Jake planned on cornering Roger's kidnapper—he'd do whatever it took to get the kid back and uphold his promise to Amanda—but there was no way he was going to let her get caught in the cross fire. No goddamn way!
His gaze scanned Amanda one last time. Then he sighed and hoisted the heavy saddlebag higher on his shoulder. The contents rattled as the worn leather bag slapped against his back. Careful to avoid any creaking floorboards, he crept to the door and quietly let himself out of the room.
Dawn was breaking over the mountainous, snowcapped horizon when, ten minutes later, Jake stepped onto the slatted boardwalk outside the hotel. He barely glanced at the pink-and-purple-streaked sky as he swaggered toward the stables.
His thoughts refused to leave a certain second floor hotel room. He couldn't stop thinking about the lady—the white lady—he'd left behind.
He told himself the separation would be short. This time. With any luck, the outcome of what he was about to do would be successful. What he couldn't understand was why, if that was true, he felt an unfamiliar squeeze in the region of his chest—an inexplicable, painful sensation that seemed to increase with each step that carried him away from Amanda Lennox.
Jake didn't analyze the feelings pumping through him—he pushed them aside and buried them. He concentrated on the sound of his denim pants legs brushing together, on the jostle of wagons or the muted voices in doorways. He concentrated on anything to take his mind off wondering why leaving Amanda hurt so badly.
The answer was there—simmering inside of him, just beneath the surface—but it was an emotion he wasn't ready to feel, let alone acknowledge. Not now. Not for a white lady. Not ever... if he was smart. That was half the problem. Because Jake had been questioning his intelligence ever since he'd taken his first step into that icy river days ago. Since he didn't like the answers he was coming up with, he wondered instead what Amanda's reaction would be when she woke up and found him gone.
"Gone? What do you mean he's gone?"
"Jesus, lady, don't you understand English?" The rotund, middle-aged clerk who was standing behind the desk didn't glance up from the three-week-old newspaper he was reading as he spoke. The limp paper rattled as he turned the page and, in an annoyed tone of voice, added, "Last time I'm going to say it. Your—er—friend's gone. Checked out. Left-the-hotel."
A shiver of alarm coursed down Amanda's spine. As always happened when she was upset, her tone lifted and took on a haughty pitch. "Obviously, there's been some mistake. Jake wouldn't leave without telling me. He—well, he just wouldn't."
One corner of the newspaper sagged. A dark, bushy brow slanted high in the clerk's forehead as his gaze raked her from head to toe. The grin that curled over his lips was condescending and cold. "I hate to be the one to point this out to you, honey, but obviously he did."
"When?"
"How the hell should I know?" The clerk sighed heavily, snapped the paper closed, and slammed it down on the scarred oak desk with his fist. "Early, would be my guess. He was gone by the time I got here, so it would have to have been before eight."
Her eyes widened. Before eight? But that was three hours ago! Jake could be miles away by now, heading in who knew what direction. While she might not be trail-smart, Amanda wasn't stupid. She knew the chance of her catching up with Jake were questionable at best—and her chances of finding him decreased with every minute he was gone... and she remained in Junction.
If she'd been alarmed before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. Gripping her saddlebag in trembling fists, she glared at the middle-aged man. No, more correctly she glared at a three-week-old headline, for he'd picked up his paper again and was ignoring her.
Amanda gritted her teeth and cleared her throat. When the man didn't so much as glance at her, she stepped to the side and glared at him. He didn't even blink, the scum. Finally, she said in her loudest, most intimidating voice, "Excuse me...!"
His lips puckered with annoyance, but he continued to read.
Left with no alternative, Amanda snatched the newspaper from his hands. That got his attention! Too much of it, if his quivering jowls, angrily slitted brown eyes, and tightly clenched fists were anything to judge by. She tipped her chin high, and smiled a contemptuous smile that would have made Miss Henry beam. "I don't suppose you could tell me where Mr. Chandler went?"
The clerk was unimpressed. "I don't suppose you're going to give me my goddamn paper back?"
He reached for the paper, but Amanda held it out of reach. His growl of annoyance was almost feral. She tried not to cringe. "I'd be happy to... after you tell me where Mr. Chandler went."
The clerk planted his huge fists on the scarred oak desk and leaned toward her. His expression was hard and threatening. Amanda's resolve weakened, and she took an instinctive step back. His grin made her blood turn to ice.
"I don't know where he went, lady," the clerk said slowly and precisely. His meaty jowls shook with each tightly uttered word. "Nor do I give a rat's a—er... nor do I care. What I do care about is reading my paper. You've got five seconds to give that newspaper back to me. If you don't, then I'm coming around this desk after it."
He wouldn't dare. Would he? Lord, Amanda hoped not. And was it her imagination, or were the man's voluminous cheeks redder than normal? His eyes narrower and brighter? Yes, yes they were. Uh-oh.
Amanda swallowed hard and hugged both her saddlebag and the clerk's newspaper to her chest. Her innate cowardice was telling her belatedly that perhaps pushing this man wasn't in her best interest after all. Of course, the paper she crunched in her quivering fists said it was too late for second thoughts now. Not that she could afford to entertain any. She had to know where Jake went. She had to! And this obnoxious clerk was the only person who could tell her. Or so she hoped.
"Three... two..." He pushed away from the desk. "Better move quick, honey."
"Please, Mister..." Amanda hesitated. The man hadn't told her his name and, judging by his hard, tight expression, he wasn't going to. She quickly changed tactics. "It will only take you a minute to tell me where—"
"One. Time's up." He moved around the desk. For a big man, she thought his gait unusually agile. His boot-heels made loud thumps atop the plank floor, like reports of gunfire echoing through the small foyer, echoing through Amanda.
He rounded the corner and stalked toward her. She smelled him—the sour, chickeny odor of days-old sweat—long before he drew close. Her gaze dropped to the meaty fists he clenched at his side. Unless she'd horribly misjudged the man, he was at that moment giving strangling her serious consideration.
Amanda's throat constricted. The paper crinkled as she clutched it tighter still. "If you don't know where Mr. Chandler went, then perhaps you know of someone else who does?"
"Give me back my newspaper, lady."