Witness On The Run. Susan Cliff
not a cop,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. Not anymore. He’d abandoned his career in law enforcement a few months after Jenny died. He’d stopped believing in justice. He’d lost faith in himself.
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Her defensiveness could be an indication of guilt, or another manifestation of fear. He didn’t ask any more questions. He knew from experience that aggressive interrogations made victims clam up. But it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t getting involved. Her problems were none of his business.
“I’ve seen you at the diner,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”
“You order the veggie omelet and wheat toast. Black coffee.”
He was surprised she remembered him. He’d only been in the diner a handful of times. The idea that he’d made an impression on her appealed to him. She tugged off her parka, revealing some other things that appealed to him.
Cam pulled his gaze away from her. She was an enticing package, with her slender figure and lovely face. Her presence in his cab felt like an electric charge. He couldn’t prevent the rush of warmth that suffused him every time their eyes met.
He’d been alone on the road too long.
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“North,” he said shortly.
“Fairbanks?”
“For starters.”
“Can I come with you?”
The temperature inside the cab had gone from toasty to sweltering. Cam turned down the heat, contemplative. He’d never picked up a hitchhiker before. He’d seen his share of “lot lizards” in the lower 48. They were hard-looking women, desperate for hard-up men. Nothing like this fresh beauty beside him.
She waited for his answer in silence.
“I’ll take you to Fairbanks,” he said, against his better judgment. He knew it was the wrong choice. She needed help, beyond a simple ride north, and he couldn’t give it to her. He had nothing left to give. “From there you’re on your own.”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I appreciate it.”
He made a noncommittal sound and fell silent. It was a long drive to Fairbanks, and he didn’t intend on passing the time with idle chitchat. He couldn’t remember how to engage a woman in conversation. The less she spoke, the easier it would be to ignore her. He could keep his mind—and his eyes—on the road.
A part of him wanted to look at her. A part of him wanted to do more than look. He’d been living like a monk for three years. He’d isolated himself in Alaska for a reason. He’d abandoned every comfort, including female company. He couldn’t imagine dating again. He almost couldn’t imagine a single night of pleasure.
Almost.
He knew she wasn’t offering. She wasn’t a lot lizard, and he didn’t prey on vulnerable women, regardless. The man he used to be, the man who’d been a good husband and conscientious police officer, would never have considered taking advantage of her desperation. The man he’d become was numb. He had no moral high ground. He was a shadow of his former self, frozen in grief. He suddenly longed for some release from the monotony of his existence. He longed for human touch.
He glanced at Jenny’s smiling picture on his dashboard. Her guileless expression never changed. She wouldn’t have approved of his reclusive lifestyle or his current predicament. But she was dead, and had no say in the matter. He moved his gaze to the windswept lanes ahead. His heart felt like a stone inside his chest. He didn’t say anything to put his passenger at ease. He just kept driving, into darkness.
Tala regretted asking him if he was a cop.
She should have just shut up and let him drive. He’d threatened to call the police, but he hadn’t picked up his phone or CB. He hadn’t pulled over and told her to get out. He’d questioned her safety, like any conscientious person would, and she’d panicked.
She couldn’t tell him what happened at the diner. He’d take her to the nearest police station and insist that she report the crime. She had no intentions of falling into that trap. No, she was going to run until she felt secure.
Running was what she did. It was what she knew.
She slunk lower in the passenger seat, feeling nauseated. She wished she’d never come to Alaska. She wished she hadn’t fled Canada like a thief in the night. Now she was in a bind, and she had no idea how to get out.
She snuck another glimpse at the man behind the wheel. She hadn’t lied when she’d said he didn’t look like a trucker. There was something different about him, beyond his handsome face. She couldn’t put her finger on what. He was rugged and outdoorsy enough to fit in with the locals. He wore flannel shirts and steel-toed boots. He had dark brown hair that curled around his collar and a well-trimmed beard that suited his features. She got the impression that he didn’t smile or laugh much. He had thickly lashed, soulful brown eyes.
He was built more like a logger than a trucker. His broad shoulders and lean physique added to his appeal. He looked stronger than most homesteaders. He could even pass for one of those elite mountain climbers who came to summit Denali. He was a man in his prime. He was also married. He wore a plain gold wedding band on his left hand. She hadn’t noticed it when he’d visited the diner.
The diner. A fresh wave of memories assaulted her. She could never go back there. Thoughts of Walt trickled in, making her heart clench. She hadn’t stopped to consider the danger to him. He’d been asleep inside the office. What if those men had shot him? Guilt and shame and fear struck all at once, overwhelming her.
“What’s your name?” the driver asked.
“Tala.”
“Tala? Is that Native American?”
In her distress, she’d forgotten to lie about her name. She’d been Abigail Burgess for the past six months. She massaged her forehead, wincing. “We don’t say Native American in Canada.”
“What do you say?”
“First Nations.”
“First Nations,” he repeated, glancing at her. “You’re from Canada?”
She nodded. Now that she’d screwed up, she might as well be honest. “I was born in Yellowknife.”
“They have ice roads in Yellowknife.”
“Yes.”
“Have you been on them?”
“No. Have you?”
“I’ve always wanted to. I’ve been on the Dalton, which has an ice road section near Prudhoe Bay.”
She hadn’t realized he was an ice-road trucker. Maybe that was why he reminded her of a mountain climber. Both endeavors required nerves of steel. Only the most daring truckers would drive over a layer of ice with arctic waters flowing underneath.
“I’m Cam, by the way. Cameron Hughes.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said automatically. It felt odd to have a normal conversation after what she’d been through. “Where are you from?”
“Tacoma, Washington.”
“When did you come to Alaska?”
“Three years ago. I needed to...get away.”
She could relate. Unless he meant he needed to get away from his responsibilities. Maybe he’d left a wife and children behind. He didn’t seem like the deadbeat-dad type, but she didn’t know him. She couldn’t