The Christmas Target. Charlotte DouglasЧитать онлайн книгу.
already stuffy room, but she wasn’t about to discuss one stranger’s attributes with another. “What kind of pie do you have?”
Madge rattled off an impressive list, and Jessica selected chocolate cream. In moments, the waitress placed a huge wedge of pie topped with several inches of meringue in front of her and nodded toward the window. “Looks like they caught the crook.”
Another cruiser had pulled up with a man in the back seat, apparently handcuffed, judging from his posture. The Santa suit was gone, but even from across the street, Jessica could recognize those cold, deadly eyes. The sheriff climbed into the passenger seat of the car, the deputy drove away and the Crime Scene Unit van followed.
Within minutes, an Open sign appeared on the bank’s front door. Deserting her hardly touched pie, Jessica grabbed her coat, paid her bill and headed across the street.
ANOTHER HOUR LATER, Jessica left the bank in an even fouler mood than when she’d first arrived. In spite of what Max had hinted, she’d hoped this assignment would be quick, a day or two at most auditing accounts, perusing records and then writing up her assessment of the ranch’s viability in the dubious comfort of her spartan hotel room.
Max and Hayes had made other plans.
All the paperwork she needed to complete her assignment was in the office of the Shooting Star Ranch, thirty-five miles outside of town. And Hayes had insisted that the trustees wanted a thorough inspection of the ranch, acreage, stock and buildings.
“The family’s invited you to be their guest while you work,” Hayes had said. “That way you won’t have that long commute back and forth to the hotel and restaurants every day. The less you’re on the road this time of year, the better. Driving can be treacherous.”
“Then I should see you in a few days,” Jessica said.
Hayes looked surprised. “Oh, I doubt that. You should take your time, observe for yourself the assets of the ranch and how it works. Plus you have over a decade’s worth of accounts to evaluate. The trust insists on a complete evaluation of the property’s productivity. Only when the trustees are satisfied that all is as it should be will ownership be transferred.”
“Rinehart and Associates are never anything but thorough,” Jessica said, wishing in this instance it wasn’t so. She’d never been so homesick for Miami.
“Of course,” Hayes said soothingly. “That’s why the trustees selected you.”
Climbing into her rental car with wet snowflakes plastering her cheeks, Jessica wished the trustees had picked another firm. She faced a thirty-five-mile drive in unfamiliar territory in increasing snow. Blessing the fact that her vehicle had snow tires, she pulled away from the curb, eased down the main street and took the turn Hayes had instructed.
Thirty-five miles south on this road; hang a right at the Shooting Star gate. Seemed simple enough.
Within minutes she was in deserted countryside where snow drifted against fences and turned rocky outcroppings and buttes into gigantic gnomes hovering in the cold. Working at maximum, the wipers barely kept the windshield clear enough for her to see the road ahead of her. The defroster on the rear window was minimally efficient. As much as she disliked the thought of being a houseguest among strangers, Jessica had to admit that not having to drive this far at least twice a day in this weather would be a relief. Not a single car had passed her coming from the opposite direction. The only vehicle she’d seen on the road was far behind her, headlights glaring and gaining fast. She guessed most of the natives had better sense than to risk driving in these conditions and cursed her own impatience. If she’d waited until morning, the snow might have ended.
The car behind her was closing in on her bumper. Only a fool would drive so recklessly on these icy roads, she thought. The dark pickup loomed large in her rearview mirror.
The truck swerved into the other lane, pulled alongside as if to pass, then slowed, keeping pace with her speed. She wondered if the driver was trying to signal her with some sort of message or warning, but she couldn’t see through the dark-tinted glass of the pickup’s passenger window.
She slowed so he could pass, but the truck beside her slowed, too.
Without warning and catching her totally off guard, the other vehicle lurched to the right and slammed into the side of her much smaller sedan.
Jessica fought the wheel to keep her car on the pavement. Luck, not skill, kept it from spinning into a skid, and she sighed with relief as she regained control.
The truck, however, remained alongside her. With what seemed like predetermined intent, it smashed into the side of her car again.
In horrified disbelief, Jessica felt the sedan leave the road, airborne. With a sickening crunch of glass and metal, it plowed into a snowbank.
The world turned briefly white when her airbag deployed, and her body slammed painfully against the restraints of her seat belt.
Everything went black.
Chapter Two
Jessica, head throbbing, muscles stiff with cold, slowly regained consciousness. Moving gingerly, she tested her arms and legs. Nothing felt broken. She ran cold-numbed fingers over her body. No sign of bleeding or other injury. She was only bruised.
And freezing to death.
To her great relief, she discovered her door would open, and she climbed from the car. The sight that greeted her drove all further relief from her thoughts. The sedan had soared across a ditch and crashed into a wall of earth on the other side. Even if the car was drivable, she’d need a tow truck to extract it from its current resting place.
She scanned the area, searching, with mixed emotions, for the vehicle that had hit her. She needed someone to save her from the cold, but the driver of the pickup definitely hadn’t had her welfare in mind. She should be glad he hadn’t returned to finish her off. Maybe he figured she’d perished in the crash, and if she hadn’t, the cold would kill her.
She didn’t want to believe someone had run her off the road on purpose, but the person who caused the accident hadn’t stopped to assist. A glance at her watch indicated at least fifteen minutes had passed since the collision. Her assailant was long gone.
The storm was intensifying, and if she didn’t get help soon, she’d die from hypothermia. She tried her cell phone, but Hayes had already warned her it would be unreliable in this part of the country where relay towers were scarce. She was disappointed but not surprised when she couldn’t receive roaming service.
Recalling vaguely hearing or reading something about staying with the car if stranded in a snow-storm—whoever would have thought a Miami resident would need that bit of info?—she started to climb back into the vehicle.
And smelled gasoline.
The tank must have ruptured. The ominous liquid was dripping from beneath the chassis and puddling in the ditch. Afraid to risk the danger of remaining in a potential fireball, she figured she should at least attempt to retrieve her luggage. Donning extra layers of clothing—even clothing woefully unsuitable for southeastern Montana’s cruel winter climate—might be her only chance for survival.
The car had landed at an angle, and she had to struggle to drag her luggage from the trunk that rested shoulder-high. She carried her bag to the side of the road and hoped someone would pass and give her a lift.
If they could see her in the blowing snow.
Her head pounded, her bruised knees and shoulders ached, and she swore that Max was going to owe her big-time.
If she lived to collect.
She was on her knees, rummaging through her open case for additional clothing, when the howling wind carried the sound of an engine, approaching from the direction of town. Grabbing a red silk dress, Jessica raced to the center of the road and brandished the garment like a flag.
The car appeared suddenly out of the driving snow, almost on top of