Playing For Keeps (Montana Men)

by Jaydyn Chelcee

  Flayme pressed a shaky hand to her heart. It felt like it was going to leap right out of her chest. Well, if her heart had a vote, it voted for running like hell. Calm. Stay calm. Think!

  What should she do, besides the obvious and run like a mad woman?

  That was just it. She could accept the fact that it was her home and someone had invaded it, but if she didn’t defend it, who would? On a snowy night like this when the cops were already run ragged with traffic accidents, yeah, she was on her own. Maybe not the smartest thing to do, but she knew she wasn’t the typical female. She wasn’t faint of heart, except when someone actually shot at her, and she figured being faint of heart then was reasonable. Where most women ran to escape an intruder in their home and get help, she tended to brace herself for one hell of a fight to defend what belonged to her. For years, she’d had no one to depend upon or stick up for her, but herself. Old habits die hard.

  Besides her car, the house was the most important thing she owned. No one was coming in and making her too scared to be inside the place she lived. Like a slow-moving shadow, she crept across the room, past the refrigerator to her left, the double, stainless steel sinks, past the five-burner stainless steel, glass top range to the long row of maple cabinets.

  Taking several deep breaths, Flayme forced herself to remain calm and slid open a drawer. Patting the contents, she felt for her kitchen knives. Careful not to make a sound, she grasped the thick handle of the big butcher’s knife she’d nicknamed Chopper, and fished it out of the drawer.

  She’d do some chopping all right. Someone had broken into her home, and by God, he’d live to rue the day. This was the only home she’d ever known. Her parents had lived moderately, but when they were killed on her eighteenth birthday by a typhoon while excavating in India, there was no one left of her family except her brother.

  He was fourteen years older, already married, and had just been elected to the Senate. Her brother had been busy with politics. Busy with his life and career. For sure, he didn’t have time for her or want her moving into his new townhouse.

  It had almost been embarrassing how quickly he signed the deed to their parents’ home over to her and brushed his hands of her. For sure, his wife hadn’t wanted her moving in with them. She’d made it plain on the day of the funeral.

  Heartbroken, and standing alone at the gravesides of her parents, Flayme tried desperately to hide her surprise when her sister-in-law edged toward her to stand at her side. She knew in her heart whatever her brother’s wife wanted to say wasn’t good.

  “We need to talk,” she whispered.

  Flayme nodded and rubbed the tears from her face. “So talk. God knows I can’t stop you.”

  “Your brother won’t say this, so I’m going to. You’re old enough to be on your own. We’re too busy to make room in our lives for you. I know you’ll understand when I tell you to stay out of our life. You’ve always been a huge embarrassment for him, coming so late in his parents’ life. Your brother has big ambitions, a budding political career that doesn’t include a sister. The last thing we need is for a troublesome teenager to mess things up for us. Have I made myself clear?”

  Flayme clenched her jaw. Bitch! Did her sister-in-law honestly think she wanted to be a part of their ambitious life? “In D.C., we all know it’s the bud fully bloomed that matters. I’m afraid my brother will never be much of anything but the smallest, unfurled blossom on the bush no matter how high he rises.”

  She hadn’t waited for her sister-in-law to reply. Instead, she left the gravesides alone. She’d never looked back or asked her brother for anything. Flayme refused to be the nuisance he’d feared she’d become. He’d been disgustingly thankful she didn’t want to move in with him and his new bride.

  Flayme knew she was lucky her parents had left a tidy nest egg. It made her independent, or she’d have starved. Now, she balanced Chopper in her hands. Being independent meant she’d had to learn to take care of herself. As far as she was concerned, the uninvited guest in her home intended her harm.

  Not if I get him first!

  If she attacked, she’d catch him by surprise. A tiny smile twisted her lips. Oh, she felt evil. She took a second to listen. Flayme grinned. She knew exactly where the intruder was. But he didn’t know for sure she was in the house, or that she possessed a weapon. The sonofabitch wasn’t just dead meat, he was carved dead meat!

  Flayme started through the swinging doors, but somehow, she must’ve betrayed where she was, or the invader was smarter than she gave him credit. The man charged through the doors like a battering ram, full speed. He butted into her headfirst, sending her flying.

  She landed on the stone-tiled floor with a grunt and a solid thump to the back of her head. Damn, this was getting to be a habit. It was the second time tonight she’d seen stars.

  For a moment, she lay there beneath his rock-hard weight, too stunned to move, unable to breathe or make a sound. Then her fight or flight instinct kicked in. Since she was pinned to the floor, it was fight or die.

  Maybe she’d die this night, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. And she wasn’t dying in her house. The adrenaline pumping through her system lent her super human strength. Flayme rolled, flipping him to her side. Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, she plunged the knife with all her strength.

  “Oooh! Ooh, yuck,” she cried.

  No way had she expected the blade to penetrate the skin so easily or so deep. Wasn’t there supposed to be bone or something to halt the knife? Was it supposed to sink in all tha–that—muscle? It wasn’t her intention to kill him—maim him maybe, but no, not kill.

  But…ooh. Skin? Awk! Flesh was a lot softer and easier to pierce than she’d anticipated. Heavens, it wasn’t as if she’d had lots of practice ramming a knife in someone. Even though she readily admitted she was more than ready to slice off that office jerk’s balls, she hadn’t harmed Neil, except in her mind.

  Gracious! The knife was buried deep, to the hilt. She had a bad feeling it went all the way through, because, wasn’t—that the tile she heard the knife tip strike?

  What if she’d stabbed him through the heart?

  No—no—he still moved—moaning. Cussing, actually, and making strange little garbled noises like he might be choking. Goodness, she hadn’t stabbed him in the throat—had she? No. No, of course not, and if he was able to cuss, at least he wasn’t dead. That was great, because she’d only meant to stab him a little, just enough to make him regret breaking into her house and scaring her half to death. Yeah, she’d only meant to nick him―not plunge the entire blade in him. She wasn’t a blood-thirsty savage—not much anyway.

  Damn it, he’d scared her, and she resented being frightened in her own home. Plus, there was the little factor of his charging into her like a wild buffalo.

  Said buffalo swore harshly, “Fucking…sonofabitch!” Grabbing her by the shoulders, he hurled her to one side.

  That was okay with her. She’d defended her home. Defended her person, and made a damn good showing of it, too, if his words were anything to judge by. Yeah, she’d made her point, definitely no pun intended, she thought hysterically.

  Oh, God. He moved. Moved. And from the next words he spat in a low growl, he fully intended to wring her neck. Flayme bolted into action. Scrambling to her feet, she slipped on something warm and slick on the floor. Yuck! He must be bleeding like a castrated bull. God, what did she care? The man had attacked her. Escape! That should be the only thought in her head.

  She tried to run, but skidded across the floor and nearly fell. Oh, brother. Tonight was just not her night for gracefulness. Every time she turned around she was slipping and sliding—falling on her face or flapping her arms about like an idiot goose with a broken wing.

  But hey, who had time to plan for these things?

  She sucked in a sharp breath and beat a hasty retreat. One thing she’d learned tonight was when to flee. She’d fought the intruder, given it her best shot. Now it was time to
withdraw, and she didn’t think she had anything to be ashamed about by giving ground. Oh, yes, she might not have won the war, but she’d won the first battle—kind of—time now to take flight, and raise hell at the same time.

  Flayme hit the back door screaming as loud as she could. She plunged into the cold night for the second time in less than an hour—only this time she was barefoot. Maybe, just maybe, she’d inflicted enough damage to the would-be burglar that he wouldn’t be able to follow her.

  Yeah. She could dream, couldn’t she?

  Damn, why hadn’t she thought to stab him in the leg?

  Why hadn’t she grabbed her shoes? Even with a broken heel, they were better than nothing. She wasn’t taking any chances though. This was her one opportunity and she didn’t plan to blow it.

  Flayme sprinted across the back yard, praying the burglar was out for the count.

  Chapter Eleven

  We cannot learn without pain.

  ~Aristotle

  North Western Australia

  The Kimberly

  February 10, Tuesday

  Taylor Spencer drew a sharp breath and slowly released it. He couldn’t think of a worse scenario than having a plane crash in an Australian rainforest, unless he and Dianna Remington had crashed instead in one of the barren deserts of the Kimberly.

  Yeah, that might have been much worse. No water. No food. Temperatures climbing in the daytime until the mercury boiled, then plunging, freezing cold at night. Red dirt. Red, rocky mountains. Blazing sun. Dry earth. Nothing was ever so bad it couldn’t get worse.

  Point in hand.

  He’d only thought the plane crash was a living hell. Dianna going down with that mudslide was his worst nightmare to date. He didn’t think he’d ever had such a horrible three days and nights. Not even the terrible car wreck he and his sister Kaycee had been involved in over a year ago came close to comparing to this fiasco.

  Then, even though it had seemed to take an ambulance an eternity to reach them, he’d known somewhere in the back of his mind, help was on its way. The single most memory that stood out in his mind was praying and begging for forgiveness for his sins. He’d thought—no, believed he was going to die. He’d wanted to die with his slate wiped clean of regrets.

  But he hadn’t died.

  Not then. Not now. And he still felt like he needed a clean slate.

  He’d survived the car crash, only to spend the next year in a wheelchair—despondent, without the hope of ever walking again, falling in love or having a family.

  Then he’d met Dianna. And with her, came a truckload of emotions and needs he’d thought he’d never feel again. When he’d got the feeling back in his legs and started walking again, he’d felt he might have a chance with Dianna after all.

  By some miracle, when the plane crashed, neither of them had sustained serious enough injuries to put their lives at immediate risk, or ruin his legs again.

  Yeah, help was more than likely on its way here, too, but the difference from then and now—help probably wouldn’t reach them in time. Ever.

  For months and months after the wreck, he’d lived in a friggin’ wheelchair, but none of that misery compared to trying to get Dianna up this fucking, wet, slippery mudslide with the fresh injuries she’d sustained from the fall.

  Fury competed with the helpless feeling chewing at his gut. “Hell! Damn! Shit!”

  He stopped cussing long enough to suck in a lungful of the hot, humid air and slowly released it. God, the air felt thick enough to suffocate a man right where he stood. Taylor eyed Dianna’s pale, pinched face. The smile on her lips wobbled, but still, he saw her lips twitch at his profanity.

  Insane that both of them managed to smile, he thought, and gave her a loopy grin. He was in love with the crazy woman, ass over heels, and hip deep in love. Damn it, she was apt to die on him, and he hadn’t told her how crazy he was about her.

  Indeed, the truth was the opposite. He’d made her life miserable, belittled her, humiliated her in every way possible and still, she smiled. She’d surrendered her body, her heart to him, and it was the sweetest moment of his life.

  Dianna should hate him.

  Taylor took another step, supporting her as best he could, but the muscles in his legs still felt like jelly. Trying to support her weight, his weight, and climb such a steep mountain of mud and rock was a daunting task. The burning in his lungs felt as if he’d swallowed acid. They chugged like twin bellows. Whoosh-whoosh. Breathe in. Breathe out—easier said than done when one was practically crawling up a mountainside.

  Worse, Dianna’s tortured cries ripped at his gut like a dull-toothed chainsaw. She tried hard to be brave, but silent tears slid down her pale face. God. He knew she was in a bad way, and the blame for her injuries lay squarely on his shoulders. That little fact haunted him.

  If he hadn’t been arguing with her, crowding her, she wouldn’t have been standing so close to the edge when the bank crumbled. She wouldn’t have gone over the side, and been buried in knee-deep mud.

  The little cries of agony she made with each movement drove him nuts. Damn it, he couldn’t stand knowing he caused her this much suffering every time he jostled her with another wobbly step. There wasn’t one thing he could do to prevent her pain. There was no choice, either. He had to get her up this miserable slope, if he had to drag her every inch of the way.

  Grumbling beneath his breath, he spat epitaphs that’d make the devil wince. Right this moment, the cave they’d shared the night before seemed a million miles out of reach. A night he’d spent making love to the woman he adored, a wealthy woman with three brothers who detested him and would love nothing better than to rip his guts out through his nostrils. A woman who’d voiced concerns he might make her pregnant.

  Dianna didn’t want a baby with him. That was fine with him. He didn’t want a baby with her either. Taylor tried hard to ignore the tender ache that burned his heart.

  What the hell had he expected?

  He didn’t come anywhere near her class. Her wealth.

  The thing was he couldn’t make her pregnant if he wanted to. She had no worries on that count. The accident that paralyzed his legs left him sterile as well. Yeah. He might deny it to Dianna, even to himself, but he wished to hell he could make her pregnant, but there’d be no babies with her or any female. Ever.

  Three days ago they’d been damn lucky to survive the plane crash that left them stranded in the back of beyond in this muggy rainforest. As if that wasn’t miserable enough, it was also the wet. Heavy rain fell daily. The risk of floods brought its own brand of dangers from snakes to crocs.

  They hadn’t seen one hint of a rescue plane. And even if one flew over, he wasn’t sure they’d hear it. The birds in the rainforest were incredibly loud, especially when disturbed. He and Dianna were trespassers. It was safe to say the birds were unhappy quite often since their raucous alarms were deafening most of the time.

  When Dianna had stood on the edge of the steep drop-off, he’d said things to her he shouldn’t have, words he couldn’t take back now, and she’d never forgive him for. But when the ground crumbled beneath her feet, his heart had tripped like a runaway horse bolting in terror.

  He’d tried to warn her to get back, that the soil was weakened from all the rain, but he’d voiced the alarm too late. The edge disintegrated, and Dianna had dropped through the air amidst a mountain of dirt, rocks, leaves, and tree limbs.

  Breathless, Taylor doggedly continued climbing even though his legs screamed in protest. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over the moment you went over the edge of that cliff. I died a thousand deaths. Do you have any idea how that felt?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said with a feeble moan.

  “The hell it wasn’t. I was picking on you.”

  “You’ve always picked on me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, his voice shaky. “I never meant for you to be hurt this way. Not this way. I swear.”

  “I know that, Taylor.
Your method of hurting me lies in other forms, not physical. Stop. Please stop,” she cried.

  Taylor halted and eyed her. Her body trembled. Sweat poured down her face. He thought if she grew any paler, she’d simply fade away.

  “I can’t take anymore.” Tears welled into her lovely eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “It hurts.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  Tears mixed with the sludge and blood on her face. Bruises of all shapes and sizes dotted her arms, face, and legs reminding him of purple inkblots. He suspected there were worse injuries he hadn’t seen yet.

  Standing there on the slope with her in his arms, he felt overwhelmed with terror. Dianna was no quitter. Stubborn to a fault, she’d given him what-for since the first day he met her. If she asked him to stop, then he knew damn well she’d gone as far as possible. And he couldn’t let her stop now. “Okay, baby, a minute, no longer. We need to get you back to the cave to the waterfall and wash the mud off so I can check your injuries. That lousy break…we don’t want to risk it becoming infected. We’ll wash it, then I’ll set your leg.”

  “You know how?” she asked, doubt ringing in her voice.

  “Well, I’ve set a few horses’ legs when we couldn’t get a vet in time.”

  “I’m not a horse.”

  “Set a few mares’ legs, too,” he teased, wiggling his brows.

  “How ‘bout human females?”

  “Nope. You’re the first.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said. “I’ll do the best I can, but…fuck!” Unable to hide his worry from her, Taylor held her close. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. Forgive me, baby. Please?” Tears stung his eyes. He buried his face against her throat. “I swear to God I never meant for this to happen to you,” he cried hoarsely.

  A million things could go wrong. He knew that. Besides not being able to set the bone correctly, there was the chance of infection or gangrene if rescuers didn’t arrive in time. They needed saving in the worst way, but there was no help, and little hope. What they had was each other. End of the line, no one to pass the buck to, and he was piss-poor assistance.