A Secret In Conard County. Rachel Lee

our share of problems, everything from toxic dumping to a serial killer, but it’s not constant. Small-town policing is pretty laid-back usually.”

      “You like it?”

      “After ten years in Denver, I love it.”

      “Did you grow up here?”

      “I sure did. My dad was a schoolteacher.”

      “So you still have family here?”

      “My aunt Maria, bless her heart.” He leaned back as his coffee cup was refilled by the inimitable Maude, who then glared at Erin to ask, “Another latte?”

      “Please.”

      The woman stomped off.

      Erin pushed her own plate aside. “I guess I’m going to need a doggie bag.”

      Lance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “No problem. You know what you said about a bad confrontation with a bad guy?”

      She stiffened, barely nodding.

      “I had something similar happen to me. Hence the small-town policing. Some things you never want to experience twice.”

      Wow, she thought. Instantly she liked him even more. He’d walked in her shoes and there was probably very little she had to tell him, because he understood.

      Except maybe he didn’t understand this running part. Well, it wasn’t exactly running. She wasn’t fit for duty yet, and the Bureau had wanted to put her in protection. Instead she’d chosen to clear out for a while, since the bad guy was still on the loose. No, not exactly running, she assured herself. Merely taking a wise evasive maneuver.

      The fresh latte arrived along with a foam box for her leftovers. Apart from being a Gorgon, Maude seemed to read minds. Not a word passed, not a query about whether she wanted to take that half sandwich with her. Of course, maybe it never occurred to the woman that anyone would leave her cooking behind.

      “You’re looking tired again,” Lance said suddenly. “Let’s go. I’ll help you move into the motel and get you registered.”

      “I need to pay.”

      “I run a tab with Maude, so forget it. As for the motel, no payment required until you leave.”

      Erin felt her brows rise. “That’s a great way to get ripped off.”

      He smiled again. “It would be if they let everyone do that. FBI? I think they’ll give you the same courtesy they’d give me.”

      She was beginning to feel as if she’d gone down the rabbit hole to a very different universe.

Chapter 2

      Erin awoke early in the morning, and for a blessed few minutes nothing hurt. The TV ran quietly, creating background noise to mask the engine roars from the truck stop. The half-finished latte stood on the nightstand. The clock told her she’d slept fourteen hours. Fourteen. And without a pain pill.

      She didn’t want to move. As soon as she stirred, the pain would return, at least some of it. She needed to get on the road again. The guy who’d nearly killed her was off the grid, and she had to stay off it, too, as much as possible. Keep moving, use cash wherever possible and wait for the phone call to tell her he was caught, or until she felt well enough to resume duty. She’d chosen this over protective custody, and every single day asked herself why. But she knew why. She felt safer in the middle of nowhere, and she knew she couldn’t stand being in protection, virtually locked up in a safe house under constant guard.

      They were sure he still wanted to get her. After all, he’d apparently come for her after someone had leaked her identity and that she was getting close to finding him. A serial bomber. Great thing to have on her tail. A great reason not to feel safe in a safe house, even if cabin fever wouldn’t have driven her crazy.

      She should get up and get going again. No matter how much it hurt. But she could see no harm whatsoever in enjoying these few minutes of peace, where no threat hovered, where no pain touched her.

      She’d left the lights on, and she dared to turn her head a little. For a supposed fleabag, the La-Z-Rest wasn’t that bad. The decor was badly outdated Western, the kind that shrieked cheap and old, but everything she’d used so far had been spotlessly clean. It would never get five stars, or even two, but all she cared was that it was clean.

      Finally, the time to move had come. Her damaged body began to ache again, to throb in a few places. Sleep was losing its grip on her brain.

      Sighing, moving slowly, she sat up and swung her feet to the floor. No carpeting, just linoleum that had been scrubbed almost bare of its pattern. Somehow that was reassuring. Next, a hot shower, as hot as she could stand. That would loosen her up for dressing.

      Then she had to decide. Move on again? Or stay put for a few days? Staying put and walking the streets of this town lost in time seemed amazingly appealing after all the driving. And walking would help keep her loosened up, keep the pain from reaching shrieking intensity as it did if she held still for too long. The way it probably would when she stood up after such a lengthy sleep.

      Agony struck her the minute she rose. It froze her in place while she sucked air from the shock of it, then it eased enough for her to move. It would get better. The docs had promised. It was just that she had suffered so much injury.

      Which was putting it mildly, she thought with a kind of bitter amusement as she eased her way into the bathroom and turned on the shower. One of them had even tried to joke about it. “Pain is your friend. It means you’re still alive.”

      Well, that was debatable, she thought as she stood under the hot spray. There were times when surviving being shot and being blown up didn’t seem like such a good thing. Ironic, though, that the gunshot that had brought her down just as she stumbled on the bomber had helped protect her when the bomb blew up her house. Very ironic. Maybe someday she could even tell the story with humor. Not yet, however. Definitely not yet.

      A half hour later, she was dressed in a light beige slack suit—probably not the style for this place—and comfortable walking flats. She still hadn’t made up her mind about moving on, but she figured she’d stick out on the streets dressed this way. So what? Only Fran knew where she was, and she couldn’t face the restrictive waistband on jeans today. This slack suit had elastic gores in the waist, reducing the pressure on some of her scars.

      Moving with care, she managed to get her shoulder holster on over the royal blue shell and put her pistol into it. Once she pulled on the lightweight matching jacket, only an experienced eye would be able to tell she was armed.

      She put her credentials and her wallet in the slacks pockets and felt as ready as she would ever be to face this day.

      Breakfast first, she decided. But when she stepped outside, she saw what Lance had meant about this stretch of highway. Crossing it on foot might be suicidal unless a person could move swiftly, and that was beyond her now.

      Car keys in her hand, she debated whether to try to find that diner. And she still had to pay for the room.

      As she was standing there in an unusual state of indecision, a sheriff’s vehicle rolled up right in front of her. Lance sat in the driver’s seat and he leaned his elbow on the open window as he smiled at her.

      “Saw your car still here. You staying for a while?”

      “Thinking about it,” she admitted. “Mostly thinking about breakfast. I see what you mean about the highway.”

      “Like I said, some fools can’t read and others don’t care. Hop in and I’ll take you to the diner.”

      She liked the way he suggested she hop in, especially since he’d practically had to pour her into his vehicle when he picked her up yesterday. “Don’t you have to work?”

      “You’re my work now.”

      Thunderstruck,