by Vonna Harper
"That's how it started?" she asked. "How Aaron connected with—with. . ."
"Yeah." Devin sounded tired. "How he made contact with the man who agreed to help him do some out-of-season hunting. I didn't save all his messages, just the ones with meat in them. Aaron and I considered and threw out a lot of ideas about how to determine the extent of local poaching. In the end, although we knew it was dangerous, Aaron hired a man he'd yet to meet to take him into the Siskiyou Forest. The next message is when he tells me about it."
Ana thought she'd prepared herself for hearing a dead man's voice again, but it still gave her a chill.
"Me again, like you can't figure that out. You're right. We need a record of what I've learned and this is the only safe way to do it. I hate the idea that a local cop or game warden is on the take but it's got to be that; otherwise, the poaching wouldn't be so open. Of course, only having two enforcement-trained Forest Service employees in southern Oregon doesn't help. I'm going out tomorrow. Meeting my guide at dawn. I insisted it just be the two of us, but you and I both know that's no guarantee. I'll call when I can. Wish you were here."
She swallowed. No matter how much she needed Devin's strength, she wasn't going to lean on him now. It had to be unbelievably painful for him to replay his best friend's last days of life.
"According to the message counter, he left this on June 29th," she said. "When did he die?"
"July 2nd or 3rd."
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"So am I." He didn't say anything for nearly a minute. "The next message is when he and his guide are in the mountains."
Could she jump to her feet and run? Go back in time to when nothing mattered except coping with widowhood?
Because she knew the answer to that, she punched the button that accessed the next message.
"It's the middle of the night," Aaron whispered. "Damn, I hope I don't lose the connection this time. What a crap shoot. He's sleeping; I can hear him snoring. When we met, he didn't say anything about whether he could trust me. I told him I thought he would but maybe he'd already had me checked out. He shrugged and asked for the money up-front. I argued about that…I figured he'd get suspicious if I didn't. He just said that's how it was going to be. How he had to have it. Dev, he's a sick man."
Grateful for the night, Ana still stared at Devin. She felt as if she was hollowing out.
"I'd have to be blind not to see it. His skin looks too big for him, like he's lost a lot of weight fast, and he has dark bags under his eyes. He sits his horse as if it takes all his strength not to fall over. We're following a deer trail; he says it'll lead us to a place where bears feed. I asked him how he knew that, and he said there are ways to keep bears coming back. In other words, he or someone else is salting the area."
As her sense of dread increased, she leaned away from the phone, but Devin moved it closer to her.
"I started to hand him the money this morning, then stopped. I said I wasn't going to give it to him until I knew who I was doing business with. I could see him turning it over in his mind. Then he said he didn't have any choice, since he had to be paid. Write this down, Dev. John Briggs."
Aaron went on talking, but she couldn't concentrate. Over and over she heard a dead man repeat her dead husband's name. John, gentle and easy-going, had pulled himself out of a sick bed and was risking everything…his reputation and maybe his life…to do something illegal and beyond comprehension—slaughter animals for money.
"Ana?" Devin gripped her shoulder and shook it. "Ana."
"What do you want me to say?" she ground out. "I heard."
Chapter 13
Devin had wanted her to lie next to him so they could share their body heat, but Ana knew she'd never get any sleep if she could hear his heart beating. Besides, how could she stretch out next to Devin knowing what she now did? Tense but determined, she'd told him she had some thinking to do and for him to please not disturb her.
He'd taken her up on her word, and now, maybe an hour after she'd listened to Aaron's devastating words, she could hear his slow, regular breathing. The night was getting cooler and cooler and without a jacket, she'd soon have to join him under the blanket, just not yet.
She'd listened to the rest of Aaron's messages to Devin, but she hadn't paid the attention she should have. As a result, she now struggled to remember everything Aaron had said. Much of it had been about the logistics of what he and John were doing, the frustration of having little to do except sit and wait for a bear to show up. Apparently Aaron had convinced John that he wasn't particular; if they struck out killing a bear, he'd settle for an elk. He'd even offered to give John more money, but according to John, this time of year they'd have to go to a higher elevation to find the magnificent animals.
"He's told me to be patient," Aaron had said. "But I think the truth is, he doesn't have the energy. I try to get him to talk about himself, but I'm not getting very far. He did say I'm not his first client and he wouldn't be doing this if he didn't have bills to pay. From what I gather, he's concerned he and his wife are going to lose their ranch and business. He didn't say why."
"Because we didn't have health insurance," Ana whispered, beyond tears. "We thought, because we were young, it made more sense to put money in the ranch." They'd taken a risk and that had nearly destroyed them financially.
Unwilling to revisit the disbelief she'd felt over the growing doctor and hospital bills, she forced herself to comprehend why John, gentle John, had turned to poaching. Of all the things he could have done to try to make money. . .
But what else had a chance of quickly filling his pockets? He'd talked to her about wanting to accept a friend's offer of a job in his real estate office, but the friend couldn't pay much more than minimum wage and they knew he wasn't capable of working full-time. Instead, desperate, John had gone behind her back and capitalized on his intimate knowledge of the forest.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her knees. John wasn't capable of murder. He wasn't! She'd go to her grave believing that.
But someone had killed Aaron.
Facing that irrefutable fact, she forced herself to go back in time. Aaron had died in early July. John had lived another four months, but for much of that time he hadn't been well enough to leave the house. Early July. Just before the 4th of July. What had they done for the holiday?
A chill that had nothing to do with the night sliced into her spinal column. A few days before the 4th, he'd returned early from what she'd believed had been an expedition with biologists and other environmental experts. What had he told her, that he'd been contacted by some California university staff members who were interested in learning more about how a forest serves as a watershed? Busy with a bumper crop of foals she hoped to sell for much-needed cash, she'd only expressed concern that he wouldn't have enough stamina. He'd assured her that being in the wilderness was better than sitting around at home. She hadn't thought anything of his explanation that he'd be meeting the university people in nearby Grant's Pass instead of having them come to the ranch. She'd been surprised when he returned three days before she'd expected him, but her concern that he'd been fired quickly faded because he'd looked so awful. Not just physically sick—something she'd come to recognize all too well—but something else.
She'd tried to get him to go to the doctor; she remembered that clearly. But he'd refused, insisting they couldn't afford any more medical expenses and he'd be all right once he'd rested. He'd added that the university people had reassured him that they could continue on their own since he'd familiarized them with the terrain.
Still. . .still something had been wrong. From then on until he was too ill to do so, John had insisted on answering the phone. He took to watching every news program he could find, read the paper cover to cover. He'd had nightmares that she'd attributed to pain and had been so pale that it scared her. No matter what she said or did, she could barely get a word out of him.
And. . .and—
Shaking
, she clenched her fists. The night seemed to close in on her, and she couldn't swallow. The veins in her temple pulsed.
Barely acknowledging what she was doing, she got to her feet and walked over to Devin. She sank to her knees beside him and touched his shoulder. He came awake immediately.
"What is it?" he whispered. "Did you hear—?"
"No," she interrupted, surprised that she hadn't given the sharpshooter a thought. "Not that. I just remembered something about John."
He sat up and indicated she should sit near him on the ground cover. When she did, she felt the warmth he'd left behind.
"That's what you've been doing," he said. "Thinking about him."
"Did you think it would be any other way?"
"No."
His hand was only a few inches from her leg, but although she needed his touch, she hoped he understood how important it was that she concentrate.
"I've been trying to piece it together," she said. "You've nailed down within a day or two when Aaron was killed because of the date of his last message, right?"
"I don't think I have to tell you that, just as you don't need to be reminded that your husband was the only one with him."
Despite the pain of his accusation, she stood her ground. "You're wrong," she said. Then, feeling his eyes boring into her, she told him how, using the holiday as her benchmark, she'd been able to reconstruct the time just before that.
"I had the vet out to the ranch just about the time Aaron died."
"Was murdered."
"I know that!" How could she be so angry at a man who'd fucked her senseless? "John was there."
Devin didn't say anything for several seconds. "You're sure?"
"He'd gotten home the day before. I'm sure, if you asked the vet, he'd corroborate that because. . ."
"Because why, Ana?"
"Because John had him look at the horse he'd taken into the Siskiyous."
Emotionally exhausted and dreading what she feared would be Devin's arguments, she hugged her knees. Devin covered her fingers with his.
"His horse had torn up the knees on his front legs," she whispered. "And he was missing two shoes. Also, the animal was exhausted. I remember—I remember asking John why he'd ridden him so hard."
"What did he tell you?"
"Nothing." She sighed. "He wouldn't talk about it."
"And your conclusion?"
Devin was massaging her knuckles, but she didn't let that distract her. "That something scared my husband. That he'd left Aaron and hurried home."
"Unless. . ." Devin pulled her hands off her knees and placed them over his chest. "Unless he raced home after murdering Aaron."
"The dates—"
"I'm not positive of the day Aaron was murdered."
She tried to pull free, but he wouldn't let her.
"Let me go!" she insisted. "My God, how could you want to have sex with me believing what you do?"
"You had nothing to do with Aaron's death."
No, she hadn't, she admitted to herself as the unequal tug-of war continued. But she'd lived under the same roof as John and—
"That's it, isn't it?" Her voice sounded like ice to her, and the muscles in her arms and back burned from the tension she'd put them under. "You seduced me because that's how you intended to get to the truth about my husband. How you planned to have him named as Aaron's murderer."
"Someone has to be held responsible." He slackened his grip on her.
"A dead man? What is it? Your need for revenge is so all-consuming that you're determined to get to him through me?"
"Ana, keep your voice down."
That's right. There was a would-be killer out there. "Thanks for the reminder," she ground out. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that whoever that is might have killed Aaron. That. . .that. . ." Disjointed thoughts washed over her.
"I know what you're thinking," Devin said. "That your husband saw Aaron killed and ran away."
"Yes."
"If that's so, why didn't he tell anyone?"
Was she still struggling with Devin, or were they now somehow connected, feeding off each other? She didn't know.
"He said nothing," she managed. "Because he was afraid whoever killed Aaron would come after him."
"Was it that, or was he afraid he'd be accused of the murder? After all. . ."
"I know." Hating herself, she finished for him. "After all, I'd have to testify that John had been paid by someone to take him into the wilderness—to the area where Aaron's body was found."
"Yes." He'd gone back to massaging her fingers. "You'd tell investigators about the university staff members, but they'd learn that was a lie. Did John take a rifle with him?"
She shuddered. "He always did."
"Where is that weapon?"
"I sold it." Her voice, her very being felt hollow. "He told me to sell it because we needed the money."
* * * * *
Like earlier, she hadn't wanted to lie down beside him, but Devin had insisted because her trembling alarmed him. He'd warmed her by wrapping his body around hers, and after awhile she'd stopped shuddering. No matter what his rampaging thoughts snagged on, he didn't voice them. They both knew the night held no answers.
He'd come to the Briggs's ranch determined to get at the truth behind Aaron's murder. More than that, he'd vowed to hold John Briggs, or if nothing else, his corpse, responsible. Now with Ana's attempts at an explanation whirling around him, he felt further from the truth than he'd been at the beginning, but right now that didn't concern him.
He wanted her. Plain and simple, he needed to fuck her until neither of them could think. But he had no doubt that he was the only one who felt that way; if she wasn't cold, she wouldn't be beside him now.
Sleep, damn it! Shut it off for a few hours so you're ready for tomorrow.
Determined to have that happen, he forced his thoughts onto whether he should keep his Jeep or trade it in while it still had some value. He wouldn't hesitate to start across country with a newer model which appealed to him because he needed a change, time off work, new scenery.
Scenery he'd have to look at alone.
Shit. It wasn't working.
He'd no sooner admitted that than Ana changed position. She'd been curled up with her back to him, her butt settled against his thighs, but now she rolled over onto her back. She placed her hands on her middle.
"You'd be warmer if—"
"Don't," she said. "I don't care whether I'm warm or cold."
He propped himself up on his elbow so he could study her. From what he could tell, her eyes were open, and she was staring at the treetops.
"What are you thinking?" he asked. We might as well get it out.
To his surprise, she chuckled.
"What?" he repeated.
She turned toward him. Instead of propping herself up too, she placed one bent arm under her head. At first he thought it was just his imagination, but a moment later there was no doubt; she was working the fingers of her free hand under his shirt.
Let it happen. Just let it happen.
"I'm not thinking; that's the crazy thing," she said. There was still a hint of amusement in her voice, but it was being taken over by some other emotion he couldn't put a handle on. "I feel as if my brain will explode if I let anything else in."
He sucked in a breath, taking her hand on the ride. "Do you know what you're doing?" he asked.
"Did you when you first approached me?"
"I thought I did."
"That's the way I feel now. Half believing there's a reason for. . ." She brought her fingernails into play and ran them not-that-gently over his ribs. "For what I'm doing. But I don't want anyone asking. . ."
"I'm the only one here," he told her.
She was still burning his flesh with those short, strong nails of hers. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand a combination of pleasure and pain. Maybe if he distracted her—
Feeling no more sure of himself than she'd just admitted she was,
he pulled her hand off his chest. Unfortunately, that meant he had to put it somewhere. No longer in contact with him would be safe, but that was the one thing he didn't want. Hoping he'd struck a compromise, he guided her hand toward his face and closed his mouth over her fingers. If she'd wanted, she'd have no trouble freeing herself, but until she did, he'd explore her.
He began at the tips but soon worked his way down, careful to concentrate on the sensitive area at the base. By turn he was gentle and firm. The difference didn't seem to matter to her because every time he switched, she took a quick little breath.
When she was completely wet, he withdrew her hand but kept hold of it. Mindful of how quickly moisture chilled at night, he placed her hand on his chin before dragging it down his throat. She used her limited mobility to take hold of as much of his flesh there as she could grip.
She squeezed, not with enough pressure to cause pain, but there was no mistaking her message. Whatever you do, I'll be appraising, judging. And if you step too far, I'll make you regret it.
He continued the downward journey. Slow, so slow that he felt the pace in his groin, he drew her hand to his collarbone and let her finger the hollow above it before pressing her palm over his heart.
This man, this man who was both lover and enemy was entrusting her with his body. Yes, Ana acknowledged, as long as he held her wrist, he'd never allow her to harm him, but he wouldn't have let her take hold of his throat if he had any fear of her.
She wished she could be that sure of that.
The pounding beat of his heart against her hand pulled her from that thought and took her back into sensation. The contrast between his body heat and the mountain air had something to do with it but mostly emotion was responsible. The longer she felt his life pulse, the more it became part of her. She imagined the organ as being larger than hers, stronger because his body needed that. Their hearts performed the same functions of pumping blood into arteries and veins, but they were more than muscles, more than machines. A heart also pushed blood into a man's penis, a woman's vagina.