by Linda Howard
Dare picked up his rifle and sat down near the lantern and began to methodically take the weapon apart. “If he’s trying to get to Lattimore’s, he’ll find out really fast that runoff from a rain like this will put rivers where there weren’t any before, and that only a fool would try to cross a fast-moving current like that.”
Angie scowled, knowing what could happen. “If one of my horses gets hurt or killed—” She stopped, fuming impotently, because the likelihood she’d be able to get her hands on Krugman was nonexistent. He was effectively out of her reach, no matter what his actions. If he somehow made it to Lattimore’s and made his escape, law enforcement would be after him, but unless he settled in a country with an extradition treaty with the United States, he was home free—and she’d bet he’d researched that angle. If he got himself killed trying to get out of the mountains, then he was dead anyway. Scowling, she looked up at Dare. “I know I won’t be able to do a damn thing to him, and that really pisses me off.”
He gave a rusty chuckle, a real, honest-to-God laugh, Callahan style, and that weird squeeze in her chest made the bottom drop out of her stomach as if she’d gone over the big drop in a roller coaster. She watched him for a few minutes, then looked at her own rifle. Normally she would have cleaned it the first chance she had, but when they’d reached the cabin she and Dare had both been at the end of their rope—so, realistically, this was the first chance she’d had.
“Could I borrow that cleaning kit when you’re finished with it?” she asked.
He glanced at her rifle, then resumed his task. “I’ll clean it for you.”
Angie was a bit nonplussed; she didn’t know how to take his offer. Obviously she knew how to take care of her firearms, so it wasn’t that he doubted her ability. Just to make certain, she said cautiously, “I know how to do it.”
He lifted his head and gave her a long, unreadable look. “I know,” he finally said. “But it’s so muddy I’ll take it down to the stalls to knock the dirt off, so this area stays clean.”
“Oh. Good thinking.” But she still had the feeling there was something more behind the offer, something she wasn’t seeing. She suppressed a frustrated sigh. More than likely she was simply second-guessing herself to death, as usual. He was taking care of a chore for her because she wasn’t very mobile, that was all there was to it.
There didn’t seem to be anything she could do, so she pulled the sleeping bag over her lap and watched him as he efficiently stripped, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled his rifle, every movement reminding her of the years he’d spent in the military. How much did she really know about him? Growing up in such a small community, of course she’d known him by sight, but he was five or six years older than she, so they’d never connected socially. When she was in grade school, he was in middle school. When she was in middle school, he was in high school, and by the time she got to high school he was in the military.
She didn’t think they’d ever spoken until he’d returned to the area. They’d both been in the hardware store, someone had introduced them, and she’d gone home with her hand tingling from shaking hands with him and feeling the roughness and strength of his hand wrapped around hers. The second time they’d spoken, he’d asked her out, but she’d been rushing around getting ready for a guide trip and hadn’t had time, so she’d declined, very regretfully. Months had passed before he’d asked her out again, and by then she’d been so angry she wouldn’t have crossed the road with him.
But the people in the community seemed to like him well enough; she’d never heard anyone, other than herself, call him a son of a bitch. She knew he was grouchy, though she had no idea if he came by it naturally or if it was something caused by his experiences in a war; she also knew that a man who’d carried her on his back for miles, under terrible conditions, deserved to be cut some slack for being grouchy. What else? He cussed a lot—and he’d taken care of her without a hint of sarcasm, or a single snide word. He still put butterflies in her stomach. And he’d lied about having a little dick.
Well, hell. Some people got married knowing less about each other than that.
She quickly pushed that thought away. It wasn’t the state of being married that gave her the willies, it was the act of getting married. She’d tried it, and made a complete hash out of the deal. If she could do it over … but there weren’t any do-overs for some things.
When he was finished with his rifle, he took hers down to the stalls below, and she listened to him moving around. He’d turned on one of the flashlights; she could tell by the blue-white glow. Glancing at one of the windows, she saw that night had fallen, and the steady rain was still coming down. She’d always enjoyed rain before, but after this she didn’t know if she’d ever feel the same way about it again. The rain was like the bear: If it hadn’t been for the bear, Krugman would likely have killed her. If it hadn’t been for the storm, the bear would likely have heard or seen her, and she doubted the outcome would have been a happy one for her. But the storm had also almost killed her, though, come to think of it, she’d rather die from hypothermia or drowning than from being eaten alive.
Don’t think about it.
She concentrated on listening to Dare, and reminding herself that she was safe, they were both safe. They had shelter, food, water, heat, even a pretty damn comfortable bed. They weren’t in any danger. There were things, urgent things, that they needed to do, but until the weather cleared everything would have to wait. The runoff from a storm could be deadly in the mountains, all that water gathering on its way down from the peaks, gaining in speed and volume, washing boulders and trees down the ravines with astonishing power. Even on horseback, the trip down-mountain would be dangerous, and walking out right now would be almost impossible, even for Dare.
When the weather cleared and the flash floods had subsided, if she still couldn’t walk, Dare would have to leave her here while he trekked to Lattimore’s place. She didn’t worry about being alone here, but when she thought of everything that could go wrong for him, nausea knotted her stomach.
He climbed back up the ladder with her rifle slung over his shoulder. Most of the mud had been wiped from the weapon, but the mechanism would have to be carefully cleaned. He settled on the floor in his former position, by the lantern, and methodically began the process. She leaned her head against the wall and watched him through half-closed eyes, strangely soothed by the sureness of his movements, the almost fierce concentration he gave to the chore, the way he smoothed his lean, powerful hands over the wood and metal, feeling for any roughness, any grit.
He glanced up once, and a corner of his mouth kicked up. “You look half asleep.”
She couldn’t argue with his assessment. Instead she yawned. “It doesn’t make sense to be sleepy after being awake for just an hour or so.”
“We both burned a lot of energy last night. It’ll take more than a few hours of sleep to get back to normal.” Pouring gun oil on a cloth, he slowly rubbed it along the length of the barrel. “After I’m finished with this, I’m all for turning in again.”
“Suits me. Do you have any disposable toothbrushes?”
“Sure. I also set the bucket—you know, the one you refused to pee in—outside to catch some rainwater to heat, if you want to wash off with water instead of wet wipes.”
“Water,” she said immediately. “But it doesn’t have to be heated. I don’t mind using cold water.” The prospect of washing with water cheered her. Wipes were great on the trail, but as far as she was concerned they couldn’t take the place of water. They left her with a slightly sticky feel that she thought might mostly be in her head, but if she had an alternative, she’d rather take a break from the wipes.
“There should be some hot water left in the percolator, so you won’t be taking an icy bath. I imagine you’re about ready for another trip outside?”
She was, and she’d been dreading it, because her ankle made the process such an effort. “Trip first, then I’ll clean up.” Half an hour later, the
whole exhausting procedure was finished; Dare had divided the water and he was on the lower level washing off and brushing his teeth, while she did the same sitting on the mattress in the sleeping stall. After bringing her back up the ladder he’d pulled the heavy privacy curtain over the opening so she’d feel comfortable stripping off as much as she wanted, then he’d left her alone.
Add “gentleman” to the list of complimentary adjectives she had to apply to the damn man.
But she was undeniably grateful for the privacy; even though he’d stripped her clothes off that morning and cleaned her up, she’d been so exhausted and spent she’d been mostly out of it, so that didn’t count. Now that she was thinking more clearly, she was well aware of the risks of letting herself get carried away by the physical closeness, the dependence, and tricking herself into reading more into their closeness than really existed. That would be so, so easy to do, and seeing the risk set off her protective internal alarms. She didn’t know what she was doing when it came to man/woman situations, so the best way to keep from making a fool of herself again was to steer clear. Normally that wasn’t difficult, but, well, Dare and those damn butterflies could lead her into temptation.
Forewarned was forearmed—if she could just keep that in mind.
She had stuffed some clean clothes into her saddlebags, but she’d been in a hurry, trying to keep from panicking, so she wasn’t certain exactly what she’d packed. Pulling the bags toward her, she unloaded them. Protein bars, water, her pistol, ammo—from a survival standpoint, she’d grabbed the correct stuff. In the way of clothing she’d put in two pairs each of clean socks and underwear, a pair of jeans, and two flannel shirts. Not bad; if she’d been able to get her coat dry, she’d have been fairly well prepared for the weather.
But one thing she hadn’t packed was a clean set of sweats to sleep in. She’d have to continue making do with Dare’s thermal bottoms. She could give him back his flannel shirt and sleep in her own, but she didn’t want to. Oh, God, she’d be in serious trouble if she didn’t watch out.
After washing in the cool water and brushing her teeth with one of the disposable toothbrushes, which was essentially a piece of pink sponge glued to a lollipop stick with a minty-tasting something in the sponge to take the place of toothpaste, she pulled Dare’s clothes back on, and put on one of her own thick socks. She was rewrapping her ankle when she heard Dare coming up the ladder.
“You finished?”
“Yes.” The curtain was swept aside almost before the word was out of her mouth. She looked up at him with a little smile curving her mouth. “Thanks. I feel a lot better now, almost human.”
For one second a hard, unreadable expression set his face, almost as if he was clenching his teeth, then it was gone so fast she wasn’t sure she’d truly seen it or if it was a shadow thrown on his face by the stark light of the lantern. “Is something wrong?” She fought hard to keep her voice level. If something was going on, some disaster about to befall them, then she wanted to know about it, so she could meet the problem head-on. She liked to be prepared for any eventuality.
“No, why?”
“You just had a funny expression—funny strange, not funny ha-ha.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“If there is, I want to know about it, so I won’t be surprised.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“I don’t like surprises. I want to be prepared, so I can handle whatever it is.”
This time she had no problem reading his expression, because exasperation was an easy one. “Nothing’s. Wrong.”
“Then why did you look as if you had a gas pain?”
His dark brows came down to a point over his nose. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“And you aren’t?” she retorted. She felt more certain of herself now that they were back on familiar ground: arguing. Not that they’d argued a lot—just once, in fact, the day she’d put her place up for sale—because after she’d seen how he was killing her business she’d actively avoided him, but in her imagination she’d had many, many aggressive conversations with him.
“Yeah, but you’re taking the lead on this one.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
Dare stared down at her for a split second, that strange expression back on his face. Then he moved fast, bending down and seizing her shoulders. Startled, she looked up at him and opened her mouth to either protest or blast him, and he kissed her.
Angie’s mind went blank. All of her gray matter seemed to freeze, because abruptly it was producing nothing, not a thought, not a word. His taste filled her, the same minty taste of the toothbrushes underlaid with him, Dare, man. Sensation flooded her, a hundred sensations that stood out crystal clear: the firmness of his lips, the scratchiness of the bristle on his face, the hard grip of his hands on her shoulders, the teasing stroke of his tongue against hers.
Somehow her fists knotted in the fabric of his shirt, holding on tight as if she might fall over if she didn’t, though the way he was gripping her there was no danger of falling anywhere. Somehow her mouth was open under the pressure of his, and she was vaguely aware that she was kissing him in return, her tongue meeting his, her lips clinging.
Then heat came roaring in like a wildfire, scorching along her nerve endings. Everything about him got to her: the hot scent of his skin underlying that of the fresh rainwater he’d used to wash, his taste filling her mouth, the strength of the hands holding her, and, God, yes, the size of the erection he’d put her hand on. Everything she felt physically mingled with the emotional whiplash he’d given her in the past fifteen hours and exploded inside her, hurling her straight into heaven or hell, maybe both, because she couldn’t tell one from the other. But it all became want, curling deep in her belly, clenching between her legs, taking her as unaware as if she had no idea what sex was about.
But she did, and this was Dare, and when her brain sluggishly began working again she couldn’t make sense of what was happening.
She pulled her head back with a jerk, staring up at him with huge dark eyes, blinking in bewilderment. “What are you doing?” she blurted.
And he smiled, that heart-thumping, stomach-knotting smile. “Shutting you up,” he said. “Now let’s get some damn sleep. I’m still bushed, so I hope you don’t twitch around like a squirrel on hot coals the way you did before.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Dare lay with Angie’s ass cuddled tight against his aching dick, hoping, praying, she’d twitch like that squirrel on hot coals he’d compared her to, but she was sound asleep. Despite the way she’d stared at him in shock after he kissed her, once she lay down again and got settled, she’d dropped off to sleep like a baby, which told him exactly how much the night before had taken out of her. He was still pretty wiped himself, and could feel sleep coming on, but he wanted to enjoy the feel of her snuggled against him for a while before he let go.
In a very surprising way, he’d enjoyed spending time with her, just having her company while he cleaned their rifles. She didn’t chatter, with one thought after another spilling out of her mouth, but if she had something to say she said it, no beating around the bush. She didn’t complain, she didn’t bitch, even though she’d had reason. Hell, he bitched his own head off occasionally, so he wouldn’t have held it against her.
Another thing: She was the most low-maintenance woman he’d ever met. If she had any hint of vanity, he hadn’t seen it. Not once had she even mentioned combing her hair; being clean and brushing her teeth seemed to be the extent of her upkeep. He wasn’t certain she wore makeup, anyway; if she ever had, it had been subtle enough that he hadn’t noticed it, not that he normally did anyway unless a woman went way overboard with the stuff. Maybe her thick, heavy dark hair was naturally sleek and she didn’t have to do a lot to it, period. Maybe tomorrow she’d wake up fretting because she didn’t have mascara and a blow-dryer, but he’d bet she didn’t.
He had a head-fucking mixture of frustration, amusement
, and tenderness going on because of her. The first two he could deal with: He was frustrated because he’d wanted to get in her pants from the minute he’d first seen her, which meant he was dealing with two years’ worth of buildup, and he was amused because he had the upper hand now and she kind of knew it, and the way she was fighting back was as smart-ass as always, but she hadn’t yet really figured things out so she was a little off track.
But … tenderness? What the fuck did he know about that? He just knew that those solemn dark eyes of hers got to him, and when she’d smiled at him, for the first time ever, her face kind of lit up and the adrenaline hit had been almost like going into combat. When she’d actually laughed, that had been it, he’d had to kiss her, and if she hadn’t pulled away he’d still be kissing her plus doing a whole lot more.
He’d had his share of women, but one thing he’d noticed was that chemistry started with kissing. There had been women he’d been attracted to, women he’d slept with, whom he didn’t like to kiss, and all the relationships went nowhere fast. It was as if their incompatibility went all the way to the molecular stage. There had been other women who he hadn’t been all that attracted to, at first, until he kissed them, and their taste just did it for him.
Angie was a bull’s-eye, in more ways than one. He was more powerfully attracted to her than he’d ever been to anyone else, and she tasted as if she’d been made for him. What had started out as something physical had rapidly turned into something he was almost afraid to look at, because, shit, what if he was falling in love with her, and she was being nice now because of the situation, but for her the bottom line would always be that he’d run her out of business and forced her to sell her home? That was a hard thing for anyone to get over. Yeah, he had a plan for that, but would she listen?