She quickly replaced the blankets and sat back on her heels. All right, now what? she asked herself for the second time.
Morty, evidently finished with his investigation of the stranger and satisfied that all was in order, leaped onto the blanket that covered the man’s chest and curled up in a contented half circle.
Dana stared, her mouth going slack. Like most cats, Morty usually showed a regal disdain for strangers. Even if they coaxed him with food, he seldom approached. “Morty,” she said. “Get off there.”
He regarded her through half-closed eyes and didn’t budge.
“Morty, he probably has enough trouble breathing without you sitting on his chest,” she said, giving the cat a gentle shove. “Go back to the laundry basket.”
Morty dug his claws into the blanket.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Dana muttered, making a grab for the cat. She picked him up, detached his claws from the blanket and set him back on the floor.
His tail raised in offended feline dignity, Morty stalked over to plunk down at the man’s feet.
Dana shook her head, bemused. “Okay, you can stay there,” she said. “The extra heat will probably do him good.”
A violent spasm shook the man’s frame. His teeth began to chatter.
Not knowing what else to do, Dana reached beneath the blanket and caught one of his hands. It dwarfed hers as she pressed it between her palms. For the first time, she noticed the lumpy outline of calluses at the base of his fingers.
Evidently he worked with his hands. That detail made sense, considering his muscled arms. But if he did manual labor for a living, why was he wearing kid gloves and an expensive coat that would have been more suited to an accountant?
And why would anyone head up the road to the resort in a blizzard in the first place?
Speculation was pointless, Dana thought, pushing the questions to the back of her mind. He was alive; that was the most important thing. “Hang on,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.”
You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.
Remy heard the voice from a long way off. It pounded at the ice that encased his brain, chipping away at the weakness that held his body.
You’re safe now.
Was it true? No, not yet. He couldn’t afford to rest. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t let them find him.
But where was he? Why was he so cold? What was that clattering noise?
He forced his senses back to awareness. Pain shot up his arms from his fingertips, as if someone held a blowtorch to his frozen flesh.
Frozen. Cold. Images kaleidoscoped through his head. The storm, the snow. The fading light.
The resort. The cabin. Had he reached it?
He caught the aroma of woodsmoke. It mixed with the tang of wet wool and old wood and…lilies.
Lilies?
Someone was holding his hand. That’s where the heat was coming from. Not a blowtorch. Fingers. Small fingers. But they hurt like hell. He tried to move away.
The fingers squeezed. “Mister?”
The voice was soft and female, like the hands that held his. But he could barely hear it over the clattering noise that filled his head. He clenched his teeth and the clattering stopped.
“Hello? Mister, can you hear me?”
Remy heard the woman’s voice draw closer, and the scent of flowers grew stronger.
Something bumped his feet. Agony stabbed into his frozen toes. He tried to shift away, but his limbs felt bound, held down. Panic tripped his pulse. They must have found him after all. The safety was an illusion. He couldn’t trust it. He couldn’t trust anyone.
The woman released his hand. Fingertips feathered over his forehead before her palm settled warmly against the side of his face. “Hello?” She patted his cheek. “Hello?”
Remy struggled to open his eyes but his eyelashes seemed stuck together. He held his breath and tried again. He managed to crack his eyelids apart just enough to glimpse a face.
She was leaning over him, her hair falling in a blond curtain across her cheekbones. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and her pale eyebrows angled together in concern. She looked worried. She looked innocent.
And she wasn’t wearing a uniform.
His pulse steadied. Gradually his surroundings started to solidify. He realized he was lying on his back, on the floor. There was a quiet crackling nearby, like a fire. Blankets weighed down his legs, not shackles. There was a flash of orange fur by his feet, and a marmalade cat raised its head to stare at him.
Remy closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness, buying time to assess his situation.
It was okay. This couldn’t be a hospital. It couldn’t be a police station. They didn’t have cats there.
So Sibley hadn’t found him. There was still hope. All he needed was a chance to rest, to regain his strength. Then he’d figure out what to do.
Chantal.
The name echoed through his mind like the clang of a locking door. Had he heard it? Spoken it? The last time he had seen her he hadn’t been able to speak at all. His throat had been swelled shut with the sob he had been determined not to let her hear.
Was she warm? Was she safe? Was she happy?
Did she believe what they said about him?
His pulse tripped with helpless, frustrated anger. It was a familiar feeling. For seven months he had lived and breathed it.
He couldn’t waste time resting. He had to keep moving. He had to find the key that would end the nightmare.
Would he ever see her again? Would he feel the sunshine of her laughter and hear the lilting music in her voice when she called him Daddy?
She would turn five next month. Five. And she was being raised by people who called him a murderer.
No, he thought. No! He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. Not until Chantal knew the truth.
Chapter 2
“John? Mr. Becker? Can you hear me?”
Remy floated back to awareness with a confused jerk. When had he drifted off again? How long had he been out? And who the hell was Becker?
“I’m just going outside to get some more firewood, Mr. Becker. The storm isn’t letting up, and it’s going to be a long night.”
Gentle fingers brushed across his forehead, accompanied by the scent of lilies. There was the rustle of clothing and the rasp of a zipper. Remy squinted one eye just enough to see the blond woman pull the hood of a red parka over her head and move away. A door creaked, a blast of frigid air whistled inside for an instant, then the latch clicked shut. Remy waited another few seconds, listening to be sure he was alone before he opened his eyes fully.
Whitewashed beams crossed the ceiling above him, mottled with flickering shadows. A plaid couch with wooden arms loomed above him on his right, and to his left a fire burned low behind a mesh screen.
Right. The resort, the storm. It didn’t take as long for his brain to click into gear this time. Good. That must mean his strength was returning. Remy stretched his arms, then his legs, one at a time. Aches and stiffness but no real damage, from what he could tell. He tried to flex his fingers. Pain, swift and white-hot, knifed through his joints from the thawing flesh. He took shallow, panting breaths until the pain eased, then cautiously lifted his head.
The room was large, taking up the entire front half of the cabin. Along with the couch, there were two overstuffed easy chairs, footstools, bookshelves and a table with a tilted top and a stool. It was a drafting table, Remy realized. Did it belong to the woman who smelled like flowers? Who was she? And what was she doing out here by herself?
Didn’t matter, he told himself immediately. Whoever she was, she was one person too many. He never would have come here if he’d known the place was occupied. She was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. He had to leave, he thought, pushing himself up on his elbows.
The room went gray and tilted. Remy waited until it righted itself again, then straightened his arms and l
evered himself into a sitting position.
A shudder shook his frame as the air hit his bare skin. He glanced down, puzzled, and noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Using the heels of his hands, he clasped the edge of the blanket that had fallen to his lap and pulled it to his shoulders. That was when he realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.
“What the—” Wincing at the rawness of his throat, he swallowed carefully. He spotted his shirt draped over a wooden rack near the fireplace, along with his jeans. Another shudder rattled through him, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep his teeth from clacking.
Damn, he was cold, so cold. But he had to get dressed. He had to leave. He hung on to that thought as he bent his knees and tried to stand up.
The floor was hardwood, he learned. It rushed upward and slammed into the side of his face.
A marmalade cat padded daintily into his field of vision. “Mrrowww?”
Remy glared at the cat as he regathered his strength, then rolled to his back and gingerly assessed the additional damage. Everything throbbed now, and he tasted blood. He mouthed a string of silent curses as he wiped the blood from his lip. Taking care to move more slowly, he sat up again.
The cat sat back on its haunches and curled its tail around its feet. Its ears pricked forward as it studied him.
Remy ignored the animal’s scrutiny and focused on the clothes on the wooden rack. They were wet. That must be why the woman had stripped them off him. He shuddered again as he realized how completely vulnerable he had been while he had been unconscious. He hadn’t even been aware that a strange woman had taken off his clothes and wrapped him in blankets.
He should be grateful. Whoever she was, she had undoubtedly saved his life.
But she could just as easily have ended it.
He had to leave. He couldn’t count on the charity of a stranger. He knew better than to trust anyone. During the past year, people he had believed to be his friends had turned their backs on him.
He hooked his elbow over the arm of the couch and tried once more to get to his feet. This time, he was able to lurch as far as the fireplace before his legs gave out. The blanket he’d draped around his shoulders tangled around his ankles and he crashed into the rack with his clothes. The thin wooden slats snapped, collapsing under his weight into a tangle of splinters and soggy denim.
Remy took a precious minute to catch his breath, then got to his hands and knees. Lifting his head, he looked at the snow that still swirled outside the window.
He couldn’t make it across the room; there was no way in hell he could make it across another ten miles of countryside in wet clothes. That would be suicide.
But he was risking far worse if he remained here. That blond woman who smelled like lilies had helped him, but the help would end when she discovered who he was. She would call the authorities. He couldn’t let her do that.
Frantically he surveyed the room once more. There on a low table under the window was a telephone. It was an old, black rotary dial set. He had to disable it.
He shook his feet clear of the blanket. Bracing his back against the wall, hanging on to the stones at the edge of the fireplace, he managed to get himself upright.
There was the stamp of feet outside the cabin. Seconds later the door swung open on a blast of cold air.
Remy pushed off from the wall and staggered toward the phone.
“What… Oh, my God! Mr. Becker!”
At the woman’s voice, Remy tried to move faster. If he could grab the wire and rip it from the connection—
“John, wait,” she cried. She dropped an armload of firewood onto the floor. Tossing aside her mittens as she ran, she reached his side before he made it to the phone. “Here,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist. “Let me help you.”
Only two more steps and he would be there, Remy thought. But before he could lift his foot again, his knees gave out.
“Oomph,” the woman grunted. She swayed, propping her shoulder under his arm to hold him upright. Stumbling, she steered him toward the couch.
Remy didn’t have the strength to fight her. He bit back a moan as he fell backward onto the plaid cushions.
The woman landed on top of him, her face pressed into his chest. She pushed off quickly and got back to her feet, then retrieved the blankets he had scattered and covered him up once more. “Don’t move, John,” she said. “Please. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Who…” He swallowed hard and tried again. “Who?”
“My name is Dana,” she said, tucking a quilt around his legs. She took off her coat and paused to look at him. “Dana Whittington.”
She had misunderstood his question, Remy thought. He had been trying to ask who John Becker was.
“You’re in my cabin,” she continued. “At Half Moon Bay. I found you outside.” She brushed his forehead with her fingertips. “How are you feeling?”
The last time she had touched him, her fingers had burned. They didn’t anymore. They were gentle, and they felt good. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead furrowed. No suspicion clouded her blue eyes, only innocent concern.
Remy scowled. No matter how innocent she looked, or how good her touch felt, this woman, Dana, was a threat. “’M ’kay,” he said. He tried to swallow and started to cough.
“Let me get you something to drink,” she said immediately. She hurried through a doorway that led to a kitchen. “Stay there,” she called over her shoulder.
Remy shivered and eyed the distance to the phone. Before he could think about trying for it again, Dana returned. She propped a pillow under his back to help him sit up and brought a steaming mug to his lips.
He hated feeling helpless. He hated being fussed over, but Remy knew that for the moment he had no choice—he couldn’t even hold the mug himself. He took a mouthful of what she offered, endeavoring not to gag as some kind of grassy-tasting liquid slid down his throat.
She smiled encouragingly. “Better?”
He made a noncommittal grunt. “Thanks.”
She stroked his forehead again, then rested her hand on his shoulder. She left it there as his body shook with another round of chills. “You’re still cold.”
“Not…as…bad,” he said through chattering teeth.
“Hang on. I’ll put more wood on the fire.” She set the mug on the table beside him and went over to where she had dropped the firewood. “I was going out for wood when I found you,” she said as she stoked the blaze on the hearth. “You looked half-frozen.”
“My…car went…off the road,” he improvised. He coughed again to give himself time to think. “I got lost. Walking for hours. Lucky…I ended up here.”
“Ah. I knew it had to be something like that.” She came back to his side and pulled up a footstool to sit down. “I tried calling for an ambulance, but the lines are down. The storm’s getting worse, so it’s probably going to be a while longer before I can get you a doctor.”
“I don’t need—” Her words suddenly registered. “The lines?” he asked.
“The storm knocked out the phone service. I’m sure they’ll fix it as soon as the snow lets up.” She glanced toward the telephone, then back at his face. “I’m sorry. It happens up here from time to time.”
If his lip wasn’t stinging and his teeth weren’t starting to chatter again, he could have smiled. As it was, all he could do was let out a relieved breath. The phone was dead. She wouldn’t be calling anyone. All right. He could stay here a few more hours, maybe even another day. That would buy him some time for his body to recover.
“I guess you were trying to call someone when I came in,” she continued. She held the mug up to his lips for another drink. “I know you must have people who are worried about you, John. I’m sorry I don’t have a cell phone or anything.”
Better and better, he thought. He took a second swallow of the hot liquid. It tasted like hay, but it was helping to warm him up. “You called me John.”
“I hope you don’t mind
. When I was hanging up your coat, I found your day planner in the pocket,” she said. “Your name was inside the front cover.”
His coat? Remy felt a stab of confusion before he remembered. Of course. She meant the coat he’d stolen from the truck stop. It had been two sizes too small, and he had barely been able to squeeze his hands into the gloves that had been in the side pockets, but he hadn’t been in the position to be choosy. The coat had kept him alive, and the gloves had probably kept him from losing his fingers to frostbite. When this was all over, he’d have to mail everything back to this John Becker, wherever he was.
When this was all over? Remy curled onto his side as a renewed wave of weakness surged through him. No, it was far from being over. He had too much to do before he was finished and a long, long way yet to go.
Dana put the cup of camomile tea on the side table and smoothed the blankets over John’s shoulder. His knees were drawn up as if to hold in the heat of his body. His eyes had closed ten minutes ago. Thankfully, this time it seemed more like sleep than unconsciousness. His breathing was deep and even, and his shivering wasn’t as violent. She hoped that meant he was recovering.
Considering his condition when she found him, he must have a formidable reserve of strength. Just look at the way he had tried to walk when he had barely been capable of standing. The poor man. Judging by the power that was evident in those muscles that ridged his arms and shoulders, he likely wasn’t accustomed to being helpless. She had felt the quivering tension in his body when he had collapsed, and she had seen the frustration in his gaze. It must be horrible to be incapacitated like that and at the mercy of a stranger.
A gust of wind shook the cabin, and Dana glanced at the window. Until the storm eased, they were trapped here. Alone. Together.
John wasn’t the only one at the mercy of a stranger.
She felt a tickle of uneasiness as she watched the snow. Now that it seemed safe to assume John wasn’t about to succumb to hypothermia, she should be pleased. The evidence of his strength should come as a relief, not as a cause for misgivings.
Fugitive Hearts Page 2