Twin Blessings and Toward Home: Twin Blessings / Toward Home

“So why take the chance?” He glanced at her, and in spite of his impression of her, he was struck once again by her straightforward good looks.

“Sense of adventure. The lure of the open road.” She shrugged. “That and the free ride.”

“Of course.”

“Okay, I detect a faint note of derision in your voice,” she said with a light laugh. “If you’re an accountant, I would imagine that there isn’t a column in your life for freeloaders.”

Logan didn’t deign to answer that one.

She waited, then with a shrug bent over and pulled a bottle of water out of her knapsack. Twisting off the top, she offered some to him. “Some free water as payment for my free ride?”

He shook his head.

The woman took a sip and backhanded her mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her scrutiny.

“To further answer your previous question about taking chances,” she continued. “I have to admit that I don’t see you as a threat.”

Logan only nodded, unwilling to encourage her. He didn’t really want to talk. He preferred to concentrate on his most recent problem.

“You’ve got the briefcase, which could be hiding a murder weapon,” she said, as if unaware of his silence, “but I’m sure if I were to open it, it would be full of paper. Probably the financial section of the newspaper, folded open to the stock market. Let’s see, what else,” she mused aloud, still studying him. “A calculator, some sort of computerized personal organizer, a variety of pens and pencils, a package of chewing gum, a manual of one type or another and business cards, of course. Lots of business cards. Murderers don’t usually carry that kind of thing. But my biggest clue that you’re not a murderer is this.” She held up the tape that had fallen out of the tape deck. “I don’t think boy bands singing ‘oh baby, baby, you are a little baby, you baby’ is what a would-be murderer would listen to.” She stopped finally, turning the tape over in her hands. “Of course, listening to it might drive you to murder.”

In spite of the minor annoyance of her chatter, Logan couldn’t stop the faint grin teasing his mouth at her last statement.

“Ah, Mr. Phlegmatic does have a faint sense of humor,” she said, lifting her bare feet to the seat and clasping her arms around her knees.

“This Mr. Phlegmatic would prefer it if you buckled up,” he said finally.

“And Mr. P. talks,” she said with a saucy grin. But to his surprise she lowered her feet and obediently buckled up. “So what do you do when you’re not running over women on the side of the road?”

Logan shook his head in exasperation. “Look, I already apologized for that,” he said with a measure of asperity. “I don’t make a habit of that anymore than I make a habit of picking up hitchhikers.”

“Well, for that I’m grateful. And of course, very grateful that I don’t have to worry about not reaching my destination.”

“And where, ultimately, is that?” he asked.

“The next stop on this road,” the woman said with a laugh. “The Hills.”

“That’s where I’m headed, too.”

“That’s just excellent.” She beamed at him, and Logan felt a faint stirring of reaction to her infectious enthusiasm.

He pulled himself up short. This woman was definitely not his type, no matter how attractive she might be. He put his reaction down to a melancholy that had been his companion since he and Karen had broken up.

A gentle ache turned through him as he thought of Karen. When Logan was awarded sole guardianship of his nieces, Karen had decided that the responsibility was more than she could handle. So she broke up with Logan. At the time he didn’t know if it was his pride or his feelings that hurt more. He still wasn’t sure.

“So what’s your name?” he asked, relegating that subject to the closed file.

“Sandra Bachman. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. P.”

Logan decided to leave it at that. He wasn’t as comfortable handing out his name. Not to a total stranger.

She smiled at him and looked at the countryside. “Do you come here often?”

Logan glanced sidelong at her, realizing that she wasn’t going to be quiet. Ignoring her didn’t work, so he really had not choice but to respond to her. “Not as often as I’d like,” he admitted. “I work in Calgary.”

“As an accountant?”

“No. Architect.”

“Ooh. All those nice straight lines.”

Logan ignored her slightly sarcastic remark. “So what do you do?”

Sandra lay her head back against the headrest of the car. “Whatever comes to mind. Wherever I happen to be.” She tossed him another mischievous glance. “I’ve been a short-order cook on Vancouver Island, a waitress in California, a receptionist in Minnesota. I’ve worked on a road crew and tried planting trees.” She wrinkled her nose. “Too hard. The only constant in my life has been my stained glass work.”

“As in church windows?”

“Sometimes. Though I don’t often see the finished project.”

“Why not?”

“Been there, done that and bought the T-shirt. Not my style.”

Sandra Bachman sounded exactly like his mother—always moving and resistant to organized religion.

“Do you go to church?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” he said hoping that his conviction came through the three words. “I attend regularly.”

“Out of need or custom?”

He shook his head as he smiled. “Need is probably uppermost.”

“A good man.” Again the slightly sarcastic tone. In spite of his faint animosity toward her, he couldn’t help but wonder what caused it.

“Going to church doesn’t make anyone good anymore than living in a garage makes someone a mechanic,” he retorted.

She laughed again, a throaty sound full of humor. “Good point, Mr. P.”

She tilted her head to one side, twisting her hair around her hand. “You have a cabin in Elkwater?”

Logan nodded, checking his speed. “It’s my grandfather’s.”

“So you’re on holiday.”

“Not really.”

“Okay, you sound defensive.”