by Lisa Jackson
“Stay away!” she growled when he approached. The wicked wedge of glass glinted in the beam of the flashlight as she inched back farther into the corner.
“We’ve got to go. There’s not much time. I heard White leave but he could come back.”
“How do you know? How did you find me?”
“We’ll discuss it later. Right now, let’s get out of here.”
“How do I know you’re not one of them?”
“Hell,” he muttered, then shone the flashlight upward on his own face and the black Stetson on his head.
“Oh, God,” she said, recognizing the angular features of Jenner’s friend. She’d seen a few snapshots of him, and remembered the slash of his cheekbones, sharp nose and dark, intense eyes. Tears suddenly clogged her throat, but she didn’t give in to the urge to cry in relief. She scrambled to her feet as the sound of a truck’s engine rumbled through the hills. Headlights flashed against the window. “Oh, no!” Her heart plummeted. Barry was back!
Sloan grabbed her hand in his gloved fingers. “Does he have a weapon?” he asked in a rough whisper.
“Yes, a shotgun, and maybe a pistol in the glove compartment of the truck, I’m not sure...but I know that he does have a knife, a long hunting knife.”
“You hide where you were before, behind the stove.” Firmly Sloan guided her back into her hiding spot, then slid stealthily behind the door.
The truck’s engine roared and its tires whined up the slippery slope before grinding to a stop. Casey’s heart beat wildly and still she clutched her pathetic piece of glass as if the tiny useless weapon could somehow save her. Footsteps crunched in the snow and a swinging beam of light flashed against the window. Casey’s heart flew into her throat as the door swung open.
“What in the...? Casey...?” Barry yelled, and the room turned instantly cold from the snow and wind and smelled of liquor. “Where are you? For cryin’ out loud, this is no time to play stupid ga—”
Sloan sprang. Like a savage cat, he threw himself at Barry. They both landed on the floor, rolling and kicking, swearing and breathing hard. A fist connected with flesh; there was a sickening crunch of bone. Glass crunched.
Casey leapt to her feet. She wasn’t going to sit around and wait for the outcome. Somehow she had to help Sloan.
A shotgun blast roared through the cabin. Sparks sprayed, and Casey jumped as the window shattered. A man screamed in pain. Oh, God! Not Sloan. Casey could barely breathe, didn’t dare say a word as her eyes adjusted to the dark after the blinding explosion from the gun.
“You okay? Case?”
“Y-yes.” Thank God.
A flashlight switched on, the harsh beam raining down on Barry, who lay writhing on the floor, clutching his arm. “Get up,” Sloan growled. In one hand he held the flashlight, in the other the shotgun.
“Who the hell are you?” Barry demanded.
“Your worst nightmare. Get up.”
Barry winced as he climbed to his feet. Sloan kicked out a chair. “You an Indian or what?”
“Sit.”
“Some kind of goddamned Indian tracker—is that it?”
Sloan didn’t answer. The temperature in the cabin dropped and the wind whistled, causing the embers in the stove to glow more brightly. “I said sit down.” Sloan’s voice brooked no argument.
“Why?”
“Sit down, you bastard, before I shoot you.”
Barry’s knees seemed to wobble and spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. The wind howled through the trees before racing through the broken panes. Barry stepped away from the chair. “Hey, man, I don’t know who you are or who sent you, but if this is a double cross, I swear I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Good. Sit.”
Barry stumbled backward, falling into the chair.
“You should pick more trustworthy partners,” Sloan advised, still training both gun and flashlight on the coward. “Now, you, Casey, take his knife and tie him up.”
“No, you can’t,” Barry said, eyeing the window. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Should have thought of that before you blew the window.”
He slid a glance at the corner where Casey had been hiding. “Tie him or cuff him, whatever it takes.”
Casey, her nerves strung tight, her insides shaking, fumbled in Barry’s pack until she found the handcuffs.
“Hey, no... the key’s lost,” Barry whined, his eyes in the glow of the flashlight round with fear.
“Too bad.” There was pleasure in Sloan’s voice.
Casey pulled Barry’s knife from its sheath, handed it to Sloan, then forced the coward’s hands behind his back. Barry struggled and Sloan shoved the shotgun against Barry’s chest, so that the barrel rested over his heart. Barry stopped moving instantly. Fingers sticky with her own blood, Casey clicked the cuffs around his wrists.
Barry was suddenly desperate. “For the love of God, man, you can’t leave me here—”
“Like you left her?” Sloan thrust his chin in Casey’s direction. “Somehow I think it’s fitting.”
“No way, man, please...”
Casey’s stomach curled at the way Barry begged. She understood his helplessness. Hadn’t she wanted to get down on her own knees and plead with him to set her free? Only her pride had prevented her from groveling as Barry was now.
“You know,” Sloan said, “he’s not gonna like this.”
“He? Who?”
“You know who I mean.”
Barry seemed to catch on that they were talking about his accomplice. “He’ll help me. Count on it.”
“Humph. He’s not too happy with you.”
“Why not? Hell, I took all the risks while he sat on his fat—” Barry suddenly clamped his mouth shut, his eyes narrowing angrily as he finally seemed to realize that this wasn’t a double cross. “You lyin’ son of a bitch,” he said, glowering up at Sloan.
“That’s right, you yellow bastard, I’m with the good guys.”
“You don’t know a damned thing, do ya? You don’t know anything about what’s goin’ on.”
“I know you’re goin’ down, White. And unless you spill your pathetic guts, you’re goin’ down alone.” His voice was low and chilling. “If you’re smart, you’ll save both of us a whole lot of trouble and tell me the name of your partner.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Come in here as if you know all about it, when you don’t know one goddamned thing. Well, I ain’t a rat.”
“Fine.” Sloan shoved the flashlight into Casey’s hands. “Hold this on him. Keep the beam right there, in his eyes.”
Barry’s tongue rimmed his lips nervously. “What’re you gonna do?”
Casually, as the snow continued to blow into the cabin, Sloan straddled Barry’s chair and legs, then calmly placed his hands on each end of the long barrel of the shotgun and shoved it under Barry’s bearded chin.
“Hey!”
Sloan pushed a bit. “What I’m goin’ to do is break your damned windpipe if you don’t tell me who you’re working with.”
Barry shook his head, and though it was way below freezing, sweat dripped down the sides of his face. Casey thought she might be sick.
Sloan shoved a little harder and Barry gasped, trying to breathe. “Stop it, you’re killin’ me.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“You can’t murder me!”
“Better than you deserve for what you did to a woman who trusted you for a ride. Now, White, who’s the brains behind this seedy little operation? Cooperate and tell me now, and you might not have to spend the rest of your miserable life in jail. On the other hand, if you hold out...”
Barry snarled and spit at Sloan. “Go ahead, Injun,” he dared, “kill me. Then you’ll never find out, will ya?”
In the shadowy orange light, Casey saw Sloan’s lips curve into a cruel smile. “Whatever you want, White.”
Casey’s heart was thudding. She hated Barry but she couldn’t watch Sloan murder hi
m. “You can’t—”
“Hush!”
“But he’s our only lead to his partner.”
“She’s got a point, Injun.”
Sloan pressed a little harder on the barrel of the gun and Barry choked. “I guess she does. So you’ll just have to wait up here and hope that the bastard you’re tryin’ to protect finds you before you freeze altogether.”
“That’s murder, Injun,” Barry croaked. “You won’t let it happen. If you do, she’ll be an accomplice.” Barry smiled boldly as if he’d won. Sloan yanked back the shotgun, stood and glowered down at him.
“You’re lucky, White. If it was up to me, I’d kill you, gut you right here and hide your body so it’d never be found, but I guess I can’t.” With one eye on Barry, he strode to the wood stove, opened the door and added a couple thick chunks of oak, then slammed the door so hard Casey jumped. “Well, you’ve made your choice. You can just wait here for your buddy. Kind of guy he is, you shouldn’t have to wait more than a day or two, a week on the outside. Maybe you can give some thought about what it was like for Casey.” In disgust, he glanced down Barry’s form, as if assessing his thick ski jacket, then slid Barry’s knife under his belt. With one hand on the shotgun, he grabbed Casey and propelled her to the door.
“Hey, wait! I’m bleedin’ here!”
“We can’t just leave him,” Casey protested over Barry’s curses and angry shouts.
“Like hell. Come on.” He found his hat, which had fallen to the floor in the struggle and plopped it onto his head. As he shepherded her outside, she heard Barry yelling loudly, shouting invectives over the keening wind.
Sloan didn’t seem to care. He stopped by Barry’s truck, opened the door and reached into the glove compartment. He found the pistol, stuffed it into his pocket, grabbed a mackinaw blanket and eyed Casey. Peeling off his jacket, he ignored Casey’s protests and forced her to put it on over her jean jacket, then placed his huge hat over her head before tossing the mackinaw over his broad shoulders. His black hair caught in the wind and he looked more savage than before. His dark eyes held hers for a second before he opened the hood of the truck, rummaged around and pulled off the coil wire, which he stuffed into a pocket. “Just in case he manages to get lucky,” he explained. “I want to make sure that he doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Aren’t we going to use it?” she asked. His jacket was heavy and smelled of horses and worn leather. Somehow it felt safe.
“The truck?” He shook his head. “Nope.”
“But why...?” She looked frantically around for another vehicle.
“His partner might recognize it.”
“You think he’s close by?” Fear put a stranglehold on her throat.
“Don’t know, but we can’t take a chance. Come on.” He helped her trudge through the knee-deep snow away from the lane leading to the cabin. “It won’t take long, but this way we won’t meet up with any of White’s buddies, whoever the hell they are.”
Casey’s teeth were chattering, her hands felt as if they were freezing and she couldn’t feel her feet. Ducking her head against the wind and snow, she knew she had to keep moving, plowing through the drifts. She didn’t know how Sloan could tell where he was going as they walked steadily down the hillside through the trees, snow blowing in their eyes. He kept plodding forward, following a path he’d broken earlier, and eventually they came to some kind of utility shed where a horse—a huge draft animal—was waiting. Her rescuer didn’t say a word, just opened a bag slung over the horse’s haunches and handed her a pair of gloves. He helped her put them on, then shoved a pair of boots her way. Her fingers were too stiff to untie her shoes, so he took over the task, holding his gloves in his mouth as he worked at the frozen laces, After he took off her shoes, he stripped her of her socks. “Hey, wait—”
“I have another pair. Insulated. We can’t risk frostbite.” He rubbed her bare feet, making them sting when the warmth from his hands pierced her flesh. It felt as if he were pricking her with dozens of needles. His hands were big and rough but surprisingly gentle as he helped her into the thick socks and fleece-lined boots that reached to her knees. “We’ll take this along just in case,” he said. He shrugged off the mackinaw and handed her a down coat with a hood. He helped her with the zipper, then offered her a leg up on the horse.
“You expect me to ride him?” she asked.
“If you want to get away.” He dressed in his own jacket again and rammed the Stetson onto his head. For the first time, she noticed the silver hatband and feathers surrounding the black crown.
“But a horse—”
“Snowmobiles make too much noise,” he said without a smile. “Besides, it’s only for a couple of miles. Come on.”
He handed her a scarf and helped her onto the heavy-boned animal, then took the reins and started down the hillside. She wrapped the scarf around her face, but the frigid air still burned her lungs. So cold she could barely speak, she held on to the saddle horn and rocked with the gelding’s swaying gait.
At the bottom of the hill, Sloan stopped the horse. A creek, the banks frozen, a swirl of water in the center, rushed through a steep ravine. Sloan hesitated, then, frowning, looked up at Casey. “This is gonna be a little tight,” he said and swung up into the saddle with her.
Casey stiffened as she felt his legs surround her own, his crotch pressing her rump since they were wedged together so closely. She told herself she was being a ninny, that of course he didn’t want to slog through the water and risk frostbite, but when he wrapped one strong arm around her waist to keep his balance and clucked his tongue at the horse, she bit down on her frozen lip and tried to ignore the intimacy of the situation. They were running for their lives, for God’s sake; she couldn’t worry about anything else.
As they rode, the heat of his body seemed to seep into her skin and she couldn’t help feeling intense relief that someone was taking care of her. Though she’d always been a strong-willed woman and often proclaimed her independence from a domineering father, worried mother and overprotective older brothers, she now wanted to do nothing more than collapse and let someone else worry about keeping her safe and warm. Sloan seemed the answer to her prayers—a strong, silent man, her knight in slightly tarnished armor.
She was being silly, of course. Her thoughts were running away with her, dragging her along a ridiculous course because she wasn’t thinking clearly, probably the result of the numbing cold, for one thing and the ordeal of the past week for another. She would perk up once she was rested. After a week of tension, fear for her life, angry arguments with Barry and sleepless nights filled with nightmares and plots to escape, she just wanted to shut down—to turn her brain off and fall into bed and sleep for days. If she’d been the kind of woman prone to tears, she was certain they’d be freezing on her cheeks right now. As it was, she simply wanted to go home—to the ranch she’d so recently wanted to leave.
All her wishes for independence seemed so petty at this point. She thought vaguely of Clarisse, but her mind was too cloudy to concentrate, and instead she closed her eyes and leaned back against Sloan’s strong chest. Through her jeans she felt the muscles of his thighs grip hers, and his breath was warm against her head. She smelled the scent of him hanging on the bitter-cold air as the horse followed the course of the creek, plodding through the icy water until they reached a bend.
Sloan sucked in the cold through his teeth. He pulled on the reins and wished to God that he didn’t feel the curve of Casey’s rump rubbing intimately against his crotch. Hell, he didn’t need this. She was Jenner’s sister, for crying out loud, a rich girl who had just been through the trauma of her life and the last thing he needed was to think of her in any way the least bit sexual—especially out here in an Arctic storm blowing straight down the mountains from Canada.
At a jog in the creek, he urged the bay to the bank and climbed off. Half-dozing and taken by surprise, Casey nearly toppled, but she caught herself and kept her balance. “You all right?” S
loan asked in concern.
“Fine.” Snowflakes sprinkled her eyelashes. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Blowing on his gloved hands, Sloan led the horse along a twisty, snow-encrusted path that snaked through a thicket of pine. The trail widened into an old mining road with just enough space to park his rented truck and horse trailer. He’d made the arrangements by phone once he’d figured out where Barry was hiding. Unfortunately he’d had two false starts before he’d located the old cabin, which was owned by Barry’s half brother, Steve Jansen.
Sloan had cursed himself for following the other leads—one to a fishing cabin on the Deshutes River outside of Bend owned by a buddy of Barry’s and the other to an old house outside of Boise, which Barry had rented from a distant cousin.
Now, the problem was getting Casey home before the worst of the Arctic storm predicted for the past two days by the weather service hit.
“Come on, get inside,” he said to Casey as he helped her to the ground. Good Lord, she was a tiny thing—couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds and barely five-three unless he missed his guess. He opened the passenger door of the old Chevy truck, gave her a boost inside, then climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
While the cab warmed, he took care of the horse, a gelding he’d borrowed from Wes Duncan, a man he’d known for years, an ex-rodeo rider who lived about forty miles from here. Sloan had rented the trailer, as well, leaving a healthy deposit with Wes. So far, his plan had worked. He was certain no one had followed him and he hadn’t had to deal with a surprise visit from Barry’s accomplice, whoever the hell he was.
He unsaddled the horse, offered him a quick drink of water, then quickly wiped down the gelding’s coat, including his legs, dried the big animal, then tethered him in the trailer. After snapping the back gate closed, he climbed into the pickup again.
Heat from the radiator fogged the windows, and Casey, huddled in the corner, gazed at him with eyes the color of a forest at dawn. “Why you?” she asked as he revved the engine and rammed the truck into gear. “Why not deputies from the sheriff’s department or Rex Stone or the FBI?”