The Target

She didn't hesitate for an instant. She floored the gas pedal. The Jeep hit ninety miles an hour quickly. They sped by two exits, Molly weaving in and out like a pro, then she slowed and swung off at the third exit onto a high arcing road that flattened finally, headed due south.

"Good going. Just keep driving, then pull over about a mile toward-what's the name of the town in this direction?"

"Paulson, according to the sign we just passed."

"Yeah, it's about three miles to Paulson. Let's go nearly to the town, then take a side road. We'll just sit there for a while. I'll bet everyone's thirsty. We'll have to buy a bottle of water."

"I have to go to the bathroom," Emma said.

"I do, too," Ramsey said, hugging her. "Hold it just three more minutes, Em."

The cell phone trilled a soft high whine.

"Savich?"

"Yes. Since you didn't have a clean set, we have three possibilities."

"Okay. I've got a pen and paper." Molly watched him pull a pad from the glove compartment and write down names and addresses. She heard him say, "Thanks, Savich. I owe you big time." There was a long pause, then, "I'll tell you everything when I can, but not just yet. Say hello to Sherlock for me."

He shut down the phone.

"It appears that we've lost those guys from the restaurant. I still think we should call the cops, Molly."

"No, not yet. Please, not yet."

He sighed deeply. The last thing he wanted was for her to try to take Emma and go off on her own. He had a strong feeling she'd do just that if he didn't play by her rules. It wasn't just that she didn't trust the police. It was something more, something she hadn't told him. "Well, hell," he said, "let's go to Aspen and stay at the Jerome. I'll take you guys to the Cantina for a good Mexican meal."

Molly pulled off the road a minute later. She took Emma to the cover of some bushes. Molly met his eyes over a tangle of blackberries. He had eyes nearly as black as his hair, thick hair a bit on the long side since he'd been away from civilization for three weeks. He had a strong face, high cheekbones, an olive complexion. She wondered if he didn't have some Italian blood lurking somewhere. He also had the beginnings of a five-o'clock shadow. Actually, now that she was really looking at him for the first time, she realized he was handsome, not drop-dead handsome like a film star, but handsome in a way that was calm and strong, a handsome that you could trust. She owed him the rest of the truth, but not just yet.

She thought, as she helped Emma with her clothes, that it felt rather strange not to be alone anymore. She'd known him for less than one day. It seemed longer, but the fact was that she didn't really know him at all. She knew his reputation, but not the man. He'd saved Emma. That was really the beginning and the end of it. He'd have her gratitude forever.

She smiled at him.

Ramsey did a double take. He smiled back at her automatically. He'd been wishing that he'd gotten a look at the other man at the restaurant. Were they dealing with two new men entirely? Probably so. There'd been no sign that either of them had been wounded. If they were new on the scene, then there might be a lot more going on here. What was Molly keeping from him?

He handed Molly the cell phone when she and Emma got back to the Jeep. "It's time to call the Denver police. It's time to tell them that Emma's safe. Whatever else you don't want to tell them, then keep it to yourself. But at least do that much."

She pulled a small notebook from her large shoulder bag. She looked up a number, then dialed it in. He handed her the paper with the three names and addresses on it. He moved to the driver's side, watching Emma crowd close to her.

She gave no greeting, just, "I've got my daughter back, Detective Mecklin."

"Is that you, Mrs. Santera? What did you say? Are you all right? Are you injured?"

"No I'm not hurt. I said that I've got my daughter back, Detective." She could practically see those wide blue eyes of his narrowing as he stared at the phone, wondering if she'd lost it or not. She really didn't care. She rather hoped she'd never have to deal with Mecklin again, but here she was on the phone to the jerk. She'd thought he believed it was her fault that Emma was taken. She had hated him for helping to pile that guilt on her. She still did. She'd felt enough guilt on her own.

There was a very long silence, then, "I don't understand how that can be possible."

She laughed, the tension beginning to lighten. She was beginning to enjoy herself. The sexist jerk. "It is, believe me. Would you like me to tell you what's happened?"