Hunted Love Box Set: Big Game, Bounty, Captured (16 page)

The late, or rather early, hour interfered with Falon's plans after he helped Rita clean up from their omelets and tempted her back to bed with searing kisses. Rather than start on any of the promises he'd made while they ate, he ended up holding Rita, her head pillowed on his shoulder, while they talked about a little of everything.

An odd little knot formed in his gut. He never talked to a lover about anything more important than what she really liked in bed. Rita hit politics and religion right off the bat. And he didn't mind so much. Her hair tempted his fingers to stroke through the strands and the hypnotic rhythm soon lulled them both to sleep.

Falon slowly swam to surface of consciousness some time later, more than a little puzzled. He never actually slept with anyone, not since Chelsea. Her betrayal made it difficult to really let his guard down with anyone. Somehow, actual sleep seemed far more intimate than just sex. Yet there he was, the sun angling in Rita's window to assure him they'd slept that way for hours, not just a little nap.

He looked down at Rita, studying her features, relaxed in sleep. She'd moved a little, snuggling deeper into his arms, and brought one shapely thigh across his groin, as if to hold him there. The touch of that smooth skin on his morning hard-on had a near-maddening effect, and ensured he wanted nothing more than to make love with her again. His hips rolled in reflex, seeking more of that delicious contact, and she stirred a little.

Caution stilled his movement and forced him to consider a way out of her embrace. He had any number of things he should be doing, and none of them involved the soft body of a woman. After a few minutes of careful maneuvering, he managed to get up without waking her. He stood for a moment, watching her sleep, wishing things could be different. Waking up next to a woman he loved every morning would be a good change in his life. Too bad nothing like that would ever work for him. He knew now, he wasn't cut out for the picket fence life.

Careful to stay quiet, he gathered his clothing. His belt and keys jingled once, causing her to move restlessly. He froze and as soon as she settled back into deep breathing, he borrowed Rita's bathroom to get dressed. In the kitchen he found a notepad, and wrote her a little note explaining his absence, and placed it on the pillow next to hers. Still keeping the noise to a minimum, he made his way outside, locking her door securely behind him, and made his way down the stairs.

A stop at his camper confirmed everything was exactly as he'd left it, including the thin strip of tissue he left trapped inconspicuously in the door frame. After a moment to brush his teeth and change shirts, he left, putting similar precautions in place as before. The way the camper was positioned allowed him to easily block view of the door with his body, so no one watching would know he'd left something to alert him to intruders.

The parking lot held a number of cars, lunch customers, according to Falon's watch. His stomach growled, reminding him his eating habits had been a bit irregular the last few days. Midday might offer more information than the evening, so he had no problem with justifying the delay for a meal. Inside, the little blonde who'd done all the ass-kicking from the evening before greeted him just past the game-room area.

"Rita still sleeping?"

Surely he'd misheard her? "Uh…"

"Sorry, didn't plan on shocking you dumb. I noticed her talking to you last night and figgered you hooked up." She shook her head. "I really ought not to do that. Can I show you to a table?"

Falon waited a second to be sure she'd finished. "Uh, yeah."

Moments later he waited for his lunch special, the Rattlesnake's twist on the classic BLT, and of course, sweet tea. Around him, the low hum of conversation came from diners at nearly all the tables, while a half-dozen suspended televisions, dark the evening before, delivered the local news in unison.

By the time he finished his sandwich, he knew all the local headlines, including the mystery surrounding Joe-Bud McHugh's hay being cut and baled for him. He also knew that the couple at the next table had decided to divorce and give the kids to her sister to raise. Who the hell did that? At another table nearby, they were planning a funeral for a young woman dead from a drug overdose. Conversations he could overhear in any small town diner in the country, with just a small local twist.

What drew his attention, though, was the sort of universal watchfulness of all the speakers. They kept careful account of who came and went from the Rattlesnake. And it wasn't just some of them. Right down to a person, they all watched, and conversation halted, every time someone entered. Now why would they be so preoccupied with who came in the door? Falon thought about asking someone, but that option seemed more likely to get him counted among whatever dangers they awaited.

Instead, he finished the sweet tea, made his way to the register and paid. Maybe the tiny blonde would enlighten him. Except she'd left her post. A tall thin woman with a dark tan and spiked blonde hair replaced her. No need to even bother asking her since she didn't know him, so Falon just went on past and out the door.

He started automatically for the camper and his bike, then paused. All the businesses were within less than half a mile and walking would likely be less conspicuous than riding a Harley through a town inhabited by an MC. Probably not a good idea to get mistaken for a Raider anyway.

Decision made, he turned and headed across the street. Inside the convenience store, he bought a small coffee and took a seat at one of the two tables that occupied the area in front of the counter. Similar places usually reserved that space for customers waiting to check out, but apparently, Stags Leap set its own rules.

Most of the seats were occupied by other men, several of whom appeared to be past retirement age and at least one looked ancient. One of the old-timers busily rolled a cigarette while another repeatedly spat in a glass juice bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

Another occupant at Falon's table shifted around in his chair and stretched his arms, to reveal a pair of firm, perky-looking breasts under the threadbare t-shirt.

Falon felt his eyebrows nearly climb under his hairline with shock. What the hell? He glanced around. No one else seemed surprised in the least. Huh.

Boob Guy yawned and pushed his chair back from the table. "Well, boys," a phone-sex-operator worthy contralto began. "It's time for me to get back to work." The guy stood and the rumpled, inconsequential garments rearranged themselves to enhance square but delicate shoulders, a willowy waist and lush hips. The grungy baseball cap that had shadowed his face came off to reveal a pale oval face with huge eyes and generous lips, while a mass of auburn waves tumbled down around the shoulders.

Watching Boob Guy, evidently a woman, walk off with a swing to those hips that would put a runway model to shame, Falon felt like an idiot. All he could do was stare after her and try to figure out how he'd made such a mistake.

"Don't feel bad, son, Comfort got us all the first time." The oldster with the spit bottle gave a broad toothless grin.

"Comfort?"

Another old man shook his head and cackled. "Comfort. Tha's her name. Ain't got no last name I know of."

One of the others agreed. "No, she ain't. Ol' Ma Rigdon found her and raised her but wouldn't give her no name beyond the one she come with, writ on a scrap of paper and tucked in her swaddling."

Falon listened as one after the other, they told far-fetched tales of the woman who'd just left and the elderly woman who raised her from infancy. Before he knew it, the old men introduced themselves and enlightened him on the life and times of a woman who could be on the catwalks in Europe but chose to hide in ragged men's clothing in little Stags Leap, Kentucky. The last sip of his coffee was almost a relief, meaning he could get away from the gossip mill.

And yet, rather than walk away, he refilled his cup and sat back down. Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, Falon spoke. "I'm not from around here, but I knew a guy once who was. Always talked about going back to Stags Leap, like it was some kind of paradise. I had to come see for myself, and so far, I think I agree. Seems like a perfect place to settle down. My buddy said something about a motorcycle gang though. They make any trouble?"

The man smoking the hand-rolled shook his head. "Nah. The Hell Raiders don't make much trouble. Their leader, feller name of Kellen, won't put up with it. He put the beat-down on one ol' boy that got shit-faced at the Rattlesnake and started a fight. If anything, they keep trouble down. They don't want the law sniffin' around their business so they handle things quietly."

One man at the other table turned in his chair to join the conversation. "The' plenty of folk 'round here would rather have the Raiders than the Sheriffs. Raiders are more honest. They'll tell you straight up before they stab you in the back or sell you down the river. At least with them, you know they're going to try and take anything what ain't nailed down."

"Yeah, I've come across a few guys like that." Falon nodded agreement and took a sip of rapidly cooling coffee. "You know not to turn your back on them from the start."

The men guffawed as if he'd said something hilarious, but another turned to speak. "Ever'body watches though. You never know when trouble goin' a roll up." The others agreed, then went on back to their local gossip. Falon finished his coffee, and this time, tossed his cup in the garbage bin when he stood to go.  He lifted a hand in farewell, rather than interrupt the ongoing conversation, and headed out the door.

Back on the sidewalk in the growing heat and humidity of early afternoon, Falon headed south. The liquor store next to the convenience shop wasn't open, but the windows of the pawn shop were lit to make the items on display visible and tempting to passers-by. A grid of heavy steel over the windows protected the goods from being taken by those who would prefer to not pay.

The door, antique heavy carved wood and leaded glass, had a section of security screen mounted over it as well. It swung open easily under his hand and a soft bell welcomed him into the dim coolness beyond. He stepped inside and let the door close, shutting out the heat of the day.

The heavily perfumed air tightened his throat for a moment, thrusting him back in time to another place, another shop redolent of exotic incenses and oils.

Falon ran after the armed insurgent. Behind him, other soldiers sounded the alarm and called for medics. The slim form darted through the narrow street and disappeared. Falon had nearly given up, when he caught a small cry of alarm from a narrow door on the left. Heart pounding with a command to caution, he slipped through the door. The strong perfume burned his nose and eyes, forcing him to pause. Stacks and shelves of goods provided dozens of hiding places, but a young woman huddled nearby waved him on, while two small children clung to her.

Guided by the woman's gestures, Falon found the assassin crouched inside a crate, still clutching the blade he'd used to open Private Morgan's throat. The boy, maybe sixteen, dropped the knife and crawled from the crate, submitting to Falon's commands. Back with his men, captive surrendered, Falon learned of Morgan's death and thought of his pretty wife and newborn son at home.

"Mister? Can I help you?"

The words jolted Falon from the memory, and left him with a pounding heart and raspy breath. He'd thought those moments gone forever, prayed to be relieved of them.

"Mister, are you okay?" Behind the counter, a young woman watched him with a frown of concern, as if she worried he would do something terrible.

"Uh, yeah, sorry. I just remembered something I was supposed to do." The excuse had worked many times before.

"What can I do for you?" She moved and for the first time, Falon realized she held an infant to her breast. She noted his gaze and flipped the baby's blanket over her shoulder. "Sorry, it's better for her if I don't cover. I forget sometimes that it offends people."

Falon shrugged. "That makes no sense. Babies have to be fed." The very idea of someone being offended at a mother meeting her child's needs pissed him off.

The woman smiled. "Is there something you're looking for?"

Was there? Hmmm. "Not really. Just looking around."

"Cool. If you see something you'd like a closer look at, just holler. I'm Ziporah." She gave her head a quick shake. "Old family name. Weird, I know."

A case of unusual-looking knives on the counter caught Falon's attention and he paused to examine them. "Not all that weird. I heard of someone who gave their kid the Latin version of some really nasty disease. Because she liked the way the words sounded. I'd say a weird old family name is better than being named for an STD or something." He leaned closer to see one of the knives better while the woman laughed aloud.

"I reckon that's a good way to look at it." She adjusted the baby and her clothing. "See something you like there?"

Falon stepped back a little and pointed. "What can you tell me about that big lock-blade?"

"That there's one of my top sellers, made by a local boy. All the Hell Raiders have them, and nearly every one of their nomad fellers that comes through wants one of these knives." She sorted through a heavy bunch of keys clipped to her belt until she found the one she wanted. Patting the baby's back with one hand, she used the other to unlock and open the display case and pull the knife out.