Wednesday's Child

After a few minutes, that ridiculous sense of threat began to fade. She even managed to relax the grip her hands had taken on the wheel and to sit back in the seat. Despite the poor markings, the centerline was proving to be a reliable guide. Only a few more miles to the town limits, and then she could look for the turnoff that would take her to the Bedford house.

Daring to glance away from the road a moment, she adjusted the heater, feeling better as the warm air began to fill the car. She pushed the button on the CD player, letting the familiar, relaxing sound of Norah Jones’s voice wash over her.

She looked up at the rearview mirror to find the road behind her still deserted. There would probably be very few people out on a night like this. Even as the thought formed, headlights appeared in front of her at the top of the next rise. Her hands automatically tensed around the wheel again.

Ridiculous, she chided herself as she loosened them. Even if this were the same pickup, that was no reason to act as if its driver were targeting her. He probably hadn’t thought twice about her car, except to bemoan her lack of speed.

She tried to decide if the truck would have had time to return to town and then make it back here. Since she had no reference points along the unfamiliar stretch of highway, and since she’d failed to look at the odometer when she’d left the truck stop, she had no idea how far from town she was.

She tried to ignore the approaching lights, again keeping the car as near the shoulder as she dared. This attack of nerves wasn’t like her. And she hated it. All she could do was put the unaccustomed anxiety down to her exhaustion and the emotional toll of the last few days. After all, her husband had died on one of the roads in this area.

She raised her eyes from the yellow line, watching as the approaching lights grew larger. And they were still on high, she had time to think before she realized that they were not only blindingly bright, they were also headed directly at her.

She blinked, attempting to see through the driving rain. In the split second she had to evaluate the path of the oncoming car, she knew she hadn’t been mistaken. It was headed straight for her car.

She swerved to the right, that reaction unthinking. The right tires left the road with a jolt as the headlights shone into her eyes, their glare terrifying.

At the last second before collision, she jerked the steering wheel, plunging the Toyota completely off the road. It bounced over some unseen obstacle as the pickup roared by, so close she couldn’t believe it hadn’t struck her car.

She had automatically slammed on the brakes, but as the car began to fishtail, she released them, trying to steer back up onto the road. The back right tire seemed to be slipping in the roadside mud. All she accomplished was to turn the car so that it continued to slide sideways along the shoulder for a few more feet until the right front fender struck a telephone pole.

Her rate of speed had been slowed enough by then that the impact was minimal. Restrained by her seat belt, her head jerked forward, slamming back into the headrest as the car came to an abrupt stop.

Stunned, she sat without moving as the wipers continued to clear the rain off the windshield, revealing the twin beams of her own headlights shining across the two-lane at an upward angle. She looked to her left, but there was no sign of the pickup that had run her off the road.

She tried to analyze her impressions of its make or model, but everything about the last few seconds had been a blur. She’d been too busy trying to avoid a collision to get a clear picture of anything about it except those glaring lights.

After a few seconds, she reached over and punched the off button on the CD player. In the sudden silence, the drumming of the rain and the noise from the back-and-forth movement of the wipers seemed to intensify. As did her feeling of isolation.

Someone had just run her off the road. She was out in the middle of nowhere with a possibly disabled car.

That was the first thing she needed to find out, she realized. Whether the car could be driven back into town.

Her knees were shaking so badly with delayed reaction that it was difficult to get her foot back on the gas pedal. She eased the accelerator down, but the back tires spun, unable to get any traction in the mud. After a couple of careful attempts, she shut off the engine and then killed the lights.

Now there was only the sound of the rain, but she felt safer in the darkness. If he came back again—

Despite the fact that her body was vibrating as if she had a chill, she had enough presence of mind to realize that thought had slipped over the line. Someone had forced her off the road, but the idea that the driver had made a couple of preliminary passes at her before he’d done so was ridiculous.

This couldn’t have been deliberate. A drunk driver. Or, as she had speculated before, teenage joyriders.

The arguments presented by her rational mind had no effect on the surety of its more primitive, instinctive part. Someone had deliberately caused her to wreck her car. The same someone who had sped by her with his lights on bright. The same someone who had passed her with an angry wail of his horn.

Who might even now be turning his truck around to come back and finish the job he’d begun. She could sit here and wait for him to return, or—

Put in those terms, the decision was simple. She reached across and grabbed her purse off the passenger seat. Even as she climbed out of the car, her fingers fumbled her cell phone out of the bottom of her bag.

She could call 911, although they probably wouldn’t consider a car in a ditch an emergency. Better to dial information and get the name of the nearest wrecker service. It would probably be out of Pascagoula, but there might be something local. In any case, it didn’t seem she had a choice.

And then she needed to call Mrs. Bedford. She had already missed supper, and if she were a couple of hours later getting home, as she suspected she would be, she knew Lorena would imagine the worst.

Wrecker first, and then the Bedford house. Even as she dialed information, the image of a pair of mocking blue eyes was in her head. She could imagine Jeb Bedford’s reaction if she told him what she believed had happened tonight. The same one anyone in this sleepy little Southern town would have.

That didn’t mean she was wrong, of course. It only meant that she would be alone in her opinion. Being alone, however, was something with which she was now very familiar. Something with which she had long ago made her peace.

CHAPTER SIX

IF IT HADN’T BEEN for Lorena, there was no way in hell he’d be out here in the rain looking for a car that had gone off the road. Or for the woman who had been driving it.

And who do you think you’re kidding?

Jeb had known who was on the other end of the line as soon as his aunt picked up the phone. Just as she had, he, too, had been listening for it to ring as soon as it had gotten dark.

He slowed as the headlights of his Avalanche illuminated a vehicle on the side of the road. It was sitting perpendicular to the two-lane, the right front panel crushed against a telephone pole. He had no doubt the car belonged to Susan Chandler.

He drove past the small silver car, evaluating the damage as well as he could through the fogged driver’s-side window. Then he made a U-turn in the middle of the deserted highway and guided the big sport utility truck onto the shoulder a few feet from the sedan. He was careful not to pull off the road far enough to get stuck in the ditch where the rear wheels of the Toyota were mired.

Although his headlights were directed at the driver’s side of the car, there was no sign of the driver. Just as it had when the phone rang, a knot of unaccustomed anxiety began to form in the pit of his stomach. If Susan Chandler wasn’t in her car, then where could she be?

She’d told Lorena on the phone that she’d already called a tow truck and was going to wait here until it arrived. Clearly, since the car was still in the ditch, that hadn’t yet happened.

He rolled down his window, sticking his head out despite the downpour. “Mrs. Chandler?”

He waited, but the only sound was the rain pelting the roof of his car. Muttering profanities, he opened his door.

After the cocoon of warmth the heater had created inside the cab, the wet chill immediately assaulted him. He knew from experience it would seep into the shattered ankle, aching along all the pins and wires and screws that held it together.

Given the situation, however, it didn’t seem he had any option other than to go look for his aunt’s guest. He eased down from the high cab, holding on to the handgrip until the undamaged right leg was solidly on the ground beside the left.

“Mrs. Chandler?” Again he waited, rain pouring down on his bare head and shoulders. Surely she wouldn’t be stupid enough to start walking back into town. But, of course, he would have passed her on the way if she had.

Maybe someone driving back into town had spotted the wreck and stopped to help. It was the kind of thing he’d expect almost anyone around here to do. Whether or not Ms. Chandler would be trusting enough to accept a ride from a stranger was another question. If she had, maybe she’d left a note with instructions for the wrecker service on the dash.

Mindful of the treacherous footing, Jeb began to limp over to the Toyota. As he approached, he realized that she’d been right to call a tow truck.

Any idea he might have had that he could maneuver the Camry out of the ditch himself was discarded as he surveyed the situation. It was obvious someone had tried to drive it out, causing the wheels to sink even farther into the mud.

Still looking down at the back tires, now buried up to their rims, Jeb opened the driver’s door. The overhead light came on, making it obvious there was no note on the dash or in the seat. And no sign of Susan Chandler.

He blew out an exasperated breath before he straightened to look over the top of her car. He had left his headlights on, and the twin beams cut a swath through the rain and darkness into the area beyond the telephone pole. As he watched, a figure materialized out of the bushes along the side of the road, stepping forward into their illumination.

He recognized Susan immediately, despite her bedraggled appearance. Her clothing was soaked, making her cotton blouse cling revealingly to her body. The strap of her leather purse still hung over her shoulder, however, as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

He refrained from asking any of the obvious questions as she approached, shoes sloshing with each step. When she rounded the car, he could see that her eyes were wide and dark in a face that was far too pale. Strands of hair were plastered to her cheeks and neck, water streaming from them.

He couldn’t imagine why she’d gotten out in the rain rather than waiting inside the Toyota for the wrecker. Not unless—

The thought was sudden and disturbing. A concussion might create enough disorientation to cause that kind of behavior. He’d seen men with head wounds do some bizarre things.

“You hurt?” he asked as she stopped in front of him.

Wordlessly she shook her head.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“I didn’t know who it was.”

Not the most rational answer, he decided, considering that she was supposed to be waiting for the wrecker. There was no way she could have been certain he wasn’t the tow-truck driver, considering the poor visibility. Or had she been planning to hide in the bushes even after they’d arrived?

Hide. That was exactly what she’d been doing, he realized. For some reason, Susan Chandler had been hiding.

“Who did you think would be out here in a downpour calling you by name?”

She pressed her lips together as if deliberately refusing to respond to his sarcasm. With as much dignity as she could manage, considering that water was dripping off her chin, she pushed a piece of hair off her cheek before she shook her head.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, knowing there was something else going on here. It would have taken more than a minor accident on a rain-slick road to rattle her this badly.

“Nothing. I…” Again she closed her mouth, cutting off whatever explanation she’d been about to make. “Nothing.”

“You did call a wrecker, didn’t you?”

She nodded, her eyes holding on his face. Seeing what was in them, something that looked very much like fear, he found that he had to resist the urge to put his arm out to draw her to him. He would have done that to Lorena or almost any other woman of his acquaintance. Susan Chandler, however, had given no indication she would welcome that kind of comfort.

Not from him or anyone else. The aura that surrounded her was one of unapproachability. Even now.

“They said it would be about an hour.”

Obviously not local. “They’re coming from Pascagoula?”

She nodded, pushing her dripping hair out of her eyes with the spread fingers of her right hand. Through her thin cotton shirt, he could see the outline of lace on the top of her bra. And under it, the too-rapid rise and fall of her breasts. As if suddenly aware of how revealing the wet fabric might be, she put that hand on its opposite arm, running her palm up and down.

Despite the Indian-summer temperatures of the morning, this rain felt winter cold, and she was soaked to the skin. He needed to get her somewhere warm and dry, or she was liable to end up with pneumonia. If she did, he’d never hear the end of it from Lorena.

“Come on,” he said, turning to head back to the pickup. The cab should still be fairly warm.

“Where?”

“To Lorena’s.” As he looked back at her, he raised his voice to make sure she could hear him over the downpour.

“What about the wrecker?”

“Leave them a note. Tell them they can take the car to Reynolds.”

“Reynolds?”

“It’s the service station on the square. He’ll pay them tonight. You can pay him tomorrow.”

“But…will he be open on a Sunday night?” she asked as she walked over to where he had stopped.

Probably not, Jeb realized. Like it or not, they were stuck here until the tow truck from Pascagoula showed up.

“I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s a lot dryer inside my truck than it is out here.”

He automatically put his hand in the small of her back, urging her toward his vehicle. This time she cooperated, walking ahead of him as he made his slow and careful way over the uneven ground. As he neared the passenger side, he looked up to find she’d been watching him as she waited. Without meeting her eyes, he reached out and opened the passenger door.

“There’s a handgrip,” he said, gesturing toward it. Although she was tall for a woman, probably five-seven or five-eight, she used it to climb up into the high cab. As soon as she was settled, he slammed the door and started around the back. Now that he knew she couldn’t see him, he held on to the enclosed bed of the truck for balance.

The dull, familiar ache in his leg had already started. Susan wasn’t the only one who needed to get in out of the cold.

He opened the driver’s-side door and, gritting his teeth against the pain, climbed into the seat. As soon as he closed the door, killing the interior light, he became aware of the intimacy of their situation.

The intensity of the rain would hold them prisoner as they waited for the arrival of the wrecker. Something over which they had no control.

“Did Lorena send you to find me?”

He debated telling her the truth. His great-aunt’s anxiety had been a factor, of course, but she would never have asked him to go out in this, no matter how worried she was. That had been his decision. Given what he’d discovered, it was one he couldn’t regret, even knowing what it would cost him tomorrow.

“Lorena takes her responsibilities seriously,” he said. “You’re her guest. That makes you hers to look after.”

Her laughter was a breath of sound. “I was thinking on the way home how unaccustomed I am to having someone worry about me. And how welcome her solicitude would be,” she added softly. “I didn’t expect it to extend to rescue missions, however.”

“Did you need rescuing?” He hadn’t forgotten that she’d been hiding when he’d arrived.

“A figure of speech. I didn’t mean to sound melodramatic.”

“It’s obvious you weren’t trying to avoid the tow truck by hiding in those bushes, Ms. Chandler, so I’m curious as to who you were avoiding.”

The rain seemed to beat down with renewed force as he waited for her answer. Or maybe in the sudden silence after his question he was simply more aware of it.

“Someone in an outsized pickup,” she said finally.

Since the description was a little too apt, he turned to look at her. She was staring out the windshield, so that he could see only her profile. Despite the darkness, he could discern the delicate shape of her nose and the slight upward angle of her chin. Its tilt was almost challenging.

“Are you talking about…my truck?”

Despite the fact that he hadn’t been particularly welcoming last night, he didn’t believe that anything he’d said would be grounds for trying to avoid him. Besides, she couldn’t have had any idea he would embark on this knight-errant foolishness.

Susan turned at the question, meeting his eye. “I’m talking about the truck that ran me off the road.”

The truck that ran me off the road…. There was only one possible interpretation of that.

“Are you saying someone forced you off the road?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but…that’s what he did.”

“He?”

“I guess I just assumed it was a man, maybe because of the size of the truck. I didn’t actually see the driver.”

“But you’re sure he deliberately ran you off the road?” Jeb made no attempt to hide his skepticism. That kind of thing didn’t happen around here.

“Yes.” She offered no explanation for her certainty. And made no defense of it.

“Why would someone run you off the road?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was impatient because I was being careful. Or because I blinked my lights to get him to turn his down. All I know is he headed directly toward me, and that he was flying.”

When she’d mentioned the driver being impatient, he had pictured someone coming up behind her as she was negotiating an unfamiliar highway in the rain. The part about blinking her lights didn’t seem to fit that scenario.

“He was behind you? Or approaching you?”

“Both. Actually…” She took a breath, seeming to gather control. “He approached a couple of times. During the last one it was obvious that if I didn’t move over he would ram my car. Since he had a distinct size advantage…”

“You’re telling me someone went past you and then turned around and came back in order to force you off the road.”

“Or maybe he just made a U-turn,” she said.

As he had done. Which meant she’d been watching his arrival from her hiding place. And if what she had just claimed happened really did take place, it was no wonder she hadn’t wanted to be waiting inside her car when…

“You thought I was the person who ran you off the road.”

“I thought it was a distinct possibility. He’d already made a couple of passes at me.”

“After you went off the road?”

“I didn’t mean that. He passed me coming from town and then turned around and came up behind me. When he went around my car, he sat on his horn. Then the next time…That’s when he came at me. When I saw you go by, all I knew was that the size and color of your truck were the same as the other.”

He couldn’t tell from her tone if she still suspected he might have been its driver. Of course, she had responded to his call once she’d recognized him.

“I can’t believe anybody around here would do that.”

“I thought it might be kids. Showing off. Terrorizing the tourists.”

He thought about the possibility. His few encounters with the local population during the months he’d spent here hadn’t extended to any of the teenage population. Judging by the acts of violence the papers reported in other places, he supposed it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that some local kids, drunk or stoned, might have pulled this kind of stunt.

“You are going to report what happened to the sheriff?”

“I don’t have a lot to tell him. I doubt big, dark pickups are all that rare in this area.”

They weren’t, of course, as evidenced by the one they were sitting in. His was perhaps bigger than most, but a lot of the local farmers used their trucks for hauling supplies and produce and even for towing trailers filled with livestock. All of which called for heavy-duty vehicles.

“Besides, I get the feeling Sheriff Adams thinks I should just go back home and wait for someone else to figure out what happened to my daughter. The problem is, if I do that, I don’t think anyone ever will.”

He knew from town gossip Lorena had repeated to him today that most people believed the baby’s body must have been washed downriver. Under certain conditions the currents in the Escatawpa could certainly be strong enough to take a child out of a father’s hands, which according to Lorena was Wayne Adams’s explanation of what had happened.

“She would be eight years old now,” Susan went on, the anger he’d heard before no longer in her voice, leaving it flat and hard. “Everyone said she looked like Richard, but…with babies that age, it’s so hard to tell. And now…”

He waited through the silence, knowing there was nothing he could say that would temper the pain of her loss. Despite the passage of time, it was all still there in her voice.

Her chin lifted again as she swallowed the emotion that had threatened her control. Slowly she shook her head.

“I know what you’re thinking, but I’d know if she were dead. I’d know.” The declaration was almost fierce, brooking no argument. “She isn’t. She’s out there somewhere. Without anyone of her own.”

“Ms. Chandler—”

“That was the one thought I clung to all those years. That she was with Richard. I hated him for taking her away from me. I cursed him for not telling me where she was or why he’d taken her, but…no matter how bitter I was toward him, there was no doubt in my mind that he loved her. And I knew he’d take care of her.”

The rain pounding on the roof was the only sound in the cab after her last impassioned sentence. Even their breathing seemed suspended.

“Now…” she said again, turning to face him. “Don’t you see? Now I’m all she has. I just can’t let her go on thinking that no one has been looking for her.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I’M NOT EXACTLY SURE about what you want me to do, Ms. Chandler.”

Susan had known this would be an exercise in futility. She couldn’t believe she’d let the Bedfords talk her into calling the sheriff’s office. There was nothing he could do about what had happened last night. Reporting it only made her appear the hysterical type.

“I didn’t think there was anything you could or necessarily should do. I simply wanted to make you aware of the situation. It did occur in your jurisdiction.”

“Yes, ma’am. And I can tell you that things like that don’t normally happen around here.”

She wasn’t certain if he were doubting her word or defending his constituents. Not until he went on.

“Probably kids. There’s a bunch of wild-as-bucks young’uns across the county line. Sheriff over there’s had a lot of trouble out of them. I’ll give him a call and see if he recognizes that pickup as belonging to one of them. They may have seen your out-of-state tags and decided to make a little mischief. And I’ll make sure there’s a deputy on that stretch of road after sundown tonight. Don’t you worry about traveling around here. Now that we know what’s been going on, we can keep a closer eye on things. What about your car? Any damage?”