by Jule McBride
Or had he said that? It must have been her imagination, because that was something David used to say. And this man was nothing like David….
Blinking the snowflakes from her eyelashes, Fritzi saw a small yellow square of light come into view—Hannah’s window. When the light flickered, she wasn’t sure which was unsteady—the light or her muddled mind. Nathan’s gaze alone seemed unwavering, remaining fixed on the distance as if they were lost on a frozen sea and Hannah’s house was a lighthouse.
For the first time, Fritzi became conscious of her heartbeat, because the pulse began to strengthen and race. She was frostbitten and weak—and utterly defenseless.
“I f-found…”
To hear her labored words, Nathan leaned so close that his lips grazed her cheek.
“Found where—” Fritzi’s words broke off and her teeth chattered. “Wh-where you were…st-staying.”
“Stay the hell away from there,” he growled, bursting through a final thicket and into Hannah’s backyard. He circled the house and dug into his parka pocket for the house key. Her shock lasted only a moment. Of course the man would have the key.
As Nathan unlocked the front door, Fritzi’s snownumbed mind grayed out again—filling with sweet, dreamlike images of David. She remembered him cradling her against his chest on the snowy night of their marriage. She could still see the door of her D.C. town house swinging open and feel David carry her across the threshold. And then reality hit her. Nathan Lafarge—not David—was carrying her over a threshold. And she didn’t want to be alone in the house with him! She didn’t want to die! She had to find her husband!
“You st-st-stole things….” She’d meant to voice a loud accusation, but her words were a faint rasp.
Nathan ignored her, nudging open the door with his shoulder and sweeping inside. As the snow swirled in behind them, white flakes settled on the foyer’s crimson carpet, making Fritzi remember the blood she’d seen in the snow.
She strained with all her might. “Blood…”
Leaning closer, he tersely whispered, “What?”
“Blood,” she rasped. “By the cabin…blood in the snow.”
“Probably just a dead animal.”
Why was he whispering? Fritzi realized he’d tensed—cocking his head, listening to the silence, his alert dark eyes darting up the stairs, then into the living room, over the mantel and bearskin rug—almost as if he expected an intruder. The crazy thought flashed through her hazy mind that Nathan had come here looking for David…that he wished David harm.
“Is someone…” She was too weak to finish. Is someone here?
Nathan stared upstairs, his eyes watchful. Then he shook his head, lifted a foot and kicked shut the door. Repositioning her in his arms, he crossed the foyer and carried her up the red-carpeted stairs.
Upstairs, her eyes trailed over the objects in Hannah’s room—the cheerful closed curtains that covered three walls, the country quilt on the brass bed. She wanted to cry with relief—until she saw the new lamp she’d placed on the bedside table and thought of how Nathan’s black-gloved hand had so violently shattered the lamp that had been there before.
Icy fingers grabbed hold of her and shook her—and this time they had nothing to do with the cold. She thought of all Hannah’s belongings in the trapper’s cabin—the food supplies, kindling and bedspread. And Fritzi realized Nathan had most certainly taken her father’s hunting knife. The murder weapon, her mind screamed. Doesn’t that prove he killed the man in the river?
Nathan was laying her across the bed now, and she was trapped, too weak to move. He wrenched off her snow boots, ignoring her cry of pain when her injured ankle was freed. When her frozen fingers fumbled protectively for her snowsuit zipper, he roughly shoved aside her hand, tugging the zipper down to her navel. Then he peeled the suit from her damp sweater beneath. Sensing what was coming, she tried to fight, but he ignored her, reaching for the hem of her sweater and thermal underclothes.
“No,” she moaned in horror, unable to stop him from removing her clothes.
A warm towel appeared from somewhere. He was briskly rubbing her skin. Had she blacked out again? She must have because her bare ankle was now tightly wrapped with an elastic bandage. Nathan had removed his parka, too, exposing the jeans and red flannel shirt beneath. Suddenly Fritzi realized he’d finished undressing her. She was naked except for her bra and panties. Summoning all her strength, she attempted to twist away and cover herself.
“Don’t move.” His livid command seemed to come from far away. “You’re frozen solid.”
Oh, no, she thought wildly. The envelope of grisly photographs was gone—the proof she might have taken to Joe Tanook that Nathan Lafarge was dangerous. Her eyes darted around, but the envelope had really vanished. She guessed he’d relieved her of it, as casually as he had her clothes. Now she wouldn’t get to study the fragment of that police report.
Nathan was concentrating on warming her, his expression grim, his eyes narrowed. Frantically she searched his face, expecting interest in her near nakedness to flicker in his eyes.
It didn’t.
Relief flooded her. As Nathan continued to towel her skin, Fritzi’s blood began to circulate, turning her arms and legs a rosy pink, flushing her cheeks, making her whole body feverish. When the tips of her breasts suddenly constricted against her bra, her cheeks turned fiery. Swiftly, she tried—and failed—to gather the strength to cover herself.
Still ignoring her, Nathan stepped away from the mattress, then strode to her dresser and brought out a thick white flannel gown. How had he known that’s where she kept her nightclothes? her numb mind demanded. He returned, tugged the gown over her head with a practical gesture, then continued rubbing down her legs.
She tried to speak again—and wished she hadn’t. Because he sat next to her and leaned close, so he could hear. “Where’s the envelope from the cabin?” she rasped.
“I told you. No questions.”
A faint tick was visible in Nathan’s cheek. He’d definitely found the envelope and hidden it. It took her three tries to find her voice again. When she did, it was faint. “What do you know about David Frayne? And where did you get…” Her voice trailed off, her breathing labored. “That marriage certificate and those pictures?”
Nathan stood and stared down at her. “You’re talking,” he offered. “That’s good.”
Rage welled within her. She should have known he wouldn’t give the straight answers she so desperately wanted. Against her will, her eyes drifted shut again. What felt like only a moment later, the mattress beside her depressed, and she felt the warm comfort of Nathan’s weight against her side again. Slowly, ever so gently, he began to towel-dry her hair, resting the warm cloth at her nape and working it outward.
“You could have killed yourself out there,” she thought she heard him say.
Later, she heard vague, husky murmurings against her ear. What was he saying now? She strained to hear. The voice was soft and yet hard, coaxing but firm, rife with restrained masculine power. He sat next to her on the bed again. Just as she opened her eyes, a piping hot spoon hit her lips, then the taste of tomatoes and vegetables.
“Here…” He dabbed at her lips with a napkin.
Hating her own helplessness, her stiff fingers fumbled for the spoon. When he ignored her, she had no choice but to allow him to feed her—the hearty soup burning down her raw throat, warming her belly every bit as much as his searing, deep, dark, devastating eyes.
When she was through, Nathan set the soup bowl beside the phone on the bedside table. Seeing his large, strong hand hovering near the lamp, sudden goose bumps broke over her skin. As if he, too, had just recalled breaking her lamp, Nathan stood abruptly.
“I…I know who you are,” she croaked.
Unreadable emotions—fear and doubt, maybe—crossed his features. “Yeah?”
“A cop.”
Why else would he save her life? Even though it was soiled and crumpled, she had found pa
rt of a police report in the cabin. Maybe Nathan knew about David’s disappearance and thought the murders depicted in the photos were connected to it. If Nathan knew something about David, she had to get the information.
He leaned closer. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”
She tried to raise her reedy voice. “You’re.a cop.”
The last thing she expected happened—his rich, hearty laughter filled the air. Only its cynical edge kept it from further warming her.
“So that’s what you think,” he said dryly.
Not anymore. His reaction said he was anything but. She watched him pivot, step past Malcolm’s cradle and circle the bed—until he was staring at her from the footboard. It took all her power, but she strained, raising her voice again. “You…took my daddy’s hunting knife.”
“I don’t know anything about a hunting knife.”
But he was lying. It was in his eyes. Besides, he’d certainly heard about the murder weapon when Frank Laramy had questioned her. Her throat burned and ached, but somehow she kept talking. “I’ll tell the sheriff you stole it.”
Nathan shook his head. “Do you really think Joe Tanook will believe you?”
The question hung in the air. It was hard to believe this man had rescued her from the frozen woods and his kind ministrations had brought her back to the land of the living. Fritzi became conscious of the room—the isolation, the silence, the fact that she was lying in bed in a gown while Nathan was fully dressed and had the freedom of movement.
Well, maybe the sheriff would believe her now. She had to try. Her eyes darting between Nathan and the phone, Fritzi lifted a weak hand—and the handset. She’d tell the sheriff about the photos, have him check out the trapper’s cabin. Clearly Nathan had been living there—and not with her.
But the phone was still dead.
Even if she had her strength, the road conditions would prevent her from driving into town in the truck, and with her injured ankle, she couldn’t operate the snowmobile. The general store never did get the parts for the shortwave radio, either, she thought in a panic. She really was completely trapped.
Even if she could reach Joe Tanook, Nathan could clean out the trapper’s cabin before the sheriff arrived. Besides, Nathan had hidden the photographs she’d wanted to show Joe. And if the sheriff realized Nathan hadn’t been staying at Hannah’s, it would destroy Fritzi’s own alibi for the night of the murder. Slowly, she dropped the phone receiver into its cradle.
“Now that you’ve thought things through—” Nathan pierced her with a final furious gaze “—you may as well get some rest.”
For a moment, feeling too weak to fight, Fritzi merely shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she raised her voice enough to make an impact. “1 want you to get out of here!”
He shrugged, his voice turning deceptively soft. “I’m staying. You don’t have a choice. Everyone in town thinks I have a right to be here.”
Her heart, still weak from her ordeal in the snow, suddenly fluttered. Inside her chest, it felt so fright-fully delicate, like it might give out altogether. She would have pressed a palm to her breast—but even that required too much energy. “You’re not my husband.”
He shrugged again. “You know that and I know that.”
“I…I’ll tell Joe Tanook to try to reach someone on the radio. He’ll find out you faked our marriage certificate.”
“I don’t think he’ll even bother to check.”
Silence stretched between them, and their eyes met in a show of wills—his penetrating, hers flinty. She just wished she could think of some way to stop him from inserting himself into her life this way. “He will check.”
“Oh,” ‘Nathan returned softly, “I don’t think you really believe so.”
She decided she hated everything about this man—his lies, the terror he was putting her through, the power he was wielding over her. Most of all, she hated his undeniable sensuality. Because ever since she’d first seen him, her memories of David had become more fleeting. It was as if a forest had grown up inside her mind—and David was running from tree to tree, playing hide and seek.
As if he sensed the tenor of her thoughts, Nathan’s mouth twisted into another cynical smile. She watched him head for the door—and her heart fluttered again. He couldn’t leave her here like this! She wanted him to leave, of course. But what would she do? She was alone. Weak. In the middle of a blizzard without a phone or radio. “Where…where are you going?” she whispered.
“Don’t worry—” he stopped but didn’t bother to turn around “—I’m just doing my husbandly duty.”
She stared at his back, trying not to notice his broad shoulders and slender waist. “What?”
“I’m going to get the baby.”
At the words, Fritzi catapulted from the bed—or at least she tried. But it was useless. Her limbs gave out—her elbows and knees buckling—and she collapsed on the covers like a rag doll.
Nathan Lafarge was going to get Malcolm and there was nothing she could do! Fritzi swallowed hard. Well, the man had saved her life tonight. He’d been in the house before, too—and he’d never hurt her or Malcolm. For a fleeting second, she was positive she and Malcolm would be safe. She felt it instinctively—the way birds sensed which way to fly.
Then the feeling passed. Because she knew better than to trust her feelings when it came to men. David Frayne had left her, after all. And she had a thousand more reasons to distrust Nathan Lafarge.
He started walking again, his boots strangely quiet on the hardwood floor.
“Nathan?”
This time he turned around. “I’ll be back.”
She assessed him for a long time. Then she nodded and said, “Thanks for saving my life.” She guessed she owed him that much.
For a fleeting second, she could swear genuine warmth sparked deep in those dark eyes. Then he actually smiled. “My pleasure,” he said.
And then he was gone.
FRITZI WOKE ONLY BRIEFLY when he returned. That she trusted him enough to sleep made Nathan angry, edgy. He wanted to warn her—to say she was a fool to be so trusting with strangers, to tell her it was dangerous, even deadly. Instead, he roughly jerked the covers around her shoulders and switched off the lamp.
She turned her head on the pillow. “Malcolm?” she croaked.
“He’s here.” Nathan nestled the baby near her cheek to assure her. “Abby just gave him a bottle.”
Fritzi’s eyes drifted shut again. She’d been through an ordeal tonight and was still suffering from the physical and mental shock. If she weren’t, she’d be awake and fighting him. Even though her intention had been self-protection, she seemed to realize how close she’d come to dying. Putting the baby down, Nathan rocked its cradle, listening to the faint, familiar creaking in the darkness. There was something so strangely haunting about that sound.
“I’ll double-check the locks downstairs,” he forced himself to say.
But he didn’t move. Not that Fritzi heard, anyway. Her breathing was deep—and as rhythmic as the cradle’s rocking. Staring at her, he was reminded of the many nights he’d sneaked inside this room just to watch her sleep.
It was almost more than he could bear. Everything about Fritzi was so painfully beautiful—her scent, the delicate wisps of her russet hair on the pillow. From days ago, the taste of her lips lingered on his. And tonight, seeing her stretched helplessly across the bed in nothing more than her bra and panties, it had taken every last ounce of his strength to pretend he was unaffected.
Abruptly turning from the cradle and bed, Nathan silently opened all the curtains. To the north were craggy, mountainous peaks, to the east and west, woods. He positioned a chair between the bed and the cradle, facing the northern window exposure. From this vantage point, he could see in three of four directions.
He sighed, suddenly realizing how tired he was. He’d combed the mountainside for hours tonight. Now his body ached and his heavy eyes begged for sleep. He wanted nothing more tha
n to lie in the bed next to her.
Not that he would.
When the baby gurgled, Nathan told himself not to pick him up again unless he started crying. But then he did. Lifting Malcolm, Nathan let the baby sprawl across his chest. Against his palm, the fabric of the small terry-cloth pajamas felt soft and warm. Malcolm relaxed, his tiny fingers curling on Nathan’s neck.
Nathan stared out the window—thinking of the many dark and dangerous places he’d seen, reminding himself again that it was better not to hold the child and risk feelings of attachment. He knew he had no right to hold Malcolm. No right to be so aware of Fritzi. But like the baby, she rendered him powerless—by her eyes and beauty and strength. He wanted her.
But he had no right.
Nathan lowered Malcolm to the cradle again. Then he went downstairs and checked the windows and doors. The locks were feeble, but they’d have to do, at least for another night. Extinguishing all the remaining interior lights, Nathan shone exterior floodlights onto the snow.
Then, pausing in the kitchen, he withdrew a.38 revolver from where he’d hidden it under the refrigerator. He’d found the loaded gun days ago in a cabinet—as well as a full box of shells in a Mickey Mouse cookie jar on the counter.
Nathan just wished he’d had time to unstrap the.38 revolver from his ankle the other night on the No Name Bridge. He’d taken the gun from Hannah’s house days ago, when he’d taken the knife. Now, as he took a final glance around the kitchen, he decided he would much rather have killed the man with a gun. A knife was so direct—up close and personal. Guns let a man keep his distance. Deftly, Nathan tucked the .38 into the waistband of his jeans.
And then, very silently, he headed back upstairs toward Fritzi and the baby.
Chapter Six
“Patty cake, patty cake…” Fritzi cooed, clapping her hands against Malcolm’s. When the baby woke, she’d had no choice but to hobble down to the kitchen on her weak ankle; now she wanted to dress and search the house for the missing envelope of photos. Tightening the sash of her robe, she repositioned Malcolm in the high chair. As she clapped her hands against the baby’s once more, Malcolm squealed in delight over the game.