by J. S. Marlo
Alistair took a deep breath and seemed to relax a notch. “She showed up at the cabin at suppertime. She was hungry and wanted a place to crash for the night. I couldn’t let her freeze to death.”
Course not. “Continue.”
“In exchange for my hospitality, she offered to clean my place.”
Course she did. “How nice of her to offer.”
“I should have kicked her out, but she pushed through the door, shed her clothes, and insisted on starting with the bedroom.” He shrugged. “What’s a guy supposed to do? Chloe was working. I was lonely. We got friendly. That’s when she hit me. I fell onto the bed. Before I could get up, she’d tied me to the headboard and wrapped a rope around my neck. I couldn’t move without strangling myself.”
Do you take me for an idiot? “Let me get this straight, a strapping man like you got subdued by a woman running around naked in your cabin?”
“She still had some clothes on, Stone, but she was wild.” If the bolts of lightning shooting from Alistair’s eyes were charged with electricity, Avery would be burned to a crisp. “She ransacked my place and stole my favorite hunting knife. I want her charged. Someone needs to teach her a lesson.”
“It’s Constable Stone, Alistair.” If there were any truth to Alistair’s story, that woman would deserve an accolade. “Do you have a name or a description?”
“Already told you, Sto—Constable. With her long dark hair and buckskin parka, she looked like a white Indian. Said her name was Lucky.” He snorted. “I sure didn’t get lucky.”
“Lucky?” In the forest, while he’d pursued Hannah, the old woman had called her Lucky. “Did she have blue eyes?”
“Yeah, why do you think I call her a white Indian? I can tell you she wasn’t too bright.”
Every muscle in Avery’s body coiled tighter than a rattlesnake. If the guy touched a hair on Hannah’s head, he would see to it that he spent the rest of his pathetic life in a cell. “What happened after she wrapped you like a sausage?”
“Told you. Nothing.” The word was yelled in frustration. “I heard her rummage through the kitchen, then I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, she was gone and Chloe was having fun with the rope.”
If Alistair leaked his aggressor’s description, someone was bound to notice the similarities between Hannah and Lucky. “Before I file a report, I need to have a look at your cabin.”
“Sure.” Alistair straightened up and slipped his gloves on. “Wanna come now?”
Time to play poker. “That’s perfect. It saves me the trouble of getting a search warrant. While I check for damage, I can look for any evidence that Chloe is up to her old trick.”
Alistair stilled, his face turning an unhealthy shade of white. “What evidence?”
The fish has taken the bait. “Chloe never told you she has a record? Credit card fraud, check forgery…She may not be a hooker, Alistair, but she’s bad news. If I find one record in your cabin, I can put her away.” Leaning closer to the counter, Avery lowered his voice. “It would get more complicated if Chloe implicates you. I’ll have to arrest both of you, but we can’t let that Lucky woman get away with her crime, can we?”
A nervous laugh shook Alistair’s body. “Like you said, Constable, I’m…I’m a big man. If I tell a judge that a scrawny woman tied me up, he’ll laugh at me. Between you and me, I gave her the rope…you know, for role-play. She just didn’t play by my rules, and that riled me up. Maybe I overreacted just a little.”
“A little? Didn’t she steal your favorite hunting knife?”
Sweat pearled in Alistair’s salt and pepper brows. “I…I remember now. I left it in the shed after I skinned a rabbit. That’s where it is.” He took an unsteady step back. “I know how busy you are catching bad guys and everything, I shouldn’t have bothered you. Any chance we could—” He pointed at the notes Avery had taken. “—forget about pressing charges?”
“Well…I don’t like to let criminals go, but if you walk out without signing your deposition, I’ll have to toss that sheet of paper in the trash.”
Alistair left the detachment without saying goodbye or touching a pen.
Chapter Twenty-
Seven
Her feet planted in the snow, she lifted the axe above her head, and with a swift blow she hit the log. The wood split, the halves falling on either side of the stump. As she bent to pick up another log, a snowball flew in front of her eyes. She looked toward the shed.
Grinning from ear to ear, a boy slapped his mitts together. A man scooped him up and tossed him over his shoulder like a potato bag. Drawn by the child’s laughter and the man’s warm brown eyes, she ran toward them.
A gusty storm swept across her path, blinding her. She slipped onto a sheet of ice. It cracked, spurting water in the frigid air. The gap grew wider—and wider. A bloody face rose from the depths.
She screamed.
Awoken instantly, Lucky bolted into a sitting position.
Daylight crept through the window and diffused a soft glow inside the shed. She hadn’t intended to return to the place where she’d abandoned Fudge, but a storm had blanketed the forest while she searched for the old man’s cabin, forcing her to take shelter for the night. When Greta had talked about the old man who’d given her the snowshoes, Lucky should have asked for detailed directions. Until she unlocked the key to her past, his cabin might provide the refuge she desperately needed.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The nightmare faded, but the image of the child lingered at the edge of her consciousness, his elusive name burning the tip of her tongue. The boy is real and a connection exists between us. She couldn’t explain how she knew, she just sensed it. Fudge was more of a mystery. While her subconscious didn’t seem to perceive him as a threat, she couldn’t reconcile his actions in the lodge with her gut feelings. What kind of man—of policeman—takes the dead person and abandons the living one?
The snow drifting outside the window didn’t offer any answer, but she was confident it’d erased her long trek. Her stomach rumbled, the only sound she could hear. She had stolen a knife, a woven afghan, and some food from her unwilling host. To think of the man sent shivers down her spine. If it hadn’t been for the bitter cold, she wouldn’t have spent the night on his couch.
Her gaze traveled to the tool bench on which she’d placed the food and the knife. She gasped in surprise. “How…”
There he sat on the floor, less than ten feet away, with his back to the bench and a pair of snowshoes—her snowshoes—on his lap. How long he’d been looking at her, she couldn’t begin to guess.
“Why on earth didn’t you wait for me?” While his stationary position and blank expression bared no insight into his mind, the crisp movement of his lips conveyed his aggravation. “Seeking refuge in that scumbag’s cabin wasn’t safe.”
Hugging the afghan against her chest, she recoiled against the wall.
Somehow he found out where she’d spent the night, and he wasn’t pleased. She couldn’t blame him. The encounter hadn’t been one of her finest moments.
“What’s going on, Hannah?” A deep frown creased his forehead. “He didn’t hurt you—did he?”
There was that name again, and the pause at the end, as if he cared.
“Why does it matter, Fudge?” Using his name, even if it was just a nickname of her creation, gave her courage. “I saw you ride away. If I hadn’t crawled out of that hole, I’d still be trapped.”
“Fudge?” A glint of amusement sparked in his eyes. “Does that mean you think I’m sweet?”
He toyed with her, almost flirting. This wasn’t a game she wanted to play, not until she remembered the rules. “Why did you want me to hide? So you could come back alone and kill me?”
His mouth gaped open like a trout out of water.
To gauge his reaction, she’d purposely pushed his buttons. The result was enlightening. “Am I supposed to believe you had my best interests at heart when you left me there to freeze?”
“I would never abandon you, Hannah. I had to pretend to ride away in case Cooper was watching me. I’m trying my best to protect you and Rory here, but you—” He shook his head, and his expression softened. “Rory is alive, Hannah, and he’s safe. I didn’t mean to scare you into thinking something had happened to him in the explosion.”
“Who’s…Rory?” The name rolled on her tongue, the echo of a fleeting memory. “What explosion?”
Fudge’s eyes widened, a look of utter shock overwhelming his rugged features.
***
The shockwave of the explosion had been mild in comparison to the bombshell Hannah had just dropped.
When she accused him of trying to kill her, it’d struck Avery that he’d forgotten to mention Rory, that she might have imagined her son dead. That would have explained her fears, and distrust, and strange behavior, but this particular scenario never occurred to him.
Someone might as well have smacked him over the head again, he felt just as dazed. “What’s your name?”
“You tell me. You seem to know everything, including where to find me.”
Quiet defiance burned in her eyes. This was his Hannah, and she hadn’t lost her pluck.
“Your name is Hannah Parker.” For fear of distressing her, Avery chose not to mention her son at this time. “I’ve been coming back here many times every day since I woke up with a huge lump on the back of my head.”
She grimaced in pain. “I’m sorry Greta hit you. She didn’t trust Mounties.”
Smart woman. “I see. Did Greta have a last name?”
“I’m sure she did.” The corners of Hannah’s mouth twisted into a ghostly grin. “She just didn’t tell me. Does that mean you don’t know who she is?”
Hannah hadn’t bolted yet, and she was asking questions of her own. Those were small steps toward building some trust between them.
“She was a Jane Doe, but you gave me a first name. It’s a beginning, Hannah. Would you tell me how you ended up in her company?”
“A week or two ago, I woke up in Greta’s cave.” As she spoke she rubbed the back of her head. “She’d saved me from two men who ambushed me in the forest. I don’t remember them or what I was doing there alone. I think I lost my memory when they hit me.”
Whoever blew up the cabin had an accomplice, and they had caught up with Hannah, but she’d escaped with the help of Greta. Unfortunately, neither woman was in any shape to identify the two perpetrators. “Did Greta describe the men?”
“No, but from what I understood, she’d encountered one of them in the past. He’d assaulted her with a knife in the forest. You think they may have killed her for dumping my snowmobile in a pond and staging my death?”
“She staged your death?” Greta wouldn’t have resorted to such subterfuge unless she was convinced those men would otherwise keep searching for Hannah. “Once those men learn you survived, they’ll come back to finish what they started. In the lodge, Constable Cooper lifted the trap. He would have seen you if you hadn’t crawled into that tunnel. That was smart thinking on your part, even if you reached the wrong conclusion. No one can know you are alive, Hannah, not until I figure out who’s behind the attacks.”
“The ambush…it wasn’t an accident?” Tremors in her voice heightened her accent. “And that Coo…per is involved?”
“I don’t know who’s behind the attacks, but I know you’re the target. Right now, I’m not willing to trust anyone.” Under different circumstances, he might offer the comfort of a friendly hug, but he couldn’t risk scaring her away. “Hannah, the day I was injured, were you the one who brought me here?”
She gave a slight nod of the head. “Greta disagreed, but I…I couldn’t let you die from exposure.”
“I owe you my life.” The loss of her memory hadn’t stopped her true nature from shining through. “Can I ask why you chose this shed?”
“Greta mentioned an old man who used to live in these parts of the woods. I wanted to drop you on his doorstep so his family could take care of you, but I couldn’t find his cabin. This shed was the only suitable place I stumbled onto.”
The snowshoes Hannah had used rested on his lap, and Avery couldn’t help but play with a rabbit paw.
“Gramp Marcel Pike used to live here with his granddaughter. One day, he went snowshoeing and died in the forest. When his granddaughter found him, she glimpsed his three killers, but they were never brought to justice.”
“You think Pike is the old man?”
Avery had mentioned Pike’s full name on the outside chance it might ring a bell. It didn’t appear to have ruffled Hannah’s memory.
“Hannah, the day he died, Pike had strapped on a pair of snowshoes with rabbit paws. They went missing from the crime scene.” He held the beautifully crafted snowshoes up with the paws swinging from leather straps. “Where did you get these?”
“Greta…she let me use them.” Her breathing grew more erratic with each word she pushed out, and her eyes appeared to look inward. “The old man…he saved Greta from my attacker and his two friends. He gave her the snowshoes after they broke hers so she could escape.”
Damaged snowshoes were found with her grandfather’s body, snowshoes that hadn’t belonged to him. Pike had stopped an attack and paid the ultimate price.
“Old Pike died saving her, Hannah.” To give her a sense of identity, he used her name as often as possible. “You said Greta didn’t trust the Mounties. Do you know if she reported the attack?”
Shivering, she shrugged. “She said they framed two aboriginal kids for the old man’s death.”
The story filled some of the gaps in Pike’s murder. “Unfortunately, she was right.”
“How could this be his cabin?” She looked at him with doubts lingering in her eyes. “Greta would have known it’d burned to the ground.”
“It didn’t burn, Hannah. Last week, someone rigged the propane tank and set off an explosion while his granddaughter was on a snowmobile ride in the forest.”
“His granddaughter was on a snowmobile…” She trailed off, and he could almost see inside her brain as she connected the dots with bright red lines. “Are you saying the old man was my grandfather?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hannah stared at her surroundings. Something had drawn her to this shed. Not once but twice. This was home, or what was left of it, and although she couldn’t remember, she felt it in her heart. And it felt right.
A picture punched with holes emerged in her mind surrounded by thousands of questions. Her grandfather had died rescuing the woman who’d saved her in return. Hannah doubted Greta had known, but she would have appreciated the twist of fate.
Fudge hadn’t realized she’d developed amnesia until he mentioned Rory and the explosion. Her wrong answer had triggered a major shift in the conversation, and she sensed the name might have been as significant as the event.
“Who’s Rory?”
Fudge’s dark brown brows shot up to his hairline. His eyes matched the color of his hair. With his chiseled face and five o’clock shadow, he was handsome in a roguish way. The uniform added a touch of respectability to his appearance.
“He’s an awesome little boy, Hannah. We were playing outside in the tree house when the explosion occurred.”
“You were here with him?” Rattled by the implications, she grabbed her head in a futile attempt to joggle her memory. “Why? Who is he?”
“You’re a social worker. Rory was under your care. You do an amazing job with him, and you’re a great listener.”
Once Fudge learned she couldn’t hear, his opinion of her would change for the worse.
“At night, I dream of a child. Does Rory have blue eyes?”
“Yes. A beautiful ocean blue.” A tender smile fluttered on his lips. “I made sure he was safe, you don’t need to worry about him.”
It was obvious Rory held a special place in Fudge’s heart. “What’s your name?”
“Me?”
The of
ficer couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d asked him to strip down. “You see anyone else with us in here?”
A flicker of amusement swept across his face as he gazed around. “No, I don’t.”
Not only did Fudge care deeply for the little blue-eyed boy, but he also possessed a sense of humor. Such a person had to be trustworthy. “If you won’t tell me your name, will you at least tell me why you’re here?”
“I promised Rory I’d keep you safe. It would help if you stopped running away from me.”
The boy’s name evoked a warm feeling in her belly. She’d love to meet him.
“Lucky for you, Fudge, I’ve run out of places to hide.” Until he gave her an alternate name, she intended to keep calling him Fudge. “Would you tell me more about Rory or the men chasing after me?”
“I will, but first we need to find you a safe house.” He stood up, and with the snowshoes tucked under his left arm, he offered his right hand. “Would you come with me, Hannah?”
Following her instincts, she pushed the afghan aside and took his hand. “I still don’t know your name.”
He gently squeezed her hand. “Constable Avery Stone. You call me Avery.”
“Avery?” The name rolled on her tongue, as sweet as a piece of fudge.
***
His elbow pressed against the windshield of his snowmobile, Avery stood at the edge of the woods. While he waited for darkness to cover their final approach, he brought Hannah up to speed on the events and people surrounding her life, only skipping two details. When the time was right, he would tell her about Rory being her son and witnessing Abbott’s last few hours.
“It feels so strange.” A half-eaten granola bar in her glove, Hannah straddled the seat of his vehicle. “Part of my brain vaguely remembers what you’re telling me, like…like in a disjointed dream. Greta had known about the teenagers framed for my grandfather’s murder but she never set things right. Why?”
“Maybe she was afraid to meet their fate if she spoke against the three individuals.” Someone in town might have known Greta. As soon as he returned to work, he would circulate her picture.