Run Among Thorns

by Anna Louise Lucia

  Adjusting her seat, she watched him work the pole under the front of the vehicle. Horizontal, it was about level with his waist.

  The pedals were a reach, but Jenny only found that reassuring. Driving something this big was like driving a tank.

  A tank is good. In this case, I want a tank.

  She didn’t think he had his gun with him. It hadn’t seemed small enough to fit in something like an ankle holster, and he didn’t have it in his waistband or under his shirt, fairly obviously. He was in the beck. She was in a car. A stuck car, yes, but transportation nevertheless.

  Jenny took a deep breath. The problem was that she knew this, and he knew this, too. So, what was he planning to do to prevent her from driving away? Surely he wasn’t relying on the goodness of her heart?

  She pushed back her hair with nervous hands, and then took a good grip on the wheel.

  As if on cue, he shouted at her.

  “Jenny. Don’t get any ideas, sweetheart.”

  She fervently wished he wouldn’t call her that.

  He called out again. “We have unfinished business. I haven’t said you can go yet, Jenny. Remember the rules.”

  Through the windscreen, across the crazily tipped bonnet, his eyes drilled into her, commanding, demanding. Her hands tightened on the wheel until they hurt.

  She started the engine. It came to life with a diesel roar, and the comforting thrum of the engine touched her through the wheel and the pedals, and through the levers, as she set it up for a good pull. She concentrated on what she was doing, trying to put his threats out of her mind. Truth was, she loved off-road driving, and she loved a challenge.

  Down in the beck, McAllister was kicking a footing, settling the pole in for the last time.

  He glanced up. “There should be a lever beside you, on the floor by the gear lever. It says Diff Lock. If you—”

  “I know what a diff lock is, McAllister,” she said. “I engaged it when I put it into low ratio.”

  For the second time that day, he just stared at her. Then he rolled up his sleeves. “Right. Okay. You ready?” he said.

  “Ready,” she said.

  “Now, when you go, don’t …”

  She interrupted again. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to try to tell me how to work a four-by-four, Kier. I could probably teach you a thing or two.”

  His brows snapped together and he opened his mouth as if he was going to defend his driving. He had “hurt pride” written all over him. Jenny quirked a brow and tried not to laugh.

  McAllister just shook his head and apparently thought better of it. He picked up the pole, crouching down and bracing it on his shoulder, wrapping both hands around it just in front of him.

  Jenny put the Rover into first, kept the clutch on the floor, and then put one hand on the hand brake.

  She saw rather than felt McAllister take up the strain, the muscles along his forearm bunching, his shoulders lifting, the cords on his neck standing out, face taut with effort.

  She slowly lifted the clutch, releasing the hand brake. At first the wheels gripped, and she felt the car sway on its springs as it began to bite into the turf and climb back up the bank. Kier started to heave at the pole, trying to rock the Rover back and up. Tentatively, she stroked the gas pedal, just feeding a little more through to those slowly turning wheels.

  Without warning, they started to slip, not spinning wildly, because the four-wheel drive and diff lock wouldn’t let them, but sliding inexorably forward towards McAllister. At the same moment, he shifted his position, trying to get more leverage. Then suddenly his feet went out from under him, and he disappeared from view under the front of the vehicle.

  Jenny yanked the hand brake on again. Sickeningly, the SUV lurched and slid forward for a moment, splashing back into the beck, but then it held.

  For a split second she sat there, heart hammering in her ears, imagining Kier crushed under the wheels, under the bumper. Seeing in her mind’s eye his blood swirling away downstream, turning the beck red, then pink. Her vision blurred, and she saw last night’s dream again, smelled for a moment hot blood and hot metal.

  Not again, please.

  She bit hard on her lip, until the she tasted blood and the pain spiked through her head, galvanizing her to action.

  Jenny snatched at the door handle, threw herself out the car. She slipped and stumbled on the wet ground, falling to her knees, trying to scramble to her feet again just as Kier reared up out of the beck, water pouring off him.

  She stopped where she was, on her hands and knees, absorbing how wonderfully alive he looked, sweeping the water out of his eyes and gasping for air. His clothes were plastered to him, marking the play of lean muscles over his ribs as his chest heaved.

  The sun briefly slid out from behind the scudding clouds as he ran his hands over his head, shaking the water from his hair. The golden light of early day caught and shimmered in the droplets as they flew, and she was transfixed by it, achingly grateful she didn’t have to watch another man die today.

  Brushing the water from his eyes one last time, he looked up and saw her on the bank. She stared at him standing there. Poised, alert, physical, wet. Cold as the water was, seeping through her leggings and chilling her hands, she was suddenly uncomfortably hot.

  His brows snapped together in a frown. “Jenny?”

  Awkwardly she got to her feet, feeling like an idiot. Telling herself that was why she was flushed.

  “You okay?” she asked, trying not to look at him.

  “Yeah.” He was still short of breath, his face and hands turning ruddy with the cold. “Just took an unscheduled dunking.”

  She blinked. If she didn’t know better, that sounded like an attempt at humour. Then he grinned at her, and she realised that was exactly what it was. Humour. From Mr. Remember the Rules. Despite herself and half-giddy with relief, she grinned back at him like a loon, wondering when the world had shifted. Wondering when being with McAllister in the middle of nowhere had turned into fun.

  Jenny hauled herself back into the driver’s seat. She settled in again, watching Kier fish about for the pole that had wedged itself under the car.

  She sucked a little blood from her lip, and lifted the clutch as Kier took up the strain, dropping the hand brake with her left hand.

  This time it didn’t slip forward. This time it stuck.

  The tyres bit once, firmly in the peat, and then stopped. Kier was pushing at the pole, working at it, face set and rigid with exertion. Jenny fed a little more power through, afraid to overdo it and send half a ton of machine down towards Kier again.

  There was nothing more she could do. It was all up to brute force.

  “Come on,” she said under her breath. “Come on …” She reached out and wound down the window.

  He paused, taking a moment, shoulders lifting mightily as he pulled air into his labouring lungs.

  Her heart was still pumping from earlier, and now more adrenaline was leaching into her bloodstream. She could feel it making her a little light-headed, raising her heartbeat a little more.

  “Come on!” she raised her voice to reach him, saw him flick a glance her way. “Come on! Yes. You can do it!”

  He took up the strain again.

  “Come on,” she shouted. “A little more! That’s it.”

  McAllister staggered, hands slipping on the bark of the pole. He heaved again.

  “Come on! Come on!”

  He groaned, and she could see him focussing everything in him on one last lift.

  “Come on!”

  Jenny felt that little shivery change of balance in the vehicle around her. That was the only warning. Then, ponderously, without a hint of effort, the mechanical beast pulled itself up the bank and onto level ground.

  Jenny braked gently, and stopped.

  She looked out through the windscreen, across a distance of ten yards or more, at Kier in the beck, bowed over, not even looking at her.

  Her breath caught.
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br />   Time slowed, eddying and swirling around her like the water around McAllister’s legs. Driven into two streams for a fraction of a second.

  Jenny was aware of the feel of the steering wheel under her palm, the rumble of the engine happily ticking over, of the track stretching away in the rearview mirror. Of Kier, out of breath and momentarily out of action, there in the stream in front of her.

  Her captor in front of her. Her freedom in her own hands.

  She hung suspended, not breathing, hardly aware of her heart beating, and watched as McAllister straightened, and lifted his head to meet her gaze.

  Her mind was screaming at her. Move! Get out of here! But she stayed right where she was.

  If she had been able to read the expression in those eyes, if there had been a hint of threat there, of command, she might have fled. But there wasn’t. He just looked tired. Almost defeated.

  Jenny reached out her hand and turned the key in the ignition.

  And Kier surged out of the beck in a rush of water, closing the distance between them. He wrenched open the door.

  In the silence as the engine died, she could hear the rush and gurgle of the water passing. Hear the ragged tear of Kier’s breathing.

  Staring straight ahead, she wondered why she hadn’t run.

  He stepped in to her, lifting his hand towards hers. “Get out of the car, Jenny.”

  She swivelled on the seat, ignoring his hand, and pushed herself off it, expecting him to back up as she did. Mistake. Too late she realised he wasn’t moving, and she was already sliding off the seat, her legs tangling with his legs, her body sliding down his. He didn’t move a muscle, except to brace his hands on the door frame and cage her in.

  Afraid to tip her head up, she stared ahead of her. At rivulets of water trickling over the skin of his throat. Running together, pausing in little beads, gathering in the hollow at the base of his throat, then disappearing into the few hairs that showed at the opening of his shirt.

  He was soaked, and where they touched—thigh, chest, her shoulder to his arm—the water was soaking into her clothes. It should have chilled her, but the heat was rising off him and enveloping her, liquefying her bones. Making her want to lean into him and take more of it.

  The moment lengthened, drew on, until it was stretched thin and tight.

  She saw his the muscles of his throat contort as he swallowed, following the smooth movement of his Adam’s apple with a fascinated eye.

  “Nice driving,” he said, stepping away.

  Jenny hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath until she let it out in a rush.

  Returning to the cottage, Jenny was preoccupied. With the high over getting the Rover out, with the taste of fresh air, with the way her heart was still racing from that overt slide down Kier’s rigid, wet body.

  So when she paused on the threshold in front of him, looking back over her shoulder with a faint smile for the view, she wasn’t prepared to be sent flying.

  He planted both hands between her shoulder blades and pushed, violently. He pushed her so hard she couldn’t get her balance and fell flat on her front with a cry, bruising her elbows and knees.

  She rolled over, frantically trying to get up, but he was already there, on his knees, straddling her hips, pinning her to the ground with one hand splayed on her breastbone.

  She lay there, wide-eyed, speechless and shocked, while his wet jeans soaked her hips and he looked down at her out of a face that was set and cold.

  Then she remembered she had arms.

  He ducked from her first punch, and she only gave him a glancing blow across the top of his head. With her other arm, she tried to hit the inside of his elbow of the arm that was pinning her, but he fended that off with his free arm.

  Struggling and breathing hard, she was still trying to hit him when the hand on her chest bunched into her jumper, and hauled her up to him by that grip.

  He held her up, nose to nose, and his eyes pinned her more effectively than his hand had. They were grim, cold. There was no flicker to suggest he’d felt the companionship she had that morning.

  His lips moved, but it was a moment before his words filtered through to her.

  “Who trained you to kill, Jenny?”

  She gave an incoherent cry of rage and slapped him. Even as she registered the sting in her palm and the redness spreading over his cheek, she was stalled in surprise that she’d got through his guard.

  Then she tried to hit him again. He was ready this time, though. He leant back, hauling her with him, breast to breast. He let go of his grip on her clothes and dragged her hands behind her back, gripping them to the point of pain in one hand.

  The other caught her jaw, forcing her head up.

  “Make it easy on yourself, sweetheart. Answer the question.”

  She swore, calling him all the names she could think of, in all the languages she’d ever had occasion to use. Including Swahili. She had the satisfaction of seeing surprise flicker on his face. It wasn’t like her, but all her usual boundaries were well over the horizon.

  “I have nothing to tell you,” she spat at him, trying to wriggle out of his hold. He tightened his grip until she gasped in pain, then loosened it, just a little.

  “Hmmm. That’s not going to get you out of here, is it?” he said. “That’s not going to get you home. That’s not going to get you away from me, is it?”

  He tipped her head from side to side, as if examining her features in detail. Jenny tried to jerk her head away, but his fingers dug into her flesh and held her.

  “Or maybe that’s the idea. Is it, Jenny? Is that why you didn’t run when you could? Because they want you to get cosy with me?” He pulled her a little closer.

  How dare you! How dare you! Her mind screamed at him, but she was all out of insults. “Oh, go and choke on your ego, you wa—”

  The hand under her jaw twisted round to cover her mouth. She glared at him over it.

  He snorted. “I’ve got to get out of these wet clothes,” he said.

  He released her, giving her just enough time to catch herself before her head hit the stone flags, and rose to his feet over her. Staring down at her with a nasty little half smile on his face, he reached for his fly.

  With a choked sound she rolled to her feet and grabbed the nearest chair, pulling it out from under the table. She sat down with her back to him, shaking and sick with anger and outrage.

  The sound of a zip seemed overloud in the small room. Jenny held her breath. Beyond that first night, she hadn’t really entertained the idea that he might threaten her this way. Now the thought had her pinned like a rabbit in the headlights’ glare.

  But then she heard him move into the other room, and she started to breathe again.

  That day was like the day before. It just passed.

  Jenny didn’t think much about it, but went through the motions mechanically. McAllister mostly left her alone, which puzzled her a little. He seemed preoccupied and short of temper, working on the Rover with sharp, economical movements, and ordering her about without looking at her.

  She’d had a chance to get away. She’d had one chance, and she’d given it up. Thrown it away. She couldn’t kick herself enough for that and what was worse, she couldn’t begin to fathom why, either.

  It had just been impossible, in that moment, to drive away from him. Or was she just afraid? Afraid of trying to resume a life that seemed to have been shattered beyond repair, the tiny pieces of it scattered far and wide, and irreparable.

  When he returned, she was still sitting at the table, with her back to the door. For a moment he watched her back thoughtfully. But two hours working on the Rover hadn’t told him why she hadn’t run, and neither did her straight, slim back.

  You could ask her.

  “Conservation work, rangering,” he said, instead, keeping his voice as light as he could. “That’s an odd cover, isn’t it?”

  He watched her shoulders rise and fall on a deep breath. “It’s not a co
ver.”

  He glanced down at hands covered with grease and mud and grimaced, moved over to the sink, and scrubbed his hands in dish soap and cold water. He rinsed, and picked up a towel. “No? Why’d you end up doing it, then?”

  “I like the outdoors. I like making a difference.” Blunt and uncommunicative.

  Not that he’d expected chatter. This assignment had shifted so far from his own plan it just wasn’t real.

  Assignment? Who was he kidding?

  Why hadn’t she run?

  He stood behind her, drying his hands thoroughly. She didn’t turn round, didn’t lean away. He opened his mouth, but she spoke before he could. “What about you? Why do you do what you do?”

  “We’re not trading questions this time,” he said, letting his frustration roughen his voice. She’d take it for aggression, for threat, anyway. And he needed to create that impression. God, he needed that.

  “So what?” She turned to look back at him, opening her eyes wide. “What are you afraid of?”

  His lips narrowed at the inference. She wasn’t about to manipulate him, not like that. “I do this because I’m good at it.”

  She blinked at him, looking nonplussed. “That’s it?”

  He snorted. “No.” That wasn’t it, not by a long shot. “I’m the best at it. I’m …” He flung the towel over one shoulder and turned his hand over, palm uppermost, trying to encompass it, trying to find the words to explain something he’d never explained before.

  And struggling to lose the thoughts about why he was even trying.

  But she beat him to it, anyway, speaking softly, a little crease between her dark brows. “Because being the best is everything and second best is … nothing.”

  He stared at her, and his heart stuttered into hard, heavy beats, fuelled by a kind of panic that he should have revealed so much of something he barely understood himself. When she had revealed nothing.

  “That’s … sad,” she said.

  He turned his hand over again, curling the fingers over his palm, willing his pulse back to normal. “For you, maybe,” he said.