Stranger In Cold Creek. Пола Грейвс

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      Then he wondered why he was even thinking about spending more time in Texas than it took to get himself back into fighting shape, in case law enforcement couldn’t round up all the stragglers left in the moribund Blue Ridge Infantry.

      The sound of a car motor approaching on the highway dragged his attention away from that worrisome thought. He rose quickly and edged to the window to take a quick peek through the curtains.

      A Barstow County Sheriff’s Department cruiser had pulled up outside, parking next to Miranda’s truck. “It’s your colleague,” he murmured as a tall young man stepped out of the cruiser and made his way through the crusty snow to the porch. He was the deputy who’d accompanied the sheriff earlier that day. What was his name?

      Miranda followed him to the door as he opened it to the deputy’s knock. “Robertson,” she said briskly, joining him on the front porch rather than letting him in. She filled him in on what John had told her about the intruder. “He was wearing boot covers, so we don’t have any tracks around the wreck, but Mr. Blake believes he drove away from behind that small stand of shrubs down the highway.” She waved in the direction John had indicated. “He doesn’t think any other vehicles have come through since then, thanks to the snow, so I thought we could get tire impressions, at least, to compare to the vehicle that took potshots at me earlier today.”

      Robertson took in everything she told him quietly, jotting notes. Then he looked up at Miranda, his blue eyes gentle with concern. “I thought the sheriff told you to get some rest.”

      John didn’t miss the look of not-so-professional interest in the deputy’s expression, but if Miranda was aware that the deputy had a bit of a crush on her, she didn’t show it as she shrugged and said, “I was on the phone with Mr. Blake when he saw the intruder. I was at my dad’s place, so I was several minutes closer than a cruiser could be.”

      Robertson flicked his gaze up to meet John’s eyes. “I see.”

      “Well?” Miranda asked. “Did you bring the casting material?”

      “It’s out in the cruiser.”

      Miranda went inside to grab her jacket, zipped it up and started out the door after Robertson.

      John caught up with her on the porch. “Do you think this is a good idea? It’s freezing out here, and you took an awfully hard knock to the head earlier today. I’m pretty sure the EMTs told you to take it easy.”

      “I feel fine,” she insisted, starting down the steps. But she swayed as she reached the bottom, and John hurried to give her a bracing hand before she ended up facedown in the snow.

      “Yeah, I can see how fine you are,” he murmured, tightening his grip around her arm to keep her from following Robertson. “Robertson strikes me as a capable guy.”

      “He doesn’t know where to look for the tire prints.”

      “Neither do you, really. Come on.” He tugged her arm, gently leading her back up the stairs to the house. He stopped before they entered. “Deputy Robertson?”

      The deputy turned to look at him. “Yes?”

      “Hold up. I’ll go with you to show you where I saw the car. Let me get Deputy Duncan settled.” He nudged Miranda into the house.

      “You’re making me look like a slacker in front of my fellow deputy,” she grumbled, but she didn’t fight him as he led her back to the fire and urged her to sit. “Do you know how hard it can be for a female cop to be taken seriously?”

      “I do,” he assured her. “But working when you’ve been told you have a concussion and need to rest doesn’t exactly shower you with glory. It just makes you look overeager.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been waiting to hit me with that all night, haven’t you?”

      He smiled. “No, but you know I’m right. What would you be thinking right now if the shoe was on the other foot, and it was Robertson out there staggering and reeling against doctor’s orders, trying to prove he’s a hotshot investigator?”

      “I’d think he was an idiot,” she conceded gruffly.

      “I’ll be right back.” John laid his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, his thumb brushing over her clavicle. The skin there was unexpectedly silky and delicate, an intriguing contrast to her tough, no-nonsense exterior.

      He forced himself to turn and head out into the cold again, where he found Robertson waiting for him impatiently. He waved John to the passenger side and slid his own lanky body behind the steering wheel.

      Robertson cranked up the heat to high as he pulled out on the highway. “Stop me short of where you saw the vehicle enter the highway,” the deputy said. “Don’t want to mess up the tracks.”

      John told him to stop about twenty yards from the stand of shrubs that had hidden the intruder’s vehicle. “It should be about thirty yards up the road. I think he must’ve parked his vehicle behind those shrubs because they’d block my view of the car from the house.”

      Robertson parked on the shoulder and pulled a flashlight from the cruiser’s glove compartment. “Stay behind me,” he told John.

      John could have given the young deputy a few lessons on evidence retrieval, but he wasn’t a cop and this wasn’t his town. Plus, nobody liked a know-it-all.

      The tire treads in the snow weren’t hard to spot, and to John’s surprise, they were nearly pristine. Apparently no other vehicles had passed on this side of the highway since the intruder drove away.

      Robertson handed John the flashlight. “Can you hold this on the tracks while I get the casting material?”

      John directed the beam toward the tire impressions, bending for a closer look. The treads had a pretty distinctive pattern. If the tire impressions the deputies had made earlier in the day were clear at all, they should be able to tell whether or not their intruder tonight was driving the same car.

      Robertson stopped beside John. “Those are the same treads.”

      John looked up. “Are you sure?”

      “I’m the one who took the impressions this afternoon after the tow truck hauled the cruiser away. These look like fairly new tires. Firestones, I think. The lab in Lubbock will tell us for sure.”

      “So I may have seen the man who shot at us this afternoon.”

      “Looks like.”

      “And we have no idea who he is or where he’s gone.”

      “That’s right.”

      John looked down the highway behind him, barely able to see his house, sitting small and isolated nearly a mile down the road.

      And he’d left Miranda in there, alone and vulnerable, with a target on her back.

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