Lost Christmas Memories. Dana Mentink
that was enough to make him pull his motorcycle off the road and ease it down the gravel path in search of the frightened woman vanishing into the shadows of the abandoned station.
He figured a helmeted guy on a motorcycle would only add to the woman’s unease, so he rolled down the slope and parked the bike in the shelter of the empty water tower that glowed eerily in the gloom. After dismounting, he left his helmet on the seat, finger-combed his overgrown black hair away from his face and took the path in the direction he’d seen the woman headed, down to the busted-up platform. He decided she would probably have scooted into the depot, where at least she’d be sheltered from the storm. Where had she come from? He saw no sign of a vehicle, but the station was miles from the nearest building.
He eased through the open door. “Hello?”
Inside, a blast of chilly air hit his face, carrying the sharp scent of rust. The clouds parted to allow just enough moonlight to probe the broken windows, lending weak illumination. The old benches were still intact in some places, as well as the ticketing counter. Branches collected in moldering piles and the tapping of tiny claws indicated rats had also found the spot to be a suitable sanctuary.
“Hello?” he said again. No reply except for the rattle of pine needles dropping onto the sagging roof. “I saw you come in.”
Still no answer, but his eyes were adjusted now and he saw that the most likely hiding spot was behind the ticketing counter. He had to edge around a place where the floor had fallen out, giving way to a sort of storage cellar some fifteen feet below. One wrong step would lead to a fall that would undoubtedly result in two broken ankles or worse.
This was no place for a lady.
He picked his way carefully around the gaping hole, his cowboy boots protecting him from the protruding nails and bits of broken wood.
He heard the floor creak as the woman moved behind the counter.
He was about to try the friendly conversation approach for the second time when the woman bolted up over the top of the counter and fired a pistol at him.
The shot went close, closer than Tracy had intended. She never had been very good with guns in spite of her father’s tutelage. The dark-haired guy’s eyes flashed shock and disbelief as he stumbled at the noise, falling into a chasm where the floor ought to be. She scrambled around the ticket counter. Her heart pounded, ears ringing from the shot, sick with the notion of what she’d just done. Had she hit him?
This stranger wasn’t the killer. His eyes gleamed silvery in the gloom and his shoulders were too broad, but sheer panic had made her fire the gun anyway. She’d meant to scare, to buy time. Had she killed instead? Gripping the pistol, she edged to the crevice in the floor. “Who...who are you?”
She was relieved beyond measure when he answered.
“Keegan Thorn. And that was completely uncalled for when I was just trying to be neighborly.”
The man, she saw now as she peered over the broken flooring, was roughly her age, late twenties or early thirties. His black hair was long enough to fall across his brow as he struggled to hold on to the piece of broken flooring that dangled a foot or so down below. He wore a leather jacket and rain pants. His long legs ended in flailing boots. Dark brows framed his eyes, and for a split second she wondered what color they must be in the daylight.
“I...I thought you were someone else. Are you...all right? Um...your nose is bleeding.”
“It was bleeding when I got here, from a fist.”
Who is this guy? “What are you doing here?”
He looked up at her peevishly. “Well, I thought I was helping you out. I live at the Gold Bar, about fifteen miles from here, and I saw you heading into the train station.”
She still gripped the gun, unsure.
“Are you going to shoot at me again or help me out of this hole?”
The question startled her. “Neither. I’m sorry I shot at you, but I have to go. Don’t try to follow me.”
He grimaced, face contorted with effort. “Why would I do that?”
His questions unsettled her but she steeled herself. “You’re a stranger and I’m having a real bad night.”
“My night’s not going so great, either, and I’m not a stranger. I already told you my name, so help me up ’cause this beam’s getting slippery.”
The decision twisted her insides. She’d just witnessed a murder. Every nerve screamed for her to run as fast and as far as she could. But she might have killed the guy and maybe he was just what he seemed, a benevolent stranger.
Strangers are dangerous. She’d known that even before she’d seen a woman’s life snuffed out. She turned to go, until she heard him grappling for a better hold on the beam.
Something deep down made her blow out a breath, tuck the gun into her pocket, lie flat on her stomach and plunge a hand toward the guy. She managed to help all six-foot-plus of him out of the pit.
He crawled away to a solid section of floor where he got to his feet. After brushing the dust from his jacket, he fisted his hands on his narrow hips. “Well?”
“Well what?” Tracy said.
“Aren’t you going to apologize for almost killing me?”
His smile almost teased one from her until she squelched it. “I didn’t. The bullet didn’t go anywhere near you.”
“Good thing for me you’re a terrible shot.” He gestured at her coat with his chin. “What else you got in those pockets? A Winchester? Nunchucks?”
“Can I use your phone? Please?”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” He stepped between her and the door, and her pulse ricocheted up a notch. Maybe she’d been right in the first place. She fingered the gun in her pocket.
“Don’t come any closer.” She was dismayed that her voice came out more like a squeak than a command.
He held up his palms. “Listen, Pockets. I think you owe me more of an explanation, considering. Let’s start again. I’m Keegan Thorn. I live at the Gold Bar Ranch. You look like you need help.”
Tracy stared. “I have to go.”
He folded his arms now, biceps drawing the leather tight. “Uh-uh. Here’s what you’re supposed to say at this point. ‘Hello, my name is—fill in the blank—and I’m sorry for shooting at you when you were trying to help.’” A smile tweaked his full lips.
Model handsome, she couldn’t help but notice.
Stop noticing, she ordered herself. Get help. Get away. Now. She turned to go around him.
“Who’s after you?”
His question stopped her. “I...” Thinking about the hands choking, throttling the victim, made her dizzy.
“You’re scared. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see that.”
“Look,” she said, turning. “I...I’m very sorry I shot at you, but I need to get going, Mr. Thorn.”
“Keegan.”
“Keegan,” she allowed. “I apologize for scaring you.”
“I wasn’t scared. Just startled.”
“Well, anyway, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“Tell me what’s going on, Pockets.”
“Stop calling me that,” she snapped, nerves twinging. “My name is Tracy.”
“Excellent.”