Maggie? What an odd name for a man.
“And don’t let him charm you into bed. He’s a bad boy and you deserve better.”
“You don’t trust him?” she asked quickly, remembering the murdered woman and the way the cop’s eyes had sparked when he’d found out Daniel was ex-SAS.
Maggie laughed. “I trust him with my life, but only a blind man would trust him with a woman.” The line went dead.
She looked up to see Daniel leaning in the doorway. His deep blue gaze flickered with smothered emotion. She frowned.
“That was your friend Maggie. He wanted to speak to you.”
Daniel’s eyes glowed but he said nothing.
Why hadn’t he wanted to talk to someone who was obviously his buddy?
“Aren’t you going to call him back?” Cam offered him the handset.
“Of course.” But Daniel didn’t move. Cam stared into his eyes and knew he was lying.
***
It was full dark now. The perfect night for a covert military operation, and Daniel wondered where his mates were. He shut down the thought as quickly as it came and took a drink. It wasn’t his business anymore. The men in his squadron had supported him through the black aftermath of the shooting, through the international headlines, through the fierce sense of injustice. He missed the camaraderie.
He’d messed up.
His meticulously planned life had exploded in his face, and here he was in a lonely bunk aboard a ship in Northern Labrador. But Maggie—Magnus Maguire—bloody-mindedly refused to give up on him. Daniel had known what he was doing when he’d insulted his CO. He’d been giving the Regiment a valid reason to kick him out. And even though sabotaging his career had been like cutting off both legs, he didn’t know what he could have done different. The massive press coverage had hurt the SAS. His public dismissal had allowed them to regain some of the respect it deserved for being the best group of soldiers, the best group of men, on the face of the earth. He’d gone into exile, used beer and sex as his anesthetic to civilian life.
And if he were really honest—which he wasn’t—he might admit that getting kicked out was easier than having to admit he couldn’t cope. That he’d lost it and wasn’t up to the job he’d trained for all his life. Because the image of that woman falling to the ground with his bullet in her brain, and the tears on her son’s lashes, never left him. He could still hear the sound of her skull as it connected with the tile floor. And not five minutes later he’d shot dead a cameraman who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, a man whose only crime had been stupidity and ignorance. Those images never left his consciousness. Bang, bang. You’re dead.
Terrorism and warfare went hand-in-hand with death and misery. He’d done his job. He’d been a bloody good soldier, putting a bullet in the enemy, no hesitation, no mercy. And maybe it was learning to live with that part of himself that had driven him so far from civilization. That and infamy. And the flicker of doubt in his mother’s eyes.
The ache grew inside him.
He slumped to the bed. It was a crappy mattress, but he’d slept in worse places. The jungles of Borneo, a Bedouin tent in the desert, under prickly gorse bushes on the Welsh hills. He’d even spent one memorable night in Saddam’s palace the night Baghdad fell. Discomfort was a part of the job that hadn’t bothered him because he’d had a purpose and his mates.
His best friend—Maggie—had almost been killed on his watch. No way could he speak to Maggie.
Daniel rattled his beer can, trying to shake his mind off the past. Usually beer helped, but not tonight. And getting a hard-on for sex usually helped too, except the thought of Vikki wasn’t doing it for him. The alcohol had leached his mind and he’d lost his appreciation for hot blondes. He tipped his beer into his mouth, craving the buzz as he pictured her incredible body. But it evoked no response, whereas the thought of not having sex with Cameran Young made him hard as stone.
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.
Cameran Young was not the sort of woman to mess around with, even though she was funny and cute and…shit, there was something about her.
A flash of blue-green on the bedside table caught his eye and he fingered a lump of labradorite he’d picked up in Ten Mile Bay. The feldspar sparkled like Cam’s eyes. He might be ex-military but those girl-next-door freckles scared the shit out of him. He threw the rock hard against the wall and it smashed and splintered.
He was an idiot, and if Vikki came to his door tonight he was inviting her in.
He pinched the bridge of his nose as he pictured the cameraman’s gap-toothed smile. “Sorry, mate. I am so bloody sorry.”
***
The cottontail kicked feebly, scrambling in a half circle as the man approached. Its eyes were huge and nervy, reflecting death in the lens. Still it fought the brass garrote wrapped around its neck, every jerk tightening the noose.
Stupid creature.
He stopped and watched it slowly strangle itself, the light in its eyes diminishing. He’d seen many things die, but nothing compared to watching the lifeblood flow out of Sylvie Watson’s veins. It had unnerved him.
The Inuit believed everything had a spirit, from the rocks to the lowly mouse. But they believed humans had a complex soul with more than one spirit, and some spirits could come back and be reborn. If that were true, Sylvie would surely come back as a tuurngaq.
Respect the dead, he reminded himself. The man tied a long cord around the rabbit’s big padded feet. The wolverine was smart and cunning, so he needed to be smarter and slyer. He took the rabbit in his hands, the animal’s body warm and flaccid beneath his fingers. He carefully removed the wire from the animal’s neck and reset the snare farther along the trail, where his scent wouldn’t be so strong and death wouldn’t taint the air. Then he headed northeast to where he’d seen the ground sign yesterday.
Halfway up the ridge he spotted the tree he’d chosen for this purpose. It sat at an angle that would make it easier to climb. At the base he dropped his pack, then inched up the trunk, going higher than he liked to be, his lungs huffing like bellows. He pulled his knife, wrapping his arms and legs tight around the trunk as he slit the carcass from neck to pelvis and let the entrails dangle. The overpowering stench of ruptured guts flooded the air, offal steaming and dripping to the dusty earth below. His hands were unsteady as he tied the offering securely to a branch. His thighs ached from gripping the rough bark, and blood pounded through his ears like thunder. He didn’t like heights. Sweat formed a film on his body. He let go of the rabbit and watched it swing gently from the tether.
Hugging the tree with all his limbs, he shuffled back down like a bear cub. Once his feet were planted firmly on the ground, he smiled at the sun and said a little prayer.
Patience.
The stakes were high and time was short, but he’d never beat this creature without a little luck and a whole heap of patience.
Chapter Seven
Difficulties Be Damned King’s Regiment (Liverpool)
“Six weeks?” Cam’s voice sounded strained. Whatever she was hearing wasn’t good news.
Daniel watched her lower her forehead into her palm with the precision of someone suffering from a first-class headache. She was on the phone in the top-deck lounge of the ship’s stern. He’d been slumped in the far booth, reading the newspaper, trying to remain inconspicuous. He’d hoped she’d leave.
She hadn’t.
Five o’clock in the morning…he’d woken at four, sweaty and shaking from another nightmare. He hadn’t bothered trying to get back to sleep. Now he was tired and hungover, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep.
“Can the company send anyone else? Another student?” Her voice dropped. “Yeah, okay, George, you just rest up and mend that ankle.”
Daniel climbed out of the booth and walked silently across the swirly 1970s carpet.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get the fence fixed and start seine netting…” Unaware she had company, she wrapped her fingers tightly
around the coil of the telephone cable and tugged hard. She had a dozen freckles on the back of her hands that he hadn’t noticed before.
“No, no, don’t worry…Yes, I’ll keep you informed, take care. Bye.” She put the receiver in the cradle and laid her head on her forearms, her hair separating at the nape of her neck to leave a pure white line. “I am so screwed.”
You could be.
Shit. Where had that come from? He needed this woman out of his life, not in his bed. He needed her to be someone else’s problem before he made a serious error of judgment. Another serious error of judgment.
“What’s up?” he asked.
She didn’t startle or look around. But she froze into position, those lax muscles stiffening beneath delicate skin.
“It’s George.” Blindly she patted the phone. “He’s on sick leave for at least six weeks.” She raised her face, her green T-shirt bringing out the emerald in her eyes.
“And?”
“I have to start catching fish immediately if I’m to get this study up and running because the mine company won’t wait till next summer to start the dam.” Her mouth drooped at the corners. “And all I have are Tommy and Katie, who don’t know char from brook trout, and Vikki—” she eyed him sharply, the skin around her eyes tightening, “—who’s okay in a lab but in the field is too worried about cracking a nail to—” She cut herself off, dug the ends of her fingers into her temples. “Anyway, maybe you’ll get your wish after all.”
“My wish?” He snorted. Christ, he hoped she wasn’t psychic.
“The one where I go home with my tail between my legs and do nothing but lab studies for the next thirty years. At least I’ll be safe there…except—oh no!—my diabetes can attack me just as easily in a lab as in the field.” She thumped her fist flat against the table.
He laughed, which surprised him and annoyed her. When the hell was the last time he really laughed?
She stood and planted her hands on her waist and got in his face. “You think this is funny?”
He could smell the soap on her skin, the sharp tang of sweet shampoo which made him want to draw a deep breath and move in closer.
Suddenly her eyes sparked. “Hey, doesn’t the SAS specialize in living off the land? Don’t you know how to catch char?”
He huffed out a cross between a grunt and a laugh. “Aren’t you the biologist?” he countered. “Shouldn’t you be the expert on catching fish?”
“I’m a physiologist, not a fisherman. I usually get my fish from a hatchery.” She started pacing. “Goddamn. Why does it have to be so difficult?”
There was a brief silence during which the answer to her problem flashed through his brain.
“So all you need to complete your study are some fish?”
“Yeah.” She pressed her lips together. “Believe it or not, all I need to complete a migration study are a few migrating fish.”
“I might be able to help you.” He realized he was staring at her lips, so he shifted his focus to her eyes, which shone like feldspar. Fucking great. Thankfully she couldn’t see his eyes because he wore dark shades—all the better to hide hangovers with.
He made to angle around her, but was body-blocked. She stumbled and he grabbed her just to make sure she didn’t fall. It had nothing to do with wanting to touch her again. And his grandmother was the star performer of Cirque du Soleil.
“How…” She drew the word out into a full sentence, placing her hand on his chest as if that would stop him from moving. Oddly enough, it did. “Can you help me?”
He could feel the edges of his lips begging to crack into a grin. “Have you had your insulin and breakfast?”
“Ugh. Why does that sound so unappetizing?”
He backed up a step. “If you want my help, you need to answer my questions.” He stared her down while she gave him a death glare. Most people gave him extra-wide personal space, but despite everything that had passed between them over the past few days, she didn’t seem at all scared of him. Maybe she knew he was all bluster and no balls. When she didn’t answer he took another step back and she threw up her hands in exasperation.
“Okay, yes, great master. Yes, I took my shot and ate copious amounts of oatmeal. Now.” She stared at him so intently, he thought she might grab him if he so much as moved. And that was so tempting he held himself perfectly still. “What have you got that I want?” she asked.
The Doc was not referring to sex even though his ever-ready body was trying to twist it that way. “Grab your stuff. Meet me by the chopper.” He started out of the room to complete the daily inspection of the aircraft, but before he could brush past her she raised a brow and ran her eyes down his body.
“This better not be about your dinky again—”
“Dinky?” He snorted. God, she was funny. And fearless. “I do not have a dinky.” He tried to look insulted but a fresh rush of amusement ran though him. “A donkey, maybe.” He took another step, determined for once to have the last word.
“You are a donkey,” she muttered.
And though he tried to ram it down into that deep, dark place inside him, he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.
***
They were flying directly into the sun. Cam blinked to clear her vision.
A thin tangle of smoke was rising in the distance. As they got closer, she saw an old cabin. Someone lived here surrounded by miles upon miles of untouched, uninhabited wilderness.
The isolation pressed down like a physical force. Who in their right mind would live out here? She enjoyed her own company but this was different. This was like being part of the fabric of nature, not civilization. And for all she loved nature, given enough time this sort of remoteness would drive her crazy.
Daniel circled a short way from the cabin, radioed his intention to land although no one answered. A dog, some wolf/husky cross, was chained to the side of the house and throwing itself at them in excitement or anger. The chain brought it up short every time. More dogs were housed in pens around the back. A sled team, she figured, even though there was an ATV and a rusted-looking snowmobile sitting outside the shack.
The helicopter buffeted against a gust of wind as Daniel put it down on a small outcrop of lichen-covered rock and started the shutdown process.
“I don’t have much time before I’m due at a new slinging site,” he told her, unclipping his harness. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the Ray-Bans, but his jaw looked smooth, clean-shaven, and one-hundred-percent male. “Come on.”
She scrambled out of her harness and this time remembered to pull off the headphones before hopping down to the ground. The air smelled ripe with sweet grass and pollen, the edge of the pond dotted with white cottony flowers.
They strode down the hill toward the ramshackle cottage. It was made of split logs on one side, wooden siding on the other, thrown together through necessity rather than design. Various cages were constructed around the back.
“Who lives here?”
Daniel said nothing.
“Aren’t we a little early for a social call?” she persisted.
“No,” was all he said.
As they got closer, Cam saw that the dog chained near the front door was wagging its tail, a long pink tongue lolling out of its mouth. Daniel walked over and stroked the mutt. The dog rested its feet on Daniel’s shoulders and aimed that wet pink tongue in the direction of the handsome face.
“Watch out.” Cam kept her tone dry. “You don’t know where he’s been.” Daniel sank his face into the dog’s thick ruff as she added, “Dog could catch something.”
He smiled just as she’d hoped he would. Trying to make him laugh was getting to be addictive. She rounded the corner and stopped dead. The empty eyes of a gutted wolf stared out at her from a silver pelt. Piles of smaller brown furs lay outside the front door. Round stretched skins were propped against the cabin in various stages of preparation. Revulsion rose in her throat and slammed into her mouth. This couldn’t be the right place. She b
acked away straight into a body that didn’t smell or feel anything like Daniel’s.
Stumbling, she whirled and stared up into eyes so dark they absorbed light. The old man stank of wood smoke and sweat. Grueling lines of age bit into dull copper skin, emphasizing his cheekbones. The epicanthic fold over his eyes gave him an oriental appearance, but his hair was mousy brown with streaks of gray. She fought the reaction that made her shake and didn’t realize she was still backing away until she hit something hard. Daniel cupped his hands over her shoulders, and she instinctively leaned into the protection of his embrace.
“Doc.” His voice was soft in her ear. “This is Tooly Grant, a local trapper who knows more about this area and the wildlife in it than anyone else on the planet.”
Hunting was not a luxury in this region. It was a necessity. She knew that. It was life or death out here, and she shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Winn Dixie didn’t get hamburgers from the hamburger fairy, and she’d never been big on hypocrisy. She just hadn’t realized how truly naïve she was until this exact moment.
Tooly Grant raked his eyes over her as though he was deciding whether or not she had any worthwhile meat on her bones. Her mouth went dry, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Daniel’s hands branded her arms with welcome heat and she didn’t try to move away.
“Tooly, this is Dr. Cameran Young, a researcher from Miami.”
The old guy stuck his hands on his hips and raised his brows in direct question to Daniel. He wore jeans, a cardigan and a ragged old scarf tied loosely around his neck. His shirt was richly embroidered and flecked with dirt. A hunting knife rode his skinny hip. Cam dragged her eyes away from that knife and then Tooly smiled, his face softening, becoming as warm and benevolent as a child’s prayer.
“I saw you and your friends down at the mouth of Mitshishu Brook yesterday,” he said. His words had a tight guttural inflection to them.
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