Page 73 of Captive of Outlaws

An older woman in a midnight-blue gown flicks a glance in my direction from two sinks down. I hear her suck her teeth delicately, in that very bless-your-heart Southern way that means she’s about to get up in my business.

I close my eyes a heartbeat longer and do my best to focus.

Steady, Maren. Steady.

Sure enough, when I open them back up again she’s peering at me with a gentle quizzical expression on her elegant face.

“Are you all right, honey?” she asks. “You seem a little—”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I say quickly, my voice sounding hollowand tinny inside my own head. I force a smile. “Just freshening up for my boyfriend.”

The lie tumbles off my lips before I even realize what I’m doing. I guess I figure having a man responsible for me is a subtle signal for other people to back off.

Except...it’s not exactly a lie. Not if Tuck’s waiting for me outside. Or any of the others, for that matter. They’d play along—I know they would.

Well, maybe not LJ. But the rest of them.

She smirks. “Well, if he’s the one who’s got you looking like that, then he’s a keeper.”

With a wink, she daintily pats her hands on a towel, pops her mask back on, and glides out of the room.

Phew. I exhale hard as soon as the door swings shut behind her. Even with Uncle John gone, I shouldn’t be talking to anyone. You never know who knows who around here—and, I remind myself, I have stolen goods stuffed down the front of my dress. I press a hand to my heart to feel for the necklace, and sure enough—still there. A little happy flutter dances in my stomach, delight at having this back, at pulling one over on John for once.

I do one last deep breath—inhale, exhale—and square my shoulders. Even without a full-on seizure, I suddenly feel exhausted, and it’s got to be getting late by now. Hopefully whatever plan Rob is executing is almost done so that we can get the hell out of here.

With that, I slip out of the ladies’ room and rejoin the throng. I don’t see Tuck, but he’s got to be nearby—maybe finishing things up with the others. Meanwhile, the older woman in midnight blue is just a few paces away—talking, I see, to myfriendfrom earlier. Guy. The one who bid on thenecklace.

Bleh. The last thing I want to do is get caught in another conversation with him. Instead, before he can see me, I duck to the right and get in line for the bar, facing away from the crowd. I stand idly, pretending to study a portrait on the wall and casually eavesdrop on the boring conversations around me. Stock tips, golf handicaps, vacation spots, the usual. Except—

“Always good to see you, sheriff.”

“Likewise, my friend.”

Shit.

I glance to my left, just out of the corner of my eye, and see a familiar figure. Even in the tuxedo and mask, I know exactly who I’m standing next to.

Without meaning to, I’ve gotten in line right behind the sheriff.

Shit,I think again. I need to make a quick exit, but the line’s filled in behind me, and there’s another bar line blocking me from the rest of the room. There’s no way to get out of here except by either shoving past the sheriff—not exactly polite, or subtle—or by saying “excuse me,” which...will only get him looking at me.

And even three sheets to the wind, I wouldn’t put it past him to know exactly who I am.

Fortunately, I don’t have to do either.

“Sheriff.” A young man in an ill-fitting tux jogs up to the sheriff’s side and gestures for his attention.

“Deputy Wilson,” the sheriff says.

A deputy. I stand at the closest angle I dare, ears perked.

“There’s...a problem, sheriff,” the deputy says. He sounds out of breath.

“Problem? What sort of problem?” the sheriff answers. “‘Nother issue with that alarm? I told you to call Chief Parkinson and—”

“No, no,” the deputy pants. “Not the alarm. It’s—they’re gone.”

“Gone?” The sheriff squints at him, confused. “Whatare gone?”

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