Spirit of a Hunter (13 page)

I’m sorry
, she’d whispered as she’d broken the embrace. And it had whispered across his heart like ice.

The Colonel can’t get to you, Anna. You’re safe with me
.

He should know better than to make a promise he couldn’t keep.

* * *

B
Y THE TIME
Nora and Sabriel skirted the bog and reached the edge of the meadow, daylight had faded to night, deepening the shadows of the forest into a living, breathing thing that seemed to snap at Nora’s heels. The day noises of birds and breeze quieted, giving way to night’s creaks and cracks that were a sharp fingernail along her spine. A three-quarter moon rose, silvering the ground to light their way, but didn’t lessen the sensation of being hunted.

Every muscle in Nora’s body ached. Her thighs trembled with fatigue. Her feet were so hot, she thought they might spontaneously combust. And she could no longer feel her shoulders from the weight of the pack.

Sabriel halted in the shadow of trees, spying at the
faded white farmhouse and equally faded white barn that stood in the center, surrounded by a crosshatch of faded wood fences. “We’re going to spend the night in that barn. But we have to wait until the farmer’s asleep.”

“Is it safe?”

“It’s shelter.”

Squatting wasn’t new territory—just one she’d never thought she’d revisit. He was right. She wasn’t in a position to complain. A barn wasn’t a hotel or even a B&B, but it was better than the wide outdoors, with its wild, hungry beasts.

She batted away the unwanted image of Scotty trapped in a bobcat’s fangs and slid her pack gingerly from her shoulders, wincing when the edge of the strap dug into a raw patch of skin.

“What’s wrong?” Sabriel eased the pack the rest of the way down her arms.

“Nothing.”

He edged aside the fleece jacket, prodded the tender skin through her shirt and swore. “You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to slow us down.”

He nudged her down on a rock, yanked one of her boots and socks off, and examined her foot by flashlight. “Hell, Nora, how can you even walk? If you speak up, we can readjust things before you start hurting. Once you’re hurting, you slow us down.”

She curled her naked foot away from his burning touch. “I didn’t want to complain.”

His eyes fired with jags of lightning in the moon’s
light. “There’s a difference between whining and taking care of yourself. There’s no clinic or doctor out here. If you get hurt, we’ll have to stop.”

“No! We can’t. Not until we find Scotty.”

“Then you’ll have to speak up for yourself. Your shoulders are bloody from your pinching pack. That’s an invitation for an infection. Your feet are on the edge of blistering, and with blistered feet, you can’t walk.”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” Had her stubborn determination to say nothing put finding Scotty in jeopardy?

“Anywhere else that hurts?” Sabriel asked.

She swallowed hard, loathe to add more of her burden to his overloaded shoulders. Her hands cupped her throbbing kneecaps. “Knees. Going down was a lot rougher on them than going up.”

He jerked off his pack, searched its contents and brought out a first aid kit. He handed her four small white tablets. “Dissolve those under your tongue. It’ll help with the sore muscles and bruising.”

She popped them under her tongue, and he moved to her feet, slathering them with a gel that cooled and soothed. She nearly moaned from the sweet release of blistering pain. “That feels good.”

“Put some on your knees.” He tossed her the tube.

She rubbed gel around her aching knees. “What is it?”

“A homeopathic medicine.”

“Where did you learn about this stuff?”

“My grandparents run an alternative health clinic.” The corners of his mouth turned up, softening the angles of his face and lighting his eyes with a purity of
emotions she couldn’t remember ever seeing, except maybe in Scotty’s eyes. “They’re both flirting with eighty and still run around like teenagers. They’ll both outlive me at the rate they’re going.”

“They sound like great people.” Which triggered a slight case of envy. All she’d ever wanted was a family, a real family, with people who cared about each other, not destroyed each other.

“They’re the best.” He handed her a pair of fresh socks. “When your feet get hot tomorrow, say something and change to dry socks.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

After she’d put on the socks, he knelt at her side and gently pushed aside the shoulder of her shirt. He dabbed a medicated wipe on the skin the pack had rubbed raw. She sucked in a breath at the sting and tried really hard to focus on her knees, her feet, anything but the maddening rush of confusion his touch triggered. Her breath and her brain couldn’t synchronize. Her nerves bumped along the rough ride of her pulse.

This was crazy. She was crazy. Her son was missing, in danger, and yet she wanted, needed the feel of Sabriel’s hands on her skin. Those hands, rugged and male, as solid as the mountains all around them.

Simple survival
, she chided herself.
It doesn’t make you weak or needy
. But she couldn’t quite shove aside the feeling that she was growing too dependent on him, on his skills, on his strength.

He was too rough, too hard to love a woman the way she ought to be cherished. The Colonel and Anna’s
death had done that to him, broken his soul, his heart. And yet in his hands, in the way he spoke about his grandparents, bloomed a vibrancy of life that drew her with magnetic power.

He fired up the small stove with his usual competence, prepared their evening meal with swift efficiency and handed her a pouch of chicken enchiladas. Above the smell of chili powder and cornmeal, she could make out his scent of pine and mint and the musk of hard physical work.

She shook her head, kneading her stomach with one hand against the sudden jolt of awareness. The situation was already too complicated to add sex to the mix.

“Eat. I’ll be right back.”

A spike of dread snaked out her arm and she grabbed on to his sleeve as he turned to leave. “What if the Colonel’s men catch up?”

“I’m going to make sure they think we’re somewhere else.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and made a sound like a bird. “When you hear that, it’ll be me, okay?”

“You need to eat, too.”

Amusement—or was it annoyance?—glinted in his eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

Rounding over her legs for heat, she waited in the eerie dark, flinching at every rustle of leaf, at every scratch of branch, forcing herself to stay where she was and finish the enchilada mush. For Scotty, she could be brave.

To keep her growing jitters from tipping over into full-blown anxiety, she checked her purse and made sure Scotty’s inhaler and Advair were still there, clutching
both between her palms before returning them to the purse and the purse to the bottom of the pack where it would be safe.

Soon, baby, soon. Just hang on. Mommy’s coming
.

She closed off her mind to the dire possibilities her fear could conjure up of Scotty hurt, in pain, struggling for breath, and concentrated instead on listening for Sabriel’s return.

But time stretched too long, chafing at her nerves.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, what are you? Ten?
Irritated with herself, she fell back to an old habit she’d started when she was thirteen to cover up the sounds of her mother arguing with her latest boyfriend—making up playlists for her personal radio show.

“A Hard Day’s Night,” she thought with a smile. Yeah, she’d definitely start the set with that. “Pink Moon,” “Purple Rain,” “Paint it Black.”

What seemed like an eternity later, the soft coo of Sabriel’s birdcall materialized nearby. Relief melted through her bones. He was back. As quietly as a haunting spirit, he slid out of the wood, taking shape out of the shadows. His bronzed and lean-muscled forearms gleamed in the moonlight and her heart flip-flopped. Ridiculous to be so glad to see him.

“Ready?” he asked, as the last light at the house blinked out.

She nodded and followed him to the post-and-rail fence that bordered the fence, mimicking the way he moved, the way he placed his feet. Her footsteps, she noticed, weren’t quite as awkward as they’d been, or as loud.

“Careful here,” he whispered. “If you trip any of those electric wires riding along the fence boards, you’ll not only get the shock of your life, you’ll also light up the farmyard like a county fair.”

With his help, she made it over the fence without blaring their presence. His hands felt sure and strong on her hips, and she thanked Tommy for sending Sabriel to her. Without him, she had no hope of finding Scotty before the Colonel.

Sabriel inched around the outside of the barn and slid the rolling door open wide enough for them to enter. Inside, the soft snorts and the munch of hay sounded so…normal, and quilted her with comfort. The body heat of cows and horses took the chill out of the air, adding another layer of coziness.

He pointed her toward a door. “There’s a toilet and a sink in the utility room.”

“Thanks.” Running water, even cold water, seemed a true luxury after a day out in the woods. She washed up as best she could by the glow of a flashlight, stood sentinel for him while he did the same, then followed him up the creaky stairs to the loft.

He made his way to the far side of the stack of hay bales, out of sight, should anyone climb up to the loft. He loosened the contents of a bale and spread the hay near a large opening in the side of the barn roof—escape route?—then arranged their sleeping bags on top of the hay nest.

“Try to get some sleep,” he said. “If we’re lucky, we could catch up with Tommy by the end of the day tomorrow.”

Hope sprang a fireball in her chest. “Really?”

“He’s about twelve hours ahead of us.”

She slithered into the sleeping bag, giddy with the promise that her son was within reach. Tomorrow she’d see Scotty again. Tomorrow she’d bring him home.

Sabriel knelt beside her head.

“What?” she asked, her mind still spinning with the thought of Scotty, finding him, holding him in her arms.

“Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Sabriel’s hands hovered above her shoulders. Soon a gentle heat warmed the raw tissue and a prickling like a thousand tiny spiders reweaving the torn fabric of her abused skin. “What are you doing?”

“Reiki. Shh. Just relax.”

She soon got lost in the sensation pouring out of his palms, unknotting the tight muscles all over her body until they were loose noodles, puddling deep into the sleeping bag. “I think,” she said sleepily as he moved his heated hands above her knees, “I’m falling in love.”

The rumble of his chuckle penetrated her gauzy consciousness. “Until you wake up, Sleeping Beauty, and realize I’m no Prince Charming.”

“Hands…” Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her brain fuzzy. “Heaven.”

Just as she floated on the precipice of sleep, lights blasted on outside, shocking the barnyard with interrogation-room starkness. Gasping, she shot up. “What’s going on?”

Sabriel had already moved, crouching by the loft opening, scanning the yard. “We’ve got company.”

Chapter Eight

Not wanting to attract the farmer’s attention, Sabriel clung to the shadows, mapping out escape routes should it become necessary. His perch from the loft offered him a good view of the farmhouse, but only an angled one of the section of fence where old man Wagner was heading, brandishing his shotgun, threatening to call the cops.

The Colonel’s men scattered, their shadows melding back into the black void of the woods. He hoped they’d find the tracks he’d laid out for them and figure that their prey had met with the same unwelcome reception. That would afford Nora at least one good night’s sleep.

The old man made the rounds, checking the perimeter of the fence around the farmyard for signs of breakage, then headed toward the barn.

“Don’t move,” Sabriel whispered to Nora, still sheathed in her sleeping bag. “Not a hair.”

Her eyes widened in the garish light pouring through the loft opening, drawing him in dangerously.
Focus
.

The barn door rumbled. The lights along the aisle
popped on, one by one. The farmer cooed to his animals as if they were children, reassuring them that they were safe. The scuff of his boots on the concrete marked his interminable progress down the barn. A pat here. A gate opening there. The rustle of hay nets.

Then a pause where Sabriel swore he could hear the thunder of Nora’s heart boom through the loft.

Shh
, he mouthed. Her throat worked, but she remained as still as the hay bales surrounding her.

The rickety ladder to the loft creaked under the farmer’s weight.

Sabriel melted more deeply into the shadows. A bug plopped into his hair. God, he hoped it wasn’t a spider. He hated spiders. A shudder rolled through him. But he couldn’t risk Nora’s safety by swatting at the bug and end up with both of them looking at the wrong end of a shotgun.

The farmer leaned his weapon against a supporting beam and reached for the bale of hay in front of their hiding spot, grunting as he struggled to swing it down.

The bug crawled around Sabriel’s scalp, inched along his nose, long legs popping in and out of his eyesight, revving his need to swat, spit, slap. Hell, of course it was a frigging spider.

The farmer hefted the bale, exposing the tops of their heads to the fluorescent light bleeding up from below. It stretched shadows to the ceiling—the bales, his, hers.

The spider’s sticky feet ambled over Sabriel’s lips. Pulse hammering madly, he screwed up his face.
Still, stay still
.

With a rasp of breath, the farmer swung the bale from the loft to the barn floor below. Dust and bits of hay flew. The bale landed with a plop. The farmer reached for the shotgun.

A muffled, thudlike
choo
came from Nora.

The farmer squinted at the shadows, shotgun swinging into position.

Sabriel shifted an arm, ready to deflect the shotgun’s barrel.

The spider skittered across Sabriel’s cheek. His skin prickled, quivered, itched.