by Sandra Brown
Rusty stared at the spot where his tawny eyebrows grew together above the bridge of his nose. His forehead was sweating in spite of the cold. He never took his eyes off his work except to occasionally glance down at her face. He was sensitive to her pain. Even sympathetic toward it. His hands were amazingly tender for a man so large, and for one who had a cold, unfeeling stone where his heart should have been.
Eventually that spot between his eyebrows began to swim in and out of focus. Although she was lying still, her head was spinning, reeling with pain and trauma and the anesthetizing effects of the brandy. Despite Cooper’s advice, she struggled to stay awake, afraid that if she went to sleep she might never wake up. Finally, she gave up the fight and let her eyes drift closed.
Her last conscious thought was that it was a shame her father would never know how brave she’d been right up to the moment of her death.
“Well,” Cooper said, sitting back on his heels and wiping his perspiring forehead, “it’s not pretty, but I think it will work.”
He looked down at her with a satisfied and optimistic smile. But she didn’t see his smile. She was unconscious.
Chapter Three
She came to, actually surprised that she was alive. At first she thought that darkness had fallen, but she inched her head upward. The small mink pelt slid off her head. It was still daylight—exactly what time was impossible to pinpoint. The sky was gloomily overcast.
With a sense of dread, she waited for the pain from her leg to penetrate her consciousness, but miraculously it didn’t. Dizzy from the brandy she’d consumed, she eased herself into a sitting position. It took every ounce of strength she had left to lift the furs off her leg. For one horrid moment she thought it might not be hurting because Cooper had amputated it after all.
But when she moved aside the largest caribou pelt, she found that her leg was still intact and bandaged in strips of white cotton. No signs of fresh blood. She was by no means ready to run a marathon, but it felt much better.
Sitting up had exhausted her and she fell back amid the furs, pulling them to her chin. Her skin was hot and dry, but she was chilled. She still had a fever. Maybe she should take more aspirin. But where were they? Cooper would know. He—
Where was Cooper?
Her lethargy vanished and she sprang into a sitting position. Frantically her eyes scanned the clearing. Not a trace. He was gone. His rifle was missing, too. The other one lay on the ground within her reach. The fire still had glowing coals and was giving off heat.
But her protector had deserted her.
Forcibly tamping down hysteria, she reasoned that she was jumping to conclusions. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t have nursed her so meticulously only to leave her stranded and helpless in the wilderness.
Would he?
Not unless he was an unfeeling bastard.
Hadn’t she decided that was exactly what Cooper Landry was?
No. He was hard. Tough. Cynical, certainly. But not completely lacking in feelings. If he were, he’d have deserted her yesterday.
So where was he?
He’d left a rifle behind. Why? Maybe that was the extent of his human kindness. He’d tended to her wound, done all he could on that score. He’d provided her with the means to protect herself. Maybe now it was every man for himself. Survival of the fittest.
Well, she would die. If not of fever, then of thirst. She had no water. She had no food. She had no shelter to speak of. In just a little while the supply of firewood, which he’d cut and stacked nearby, would be used up. She’d die of exposure if the weather turned even marginally colder.
Like hell she would!
Suddenly she was furious with him for going off and leaving her. She’d show him; she’d show her father. Rusty Carlson was not an easily expendable, spineless wimp.
She threw off the covers and pulled on her ski jacket. For the time being she’d leave off her left boot because the pair of them were still stashed farther down in the pile of furs, too far for her to reach. Besides, if one foot was bare, the other might just as well be, too. And on top of that, putting on her coat had sapped her energy.
Food and water.
Those essentials were necessary. That’s what she had to find first. But where? At best, her surroundings were intimidating. At worst, terrifying. For three hundred and sixty degrees, all she could see was virgin forest. Beyond the nearby trees—some so tall she couldn’t even see the tops of them—there stretched endless miles of more just like them.
Before she could go in search of water, she had to get to her feet. It seemed like an impossible task, but she gritted her teeth with the determination to do it.
When they discovered her body, it wouldn’t be hunkered under a pile of furs!
Reaching out as far as she could, she closed her hand around a stick of firewood and pulled it toward her. Using it as a prop, she came up on her good knee, keeping the injured one straight out in front of her. Then she paused to catch her breath, which was forming clouds of white vapor in front of her face.
Repeatedly she tried to stand up, but failed. She was as weak as a newborn kitten. And light-headed. Damn Cooper Landry! No wonder he’d urged her to drink so much brandy. He’d wanted her to pass out so she wouldn’t know when he sneaked away like the miserable skunk that he was.
Making a Herculean final effort, she put all her weight on her left foot and stood up on it. The earth tilted precariously. Closing her eyes, she clasped her supporting stick of firewood and held on for dear life. When she felt it was safe to reopen her eyes, she did—and let out a thin squeak of astonishment. Cooper was standing on the other side of the clearing.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.
Dropping what he was carrying, including his rifle, he bore down on her like a sorely provoked angel. Catching her under her arms, he kicked the stick of wood out from under her and lowered her back into her sickbed. He packed the covers around her shivering body.
“What the hell were you trying to do?”
“F...find water,” she stuttered through chattering teeth.
His muttered expletive was so vivid it was almost tangible. He laid his open hand on her forehead to gauge her temperature. “You’re so cold, you’re blue. Don’t try another damn stupid stunt like that again, understand? It’s my job to find water. Yours is to stay put. Got that?”
Swearwords continued to pour out of him like the payoff of a slot machine. He turned toward the fire and began stoking it, angrily throwing firewood onto the smoldering coals and fanning them to life. When the fire was blazing, he crossed the clearing and picked up the limp rabbit carcass he’d dropped on the ground. He was also carrying a thermos, one of the things he’d brought with them from the wreckage. Uncapping it, he poured water into the lid and knelt on one knee beside Rusty.
“Here. I’m sure your throat is dry and sore. But don’t drink too much too fast.”
She cupped her hands around his and raised the cup to her parched lips. The water was so cold it hurt her teeth, but she didn’t mind. She took three deep swallows before Cooper withdrew the cup.
“Easy, I said. There’s plenty.”
“You found a source?” She licked drops of water off her lips.
Watching that motion closely, Cooper said, “Yeah. A stream about three hundred yards that way.” He indicated the direction with his head. “Must be a tributary of the Mackenzie.”
She looked at the lifeless carcass lying next to his boot. “Did you shoot the rabbit?”
“Killed it with a rock. I didn’t want to waste any ammo unless I had to. I’ll dress it and put it on to cook. We can...Oh, hell. What’s the matter?”
Rusty, much to her dismay, burst into tears. The sobs racked her entire body. She covered her face with her hands, but even as dehydrated as she was, tears leaked through her fingers.
“Look, it was either him or us,” Cooper said with agitation. “We’ve got to eat. You can’t be so—”
“Then what? Does your leg hurt?”
“I thought you had de...deserted me. Left me behind beca...cause of my leg. And maybe you should. I’m holding you up. You probably could have wa...walked to safety by now if it weren’t for me and my leg.”
She hiccuped around several attempts to go on. “But my leg really doesn’t make much difference because I’m a washout in situations like this anyway. I loathe the great outdoors and think it’s anything but great. I hate it. Even summer camp never appealed to me. I’m cold. And scared. And guilty for complaining when I’m alive and everybody else is dead.”
She dissolved into another torrent, her shoulders shaking. Cooper let out a long-suffering sigh, several florid curses, and then walked forward on his knees to take her into his arms. He pressed her shoulders between his large hands. Rusty’s initial reaction was to tense up and try to pull away. But he kept his hands there and drew her against him. The promise of comfort was too much for her to resist. She slumped against his broad chest, clutching handfuls of his thick hunting coat.
The clean, fresh essence of pine clung to his clothes and hair—and that appealing, musty smell of damp leaves and fog. In Rusty’s weakened, woozy state, he seemed unnaturally large, as fantastic as the hero in a children’s tale. Powerful. Strong. Fierce but benevolent. Able to slay any dragon.
When one of his capable hands cupped the back of her head, she burrowed her face deeper into the quilted cloth of his coat and luxuriated in the first feeling of security she’d known since the plane went down—even before that, since leaving the hunting lodge and her disappointed father.
Finally the tumult passed. Her tears dried up. There was no excuse for Cooper to go on holding her, so she eased away from him. Embarrassed now, she kept her head down. He seemed reluctant to let her go, but at last his hands slid away.
“Okay now?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes, fine, thank you.” She wiped her moist nose on the back of her hand, as though she did that all the time.
“I’d better get that rabbit ready to cook. Lie back down.”
“I’m tired of lying down.”
“Then turn your head. I want you to be able to eat this and I’m afraid you won’t if you watch me gut it.”
Carrying the rabbit to the edge of the clearing, he laid it on a flat rock and proceeded to dress it. Rusty wisely kept her eyes averted. “That’s what we had our argument over,” she said quietly.
Cooper looked at her over his shoulder. “You and who?”
“My father. He had brought down a ram.” She laughed without humor. “It was a beautiful animal. I felt sorry for it, but I pretended to be ecstatic over the kill. Father hired one of the guides to field-dress it. He wanted to supervise, to make sure the guide didn’t damage the hide.” Blinking tears out of her eyes, she continued. “I couldn’t watch. It made me physically ill. Father—” she paused to draw in a deep breath “—I think I disgusted and disappointed him.”
Cooper was cleaning his hands on a handkerchief he’d soaked with water from the thermos. “Because you couldn’t stomach a field-dressing?”
“Not just that. That capped it off. I proved to be a terrible marksman, but I couldn’t have shot anything if it had walked up and put its nose against the barrel of my rifle. I didn’t like anything about that whole scene.” Softly, she added almost to herself, “I wasn’t as good an outdoorsman as my brother Jeff.”
“Did your father expect you to be?” He had skewered the rabbit on a green twig and was now suspending it over the coals.
“I think he was hoping I would be.”
“Then he’s a fool. You’re not physically equipped to be a hunter.”
His eyes dropped to her chest. And lingered. Heat rushed into her breasts, filling them like mother’s milk, making them heavy and achy. Her nipples drew tight.
The reaction startled Rusty enormously. Instinctively she wanted to cover and press her breasts back to normalcy, but he was still looking at her, so she couldn’t. She didn’t dare move at all. She was afraid that if she did, something terribly fragile would be broken—something that couldn’t be replaced or repaired. Any reckless move would be disastrous and irrevocable. Something dreadful might happen as a result.
It was the first time he had made any sexual reference besides the vulgarities he’d spouted last night. He’d done that only to rile her. She realized that now. But this was something altogether different. This time, he was as much the victim as the perpetrator.
He yanked his eyes back toward the fire and the moment passed. But they didn’t speak to each other for a long time. Rusty closed her eyes and pretended to doze, but she watched him as he busied himself around what was gradually coming to look like a bonafide camp. He sharpened the hatchet on a stone. He checked the roasting rabbit, turning it several times.
He moved with surprising agility for a man his size. She was sure that some women would consider him handsome, particularly now that his chin and jaw were deeply shadowed by a twenty-four-hour beard. The wide, curving mustache was sexy...if one liked facial hair. It sat directly on top of his lower lip, completely obscuring his upper one, making the thought of going in search of it intriguing.
She found herself staring at his mouth as he leaned down and spoke to her. “I...I beg your pardon?”
He looked at her strangely. “Your eyes are glassy. You’re not going delirious again, are you?” He pressed his palm to her forehead.
Impatient with him and herself for her adolescent fantasies, she swatted his hand aside. “No, I feel fine. What did you say?”
“I asked if you were ready to eat.”
“That’s an understatement.”
He assisted her into a sitting position. “This has been cooling for a minute or two. It should be about ready.” He slid the rabbit off the spit and tore off a leg at the joint. He passed it to Rusty. Hesitantly she took it, staring at it dubiously.
“You’re going to eat it if I have to force it down your throat.” He tore off a bite of meat with his strong white teeth. “It’s not half bad. Honest.”
She pinched some of the meat off the bone and put it into her mouth, making herself chew and swallow it quickly. “Not so fast,” he cautioned. “It’ll make you sick.”
She nodded and took another bite. With a little salt, it wouldn’t have been bad at all. “There are some very nice restaurants in Los Angeles that have rabbit on the menu,” she said conversationally. She instinctively reached for a napkin, remembered that she didn’t have one, shrugged, and licked her fingers.
“Is that where you live, Los Angeles?”
“Beverly Hills, actually.”
He studied her in the firelight. “Are you a movie star or something?”
Rusty got the impression that he wouldn’t be impressed if she told him she was a three-time Oscar winner. She doubted if Cooper Landry put much stock in fame. “No, I’m not a movie star. My father owns a real-estate company. It has branches all over southern California. I work for him.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“I’ve been very successful.”
He chewed a mouthful and tossed the cleaned bone into the fire. “Being the boss’s daughter, how could you miss?”
“I work hard, Mr. Landry.” She took umbrage at his sly implication that her father was responsible for the success she had achieved. “I had the highest sales record of the agency last year.”
“Bravo.”
Miffed that he was so obviously unimpressed, she asked snidely, “What do you do?”
He silently offered her another piece of the meat, which she tore into as though she’d been eating fresh, unseasoned roasted rabbit cooked over an open fire every day of her life.
“I ranch,” Cooper replied.
“Cattle?”
“Some. Horses mostly.”
“Where?”
“Rogers Gap.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the Sierra Nevada.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Can you make a living at just ranching?”
“I do all right.”
“Is Rogers Gap close to Bishop? Do people ski there?”
“We have a few runs. Serious skiers consider them a real challenge. Personally I think they’re some of the most spectacular on the continent.”
“Then why haven’t I ever heard of this place?”
“We’re a carefully guarded secret and want to remain that way. We don’t advertise.”
“Why?” Her interest was piqued. She never passed up an opportunity to locate new and interesting property for her clients to invest in. “With the right developer handling it, you could make something out of Rogers Gap. If it’s as good for skiing as you say, it could become the next Aspen.”
“God forbid,” he said under his breath. “That’s the point. We don’t want to be put on the map. We don’t want our mountains to be littered with concrete condos or the peaceful community to be overrun by a bunch of pushing, shoving, rude skiers from Beverly Hills who are more interested in modeling their Rodeo Drive duds than preserving our landscape.”
“Does everyone in town hold to this philosophy?”
“Fortunately, yes, or they wouldn’t be living there. We don’t have much going for us except the scenery and the tranquility.”
She tossed her denuded bones into the fire. “You sound like a holdover from the sixties.”
“I am.”
Her eyes were teasing. “Were you a flower child, advocating universal harmony? Did you march for peace and participate in war protests?”
“No,” he replied sharply. Rusty’s goading grin collapsed. “I couldn’t wait to join up. I wanted to go to war. I was too ignorant to realize that I would have to kill people or get killed myself. I hadn’t bargained on getting captured and imprisoned. But I did. After seven months in that stinking hole, I escaped and came home a hero.”
He practically snarled the last sentence. “The guys in that POW camp would have killed each other for a meal like the one you just ate.” His gray eyes looked like glittering knife blades as they sliced toward her. “So I’m not overwhelmed by your Beverly Hills glitz and glamour, Miss Carlson.”