THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS

by Judith Duncan

  With a perimeter of battery-powered searchlights set up, it took them two hours to stabilize the injured man and get him out of the wreckage, then another hour to get him out of the ravine. And by then, darkness had settled in and the weather had gotten even worse. The heavy clouds settled right to the ground, the fog so dense that visibility was down to maybe a dozen feet. Finn called the search off for the night, and no one argued. Not even Ed Jackson.

  The copilot was in bad shape. Both legs had been shattered, he had a serious head injury and he was in shock. In spite of all that, the paramedic had been able to stabilize him, and he was still unconscious but holding his own. It was going to be a long night.

  And it was a long night. Finn checked the weather every ten minutes, able by some miracle to communicate with the base commander at South Point. Now everything depended on the weather. And blizzard conditions were the lesser of two evils. Come daybreak, there might be enough visibility to bring in a helicopter. But this kind of dense, low cloud cover created a whole other hazard. With zero visibility, and with the entire area completely socked in, it was just too dangerous. What they needed was a window of opportunity, like a forty-minute break in the weather. That would give them enough time to bring in a chopper and airlift him out. Everything depended on the weather.

  It was just after dawn that the fog started to thin, and Finn used that window of opportunity to go back to the crash site.

  The white mist shifted and swirled like a living thing, the slightest motion making it drift, the moisture coating the trees with a thick layer of hoarfrost. It was beautiful, in an eerie sort of way, and the fog closed in behind him as Finn followed the now-beaten trail they had hacked out to the ravine floor. As a result of the rescue mission the night before, the twisted fuselage was now more exposed, the dark green stark against the trampled snow.

  There were things that Finn wanted to check out in the wreckage. Like empty syringes. Like a flight plan. And he also wanted to see if he could still pick up any tracks from the missing pilot. Because come full light, he was going to have to track him down. That was one loose end he didn't want left dangling.

  He went around to the far side of the plane—the side he'd seen when he first climbed down. Entering the rupture in the side of the plane, Finn flipped on his flashlight, scanning the dark interior. He had checked it briefly last night just to make sure there was no one inside. But now he intended on searching it more carefully.

  The fog seeped in through the opening and diffused the beam of light, and Finn moved with great care, not wanting to disturb anything. His insides balled up when he found a thick wad of duct tape caught on the floor under the plush seats. Then the light caught on something shiny, and Finn stepped further back, his stomach doing another barrel roll when he realized it was a small gold pendant, the chain broken.

  "Thought you might want to know our boy is awake." Keeping his face expressionless, Finn picked up the locket and dropped it into his pocket, then glanced toward the ragged hole leading outside. Chase McCall was standing there, his hands on either side of the rupture, his gaze fixed on Finn, an intent, thoughtful look on his face. His own expression shuttered, Finn turned to face him, the beam from his flashlight glancing brightly off the fluorescent green of Chase's search-and-rescue vest.

  The rancher offered up a wry lopsided grin. "And Jackson is throwing his weight around."

  By the time Finn and Chase got back to the camp, Arnie Jeffery was tearing a strip off of Ed Jackson. It was clear that something had happened that had set Arnie off, and it took Finn maybe three seconds to put it together. When the paramedic let the constable know the patient had regained consciousness, Arnie had gone immediately to the tent, intending on questioning the copilot about the others. But Ed Jackson had beaten him to it, posting his man on the outside, barring Arnie' s entry.

  Shoving his gloves in his pocket, Finn looked at Jackson, his expression fixed. "I thought we made it clear last night who was calling the shots here."

  The security chief gave Finn an easy smile, holding up his hands in deference. "Sorry. I just wanted him to know that we were taking care of things, and he didn't have anything to worry about."

  Damn sure the guy was lying through his teeth, Finn looked at Arnie. "Have you talked to him yet?"

  The officer gave Jackson a heated look. "Yeah. I got to talk to him. For about a minute, then he passed out."

  Knowing he had to play this out, Finn spoke again. "What did you find out?"

  The other man heaved a sigh, his exhalation of breath adding another coat of frost on the fur trim of his parka hood. "He said that they discovered Ms. O'Brien missing shortly after the crash, and the pilot went looking for her, and he never came back."

  Finn forced his expression to remain passive. "Did you find out what they were wearing?"

  The RCMP gave a detailed description of the pilot's clothing, then Finn spoke again. "And the woman?"

  "Green slacks and a green sweater. He thinks just regular shoes, but he couldn't remember for sure."

  Finn debated about shaking things up and pointing out that there was no loose clothing in the wreckage, no handbag, nor was there any sign of luggage. Then he decided against it. He didn't want to alert Ed Jackson to anything, least of all his suspicions.

  Finn took the mug of coffee one of the squad handed him. "What's the latest weather report?"

  The game warden spoke up. "Just got off the horn with the base. It's beginning to clear further north, with a possible break coming this way."

  Finn downed the lukewarm coffee, tossing the dregs on the fire. "Then get him packaged for transport and break camp." He indicated four members of the team, including the paramedic. "I want you to start moving the patient back along our trail." Finn checked his handheld global positioning receiver, then passed it to the game warden. "You keep this so you can call in the coordinates if you get a break. And keep heading due east. If we can get him moved even a mile further in that direction, we'll pick up the air currents coming through the pass. And if we get some wind, we'll stand a better chance of a break in the cloud cover. The rest of you break camp and wait for us here. If we need you, I'll fire two flares."

  Very deliberately, he selected Chase McCall and the two O'Brien men. "You three saddle up. I found two sets of tracks leading out of the ravine. One set made by someone weighing about one hundred and eighty pounds and wearing size ten, ten and a half boots. The other set were definitely made by a woman—probably dress shoes with a leather sole."

  He gave Jackson a look deliberately meant to challenge. "It's going to be hard going. You up to it?"

  The other man gave Finn a smooth smile back. "That's why I'm here."

  It took them a little over twenty minutes to find the dead pilot sprawled under a drift of snow, a pistol beneath his hand. As smooth as silk, Jackson collected the pistol and stuck it in his pocket, making some weak explanation about it being part of the survival gear.

  Finn didn't buy that for a minute. A pistol like that was good for one thing, and it had nothing to do with survival. As Finn unloaded the collapsible toboggan from the packhorse, he happened to glance at Chase McCall. The other man was standing with one hand in the pocket of his sheepskin coat, the other hand resting on the swell of his saddle, and he was watching the chief of security with a narrow, thoughtful look, a hard set to his jaw. Finn almost smiled. Chase McCall knew an SOB when he saw one.

  The body secured on the toboggan, Finn laid out a new search grid, gradually expanding the area. There was a certain irony about it here he was freezing his butt off, looking for a missing woman, who was, at that very moment, probably making coffee in his new coffeemaker. It was almost enough to make Finn smile. Almost.

  Since there was only one direction they could go, they finally made it to the small meadow where Finn had found her. He located some branches that had been broken in the tangle of shrubs on the western periphery. And he found some green fuzz that had come from her sweater.


  Had he had any doubts about Ed Jackson, they would have been answered the moment he showed the security chief the fibers. He got off his horse and approached as Finn held the branch and spoke. "The pilot said she had on a green sweater?"

  The look on the other man's face told it all. The whole morning he had been edgy, watching every movement, and in the space of three seconds, Finn could see him relax. "I'll be damned. How did you spot that?"

  Letting go of the broken branch, Finn turned back to his horse and gathered up the reins. "I get paid to spot things like that." He swung up into his saddle, gritting his teeth against the urge to drop the guy. He wheeled his mount around, his voice clipped when he spoke. "If she's here, she's got to be close. We're at the eastern end of a narrow valley that's hemmed in by very rough, rocky terrain. The only place she could have gone was along the river, and it's damned treacherous. If she's not here, then there probably isn't a body to find."

  The radio clipped to Finn's orange vest crackled, and he remained motionless as he listened. "They think they're going to have a window to bring the chopper in. We need to get the body to the landing site."

  Jackson mounted his horse and turned to face Finn, the wisps of fog eddying around his head. "Give it to me straight. What are the chances that she could still be alive?"

  Finn stared back at him, trying to keep his dislike from showing. "Has she done a lot of hiking or camping?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Has she ever had any survival training for this kind of terrain or this kind of weather?"

  The other man stared back at Finn, almost as if he were enjoying this game. "Ms. O'Brien? No. Nothing like that."

  Finn gave the man a cold tight smile and reined his horse around. "Then her chances are zero to nil."

  The weather did clear briefly, giving them just enough time for a rescue helicopter to evacuate the injured copilot and dead pilot. Finn knew damned well that Jackson would have liked to leave with the chopper, but he wanted the man where he could keep an eye on him. They made a second search of the area, and when Finn pointed out that there were signs of more bad weather, it was Arnie Jeffery who suggested they call off the search. Finn's dislike for the security chief intensified when Jackson readily agreed. His response almost made Finn want to balk. But one of the foremost rules in search and rescue was never to put any member of a rescue team in jeopardy. And with the wind picking up the way it was, to stay would put the team at risk.

  As Finn mounted up and turned his big bay around, he glanced at the security chief. There was one piece of information he wanted, and he intended on getting it. "I'll be debriefing the team when we get back to the base camp. So I need to know if Mr. O'Brien will be meeting us at some point."

  The security chief also mounted up, avoiding Finn's gaze. His tone was flat when he answered. "Unfortunately, Mr. O'Brien is unavailable."

  Finn watched him a moment, then cued his horse forward. Bad answer. He had hoped for something more definite.

  * * *

  The trip back was even worse than the one going in. By midmorning the wind had picked up, driving the snow into dense drifts, and the visibility got so bad that Finn ended up leading his horse. They made camp by late afternoon, and it was after dark the following day that Finn rolled into Bolton. He was so damned beat, he didn't even stop at the fire hall. He knew the base crew would be there, with hot food and hotter coffee, but he just wanted to get the hell home, make sure Mallory was all right, take care of his horses and fall into bed.

  By the time he got out of town the cloud cover had started to break up, and ragged pockets of bright stars glimmered through the torn clouds. Because the road to his place ran east and west, the surface had been swept clean by the wind, and deep, wind-sculpted drifts were piled up in the ditches all along the fence lines. It was turning into a beautiful night—the bright starlight making the expanse of smooth unbroken snow shimmer. The cloud cover tore apart even more, revealing the waning full moon, the ribbon of light lying like blue silver against the snow. Another night, Finn would have stopped and appreciated the sight. But tonight, he was so damned tired, he felt as if he didn't have a whole bone in his body.

  But he wasn't so tired that his mind switched off. And he spent the last leg of the drive thinking about his departure three days earlier—and how Mallory had made him feel. He couldn't afford to make another slip like that—to get that close to her—to let her get that close to him. She was dangerous to his equilibrium, and he knew it. They didn't even travel in the same universe, let alone the same world. And he had to remember that. He couldn't allow himself to want things he could never have.

  But just thinking about how she felt in his arms made his pulse speed up, and he realized that one reason he wanted to come straight home had nothing to do with how exhausted he was. He wanted to get home because she was there, waiting for him. Feeling as if he had a huge hole right in the middle of his chest, he made himself loosen his grip on the wheel, his mood heavy and sober. She was nothing more than an emotional blip in his life—and he had to remember that. In a few hours or days, Mallory O'Brien would be gone from his life, and that was how it would be.

  His driveway had been plowed, thanks, no doubt, to Old Joe, the huge pile pushed to one side. Finn pulled slowly through his gateway, his headlights casting a wide swath against the pole barn, the horse trailer rocking as it tracked through the ruts. There was another vehicle parked by the barn, a battered old pickup, headlights turned off, the engine running.

  Old Joe got out of the truck and started hobbling toward the long shed where Finn parked the rig. The old man was dressed in heavy coveralls, a hat perched on his head with earflaps sticking out like wings. He was huffing and puffing by the time he reached Finn. "Was in town this afternoon. Heard you was on the way home and that you had one hell of a trip. Figured I'd just wheel in here and give you a hand afore I head back into town. Tonight is my shuffleboard night."

  Finn pulled on his gloves, then undid the latch to drop the trailer ramp. "It was pretty bad all right."

  His neighbor flapped his hand, shooing him away. "Go. Get yerself to the house. You look as whupped as Satan's dog. I'll tend these here animals and get the gear stored. You hie your butt in and get some hot vittles into you."

  Finn wearily dragged his hand down his unshaven face. He was cold to the bone and so damned tired, he didn't think he had the energy to get from here to the house.

  "Go on. Get," bossed the seventy-eight-year-old. "I can't go out on them rescues, but I can do this. So get. Haul your sorry butt outta here."

  Finn dropped his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Thanks, Joe. I appreciate it." He went to the cab of the truck and retrieved his parka, backpack and saddlebags. "I'll likely see you tomorrow."

  The old man cackled, coming back with his old standby. "Not if I see you first."

  Draping his saddlebags over one shoulder, Finn hitched his pack over the other, clutching his parka in one hand. He was going to do exactly what his neighbor had ordered, haul his sorry butt to the house. And he hoped to hell there was something half-decent to eat—he'd just about had his fill of trail rations.

  Rooney bounded around the corner of the house with a stick in his mouth, and Finn stopped and scratched his ears, then threw the stick a couple of times. Then the dog bounded up the road to the barn, off to check the sound of horses being unloaded from the trailer.

  Finn entered the porch, latched the door behind him, thinking about what he was going to tell Mallory. He almost hoped she would be asleep. He just didn't want to have to deal with a whole bunch of questions tonight. But she had probably heard both vehicles pull in, and he could just visualize her anxiously pacing back and forth, wondering what he had found. Lord, he just didn't have the energy to deal with that kind of female distress. He was dead tired. All he wanted was some hot food, a hot shower and bed.

  Only the track lights were on in the kitchen, and it was very still inside. He unlatched the inner door and toed
it open with his boot, letting the backpack slide off his shoulder. He stepped in and set it on the floor, then dumped the saddlebags and parka on top. He turned, finding the living area silent and empty. But Mallory immediately appeared out of the bedroom, her hair tied up on top of her head, loose tendrils corkscrewing around her face and down her neck. She had on one of his blue flannel plaid shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, with the legs rolled up. And she wasn't worried and anxious.

  She was bloody well furious. Jamming her hands on her hips, she glared at him. "Where in hell have you been? Don't tell me it took three whole days to confirm that I was probably dead! I've been worried sick, for Pete's sake, thinking something had happened to you!"

  Finn stared at her as if she'd just launched herself out of a cannon. Tired and weary and sore to the bone, he slammed the door shut, glaring right back at her, his warm fuzzy memories of her all shot to bits. "Just where in hell do you get off, anyway? I've been out there, plowing around in snow up to my thighs for three days, freezing my ass off, looking for you in terrain you can't even imagine. Where in hell do you think I've been, vacationing in Mexico?"

  She gave him a scathing look, then tipped her nose in the air and marched over to the fridge, yanked open the door and took out a large pot. She slammed the door of the fridge with her elbow, then banged the pot on the stove, flipping on the gas burner. "Well," she shot back, "it would have been nice if you'd told me you'd be gone for days. Three days—you could have walked to Mexico."

  Finn stared at her, poleaxed and speechless. A woman he spent what—maybe thirty hours with? And now she was banging around his kitchen like an irate wife, giving him hell for taking so long to find her frozen body? He couldn't believe it!

  Hearing the absolute ridiculousness of what was going through his mind, Finn bent his head and gouged at his eyes. Now he really was losing it—ranting on about a rescue mission to find a woman who, at that precise moment, was poking at something in a pot on his stove.