Running for Cover Page 11

  “So maybe he murdered Sean for another reason. Maybe Sean knew something that Cody would rather he didn’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever is on that disk.”

  “Which we still don’t have,” Morgan said, the weariness in her voice unmistakable.

  “That doesn’t mean we never will.”

  Morgan didn’t respond, and Jackson let the silence between them grow. Morgan was tired. So was he. Tomorrow would be soon enough to talk more about Cody and Sean, their deaths and the disk that must somehow be connected to both of them.

  For now, Jackson would simply concentrate on getting Morgan to her aunt’s place and finding a way to connect to the Internet there. The sooner he began investigating Cody and his business ventures, the sooner he could find the answers he needed and the sooner he could go back to his life. The thought should have appealed to him, but it didn’t.

  Going back to New York meant facing his demons again; facing his failures.

  It also meant leaving Morgan.

  He glanced in her direction. She’d leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. The bruises on her face, the delicate line of her jaw and neck spoke of vulnerability, but she was a strong woman. The kind who took a bad situation and made something good of it. The kind who’d faced astronomical odds and still come out a winner.

  But right now, in this moment, she needed him.

  And maybe he needed that; to feel he could make a difference in someone’s life, effect a change the way he hadn’t been able to for Lindsey.

  Why else would he be worrying about going back to New York and saying goodbye to Morgan?

  Because she’s a beautiful woman with smarts and drive, and you’d like to spend a lot more time with her.

  The thought whispered through his mind, and he pushed it aside. Not quite willing to acknowledge the truth of it.

  Once he’d helped Morgan sort out the mess she was in, he’d do what he’d planned. He’d go back to Smith Mountain Lake and spend some time enjoying the peace and solitude it offered. Maybe that would clear his head. Or maybe it would just make him long for someone to share the experience with.

  He scowled, turning the radio dial to an upbeat contemporary station. He hummed along to the music, but no amount of humming could silence his thoughts. They followed him as he drove deeper into the hills and toward the sanctuary he could only pray would keep Morgan safe.

  TWELVE

  Helen’s house was tucked deep in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Sheltered by towering evergreens and surrounded by fifty acres of prime land, the ranch-style home had a charming appeal that hadn’t faded over the years. The well-lit front porch was wide and wrapped around both sides of the house. The creamy siding seemed to gleam in the darkness. It had been years since Morgan had visited the place, but she knew it almost as well as she knew her Lakeview bungalow.

  She barely waited until the car stopped before she jumped out and walked toward the porch. It felt good to stretch her legs, and it felt even better to know that she’d soon be settled into Helen’s guest room. Alone.

  She needed to put some distance between herself and Jackson. Traveling across country with him had forged a bond that she hadn’t expected and didn’t want. Hours on planes and in airports, hours of talking and learning more about one another had led her to do something she’d promised herself she’d never do again.

  She’d begun to trust him, to believe in him, to pin her hopes of safety and security on him.

  When they’d been sitting in his dark car, waiting while their pursuers drove by, she’d wanted nothing more than to burrow in close and to stay there. She’d let the warm weight of his arm comfort her, let herself lean on him as she hadn’t leaned on anyone in years.

  And she knew exactly where that would lead—heartache.

  “Looks like your aunt is up and waiting,” Jackson said, falling into step beside her, apparently unaware of just how desperate she was to be away from him. “I think every light in the house is on.”

  “She may be working. She usually forgets to turn off lights when she’s in the middle of a project.”

  “Working at this time of night?”

  “It’s what she does.”

  “You said she was a potter.”

  “A fantastic one. I learned everything I know about craft from her.”

  “When you spent the summers here?”

  “Yes. There was nothing else to do. No television. No contact with friends. Just me, Aunt Helen and the clay.”

  “Must have driven you crazy.”

  “At first,” she said, smiling at the memory. Helen had offered to teach her to throw a pot six times before Morgan had finally been bored enough to accept the offer. “After a while, though, I began to enjoy the quiet and the time I spent at the pottery wheel. It filled the hours, and that was something I desperately needed.” It had filled an empty spot in her heart, too. A place she hadn’t even realized was empty.

  She stepped onto the porch, the wide-planked floor creaking a little under her feet. The sound was the same one she’d heard when she was a teenager, and she found it comforting.

  Before she could knock, the door flew open and Aunt Helen appeared. Medium-height and slender, she had deep red hair and a ready smile. “Morgan! I’m so glad you finally made it. I was beginning to worry.”

  “There was no need,” Morgan said, doing her best to relax under her aunt’s scrutiny.

  “Apparently not, since you’re standing right here in front of me. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” she asked, stepping aside and gesturing for both of them to come in. Despite her smile, she looked uncomfortable, the slanted glance she shot in Jackson’s direction hinting at just how unhappy she was to have a stranger staying in the house.

  “This is Jackson Sharo. Jackson, this is my aunt Helen.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  “No need for the formality. Helen is fine.” This time, her smile was tight and she turned away, leading Morgan and Jackson through the great room and into the kitchen. “I put some stew on the stove. It’s nice and hot. Why don’t you two go ahead and serve yourself while I slice some French bread? I made it this afternoon, so it’s nice and fresh.”

  “I don’t think I can eat, Aunt Helen.” All Morgan wanted was to pop a pain pill and climb into bed and pray that she woke up in the morning with a fresh perspective. One that didn’t include trusting Jackson to keep her safe.

  “It’ll do you good to get some food in you,” Helen responded, handing Morgan a green glazed bowl and Jackson a blue one. Nearly matched in size and shape, they were obviously Helen’s handiwork. If Morgan hadn’t been so exhausted, she would have studied the pottery, looked more carefully at the design carved into the outside of the bowl before it had been fired.

  Instead, she simply walked to the stove, ladled a small amount of stew into the bowl and collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. “Thanks.”

  “Smells great, Helen. Did you make it yourself?” Jackson asked as he filled his own bowl and joined Morgan.

  “Yes. Here. Bread and butter. Coffee.” She set mugs of hot coffee and a large oval platter on the table, dropped a butter knife down beside it and took a seat beside Morgan. “You look terrible, kid.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “I’d like to get my hands on that no-good ex-husband of yours.”

  “That will be difficult, Aunt Helen. He’s dead.”

  “Cody? Dead? Since when?”

  “A few days ago. He was murdered in prison.”

  “Guess felons aren’t nearly as forgiving as you always were.”

  “I was doing what I thought was right.” Morgan shoveled in a spoonful of stew, refusing to enter into the argument Helen obviously wanted to start. It was one they’d fought on too many occasions during the first years of Morgan’s marriage, and it had eventually put a wedge between them that no amount of time seemed to be able to remove.

&n
bsp; “You were. He wasn’t. And I can’t feel sorry that he’s dead.”

  “Helen!”

  “It’s the truth. He deserved what he got.”

  “I’m not sure anyone deserves to be murdered. Even someone like Cody,” Jackson interrupted, grabbing a piece of bread and buttering it. Acting as if he were completely unaware of the tension that filled the room.

  He wasn’t. Morgan was sure of that. Just as she was sure he’d been right to think they’d been followed from the airport. He had instinct and guts, and those were qualities Morgan couldn’t help but admire, but that didn’t mean she should admire the man or allow herself to be attracted to him. She’d do well to keep that in mind.

  “A murderer doesn’t deserve his punishment?” Helen asked, her deep green eyes flashing with anger, and Morgan smiled. Helen was known for a lot of things. Her artistic talent, her solitary ways, her generosity of spirit.

  Her temper.

  She’d let Helen and Jackson duke it out for a while. At least that would take the attention off her.

  “Cody was serving his time,” Jackson said. “Much as I agree the guy was scum, I don’t think that means he deserved to be murdered.”

  “So, I guess you don’t believe in an eye for an eye,” Helen said, sipping coffee from a thick red mug, her face tight with irritation.

  “I believe in letting the system do its work. That happened. If he’d lived, Cody would have spent the rest of his life behind bars. Some people would say that’s a worse fate than death.”

  “I can’t say I agree. Thirty years in jail sounds a whole lot better to me than a long, slow burn in he—”

  “Helen!” Morgan cut her aunt off before she could go any further.

  “Sorry, kid. I’m not trying to pick a fight over this.”

  “Yes, you are,” Morgan said, standing and bringing her bowl to the sink.

  “Okay. I am. I like a good debate.”

  “And I like a little peace and quiet when my head feels like it’s going to explode from pain,” Morgan muttered.

  “How about I get you some Tylenol?”

  “I’ve got some prescription medicine in my bag. I’ll just get it from the car.” She left the kitchen, started to open the front door.

  “I’ll get it.” Jackson’s hand landed on her shoulder, holding her in place.

  “I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it, Morgan. You going outside alone isn’t a good idea.”

  Morgan thought of the car slowly passing them, the fear thrumming through her as she’d imagined it stopping, imagined men pouring out of it. Imagined bullets flying, Jackson falling. Herself being herded away, captured again. This time with no hope for escape.

  Maybe letting Jackson get the bag wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. “All right. Thanks.”

  He smiled, his auburn hair slightly mussed. She wanted to smooth it down, let her hands trail from his head to his neck and then his shoulders. She wanted to feel the firm muscles beneath his button-down shirt. Wanted to twine her arms around his waist, let herself enjoy the strength and comfort she knew he would offer if she asked.

  But she wouldn’t.

  Couldn’t.

  She turned on her heels, ran from Jackson, racing into the kitchen, her face flaming hot with emotions she did not want to feel.

  She had no room for a man in her life. No room in her heart.

  “Everything okay?” Helen asked as Morgan rushed back into the kitchen.

  “Fine.”

  “So, where’d you pick up the new guy?”

  “I didn’t pick him up.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “We met last night. He saved my life.”

  “And then flew across the country with you because…?”

  “My friends were worried about me, and Jackson assured them he’d keep me safe.”

  “Seriously? He saved your life and now he’s playing bodyguard?” Helen’s gaze darted to the great room, as if she expected Jackson to be standing there listening.

  “I tried to get rid of him, but he refused to go.”

  “Romantic.”

  “Annoying.”

  “I’d snort if it weren’t too unladylike.”

  “Since when did you care about being ladylike? Besides, what is there to snort about?”

  “The fact that you don’t think the story you just told me is romantic. Man saves woman’s life. Man promises to keep her safe. It’s classic. And almost worth having the guy stay at my house.”

  “Almost?”

  “You know I don’t do strangers. If it weren’t for the fact that I haven’t seen you in years, I’d have told you to take your guy friend over to your parents’ and leave him there.”

  “You haven’t changed, Aunt Helen.”

  “Neither have you. I’m glad. I was worried that jerk of a husband of yours might have done some damage.”

  “He did,” Morgan said, reaching for her coffee mug and taking a sip, hoping the hot liquid would wash away the lump in her throat.

  “Just enough to make you stronger,” Helen covered Morgan’s hand with hers, smiled gently.

  “Knock, knock, I’m back,” Jackson called, and Morgan stood, turning to face him as he entered the room. Bracing herself for the quick shiver of awareness that shot through her as she met his eyes.

  Romantic?

  Not hardly. Terrifying was more the word Morgan would use.

  “Want me to bring it to your room?” Jackson asked as he set the carry-on down by her feet.

  “No, thanks.” She unzipped the front compartment, pulled out the bottle of pills she’d picked up before Lacey and Jude’s wedding and popped the lid.

  Helen handed her a glass of water, and Morgan swallowed one of the tablets, hoping that it would begin working soon. The pain in her cheek and jaw had been getting progressively worse during the day, and her entire body seemed to ache. Her ribs. Her throat. Her arms and legs.

  “I’ve got your room all ready for you, Morgan. Same one you stayed in when you were a kid. Why don’t you go climb into bed? You’ll feel better in the morning,” Helen said, taking Morgan’s arm.

  “I think I will. We can do some more catching up in the morning.”

  “Where’s your room? I’ll walk you there.” Jackson lifted the carry-on again.

  “Just off the family room, but I can manage the carry-on myself.”

  “That’s not the reason I want to walk you to your room. It’ll be a lot easier to keep you safe if I know exactly where you are.”

  “She’ll be safe enough, Jackson. The doors all have bolts and the windows are double paned.”

  “Even the best locks can’t keep everyone out,” Jackson responded.

  “That’s why I’ve got Mutton and Ox.”

  “Mutton and Ox?”

  “My mastiffs. They’re out in the barn for now, but I’ll bring them in the house after I get the two of you settled. They wouldn’t hurt a fly, but their barks and their looks are enough to put most people off.”

  “Since when do you like dogs?” Morgan asked, remembering the summers when she’d begged for a puppy.

  “Since right around the time I decided that I could like them and bring a couple home or spend the rest of my life talking to myself. I love my solitude, but a little company now and again isn’t such a bad thing.” Helen smiled and walked to the hall that led to the east wing of the house.

  Morgan followed, Jackson just a few steps behind.

  She could feel his presence. Feel the warmth of his gaze as she made her way to the east wing of the rancher and into a wide hall with several doors opening from it. Three led to spacious bedrooms. One led to the pottery shed where Morgan had learned to throw clay. If she were alone, she’d be tempted to go there, grab a block of clay and knead it into compliance. Clay, after all, was something she could control most of the time. When she couldn’t, she could simply reshape it, try again to make it into what she wanted it t
o be.

  But she wasn’t alone, and she didn’t feel like explaining her desire to create to Jackson. Nor was she in the mood to chat with Helen while she shaped a pot or vase or whatever vessel the clay formed.

  “I haven’t changed much of anything around here. A few more pieces of pottery. That’s about it, but it’s clean, and I put fresh sheets on the bed while I was waiting for you.” Helen shrugged as she pushed open the door to the room.

  Morgan stepped across the threshold, appreciating the timeless elegance of the room as she hadn’t when she was a teenager. Sage-green walls. Dark wood floors. French doors covered by breezy white drapes. White bed linens and shelves of pottery in every color and size and shape.

  “Wow!” Jackson let out a low whistle and stepped into the room after Morgan, setting down the carry-on. “You’ve got quite a collection of pottery, Helen.”

  “It’s not just a collection. They’re her work,” Morgan said, knowing that her aunt wouldn’t bother correcting Jackson’s assumption.

  “They’re beautiful. Morgan told me you were a potter, but I had no idea of the scope of your work.”

  “Thank you, but they’re not all mine. Some are Morgan’s.”

  “Really? Which are which?” he asked, lifting a butter yellow vase with a surface as smooth and slick as oil.

  “That’s Aunt Helen’s. Mine are a whole lot less refined.”

  “You’d only just begun to work with clay, so they weren’t perfect, but they were lovely. This is one of hers. The first piece she ever made,” Helen said, reaching for a large blue bowl. Its fluted edges were uneven, the glaze spotty at best.

  “I can’t believe you kept that,” Morgan said, taking the piece from her aunt. The surface was slightly rough and uneven, but the weight felt comfortable in her hands.

  “Of course I kept it. I figured eventually you’d be famous, and I could make a hefty sum off the piece. So don’t drop it. I’d hate to see my retirement fund swept up and thrown in the garbage.” Helen smiled, taking the bowl and setting it back on the shelf.