THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS

by Judith Duncan

  It would not be right for him to leave her with any false impressions. He had too much regard for her. And he knew if he were able to keep her alive and deliver her back to her father, her rescue would be front-page news. Then the truth about him would come out. And the one thing he did not want was for her to find out what kind of man he really was from some headline. If she was going to find out, he wanted it to be from him.

  He shifted his gaze, his heart suddenly pounding as he geared himself to tell her; then he took a deep breath and lifted his head to look at her. "Don't turn me into some kind of hero, Red," he said, his voice very gruff. "I've done things that would scare the hell out of you."

  He expected her to move away. She didn't. "What things?" she asked softly.

  Feeling as if his insides had just dropped out of him, he looked at her, age-old regrets making his voice rough. "I killed a man."

  She continued to watch him, her gaze steady and unblinking. "Why?"

  It wasn't what he expected from her. He wanted to hold her gaze, but he couldn't. He stared down at the floor, aligning the sole of his boot with the hemp mat, a band of tension around his chest. He didn't want any exoneration—he just needed to tell her the truth. It was a few moments before he spoke. "He raped my wife—and when I found out what he did to her, I went after him, and I killed him."

  The next question was quiet and soft. "What happened to your wife?"

  He lifted his head and stared across the room, old painful memories resurfacing. "She died in a car crash while I was in prison. Some think it was no accident." It was as if saying the words released him, and he shifted his head and looked at her, dread sitting like a rock in his chest. He thought she would have turned away. But instead she was watching him, her arms tightly folded, and she had tears in her eyes. But it was the expression on her face that nearly did him in. No fear, no revulsion just a soul-deep expression of understanding.

  Thinking she had misunderstood him, he held her gaze. "Don't get the wrong idea," he said, his voice hoarse. "I was guilty as sin."

  "Oh, Finn," she whispered, crossing to him, placing her hand against his face and covering his scar.

  Feeling as if his soul had been stripped naked, he looked down on her, swallowing hard against the painful knot in his throat. With infinite tenderness, she caressed his cheek, more tears welling up, making her eyes greener than ever. He felt as if he were drowning in those eyes.

  Then she spoke, the tenderness in her touch, the softness in her voice belying the violence of her words. "Any bastard who used that kind of violence against a woman deserves to be dead." As if absolving him of his sins, she cupped his jaw and reached up, brushing her mouth against the scar. The kiss was so soft and gentle, it was like an absolution. "I don't care what you've done," she whispered against his cheek. "I only care about who you are." She caught his hand and squeezed it hard, then looked up at him. "You're a good man, Finn Donovan. And don't you ever forget that."

  He stared down at her, a huge surge of emotion washing through him, and he couldn't have spoken if he wanted to. Her eyes glistening with the unshed tears, she reached up and cupped his face again, and something huge and hurting let go in Finn. Closing his eyes, he locked his jaw together and put his arms around her, a second wave of emotion slamming into him as she stepped into his embrace. Feeling as if he was being ripped apart, he grasped the back of her neck and tightened his hold, burying his face in her hair. Fighting to contain the awful pressure in his chest, he clutched her closer. He had never felt so indebted—or so raw. It was almost as if she'd cauterized an old, gaping wound.

  Sliding her arms around his waist, she hugged him back. "Please take care," she said, grasping the back of his coat. "And stay safe. I need you to stay safe."

  Finn wasn't sure he had the strength to let her go, but he heard the growl of a vehicle in deep snow, and he knew he had to get out of there. Grasping her face with both hands, he made himself take a deep, uneven breath and gently set her aside. His throat still painfully tight, he tried to smile as he carefully tucked her hair behind her ear. "You don't have a whit of common sense or judgment, Red."

  She clasped his hand between both of hers, unspoken assurance in her eyes. "I have very good judgment."

  He heard the vehicle draw closer and he gave her hand a hard squeeze. "We've got to shut off the other lights, and I've gotta go," he said, his voice still rough with emotion.

  She reached up and kissed his cheek again, then stepped away, shoving her arms back up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. She managed a smile. "Watch out for wolves in sheeps' clothing, Donovan."

  He flipped the end of her nose, then reached out and shut off the lights, leaving on the track lights in the kitchen. "Remember, stay in the house."

  She gave him a more genuine grin. "I'll stay in the house."

  It was one of the hardest things Finn had ever done, to pick up the backpack and saddlebags and open the door.

  "And stay away from the windows."

  She grasped the door to close it after him. "You sound like a mother. I'll stay away from the windows."

  He cast her one last glance and opened the outer door, a cold blast of winter stinging his lungs. Never in his life had he experienced such reluctance.

  And the only thing that allowed him to leave at all was knowing that she would be there when he got back.

  If he got back.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  «^»

  There were at least two dozen people milling around the cavernous, cinder block ambulance bay at the fire hall. Some of them were on-duty volunteer firemen, a couple were paramedics dressed in their dark blue uniforms, others were wearing winter gear and the bright fluorescent green vests that designated the members of the Bolton Area Search and Rescue Team.

  His Stetson pulled low over his eyes, Finn propped his shoulder against the concrete wall and folded his arms, the bright orange fluorescent vest of team leader in one hand. It wasn't the volunteer firemen or paramedics that had his attention. It wasn't even the search and rescue team.

  It was the squad of six men dressed in dark green paramilitary jumpsuits that had Finn's full attention. He watched the proceedings, deliberately removed from the crowd, narrowly assessing the situation. When he had pulled into the parking lot, there had been half a dozen trucks with horse trailers on behind, all those trucks and trailers parked at random in the freshly cleared lot. But when he'd made a wide U-turn so his rig was pointed toward the road, his high beams had cut a bright swath across another vehicle, parked as if it had the unalienable right, on the apron in front of the big fire doors. It was big and ominous, and looked like a modified armored car, painted dark green with the O'Brien Industries logo emblazoned on the side. It was a vehicle with an attitude, obviously flown in for the mission, obviously there to make some sort of power statement. And obviously going to be one huge pain in the ass.

  Isolated in the noise of so many voices, Finn shifted his shoulder against the wall, watching the posturing of the six men, dark humor surfacing. After one look at the squad, he knew he had it figured right. They were all going to be pains in the ass. But the one that Finn watched most closely was the man with the big O'Brien Industries flash on his jumpsuit, his nameplate identifying him as Ed Jackson, Chief of Security. Finn disliked Ed Jackson on sight. Arrogant, used to having full control, liked giving orders—in it for all the wrong reasons. He had that cocky swagger of someone who knew he was good at what he did, and wanted everyone around him to know it. It didn't help that Ed Jackson bore a striking resemblance to one of the SOB guards in prison—the one who had beat an inmate blind, then smirked about it afterward, knowing no one could touch him.

  Jackson had that same brittle, cold look in his eyes, and Finn figured he could trust him about as far as he could pitch him over a high board fence. Definitely not the man Finn would want spotting his equipment if he were rappelling down a six-hundred-foot cliff.

  Finn had already picked up whisperi
ngs from the rest of the team, about how that Jackson guy was acting as if he expected to run the show.

  Checking out the rest of the people in the bay, Finn paused, his eyes narrowing even more as his gaze settled on Chase McCall. Finn could tell by the other man's body language that Jackson had also rubbed the rancher the wrong way. Finn didn't know Chase all that well. Bought some horses from him a year ago, had a beer with him a couple of times. But after going on four searches with him, Finn respected the man's judgment. And right now, Chase McCall was watching Ed Jackson as if he was watching a snake. From the cold, tight smile on Chase's face, it was apparent that his read on the situation matched Finn's dead on.

  Finn shifted his glance back to Ed Jackson. All he needed was for the chief to give him a good excuse to walk, and he'd be out the door.

  His parka undone, Arnie Jeffery addressed the group, his gaze direct. "You folks were contacted because you're all experienced horsemen—" he glanced at the single woman paramedic and grinned at her as he added "—and women. We know the downed plane is in a valley about fifteen kilometers from the South Point campground. We've been told that there were three people on board. And we also know, thanks to some high-tech assistance from O'Brien Industries, that there is at least one survivor, possibly two."

  Finn's expression went still, and he glanced around the room, his internal radar on full alert. So. They had already determined that someone was alive. Which meant they had some very serious high-tech capabilities, like forward looking infrared.

  Finn had done a fair amount of reading on various search technology around the globe, and he knew the military was the only source that had that kind of technology at their disposal in Canada. And he doubted if O'Brien Industries had the clout to call in the Canadian military. Which meant the advanced technology had to be in one of the search planes—and it also meant that Ed Jackson had a whole arsenal of goodies at his disposal.

  Realizing what Mallory was actually up against made his stomach roll, and he locked his jaw together, a sick feeling rising up in him. He was lucky to have found her before they did. Damned lucky.

  "If we get a break in the weather, and there is a small chance we might later today, we'll send in a helicopter. But if we don't get that break, the folks from the weather service say this front could sit here for a couple more days. Which means we could be the only hope for any survivors." Taking a cup of coffee from one of the firefighters, Arnie took a sip, then glanced at Finn. "I see Finn Donovan back there. Finn, have you—"

  Finn started to straighten, but Ed Jackson moved to stand slightly in front of Arnie, his hands on his hips. "Thank you, Constable. I'll take it from here." As if briefing a paramilitary group instead of a bunch of volunteers, he began to speak. "My name is Ed Jackson, and I'm the chief of security for O'Brien Industries. I'm sure you all know who Patrick O'Brien is, and as you are already aware, Mr. O'Brien's only daughter, Mallory, was on that plane. I have been assigned the task of locating her, and to make sure she is brought out quickly and safely. I understand that Mr. Donovan has been designated as team leader, but because of what is at stake, I will be directing this search-and-rescue mission."

  Finn didn't move a muscle, anger making his jaw tense. The ensuing silence was so immediate, it was as if all the sound had been sucked out of the room. Finn stared at the chief of security, then gave a hard, tight smile and straightened, tossing the team-leader vest on a table. Not a chance. Not a damned chance.

  Possibly every single person in North America might know who Patrick O'Brien was and how much money he had, but as far as Finn was concerned, Ed Jackson could go straight to hell. This might be O'Brien's crack security force, but there was no way in hell that he was going to ask this dedicated team of volunteers to put their lives on the line for this know-it-all. No way in hell.

  There was the sound of a full cup of coffee hitting the metal garbage can with considerable force. "That's it. I'm cutting loose from this circus," Chase McCall snapped, his tone flat. "There isn't a person in the whole damned country who knows that backcountry better than Finn. And if he isn't calling the shots out there, in that terrain and in this goddamned weather, you can count me out. I've got a wife and kids that are counting on me to get back alive."

  Arnie Jeffery spoke over the noise of the crowd. "Just a minute, folks. Just a minute." The constable looked at Jackson, his face flushed with annoyance. "Sorry, Mr. Jackson. I don't know where you got the idea you'd be directing this search. This mission is under my jurisdiction, and until somebody tells me otherwise, I make the decisions. And if you have any problems with that, I suggest you take it up with your employer." He scanned the crowd, his expression still flushed with anger. "And Chase is right. There's too much at stake here." He spotted Finn heading for the door, and he spoke to him directly. "We're going to need you to get us in there, Finn. This ground team is the only chance those folks have."

  Ten more steps and Finn would have been out the door. And had he made it out, there would have been no damned way he would have come back in. He wasn't sure he wouldn't have kept on walking anyway, but Chase McCall stepped in front of him. The rancher looked at Finn, wry humor in his eyes. "I don't like the son of a bitch any better than you do," he said, watching Finn. "And I think he bears watching." Then his face sobered and he continued, his gaze steady. "But Arnie is right. You're the only one who can get us in and any survivors out."

  The muscles in his jaw flexing, Finn stared at the other man, a cold rage simmering in him. McCall had got that right—he didn't like that arrogant son of a bitch, but there was much more at stake here than the rescue. And she was sitting in his cabin.

  The muscles in his jaw working, Finn stared at Chase a moment, and Chase tipped his head, his gaze steady. Finally Finn let his breath go, looked down at the floor and waited for his fury to settle; then he turned and fixed a cold gaze on Ed Jackson. "Anyone on your squad that isn't an experienced horseman is off this search," he snapped, challenging the other man with a cold look.

  As if realizing he had crossed a line, Ed Jackson gave Finn a good-old-boy smile. "I agree. Myself and my second in command are both very experienced."

  Finn glared at him. "You'd damned well better be. We won't have time to wet-nurse you through this. If you can't keep up, we'll leave you behind. It's that simple." He strode toward the front of the room, tossing his gloves on the table. "I want a complete equipment check before we roll out of here. Keep in mind that with this weather, it's not going to be a simple in-and-out trip—it could take us a couple of days, maybe longer." He glanced at one of the off-duty paramedics who would be going with them. "We can expect to be transporting injured survivors, so I want three of those collapsible rescue toboggans included." Then he looked at Chase McCall. "I need to know how many horses are going in, and every man is to be outfitted with snowshoes." He shifted his attention to the game warden who was part of the team. "And I need a thorough checklist for food rations for both horses and team members." He made the muscles in his face relax and he spoke again. "Double-check everything. We can't afford any mistakes. I want to be at South Point by first light, which means we have to be on the road in less than an hour."

  They were on the road in forty-five minutes, and it took them an hour and a half to get to South Point—half an hour longer than Finn had estimated. It was one hell of a trip. A snowplow had cleared the road, but it was hard going with trailers loaded with horses.

  But it wasn't until they were a mile from the campground that it got really ugly. Slippery and dangerous, the blizzard conditions impeded visibility and obscured critical landmarks. And then it started snowing in earnest. It got so bad that at one point, Finn thought he was going to have to abandon the horses and go in on snowshoes. But then they hit a long sheltered valley that, with the eccentricities of mountain weather, had only suffered a light skiff of snow. It was still slow going, though, the cloud cover so low that the mist was less than fifty feet off the ground.

  When they left the fi
re hall, he figured they should be at the crash site by midafternoon. They didn't reach it until just before nightfall. And if it hadn't been for the dark green O'Brien Industries paint job, even with the transponder signal, they might not have found it till daybreak.

  When it crashed, the plane had plowed into the throat of a shallow rocky ravine rimmed by a dense stand of trees, the topography and falling snow making it impossible to see. But Finn found a deep gouge on a rocky ledge, pointing him in the right direction, and the blowing wind had swept clean a dark green piece of the wreckage.

  With the grimness of night settling in, and his battery powered searchlight practically useless in the blowing snow, Finn hooked onto a line and climbed down the rocky outcropping.

  The twisted fuselage was jammed up against a stand of fir trees, nearly covered with snow, the rupture in the side gaping like a big black wound. Realizing that it was another miracle that she'd survived the crash at all, Finn faltered for a moment, then clamped his mouth in a hard line. He'd worry about that later. Now he had other things to consider.

  He flashed his light off and on, signaling the rest of the team that he had reached it. Then he unhooked his harness from the safety line and made his way to the downed plane. Lucky. She had been so damned lucky to walk away.

  It was the copilot who was still alive—unconscious but alive—with survival gear and blankets packed around him. It was obvious, by the way the copilot had been taken care of that someone else had survived the crash. Finn knew it wasn't Mallory who had provided basic first aid, so that meant the pilot was still out there somewhere. It gave Finn a cold feeling in his belly knowing that, and he wondered how far he'd gotten.