Carved in Stone (23 page)

To think she’d almost convinced herself she loved him. A sudden wave of loneliness swept over her and a hollow pain filled the pit of her stomach, reminding Rose why she’d agreed to marry a man she didn’t love. Life was pretty empty for a thirty-year-old woman who lived alone and worked a sixty-hour week.

She didn’t even own a damned cat.

The tears Rose had been fighting all afternoon suddenly broke free. She fumbled in her handbag for another tissue, wiped her streaming eyes with one hand and guided the car through the growing storm with the other.

She didn’t even like cats, for crying out loud!

“God, if you’re there, can you tell me what to do?” she pleaded. “Please, give me a sign!”

An ominous roll of thunder eclipsed the sputtering, coughing engine. Lightning flashed. A tree exploded, ahead and to the right. Cascading flames burst through the air as the huge pine toppled onto the road.

Screaming, Rose hit the brakes. The little Volvo careened sideways on wet pavement, spinning, slipping out of control, sliding and skidding through water and fiery embers until it stopped, trapped solidly among the flaming branches.

Rose screamed again and again until the rich scent of honeysuckle clouded her mind and a cloak of black velvet covered her eyes.

• • •

Mike Ramsey pulled the diesel truck with its heavily loaded trailer out of the yard at Hannibal Trucking and headed west. He checked his map and immediately took an exit onto a slower, alternate route. No point in making it too tough for the hijackers.

The headlights reflected off big, fat raindrops and an occasional flash of lightning arced between the clouds. Puddles filled low spots along the two-lane road, deep enough to catch the tires of the heavily laden truck. The rig bucked and swerved through one particularly large pothole. Ramsey shut the radio off to concentrate on his driving.

He hadn’t hauled a load in years, not since he’d worked summers for his stepdad, but the knowledge he’d gained under Handy’s patient tutelage had paid off more than once. Ramsey thought of the journey ahead and silently thanked the old man. This time the lessons could mean the difference between life and death.

Hijacking expensive loads off the nation’s highways was big business, modern-day piracy as bloodthirsty and brutal as any violent crime. How ironic, Ramsey mused, that after years of undercover work handling investigations for the Department of Transportation, he would find himself back in one of his stepdad’s familiar rigs, hauling a load from Pennsylvania to California. Just the way it had been almost fifteen years ago, back when he was a struggling college student.

Except the purpose this time was twofold.

Deliver the load, intact and on time.

And catch the hijackers before they put Handy Hannibal and a lot of other independent truckers out of business for good.

Hannibal Trucking had been hit twice in less than two weeks. Another theft could put the business under, especially if that damned insurance company put up a stink. Ramsey almost wished they would, because as far as he was concerned, Acme Insurance was part of the problem, if not all of it. Hannibal Trucking hadn’t been the only company hit with the recent string of thefts. Ramsey’d talked to the other victims. All of them had two things in common. They’d all been insured by Acme Insurance, and all of them had dealt with the same agent.

Ms. Rose DeAngelo.

Described by Handy as one extremely formidable woman. A real “bitch on wheels,” according to Handy.

There had to be a connection. Everything Ramsey’d learned about the woman piqued his suspicions. Barely thirty years old, she was the only female division manager at Acme, a typical “good old boys” operation. Never married but currently engaged to the son of one of Pittsburgh’s wealthiest families, obviously an opportunist, both socially and professionally.

“Somehow, Ms. DeAngelo . . .” His words trailed off and Ramsey grinned, enjoying the chase, sensing victory. He hadn’t had a hunch this strong in ages, especially one so strongly supported by fact.

After reading the reports, he’d been surprised no one else had spotted the obvious. Only Acme’s division manager had access to the routes, the shipping dates, the value of the goods on board. Not surprisingly, the thefts had started right around the time Rose DeAngelo got her promotion.

And I imagine they’ll end about the time I slap the handcuffs on her.
Grinning, he checked the rearview mirror.

She’d want this load. Her gang hadn’t missed an expensive piece of heavy equipment in the last two months. The scraper lashed securely to the trailer behind Ramsey’s truck was worth a small fortune. When the hijackers hit, Ramsey’d be waiting for them. When they started to talk, as crooks always did, Ramsey suspected they’d lead him directly to Ms. DeAngelo.

Then maybe he’d be able to cancel out some of the debt he owed Handy. When the DOT supervisor brought the case to Ramsey’s attention, his first reaction had been anger. Why hadn’t Handy asked for his help? Once he calmed down, Ramsey realized Handy’d acted true to form, just like the tough little bantam rooster he’d always been.

A little bantam rooster with a big heart of gold.

It felt good to know he finally had a chance to pay back some of the kindness Handy had shown him and his mother over the years. No other man had been willing to take on a hellraiser like Mike Ramsey, twelve years old and so full of himself even his mom had given up.

Then Handy came along. He swept Rebecca Ramsey off her feet and Mike Ramsey under his wing.

Ramsey smiled, remembering, then immediately sobered as a huge gust of wind buffeted the diesel. Rain formed a shimmering band of silver in the headlights and lightning flashed again, closer this time.

Suddenly, just ahead, a huge pine tree burst into flame. Ramsey hit the brakes and down-shifted as the blazing tree twisted and fell, casting a shower of flame and sparks across the highway.

Stopping almost seventy tons of metal on a partially flooded road without jackknifing the rig took all Ramsey’s skill and then some. Heart pounding, hands sweating, he fought the steering wheel and prayed.

The big diesel and its heavy load slid crossways on the narrow road, then shuddered to a stop. That’s when Ramsey saw the car, a small, square sedan skidding broadside on the wet pavement, sliding toward him, toward the inferno of flaming pitch and burning wood that blocked the way between them.

• • •

They’re never coming back, are they, Aunt Rosa?

No, dear. They’re not. There were no survivors.

How can we bury them, if the plane went down at sea?

We can’t, sweetheart. But we can always remember them.

How? How, Aunt Rosa? I want them back. I want Mommy and Daddy back!

I know, Rose. I want them back too . . . but some things just can’t be changed. I’m sorry.

What will happen to me?

You’ll stay here, sweetheart. You’ll be my little girl. I’ve always wanted a little girl of my own, you know.

I love you, Aunt Rosa.

I love you, too, Rose. Now, will you help me plant this?

What is it?

It’s a honeysuckle vine. Your daddy always loved honeysuckle, even when we were children.

Why are we planting it now, Aunt Rosa?

To help us remember, sweetheart. To help us remember.

“Hold that light steady. Thanks. Was she conscious when you pulled her free?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I just wanted to get her out before the car blew up. How’d you guys get here so fast?”

“A neighbor called when he heard the explosion. The fire station’s just down the road. She doesn’t appear to have any serious injuries. Just that bump on the head. She’s damned lucky you showed up when you did.”

“I saw it happen. Almost didn’t get my rig stopped in time. Hey, looks like she’s coming around.”

The sweet scent of honeysuckle disappeared in the acrid stink of melted rubber burning Rose’s eyes and throat. She coughed and blinked and tried to focus on the faces hovering just within her line of vision. The features were indistinct, lit from behind by an orange glow that flickered through the steady mist.

At least the driving rain had stopped.

“Wha . . . what happened?” Her voice sounded alien to her, a tortured whisper scraping raw throat tissue. “Who are . . . ?”

“Mike Ramsey. I pulled you out of your car. Bill here’s a paramedic.”

“Paramedic? I’m not hurt . . . am I?” Rose struggled to sit up. She managed to prop herself on her elbows, the better to see the two men squatting beside her.

“Doesn’t look like it, thanks to Mr. Ramsey here.”

Rose squinted, bringing her savior’s face into focus. The harsh glare of the emergency lights cast his features into deep shadow. She made out a high forehead, long, slightly crooked nose, dark eyes and brows, all framed in thick, dark hair slicked wetly back from his face. A black smudge that could have been a burn crossed his right cheek, disappearing into the day’s growth of beard covering his lean jaw. Still disoriented, her perusal took on a dreamlike quality as she stared at the slightly imperfect but attractive face with the shadowed eyes.

Eyes watching her just as intently. Intrigued, Rose forced herself to look away, beyond the fascinating Mr. Ramsey, at the smoldering heap of metal that had recently been her Volvo. She shuddered and quickly turned her head. She could have died, would have died, but for this stranger.

“Thank you doesn’t quite seem adequate, Mr. Ramsey.” Rose cleared her throat, then broke into a fit of coughing. The paramedic helped ease her into a sitting position. Ramsey knelt at her other side, sliding a strong, warm arm around her shoulders. Rose struggled to catch her breath, soothed by the gentle pressure of Ramsey’s touch. It would be so easy to turn her face against his solid shoulder, close her eyes and pretend this Monday had never happened.

A sudden weariness overwhelmed her, weighing her eyelids, lulling her into somnolence. Only vaguely aware of the paramedic’s gentle probing near her hairline, she was exquisitely conscious of the strong arm bracing her shoulders, the heat of the man’s body so close beside her own.

A high-pitched tone shattered the moment. Ramsey’s hand tightened protectively around Rose. Her eyes flew open, just in time to see the paramedic sheepishly gesture to the radio clipped to his belt.

“Danged thing always scares the devil outta me when it goes off,” he muttered, holding the radio to his ear as he stood up and moved to one side.

Ramsey rubbed his hand lightly across the woman’s back, aware of her trembling beneath his touch. Hell, his own hands were still shaking, the adrenaline coursing wildly through his veins. A few seconds later and he might not have saved her. He couldn’t look at the burning wreck, didn’t want to imagine this beautiful woman meeting such a horrible death.

She was a looker, even covered in soot and smelling slightly of burnt rubber and plastic. She felt good, too, pressed warmly against him, snuggled trustingly into the curve of his arm as if she’d been designed specifically to occupy that position.

Dream on, Ramsey.
He jerked himself back to reality as he studied the woman in his arms. She looked shaken and vulnerable and oddly familiar. How could that be? She certainly didn’t seem to know him.

Soot covered her face and a large bruise marred the left side of her forehead. Her dark hair fell partially undone, tumbling wildly around her shoulders.

She took a deep breath and her ribs expanded within his embrace. Ramsey focused on the tip of her tongue as it swept across her slightly parted lips.

“I really don’t know how to thank you.” She sounded confused, uncertain. Bewildered. “You saved my life.”

She swallowed. Ramsey watched the muscles in her throat contract. “Seeing you’re okay is thanks enough,” he answered, swallowing just as deeply. “Miss, uh . . . ?”

“DeAngelo. Rose DeAngelo.” Her voice, a smoky whisper, teased his senses.

But . . . Rose DeAngelo? No way! This beautiful, vulnerable woman couldn’t possibly be the “bitch on wheels” Handy’d warned him about, not this wounded creature with soulful green eyes and trembling lips. This was his chief suspect? Ramsey thought of the file photo he’d seen, of the austere woman with the dark hair pulled tightly back from an unsmiling face, and shook his head in mute denial of the improbability of the situation. Just as quickly he wiped the expression from his face.

He’d had a life filled with coincidence and good fortune. He accepted it, knew it made him a successful investigator. He’d be a fool to deny coincidence. If this were the same Rose DeAngelo, opportunity lay, literally, within his grasp.

“Can you help me stand up, please?” She leaned forward, away from his support, out of his embrace, and held her hand out to him. Ramsey focused on the pronounced tremor in her long fingers.

“Are you sure?” He looked to Bill for confirmation. The paramedic ignored him, focusing intently on the voice crackling over his radio. “Well, if you think you’re okay.” Ramsey stood up and reached for her outstretched hand.

She grasped his hand and rose to her feet lightly, with the grace of a dancer. A smudged and rumpled dancer. She was tall, maybe five ten. Ramsey hadn’t noticed before, not when pulling her out of the burning car had been his only concern.

“Ma’am, do you think you’ll be okay?” Bill suddenly asked, grabbing for his medical bag. “There’s been a terrible wreck on the interstate, fifty or more vehicles, serious injuries. You should probably be checked out by a physician, but . . .”

“Please, go ahead. I’m not hurt. Oh. Wait! My car . . .”

“I can take Ms. DeAngelo into town,” Ramsey offered. “That is, if it’s okay with you,” he added, looking not at her face but instead at their hands, still tightly linked. Her fingers trembled in his grasp.

He trusted his hunches. She was his primary suspect. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. He certainly didn’t need this attraction. Ramsey loosened his grip on her fingers and stuck both hands in his back pockets.