Twisted Shadows (35 page)

He strode to the cabin, paused with the .45 pistol still in his hand and opened the door. He went through each room, one at a time, then stood at the door and motioned her inside. She left the car, using the cane to support her leg, and stepped inside.

She was wearing oversized jeans to accommodate the bandage on her thigh, and a shirt, one of the several pieces of clothing he'd purchased at a store along the way. Even in the loose clothes and with her limp, she looked appealing to him. He watched her look around and wondered what she was thinking. Her gaze rested on an overstuffed burgundy chair and a rocker next to the fireplace. Ashes were still in the fireplace.

He walked over to her and took her in his arms. She relaxed against him, and his arms tightened around her. He felt her heart beating, smelled soap and a subtle scent of roses, and relished the feel of her body against his.

“I need to get you in bed,” he said, “and see to those bandages.”

“Let me look around first,” she replied. “I want to make sure I didn't miss anything. She might have left a clue as to where she went.”

She limped through the house, pulling open every drawer. He followed, watching as frustration and then disappointment clouded her face.

She returned and plopped down in her mother's chair. “Nothing.”

“We'll stay here tonight. Tomorrow I'll get you a phone.”

She longingly looked at the one sitting on a table. “Do you think it's safe to try to call Mom's cell phone from here? This one's listed in the name of a corporation,” she said. “The bill is paid by that same corporation.”

“How?”

“I'm not exactly sure. My mother takes care of it.”

“And you never wondered about that?”

“Not until recently. I knew how much my father valued privacy. He always called this his Shangri-la. I didn't know about the financing and utility bills until last year. Mother inherited everything, of course, and she never mentioned how bills were paid. I asked her whether we should keep the phone and power on since we were here so little now, and she said it was all taken care of. Then one day a few months ago, she told me that if anything happened to her, she wanted me to know about the cabin, that everything concerning the cabin was paid by a corporation.”

He was quickly reassessing his opinion of her mother. His first opinion had been based on a rather low opinion of anyone who would marry a Merritta. The second on allowing someone to die in her place. The third on abandoning a child.

But there was no mistaking Sam's love for her mother, and he doubted she would love an opportunist.

Patsy Carroll was a woman who lived with fear, with the threat of being discovered, of having to go into hiding again. Yet she had raised an independent daughter, created a sound business, gained the respect of the entire community.

She was also damn good at hiding.

And taking care of her daughter. The mysterious paladin who'd chased off the sniper proved that.

He wanted to be that paladin, that figure of literature who was a paragon of chivalry. Stupid thought, he scolded himself. He felt more like Don Quixote, who tilted at windmills.

He watched as she sagged farther into the chair.

“Another pill?” he asked.

She looked out the shaded windows. The last remnants of sun were dragging away shadows. Not long before night. “No. It dulls my senses.”

“Not a bad thing at the moment.”

“No,” she agreed. “You didn't answer me about whether I can use the phone.”

“Did you ever call your mother on this phone?”

“No. I always called her cell phone.”

“Do you think she might have called you from this phone?”

“No.”

He paced the floor. “It's probably safe, but I wouldn't guarantee it. I don't know if it's the Merrittas who are behind this, but it's obvious whoever is responsible has a lot of power and resources. I wouldn't take anything for granted.”

“
You
have a cell phone. That should be safe.”

“It's the Bureau's telephone,” he said. “I would trust that less than your own.”

“Surely …” She suddenly stopped, and her gaze met his.

He knew she remembered what he'd said earlier.

“Tomorrow then,” she said. “Tomorrow we'll try to call from a pay phone. Will that be okay?”

“Yes,” he said gently, admiring her for not arguing out of stubbornness or just to prove she was independent, as some people would do. “If you won't go to bed, will you eat something?”

Her eyes lit up, and he realized they hadn't eaten anything for nearly ten hours. She hadn't complained once.

“Mom was here a few days ago. There's probably bread in the fridge. Milk. There's always a bunch of canned stuff,” she said. “And coffee.”

“I think coffee is the last thing you need.”

“You might need some,” she said with an attempt at a smile.

“Good point.” He turned toward the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Several beers were stuck way in the back. A half gallon container of milk that was almost full. Half of a roasted chicken. Some fruit. Bacon. Eggs. Cheese. Butter. Basics.

He didn't dare try the chicken. He looked back at her, gratified that the kitchen wasn't separated by walls from the rest of the house. He wasn't going to let her out of his sight this time.

“Toasted cheese sandwich?” he asked.

She smiled. “The ultimate comfort food. Sounds good.”

He made several, then poured each a glass of milk.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed her a plate and her glass.

“You're welcome.”

“I'm sorry about yesterday.”

“I'd almost forgotten how to change a tire.”

She gave him a quick smile. It trembled slightly but it was still a smile. “I'm glad I could help hone your skills.”

“Nice move,” he said, “but don't do it again.”

“No. I've learned my lesson. I didn't think they could find me so quickly. I took a roundabout route back.”

“They—whoever they are—know Steamboat is your home. It's the first place they would come.”

“I thought the trouble was in Boston, that when I left …” She stopped. “It was naive, I know, and I'm not usually naive. I think I was hoping life would—could—go back to normal. I wanted to believe it.”

“I know,” he said softly.

They finished their food in silence.

She curled her feet under her. “Do you think we can have a fire?”

He thought about it. Hell, there was no way to really hide the car, so what difference would a fire make?

He built a fire with logs stacked by the hearth. He sat on the floor next to her as a small blaze caught, then finally flared. Neither of them said anything as it filled the darkening room with a warm glow.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. He didn't move. He just liked the feel of it, as if it belonged there. As if they were simply two people who took pleasure in being together. He reminded himself it wasn't pleasure, but his duty … her safety.

Life and death.

He reached out and took her hand in his.

Silence wrapped around them. A companionable silence that needed no words, no justifications. The only light was the fire, the only movement shadows.

Heat from the fire touched them. Or maybe it was just the combustion he always felt with her. He remembered the hours they'd spent together at her house in every agonizing detail. He wanted her, but she'd taken a bad wound.

But if they stayed like this …

He turned around and cupped the back of her neck, urging her to lean over, and kissed her lightly, intending nothing more than that. But it quickly became something more. Something deeper. More intense. The flicker of flames threw shadows around the room and brightened the gloom of dusk. The warmth embraced them.

He felt his body tense, react. But she was in no shape to go any further. Not now.

And he couldn't afford to be distracted.

He eased away from her, holding the kiss until distance separated them. “To bed with you,” he said.

He stood, leaned down and picked her up. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she rested her head against his shoulder. That simple act of trust undid him. He knew at that moment that he loved her, that he would do anything to keep her safe. Lie. Steal. Cheat. He knew how David Carroll must have felt when he started an entirely new life with the woman he loved.

Had Carroll been as scarred as Nate was? As haunted by memories? Had he found redemption in love?

He lowered her to the bed and turned on the bedside light. She snuggled under a sheet but winced when she moved. Her cheeks appeared a little too red. Probably from the fire, but it worried him. He leaned down and feathered a light kiss on her cheek, then went into the other room and took bottles of pills from her purse, one of an antibiotic and another of a painkiller.

Her eyes were sleepy as she obediently took the pills. “Thank you.”

“You're very welcome.”

“I do trust you,” she said.

“I know.”

She closed her eyes.

He turned off the light and settled in the chair near her.

It was enough, for the moment, to just be next to her.

twenty-seven

Nate wasn't sure how long he'd watched her when he felt a tingling along his back.

He stood.

She turned toward him, and he wondered whether it was due to his sudden movement, or did she sense something as he did? Her eyes opened.

“Hi,” she said in a lazy, very sexy voice.

“Hi,” he replied, and put his hand on her shoulder. “Stay put, Sam. I'm just going to take a look around. Do you have a flashlight?”

“There's one in the top drawer of the cabinet closest to the fridge.” She sat up. “Did you hear something?”

“Nope. Just an overabundance of caution.”

He hoped that was it. That the sudden apprehension was nothing more than realizing he should make a sweep of the area.

He found the flashlight immediately, then went to the door. “Swear you won't move from this spot,” he said over his shoulder.

“I won't move from this spot,” she agreed with a smile that slammed his heart.

He took his weapon from its holster and went outside. Smoke twisted upward from the chimney against a dark sky. Heavy clouds blocked out the moon, obscuring the mountain peak behind him. He stopped, listened.

A wind had started blowing. He heard rustling not far away and couldn't tell whether it was from the wind or not. But he'd heard no car, nor did he see one now.

Instinct and years of training told him someone was out here.

He moved into the shadows, released the safety on the .45 and froze, listening for any sound that would indicate an intruder.

An owl hooted. He thought he saw something move among the trees.

He slipped around the side of the cabin, knowing he must have been visible when he'd left the front door. He swore. The back door was locked from the inside. He'd very carefully made sure of that, just as he'd made sure every window was closed and locked.

Could the form he thought he saw have been an animal? He'd made too many mistakes already to take it for granted.

He balanced the flashlight in his left hand, while the pistol remained in his right. He stepped back to the corner of the cabin, letting it shield him. He wanted the intruder—if there was one—to think he was circling the cabin. Instead he stepped out and flashed the light toward where he thought he had seen someone. Nothing. He swept the area. Waist height, then over the ground.

A sudden movement.

“Stop, or I'll shoot,” he said.

Then there was nothing, only an unnatural stillness.

He swept the area again, wondering whether to investigate the area or stay near Sam.

It could be a diversion, a ploy to get him away from Sam.

The best spot was inside. He sprinted to the porch and took the steps two at a time and then was inside, slamming the door behind him.

Sam was standing, her own gun in her hand. She must have heard his shout. She'd moved to the side and behind the door. She didn't look sleepy any longer.

The room was dark except for the embers glowing in the fireplace, but he saw her eyes were wide, her face tense.

“What—?”

“I thought I saw someone out there.”

“You're not sure?” She stepped toward him.

“The wind's blowing,” he said. “I heard rustling that could have been trees. Do you get many animal visitors?”

“All the time,” she said. “There's deer. Coyotes.”

“That's probably all it was,” he said as he turned the lock in the door.

She didn't believe him.

Neither did he.

A knock sounded at the door. A whine.

He used a finger to direct her back against the wall again.

A heavy knock again.

He went to the window and peered out.

A man stood there, a rifle in his hands, a dog at his side.

The bad guys wouldn't knock, Nate thought. They would lie in wait, or barge on through. Not knock politely.

He heard a noise behind him.

Sam was limping toward him, her weapon in her hand, looking like a slightly battered avenging angel.

“Who?” She mouthed the word.

The knock came again. Not impatient, but determined. Nate debated with himself. God knew he'd made enough mistakes since he'd met Samantha.

He looked outside again. He didn't see anyone other than the man and dog.

Even with a gun in his hand, he didn't like the idea of the dog out there. Nate knew the dog could lunge at the door, distract him.

He opened the door slightly. “Put the gun down on the ground and tie the dog to the railing.”

The man nodded, went down the steps and lay down the shotgun, then whispered something to the dog. He returned to the porch and the dog stayed at the bottom of the stairs. “I don't have a leash with me, and he's a good guard dog. He'll let us know if anyone comes.”