Randall On The Run. Judy Christenberry

I’m going to the restroom. Keep guard of our friend, okay?”

      She patted him on the head and slipped out of the vehicle, locking the door behind her.

      When she came outside again, she eyed the pay phone. If she was going to call her cousin Caroline, now would be a good time, and no one would pick up her conversation, as they could on a cell phone.

      She dialed the number for a collect call. When someone answered, she was afraid they wouldn’t accept the charges, but she used her full name and the Randall part of it did the trick.

      “Oh! Oh, yes, just a minute.”

      The operator said, “Hello, ma’am, will you accept the charges?”

      When there was no answer, the operator said to Jessica, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, they won’t—”

      She was interrupted by a voice Jessica recognized. “Hello? Yes, we’ll accept the charges.”

      “Go ahead, please,” the operator said and clicked off.

      “Caroline?”

      “Yes, Jess. Where are you?”

      “Some place in Utah.”

      “You’re coming home?” Caroline’s voice rose in excitement.

      “Yes, but that’s not why I called. Listen, Caroline, I have a—a person who’s been shot.”

      “What? Jessica, what are you up to?”

      “I’ll explain later. I bound the wound tightly to stop the bleeding, and I’ve given him aspirin. I don’t know if the bullet is out or not. Is there anything else I need to do?”

      Since Caroline was one of two practicing doctors in Rawhide, Wyoming, her family’s hometown, she knew Caroline could advise her.

      “No, nothing else, except to take him to a doctor.”

      “He refuses.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s a long story. And I don’t know how long I’ll have him around. If he comes to, I’ll probably drop him somewhere.”

      “This doesn’t sound smart, Jess. He could hurt you.”

      “Not as long as he’s passed out. But don’t worry. I’ll be careful. If I have to bring him home, will Mike have to report him being shot?”

      “That’s the law,” Caroline said, her voice sounding ominous. “I’m going to call Uncle Brett right now if you don’t explain yourself.”

      She immediately begged her cousin not to worry her father, Brett Randall. “I’m being careful, I promise, Caro, but I have to get back on the road and there are reasons I can’t talk about him on the cell phone. Someone might pick up the call.”

      “This is sounding worse, Jess, not better!”

      “I know, but I promise I’ll explain when I get there. Just trust me for a couple of days.”

      “All right, but no longer. And call back.”

      “I will. I’m going to call Mom and Dad to let them know I’m coming.” Jessica breathed a sigh after she hung up. She’d been afraid of Caroline’s answer. She knew the man needed a doctor, but she wouldn’t take him to one against his will.

      Unless he worsened, of course.

      She hurried to her SUV as if her thinking such thoughts would make them come true. She opened the door on Murphy’s side and pushed her dog to the driver’s seat so she could lift the hat and clearly see the man’s face.

      He was handsome, in a rough way. He needed a haircut and a shave, but nothing could hide his sculpted features. No wonder he was in Hollywood, home of the beautiful people.

      Luckily it appeared the bleeding had stopped. She got out the first-aid kit again. If she rebandaged him, she could use the antibiotic cream, which might stave off an infection.

      The ugly sight of his wound reminded Jessica why she hadn’t gone into medicine, like Caroline had. And her checkbook always taunted her for not going into accounting, like her sister, Tori, had.

      In fact, in addition to her flair for the dramatic, it was because she had no other skills that she’d turned to acting. But at least she’d proved herself. She’d stayed in Hollywood until she got a role in a major film. That way her family wouldn’t think she was a failure when she came home.

      Just as she was finishing binding the wound again, the man moaned.

      “It’s all right,” she whispered soothingly. “You’re safe.”

      She was sure he heard her because the tension in his body went away. She covered him up to his neck and lay the hat on his stomach so she could reach it quickly if she got pulled over again.

      They were only a few miles from Cedar City, Utah, a town in the southern part of the state. When she reached the outskirts, the hat went back over the man’s face so she could pull through a fast-food restaurant drive-through and get breakfast for her and Murphy. She didn’t think her passenger would be up for any food just yet.

      Once she’d done that, and Murphy was busy munching his sausage and biscuit, Jessica began talking to her dog, as she always did. He was her best listener.

      “You know, Murph, I can’t keep referring to him as ‘the man.’ Maybe we should give him a name. What do you think of Angus? He’s got dark hair. He could be an Angus. Or maybe he’s a cowboy, like the men in my family. Shall we call him Clint, in honor of Clint Eastwood?”

      Murphy woofed his disapproval.

      Jessica suggested several other names until a deep voice said, “Steve.”

      She almost drove off the road as she stared at her dog. Then she realized the sound had come from behind the seat. She did pull to the side of the road then. “You’re awake.”

      “Yeah,” he said, just barely above a whisper.

      “I should give you some more aspirin. Are you in pain?”

      “Yeah.”

      Well, he was a big conversationalist, wasn’t he?

      She put the aspirins in his mouth and then lifted his head slightly so he could drink the water.

      After a long drink, he sank back. “Where are we?”

      She was afraid her answer would shock him. “Utah.”

      “Why?” he asked, his brow wrinkling.

      “I was on my way home. You didn’t tell me where you wanted to go, and I couldn’t just let you lie there and bleed to death, so I brought you along with me.”

      “Too dangerous,” he muttered.

      “I think we’re safe enough now. Though I did worry when the policeman pulled me over.”

      “When?”

      “Last night in L.A. on the freeway.”

      “Why?”

      Another one-word response. “He said my vehicle fit the description of one belonging to a perp who’d robbed a store. He wanted to search my car, but I told him no.”

      “How did you know you could refuse? Most people—”

      “I asked a policeman who was a consultant on a cop show I did once. He told me.”

      “And the officer said okay?”

      “Yes. He looked into the back and let me go. Then I gave him a phony destination.”

      “Plates. They can track—”

      “Doesn’t matter. I changed plates.”

      “How?”

      “I