Chapter Twelve
Sunday was arrival and departure day for many of the guests. Moira stood in the center of the laundry room, housed in the old-time Barber Shop at one corner of the town square. A cool breeze blew in through the door, chasing out some of the heat generated by six noisy, industrial-size washers and dryers.
Today was also the day that the real Chloe, in her letter, had arranged to pick Friday up at the airport. Moira wouldn’t miss the dog. Those low, rumbling growls used to scare her. Now they just made her nervous.
“You can use those machines over there,” Gina told her as she left with a mountain of neatly folded sheets.
Over to the right, Moira found two smaller machines for the employees’ personal use. That was her, all right—employee. Though she didn’t know for how much longer. She supposed it depended on how mad Dutch got when he found out there was no way she was going to divulge her real identity. Eventually he’d probably get tired of waiting and fire her.
In two weeks, she’d fallen in love, then completely sabotaged the relationship. Frustrated with how quickly she’d fallen for a man, how she’d failed to make a successful, happy life for herself as an average American woman, she shook her head.
“Need some help?”
She spun around to find that Ben had entered the laundry room under cover of all the humming, sloshing machines.
“I saw you shake your head,” he said with an understanding grin. “I thought you might need someone to decipher those buttons for you.”
“Really?” she said airily. “It’s not like I’ve never done this before.”
“Oh, yeah. Guess you’re right.”
She glanced around. They were alone; maybe Ben would confide in her. “Dutch says you’re following someone.”
He tugged his hat down a notch. He studied the toes of his dusty boots. “I ’spect a person gets some funny notions out there in Hollywood.”
“Mmm.” She mulled over his noncommittal reply. “So what are you doing in here?”
He held up a stuffed pillowcase. “I was gonna do wash, but—” he indicated her two sacks with a nod of his head “—it looks like you got both machines covered.”
She’d gotten the idea to use pillowcases from watching the girls in the dorm. Now she wished she’d tagged along to see how laundry was done, so she could start hers in front of Ben, just like any other woman could do.
“Yeah,” she agreed, wishing he’d leave her alone to figure this out. She upended a bag into each machine, spilling tank tops and lingerie over the sides and onto the concrete floor. Her cheeks hot with embarrassment, she scooped the clothes up before everyone on the ranch knew she was partial to bright, lacy bras and panties.
“You’re s’posed to sort stuff,” Ben said.
She whirled on him. “You’re following me, aren’t you?”
His frown appeared genuine. Like a true gentleman, he kept his eyes above the delicates clutched in her grasp.
“Now why in tarnation would I do a thing like that?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. You were following me the night I went into the office. You show up at every riding lesson, but you need lessons about as much as I do. You were one of the few wranglers up at the time of the stampede.”
Suddenly, hearing the words out loud, she realized what that could possibly mean. Dutch had told her he’d never seen a stampede before, and he didn’t know what had caused the one they’d watched from the creek. Had Ben started it? Was that even possible?
She must have looked frightened, because Ben stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder before she had the presence of mind to scoot away. Unfortunately her retreat was blocked by the machine at her back.
“Hey, I’m no threat to you,” he said.
“Then why are you following me?”
He glanced around. He studied her carefully, as if weighing his options. He nodded, as if having a conversation with himself. Then he said, quite clearly, “Emma sent me.”
The room swam. Her knees buckled.
“No.” Her denial was barely audible, even if she’d been in a quiet room. With her back to the washer, she slid down. She landed on her derriere on the concrete floor with a thud. “Emma?” she whispered weakly.
Ben crouched in front of her. “You all right?”
“Why would she do that?” It was a rhetorical question. “She practically raised me. She knows how important this is to me. To do this on my own.”
“She thought you might need a little protection.”
She clapped her hands over her ears for a brief moment. “No!” She scrambled to her feet, and he followed. “This is exactly what I don’t need.”
“You aren’t supposed to know.”
Her laughter was short and none too sweet. “I’ll bet. You pack your bags and get off this ranch.”
He scratched his chin, behind his ear, his chest where his shirt V’d open, obviously stalling. “Well, I could do that...”
“Today.”
“But if I do, she’ll just send someone else. Wouldn’t it be better to pretend you don’t know?”
“I’ll go where she can’t find me.” It was an empty threat. She knew she wouldn’t leave unless Dutch fired her, but Ben didn’t know that.
He shook his head apologetically. “I wouldn’t let you out of my sight that long.”
She turned back to the washers, frantic for the knowledge that would show her how to get them going so she could get out of there. It was so important for her to do these things for herself. It was so important to be average for once in her life. It was just so damned important...and in danger of being stolen from her.
All she saw were buttons and dials. Frustrated, she kicked the machine. She randomly pushed and turned anything on the back panel that moved. She stuffed her scraps of lingerie in with everything else, slammed the lids shut as if she were trying to shut out her past and shoved past Ben.
“We’ll see about that,” she challenged.
DUTCH HAD JUST SPENT the worst twenty-four hours of his life, and he wasn’t even sure how he’d spent them. Was he angry? He hadn’t a clue. Puzzled? Still no clue. His feelings were all jumbled up, had him strung tighter than a bale of straw.
MaryAnne had accused him again this morning of being grouchier than a bear with a sore paw. Katie and Nicole elected to spend their time elsewhere. They’d been with him up until two hours ago, when he’d stared into the laundry room and seen Chloe—or whoever she was—turn her. back on Ben and kick the machine.
Departing guests were the only ones who didn’t have the sense to stay out of his way. Dave clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Dutch, helluva week.”
Dutch grunted an indecipherable reply. What had she and Ben been talking about?
“Yeah, too bad we didn’t get pictures of the stampede,” Nancy added with a big smile. “The kids’re so jealous.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him goodbye.
His arms circled her automatically; he was that kind of guy. But he noticed she didn’t feel like Chloe. This woman’s breasts mounded against his chest didn’t push any of his buttons. He knew it didn’t have a damned thing to do with her husband standing right there.
“We’ll be back next year.”
Was Ben following Chloe? If so, then he knew who she was.
Dutch snapped his fingers, sure that he had a clue he could work with. All he had to do was find Ben and get some answers out of him. Any way he could.
“Well?” Dave asked.
“Huh?”
“Nancy asked if Chloe would still be here next year.”
“Hell if I know.”
“Well, uh, we’re going now.”
“Huh?”
“Van’s waiting.”
“Oh, yeah.” Dutch pulled himself together long enough to shake the man’s hand. Business was business, after all. He wanted his guests to leave happy and come back again. ’Course, if the stampede hadn’t scared them off, he doubted his surly mood would. “Have a nice flight.”
Dave, Nancy, and their kids walked across the town square and, along with others, boarded the first of two vans departing for the airport. Chloe, sporting a tie-dyed tank top, met them at the side door. There was another piece of the puzzle; no clue about sorting clothes before she washed them. From the way it hugged her breasts, it looked as if she’d shrunk it, too. She got in with them, talking and laughing as if they were going on a picnic instead of parting.
There’d been other clues, too. The cook said Chloe hadn’t a speck of skill in the kitchen; couldn’t even boil water. Dutch was reasonably sure now that she hadn’t stepped in any hole the night of the square dance; she probably didn’t know how to dance, either. Trouble with Katie’s saddle?
Nah, that one didn’t count. How could anyone who knew so much about horses not know how to adjust a saddle? What else?
Ah, yes, the whipped cream episode. It was obvious she’d never handled a can of whipped cream before. Where was she from? Mars?
When her dog jumped in, the door closed, and the van pulled out, Dutch realized something was amiss. Sure, he could see her riding along to the airport to bid friends goodbye, but not taking her unsociable dog with her, too.
He wanted to pretend it didn’t matter. He wanted to say “good riddance” and toss her personnel file into a fire. He wanted to forget MaryAnne had found him three different trick horses from which to choose a gift for Chloe. But he couldn’t.
Well, he’d have to forget that last one. Whoever she was, she probably didn’t know beans about trick riding, either.
His suspicions about her leaving were confirmed when Ben ran down the row of cabins, got into his own car and lit out after her.
Dutch’s chest constricted. He didn’t want her to leave this way, without saying goodbye, without kissing him again, without giving him a chance to get over being deceived.
Would I get over it?
Maybe. Being on the lam from some killer would be a pretty good reason for going into hiding. But not for keeping her identity a secret from the man she loved.
Does she love me? He thought she did.
In spite of not knowing for certain who she was, he knew he loved her too much to let her leave this way. He had to tell her.
Galvanized into action, he stormed over to the driver of the second van. “Get out.”
“Wha—?”
He yanked the door open and bellowed, “Get out!” When the wrangler was slow to move, Dutch grabbed his shirt and gave him a helping hand into the dust. He slid behind the wheel and hollered, “Buckle up!” to everyone in back.
WHEN DUTCH LOST SIGHT of the first van in the city an hour later, he knew it was fortunate that he at least knew where it was headed. Of course, if Chloe jumped out anywhere along the way, he’d lose her. But what better way to run away than hopping a plane? He screeched the van to a halt in the designated shuttle area and leapt out.
“Hey, Dutch—”
He heard one of the guests start to ask him something. He simply ignored it as he charged into the terminal.
At the gates, he scanned the crowd, cursing a blue streak because Chloe was too short to stand out. Even if she did, her straw cowboy hat would blend in with so many others.
And then he saw Ben, a good head taller than most, heading away from him. He followed him to a noncommercial area, to a secluded gate. Beyond him, he could see Chloe and her dog walking side by side. A security guard approached them, but, once he saw Friday’s lip curl, he backed off and got on his radio instead.
A hundred feet to go, Dutch strode past a wide pillar. That was all the farther he got, as Ben stepped out and flattened a hand against Dutch’s chest.
“This is as far as you go, Dutch.”
“Get the hell out of my way.”
Ben shook his head. “Can’t.”
“And I can’t let her go.” He made a fist.
“Look, she’s not—” Ben’s words were cut short by a punch to the jaw. His knees crumpled, and he sagged to the floor.
Dutch had the presence of mind to drag the fallen cowboy behind the pillar, lean him back and tilt his hat forward as if he were taking a nap. It only took a few seconds. Then he looked around for Chloe again. He didn’t see her or the dog. He scanned the area quickly.
Outside, a black-and-white blur caught his eye as it raced across the tarmac. Friday headed straight for a private jet, ran up the steps, launched herself on someone standing in the doorway, and disappeared. A moment later, he saw a hand reach out and wave, and then the door closed.
Had Chloe already gotten on the plane? He scanned the outside of it for identifying numbers, for anything he could possibly use to trace it. All he saw was a flag decal, and one that seemed familiar. Where had he seen that before?
When he remembered, he couldn’t believe it. The TV special he’d taped for Katie and Nicole. The wedding of the century between the king of one European monarchy and the queen of another. Their two flags had been combined into one for the new country of... Something or other that started with a B was all he could remember. He hadn’t really paid much attention; it didn’t concern him.
Not at the time anyway. Now seemed to be a different matter entirely.
But wait! If someone in the plane had waved, that meant Chloe was still on the ground, didn’t it? But which Chloe would it be? They look alike.
They know each other.
She thinks it’s cute when the twins swap places.
Nobody had to draw him a picture except maybe to tell him which Chloe was on the ground now. The real one, or the princess?
He glanced around. He ran from one end of the area to the other. He went to get Ben and shake some answers out of him, but he was gone, too.
“Damn!”
WHEN THE VAN DROPPED HER off back at the ranch, Moira was both intensely sad and unreasonably happy at the same time. She’d gotten no more than a glimpse of Chloe, her best friend, but it had been enough to see her radiant smile. Moira didn’t think it was solely for the reunion with Friday. Chloe was happy and content in her new life.
Moira could do nothing to jeopardize that. After all, when she ended up happy—if that were possible after this two-week fiasco—she wouldn’t want Chloe to let the truth escape. Truth that could pull them both into an international scandal, which would be the least of their problems. Moira remembered William, Chloe’s new husband, as a headstrong boy. He’d surely grown into a strong-willed man who’d toss Chloe into his dungeon and throw away the key.
She’d ducked into the first shuttle van at the last possible minute, knowing Ben was watching her, praying he’d follow her. Hopefully she’d lost him at the airport. Hopefully he’d think she either boarded a commuter plane and eluded him, or boarded Chloe’s jet for a quick drop-off somewhere else in this country. Hopefully he’d be too disgraced to return to the ranch for his things, but would keep on moving.
In the meantime, she’d like to find Dutch and see what his mood was at the moment. See if he’d had enough time since yesterday morning to cool off.
“¡Señorita!
Just about to enter the dorm to drop off her jacket, Moira was approached by a distraught-looking Luiz.
She grinned. “The cook find you useless, too?”
He shook his head. “Señorita, las niñas...” He frowned, looked like a man who wanted to tell her something important, but couldn’t come up with the right translation fast enough.
She probably looked as confused as she was. Living in Santa Barbara had given her some basics in Spanish, but what girls? She’d never actually spoken Spanish to anyone, but she gave it a stab. “¿Qué niñas?”
“Katie y Nicole. Señorita, vámonos.”
There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice and posture as he darted back and forth, urging her toward Dutch’s Jeep.
“Slow down, Luiz. Tell me where they are.”
“¡No, no! ¡Katie y Nicole! Vámonos.”
Moira didn’t know what was wrong, but she was determined to find out. She followed Luiz to the Jeep, wondering if the twins had gotten into some kind of trouble and were hiding from their father. Maybe they’d sent Luiz to get her, knowing she was more tolerant of their pranks than Dutch was.
She peered into the Jeep, hoping to see them hiding behind the seats, which she did. Their eyes were wide with fright. Red bandannas gagged their little mouths.
She spun on Luiz. “Back off.”
“No. You get in,” he ordered.
Surprise made her ask, “You speak English?”
“So it seems.”
“Then why—?”
He shoved her onto the passenger seat. She tried to yell at him to stop, to attract attention, to turn around so she could kick at him. She had to overcome him so she could help Katie and Nicole.
He smacked her so hard her teeth rattled, her ears roared, her vision blurred.
“Shut up!” He spit in the dust.
He climbed over her, tramping on her carelessly as he did so, then slid behind the wheel and started the engine. As it roared to life, Moira worried about the two precious lives on the floor behind her. Whatever it took, she had to save them, had to see that they got free, that they were returned to Dutch unharmed.
Why had this madman picked them? What could he possibly want with her and the twins?
Why the hell did I ditch Ben at the airport?
As if knowing she needed an answer to her questions, her abductor tore off his glove and shoved the back of his hand six inches in front of her face. His scarred hand.
Prince Louis, her brother.