"Just checking. We had a might of snow last night."
"The weathermen were right on the money this time. Twenty-four inches," Sandra confirmed. Thank God, she finished silently. She'd gone out after getting Wyatt to bed spent an hour in their Jeep plowing a path back to his car. Then she'd put the Jeep away and walked to his car. It had taken her another hour to get the car up to the cabin. Without four-wheel drive it was virtually impossible to climb the mountain road, or what passed as a road. Her mother and father had wanted absolute privacy when they built the cabin. It sat near the top of the mountain with few avenues of access other than the air and a four-wheel drive vehicle.
"Drifts must be up to your porch." Brian's voice jarred her back to the present.
"And then some," she told him. Sandra had stepped onto the porch at first light. The blowing snow of last night completely covered the path leading to the spot where Wyatt's car had been. The five steps that led to the cabin’s wide porch were obliterated.
"You sure you don't need me to fly up there and bring you down?"
"I'm sure, Brian." She held the strain in her voice. She didn't want any visitors until Wyatt was conscious. "Besides," she remembered. "You and Starfighter can't occupy the same space."
She bit her lower lip. She didn't think the senator would want to find a representative of the law, even if it was only a forest ranger, when he opened his eyes. Her conscious tugged at her for a moment. She knew her mother was right and she should report to Brian that Senator Randolph had been stabbed and was comfortably asleep in Annie's bed. Yet, something made her hold that information back. Why was he on that road? Of all the places in the world he could choose to go, why did he pick the road leading to her family cabin? It had to concern her father. Yet, Sandra didn't discount her sister, Annie.
Annie had always been a wild one, and millions of dollars in diamonds could be part of a scenario that had her name on it. On the other hand, Wyatt Randolph was a senator and so was her father. She shivered at the thought that somehow the two of them had something in common. Either way, she had to find out the truth before she let Brian or the police know about him.
"How are you fixed for food and water?" Brian's voice had a serious note in it when it pulled her back to the shortwave. She knew he was concerned about her. She also knew he was a fine ranger. Her mother said he often called to check on her when she was there writing one of the many medical articles she published each year. Her trips were generally taken during summer weather. Why Sandra had chosen to prepare her defense during the winter, even she questioned now. She'd told herself the timing was right. Her exam was scheduled for the end of April. The cabin was deserted. She'd have absolute quiet to concentrate, no hikers dropping by unexpectedly, and she wanted to prove she could withstand the memories of John and this place without falling to pieces.
"Princess?" Brian called her back to the present.
"No problem," she continued. "All services are still working." The electricity and water had been unaffected by the sudden cold and mountainous snowfall.
"I don't like you being up there all alone."
"Brian, I'm not alone." She had a U.S. senator in residence. Granted he was unconscious, but he was there. "You're at the end of the radio and I've got a Jeep with a snow plow if I really need to get down the mountain."
"That Jeep won't be much good in this kind of weather. It would take you hours to plow that road, if you could do it."
How well she knew that. Brian's voice told her he had doubts of her ability. Sandra's chin raised an inch. She had plowed that road, at least as far back as the senator's car. The Jeep had front-wheel drive, but had been hard to move. The car now sat safely in the car shed next to the Jeep. The night's snowfall had completely covered any trace of her handiwork.
"I also have Starfighter," she told him.
"Yeah," Brian laughed. "Thank God for that."
Sandra suddenly looked up. She heard a thump upstairs and knew Wyatt must have awakened. Her heart thudded as if Brian could see through the handset.
"Brian, honestly, I'm fine. If I need anything you'll be the first person I call."
"You make sure I am," he paused.
"Have there been any new developments on 'the ground' I should know about?" Again she used his designation for the distance between the ranger station and her cabin. She hoped he'd tell her the latest news about the man she was harboring.
"Other than the weather, Senator Wyatt is still commanding the front page."
"Anything new on his whereabouts?"
"Only speculation. One paper even has him in our neck of the woods. In order for that to happen he'd have to be a polar bear."
Nervousness gripped Sandra that made her hands shake. She grabbed the microphone with both hands. Thank God they didn't have the computer hookup that transmitted real time images. "He does represent this state." Sandra tried to make her voice sound normal, but the sound came out unusually high. "Coming here doesn't seem unreasonable."
"He's never been here before that I know of. Not even when your father comes up. If he's found in these parts I'd have to believe the stories that he’s at least one egg short of a full dozen."
Sandra wasn't sure of that yet. Wyatt Randolph was still unconscious. She looked up again as if she could see through the beamed ceiling. At the moment she only knew that Senator Randolph was in the area and that he could have died trying to get there. She had yet to determine why he didn't seek medical help but instead had driven up a mountain in a snowstorm, a stab wound in his side, to reach her parents' cabin with a cache of diamonds tied around his waist.
He had to be looking for her father, the senior senator from New Jersey and chairman of the powerful defense subcommittee. Were they working on something together? Had he asked him to meet him here?
"I have to go, Sandra," Brian said. She heard the static of another call coming in over the open airwaves. "Remember to call me if you need anything."
"One more thing, Brian." Sandra's heart beat fast. She didn't want Brian to become suspicious, but she needed to ask him a question. "There haven't been any . . . strangers in the area, have there?" She bit her lower lip, hoping Brian didn't hear the hesitation. "Princess, are you sure you're all right up there?"
"I promise you I'm fine. It's just that with all the snow, I feel a little isolated." That was the truth. "I wondered if there were any climbers or polar bear buffs in the area, just in case someone knocks on my door."
"We've been all over this area, and with the falling snow, only a fool with a death wish would be out in it. As far up the mountain as you are, they'd never reach you before they froze to death."
How little he knew, Sandra thought. Wyatt Randolph must have been very determined to get as far as he got and without the aerial surveillance of the forest rangers finding him.
"It's good to know," she said. "At least I can sleep well."
"Princess, I can have a chopper there in no time."
"Brian, don't think about me. I'm sure you have plenty to do rescuing tourists and weekend skiers."
"Ain't that the truth? Last night we took two skiers to the hospital suffering from exposure and frostbite. They'll be fine."
"Who were they?"
"A couple of college kids," he said. "Don't worry, they weren't from Rutgers. I think they came from somewhere south of here, Morgan or Howard. So they weren't here trying to get you to change their grades."
Sandra laughed with Brian, glad to hear there was nothing more to add to her increasing feeling of paranoia.
"Well, Princess, I have to go now. Duty calls. K7950 signing off."
"Thanks, Brian, and I will call you if I need anything. K5895, Out."
He didn't know how true that was. The uneasiness that had settled over her since she found Wyatt bleeding in the snow had not left with the light of day. Someone wanted him dead, and if they'd tried to kill him once, she didn't think they'd stop until they'd completed the job. He was here for whatever
reason. Whoever was looking for him was probably not far behind. What would she do when they caught up with him? Hopefully, Brian would be close enough to summon.
Sandra heard the thump again as she switched the microphone off. She ran up the stairs and into the room where she'd left Wyatt. He was sprawled diagonally across the twin bed, his bare feet on the floor as if he'd tried to get up and fallen back against the pillows. For a moment she stared at his legs, powerful, athletically muscular. Her stomach clinched. Sandra moved into the room and checked him. He was asleep, his breathing even. Perspiration lay on his forehead, but he was cool to the touch. Raising his shirt, she saw the stitches were holding and no additional blood had seeped through the dressing. Lifting his legs, she swung them back onto the bed and covered him with the sheet and quilt.
Next to the bed she'd placed a bowl of water and a cloth. She wrung out the cloth. He was so far across the mattress she had to balance herself on one knee and lean over him to dab the perspiration from his brow. He was a handsome man, she thought. Not as good-looking as the newspaper pictures showed, but in those his face wasn't swollen and bruised. His skin was dark and smooth. Strangely enough, she liked touching it. She continued sponging his face after it was no longer necessary. The swelling around his eye was smaller this morning, and it didn't appear as veined as it had the night before.
She stared at him. Half of his face was unmarred. That half was gorgeous. She could only imagine what he would look like without the disfigurement. Her mouth suddenly went dry. She swallowed, trying to wet her throat. The stubble on his face showed he'd gone several days without a shave. It in no way detracted from the strength of his features. She could see why his constituency had voted him to office. Without knowing his platform, she thought he had an honest look. She wondered why they had never met at the many political functions she'd attended in support of her father.
Wyatt had brown eyes; indeed she'd looked into them earlier. As if he could read her thoughts, his eyes opened and he stared directly into hers. Sandra, caught off guard and feeling as if she'd been discovered doing something wrong, was paralyzed. For a moment they stared at each other. Then Wyatt's eyes closed and he went back to sleep.
Sandra let go of her breath and sat back on the coverlet. What had happened to her? The man only looked at her and he wasn't even fully awake, yet her heart was pounding and she felt as if she couldn't take enough air into her lungs. Quickly, she scrambled off the bed and stepped away from him. Wyatt didn't move, didn't even know she was in the room. Sandra felt gripped by some indefinable aura that bound her to him. Why? she wondered, but got no answer.
She left the room, closing the door and taking a deep breath. It wasn't possible. She knew nothing about him outside of what the news media had reported over the last week. Until he woke up, she was going to have to wait to find out his reason for disappearing. Hopefully, when that happened she'd have better control of herself.
***
Wyatt groaned and opened his eyes. He couldn't see anything, just a large, hazy blur. He blinked several times. Finally he could make out the bedpost at the foot of the small bed. In the corner a bureau materialized, then a dresser with a mirror. The door in the center of one wall stood half open. He could only see the rough surface of a wall outside of it.
"Ohhh," he moaned. Every part of him hurt. He raised his hand to his aching head. Unintentionally he hit his eye. Agony shot into his head. His entire body clinched. As the pain subsided, he gingerly felt the swelling about his eye. His hand touched a gauze bandage near his brow.
Memory surged into his consciousness. Had they caught him? Why wasn't he dead? He tried to sit up. Pain shot through his side, sapping him of energy, forcing him back against the pillows. Sweat poured off him and he opened his mouth to take in gulps of air. Where was he? Trying to calm himself, he breathed deeply, his chest heaving as he gritted his teeth and waited out the pain.
Light flowed through the windows. Bright light. He concentrated on that instead of the paralyzing agony in his side. It must be late afternoon. He didn't recognize the room and he wasn't tied to the bed, so he must have been found by someone who hadn't called the police or the FBI. It could be Senator Rutledge's men who were holding him.
Wincing, he pushed himself up, feeling his left side. They'd stabbed him, tried to kill him. And it was his fault. Why had he gone into that alley? When he spotted the man following him, why hadn't he gone for the car or the subway? The alley was darker than the street, and he thought he could hide. He'd been wrong. Wyatt had turned at the last minute, feeling something was wrong. The man was coming toward him, fast. They struggled, fought, traded blow for blow. He saw the knife too late to dodge it. Luckily, he'd rolled away and come up with the gun—Chip's gun. The guy had run, and Wyatt had taken a breath. He got to the car and started driving. How he got here he didn't know.
He remembered the snow, blinding snow, and then he passed out. Someone must have found him, someone who'd dressed his stab wound. Who? It felt tight under the bandage. He wondered if whoever had found him was friendly. He hoped so, for he was in no condition to escape a capture. And he was still alive.
Where was he? He listened for a sound, any indication that he wasn't alone. He heard nothing. Had whoever found him left him alone?
He swung his feet to the carpeted floor and hung his head as dizziness accosted him. It cleared in a moment and he tried to stand. The effort washed him in perspiration. Clamping his teeth together, he shifted his weight to his good side and squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in his head vied for dominance over that in his side. Still, Wyatt forced himself up. A minor victory he told himself as he spread his feet and let go of the bedpost several agonizing moments later. He could stand. Pushing his shirt aside, he placed his hand over the dressing and tried to force the burning pain concentrated there away. The dressing was clean. He wondered who had tended him—and why?
Listening again, he heard nothing. He limped quietly toward a closed door inside the room. Opening it only wide enough to see inside, he found a bathroom. Pushing it further, he found it empty and connected to another room. The second room looked much like the one he'd awakened in except it had a queen-size bed and more female frills to it. Closing both doors, he used the facility but didn't want to alert anyone to his presence by flushing the toilet. He checked his face in the mirror and frowned at the broken and discolored skin. He looked as if he'd been in a fight, and God knows he had.
Carefully stripping the dressing off his side, he looked at the neat row of thread that held his skin together. Again he wondered who had done this.
Returning to the bedroom, he limped to the window. Maybe his car was outside. If he did need to run, he didn't want to do it on foot.
"God!" he breathed. He'd never seen so much snow. He'd grown up in Philadelphia. With the subways and elevated trains, snow generally melted quickly after falling. During his junior year at Morgan State University, he and several fraternity brothers had taken a trip to Switzerland to ski. Some of the Florida brothers had never seen snow before. He'd at least seen it, but what was outside this window could rival the Alps.
He wondered if the entire house was surrounded by as much snow as the amount he could see from the windows in this room.
There would be no escaping if he was being held by the men who'd tried to kill him. But if he was, why hadn't they killed him? They had to have found . . .
His hands went to his waist. Where was it? He jerked his shirt aside. Suddenly he weaved back and forth, grabbing the windowsill to still the room and make the whirling halt. The band was gone. His gaze darted around the room. His watch and wallet lay on the nightstand. His pants hung from a wooden butler in the corner and his shoes sat in front of it. He was wearing his shirt and shorts. Nowhere did he see the band or the stones.
He couldn't have lost them. One man had died for those diamonds. He was almost the second, but somehow he'd escaped his assassins and made it here—wherever here was.
What was he going to do now? He needed to know where he was and how many people were in the house. He needed to know if they were friend or foe, and if they were foe what more they wanted from him.
The first thing he needed to do was get dressed. He found the thought difficult to execute. The pain in his side took more out of him than he cared to admit. Sweat popped out on his brow, dizziness overtook him several times, and thoughts of giving up and going back to the comfortable bed had to be forcibly removed.
After the last week, Wyatt knew the benefits of having the element of surprise on his side. He had to leave this bedroom, before whoever was holding him came back. There was only one door. He hoped there was no guard standing outside it. Quietly, he peeped through the opening. The hall looked deserted. He opened it wider and slipped out. He pressed himself against the wall, straining to hear. Not even a floorboard creaked. The stairs were several feet away.
He made his way toward them, the effort requiring every ounce of strength. Then he heard someone move. A chair scraped across a floor. He froze still; sure whoever it was knew of his movements. He listened intently. No one started up the stairs. Sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled into his eyes. He wiped it away with his sleeve. How many were there? he wondered. The sound had not repeated and he could hear nothing more. That could mean only one person was in the house, or it could mean, if there were others, they weren't talking. At the top of the steps he peered down. He saw nothing.
Then she walked by. He jumped back, flattening his back against the rough wooden wall, grinding his teeth together to keep the pain inside. His hands were sweaty and his head felt as if he was carrying the Congressional Record on it. His hand went to the sore spot on his side. Who was she? Was she alone? He'd seen her only briefly as she passed. She had dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing black pants and a ski sweater.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 34