by Sandra Brown
He remembered the first thought that had registered when he regained consciousness. Her face, alluringly framed in that tumble of russet curls, had been bending over him, and he’d thought of the vilest obscenity the marine corps had ever coined and came just short of saying it out loud.
He’d been glad to be alive—but barely. He had thought he’d be better off dead rather than having to put up with this airhead swathed in expensive fur and sexy perfume. In the wilderness she wouldn’t stand a marshmallow’s chance at a bonfire. He’d figured that before it was over, he’d probably have to kill her to put them both out of their misery.
That was an unsettling and unappetizing thought, but he had been forced to do worse in order to save his own life in Nam. The plane crash had caused him to automatically revert to the law of the jungle, to slip back into the role of survivor.
Rule number one: You either killed or got killed. You stayed alive no matter what it cost. The survival tactics taught to the army’s special services knew no conscience. You did whatever was necessary to live one more day, one more hour, one more minute. He had been steeped in that doctrine and had practiced it more times than he wanted to remember—but too many times to let him forget.
But the woman had surprised him. That leg injury had caused her a great deal of pain, but she hadn’t whined about it. She hadn’t nagged him about being hungry and thirsty and cold and scared, although God knew she must have been. She’d been a tough little nut and she hadn’t cracked yet. Unless things got drastically worse, he doubted now that she would.
Of course that left him with a whole new set of problems. Few people had ever won his admiration. He didn’t want to admire Rusty Carlson, but found himself doing so.
He was also coming to acknowledge that he was stranded in the middle of nowhere with a tempting piece of womanhood, and that they might be alone and dependent on each other for a long time.
The demons who had guided his fate were having a huge laugh at his expense this time. They’d run amok many times in the past, but this was the clincher. This was the big punch line that had made his whole life a joke.
Traditionally, he despised women like Rusty Carlson. He had no use for wealthy, silly, superficial society broads who’d been born with silver spoons in their mouths. They didn’t know, or want to know, about anything outside their gilded cages. Wasn’t it just his luck to draw one who had earned his grudging respect by bearing up under the worst of circumstances?
But even that wasn’t enough for the malicious gods. She could have been a silly society broad who wouldn’t have given a warthog any competition in the looks department. She could have had a voice that would shatter glass.
Instead, the fates had forced on him a woman who looked like a dream. Surely the devil had designed her. Temptation incarnate. With cinnamon-colored hair a man could wrap himself in and nipples that looked so sweet they must taste like candy. Her voice would melt butter. That’s what he thought about every time she spoke.
What a cruel joke. Because he would not touch her. Never. He’d been down that road. Women like her followed vogue. Not only in clothes; in everything. When he’d met Melody it had been fashionable to love a veteran. She had, until it became convenient not to.
Scratch the silky surface of Rusty Carlson and you’d find another Melody. Rusty was only sucking up to him now because she depended on him for her survival. She looked like a tasty morsel, but inside she was probably as rotten and devious as Melody had been.
Slinging the rabbit pelts over his shoulder and folding the meat in a cloth, he headed back toward their camp. She wasn’t going to get to him. He couldn’t afford to start feeling soft toward her. Last night he’d let her cry because he felt that she deserved one good, cleansing cry. But no more. He’d held her during the night because it was necessary for them to keep warm. But he would keep his distance from now on. Once the shelter was built, they wouldn’t have to sleep together like that. He wouldn’t have to endure any more nights with her curled against his front and her bottom cushioning his involuntary reaction to her.
Stop thinking about it, he told himself. Forget how smooth her belly felt beneath your hand. Forget the shape of her breasts and the color of the hair between her thighs.
Groaning, he thrashed through the woods, viciously determined to keep his thoughts on track. As soon as he built the shelter, such close proximity wouldn’t be necessary. He would keep his eyes and his hands—
The piercing scream brought him up short.
If he’d walked into an invisible wall, he couldn’t have stopped more abruptly. When Rusty’s next scream rent the stillness, he instinctively slipped into the role of jungle fighter as easily as well-greased gears fitting into their notches. Silently, he slithered through the trees in the direction of her scream, knife drawn and teeth bared.
“Who...who are you?” Rusty’s hand was gripping her own throat, where her pulse was beating wildly.
The man’s bearded face split into a wide grin. He turned his head and said, “Hey, Pa, she wants to know who I am.”
Chuckling, another man, an older version of the first, stepped out from between the trees. The two gaped at Rusty. Both had small, dark eyes embedded in deep sockets.
“We could ask you the same question,” the older one said. “Who are you, little girl?”
“I...I...I survived the airplane crash.” They gazed back at her with perplexity. “You didn’t know about the crash?”
“Can’t say that we did.”
She pointed with a shaking finger. “Back there. Two days ago. Five men were killed. My leg was injured.” She indicated the crutches.
“Any more women?”
Before she could answer, Cooper lunged up behind the older of the two men and laid the gleaming blade of his knife against the whiskered throat. He grasped the man’s arm, twisted it behind him and shoved his hand up between his shoulder blades. The man’s hunting rifle clattered to the ground at his feet.
“Move away from her or I’ll kill him,” he said to the stunned younger man.
He was staring at Cooper as though he were Satan himself, who had sprung up out of the ground straight from hell. Even Rusty was quelled by the evil threat in Cooper’s eyes. But she was trembling with relief to see him.
“I said to move away from her.” Cooper’s voice seemed as deadly as his knife. It was void of inflection, emotionless. The younger man took two exaggerated steps away from Rusty. “Now, drop the rifle,” Cooper told him.
Since it appeared that the attacker was human after all, the younger man’s face puckered with rebellion. He whined, “Pa, do I have to do—”
“Do as he says, Reuben.”
Reluctantly the younger man tossed down his hunting rifle. Cooper kicked the two rifles now on the ground out of reach and gradually released his stranglehold on the man. He stepped around him and stood beside Rusty, facing the two. “Rusty?” She jumped. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“They scared me, that’s all. I don’t think they meant to.”
Cooper didn’t take his eyes off the two men, but regarded them warily. “Who are you?”
His bark carried more authority than Rusty’s feeble question. The older man answered him at once. “Quinn Gawrylow and my son, Reuben. We live here.” Cooper didn’t even blink. The man went on. “Across the deep ravine.” He hitched his chin in that direction.
Cooper had discovered the ravine the day before. The stream where he’d been getting water lay at the bottom of it. He hadn’t crossed it to explore because he hadn’t wanted to leave Rusty alone that long. He thanked God now that he hadn’t. These men might be perfectly harmless. Then again, they might not be. His suspicious nature had served him well on more than one occasion. Until they proved to be otherwise, he’d consider this duo the enemy. They hadn’t done anything harmful so far, but he didn’t like the way the younger one was staring at Rusty as though she were a celestial visi
on.
“What brought you across the ravine?” Cooper asked.
“We smelled your wood smoke last night and this morning came to investigate. We don’t usually see other people in our woods.”
“Our plane crashed.”
“That’s what the young lady said.”
She’d been elevated from a little girl to a young lady. Rusty silently thanked Cooper for that. She, too, was unnerved by the younger man’s stare and inched closer to Cooper, taking shelter behind his arm. “How far are we from the nearest town?” she asked.
“A hundred miles.” Her hopes plummeted. The man obviously noticed. “But the river isn’t too far.”
“The Mackenzie?”
“Right. If you reach that before it freezes closed, you’ll catch a boat on its way down to Yellowknife.”
“How far to the river?” Cooper asked.
The man scratched his head beneath his wool stocking cap. “Ten, fifteen miles, wouldn’t you say, Reuben?” The younger man bobbed his head, never taking his lustful eyes off Rusty. Cooper squinted at him, his stare malevolent and dangerous. “Could you direct us to the river?”
“Yes,” the elder Gawrylow said. “Tomorrow. Today we’ll feed you. Let you rest up.” He glanced down at the fresh meat Cooper had dropped. “Would you like to follow us to our cabin?”
Rusty glanced up at Cooper expectantly. His face remained a mask as he studied the two men cautiously. At last he said, “Thanks. Rusty could use the food and rest before we strike out. You go on ahead.” Using his rifle, he pointed them toward their camp.
The two men bent to pick up their rifles. Rusty felt Cooper’s muscles tense with precaution. But the father and son shouldered their rifles and turned in the direction Cooper had indicated. Cooper glanced down at her and spoke from the side of his mouth. “Stay close. Where’s the knife I gave you?”
“I left it behind when I went—”
“Keep it with you.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t act very glad to see them. I’m delighted. They can lead us out of here.”
His only comment was a thin-lipped “Yeah.”
The Gawrylows were impressed with Cooper’s improvisations. They helped gather up the pelts and the belongings Cooper and Rusty had salvaged from the crash. Nothing in the wilderness was ever wasted. Reuben kicked stones into the fire to make certain it was out.
The band, under Quinn’s guidance, with his son following closely, set out for their cabin. Cooper brought up the rear so he could keep an eye on both Gawrylows and on Rusty, who was making admirable if awkward progress on her crutches.
The men seemed to be well-meaning, but Cooper had learned the hard way never to trust anyone. He’d seen too many soldiers blown to bits by hand grenades handed to them by smiling children.
At the stream they paused to rest. Rusty’s lungs felt as though collapse were imminent; her heart was beating double time; and the crutches were chafing her armpits, even though Cooper had tried to prevent that by padding the tops of them with articles of extra clothing.
“How are you doing?” he asked her, uncapping the thermos and passing it to her.
“Fine.” She forced a smile.
“Does your leg hurt?”
“No, it just feels like it weighs a ton.”
“It can’t be much farther. Then you can lie down for the rest of the day.”
The Gawrylows waited patiently nearby until she had regained her breath and was ready to start again. “We’ll cross at the easiest point,” the elder one informed Cooper.
They walked along the streambed for several hundred yards. At any other time, Rusty would have been entranced with the landscape. The stream was crystal clear. It gurgled over rocks that had been polished as smooth as mirrors by the gallons of water that had rushed across them. Towering trees interlaced and formed canopies overhead. The evergreens were so deeply green that they appeared blue. The leaves of the deciduous trees ranged from vivid red to vibrant yellow. Encroaching winter had already caused many leaves to fall. They provided a crunchy carpet beneath their feet.
Rusty’s chest was burning with exertion by the time the Gawrylows drew to a halt. She laid her crutches on the ground and gratefully sank down onto a rock beside the stream, which ran shallow at this point. The side of the ravine rising up on the other side of the brook looked as high as the Himalayas.
“This is it,” Quinn said. “I’ll lead the way. Reuben can carry the woman. You can bring your gear.”
“Reuben can bring the gear. I’ll carry the woman,” Cooper amended in a steely voice.
The older man shrugged and ordered his son to take the bundles from Cooper. Reuben did so, but not without shooting Cooper a sour look. Cooper stared back at him unmoved. He didn’t care whether Reuben liked it or not; he wasn’t going to let those grubby hands get anywhere near Rusty.
When the father and son had moved out of earshot, he bent over her and whispered, “Don’t be shy of using that knife.” She looked up at him with alarm. “Just in case these Good Samaritans turn on us.” He laid the crutches across her lap and picked her up in his arms.
The Gawrylows were already well up the side of the ravine. He started after them, keeping one eye on them and the other on the treacherously steep incline. If he fell, Rusty would go with him. She had put up a brave front, but he knew her leg must be causing her considerable discomfort.
“Do you really think we’ll be rescued tomorrow, Cooper?”
“Looks like there’s a good chance. If we make it to the river and if a boat of some kind happens by.” He was breathing with difficulty. Sweat had popped out on his forehead. His jaw was set with determination.
“You need a shave.” The remark came from nowhere, but it indicated to them both how carefully she’d been studying his face. Without moving his head, he cast his eyes down toward her. Embarrassed, she looked away and murmured, “Sorry I’m so heavy.”
“Hardly. Your clothes weigh more than you do.”
That comment reminded them that he knew just how much of her was clothing and how much was flesh and bone. He’d seen her without any clothes, hadn’t he? Rusty decided that if all their conversations were going to result in awkwardness, it was safer not to engage in conversation at all.
Besides, by this time they had reached the top of the ravine. Quinn was biting off a chaw of tobacco. Reuben had removed his stocking cap and was fanning himself with it. His dark hair was greasily plastered to his head.
Cooper set Rusty down. Wordlessly Quinn offered him the brick of tobacco. Rusty was grateful when, with a shake of his head, Cooper turned it down.
“We’ll wait until you’re rested,” Quinn said.
Cooper looked down at Rusty. Her face was pale with fatigue. Her leg was probably hurting. The moist wind had picked up, making the temperature noticeably colder. No doubt she needed to take it slow and easy, but all things considered, the sooner he got her under a roof, fed, and lying down, the better.
“No need to wait. Let’s go,” he said tersely.
He pulled Rusty to her feet and propped her up on her crutches. He noticed her wince with pain, but steeled himself against compassion and indicated to their hosts that they were ready to proceed.
At least the remaining distance to the cabin was level ground. By the time they reached it, however, Rusty’s strength was totally spent. She collapsed on the sagging porch like a rag doll.
“Let’s get the woman inside,” Quinn said as he pushed open the door.
The rickety door was attached to its frame by leather hinges. The interior of the cabin looked as uninviting as an animal’s lair. Rusty eyed the opening with trepidation and a sense of dread. Then and there she decided that there were worse things than being exposed to the outdoors.
Cooper remained expressionless as he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the gloomy interior. The small windows were so blackened by grime that they let
in little light. A dim, smoky fire gave off meager illumination, but what Rusty and Cooper saw would have been better left hidden in darkness.
The cabin was filthy. It stank of wet wool, rancid grease, and unwashed men. The only merit it had was that it was warm. Cooper carried Rusty toward the stone hearth and set her down in a cushionless, straight-backed chair. He upended an aluminum bucket and propped the foot of her injured leg on it. He stirred the fire with an iron poker. The desultory flames showed new life when he added sticks of firewood from the wooden box on the hearth.
The Gawrylows stamped in. Reuben closed the door behind them, deepening the darkness inside. In spite of the warmth the fire was now giving off, Rusty shivered and shrank deeper into her coat.
“You must be hungry.” Quinn went to the wood-burning stove in one corner. He lifted the lid on a simmering pot and peered inside. “Stew smells done. Want some?”
Rusty was on the verge of refusing but Cooper answered for both of them. “Yes, please. Got any coffee?”
“Sure. Reuben, start a pot of coffee to boiling.”
The younger man hadn’t stopped staring at Rusty since he’d slunk in and dropped Cooper’s and her belongings just inside the door.
Cooper followed Reuben’s gawking stare back to Rusty. He wished to hell the firelight didn’t shine through her hair, making it shimmer. Pale and drawn as her face was, her eyes looked huge, vulnerable, female. To the young man, who apparently lived alone in this wilderness with his father, a woman wouldn’t even have to be pretty to be enticing. Rusty must have embodied his wildest fantasies.
With his bare hand, Reuben reached into a metal canister of coffee and tossed a handful into an enamel pot. He filled the pot with water from the pump in the dry sink and set it on the stove to boil. Within a few minutes Rusty and Cooper were handed plates filled with an unidentifiable stew. She was sure she was better off not knowing what meat was in it, so she refrained from asking. She chewed and swallowed quickly. It was at least hot and filling. The coffee was so strong that she grimaced as she swallowed, but she drank most of it.