Saving Andi: St. John Sibling Series: FRIENDS

by Raffin, Barbara

  "If you aren't, I have friends in law enforcement," she said, her words only three-quarters of a lie considering she thought of Conservation Officer Kelly as somewhat a friend. "I'm sure one of them can provide a number for the FBI."

  The backup guy cleared his throat as if signaling Fedora Guy and took a step backward. That's when it struck her where she knew Backup Guy from and she raised a finger at him.

  "Aren't you Harley Hakala?"

  He shook his head, tucked his chin, and turned up his collar as if trying to hide his face.

  "Sure," she said. "You went to school with my older brother, Dalmar."

  He turned toward the car.

  "Or maybe it was juvi where you two met," she called.

  Fedora Guy stepped into her line of sight. "Looks like you're well-fortified and capable of taking care of yourself should our man show up. Have a good day, Miss Johanson."

  And with that, the pair climbed into their dark SUV, Backup Guy a.k.a. Harley Hakala in the driver's seat.

  They'd parked at an angle to the road and the cabin so neither she, nor anyone driving past, could easily see their license plate. But she memorized the numbers as they pulled out. Not that she expected the plate would give her any credible lead on who her visitors really were. Either the SUV or the plates could have been stolen. She doubted Harley would be dumb enough to use a vehicle of his own. Hell, she doubted Harley owned a vehicle without a spot of rust on it.

  Oh yeah, she'd recognized her brother's old pal. He was not law enforcement material, which only confirmed her doubts about Agent Fedora.

  She closed the door and bolted it, watching until the vehicle had driven out of sight before retreating to the bedroom. Cole stood to one side of the doorway, gun at the ready.

  "How much did you hear?" she asked.

  "Bits and pieces," he said. "Enough to know they weren't real cops."

  "I know," she said. "So at least we know you aren't wanted by the cops."

  He shook his head. "We know only that the cops haven't shown up yet, but a couple hoods have and those kind are likely to return."

  "Doubtful," she said. "I recognized one of them. When I called him on it, they couldn't get away fast enough. Didn't even finish playing out the FBI angle." She held her hands palms up. "Didn't even leave a card with a number for me to call should I come across dangerous you."

  He slumped against the wall as though the adrenaline keeping him upright had just drained out of him. "They're not done looking for me and that puts you in harm's way. Maybe we should contact the police. They aren't a danger to you. These guys are."

  Wedging her shoulder under his, she helped him to the bed, muttering, "You don't know cops the way I know them."

  #

  What did she mean by you don't know cops the way I know them?

  And why did what she thought of cops bother him so much?

  Cole had faded into an uneasy sleep that morning after Andi had helped him to the bed. All day, he drifted in and out of sleep, drained as much by the adrenaline rush that had put him on alert during the FBI visit as any blood loss.

  For the second night, he lay in the bed staring at the slatted wood ceiling. Must be a full moon in a cloudless sky beyond the curtains, that he could see so well.

  But he didn't need light to hear how restless Andi was out on the couch. She'd vetoed his suggestion he take the couch and she return to her bed.

  "You need rest to heal and that narrow, lumpy couch isn't built to accommodate a man your size comfortably," she'd stated with a finality that left no room for argument.

  So, here he was back in her bed, wide awake because he'd dozed through the day. She'd told him he needed the rest—that it was part of his body healing. Like he didn't know that already. But did he know that because it was logical or because of past experience?

  His hand went to the scar on his shoulder. Damned if he could remember how he'd gotten it. Though he recognized it came from a bullet. He also sensed the reason behind that gunshot wound was a whole lot more painful than the reason for the one in his side. And that locked away memory seemed more the reason he couldn't sleep than a day full of naps.

  It didn't help any either that he was too troubled by the visit of two thugs—too attuned to every little sound to relax. Andi may have shrugged off the danger of their visitors because she knew one of them, her response to his concerns, "If that guy paired up with Harley, they aren't going to search hard for you. Harley's a slacker."

  "They tried to kill me," he'd pointed out.

  To which she'd replied, "Remember what I said about a local being more likely to track your blood trail through the woods to the cabin?"

  "Yeah."

  "Harley's not fond of physical activity. I'd bet my last dollar he didn't track you to the camp where I found you. I'm guessing Harley, knowing that I watch the camps, took the path of least effort and convinced his friend that checking with me and a few other people who live around here would be good enough to make sure you never made it out of the woods."

  Cole, on the other hand, wasn't as convinced as she that the pair had given up.

  A cry of, "No," from the neighboring room punctuated the silence of the cabin.

  Then again, maybe she wasn't as convinced they were as safe as she pretended, either, if the danger had invaded her sleep.

  But then she gasped for air. She wasn't asleep. Had someone entered the cabin—grabbed her?

  He sat up, simultaneously snatching the Glock from under his pillow. A silhouette appeared in the open doorway. Slim. Feminine. Arms hugged around herself.

  He slid the gun back under his pillow. "Bad dream?"

  She nodded.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  She shook her head.

  "What do you need?"

  She turned her shadowed face aside, a wayward shaft of light falling across her mouth, revealing the uncertain tug of her lower lip between her teeth before she lifted her face back to him.

  "I need to be held."

  He tossed back the covers with the intent to go to her. But she bolted for the bed—was under the covers and pressing herself to his side before he'd moved a leg toward the floor. She tucked her head against his shoulder and slung an arm across his chest. He should tell her getting into bed with him wasn't a good idea, even if she was clad from neck to toe in insulated underwear.

  But she was trembling and all she'd asked for was to be held. So he settled in beside her and held her.

  He held her until she stopped trembling.

  He held her until her grip on him relaxed.

  He held her until her breathing evened out and he knew she slept.

  Then he stroked her long, dark hair and held her some more.

  He'd meant to stay awake guarding them through the night. But he must have fallen asleep, as he woke with a start to Tuff's cold nose nudging his elbow and no Andi in the crook of his arm.

  #

  Andi dropped the venison sausage patties into the big cast iron skillet, memory of Cole's compliment of the morning before more warming than the flame off the gas stove. Yet, she frowned.

  What had she been thinking, running to Cole last night because she'd had a nightmare? She'd had nightmares before. She had a lifetime of nightmares. She'd never climbed into anyone's bed before because of them.

  But she had held her baby brother in his bed when he'd had nightmares. And she'd always longed for there to be someone to do the same for her.

  But Cole? A stranger with no memory and evidence of a dangerous past?

  "Smells good out here," he said and she twisted toward the bedroom doorway.

  Hair disheveled and in bad need of a shave, he still took her breath away. Because he'd been the first man to comfort her through the aftermath of one of her nightmares?

  Or because he was good looking beneath those rough edges and in spite of the pistol now strapped to his hip? If so, then she'd slipped back into bad habits. She didn't want that to be the reason.

&n
bsp; "Something I can do to help?" he asked, striding toward her.

  Ah, another reason to like the man. He was no slacker. But what she was feeling for him went beyond liking and that unsettled her. She had a tendency to like handsome men too fast—too easily.

  She slapped a gob of butter into the pan beside the patties and dumped in a pile of freshly grated potatoes, answering him with, "Got it covered. There's coffee in the pot if you want to get started."

  She felt him as much as heard him as he retrieved a mug from the shelf beside her and filled it from the coffeemaker, one of her few concessions to easy living. He certainly wasn't making living easy for her, not when he lingered within arm's reach as he took his first swallow of coffee.

  "You make good coffee," he said, lowering the mug.

  "The coffeemaker makes good coffee," she retorted, flattening the potatoes against the bottom of the pan.

  He leaned close and peered over her shoulder, his holstered gun brushing her hip further reminding her of their reality.

  "I love hash browns," he said, "especially when they're crispy."

  She caught a whiff of Cole in spite of the spices rising from the frying pan—a very appealing whiff, and forgot about guns and danger. He should have smelled of stale sweat, given he'd only been able to sponge bathe himself the past few days and was still wearing the same tee and sweats she'd provided him, clothes he'd been wearing night and day.

  Oh yes, she knew what he wore to bed. After last night, she knew that as surely as she knew this man's scent was pure musk to her.

  "How about I set the table?" he said more than asked.

  "Don't overdo," she said over her shoulder. "You've got a ways to go before you're even close to healed."

  "Won't build up my strength if I sit around babying myself," he said, having set down his mug and taken a couple plates from the cupboard.

  She turned and jabbed her spatula at him. "It'll take weeks to replenish the blood you lost. You even start to feel lightheaded, you sit down."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, his grin pushing dimples into his cheeks and making his heavy-lidded eyes twinkle.

  She wheeled away from him, afraid he'd see her want—her need, and she'd already revealed more of herself to him last night than she'd intended.

  "Your socks and shorts are clean," she said. "After breakfast, I'll get you another of my brother's tees and sweats from the loft."

  "Do I smell that bad?"

  She glanced back at him and caught him sniffing at his armpits. If he only knew what he smelled like to her.

  "No. You don't smell that bad. I just figured you must be itching to get out of clothes you've been wearing twenty-four hours a day."

  "A good cleaning up would feel good. If you help me tape plastic wrap over my wounds, I could take a shower."

  She flipped the sausages and turned the potatoes. Of course he'd know about covering a wound for bathing purposes. His body bore the scars to prove he had plenty of experience.

  But her stomach did gymnastics at the thought of seeing—touching his bare back and his muscled abs again. Not a good plan, yet she answered, "I can help you."

  "And I noticed some disposable razors in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom," he said. "Think I could use one?"

  "Sure," she said, popping bread in the toaster and turning back to the stove.

  He reached around her for the butter and took on toaster duty. Silently, she lamented how little counter space she had…even if a part of her really liked his nearness.

  No. She had to keep her distance from him. She'd made a mistake bringing him here.

  CHAPTER SIX

  She'd nested the sausage patties—she'd given him twice as many as she'd taken—in the center of the crispy hash browns, then topped the patties with scrambled eggs—scrambled because she had only three eggs left—and doused the proteins with a cheese sauce, heavy on the cheese.

  "Making sure I get my protein, huh?" he'd teased.

  "You betcha," she'd said, sitting down opposite him and digging into her smaller portion, seemingly intent on her food.

  One bite and he likewise succumbed to the lure of the hardy meal, so much so any thought of talk was forgotten.

  A mistake, he decided when he found himself at the end of the meal barely able to keep his eyes open. Any questions he'd intended to ask her seemed to sink back into the soft, gray cushion on his weary brain.

  "Go nap," she'd said.

  "I should help you clean up here."

  "You need sleep to—"

  He held up his hand, silencing her. "I know. I need sleep to heal."

  So off he went.

  It must have been close to noon when he woke and stepped out into the living area. She was reloading the wood box between the fireplace and wood stove.

  "Got time to help me get ready for that shower?"

  She glanced up at him, brushing off remnants of bark. "Sure, just let me hang up my jacket and get the plastic wrap."

  He met her at the corner of the fireplace, where he took the jacket she'd removed. "I'll hang that up for you. Meet you in the bathroom."

  She nodded, not quite meeting his gaze. After last night, after coming to him for comforting, he didn't expect shyness from her.

  By the time she joined him in the bathroom, he'd removed his t-shirt. She stutter-stepped as she walked through the open door, her glance the length of him quick before she set the wrap on the vanity next to the roll of tape he'd already taken from her first-aid kit.

  What was that all about? She didn't strike him as the type easily embarrassed by the human body. Hell, she'd tended his entire naked body and faced him afterward without so much as a blush.

  Flipping down the lid on the john, she sat and went to work, all business taping the plastic wrap over the wound just below his ribs. He expected nothing less from someone who could sew flesh together. But the studious way she kept her attention on the job, the way she avoided looking anywhere else but at the bullet hole just below his ribs didn't jive with the woman who'd sought him out for comfort.

  Maybe she viewed coming to him for help a vulnerability. That could be enough to change things between them in her mind.

  Hell, her making herself vulnerable to him changed his perspective, too. Before last night, he'd have settled for knowing why she was taking the risk to help him. Now he wanted to know her whole story, and not just because he suspected her story held the answer to why she was helping him. He wanted to know this woman.

  "You never said how you knew the local guy," he ventured, determined to get her talking.

  "Harley and my brother hung out together back in their school days…which meant they hung out more than went to school."

  She answered him without so much as an upward glance, still focused on her taping job—still focused on not seeing him as a man. That's how it struck him. But she had answered his question.

  "Not the best students, huh?" he pressed.

  She snorted. "They were students of how to get around the law and, for the most part, good at that."

  "You don't sound all that proud of their abilities."

  With a sigh, she snagged another strip of tape off the edge of the vanity. "That kind of knowledge only leads to trouble."

  So she doesn’t like trouble with the law, yet she doesn’t like lawmen. What's that all about?

  "What kind of trouble?" he prompted, trying to fit trouble to the happy-faced teen posed with her in the picture he'd found in the desk drawer.

  She pressed the tape along the bottom edge of the plastic wrap, sat back, and stared at her work. "Petty theft with those two. Some drugs."

  But there was more. He saw it in her blank stare and prodded, "Sounds like Harley was a bad influence on your brother."

  "Turn around," she ordered, continuing much to his surprise. "My dad had us all poaching long before Dalmar hooked up with Harley."

  So Daddy indoctrinated his children into a life of crime from an early age. That could explain her avers
ion to cops.

  She cut four more strips of tape and fixed them like tabs to the edge of the vanity at his hip as she talked. "Harley was just a step in Dal's escalating life of destruction."

  "What happened to your brother?"

  She ripped off a sheet of wrap and taped the top edge against his back above his wound. "That one's in prison."

  That one.

  "How many brothers do you have?"

  She pressed the tape down one side then the other of the plastic wrap before answering. "I had two. One older. One younger. The younger one is dead."

  A dead younger brother and an older one in prison. Was there a connection?

  "The brother in prison, what's he there for?"

  She ran the final piece of tape across the bottom edge of the wrap, the pressure of her fingertips against his skin almost making him flinch as she answered. "Lot of reasons. But the big one is second degree murder."

  #

  Andi shut the bathroom door between them harder than she meant to. But she'd needed to get out of that small space—needed air—needed distance from Cole.

  Standing outside the door, she sucked air, telling herself he had no business asking her the questions he had. Yet she'd answered him. Why?

  Because he was easy to talk to.

  Because she hungered for someone with whom to share the burden of her past.

  Because—because…

  Tuff Stuff pressed her head against Andi's side. Andi curled her fingers through the malamute's thick ruff. "I know. I can share with you. But it's different with him."

  Beyond the door behind her, the spray of water hit the shower wall followed by the interruption of a body stepping between wall and water. Her fingers tightened in Tuff's ruff as she imagined the water streaming down Cole's naked body.

  No. She didn't need to imagine, not about the naked body. She'd already seen his…and touched it.

  "No, no, no," she muttered through gritted teeth, releasing Tuff and bolting from the bathroom door and up the steps to the loft. She refused to be attracted to any man.

  She went directly to her younger brother's dresser positioned at the foot of his bed, which was tucked beneath the loft's only window. Slowly, she opened the middle of its three drawers. He didn't have much. Hell, none of them had ever had much.