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NASH’S HEART TWISTED as Danika, shoulders slumped, walked around her car. He got out and followed. Taking the standpoint that the tire-slasher was after Danika, and not simply a vandal who happened on the car by chance and decided to wreak mischief, Nash did his own inspection.
His leg protested when he sank onto hands and knees to look at the undercarriage.
“What are you doing?” Danika asked. “Do you think it’s more than ruined tires?”
“I doubt it, but it can’t hurt to see if there’s anything else wrong.”
She gave a tire a vehement kick. “I suppose I should be glad it’s not all four. Enough to make sure the spare won’t get me out of here.”
“Who knew this was where you were coming?” Nash asked.
“Nobody,” Danika said. “I didn’t know myself. I was on an impromptu road trip, no destination in mind.”
By now, he’d picked up the nuances in her tone, and this one waved a semi-truth flag. He ran his fingers under each wheel well, striking pay dirt on the third try.
Danika hovered nearby. “That’s not a bomb, is it?”
Examining the device while trying to avoid leaving his fingerprints—bringing latex gloves hadn’t occurred to him—Nash shook his head. “Tracker.”
“You mean someone’s been following me?” Her tone shifted to anger.
“A logical assumption.” He reattached the tracker where it had been.
“You’re going to leave it there? Why not get rid of it?”
“Because that would alert whoever left it that you’d found it. Who had access to your car before you left? Or anywhere along your route.”
“Anyone. My apartment complex has an open parking lot. On the road, I stopped for meals, gas, at rest stops and motels.”
Not helpful. “How long have you been on the road?”
“Since a week ago last Thursday.”
Nash’s leg throbbed, his incision from the nephrectomy ached, not-so-subtle reminders he was supposed to be recuperating. “Nothing we can do here. Let’s regroup at the cabin.”
He drove the short distance, every bump in the road shooting angry don’t do that messages to his leg. Danika was in silent mode, for which he gave thanks. Inside, she headed straight for the kitchen.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Please.” He sank onto the loveseat, too tired to retrieve his pain meds, such as they were. Acetaminophen, even extra-strength, hadn’t helped a lot, but Nash refused to risk any dependence on the stronger, prescription opioids. NSAIDs were off limits—too much of a strain on his lonely kidney. The gurgle of the coffeemaker and the aroma of brewing coffee wafted from the kitchen.
Danika came back and flopped onto the far side of the loveseat, not that she was far away. Close enough so her flowery scent floated above the coffee. He opened his eyes, took in her curious expression, and braced himself for a barrage of smart-ass remarks.
“You’re military. Army? Special Forces, I’ll bet. Or a marine? Navy SEAL?” she said.
She deserved an answer, so he gave her his own semi-truth. “Three tours in the army, infantry grunt, but I’ve been out for years.”
“What do you do now?”
“Not much at the moment. Between jobs, you might say.” He shifted enough to shoot her a piercing stare. “Much like someone else I could mention.”
She didn’t drop her gaze. Her chin lifted. “Guilty. I was a reporter for the Albuquerque Gazette, but it didn’t work out. So I took off on a find myself pilgrimage while I decided what to do next.”
Nash pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Enough game-playing. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”
She stood and flounced toward the kitchen. “Excuse me? Did I ever ask for your help? Unless you have a recording of that nonexistent conversation, I’m saying the answer is no. With a capital N.”
She had a point. He’d offered help where none was asked for. Even though she clearly needed it, why was he putting himself out? He could drive her to a bus station, or a train station, pay her way to wherever she wanted to go. Get back to his R and R.
Would she be safe? Could he live with himself if he sent her on her way and something happened to her?
She returned with two steaming mugs of coffee. “Black, right?”
Nash bobbed his head and reached for the proffered mug. He wrapped his fingers around the blue ceramic, absorbing the warmth before taking his first sip. Some of the fog lifted. “Thanks.”
Danika ducked her head. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m not used to people helping me. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”
“I get it. Apology accepted.”
“Why are you trying to help me?”
“Because once you’re out of my hair, I can do what I’m supposed to be doing.”
She grinned. “Now who’s being snarky?”
“If you keep dodging questions and not telling the truth, you won’t have to worry about accepting help, because the only way I—or anyone else in your life—can help is if we know what the problem is. Tell me more about Danika Payton.”
She exhaled a deep sigh, took another sip of coffee, and set the mug on the end table.
“Have you heard of Alexandra Sullivan?”
He sifted through his memory. “The actor? As in the television series? Family something or other?”
“Family Forever.”
“Family sitcoms aren’t my thing, but yeah, I’ve heard of her. She played the mother who did it all. Career, family, the perfect mom. With a sense of humor. Made a couple of movies.”
Danika picked up her mug and stared into it, as if an episode of Family Forever was streaming in the brew. “My mom.”
Nash’s brows lifted. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. And she’d take exception to you calling it a sitcom. A Dramedy is her preferred label. Everything Alexandra Sullivan’s character was in the show, my mom—her real name is Janet Payton—wasn’t. Never home, couldn’t manage a household to save her life, and zero sense of humor. If there was no script to follow, she was clueless.”
“What’s she doing now? Can’t she help you get out of your ... predicament?”
“No idea what she’s doing. When I told her I wanted no part of her fake lifestyle, that I wanted to get a real job—” Danika crooked her fingers in air quotes— “she said if I did, I’d be cut off. Being seventeen and rebellious, I walked out.”
“She didn’t relent?”
“I never looked back. I don’t read the tabloids, and don’t follow her social media news.” More air quotes. “I keep my life separate from hers, the way she wanted it. She legally changed her name for her acting career, and as far as I know, has never acknowledged my existence in public. I was someone who would call attention to her age as I grew up.
“She lived in Hollywood. I lived with my grandmother and a string of nannies in Santa Fe. Alexandra had a second home there, and she’d show up to sign school paperwork—using her Janet Payton name, of course—lay out more ground rules. Nothing remotely resembling parenting.”
“Hard to believe nobody would make the connection, given all the web accessibility.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Alexandra was good at maintaining distance between her pre-acting self and her actor self. If anyone connected us, they haven’t come looking for me.”
Nash drained the last of his coffee. “Unless that’s who slashed your tires.”
Danika snorted a laugh. “You mean as in kidnap me? Hold me for ransom? She’d never pay. I was a mistake, and I’ve been erased.”
Despite the forced laugh, based on her eyes glistening with tears, it seemed to be an honest reveal, the most honest he’d gotten out of her. Nash still had the feeling Danika was holding back. His scalp tingled, and the sensation flowed all the way to his toes. There was more, and not knowing what it was meant they were both in danger.
*****
DANIKA GRABBED BOTH mugs and took them to the sink to wash. Would Nash follow up on his farfetched notion that whoever was after her thought she was worth money? It would be a dead end, but it would keep him from looking into the real reason she’d run.
Should she tell him? She no longer thought he was after her. He seemed to know what he was doing when it came to checking for booby-traps. He’d offered to help.
When the time was right she’d tell him, she decided, trusting she’d know the moment.
Sure. A stuffed duck would drop in front of her with a sign saying This is the Right Moment in his beak. Like on the old Groucho Marx You Bet Your Life reruns she’d watched while her grandmother had tried—unsuccessfully—to teach Danika to knit.
Danika returned to the living room. Nash had his shoes off, feet on the coffee table, head against the back of the loveseat. Eyes closed.
She tiptoed to the bookshelves, grabbed a random paperback. Then, went to the bedroom. Let him rest.
In the room, she eyed his suitcase. No, even if he’d gone through her things, she would respect his privacy. He’d made the bed, which surprised her. Based on his unkempt hair and beard, plus the absence of any rings, she’d pegged him as the sloppy bachelor type.
She toed off her shoes and climbed onto the bed. Propped against the wall, she looked at the book she’d chosen. A Lee Child thriller. She’d read a few. Not her first choice, but it would pass the time.
Reacher was up to his usual tricks. Showing up, finding someone in trouble, and helping, at great risk to himself. She gazed at the door. Not unlike her new companion. Was there such a thing as a “Reacher complex”? Syndrome? Phenomenon?
Did the fact that Reacher survived and accomplished his self-imposed missions bode well for her situation?
From the living room, gentle snoring sounds told her Nash was getting the rest he needed. She might do well to catnap herself. Being well-rested in case whoever’d put the tracking gizmo on her car showed up would be smart.
Danika dozed fitfully, giving up as the late-afternoon sun glared through the half-closed curtains above the bed. She’d fix dinner. Being well fed was as important as being well rested. She paused in the bedroom doorway. Nash had shifted so he was lying lengthwise on the loveseat.
She padded past him into the kitchen and opened the fridge, looking at all the vegetables he’d chosen. Another bachelor incongruity. Or was she going heavy on the stereotypes, if she pictured him cooking instead of relying on fast food and takeout? Lots of guys cooked. Restaurant chefs were weighted toward the male. If she imagined Nash cooking, she pictured him grilling steaks. Or hot dogs.
“You made lunch. My turn.”
She jumped at Nash’s voice behind her.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I enjoy cooking.”
He seemed hesitant, which, even knowing him such a short time, didn’t fit. “Did you have something in particular in mind?”
He toyed with his beard. “Not exactly.”
“Which means you have some idea. What is it?”
“Pasta with vegetables.” He ducked his head, as if he was ashamed to make the request.
“Sounds fine to me.”
“I have a recipe.” He went toward the bedroom, favoring one leg, but with a less pronounced limp.
He returned with a file folder, flopped it onto the counter, and leafed through the sheets of paper inside, snagging one and setting it atop the folder. “I think I remembered all the ingredients when we were shopping. I’ve made it before.”
She took the recipe from him, scanned the steps. Vegetarian? Another unexpected piece of Nash Hanley. “Easy enough. You can work on fixing the cabin while I cook.”
“You’re not going to change the recipe, are you?” He lifted his head now, as if challenging her to muck with what must be one of his favorites, although it seemed on the bland side.
“I’ll do it exactly as written, sir,” she said.
He went off on his mission, and she assembled the ingredients. She wondered what he’d say if she doctored it to suit her tastes—which she thought would improve it—but she’d given her word not to deviate from the recipe.
Carrots, broccoli, zucchini, bell pepper, garlic, basil, thyme, and oregano. She noticed he’d crossed off the salt, and changed the Parmesan cheese from five tablespoons to three.
Questioning bells clanged. Had Nash made these changes? She didn’t know his handwriting. If he’d made them, there must be a reason. Was he on a low sodium diet? High blood pressure? She’d stick to his changes.
She’d expected to hear hammering from outside, but things were quiet. She put a pot of water on to boil for the pasta. Salting the pasta water was a given, but if Nash had crossed off the salt in the recipe, maybe she should skip it for the pasta as well.
Wouldn’t hurt to ask. She might learn a little more about Nash Hanley in the process.
While she waited for the water to come to a boil, Danika chopped the vegetables. Sounds of demolition commenced, accompanied by the occasional curse word.
Nash clomped into the kitchen a few minutes later and headed to the sink to wash his hands. “Storm’s heading this way. Fast. The porch is going to have to wait. Meanwhile, use the back door. The first step out the front is a doozy.”
“Understood. I never used the front door, anyway.” Danika stepped to the window. Dark clouds filled the sky. In the growing wind, pine boughs swirled like Chinese acrobats. “Do you think it’ll snow?”
Nash dried his hands, neatly folding the towel and replacing it on the oven door handle. “The real question is how much.”
“A blizzard might be a good thing,” she said. “Someone obviously tracked my car, and there aren’t many places I could have gone. They’re bound to find this cabin.”
“Depends on where the person doing the tracking is.” Nash lifted the lid on the pasta water. “It’s boiling. I can take over if you’d like.”
“We’ve been over this. I like to cook. I like to cook alone. Go find something to do.” Nash’s words registered. “Wait. Did you say the person doing the tracking isn’t necessarily nearby?” she asked.
“That’s right. Trucking companies can track every vehicle in their fleets from a central location. Whoever slashed the tires might have been sent by someone else from anywhere.”
She puzzled things together. A piece was missing. “Wouldn’t whoever sent the tire slasher have told him to search the area for me?”
“Likely. Did anyone come to the cabin while you were here? Someone asking directions, a delivery person, mail carrier, random hiker or hunter?”
She shook her head. “No one. I tried to keep a low profile. Spent as much time as possible away from here during the day, tried not to use the lights, and kept the curtains drawn when I did.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and threw her an accusing stare. “Sounds like you’re running from someone.”
She must be flushing bright red. Didn’t mean she had to admit her lies. She stiffened her spine, fisted her hands at her hips. “No, it’s what any decent trespasser would do. Stay out of sight.”
Nash rolled his eyes. “While you rewrite the story you’ve been feeding me, I’m going to clean up.”
Danika looked toward the ceiling, waiting for that stuffed duck to fall.