by The Witness
Deep inside Sam knew that Lauren hadn't snuggled on top of him intentionally. She was exhausted and still sleeping like a log and wasn't aware of her actions. Either way, though, the result was the same, and he refused to feel guilty for his uncharitable thoughts.
Removing her arm from around his shoulder, he gave it a shake.
"Hey! Wake up!"
He could have been talking to the wall, for all the response he got. Spitting out a curse, he rolled onto his side and dumped her onto her back. Lauren sighed, curled into a new position and went right on sleeping.
Sam unzipped the bag, rolled out and sprang to his feet. He stared down at the sleeping woman with dislike, then swung away and stalked to the backpack, hunkering down to rummage through the contents.
Briefly he considered whipping up some scrambled eggs from the powdered mix, but another glance at Lauren changed his mind. He gathered the supplies he needed, then threw a couple more branches on the fire. When he had the blaze going again he shot another look at Lauren. She slept on with the innocence of a baby.
Jaw clenched, Sam stomped toward the door. Dammit! He had to get out of there. Now.
An hour later the fire had burned down to ashy embers and Lauren woke in a freezing cabin. Sitting up, she yawned and cast a sleepy look around, but there was no sign of Sam. She stretched hugely then brushed the tumbled hair off her face and glanced at her wristwatch. Her eyes widened.
Good Lord. She'd been sleeping for thirteen hours.
Lauren climbed out of the sleeping bag and pulled on her boots. She poked the embers with the iron rod the way she'd seen Sam do the night before, praying that she could stir the fire to life, because she hadn't the slightest idea of how to go about starting one from scratch.
A small flame leaped up, and Lauren quickly tossed a small branch on top of the glowing embers. The dead wood caught fire at once, and she exhaled a relieved sigh. She piled on more branches and twigs and in no time had a roaring blaze going. Feeling immensely proud of herself, Lauren pawed through her purse and pulled out a packet of tissue and a small bottle of antibacterial gel, stuffed both into her coat pocket and headed for the door. Tying the guide rope through a zipper ring on her parka, she wondered where Sam was, and immediately the same fears she'd experienced the night before fluttered through her. If something had happened to him—
No. No, she would not let herself worry about that. Sam could take care of himself. Hadn't he assured her of that? He was probably out doing some outdoorsman thing necessary to their survival. He would be back soon.
The temperature in the cabin had seemed cold, but it was nothing compared to the frigid conditions that met her when she stepped outside. The first slap of icy wind made Lauren catch her breath. Snow fell in a heavy curtain that made visibility impossible beyond eight or ten feet, and it showed no signs of letting up. On the flat the drifts came to above Lauren's knees. She plowed through powdery stuff as far as the rope would allow, looked around, and slipped behind the dubious protection of a tree to answer nature's urgent call.
When done she washed her hands as best she could in the snow then rubbed them with a dab of antibacterial gel and followed the rope back to the cabin.
The snow she had gathered the previous night had melted, but it didn't amount to much. She poured it all into the skillet, then took the pot outside and packed it full of snow.
She made several more trips, and by the time she had a pot full of simmering water her stomach was growling, and Sam still had not returned. Determined to fend for herself, Lauren picked up a packet of powdered eggs and read the instructions.
A short while later, she pulled the skillet from the fire and grimaced at the runny yellow glob in the bottom. Surely this wasn't right?
Screwing up her courage, she scooped up a spoonful, put it into her mouth and began to chew, tentatively at first, then with more gusto. It wasn't half bad. Either that, or she was so hungry her taste buds didn't care.
After eating a small portion of the funny looking eggs and a strip of jerky, she placed what remained next to the fire to keep them warm for Sam.
She tried to wait patiently for Sam to return, but she couldn't resist peeking at her wristwatch every few minutes. She scoured the plate she'd used and went back outside and gathered more snow. She read the directions on the backs of all the food packs, filed a fingernail she'd broken, neatened the sleeping bag and other supplies. She told herself over and over not to worry, but as the minutes ticked by her agitation grew, and by the time Sam finally returned she was a wreck and pacing the small cabin like a caged lioness. The instant he shifted the door open and stepped inside she whirled on him and demanded, "Where have you been?"
Sam paused in the act of shifting the door back in place and shot her a stony look. "Out setting snares." He looked her over, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in her fear and agitation. "Why? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything," she snapped, twisting her hands together. "I didn't know where you were! You could have told me you were leaving the cabin and when I could expect you back."
Sam put the door in place and braced it with the chunk of wood. "You were sleeping like a baby when I left. Anyway, I told you last night that I was going to set snares this morning." He shrugged and took off his gloves and stuffed them into the outside pockets of his parka, and with casual unconcern, walked over to the hearth and stood with his hands outstretched to the fire.
"But it's still storming out there! You were gone so long I thought something had happened to you."
He gave her a piercing look. "I see. Your concern wasn't for my safety so much as your own. You were worried about what would happen to you if I'd gotten myself badly injured or killed."
Anger and embarrassment brought a flush to her cheeks. Put that way, he made her feel small and selfish, which she was certain he had intended.
However, after a good night's rest Lauren was sufficiently recovered from the traumatic events of the previous day to have regained at least a portion of her spirit.
Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she lifted her chin and glared at him. "That's not true. I would have felt terrible for you if that had happened. Just as I felt terrible for your friends. I feel sad for anyone who loses their life. But I will not let you make me feel guilty." The longer she talked the angrier she became. With every word her voice grew harsher and more clipped, in direct proportion to her building ire.
"Where the devil do you get off, criticizing me, anyway? I didn't ask to be here, you know. It wasn't my choice to witness a murder, or my decision to fly over the Rocky Mountains in the dead of winter in an unsafe small plane. Nor did I make it crash.
"Neither, I might add, did I ask to have my world turned upside down again and the life I've managed to build for myself snatched away from me. And I certainly don't want to freeze to death alone in this godforsaken wilderness! If that makes me selfish, so be it."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. Damn you, I have a right to be concerned for my own safety. You would be, too, if you were in my shoes. I have no survival skills. No knowledge of the area. I don't know how to cook or find food. I don't even know how to build a fire, for heaven's sake. If I had to strike out on my own I wouldn't have any idea which direction to take."
By the time she finished she was shouting. On some level Lauren knew that at least part of her anger was a delayed reaction to all that had happened to her during the last thirty-six hours, but she didn't care. One of the things she'd learned since the car accident that took away her concert career was to stand up for herself. And she'd had about all of Agent Rawlins's rudeness she intended to take.
Lauren had worked up a full head of steam and was braced for a battle, was half hoping for one, but her outburst seemed to have no effect on Sam. His expression remained closed. He didn't so much as blink.
"Yeah, well, don't worry about it I'm not going to get hurt." As though he'd grown bored with the
conversation, he turned away, took two goo
d-size branches from the dwindling pile of wood and tossed them into the fire, then poked the blaze into renewed life with the metal rod.
Lauren stared at him. "You can't be certain of that."
"As certain as it's possible to be." He put down the rod and tamed to her again. This time his face wore a look of mild impatience. "Look, I was born out here. Since I was a kid I've gone hunting and fishing in these mountains, camped out for weeks at a time with my dad and with my mother's people. I know this area and I know how to survive in the wilderness. Let me worry about getting us out of here, okay? You just do as I tell you."
The last made Lauren grind her teeth. Arrogant bastard, she thought. As if she had a choice. Anyway, what did he think she'd been doing?
"Fine," she snapped. She plopped down onto the sleeping bag, dragged her purse near and dug around inside. "Oh, by the way," she ground out. "If you're hungry, I made eggs. The leftovers are in the skillet by the fire."
Sam glanced down at the yellow mess in the skillet, then back at her. "You cooked?"
"Yes, I cooked," she replied in an offended tone. Then she, too, glanced at the mess and grimaced. "At least I tried. I don't know what went wrong. I followed the instructions exactly."
Picking up the skillet, Sam examined the pale yellow goop without a word.
"They taste better than they look. Honestly."
He flicked her a look that clearly said they would have to and picked up the fork.
Sam ate the runny glob without comment, along with the strips of jerky she'd left in the pan. Lauren watched him, but it was impossible to tell by his expression what he thought of her efforts. When done, he poured a small amount of water into the pan. "Next time, don't use quite so much water," he commented, as he scoured the pan with the twig bundle.
Lauren glared at his back. She'd already figured that out for herself. Did he think she was stupid? "Thank you. I'll remember that," she replied, fuming. She hadn't expected any thanks from him, or praise for trying, but would it have killed him to be pleasant?
Ignoring her, Sam rummaged through the pile of brush. He tested several slender limbs for strength and pliability and tossed the most limber into a pile at the end of the hearth, as far away from where she sat as he could get and still benefit from the fire's warmth.
Lauren's mouth tightened. Who knew? With a hard-nosed male like this one perhaps it would have killed him to be polite, after all. The previous morning he had walked into the interrogation room at the Denver Police Station looking as though his face had been chiseled from granite, and it had yet to soften.
With quick, angry movements, Lauren pulled a tube of hand lotion out of her purse and slathered the moisturizer on her face and hands. Casting Sam resentful looks out of the corner of her eye, she saw him cut two slender limbs down to about three and a half foot length and remove the small branches and twigs. He then placed the stripped stems side by side and bound their ends together, wrapping them securely with a length of nylon cord. When done, he cut another stick into two shorter pieces, about eight or ten inches each, and began to carve shallow notches in each end of both.
Lauren wondered what he was doing, but since he obviously intended to ignore her, she decided to return the favor.
After leaving the hospital, she had continued her physical therapy at a health club close to her apartment, and before long, experiencing the benefits of regular exercise, it had been a natural next step to expand her therapy into a full-blown regular workout regime. As with everything Lauren undertook, she applied herself to the fitness routine with the same determination and all-out dedication that she had to her music. Her entire life had been about focus and applying herself, and the workouts quickly became a routine part of her life.
Turning her back on Sam, Lauren spread her legs in a wide V and began her warmup stretching exercises. She touched the toes of each foot with the opposite hand, twisted from the waist as far as possible, bent to the sides and rotated her head, shoulders and arms. She climbed to her feet and bent and touched the floor thirty times, then, grabbing an ankle, she pulled her heel up behind her to touch her bottom, repeated the action a dozen times, then switched and did a dozen more with the other foot.
"Jesus! Can't you be still a minute? What the hell are you doing, anyway?" Sam demanded when she began to jog in place.
"Isn't it...obvious? I'm exercising. I...work out at a gym...three times...a week," she gasped between breaths. "To stay in shape...it's important to keep...to a regular routine."
Sam snorted. "I wouldn't worry if I were you. You probably got more exercise yesterday than you do in a month at your yuppie health club."
Lauren ignored the snide comment and kept on jogging. Let him poke fun. If they were going to hike down this mountain in knee-deep snow, she wanted to be as fit as possible. If the trek was anything like what they had done the day before, she was going to need every ounce of strength and stamina she could muster.
For an hour Lauren jogged in place and back and forth across the derelict cabin. Outside the grimy window the world had been reduced to a blinding white swirl of snow. The wind whistled in through the gaps in the chinking, bringing with it stray flakes, and now and then more found their way through the evergreen boughs that Sam had thrown over the hole in the roof. Except directly in front of the fire, the air in the cabin was cold enough to vaporize their breaths, but by the time Lauren stopped exercising and sat down on the sleeping bag again she no longer felt the chill.
She had intended to give Sam the same cold-shoulder treatment he was giving her, but the longer she watched him the more curious she became. While she had exercised he had somehow managed to pry the two long bound sticks apart in the middle and lashed one of the short sticks at right angles between them, about ten inches from one end to hold them open. Now he was doing the same thing with the other short piece at the opposite end. The longer Lauren watched the more intrigued she became, until finally she could no longer contain her curiosity.
"What are you doing?"
He spared her the briefest of glances and went right on working the twine over and around the joined sticks in an X pattern.
"I'm making snowshoes. We're going to walk out of here when this storm passes. With all that fresh powder out there, we're going to need these."
"Really? I've never walked in snowshoes before."
"Figures."
The sneer in his voice was too much. Ever since they'd met, his manner toward her had been harsh and distant, even downright hostile. For the most part, up until now, she had tread softly around him—partly because she thought it wise not to annoy the man who was essentially her bodyguard, but also because he made her uneasy. Something about this hard, remote man put her on edge.
However, if Lauren's experience with Carlo Giovessi had taught her nothing else, she had at least learned that ignoring a difficult truth or pretending it didn't exist just didn't work. From now on she intended to face her problems head-on...and Sam Rawlins's attitude was a problem.
Lauren cocked her head and gazed at him across the few feet that separated them. By now he had lashed both short sticks between the longer one, forcing them apart into an elongated oval with points at each end. Now he was weaving heavy nylon twine in an open, diamond-shaped pattern, overall.
"You don't like me very much, do you, Agent Rawlins?"
"No."
A startled chuckle bubbled from Lauren's throat. "Well. That was certainly direct and to the point."
She had expected denial, or at the very least, subtle evasion. Something like—"What makes you think that?" or "You're imagining things," or "I don't know you well enough to like or dislike you?"—Not a blunt confirmation.
Although... given her experience with Sam Rawlins so far, she supposed she should have been prepared for brutal honesty. Diplomacy and polite white lies were not this man's style.
"Would you mind telling me why? I mean, you barely know me, and I don't think I've done anything to you to cause such animosity. W
hat, exactly, is it about me that you find so objectionable?"
"Does it matter? My job is to keep you alive so you can testify against Giovessi in court, not to be your friend."
"I understand that. However, since we're going to be spending a lot of time together, a little civility would be nice. But unless I know what it is about me that irritates you so much, how can I correct the problem?"
"You can't. The problem is, I don't have any respect for women who sell themselves to rich old men. Especially mobsters."
"Pardon?" Lauren shook her head, sure she'd heard him wrong. "What did you say?"
"You're Carlo Giovessi's mistress. In my book, that's the same as a hooker."
"Whaaat!"
"Oh, spare me the innocent denials, okay?"
"No, it is not okay! Because I most certainly am not Mr. Giovessi's mistress! I don't know where you got that idea, but you're wrong!"
"I don't think so."
"Look, I admit he helped me get on my feet after I left the hospital. He located an apartment for me and an affordable car, recommended me for the job at the university. Then a few months ago he offered me the job at the club. But those were just friendly acts of kindness. Being a music lover, he has a lot of admiration and respect for musicians, and he felt the accident that ended my career was a tragedy, so he did what he could to help. I explained all that at the police station. But Mr. Giovessi doesn't support me, and he most certainly is not my lover!"
"Sorry, but that righteous outrage just won't wash. All the evidence says otherwise."
"Evidence? What evidence? Just because I worked at his club two nights a week that doesn't make me his mistress."
"How about the fact that Carlo visited you at your apartment every Wednesday night?"
Surprise shot through Lauren. "How...how do you know that?"
"Or that the two of you were alone together after hours at the club every Friday and Saturday night?" he pressed, ignoring her question.
"I explained that at the police station, too. I play the piano for him those nights. That's also why he came by my apartment every Wednesday evening. Oh, I don't believe this!" Lauren closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. "I just don't believe this!"