Locked, Loaded, & Lying Page 3

  “Or I could carry her to Old Sam’s,” he said in resignation. “He’s riding this out at his sister’s. I’ll jimmie the lock again, and get the pickup keys he hides in the register. It’s a stretch, but maybe his truck will make it on the highway.”

  His brother nodded. “That’s what we’ll do. I’ll stabilize the ankle as best I can. Then we’ll wrap her in coats, carry her down to Old Sam’s, and wait there for the snowplows to come through.”

  Lock gazed at his brother in disbelief. “You still don’t get it.” He gestured at the flakes gusting against the rattling window. “It would just be me and her. You won’t make it ten feet in this.”

  He waited for his brother to let him off the hook. If it was too dangerous for Leo, then why would he insist the hypothermic woman venture back out in it?

  “Fine,” Leo said, bowing his head. “Take her to Franklin Memorial.”

  Lock slouched back in the chair, furious and resigned at the same time. “You’re not even thinking about her welfare, are you? It’s all about you and your fear.”

  Leo’s spine stiffened, and their gazes clashed. Ten months of mutual animosity cloaked the frigid silence. For a second, Lock thought his brother might even launch himself at him like they were kids again, and his muscles braced. The moment passed.

  “And you have your own agenda for keeping her here,” Leo said quietly, covering her with a rumpled surplus blanket. “I have to think if the press finds you, your coach will make an exception. You’d finally be written up for something good. Why would he expel you for that?”

  “He said if there’s any media coverage of any kind while I’m suspended—”

  “We’re talking about a woman’s life here, Lock.”

  “I know, jackass, I pulled her from the wreckage.” He immediately regretted his words. She was more important, but he was scared shitless. Parker remained convinced a not-guilty verdict was possible, and if, by the grace of God that happened, Lock needed to protect his position on the team. It was the only part of his life he still held any control over. Unlike the absence of memory on whether he’d stabbed Tiff eleven times with a butcher knife.

  “Look,” he said quietly, “USSA ordered me to disappear from public, and I’ve done it for ten goddamn months. Now, with five days to go, you want me waltzing into an ER.”

  “This goes beyond your damn Ski Association rules,” Leo bit off the words. “She needs help.”

  “She’ll die out there, Leo. If she doesn’t have hypothermia now, she damn sure will before I get to Old Sam’s. And here you sit with a medical degree.”

  She moaned slightly, and Lock held his breath, waiting for consciousness. When there was no other response, he glanced back at Leo, whose expression remained bleak.

  “We can’t let her die here, Lock. I’ve done all I can. Get her to the hospital.”

  “No…hospitals.”

  Both men started and turned. Her voice, barely a whisper, rang with determination as she gazed unblinkingly at Leo.

  “Hello,” he stuttered, crouching beside the sofa.

  “What—where am I?”

  “I’m Leo.” He took her hand reassuringly. “And he’s L…uh, Bob. You’ve been in a car accident and need medical attention.”

  Lock stooped over his shoulder, and the girl shifted her gaze to him. Those enormous eyes were a fathomless midnight blue and somehow familiar. He stared intently, trying to figure it out.

  “Bob’s going to take you to the ER,” Leo continued.

  “No,” she breathed, fumbling to throw off the blanket. “Gotta…get out…” Leo urged her to lie still, but she shook her head. “No cops,” she whispered, then promptly vomited on the thick blanket and conked out cold.

  Lock blinked. “Jesus.”

  “Shut up, and help me clean her up,” his brother snapped. “Go get some towels and that old Olympic afghan off my bed.”

  “But what’s with the no hospitals and cops?”

  Leo frowned down at her. “Something’s obviously wrong in her life.”

  A moment passed, and hope flickered inside Lock.

  His brother finally sighed. “This goes against every ounce of better judgment, but until we figure out what she’s so afraid of, we’ll keep her here. I’ll stabilize her ankle, but if she wakes up that incoherent again, she’s outta here. I don’t care what she wants.”

  Lock’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. “Deal. And then do me a favor and look at my knees. I think you’re gonna need tweezers.”

  His brother glanced at the bloody jeans. “What happened?”

  “Knelt in glass.”

  A shrewd look came over Leo. “Only if you pony up some information about your trial.”

  “Really? Medical extortion?”

  “Come on, Lock. You’ve shut me out since you showed up. I don’t know what went down that night, but I know you didn’t kill Tiffany. And now the whole world’s about to hear the details. You can’t find it in yourself to tell me first?”

  At Leo’s bewildered tone, Lock dragged his gaze back to the girl. He’d specifically never told his brother anything for several reasons. First, thanks to Jack Daniel’s there was a goddamn hole in his memory.

  I argued with Tiff, I blacked out. When I woke up, she was lying there—dead.

  Second, all the evidence pointed to him. All of it. So it wasn’t a stretch to begin believing he did kill her. And third, to spill this secret to Leo? The victim of Lock’s first blackout years ago? Hell no.

  He couldn’t have stayed here a day had Leo known. Wouldn’t have been able to face the lack of surprise, the silent accusation, the false words of support. It was easier just to shut his brother out and know that despite their complicated relationship, all ten months and the next six days, Leo believed in his innocence. The guy had no clue how much Lock clung to that lifeline.

  He watched Leo carefully remove the soiled blanket. His brother had just saved the girl’s life and overcome painful demons to do it. Lock could gather the courage to fork over a few details, without admitting to the blackout.

  He took the blanket from Leo. “I’ll spill. Where do you keep your tweezers?”

  Chapter Three

  She awoke gradually from far away, increasingly aware of intense agony. Her entire body felt bruised, brittle. Worse yet—this kind of physical pain seemed familiar. Crap. What happened? Willing herself calm, she took inventory of each body part—a sharp pain in her ankle; her head jack-hammered in time with her pulse; and every time she breathed there was a spasm of pain in her side. She had a distinct urge to throw up if she so much as moved a muscle.

  Bit by bit, she grew aware of her surroundings, of murmuring voices and a snapping fire. On instinct, she kept her eyes closed and used her other senses to survey the atmosphere in the room and its risk level to her. She smelled burning logs and was cocooned in something warm and soft. Taking a fuller breath, which resulted in a jolting twinge in her side, she concentrated on the voices. Two men.

  “Parker’s got an authority who’ll testify the assailant was left-handed.”

  Her heart quickened.

  “Dude, I research this for a living.” The other voice now, somewhere behind her and to the right. “Determining hand dominance isn’t considered an exact science. He better have more up his sleeve to get you off.”

  “We’re confident they can’t prove intent and deliberation. They should have gone for a lesser charge.”

  “The look on your face in that YouTube video will prove intent and deliberation.”

  “More like a crime of passion, which carries a shorter sentence than felony murder.”

  Her eyelids popped open.

  Without moving her head, she glanced furtively around. A white afghan with what looked like Olympic rings covered her, and she lay on a mud-brown corduroy sofa. The room was knotty pine, and the flickering fire threw shadows that danced a jig along the panels. Near her feet, a bearded man sprawled in a leather club chair, studying
his beer can. Even in relaxation there was an undercurrent of primitive restlessness about him. Like a jungle cat wired for the predatory pounce.

  He looked familiar…scruffy-gorgeous familiar. The kind of guy who didn’t put a lot of effort into his naturally good looks, so the entire outer package was upstaged by a supercool, indifferent attitude. As in: chatting casually about his crime of passion.

  How did she know him? Why wasn’t she afraid for her life? Was she connected with this trial somehow? She concentrated on his face. The sharp angle of his cheekbones, the straight nose, and thin, firm lips reminded her of an American Indian, although his hair was sun-streaked gold and cut in shaggy layers. Maybe he was a California surfer. That would explain the athletic body and laidback attitude.

  A stray lock of that untidy hair fell past his eyes, and he raked it back absently, then scratched the cropped beard covering his lean, masculine jaw.

  “Tonight at Sam’s he focused on our jury selection strategy,” he said, lowering his hand and suddenly looking exhausted. “Because the judge denied the change of venue, it’ll be impossible to find an unbiased jury.”

  “A change of venue won’t matter. There isn’t a juror left in America that thinks you’re innocent. Except me.”

  Gorgeous frowned into his beer, a look of pure male ferociousness. Who had he murdered? And how? Had he looked like that—intense and formidable? And why in the hell was she laying on this sofa, in this cabin with him?

  “For some reason her cousin believes in me too.” He tilted his head against the leather, exposing a corded neck and the hint of a defined torso in the open collar of his faded cobalt shirt. “Marcy called Mom again looking for me. I don’t know what she wants. We argued about Tiffany being in the bar that night, and she’s a witness for the prosecution. She shouldn’t be trying to contact me. Her grandmother would kill her if she knew.”

  Tiffany, Marcy, grandmother. Witness for the prosecution, felony murder, familiar looking hottie—something hovered around the edge of her memory. She squinted at him in concentration, following the broad shoulders and how the faded flannel molded against a flat stomach. One leg dangled from the arm of the chair. Blood spots covered both knees.

  Just a few souvenirs from your window.

  The car! A tremor of anxiety raced through her. She was supposed to be somewhere; it was so, so important to get there—life and death. But where? Her hands fisted under the blanket as she tried to think through the rip-roaring headache. The accident…bitter cold wind and snow…rushing water nearby. She recalled the gentleness in his eyes, the ironclad strength as he held her to his chest and marched unfalteringly up a steep slope. And that was it. That’s all she remembered. This guy had murdered someone?

  “I do not recommend calling Marcy back,” the guy behind her said sharply.

  “Yeah, thanks Perry Mason. Like I need to be traced on any GPS.”

  “And you still haven’t answered me. What exactly happened that night?”

  Gorgeous smirked, a devilish glint in his eyes…Now he looks even more familiar, damn it! “I think we’ve talked enough for one night, dude.” He drained his beer as his gaze swept over her. Caught her peeking.

  Damn.

  He vaulted from the club chair to her side, smelling of fresh air and snow and beer. The beer scent instantly triggered panic, and a thought flitted through her befuddled mind. She was trapped in a cabin with two strange men and injured to the point of immobility. Did her inability to recognize this murderer keep her safe, or had she just landed in a whopping heap of danger?

  “Hey there.” His eyes were dove gray, the gentleness in them identical to how he’d gazed at her in the flashlight beam. “You’re awake.”

  “Thanks for the newsflash,” she croaked, thoroughly confused by her warring emotions. Kneeling this close, sporting such a concerned look…He didn’t seem dangerous. At all.

  “How ya doing?” His voice oozed like thick honey, and she let it seep through her aching body like balm.

  “A little bruised, but I’ll be all right.” The lie sprang effortlessly from her lips. Say anything to avoid the hospital. She was too muddled to think why.

  “You’re more than a little bruised.” This from the other guy, who knelt in her line of sight too. He looked to be about half the stature and weight of Gorgeous and had straight, brown hair in a trim, conservative cut. His most engaging feature was his eyes, a burnt-chestnut color and squinty at the corners, their expression suggesting ever-present good humor. This guy was kind to animals and small children, and she warmed to him immediately.

  “Do you remember anything?” he asked.

  She worked up a casual smile. “No. I mean, I remember this guy.” She nodded gingerly at Gorgeous and paused as nausea swept through her. “Carrying me and you helping me. But not where I was going.”

  “What about your name?”

  “Mmm…” She kept the smile on her face but began to sweat under the afghan. What was her name? What the hell was wrong with her? “Sorry, I don’t even remember your names.”

  “Leo. Bob.” Gorgeous pointed out who was who. No rings on any fingers. Appropriate for the predatory restlessness about him. “All I picked up about you,” he continued, “is that you’re from the South and have a tendency to argue while being rescued.”

  She blinked, unsure if he was joking until Leo threw him a withering glance.

  “Listen.” Leo gave her a gentle pat on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing. It’s common to have gaps in your memory after a traumatic accident. Everything generally comes back soon enough.”

  Bob rubbed his beard and glanced away.

  Leo stood. Although troubled enough about this freaky clean slate, she instinctively knew something huge lurked. Something critically important she’d regret forgetting. Whatever it was kept tapping her on the shoulder and vanishing.

  “I’ve stabilized your ankle, and your forehead wound doesn’t require stitches. Does anything else hurt?”

  Everything. “No.”

  “What’s your level of pain on a one to ten scale?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Bob chuckled, and when she glanced over, he winked and gave her the thumbs up. “There’s the woman I rescued.” Even through the agonizing body ache, her blood warmed at his wide smile.

  “Here, let me check your pulse.” Leo pressed fingers to her wrist, and she hoped to God he couldn’t pick up her involuntary reaction to Bob. Luckily, he just nodded to himself and straightened. “You vomited before, so I don’t want to risk giving you Tylenol or even water. Let me just wet a washcloth for your lips and see how far we get.”

  He startled her with an embarrassed, almost apologetic smile. Before she could process why, he turned toward the kitchen. He moved with a distinct, laborious limp, his left foot dragging almost sideways after him. She glanced away only to be trapped in Bob’s gaze.

  “He has CP.” His tone was matter-of-fact, which only emphasized the haunting sorrow etched across his face.

  Something deep inside her melted at this reaction to his friend’s condition. She nodded mutely. CP…cerebral palsy or an acronym for something else? Was CP neurological or muscular? It didn’t seem to affect Leo’s intelligence.

  Recording her natural curiosity and impulse to research the facts as another link to herself, she breathed a silent sigh of relief. Clearly rule out medical background, but maybe she was a detective. Or a librarian.

  Bob seemed to be waiting for something more, so she changed the subject to what nagged her most. “You look awfully familiar.”

  He didn’t move, not even an eyelash, yet tension suddenly emanated off him. And was it her imagination or had he just paled under the beard?

  “When I first pulled you from the car, you thought I was Jesus,” he offered.

  “No, that’s not it. What’s your last name?”

  “Ritchie.”

  “Bob Ritchie. Robert Ritchie…” She tested the names but came up blank and frown
ed.

  He shrugged. “Can’t help ya.”

  His slow, insolent smile would have been utterly distracting had she not caught the watchful eyes boring into hers.

  “Whatever,” she assured him, hiding her frustration. “It’ll come to me.”

  The smile vanished. Fascinating…Who was he? And why did she care? A flash of memory exploded past and disappeared like a wisp of smoke, replaced by the desperate sense of urgency she’d felt before. Damn it! Maybe she was a detective. Maybe whatever trial they were discussing…

  Well, at least she’d just supplied a legitimate reason to keep staring at him like he was a rock star in a small town restaurant. Oddly, he studied her just as intently. Had they met before?

  “Here we go.” Leo walked slowly to the sofa with an aqua washcloth.

  Even the task of reaching out and grasping it took too much energy. Everything in her body seemed to throb, and suddenly all she wanted to do was bury herself in the comfort of the sofa and sleep. She put the cloth to her mouth, her eyes fluttering closed.

  “Listen,” Leo said, and she blinked awake. “I’m sure this is the last thing you want to hear right now, but we need you to stay awake as long as possible.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Given the loss of consciousness and amnesia, you’ve undoubtedly sustained a concussion. Staying awake is important, lets us know your brain is functioning.”

  “My brain feels fine—it’s the rest of me.” She was so damn tired.

  “I’m not saying no sleep at all. One of us will wake you every few hours and see if you recall basic information. But try your hardest to stay conscious, okay? The blizzard should clear sometime tomorrow, and we can get you to some professional help. Is there anything you need right now?”

  She needed to move if she hoped to stay awake. “I guess I could use the bathroom.”

  Bob stood. “My department.”

  Her stomach clutched in fear as he reached for her. “Don’t carry me.”