Fugitive Bride. Пола Грейвс
grimy white tuxedo shirt and black pants—and jumped to the obvious conclusion. “You’re newlyweds, aren’t you? Bless your hearts—this is where you spent your wedding night?”
Owen laughed, pulling Tara closer. “It’ll be quite the story to tell on our golden anniversary, won’t it? I don’t suppose we could borrow a phone to call for help?”
“Of course you could.” The woman dug in the pocket of her jeans and provided a cell phone. “Here you go.”
“Thank you so much.” Owen took the phone and went back inside the cabin to make the call, leaving Tara to talk to the friendly couple.
“Do you live close?” Tara asked.
“Half a mile. Kind of hard to see the place through all the trees. If it was winter, you’d probably have seen us and not had to spend the night here,” the husband said. “I’m Frank Tyler, by the way. This is my wife, Elaine.”
“Tara B—Stiles. Tara Stiles, and my husband’s name is Owen.” Tara smiled, even though her stomach was starting to ache from the tension of lying to this nice couple. But Owen was right. As crazy as the “newlyweds with car trouble” story was, the truth was so much more problematic.
Owen came back out to the porch, a smile pasted on his face. But Tara knew him well enough to know that his smile was covering deep anxiety. It glittered in his eyes, tense and jittery. He handed the phone back to Elaine Tyler. “Thank you so much. I’ve called someone for a tow, so we’re set.”
“Glad we could help. You know, we could drive you to where your car is parked.”
“Not necessary. I’ve arranged for someone to meet us on Old Camp Road. Easy walk from here to there. You should get back to your family.” Owen shook Frank Tyler’s hand, then Elaine’s. “Thank you again.”
“Yes, thank you so much,” Tara added, smiling brightly to hide her growing worry. Who had Owen called and what had he heard?
When the Tylers were out of earshot, Tara moved closer to Owen. “What’s wrong?”
He caught her hand, his expression pained. “Tara, I don’t know how to break this to you. Robert’s dead.”
She stared at Owen, not comprehending. “What?”
“He’s dead. Shot, from what my boss told me.”
She covered her mouth with one shaky hand, not certain what she was feeling. Her fiancé was dead. The man she’d been close to marrying. Even if she had become convinced he wasn’t the man for her, it didn’t mean she hadn’t cared deeply for him.
And now he was gone? Just like that?
It was crazy. It had to be wrong.
“This has to be a mistake,” she said, her legs suddenly feeling like jelly.
Owen led her to the steps and eased her into a sitting position on the top step. Ignoring the uncomfortable dampness of the wood, she turned to look at Owen as he settled down beside her and wrapped one strong arm around her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
He leaned his head against hers. “Yes.”
She sighed. “Just get it over with.”
“Robert was murdered at the church around the time you and I were taken by the kidnappers. Nobody knew where we went, so—”
“So now we’re the prime suspects,” she finished for him.
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