“Your hands may be frostbitten. We need to get—”
He snatched her wrist and yanked her so close she could see every fleck of silver in his eyes. He had blood on his cheek, frozen against his grayish skin, and blood on the front of his jumpsuit. “We don’t need to do anything. You need to go.”
His words were slurred, his body stiff as he released his grip and struggled to his feet.
She didn’t touch him this time. Didn’t try to help as he shuffled to the fireplace and dropped down in front of it.
Thirteen years was a long time.
He could have become anyone or anything in those years.
But she still couldn’t leave him.
She owed him too much.
She set the teakettle on the propane stove and took coffee from the box of supplies she’d left on the table.
“Did you hear me? I want you to leave,” he said, his back to Laney, the blanket shrouding his head and covering his shoulders. Melted snow pooled around him, tinged pink with blood.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not your problem.” He didn’t move, didn’t glance her way.
“There’s a first aid kit in my Jeep. I’ll—”
“You don’t seem to get it, Laney. Being around me is dangerous. You need to leave while you still can.”
She took another blanket from the chest and threw it over his shoulders. “Here. Coffee will be ready in a minute.”
Suddenly, he was up, looming over her. Cold, cold expression and fiery eyes, a stranger lurking behind an old friend’s face. She shivered and tried to step back, but he held her in place with his eyes and the sheer force of his will.
“I’m a felon, Laney. Tried and convicted. You want to spend the night in this cabin with me? You want to risk that?”
“I—”
“Drive off this mountain and forget you ever saw me.” He dropped back down in front of the fire, shivering beneath the blanket. Closed in and closed up and absolutely committed to chasing Laney away.
The small part of her, the remnant of the scared kid she’d been when she’d run from Green Bluff, wanted to give him what he wanted. The other part, the bigger part, refused to. He’d helped her all those years ago. If not for Logan, she’d never have gotten her college degree, become an interior designer, met William and married him. Without Logan, the Laney she was now wouldn’t exist.
She took the keys from her purse and stepped out into the blowing snow, heading for the Jeep and the first aid kit she kept there. No matter what Logan had become, no matter who, she’d make sure he was warm and dry and safe because, once upon a time, he’d done exactly the same for her.
TWO
Cold.
Hot.
Logan wasn’t sure which he was, but he was shaking violently, his teeth knocking together.
He shouldn’t have sent Laney away. She had a Jeep, a way off the mountain. All he had were frozen fingers and leaden feet, but he couldn’t pull her into his troubles. Couldn’t risk her life in an effort to save his own.
Laney. Grown up and confident, her soft green eyes looking straight into his. It had been thirteen years since he’d handed her two thousand dollars and a bus ticket to Seattle, but he’d have known her anywhere. Her pretty face and solemn eyes. Her white-blond hair that had only darkened a little as she’d grown older. He’d seen her in the window of her parents’ oversize home the day that he’d arrived at Mildred and Josiah Mackey’s place. He’d been nearly fifteen and in so much trouble that a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was the only place that would have him. He hadn’t been interested in the tiny little blonde with her perfect hair and perfect life. Until he’d realized that nothing about Laney’s life was perfect. Then, he’d wanted nothing more than to free her from the prison in which she lived.
He wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders, the memories more vivid than they should have been. Hypothermia?
Probably.
He’d warm up, though. Find some way to rid himself of the cuffs. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he had unlimited time. The police were already on the hunt. So were the men who’d run the cruiser off the road. He had to warm up quickly and get moving again. And come up with a plan to prove his innocence.
He grabbed a mug from a cupboard and poured hot water from the whistling teakettle into it, his hands burning as he wrapped them around the ceramic.
“Logan?” Laney’s voice came from far away, and he realized he’d closed his eyes and was leaning against the counter, the mug still cradled in his hands. He blinked, trying to bring her into focus.
No perfect hair now.
Curls escaped her long braid, falling against smooth, pale cheeks. She looked scared. She should be.
He straightened, setting the cup on the counter. “I told you to leave.”
“You have a pretty deep cut. You’re going to need stitches.” She ignored the comment and dabbed his temple with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.
He smelled the fumes but felt nothing.
Not a good sign.
“What do you suggest? A trip to the nearest hospital?” He motioned toward his prison uniform, the cuffs on his wrists clanking.
“I see you haven’t outgrown your sarcasm.” She dabbed at the cut again, swiping a fresh cotton ball down his cheek.
“I’m afraid your parents were never quite able to beat it out of me,” he responded and regretted it immediately. He had outgrown sarcasm and his need for revenge. He had become what he’d always wanted to be, part of a community that he had loved, doing a job that he’d loved. Even, for a while, married to a woman that he’d loved.
An image of Amanda flashed through his mind.
Broken glass and her broken body and his own helplessness.
He pushed the memory away.
“I should be able to butterfly the wound closed, but you’re probably going to have a scar.” Laney rifled through a large first aid kit, her fingers long and delicate, the knuckles of her right hand scarred.
It would be so easy for those hands to break, so easy for the light in her eyes to be snuffed out.
“Laney, I want you to leave.” He bit the words out, forcing himself to move away. The cuffs on his wrists felt heavy and cold. His body also felt heavy and cold, but he had to get her out of his life.
“I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Weren’t you the one who once told me I had a million choices?” She pulled butterfly bandages from the kit. “Sit down so I can do this.”
“I could be a murderer. A serial killer planning to make you my next victim,” he spit out because it was all he had left, his last push to get her out of the cabin and to safety.
“In your current condition, I doubt you could make an ant your next victim.” She pressed the bandage to his temple, her eyes cool and calm, her hand shaking.
She didn’t know that he’d been a deputy sheriff for five years and had worked on the Green Bluff police force for five years before that. Didn’t know that he had been falsely accused and convicted of drug trafficking.
What she didn’t know, he could use against her.
For her?
It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was keeping her safe.
He’d failed Amanda. And she’d died because of it.
He wouldn’t fail Laney.
He yanked her hand down, then moved so close he could smell melting snow mixed with flowers in her hair. “Don’t make the mistake of believing that, Laney.”
“I don’t believe you’re a murderer. I don’t believe you’d hurt me.”
“Then believe you’re in trouble if you’re caught with me.”
“Caught by the police?” Her gaze dropped to his jumpsuit.
“It’s not just the police I’m worried about.”
“Then who?”
“It’s a long story.” Too long to tell when danger was breathing down both their necks. Logan felt the clock ticking, trouble drawing near.
“We have time. The storm won’t break for hours.”
“How far are we from the main road?”
“Five miles.” She repacked the first aid kit, putting everything back exactly where it belonged. Neat and tidy. Just the way her parents had trained her to be. He’d hated that about her when they’d met. Her perfection against his rough edges. Her pristine dresses against his worn and dirty clothes.
Now, she wore faded jeans and a soft sweater, the fabric hugging her slender curves.
“Are there other cabins nearby?”
“No. My husband bought a hundred and fifty acres from a logging company fifteen years ago. This is the only place around.”
Not what he’d wanted to hear.
If this really was the only place around, anyone hunting him would know exactly where to look. He needed to get the cuffs off his wrists, get out of his prison orange and put on a few layers of clothing. Then, he needed to get going while he still could.
“Does your husband keep clothes up here? I’m not exactly dressed for the weather. I can pay him for everything I borrow.”
“My husband passed away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She opened a trunk at the end of a queen-size bed and pulled out a pile of clothes. “You can use whatever you need.”
“Thanks. Now, I just need to find a way to put them on.” He lifted his cuffed wrists.
“We might be able to pick the lock.” She leaned over the cuffs, her hands on his wrists as she studied the lock. Warm fingers on cold flesh. Flowers and slow waltzes in the moonlight. It had been a long time since he’d thought of any of those things. In the three years since Amanda’s death, he’d mostly stayed out of the dating game. A few dinners set up by friends. A lunch here or there. Nothing that had stuck because he hadn’t wanted anything to.
He stepped back, pulling his wrists from Laney’s hands.
“Do you have a tool chest in your car?”
“A small one, but I doubt there’s anything in there that’ll take these off. I think I’ll have better luck in the shop. William kept tons of tools in it.” She shrugged into her coat, dragging her braid over the collar.
“Where’s the shop?”
“Out back. I’ll just be a minute.” She opened the back door and frigid wind blew in, spraying snow across the wood floor and plastering the wet jumpsuit to Logan’s frozen skin. He pulled the blankets closer, gritting his teeth. The last thing he wanted was to walk out that door and follow Laney into the cold, but he couldn’t stay in the cabin while she went herself.
He walked onto the back porch, the wind biting into his throbbing, thawing flesh. He would be frozen again before they were done, but if he was able to ditch the cuffs and the jumpsuit, it would be worth it.
“You should stay in the cabin,” Laney said as she picked her way down snow-covered stairs.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re nearly thawed, Logan. Do you really want to freeze again?”
No.
But he didn’t want her out in the storm by herself either. He didn’t trust that the men who’d shot at him had run when the police showed up. Hidden? Yes. Disappeared from the picture? No way. No one went to as much trouble as they had to fail, and Logan had a feeling that the only way for them to succeed was for him to be dead, his body buried somewhere in the wilderness.
He followed Laney across the clearing. If a shop existed, it was well hidden by the night and by the storm. Snow blew into Logan’s eyes, the raging wind snatching every breath before it formed. He glanced back and saw the vague outline of the cabin and light spilling out from its windows. How far would they have to go before they lost sight of both? In a storm like this, not far.
“This isn’t a good idea, Laney.” He snagged her coat, nearly bumping into her back when she stopped. “If we go much farther, we may not be able to find our way back.”
“We’re already here. William kept the workshop locked, but there’s a spare key.” She brushed snow from a birdhouse nailed to the side of a large building, her fingers sliding under it. It seemed to take forever, but she finally pulled out a key.
Logan crowded into the shop behind her, catching a whiff of wood chips and sawdust and summer flowers.
“There’s a light here somewhere.” Fabric rustled as Laney moved, and a light went on, spilling into the cavernous room.
She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said her husband had tools. Logan figured there were a couple of tons of tools in the building. Table saws. Band saws. Lathes. A plainer. Rows of shelves that housed chisels and sanders. Handsaws hung from the far wall. Antique and new, side by side. Everything orderly and neat.
Obviously, William had loved his tools.
“I think we can drill through the lock mechanism to open the cuffs,” Laney said, her voice tight and her movements stiff as she walked to one of the shelves and lifted an electric drill. Was it the shop or the situation that had her tense?
“You don’t have to help me, Laney. It would be better if you didn’t,” he said gently because he wanted her to take the out he was offering, to run before anyone knew that they’d ever been together.
“You never told me why.” She grabbed a drill from a tool chest, patted a worktable. “Put your hands here.”
“Why what?” he asked, placing his hands palm down on smooth wood.
“Why it’s so dangerous for us to be together. Why you think someone other than the police is after you.” She aimed the drill straight into the cuff lock, her hands steady. If she was nervous, it didn’t show, and he couldn’t help thinking how different she was from the scared and anxious girl he used to know.
“The police cruiser that was taking me to state prison was run off the road. The driver was shot and killed. Another officer was wounded. Whoever was responsible took a shot at me.”
“Why would someone help you escape and then kill you?”
“That’s a good question, and I don’t have an answer.” But he would. All he needed was time and a place to hunker down and plan.
“Why were you on your way to state prison?” The drill whined and protested, a few sparks flying as she pressed down.
“I was convicted of trafficking in illegal narcotics.”
“Were you guilty?” Laney asked—because she had to know and because she couldn’t believe that the teenager who had been so adamantly opposed to drugs had turned into a man who sold them.
“No.” Logan’s answer was short, his hands pressed hard to the table that William had fashioned out of thick oak slabs. Laney had been there with him the weekend he’d finished it. She had smiled as he’d caressed the golden wood and imagined out loud all of the things he could create on it.
The thought of selling his cabin and shop and everything in them made her stomach churn.
Her hand slipped, the drill sliding from the lock and digging into the wood.
“Careful.” Logan grabbed her hand, holding it steady for a moment.
“Sorry.” She pressed the drill in again and focused her attention on forcing the lock open. It took three tries, but the lock finally popped. Not a pretty job, but done. “You’re free.”
“Thanks.” Logan slid out of the cuffs, rubbing the raw red welts on his wrists. He was still shivering, but he had some color in his face.
Good.
Not so good that she’d just freed a convict from handcuffs. She might believe Logan’s story, but a jury hadn’t.
“We should go back to the cabin.” She put the drill
back exactly where William had always kept it, then ran her finger over the ding it had made in the table.
For some reason, tears burned behind her eyes.
Not grief. She’d cried a million tears in the weeks after William died. Maybe it was just sadness over all the dreams she’d never live with him.
“You okay?” Logan lifted her hand from the wood and ran his thumb across her knuckles. Even hurt and cold, he seemed larger than life, his dark blue gaze so intense that she had to look away.
“Fine. I just think we should get back and start planning how we’re going to get off the mountain.”
“We’re not going to get me off. I’m going to do it. You’re going to pretend that you never saw me.” He tugged her outside and back into the cabin, slamming the door against the bitter cold. The fire had nearly died, and Laney shrugged out of her coat, shivering a little as she piled logs on the embers and stoked them to life.
Logan didn’t speak as he grabbed the pile of clothes she’d pulled out for him. He didn’t say a word as he walked into the small bathroom and closed the door.
She wondered if he’d return, or if he’d climb out the bathroom window and disappear into the storm.
Would she go after him if he did?
She’d been raised to follow the rules, to strive for perfection. Nothing short of that had ever been acceptable. As an adult, she’d tried to move past the need for flawless living. She’d tried to concentrate on what God wanted from her rather than what people wanted. She’d let her hair be messy sometimes, allowed herself to dress in jeans and sweaters.
Still, she’d never skirted the law, and in helping Logan she’d done more than that. She’d broken it.
The bathroom door opened, and he walked out, William’s flannel shirt hanging open over a black T-shirt. His faded jeans hung low on Logan’s leaner hips. William had been shorter, a little broader and a lot older. On him, the clothes had looked comfortable and easy.
On Logan...
She frowned, pouring still-warm water into a mug. “Warmer?”
Fugitive Page 2