by Elle James
“What?” Sandy lifted her head and stared at his profile. He grinned and her heart skipped a beat. She loved him so much. On the heels of that thought came the memory of her mother’s words. Don’t fall in love if you can help it. By the time it’s over, he’ll own every tiny sliver of your broken heart. Sandy smiled sadly, her gaze still on her husband. “Every sliver,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” Tristan asked.
“Provisions and some tools? Is that all? This looks like a lot of crates.”
“He’s probably got some clothes in here. Maybe a couple of sleeping bags. He had one he’d let Zach and me use.”
“That’s what’s in these big ones?”
“No. Actually that’s his weapons stockpile.”
“Weapons?” She wasn’t sure if she liked sleeping in a weapons stockpile. “Not loaded, I hope. What kind?”
He sat up and wiped his face, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I remember a revolver and a few boxes of ammunition. Oh, and a gun-cleaning kit.”
“A revolver. That’s like a six-gun, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Maybe some shotgun shells, too, for his big gun.”
“What about the other big crate?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Boudreau caught me looking in that first one and nearly skinned my hide.”
“Really? When was that?”
“Years ago. I wasn’t thirteen yet. Maybe not even twelve. He got madder than I’ve ever seen him. He said, ‘You never touch those crates. Mais non. You do not come here without me from now on. Understand, you?’”
Sandy chuckled softly. “You do a pretty good impression of him. Wow...” Her voice trailed off. After several seconds, she spoke again. “Tris?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Are we going to be okay?”
He scooted closer to her and leaned over and kissed her on the temple. “We’re going to be fine. The sheriff has to know that these guys are up here. He’s probably got the Coast Guard on their way in helicopters, or at least standing by.” Tristan had little hope that his words were true. He prayed that Sandy, who knew him so well, didn’t notice.
“How long will they take?” she murmured, almost forgetting what she was asking about.
“Not long,” Tristan whispered.
She yawned. “Probably going...sleep now.”
Tristan sat down and carefully stretched out his legs. He hadn’t meant for her to know how badly he was doing. But she knew him too well.
He stretched, trying to get the aches and knots out of his arms and neck. Everything hurt and quivered with fatigue. His calf muscle was on the verge of a cramp and so he flexed his foot, but his effort was too little too late. In spite of his care, the overworked muscle seized.
He clenched his jaw and massaged it, holding his breath against the pain. He tried to keep quiet, but once in a while a quiet moan or grunt would escape. Luckily, they didn’t wake Sandy, who was snoring softly by the time the muscle settled down.
Watching her sleep was relaxing to him and he began to get drowsy. With a quiet curse, he straightened, stretched and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after three. The sky was clear, but with the thick overhang of branches in this dense part of the swamp, there were lots of shadowy places. The sun wouldn’t go down until after seven o’clock, but the bayou would be dark long before that.
He was worried about Boudreau. Tristan had been able to sleep a few hours, but his friend had been awake for as long, if not longer, than he had. He wasn’t even sure if Boudreau had taken a nap in all that time.
It was frustrating to sit and do nothing, knowing Boudreau was out there, exhausted and sleep-deprived, defending them all alone. Still, it was Tristan’s job to protect Sandy. And Boudreau knew the bayou better than anyone.
He shifted and felt something in his pocket. He pulled out the small rhinestone-encrusted baseball glove that hid a flash drive. He smiled as he turned it in his hand. He’d chosen the baseball glove on a whim, hoping it might portend a boy. The fact that it matched the mobile closely enough that he could hide it in plain sight was a happy accident.
Thank goodness he’d grabbed it. The tiny, sparkly flash drive held the recordings that he hoped would match Vernon Lee’s voice. He wanted to see the evil man’s multibillion-dollar empire fall.
A shot rang out and he jumped. The report sounded like a rifle, so it was one of Lee’s men. He waited, listening for Boudreau to return fire with his shotgun, but heard nothing.
Boudreau must not want to give away his position by firing back. At least, Tristan hoped that was why he was quiet.
Still, just in case, Tristan crawled inside the lean-to and grabbed one of the large magazines for his handgun. He inserted the magazine, then hefted the gun to feel how the extra weight was distributed. Not bad. He positioned himself in the opening of the lean-to, where he could see and hear.
“Tris.” Sandy’s sleep-softened voice floated over him.
“Hey,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“It’s okay. I heard something.”
“A gunshot,” she said matter-of-factly. “What’s that blue thing you’re holding? Is that part of the mobile over the baby’s crib?”
He looked at it. “It’s—” He was momentarily stumped. Did he tell her what it was and explain that this was the proof that Vernon Lee had tried to kill him? Or did he make up something?
“Wait. Shh. I think I hear something again.”
She lifted herself up on one elbow. “No, you don’t. What’s the deal about the baseball glove?” She stared at it. “Oh, I see. It’s a flash drive. That’s your evidence, isn’t it? You hid it in the nursery? In the mobile?”
Tristan let it dangle from his fingers. “I was going to transfer the files to Homeland Security the next time I was home,” he said quietly.
“But you never came home,” she said, her voice breaking. “You should have told me. I could have sent it to Maddy.”
He nodded. “I thought there was time. I won’t make that mistake again,”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I won’t, either,” she said.
Tristan looked away. He was afraid if their gazes held very long Sandy would see the worry in his eyes.
“Tris?”
He winced at her tone. “Sandy—”
“No, wait. What’s going to happen? It looks to me like there’s a standoff. I’m afraid two injured people and one exhausted man are no match for those men.”
He had a reassuring answer all planned, but a noise interrupted him. He held up a hand.
“Shh!” he said.
He heard the sound of footsteps tromping through the woods toward them. He slid inside the lean-to and pulled the cover across in front of him, leaving a small slit. Carefully, he thumbed the toggle switch on the side of the weapon to Auto.
When Boudreau appeared from the tangled woods, relief cascaded through Tristan’s veins. His friend was all right.
The first thing the Cajun said was “Cover’s not all the way over the opening.”
“I left myself room to see and shoot. Sandy was asleep on her feet, so I got her tucked in as quickly as I could,” Tristan said defensively, knowing that wasn’t the whole truth. He was too tired and so he was making mistakes and Boudreau knew it.
“Going too fast can slow you down a lot, yeah,” Boudreau said as he looked around 360 degrees, then stared at nothing, listening.
While Boudreau checked out the area, Tristan checked him out. His sun-browned face had a greenish-gray tint to it, and his mouth was drawn down and pinched looking. His eyes looked weak and his shoulders were slumped even more than they’d been a couple of hours ago at the cabin. “You’re about dead on your feet. Climb in there and take a nap. I’ll keep watch.
”
“Non. Something to eat and some water and I’ll be fine.”
Tristan reached back into the lean-to and pulled out one of the small food crates.
Boudreau pried the wooden lid open with the big knife he always carried. There were two glass jugs inside and what looked like jerky and some kind of fruit and nut bars in a glass jar. Boudreau grabbed a jug and drank about a pint of liquid out of it.
“That’s water?” Tristan asked.
Boudreau nodded and handed the jug to Tristan, who took a long drink, then stuck his head inside. “San? Want some water?”
She opened her eyes to a small slit. “Please,” she said. Tristan left the bottle with her.
Boudreau grabbed a handful of jerky and closed the glass jar. “She doing okay?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s bleeding anymore, but she felt hot. I think she has a fever.”
“Could be,” Boudreau said. “I reckon it’s time to fight.”
Tristan flung his head back and sighed deeply. “I guess we can hope they’re as tired as we are.”
“Probably are. Plus, although they got good weapons, they’re slow and they don’t know the swamp.”
“They don’t, but hell, Boudreau, you’re so exhausted you probably can’t lift your gun, and I’m not even half a man with this leg.”
Boudreau lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed at the path. “This look like I can’t lift my gun?”
Tristan didn’t bother answering his question. “How close are they?”
“Probably as close as they can get without running into the mines.”
“The mines?” Tristan said, “What did you do? Are they going to step on them?”
“Non. I don’t want to kill them. I want them to turn tail and run right smack into the sheriff. I chopped down all but one log on the longest bridge and I wired a mine in full view on either end of the log.”
Tristan tried to picture what Boudreau was describing. Each mine was about fourteen inches in diameter. It might fit across the log. “Can’t they jump over them or remove the wires?”
“Son, how long you known me? Did you ever see me do something halfway?” Boudreau didn’t wait for Tristan to answer. “They can try to do something with the mines, but it wouldn’t be a good idea. I wrapped the wire that I used to fasten ’em to the trigger. If they try to cut the wires or unwrap them they’re liable to blow themselves up.” He chewed on the jerky. “And the way I’ve got the wire strung, they can’t jump high enough from that wobbly log over the mine without catching their feet on the wire. They should know they can’t touch them. And if they try to walk through the swamp—”
“The gumbo mud’ll get them.” Tristan studied him. “Sounds like you covered every base.”
Boudreau shrugged and bit off another piece of jerky. “Not every one.” He paused for a beat. “There’s one thing they could do. It’s chancy, for them and us. It could work, but it could also—”
His words were interrupted by a huge explosion. Actually two explosions right on top of each other. Boudreau tossed the last bite of jerky down in disgust. “—blow up the log bridge,” he finished. “Push that biggest crate out here.”
Boudreau pried the lid off with his knife, then cursed in Cajun French. “I was counting on these grenades, but they’re corroded.”
“So they’re duds?”
Boudreau shook his head. “Non. Worse than duds. Duds are dead. These, you don’t know if they’ll explode on time or if they’ll go off in your hand before you can even pull the pin.”
Tristan shuddered at that thought. Looking into the crate, he saw the white crystals that covered the grenades. “What should we do with them?” he asked.
“They been fine here for fifteen years. They’ll probably stay fine, long as nobody bothers them.”
“So if we don’t have grenades, what are we going to use?”
Boudreau pushed himself to his feet, grunting at the effort. “Our heads, son. We’re going to have to use our heads. Now let’s go. We’ve got to disarm some bad guys. Let’s hope they ain’t too smart to get stuck in the mud.”
* * *
SANDY HEARD PEOPLE TALKING, she thought. She couldn’t be sure because her ears were ringing from the explosion that had shocked her out of a restless doze.
“Tristan?” Her voice echoed in her ears. She yawned, trying to get rid of the ringing.
Tristan stuck his head into the lean-to. “Hey,” he said. “Did the explosion wake you?”
His voice was distorted, too. She rolled her eyes at him as she moved to get up. When she did, a sharp, stinging pain hit her stomach. Her hand flew to her tummy. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, no!”
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked.
“I think I tore the cloth away from the wound.” She looked up at him and felt tears start in her eyes. “I forgot,” she muttered, wrapping her hands around her tummy protectively.
Tristan crawled over to sit beside her and pulled her close. “Let me see.” He checked the bandage on her tummy. “I think you’re okay. I don’t feel or see any blood and the bandage is still in place.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I wasn’t careful. I went to sleep and forgot about the baby,” she said, sniffling. “I forgot him. And not only that. I forgot I’d been shot. I forgot that he...he might not be okay.” Now she was crying in earnest.
She pressed one hand to her heart and the other to the spot on the right side of her tummy where the little bean liked to kick. “Oh, Tristan, I for...got—” She sobbed.
Tristan pulled her close and held her, his face pressed into her hair, his hand still on her baby bump. “It’s not your fault. I gave you something to help you sleep. You probably were dreaming—”
“Stop.” She laid her hand over his. “It’s because he’s not moving—” Her words were cut off by a sob.
“Wait,” Tristan said. “Be still.”
“What if he’s—”
“Shh.” He pressed harder.
Then she felt it and her fingers curled against the back of his hand. Had she really felt a tiny kick?
“San?” Tristan’s voice was unsteady. “Did I just feel something?”
She looked down at her baby bump, then up at him. “He kicked,” she murmured, almost overcome by relief.
“I know,” he said, his voice unsteady with awe.
“He kicked! Oh, Tris, he’s alive!”
“Tristan!” Boudreau’s gruff voice called from outside the lean-to. “We got to go. Even an idiot can figure out how to move through the mud, if you give him enough time.”
Tristan closed his eyes and sat still. She could feel the fine trembling of his hand against her skin, even through the bandage and the nightgown.
“Tristan!” Boudreau sounded irritated.
“Coming!” Tristan called, then he leaned over and kissed her. She was still crying, but now it was with joy. Her baby was alive. She kissed Tristan back, feeling the same thrill and the same growing flame that she felt every time, whether it was a kiss of passion during lovemaking or a sweet, tender kiss, like this one right now.
He pulled away reluctantly. “Got to go help Boudreau take care of those guys,” he told her as he pulled a long, curved magazine and three normal ones from Boudreau’s weapons crate.
Once he’d stored the ammunition in the hunting vest, he kissed her once more. “Stay here and stay hidden. You’ll be fine. I’ll be right back,” he said.
Sandy knew he was lying. He and Boudreau were exhausted. Neither of them had the strength or stamina to stand up to the men chasing them.
She watched him as he crawled awkwardly out of the lean-to, wincing as every movement hurt his leg.
Despite her determination, the tears sta
rted again. “You lying liar,” she whispered, too quietly for Tristan to hear. “You’d better come back. I don’t want to lose you again.”
Tristan pulled the camouflaged mat over the lean-to’s opening while Boudreau talked about the best way to approach the log bridge. After a few minutes Sandy heard their footsteps crunching on the forest floor and fading as they got farther and farther away, until she could no longer hear anything.
She sat there for a few moments, willing him to turn around and come back, but knowing in her heart that he would never do that.
She’d felt betrayed and heartbroken when she’d found out he’d been recuperating less than a mile from their home. But now she understood that he hadn’t left her alone. He had done everything he could to protect her.
“Bean, your daddy’s crazy if he thinks I’m going to sit here and do nothing while he’s in danger,” she whispered. She looked around at the crates. Tristan hadn’t known what was in most of them. They were worth exploring. She might find something that they could use.
“But first, we’ve got to find that revolver he mentioned. I don’t know anything about guns, but I’ll bet I can handle a six-shooter.” She patted her tummy. “I heard them say there were at least two of those varmints out there, little bean. That gives me three shots each.”
Chapter Fourteen
Boudreau was at least two hundred yards ahead of Tristan. Before he could catch up, rifle shots rang out. Tristan listened but didn’t hear the bass roar of Boudreau’s shotgun.
“Bastards,” he muttered, doing his best to run. “You’d better not hurt him.”
The first thing he saw as the tangle of vines, branches and brush began to thin were the two small craters left by the exploded mines. The craters were shallow, but the force of the blast had knocked the log that connected the two islands of dry land into the swamp.
The next thing he saw was a man hip deep in the swamp, holding a rifle up over his head with one hand and trying to grasp a wet, slippery cypress knee with the other.
Tristan knew exactly what had happened. The man had jumped in, fooled by the deceptively calm surface, figuring he could walk across the firm bottom and climb up onto the dry knoll on the other side.