son were there to see it too.

The ferry’s ramp lowered as it approached land, ready to take on her car and the five or six others that waited. A man waved them aboard. The only other crewmember she could see was the figure on the upper deck, sitting dead center in the pilot’s nest.
The Captain of her Destiny.
Or had that title already been taken?

She thought about the men in her life. The many captains. Her father. Her ex. Davie. Now Stafford. Except
he
wasn’t
in
her life. At least, not to stay.

Loss squeezed her chest, rung it like a dishrag. Her eyes filmed over. None of them stayed. Even Davie was gone.

Maggie parked and opened her door, turning away from her companion to hide her tears. She heard him leave the car and zipped up her jacket to fight the chill. Tiny droplets from the sky hissed onto the river and dissolved into the watery mass, like pieces
of a puzzle falling into place. They spoke to her. Muttered their disapproval. Told her she’d missed something, a vital piece of information that would bring everything into view. And lead her to her son.

If only she understood the clues.

She wiped the moisture from her face and fixed her gaze on Stafford as he showed Davie’s photo to one of the ferry workers. The man shook his head. Stafford pressed, pointing to the picture again. The man gave the same negative response, shrugged, and walked away.

The ritual repeated, as Stafford worked his way through the small crew, then the passengers. All with the same results, a shake of the head, an apologetic shrug.
Damn
, the guy was determined, as if he had a personal stake in it all.

When his options were depleted, he leaned against the railing and looked into the steel blue waters below. His striking profile unsettled her. He was a beautiful man. And far too enigmatic. She shouldn’t trust him. But she did. If nothing else, he’d given her hope. And some mind blowing moments in bed.

Her face burned. Wouldn’t the guys at the department love to hear that?
Female cop, looking for son, beds tour guide.

The engines on the ferry slowed the vessel to a crawl as it moved closer to the opposite shore. Maggie wanted to get out and push. She took out her aggravation by hammering a steady beat on her door handle. The engines cut out and the small crew scampered around in their preparations for their arrival at the other side.

From there, the few kilometers to Fort Providence seemed like an eternity.

Stafford drove around the tiny hamlet, bordered on one side by the river they’d just crossed. They scanned driveways for the tan car, finding instead a pretty blue and white church,
a cafe/souvenir shop, a motel and, as Maggie learned when she ventured from the car, thousands of little flies. They swarmed around her head. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand to avoid inhaling them.

As she stepped onto the grass, she faltered, losing her footing. In a split-second, Stafford was at her side, holding her arm. Just that small contact, his touch on her skin, gave her heated memories of the night before. She jerked away, but couldn’t escape the hurt look on his face.

“I’m fine,” she said, by way of an apology, and tried to smile. “I’ll check the shop. You ask around at the motel. I’ll meet you back at the car.”

He stared at her for a moment, his sad eyes growing cold. Before she could ask forgiveness
,
he’d turned and started up the road.

Maggie crossed the narrow lane toward the shop, each step an effort, as if she’d emerged from a sickbed and had to relearn the simple task of walking. What was the matter with her? She kept pushing Stafford away when she really wanted to feel his strong arms around her, hear his velvety reassurances.

She shook her head. He was too tempting a retreat. She couldn’t afford to give into it, or her need for him. She would just be using him. Again.

It’s not like they’d ever have a life together. She didn’t have time for a man, especially one as complicated as Stafford. She had a demanding job. What free moments she had at the end of the workday, she wanted to spend with her boy.

And if they never found Davie? The thought left her hollow inside. She had to believe. Along with Stafford. He sensed Davie was still alive and that they were on the right path. He’d worked on an abduction case before and found the missing child. She would put all her faith in him and his powers. And she would see her baby again.

She emerged from her thoughts, standing in front of the cafe. How long had she been lost in her own private world? Two minutes? Ten?

She needed air. Oxygen that wasn’t bug infested. But, most of all, she needed information in order to find Davie.

She opened the door and walked into a sauna of oil and fried onions. Maggie sucked in a breath. There in front of her, on a shelf filled with merchandise, sat a replica of the bear they’d retrieved at their last stop. It wasn’t a mass produced teddy, she now realized, but a handmade one. Though newer than the bear that presently resided in her car’s backseat. She picked up the toy, dashed to the counter and pounded the bell.

A white-haired woman waddled in from a back kitchen. The ketchup stains on her apron matched the ruddiness of her cheeks. She was either overheated from cooking or battling a hot flash.

“What can you tell me about this bear?”

The cook smacked her lips. When she spoke, it came out in a steady stream, as if she were afraid her listener would walk away if she didn’t fit all her words into one breath.

“It’s made by a local Dene woman, Officer, although she’s really known for the floral arrangements she makes with dyed moose hair. It’s called tufting, an old Athapaskan art—”

“I’m only interested in the bear.”

“He’s Bishop,” the cook went on, switching gears with the ease of a telemarketer. “Named after Bishop Grandin, who started a Catholic mission here. A popular fella. Just like this little bear. You know, I had a lady through here only yesterday who bought him for her boy. He’d lost his, left it at a motel. I told his mother she could have asked the place to mail it to her. Almost talked myself right out of a sale—”