Hiding in Plain Sight

Chapter One

The sound of the engine noises changing from the knock-sputter-knock to the cough-shudder-wheeze ripped my mind from my escape plans back to full awareness. It was either the noise or the shimmy that ran through the car and clear up to my fingertips on the steering wheel that gained my attention. I straightened in my seat and immediately used both hands to steer the car as my stomach clenched.

Cough-shudder-wheeze-hesitate.

Fuck!

I was unsure when the engine had begun to talk in a deeper, wheezier murmur but I had the impression it had been going on for a good while. I must have made the decision to ignore it, in my haze of lack of sleep and having missed more than a couple of meals.

Hesitate-wheeze-choke-shimmy.

Shit!

I could feel the car’s shuddering beneath my fingers choking the steering wheel. The off and on hesitation of the engine shot darts of ice throughout me as it struggled to remain alive, engaged.

Please, not now! I screamed, glancing down at the gauges, which showed me absolutely nothing I could comprehend or make sense of. 'Check Engine' meant shit-all even if it was spelled out in red, much like the other symbols that I didn't know but which either blinked off and on or remained steady on the dashboard.

Goddamn!

The knocking continued but pressing on the accelerator did nothing. Even the wheel beneath my gripping hands felt stiffer, heavier as the car's momentum began to drop. The hesitations were lasting longer, the shuddering stronger even as the cough-choking noise slowed.

My sweaty hands slipped as I yanked on the stiff plastic steering wheel while I tried to maneuver the rusted beast to the side of the road. I tried to apply the brakes but found they, too, were rigid and unresponsive until I used both feet to stomp on them. The little whippy car had suddenly turned into a tank I could barely control.

There wasn't much space on the side of the blacktop to maneuver. Maybe twelve to eighteen inches, which dipped sharply into some sort of canal. In my mind, I needed to get as much of the '97 VW Golf off the narrow road as possible to avoid one of the wide vehicles this portion of farmland USA offered as they whizzed along the blacktop.

And do it without sliding into the deep, overgrown ditch that started maybe a foot off the road.

Feeling the sharp ping of sweat from my armpits, I pressed firmly on the clutch and put the car into neutral. I had a momentary sense of satisfaction when there was none of the grinding as I changed gears. Finally, I was getting the hang of driving a manual gear shift. Which hadn't been the case when I'd first pulled out of the used car place where I'd bought it.

My arms shook with exertion as I steered the heavy vehicle onto that little strip of grass and felt the pull of gravity as I guided the car to a stop on the farthest side of the road.

No, no and no!

I stomped on both the clutch and the brake before turning the key again.

The engine ground as a horrible wet corrosive smell came through the vents when it turned over but never fired up.

Twisting the key, I tried again.

Grind-grind-grind. But the engine never caught, never sparked and the grinding got slower decreasing until there was nothing but a series of clicks.

Shit!

I set the emergency brake following the directions I'd received at the dealership when I'd purchased the new-to-me car and opened the old rusted door, it's creaking adding to the cuss words streaming through my head.

White clouds of steam shot out from underneath the hood now that the metal beast was still which even I knew was a bad sign.

Without thought or care, I gave into my temper on the tilted side of that no name road. I did the two-footed stomp ending with a swift kick to the rusted lower portion of the driver door, which did nothing for either the workings of the motor or my anger.

Shit, shit, shit!

I glanced around me, smelling the dirt and grime of the road, hearing the soft shush-shush of the greening fields in the wind with a hand over my eyes as I surveyed my surroundings.

There was no other way to describe it.

I was fucked.

And at that thought, I had another temper tantrum. Kicks, yells and fists beating over the rotten, mother-fucking bucket of bolts that comprised the only ride I had, the only escape I'd depended on for so many miles.

Okay, yeah. The air conditioning had cut out an hour and fifteen minutes after I'd left the lot and the radio another hour after that, so why didn't I take that as a sign that everything else would come apart as well? I hung my head at the thought and swiped an arm across my face to capture the wetness there.

No. I would not cry. I wouldn't get all tearful and shit nor think of Mama as I worked out how to get through this latest set-back.

This was not the end.

Even though it seemed to be.

I was a sitting duck, all alone in the hilly landscape of the unremarkable inland of Kansas. I shaded my eyes again, glancing up and down the lonely road before I pulled my cheap, pay-as-you-go cellphone out of the pocket of my sundress.

No bars. Nothing that even breathed of hope, of a connection that would me allow me to call for help.

Nothing.

The isolation, shit just the sound of the lonely wind, had me almost petrified in fear.

My temper had led me back to the driver's door and I peered into the car, roaming over the trash of the passenger seat, taking in the different wrappers and empty water bottles, which had fed and watered me during this latest leg of my journey.

Bracing my arms on the top of the car, I tried to think of how to get out of this latest predicament. Eventually my gaze rested on the well-creased map that had guided me to this place. The road was some sort of red-dashed mark on the worn, multi-folded paper which I'd found in the glove box. Off the beaten path.

Son of a bitch!

As I leaned on the roof of the rusted out, faded, gold '97 Volkswagen Golf, I pondered my dilemma. My eyes were following the bending of the greening stalks as I tried to think, pushing the sound of the freshening wind away. But my tired mind didn't want to seem to work even though my heart was exerting itself in overtime mode with its hard, deep thumps.

It didn't take long for the heat of the asphalt to be felt from the black top beneath me. The trickle of heat-sweat, so different from the sharp panic-sweat of before, was an ever present reminder of the heat and humidity in the land I'd found myself in and drove me freaking batty in the lazy, snaky tracks of its passing. The gentle rolls of moisture, which wet my underwear, was completely different than the pinches I'd felt earlier when the car had decided to quit.

And then there was the smells.

I could smell the sharp musky odors of my own body and the aroma of whatever fertilizer the farmer had used on the fields, but it was the road that reeked. Tar or something like it so sharp and pungent, you couldn't get away from it. I tried though by working my way around to the other side of the car intent on keeping only one thought in mind. 'How the fuck to I get out of this?'.

Who knew the middle of America could be this hot and this barren? There were no trees, no houses not even a cow to dot the landscape. I was completely and utterly alone, and I admit that isolation scared the shit out of me.

When was the last time I'd seen somebody else? My hand again shaded my eyes as I sought out any kind of life beyond the fields as I tried to remember. That tractor with the thing-a-ma-bob connected, which had taken up the whole of the road before I'd turned onto this one?

Christ!

There had to be something I could do, anything except stand in the middle of the black, smelly road, which didn't even have the white dashes to identify it, but I sure as hell didn't know what it was.

I reached back into the car and pulled on the lever that held a description of the hood. Knowing even as I did so, I wouldn’t have any idea of what I needed to look for. But isn’t that what you did when your car broke down? I didn’t exactly know the protocol for these situations. Actually, I didn’t know much of what was acceptable in many of life’s situations. I guess someone would say I’d led a pretty constricted life up until two and half weeks ago. Nineteen short days to learn how to function out in the big wide world, which I discovered could be a lot different than I’d thought it should have been.

Emphasis on the short.

Or maybe the function, I hadn’t quite made up my mind.

I closed the driver door with a resigned creak and a thunk before stepping to the front of the car, feeling the heat of the engine through the thin cotton of my sundress. I found the weird latch on the hood and opened it, watching the billowing white steam dissipate into the air as soon as I’d slotted the rod thingie into that hole on the underside of the heavy piece of metal. My gaze roamed over the rusted and dirty components, which allegedly were the engine of the old car, having no clue what I was seeing as predicted. All I knew was that my new-to-me automobile had stopped at the worst possible moment and in the worst possible place.

Stooping over to peer inside the car’s motor had put half my body into shade, telling me it was around midday-ish. The heat of the summer sun seemed to bear down stronger in the flat of this portion of the Midwest. The humidity of the region was a whole different issue, but seeing how I was born and raised in East Texas, coping with wet heat was the least of my worries. I walked around the car twice, feeling the gravel of the roadside beneath the weeds, which crunched against the thin soles of my fashionable chucks before they again gripped the graveled asphalt. Glancing both before and away from my spot on the road, I didn’t see any traffic, any hope of rescue.

Aw, shit.

I was gonna have to be rescued and the thought of lying again to get out of my situation had me shuddering almost as much as the car had before it'd come to a full stop.

I reviewed what led me to take these stupid, tiny, barely-there-on-a-map back roads and buy such a piece of shit car. I knew the reasons, all of them. And I was still kicking myself for each and every one. I stopped by the front passenger door, leaning against it as I squeezed my lower lip between my forefinger and thumb.

Him.

God, how I hated him and at just the thought of the man, I found my knees weakening. I didn’t fight the fear which cut me off at my knees until my ass was on the ground in the tiny bit of shade of the car, gravel digging deep in the yoga shorts I wore over my underwear. I’d learned to wear multiple layers underneath my clothes as I’d traveled. Just as I learned to travel the back roads and keep myself to myself.

But I couldn't help the wave of self-pity that overcame me and the circumstance I was in any more than I could blink back the tears that overflowed out of my eyes.

He’d almost found me. Well, his goons actually, so many damn times in the few days I’d been gone. But my heart reminded me, he hasn’t caught you yet. I amended that ‘yet’ to a grateful ‘again’.

Having the local Sheriff, who I knew was on his payroll, stop the Greyhound Bus—attempt number one—and hauling my ass back to my velvet prison, had taught me nothing about fixing cars and everything about avoiding the law.

Nor had jumping out of the cab of a 'Milton's Fine Foods' semi in order to escape the wandering hands of the fat, giggling trucker—escape attempt number two—sure hadn't taught me how to proceed north in my quest to flee my future. His men had picked up me easily as I'd struggled to pull my over-ladened suitcase behind me, walking the highway with a thumb out, hoping for a ride from someone, anyone, with more morals than what I'd found so far.

I don’t know how long I sat, crouched with my knees deeply bent before I heard a motor. A deeply thrumming motor as it raced over the little road. All I knew was it was; a sound, which meant a vehicle, which equaled possible help as it raced towards me. I couldn’t even tell which direction it was coming from since the area was so filled with small hills that the sound echoed and bounced.

I flexed my aching thighs as I stood slapping at the hungry mosquitoes, turning and propping myself against the roof of the car, flicking my glance both right and left. As the engine noise got closer, I knew it wasn’t the sound of a car or even a truck. And it definitely wasn’t a tractor.

The blip I glimpsed on the rise of one of the low-lying hills was the shape of a motorcycle before the road took it away from my sight.

A motorcycle meant ‘alone’.

A motorcycle meant it wasn’t from him.

With that knowledge, I shook the pins and needles out of my legs and feet. Holding onto the car, I moved around to the front, placing myself in front of the open hood towards the rider's trajectory. He roared by in a flash of matte black and brilliant shimmering gold, with only the small movement of shaded helmet tilted in my direction as he breezed past me.

What if he is a scout? My mind cautioned. Like on TV when people are looking for the bad guys but don't know where they've gone. He could've put lone people out there to look for me just as easily as he had the other groups in cars of three or four.

Shit! I was exposed and didn't have even the least of a prayer in hiding myself away. Though it didn't seem to matter as he roared by me, kicking up both dust and gravel as he passed by with a roar of engine and a spew of the road gravel.

Just another traveler and one that wasn't into helping women broken down on the side of the road in the middle of bum-fuck-Egypt. At least my luck was running true to form. I turned my eyes back to the engine exposed, wondering why I had never had the good kind of fortune others seem to be blessed with in the time I'd been alive.

Other people got it. Some in bits and spurts; some in deluges.

But not me. Not in even as a trickle.

My ears caught on the change in the speed of the motor of the machine, which had crested the hill behind me. It was slowing before I heard it pick back up, the deep pulse of the motor echoing within me.

I turned back to the road and saw him crest the closest hill, then heard the engine again slow as he pulled onto the gravel of the space in the other lane directly across from me. He was straddling what, at least to me, was a huge machine whose deep rumbling voice was cut off abruptly, leaving only the shushing sound of the wind through the grain fields. As he turned off the deep-throated motor, I saw the dark shield of his visor pointed in my direction. But its dark tint kept his face hidden. As soon as the quiet settled, he swung a long, long, leather-clad leg over the seat.

All moisture from my mouth dried as I watched him step towards me.

His wasn't a normal walk. It was more like stalking, his leather boots a deep, slow beat on the hot asphalt. He popped the fasteners on his leather jacket, exposing a chest that was broad and chiseled beneath a thin t-shirt that appeared to be wet and clinging to his body. His large hands raised to the strap underneath his chin, and I saw him lift up his hands as he pushed the heavy helmet off his face.

My eyes narrowed on the vision before me.

Yeah, he was hot.

The bastard.

Long, shiny, sun-glistened light brown hair, though I couldn't have told you how long it was, the ends damp with his own sweat and captured underneath the collar of his leather jacket. Heavy browed, but with sharp cheekbones and a full, yet severe mouth topped broad, broad shoulders which moved in counter-rhythm to the swivel of his hips.

I couldn't help my deep swallow at the sight of him or the prickle of sweat that began at my hairline on the band of my cotton bucket hat.

My eyes dropped to the movement of his knees, wondering how his creaking, black leather pants were able to mold to the thick muscles both above and below it.

Fucking bastard was my summation.

No one should ever look that good, in that heat, in the fucking middle of Kansas.

Hey, he said as he stopped in the middle of the road about ten feet away from me.

Oh, fuck, no. Hot men didn't figure into my plan at all, and I found myself getting fucking freaked out, angry at just the look of him and all his gorgeousness.

Hey, I replied with my hand squeezing my lower lip as I was struggled to breathe properly.

Trouble? his deep voice asked but there was a catch on the 'r' sound of the word.

My car stalled and I can't get it started, I explained, trying to tame the broad vowels I'd known from my upbringing but were not common in this particular portion of the world. He had no need to know I was from East Texas, and most Americans can tell which people are not from their neck of the woods simply based on an accent, on their choice of words. I'd been working very hard on eradicating both and was hoping that my practice was working. But not having talked to anyone for any length of time, I couldn't be sure if my rehearsals were successful.

Actually, he had no need to know about me at all.

Hot men had no reason to notice me and were not a part of my escape plan for any reason.

Or my life, full stop.

I didn't need to be saved.

And at that thought, I got pissed off again.

Another freaking guy, looking better than he should to make my life a living hell.

While I was stuck out in the middle of nowhere.

Shit!

Mama and I had argued about it. The 'being rescued' versus 'being saved'. She thought that men were here to help us, pull us up and out of whatever it was that we'd known before or the problems we found ourselves in. I was all for that if that but only if it was a one-time thing; a simple rescue.

'Saved' meant long term.

'Rescued' was a one-off.

And, at the moment, I had a car that didn't work yet a guy in front of me that could probably command the stars just on his looks alone.

So, my mind gave him permission to perform a type of rescue of me in my predicament.

Maybe.

Fucking, fucking hell.

He kept moving towards me and I continued to be mesmerized by vision of him. Golden, glinted hair which set you up to encounter his light green eyes, and his full, well defined mouth.

In any other situation I would've done a glance and stored the viewing for a later date to enjoy all he displayed. But I was in hiding. And after my recent sojourn of being pursued, I was extremely cautious of any of his gender. So I made a point of breaking our eye contact as soon as it was socially polite while taking a small, hesitant step back. But I sure as shit kept him in my peripheral vision as he moved closer without allowing him to invade my personal space.

I saw his eyes roam over the antique that was my engine before his eyes came back to me.

Called for Triple A? he asked, and again my ears caught the catch of the 'r' sound.

Tried. No service, I explained, trying to keep an innocent look on my face as I brought out my useless cellphone up to wave as demonstration. I'd also been working the innocent look since day three of my journey. I was hoping the lack of accent and the innocent expression, along with the looks god had given me would help me hide in plain sight. Two of the three I was having to work on, the last one I'd just had to adjust. In order to use whatever attractiveness the good Lord had given me. In order to get what I needed.

I slowly slid my sunglasses off.

I turned my head, which had been following his gaze to the motor parts, only to catch on his steady stare when his chin pointed towards mine. Okay, I'll admit it, his slight grin softly thundered inside me as his light eyes captured my own brown ones. Or it could've been the one devastating dimple, which made an appearance with his lip tilt.

So, what is the plan? he asked, peering and poking into the rusted parts, which comprised the engine of the car I'd negotiated so hard to obtain by illegally trading in a two-year old Mercedes that wasn't mine. Well, in order to have a vehicle without a title in my name and without having to sign a shit-load of paperwork.

Uhm… I stalled. I'd admit at the beginning, I had some scheme in mind but it hadn't included buying a piece of crap car at a shoddy outpost by trading in a top of the line stolen luxury automobile, that should have netted me both more cash and a better car.

He straightened and our eyes got caught again.

No plan? he offered softly. And with that, I knew he had uncovered my inexperience with car buying. And maybe even revealed a lot of other ineptitudes as well.

Shit, I muttered and whipped my eyes away from his, my mind whirling. No, I didn't have a plan beyond getting to the next place, the next stop, in order to escape, to hide.

His eyes were still on me and from the underside of my lashes I saw his were weighing me, measuring me.

I will take you to the next town, he announced. I was guessing that whatever he'd seen in that assessment time had assisted in his decision to help. Grab only what will fill your purse, my panniers and a backpack.

Pan-ays? I asked. Okay, I knew I was showing more than a trace of my accent when I tried to copy the word he'd used.

I saw his luscious lips tilt up, that hellacious dimple on full display in a kind of grin as he offered, my saddlebags.

Oh, Christ. This was way more than I was prepared for.

I steeled myself at the devastation of his looks and debated what to do.

For all I knew, he was a part of the army of him, sent out to find and return me.

No, I said, realizing my voice was shaky and had no volume. Clearing my throat, I said it again, stronger this time. No.

My glance at his face when I spoke showed raised eyebrows with a head tilt.

You could be here for days since this is only a farm road. Are you prepared for that? he asked as he gazed at the open road both behind and in front of my stranded car.

I don't know you, I admitted. And that was the most truth I was willing to reveal in the few minutes we'd been together.

His eyes met mine and again seemed to weigh and measure me. No, you do not, he agreed. But at the moment, I am your only hope of a ride. It is Sunday. Farmers do not work their fields on Sundays. Therefore, you cannot hope to receive rescue until at least tomorrow. And, because these fields have been recently furrowed, maybe not until next week.

My gaze followed his as he spoke and found he was right. The deep, wet earth on each of the grain fields spoke of having been recently turned. The meticulous farmer would have no need to check on this portion of his fields for a while.

Which meant no traffic.

No ride.

And no rescue.

Chapter Two

He was frustrated and his ass hurt. It had already taken him more time to meet with his contact in Colorado than what it should have, and he was behind schedule which would create problems. The thirty-two extra hours, almost all of them spent on the bike, had been important, although his butt remembered the journey in miles and was reminding him loudly.

He couldn't let the 'real' intrude with his mission, though. The subterfuge was beginning to wear thin and the blending of his two worlds wasn't something he could afford. Not right away, not when he was so close.

Which was one of the reasons he'd chosen one of the farm roads to get back to Missoula. He needed time; time to think things through, shore up his defenses and get back to the other life as fast as possible.

Then he'd seen her.

Standing in front of a broken down wreck of an automobile.

Beautiful, built and needing assistance.

Fuck was the word his mind had drawled out at just the glimpse of her as he'd roared by.

His brain told him to ignore her, completely forget the sight of her and the car with the engine hood opened on that lonely, desolate piece of road. That's exactly what he'd tried to do as he'd blown past her. He knew that particular stretch of road, though, and was aware she could be stuck for days without any hope of help, aid or assistance.

An opened hood was the universal sign of car trouble.

Fuck!

Without thinking about it, he'd slowed his bike and turned around, something inside him compelling him to go back. He'd just get her the help she needed as fast as possible, he told himself. Then he would be done and out of there.

Keeping his eyes on her, he'd turned off the bike. As long as she didn't see his face, he'd be okay. But Christ! It had to be in the 90's here on the open plains with more than 80 percent humidity. How were you supposed to wear a helmet when it was that fucking hot?

As he slung his leg over, disembarking, he couldn't help but let his eyes do a long slow roam over her. Not too tall and not too short in his opinion. Curvy, in the way he liked with a deep chest, sharp waist and full hips. But it was her thick thighs that really kept his attention. Firm, full thighs that could cradle a man as he rode between them, gripping tightly as he plunged deeply, guiding them both towards…

Her knees were soft, almost bent. Not locked in the position of: 'I can handle this'.

Shit.

He shot his eyes up to her face, shadowed by her hat and hidden by her wrap-around sunglasses. He needed to find something else to concentrate on.

The rusted bucket of bolts of her ride was good. Okay, yeah. Sure. He'd just stay focused on the faded gold of the carriage, ridden and pock-marked attesting to many rides on graveled ice and salt-studded snow.

But it was the burnished brown hair that seemed to strike just below her shoulder blades that caught his attention, picked up by the winds whipping through the grasses lining each side of the road. It reminded him of the color of rocks lining the creek near his cabin. Almost brown, almost copper but flowing with the different colors and gleaming with health in its thickness.

Not her hair, dickwad. The car. Remain focused on the car, his mind bellowed.

His body was steaming beneath the leathers but in more ways than one. In an effort to cool off, he immediately opened his jacket and felt the wind catch against his sodden T-shirt. In this heat, any breeze felt awesome against his sweat soaked body, and he began fumbling with the nylon strap which held his helmet. It was too hot, too heavy to wear in that heat, and he was almost feverish in his attempts to remove it and cool his head.

When the air finally hit his scalp and hair, when he felt like he could, at last, take a deep breath that wasn't tainted by his own exhales, he slackened his pace.

Hey, was all he could think of to say. It was a typical American greeting. Not unusual and in no way threatening, just