“Exactly.”
I looked at Derek again. His jaw was clamped shut and it was pretty obvious why. Okay, so maybe I was able to tell his moods better than I had thought. And since it looked like he wanted to chew on the steering wheel, I decided to follow his lead, stop talking, and try to enjoy the scenery.
It was noon when we drove into the deceptively sleepy town of Point Reyes Station. The center of town consisted of one main street that stretched for three short blocks. The town had a faded sixties vibe with an eclectic blend of upscale cafes, building-supply stores, bakeries, cheese shops, art galleries, a funky old auto-repair garage, and a fresh fruit stand. On one corner was the Old Western Saloon, a Victorian-era bar that was a little seedy but had clean bathrooms, a classic rock jukebox, and a friendly bartender who took only cash.
It was hard to believe that this town was the driving force in the multimillion-dollar organic and artisanal food industry that served the San Francisco Bay area and beyond. The cafes and restaurants in and around Point Reyes Station were like nirvana to food fanatics, who drove from all over northern California to sample the local artisanal cheeses, vegetables, baby lettuces, free-range chicken, grass-fed beef, pates, fruits and preserves, and oysters.
Derek drove around the corner and parked the car in front of the Cowgirl Creamery store.
I smiled tentatively. “Maybe we can get something to snack on here.”
“You can snack all you want,” he muttered. “I need a drink.”
He settled for a local beer on tap at the saloon. Gabriel had one, too. I ordered ginger ale. Gabriel took one long sip, then looked at me and Derek. He checked his pocket for change, winked at me, then walked over to the jukebox.
“Here’s the thing,” I said to Derek once we were alone. “I know you don’t like that I might be a target.”
“Don’t like it? I bloody well hate it.”
“I hate it, too. But for some reason, it’s happening again. So let’s not make it worse by being angry with each other.”
He slid an astonished look at me. “Do you think I’m angry with you?”
I looked at him evenly. “Do you think I’m dumb?”
He stared at his glass and absently smoothed away the condensation with his thumb, then finally met my gaze. “No.”
“Thanks,” I said, not feeling it.
“Come here,” he said, and pulled me into his protective embrace. I went gladly, needing to feel his hard chest pressing against me, marveling at how complete I felt in his arms.
“I can feel your mind working even when you’re silent,” he murmured, chuckling.
“I can’t seem to shut it down once I get going.”
He leaned back and made eye contact with me. “You’re right; I was angry. It was a knee-jerk reaction and I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I gave him a quick, hard hug; then I stepped away and took a sip of my drink.
“No, it’s not.” He drank his beer, staring out the wide picture window at the front of the bar. “But I promise I wasn’t angry at you.”
As Bob Seger’s whiskey-smooth voice wafted out from the jukebox, singing about secrets shared and mountains moved, Derek turned and looked at me for a long moment. “You know I’m in love with you. And I think you’re the smartest, most courageous person I know. So, yes, I’m angry at the thought that you might become some idiot’s target again.”
My eyes stung with tears at his words. “I’m…I’m angry, too, Derek.”
“I know.” He trailed his fingers along my forehead, smoothed my hair back. “Darling, I work in dangerous situations all the time. I’m used to it. I know how to protect myself. But you…the thought of you…” He shook his head, exhaled heavily. “The thought that you could be hurt and I would be powerless to stop it? That scares me to death.”
I slipped my arms around his waist and held him. The bar was beginning to fill with the noontime lunch crowd, but I didn’t care. If people didn’t like public displays of affection, they would have to get over it.
I pulled away finally and we both sipped our drinks in silence. After a minute, I faced him. “I need to rephrase what I said earlier. The
“You could never be incidental, darling,” he said, holding back a smile.
“Oh, stop it,” I said, smacking his arm, then rubbing the spot I’d hit.
“All right. I think you’re spot-on about the book being the catalyst.” He nodded as though it had already occurred to him, which it probably had. “Unfortunately, whatever the killer had in mind, I believe we’ve played right into his hands.”
My throat went dry and I glanced around the bar. “Do you think we were followed here?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I was careful to watch the cars all the way over here.”
“That was smart of you.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said, and drained the last of his beer.
“Must be. I never would’ve thought of it.” I tapped my fingers on the edge of the bar. “I’m more convinced than ever that Max had nothing to do with any of it.”
“You know him better than I,” he said, “but one thing is certain: someone wants him out in the open.”
“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” I said, then looked around for Gabriel. Right or wrong, we needed to get going.
As if he’d been watching for the right moment to return, Gabriel walked up just then. He plunked a ten-dollar bill on the bar and said, “Let’s go find this guy.”
We followed Sir Francis Drake Boulevard for almost fifteen miles. It was hardly a boulevard.
We were close to the ocean and I could smell it in the briny air. We drove higher into the hills, past cypress trees surreally misshapen by years of blustery winds blowing in from the rough northern California ocean.
“This is it,” Derek said, and carefully turned off onto a dirt road, then wound around another hill and climbed higher, past another two farms. Scattered across the hillside were black-and-white cows chewing grass. A wire and wood-post fence separated the pasture land from the road.
“Are we there yet?” I muttered.
“There’d better be someone at home when we get there,” Derek said.
“And they’d better know where Max is,” Gabriel added.
Finally, Derek brought the car to a stop on the narrow verge. Up the hill on our left was a set of pitted stairs carved out of bedrock that led up another fifty yards to a two-story farmhouse.
“That’s the place?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes,” Derek said, opening his door, then glancing back. “This should only take a moment.”
“Maybe so,” Gabriel said, pushing the driver’s seat forward, then stepping out of the car. “But you’re not going alone.”
“I’m coming, too,” I said, unwilling to wait by myself.
“We’ll cause too much attention if we all go,” Derek insisted.
“Your English accent will cause more attention than anything else,” I countered. “And then there’s the Bentley you’re driving.”
Gabriel snorted. “She’s got you there.”
Derek shook his head. “I’ve lost control of the situation, haven’t I?”
“Not sure you ever had it, pal,” Gabriel said helpfully.
“True.” Derek shrugged. “Let’s go, then.”
We’d barely walked ten feet when the front door of the farmhouse opened. A tall, bearded man carrying a high-powered rifle stepped out on the porch and aimed the gun right at us. A dog stood at his side. It barked once
