All The Way. Beverly Bird

in her fist and dropped it into her morning fire.

      Chapter 2

      His doctor was a small man with a nervous Adam’s apple. Watching the thing bob up and down was beginning to irritate Hunter in a big way.

      “Just say whatever it is you’re trying to say,” he warned the man. His voice was still vaguely raspy from the effects of yesterday’s anesthesia. He was in pain.

      “I simply can’t clear you to get behind the wheel of a race car in four hours.” The doctor stepped back quickly at the change in Hunter’s eyes, something that could only be likened to a sudden, solar flare.

      “Explain to me why I need your permission.”

      “I’m your doctor—”

      “Do better than that.”

      “You had surgery for a ruptured spleen twelve hours ago!”

      Hunter made a sound of disgust. “I’m driving.”

      “Actually,” said Pritchard Spikes, his longtime friend and team owner, “you’re not.”

      “It’s our season! Are you going to throw it away over some stitches?”

      “The stitches don’t bother me too much.” Pritch poured a cup of water from the jug on the nightstand in Hunter’s hospital room. “But throw in the fact that you’re now spleenless—and it’s going to take even you some time to adjust to that—I’m not going to let you drive my car.”

      “Don’t overlook the seriousness of four broken ribs and a concussion,” the doctor warned hastily.

      Hunter glared at him again, then back at Pritch. “Ricky Stall is only sixty-two points behind me in the Cup race.” There was a calm to his voice now, as though he was confident that he could win this by pointing out the obvious. “If I don’t drive today, he’ll gain the lead.”

      “Has anyone told you that you’re insane?” Pritch asked. “Stall might well take home the Winston Cup this year. You’re not getting in a car again for at least another month.”

      The idea was so absurd that Hunter didn’t even hear it. “I’ll hang back in the pack today. I don’t have to win. Anywhere from fifteenth to twentieth place will do me. I just have to finish so I can keep the points close going into next week.”

      “I talked to Alan Carver this morning about running your car. Damn it, Hawk, you’re going to need four weeks to recover from all this—six before your body could tolerate another crash.”

      “I heal fast.”

      Exasperated, Pritch put down his paper cup. “People won’t forget you if you come in second for the Cup. Is that what you’re afraid of?”

      It wasn’t fear, Hunter told himself. It was loathing. Free time was the antithesis of everything he was made of. He hated being still.

      Especially now.

      Free time meant not losing himself in the pressures of the race as he had done for more than a week now. Free time meant that there would be nothing to quench the fire of fury that burned in his gut whenever he thought about Liv and that little girl.

      People wouldn’t forget him because of a few weeks off—and if they did, he could remind them again in a hurry. But he was afraid of what he would find when—if—he had time on his hands to corner Liv Slade for a few answers.

      Damn you, Livie, what did you do?

      “Find Chillie for me,” he said to Pritch, his throat more raw than ever.

      “Your business manager? Why?”

      “If I’ve got to take a month off—”

      “Six weeks would be my recommendation,” the doctor interjected.

      “Stay out of this,” Hunter growled. Then he turned back to Pritch. “I need Chillie to find me a place to stay in Arizona for a little while.”

      He’d checked into it once, years ago. She was still living there. She’d left Flag and had opened up a bed-and-breakfast in Jerome with a partner.

      It was time to pay Livie a visit.

      Liv let her mare choose her own footing down the trail off Cleopatra Hill. Daisy was a champion climber, and all she needed from her rider was to leave her alone and let her do her thing. Liv gave her her head and kept her own attention on the sixteen people riding single file in front of her.

      Six of them were guests of the inn. The others were tourists visiting town for the day or staying at one of the more modern hotels. The tours were a side business she’d begun two years ago after being peppered by questions about the area at the tea they served each afternoon at the Copper Rose. Liv knew a lot about Jerome, about Arizona in general. Her knowledge came free with a stay at the inn, but then she started wondering, why not charge the other tourists? Why not combine local lore with a little Western riding?

      Riding had never been her strong suit, but she was better at it than most, thanks to Hunter’s relentless tutoring. Her horseback tours of the area had become a thriving success.

      Don’t think about him, she warned herself. But her mind had worried over him ever since he had disappeared from the Michigan hospital two days ago. News reports said he was “recovering” at an undisclosed location.

      Hunter wasn’t the type to lie about and heal. Liv had the nagging, unsettling feeling that he was up to something.

      The walkie-talkie at her waist suddenly crackled and spat noise. Bourne was riding at the head of the pack and his voice came through. He thought that an overweight woman wearing a voluminous pink blouse was starting to seem short of breath. Her poor horse was doing all the work, Liv thought, but she also suspected that the woman’s nerves were screwed up just about as tightly as they could go. She decided it was time for a scenic break.

      She told Bourne to stop the group at the next clearing. A few minutes later the riders gathered in a rocky enclave with a spectacular view of the Verde Valley beneath them. In the opposite direction, the homes and buildings of Jerome climbed up the hill like diligent ants.

      Liv dismounted. “A hundred and twenty-five years ago, this area was nothing more than a settlement of tents,” she began conversationally. She’d learned never to sound as though she was lecturing. “Our Native Americans were the first miners on these hills, then the Spanish came along, looking for gold but finding copper instead. Along about 1876, Anglos staked the first legitimate claims and Jerome sprang to life. It called itself the wickedest town in the West.”

      “Why?” someone asked as Bourne began handing out juice packs.

      “The men who came here were—for the most part—young and single and rowdy. They were drawn from all over the world—Mexico and Croatia, Ireland and Italy and China—by the prospect of finding their fortunes here. Jerome became the darling of investors, and there was always some corporation willing to buy these guys out. Then, of course, the men needed something to spend their money on, so more people moved in to provide that. At one point Jerome boasted twenty-one bars and eight houses of…well, ill repute.” She grinned. “And where there are liquor and loose women and men of different cultures, there are bound to be a few fights and a handful of murders.”

      “Especially if one of those women played her man like a fiddle.”

      The voice was smoky, an idle notch above dangerous. Recognition jolted through Liv. She turned quickly.

      Hunter.

      Liv had the bizarre thought that at least she knew where he was now. He sat on a black horse just at the mouth of the path. Already his hair seemed vaguely longer than it had on television a week ago. But everything else about him was treacherously familiar.

      How many times had he ridden up to her hogan looking just like this? With that careless, masculine slouch on a gelding with no saddle…his movements making