Deep In The Heart Of Texas. Linda Warren
She felt closer to him than anyone in her family. In what—twenty-four hours?—this man, whose name she didn’t know, was willing to risk his life to save hers.
She shivered at his bravery and shoved her hand into her pocket, her fingers touching the cold steel. She wouldn’t let him down. If anything happened, she had the gun.
Her heart raced, and her body began to tremble as Blackhawk slipped closer. About fifteen feet from them, he stopped. The only sound Miranda heard was the beating of her heart as the Indian gazed at them through the darkness. The moonlight was bright enough so they could see each other. Blackhawk’s hair was long, black and dirty, and his eyes were trained on the hermit. He didn’t carry a gun, only a big hunting knife around his waist.
Spine-tingling silence followed.
Miranda held her breath.
“What’s out there?” Spikes called.
The two men continued to stare at each other. Miranda waited for the hermit to lower his rifle or for Blackhawk to go for his knife, or something—anything—before her nerves burst through the top of her head.
Then suddenly Blackhawk nodded once. The hermit reciprocated.
“A hungry coyote,” Blackhawk answered as he turned and headed back to the fire.
Relief flooded Miranda. She didn’t understand what had just happened, all she knew was that she could breathe again. The hermit took her hand and led her farther and farther away.
They walked steadily without a word. Sometimes they went in circles; at others they went over areas they had already covered. She didn’t ask questions. She knew it had to be a trick to throw Spikes off their trail.
Her legs grew heavier and heavier. When she thought she couldn’t stand the pain a moment longer, the hermit stopped, removed his backpack and slid to the ground, resting against a tree, Bandit by his side.
She heaved a grateful sigh and plopped down on the ground, leaning back against a fallen log. It took a while for her heart rate to still and her pain to ease. Then she closed her eyes and let the night sounds engulf her, alien yet soothing sounds that were growing familiar. As her body relaxed, she finally had to ask or she was going to burst with curiosity. “Why didn’t Blackhawk say something?”
“Guess he was repaying a debt,” he replied, pulling his hat low. “I hauled him out of Beaver Creek a few times. He always cursed me and mumbled in a drunken haze about a wife and kids and how he should be dead, too.”
“What happened to his wife and kids?”
“Don’t know. Never asked.”
“Were you sure he wasn’t going to give us away?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Hell no, you never know what a drunk’s going to do.”
“But you didn’t aim your rifle at him or anything.”
He pushed the hat back impatiently, and she thought he was going to say something about her questions, but instead, he shook his head. “Pointing a gun at him would only have angered him. Besides, I could see he didn’t have a gun and a bullet is much faster than a knife. If he’d done anything, I could have dropped him in an instant, and Spikes and his friend would’ve been dead before they knew what happened.”
Then why hadn’t he killed them? she thought to her horror. What was she thinking? Mass murder. God, no. She didn’t want anyone—not even Spikes—to die because of her. She just wanted to be home and safe with her family.
Family? Someone in her family had paid Spikes to kidnap her. She couldn’t escape that grim truth. She had a feeling that before she reached the safety of her home, someone was going to die. Would it be her? The hermit? Or Spikes?
Something rustled in the leaves and she hardly noticed. She wasn’t afraid of the woods anymore. She was only afraid of Spikes.
The night air chilled her and she slid her hands into her pockets. Her fingers touched the cold steel and she thought of the initials on the handle.
She sat up straighter, gathering courage. “Could I ask a favor?”
There was a long strained pause after her question. Then, without mercy, he answered, “I’ve already granted you one favor. That’s all you’re going to get.”
His voice didn’t deter her. She had to know. “It’s just a small favor.”
He said nothing, just sat as if turned to stone.
“You see,” she persisted, “if we’re going to face death together, I figure I should at least know your name. I refuse to call you Hermit.”
After a moment, he asked, “Why is my name so important?”
“Because you were willing to die for me back there with Blackhawk. A stranger. I don’t want you to be a stranger anymore. I need to know your name for my own peace of mind.”
His name. How long had it been since he’d heard his own name? Years. He didn’t want to tell her his name, but he could feel the words surging to his throat against his will. She was making him feel things he shouldn’t feel, and he could no longer deny it. He didn’t know what the morning was going to bring and, God help him, he wanted to hear his name on her lips.
Before he could say anything, she said, “It starts with a J, doesn’t it?”
The gun, he thought. She’d seen the initials on the gun.
“John, Joshua, Jeremy,” she said, guessing. “Jeffery, Joseph, Judd—no, none of those are right. Let’s see…”
“Jacob.”
Her eyes swung to his. He’d said his name. Jacob. Yes. Strong. Leader. It fit him perfectly.
“Jacob,” she said in a breathless sort of wonder. “Jacob.”
The word was like a haunting melody to his ears. All he could think about was catching the sound falling from her lips, catching them with his own. The feeling threw him. He hadn’t experienced anything like this in so long that for a moment he felt helpless and vulnerable. He immediately put the skids on emotions that were threatening to overtake him.
Miranda watched his face and saw his troubled thoughts reflected there, but she felt elated that he trusted her enough to share his name. She had to know more.
She rose to her knees and crawled to his side, sitting back on her heels. “Jacob what?”
He didn’t say a word.
“Okay,” she said. “It begins with a C, so…”
She felt the heat of his dark eyes. “Didn’t you hear anything I said when we started this journey? No questions. Remember?” He had that impatient note in his voice again, but it didn’t stop her.
“Yes,” she answered. “But we’ve gone way beyond that. We’re partners and friends now, aren’t we, Jacob?”
God, the way she said his name was beginning to get to him. So many emotions broke through inside him. He could actually feel a sense of release, an opening around his heart. He wanted to talk, to be her partner, her friend, just as she’d said.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“And friends share things, secrets. Whatever you tell me, I would never tell anyone else.”
Somehow he knew that she wouldn’t.
She waited for him to speak. He didn’t, so she prompted, “Jacob…?”
His eyes caught hers in the darkness. “Culver,” he answered. “It’s Jacob Culver.”
“What did Jacob Culver do for a living?”
“Detective,” he answered without hesitation. “I worked homicide for a Houston division.”
“I knew it had to be something like that,” she