Conard County Spy. Rachel Lee
new perspectives.”
In that instant, she decided she liked this man. That was an intelligent outlook. “You know, I went to Jamaica a few years back, and I was on a tour bus.”
He arched a questioning brow and waited.
“There was a couple from this state, sad to say, who started badgering the tour guide about Jamaica’s drug problems and whether they were worse because of the race of most Jamaicans.”
She watched, waiting. For an instant Trace seemed to freeze, then he just shook his head.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “For the first time in my life, I wished I were from somewhere else. I stopped to apologize to the guide when we disembarked. My point is, as ugly people, they probably didn’t get any new perspectives.”
“Not everyone does,” he agreed. “Some people never leave their comfort zones.”
“I imagine you do.”
His brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Often. Why?”
“Just a casual response to your comment about different perspectives.” She summoned a smile and decided to back off. This guy was what Marisa had once called a box of secrets. Just like Johnny and then Ryker. Since he wouldn’t be around long, it didn’t matter, and it sure wasn’t courteous to try to discuss things that might make him uneasy.
Secrets. She almost sighed. She’d grown up in a town where almost nothing was a secret for long, but she’d seen the toll Johnny’s secrets had taken on Marisa. Now there was Ryker, and she sometimes wondered but never asked how he and Marisa had crossed that bridge. All she knew for certain was that they had somehow.
Still, the idea of a guy with secrets was out of the ordinary, something new and shiny in a town she loved but sometimes felt was apt to bore her to extinction.
Except for her students. She looked down at the papers in front of her and reminded herself that they were all the newness and shininess she needed. With them, nearly every day brought wonderful surprises.
“I love teaching kindergarten,” she remarked, swimming out of the shoals into safer water. “Kids that age are so fresh, and everything is new and wonderful to them. They often astonish me and remind me that life can be magical.”
“No bad stuff?”
She looked at him again. Was this guy jaded, or was something else going on? She couldn’t imagine. “Well, occasionally I have a child who knows things far beyond his or her years. Things no child should have to deal with.”
“But you can help?”
“Sometimes.”
Then he smiled, a genuine smile, the first he had given her. It made her feel a sexual tug all the way to her core. “That must be a great feeling.” He edged out of the booth. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Ardlow. Can you point me in the direction of the motel?”
She hesitated, then thought, Why the heck not? “I can lead you there if you want to follow. It’s on my way. Just let me gather up my papers.”
“You want another coffee?”
She glanced up and found him still smiling. “Sure, latte with two sweeteners. Thanks.”
“I’m getting some to take with me. No problem.”
She watched him walk back toward the counter where Maude, the diner’s owner, glowered as usual. The man had an easy stride, as if he were in great shape except for that arm of his. Curious.
Then she gathered her papers into her folders and slid them into her backpack and wondered if she’d ever learn any more about Trace. Ryker probably wouldn’t tell her a thing. That man was a serious clam. Not that it mattered. Trace would probably be gone with the morning sun.
She collected her coffee from Maude, who gave her an extra frown, probably because she was associating with a stranger. Julie replied with a broad smile. Annoying Maude was the easiest thing in the world. Sometimes Julie even enjoyed doing it.
Trace pushed the door open with his back, his good left hand holding a tray with three coffees of his own. She guessed he wasn’t planning to sleep tonight. She bit back an offer to help, sensing it wouldn’t be welcome, then stepped out into a night that ought to be hinting at the approaching spring but instead seemed to be warning that more winter waited around the corner.
She pointed out her car, then went to climb into it. Trace needed a couple of extra steps, putting the coffee on top of his car while he opened the door, then reaching in to settle the tray on the passenger seat. He’d had some practice at the juggling act, she thought as she wished her car would hurry and warm up.
She pulled out of the parking space and waited for him. Soon he was behind her, and she led him down the main street to the edge of town, where a truck stop brightened one side of the road and the La-Z-Rest Motel sagged on the other side. She tapped her brake lights a couple of times and saw him flash his headlights once in response before he turned into the motel.
She continued her way along an unnecessarily circuitous route to her apartment. It had been out of her way to lead him to the motel, but she was glad to do it. He struck her as an interesting man.
Too bad he wasn’t staying. She could use a little adventure.
* * *
At the motel, Trace checked in under the ID of Tom LaCrosse and soon had a room, paid for in cash. Once he’d dragged his duffel inside, he popped two of the pain pills the doctor had prescribed. He took them only when he didn’t need to drive and felt it was safe to doze a bit. Tonight was safe. Tomorrow, who knew?
Regardless, the three coffees he’d just bought would keep him from getting too drowsy to wake up.
He ditched the winter jacket, thinking that he had to find a coat easier for a man with only one working hand. He was adept enough at buttons now and could zip up his pants, but that damn jacket was a pain. Getting the zipper to work with only one hand after he’d opened it all the way defied him, but pulling it off over his head didn’t work, either. That procedure left him sweating and too close to passing out.
The pain of the gunshot wound would ease with time, he’d been told, although he’d never get the function back in his hand. Not all of it. He’d reached the point where he didn’t care if it ever worked right again if it would just shower him with the mercy of not hurting as if it were caught in a meat grinder.
Shed of his clothes, he climbed into the sweat suit he preferred for sleeping and turned on the TV at low volume. He guzzled coffee and waited for the meds to start their work. A few hours of milder pain would be welcome, but nothing completely erased it.
Ryker hadn’t exactly surprised him, now that he thought about it. The man was out of the business, he had a wife and child to worry about, and he could hardly want someone like Trace showing up.
But the thing was—and this bugged the devil out of Trace—nobody at the agency was sure that he might be in trouble. All the intelligence networks, all the people gathering every little tidbit, could come up with only one thing: someone had tried to find him under his real name. Something only a few people should know. The secrecy around him had somehow been pierced.
So who and why? It might be nothing. But it left him, as Ryker had so succinctly put it, blowing in the wind. The agency wanted him to keep moving until they learned more, so he’d been doing exactly that, until he was utterly tired of it.
He shouldn’t have come here. Ryker was right about that. Whether someone was after him didn’t matter. If there was even the slightest chance, he should never have risked exposing Ryker’s family. Maybe the pain was affecting his decision-making, because this was a dumb one.
But as the buzz from the meds began to hit him and he stretched out on the bed, another part of him was glad he’d come. He’d enjoyed his eyeful of Teacher Julie. He wondered if she had any idea how that claret sweater brought out the red in her hair and the green in her eyes. Or if she