Stranger In Cold Creek. Пола Грейвс
“He turned left about a half mile up the road.”
She nodded toward the taped-off crime scene. “Did he get inside the perimeter?”
“Not that I saw. He stayed outside the tape, but he was looking around with a pair of binoculars.”
Miranda’s gaze dropped to the pair of binoculars hanging around his neck.
He smiled. “I thought I’d see what he was trying to see.”
Miranda frowned. “You went to the crime scene? Did you trample over his footprints?”
“He didn’t leave prints.” He told her about the boot covers. “He did seem to be looking for something, though.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. I looked around after he left, but I didn’t see a damn thing. I’m hoping maybe tomorrow the crime scene unit will come across something after the snow starts to melt.”
“Tire prints,” she said suddenly, looking up at him. A spark of excitement glittered in her eyes, lighting up her weary face. “Didn’t the crew who came to tow the cruiser make imprints of the tire prints on the road out front? They were supposed to.”
“I think so.” He’d watched them doing something on the road and had assumed they’d been pouring molds of the prints.
“Maybe there are tire prints up the road where you saw that vehicle pull out and head down the highway.”
“The temperature is supposed to be rising overnight. Those tracks—”
“May not be there tomorrow,” she said, already heading for her truck.
He caught her wrist, stopping her forward motion. She looked first at his hand around her wrist, then slowly lifted her gaze to his, her expression bemused.
“You’re supposed to be home in bed, getting rest,” he said. “Not traipsing through the snow in search of tire prints. Besides, isn’t there a unit coming from the station?”
The look of frustration in her eyes was almost comical. “They might obliterate them coming here.”
“Call and warn them.”
“Another vehicle could drive through—”
She wasn’t going to let it go, he saw. “I don’t have any way to make a mold for the tracks, Deputy,” he pointed out. “And neither do you.”
“We could take photographs.”
“Of tire prints in the snow. At night.”
Her mouth pressed to a tight line of annoyance. It was a cute look for her. In fact, his first impression that her features were more interesting than beautiful seemed, if not wrong, at least incomplete. There was an unexpected elegance to her strong bone structure, like the rugged beauty of a mountain peak or a winter-bare tree. A stripped-down sort of beauty that was all substance, all nature’s bounty.
“Why don’t we go inside, warm up until they get here?” he asked to distract himself from a rush of heat rising from deep in his belly. He gave a backward nod of his head, coaxing her toward the fireplace.
She gave him a reluctant look but didn’t resist. It wasn’t long before she was settling on the sofa and leaning toward the heat.
“How long have you been a deputy?” he asked, taking a seat beside her.
Her forehead crinkled at the question. “Almost ten years. I joined right out of college.”
“Where did you go to college?”
Her slate-colored eyes narrowed slightly. “Texas Tech. You?”
“That information didn’t come up in your background search?”
Her gaze narrowed. “I got a call about a missing person’s case, so I didn’t get to finish stripping your background bare.”
The tart tone of her reply made him smile. “My bachelor’s degree was from Wake Forest. My master’s was from the University of Alabama.”
“And now you’re a carpenter?”
“After all that time and money, I realized I really hated accounting.”
“Unfortunate.” Her lips curved at the corners but didn’t quite manage a smile. “Did you feel pressure to go into the family business anyway?”
Her tone suggested she understood that sort of pressure. “Your dad wanted you to go into the nuts-and-bolts biz?”
“I’m it for his branch of the family tree. No other kids, no living siblings. He’s not that far from retiring, and I know he’d love it if I quit the sheriff’s department and joined him in the sale of hardware.” She laid her head against the back of the sofa, closing her eyes as she relaxed into the comfortable cushions. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m so grateful for the life my dad’s business gave me growing up. But I love being a cop.”
“Even in a little place like Cold Creek?”
“Especially in a little place like Cold Creek.” Her smile was genuine. “These are my people. I grew up with most of them. They’re here in Cold Creek not because there’s nowhere else they could go, but because there’s nowhere else in this big, wide world they want to be. This place is in their blood, like it’s in mine.” She slanted a quick, sheepish look at him. “That was a little hokey, wasn’t it?”
“No,” he disagreed, meaning it. He had left his Tennessee roots behind a long time ago, but the pull of the mountains had never gone away. He’d felt it, a tug in the soul, during the months he’d recently spent in the Blue Ridge Mountains of southern Virginia.
He wondered if he could feel the same sort of tug from another place, especially one as flat and desolate as this part of Texas seemed to be.
Then he wondered why he was even thinking about spending more time in Texas than it took to get himself back into fighting shape, in case law enforcement couldn’t round up all the stragglers left in the moribund Blue Ridge Infantry.
The sound of a car motor approaching on the highway dragged his attention away from that worrisome thought. He rose quickly and edged to the window to take a quick peek through the curtains.
A Barstow County Sheriff’s Department cruiser had pulled up outside, parking next to Miranda’s truck. “It’s your colleague,” he murmured as a tall young man stepped out of the cruiser and made his way through the crusty snow to the porch. He was the deputy who’d accompanied the sheriff earlier that day. What was his name?
Miranda followed him to the door as he opened it to the deputy’s knock. “Robertson,” she said briskly, joining him on the front porch rather than letting him in. She filled him in on what John had told her about the intruder. “He was wearing boot covers, so we don’t have any tracks around the wreck, but Mr. Blake believes he drove away from behind that small stand of shrubs down the highway.” She waved in the direction John had indicated. “He doesn’t think any other vehicles have come through since then, thanks to the snow, so I thought we could get tire impressions, at least, to compare to the vehicle that took potshots at me earlier today.”
Robertson took in everything she told him quietly, jotting notes. Then he looked up at Miranda, his blue eyes gentle with concern. “I thought the sheriff told you to get some rest.”
John didn’t miss the look of not-so-professional interest in the deputy’s expression, but if Miranda was aware that the deputy had a bit of a crush on her, she didn’t show it as she shrugged and said, “I was on the phone with Mr. Blake when he saw the intruder. I was at my dad’s place, so I was several minutes closer than a cruiser could be.”
Robertson flicked his gaze up to meet John’s eyes. “I see.”
“Well?” Miranda asked. “Did you bring the casting material?”