The Black Sheep and the Princess (9 page)

Her lips twitched, and the corners of her eyes crinkled a little. “Still cocky.”

“Only when I know I can back it up.”

She didn't stifle her smile. “Something tells me you always think you can back it up.”

“So, it was worth waiting for, then?”

She laughed, and the sound of it, all soft and natural, filled the truck cab with warmth. She shook her head a little, as if to say he was incorrigible, then resolutely shifted in her seat, revved the engine a little.

The bars were up, the lights no longer flashing. He hadn't even heard the train go by. No one had honked, and a quick check showed no one was waiting behind them.

“I'm going to refuse to answer that on the grounds that it might get me—”

He looked back at her. “Seduced?”

She had just started to pull forward, but braked suddenly and hard, forcing him to brace himself on the dashboard.

She shot him a look, and he couldn't tell if she was amused or annoyed. Probably a little of both. Something he was thinking they'd both likely have to get used to if they were going to be spending any amount of time in each other's company.

She braced her hands on the wheel and squared her shoulders. “Okay,” she said firmly, but not harshly. “If you're staying, free help or not, there are going to be some ground rules.”

“We have rules?”

She looked at him. “We have rules.”

“I suck at following rules.”

“Tell me something I don't know.” Then a troubled look crossed her face. “That's not why you left the force, is it? Was it not by your choice?”

“Don't worry, it was by my choice,” he said. “Ask Rafe, or Finn, if you don't believe me.”

“Again, that's like asking Mo and Larry to back up Curly.”

“Very funny. And how come I get to be Curly?”

“Men,” she muttered, maybe a little impatiently.

“Call my old precinct, then. I made detective before I turned twenty-five. I was even decorated a few times.” Though he'd never once mentioned that to anyone else. What was it about Kate that tweaked at those still twitchy, vulnerable parts of him anyway?

“But ultimately, I guess it was the rules that sent me to the private sector. I have a lot more…flexibility now.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Working with Rafe and Finn and a bottomless bankroll? Oh, I just bet you do. You know, maybe I should rethink this whole thing. More legal trouble I don't need.”

Legal trouble? So, maybe there was more going on with Shelby and their little deal than she'd alluded to. He wisely kept the question to himself. For now. But he added it to the list of things to look into once they reached Ralston. “You forget, I didn't ask your permission to stay here.”

“If you plan on staying on my property, you're going to need it. I may seem like a foolish, naïve woman, but I assure you, I can take care of myself. Have been for years. If you step foot onto my property again without it, you can continue this conversation up close and personal with the business end of my shotgun.”

He grinned at that. Kate Sutherland, all feisty and loaded for bear. He rather liked it. “I might just do that.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he said quite agreeably, which only made her scowl deepen. “You know, maybe you should consider doing some target practice, though.”

She shot him a look. “Why, do you think I'll need it?”

“Not for me. I was just thinking that if the person getting his kicks out of plastering the place with Day-Glo paint knew you were armed and dangerous, he might think twice about messing with you.”

“You really don't think I have a gun, do you?”

“Do you?”

She pulled ahead, banging the truck over the tracks a little more heavily than necessary. “You're still insufferable. That much hasn't changed.”

He didn't laugh outright, but it cost him. “Just trying to help,” he said, ever-so-conversationally. “Coming from someone with some experience being on the business end of a firearm, for the gun threat to work, the person being threatened has to actually believe they're in danger of being shot.”

“Who said I wouldn't pull the trigger?” The look she gave him was surprisingly…homicidal.

Huh. He leaned back in his seat and adjusted his seat belt a bit tighter as she continued to take the road leading into town a tad too fast.

“Okay. What are they?”

“What are what?”

“The rules.”

She shot him another quick glare. “Dare I even bother?”

“Please dare. I mean do,” he added, unable to keep from smiling. She was cute when she scowled. He was smart enough to keep that opinion to himself, however. He'd remained bullet-hole-free all these years for a good reason.

She stewed for another couple seconds, then finally blurted out, “Here's the deal. You're right, it would be unwise of me not to take you up on your offer of help. I'll tell you what you need to know, but I'll expect to be totally involved in, and approve of, any steps you take.”

He waved his hand. “Boring rule. Next.”

She lifted one eyebrow.

“We'll talk it through,” he said, attempting to sound as if he were capitulating, which he doubted she was buying. Good thing, too. Because, while he didn't mind keeping her in the loop, if he thought something was going to keep her and the camp safe, he was doing it whether she okayed it or not.

“Rule number two. Hands off.”

Now he lifted an eyebrow. “Except—”

“No exceptions.”

“There are always exceptions.”

She slowed down slightly and stared at him.

“Okay, okay,” he said, lifting his hands. “Eyes on the road.”

“Promise?”

“Hands off,” he responded.

“Promise,” she reiterated.

“You trust my word, but not me?”

“Promise.”

He sighed. “I can't.”

She started to say something, then stopped as his answer apparently sunk in.

“Road,” he said casually.

She swerved back into her lane, swearing under her breath. “What do you mean you can't? You mean you won't.”

“No, I mean I can't. I don't lie, Kate. And since I can't guarantee I'm never going to put my hands on you again, I'm not going to promise you that I won't. I can promise I'd try, but why bother? We both know I won't try all that hard if I don't want to. Either we will get tangled up again or we won't; it's as simple and as complicated as that. You can't go making rules about it.”

“Sure you can. You might be impulsive and impatient, but even as a teenager you had self-control. At least where I was concerned anyway.”

She sounded almost…put out by that. He hid his smile this time. He wanted to get the rest of the way into town in one piece. “That was then. I've tasted you now.”

He glanced over in time to see her swallow hard and notice how her knuckles grew even whiter, which was saying something considering she already had a death grip on the steering wheel. What she didn't do was argue with him. He relaxed. Just a little. “I can make you one promise, though.”

“I'm dying to hear it,” she said, not bothering to temper her sarcasm.

“I won't do anything you don't want me to.”

The truck pulled a little to the right when she convulsively loosened her hold on the wheel, and she said something under her breath that sounded a lot like “sweet Jesus,” which he doubted had anything to do with keeping the truck in the right lane. But he wouldn't swear to it.

He took greater stock in the blush that stained her previously pale skin. “You know, you look better with a little color in your cheeks. I don't think you're getting enough sleep. Or something. So, what are the other rules?”

“Oh, shut up. I don't know why I bothered.”

“See? Just what I said.” He grinned. “I'm growing on you, aren't I?”

“Getting under my skin is more like it,” she muttered.

“As long as I'm getting somewhere.”

“Donovan, I swear, if you—what?” she said when she glimpsed something in his expression.

He didn't think he'd been that obvious. “Mac.”

“What? Oh. Right. What difference does it make? It's not like you don't know who I'm talking to.”

She slowed as they came around the final bend into town. They had maybe a few minutes left at best. He debated on getting into it, or just letting it go. But, if they were talking about things getting under her skin, she had no idea how hearing her say his birth name got under his.

She shrugged. “You've always been Donovan to me. At least, that's how I've always thought of you, not that we talked or anything.”

The only other woman who'd ever called him that was his mother. Not that he remembered much about her, other than the stories that had followed her right out of Winnimocca. But he knew from those stories that she'd always called his dad by his full name, had been the only one in the county to do so. She thought it sounded romantic and exotic. Of course, she'd been all of sixteen at the time. A year later she'd bestowed that name on her first and only son.

She'd taken off before his fifth birthday with some biker named Binky. Apparently not as interested in romantic names by then. Or no longer caring. Word got back that she'd killed herself driving drunk a few years later. No one knew what happened to Binky. It had been the general consensus that it was a good thing she'd never had any more kids.

Mac met Rafe and Finn the following summer. By then he'd heard about all he cared to about his dead mother. Rafe and Finn didn't care about any of that, though. Or that his father had a worse reputation than she did. He didn't remember when, exactly, he'd started insisting on everyone calling him Mac. But thinking back, it had been sometime right around then.

“I could try,” she said in response, then shot him a dry smile. “But I can't make any promises.”

“Touché,” he said, gladly shaking off the memories. “I'd appreciate the attempt.”

“Same goes with my hands-off rule.”

“You sure know how to hit a guy where it counts.”

“Not really,” she said, more seriously than he was comfortable with.

He wasn't sure, but he didn't think she was talking about him. And it surprised him how much he wanted to know to whom she was referring. The curiosity wasn't entirely professional either. Or even mostly. Up until today, he'd have thought he was hardened pretty much clear through. One taste of Kate Sutherland had blown that illusion to smithereens.

“I'm sorry it bothers you, though,” she added. “I'll do my best.”

He waited for her to dig a little, prod him about why it bothered him so much. As it was, he'd already made a bigger deal out of it than he should have. It was habit mostly, and he wouldn't have corrected her at all, but…maybe being back here again, with her, past memories getting all roiled up, had made him more sensitive to it.

Or, it could be that it didn't bother him as much as he wanted it to, and that, maybe, he even liked it. A little. From her, anyway. Which perversely bothered him even more.

To her credit, and his relief, she let it go. He owed her for that. And because he always liked to pay his debts sooner rather than later, he vowed to do his best to stick to Kate's Rules of Conduct. Even if it killed him.

He slid his gaze over to her and watched how she handled the wheel, how her long legs stretched out over the worn-out vinyl seat. How her jeans fit over those long legs of hers…and he remembered why he hated playing by the rules. He sighed and resolved himself to the fact that most of his showers in the near future were likely to be short, and very, very cold.

They pulled into town just then, and his thoughts were mercifully dragged away from Kate…and plunged headlong right into his past. Even though he'd been somewhat prepared for it after seeing the camp, he still felt as if he'd entered a time warp. For all it was the nearest town of any size to Winnimocca, it was barely a blip on the map itself.

Almost two decades had passed, but the only difference Mac saw was that Wylie's Hardware was now a cluttered junk shop, and whoever owned the Gas 'Em Up had replaced the rusted Camel cigarette sign promising a fresh menthol flavor with a new Diet Dr. Pepper sign promising the same great taste with fewer calories.

There might be more cracks in the sidewalks, and the roads were pitted with a few more potholes, buildings were a little dingier looking, and there were a few more stores boarded up, but, for the most part, it was the same Ralston he'd rolled into one night at age fifteen, fake ID in hand, to buy his first six-pack. Becker's Pool Hall was still there, where he'd gotten drunk in public for the first time. They drove past the parking lot of the Kwikee Mart, where he'd gotten into his first fight that had involved knives as well as fists. Still didn't have any damn lighting to speak of, he thought, absently rubbing his fingertips over the four-inch scar on his thigh.