Fugitive Hearts

by Ingrid Weaver

  He looked at her hard, the line of his jaw sharp with tension. “Are you okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  Gradually she became aware of a discomfort in her thighs. It wasn’t painful, it was just the stiffness that resulted from muscles unaccustomed to vigorous exercise. Her face heated. Oh, yes, it had been vigorous.

  “Dana?”

  She shook her head and sat up, holding the covers over her breasts. The sheet brushed her nipples, and she wasn’t surprised to feel a certain amount of tenderness there, too. “I’m fine. What about you?”

  He continued to look at her. Instead of replying, he tossed a ring of keys to the pillow beside her. They settled into the indentation his head had left.

  She didn’t make a move to pick them up. “Those look like the keys to Derek’s truck.”

  “They are.”

  “Why are you giving them to me?” she asked. “You know I can’t drive a stick shift.”

  He tossed another set of keys on top of the first. They were for her car.

  The sheet crumpled in her fist as she clutched it more tightly. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t simply morning-after awkwardness. “Remy…”

  “I found a pump in the garage and fixed your tires,” he said. “The gas tank’s full.”

  She stared at him.

  Another ring of keys clanked onto the pillow. “Here are the keys to the main lodge.”

  “I can see that. Why are you giving them to me now? We did the check yesterday before we went into town, remember?”

  “I remember everything we did, Dana.”

  It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he said it, with that hoarse edge to his tone. She knew he wasn’t talking about checking the lodge. He was referring to what they had done together. On the hearth rug. And in her bed.

  She had been sure he’d enjoyed it. Why, then, was he acting like this?

  “I’ve left your phone plugged in,” he said. “I won’t be taking it away again. You can use any of the phones in the lodge, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. I won’t make you help me anymore, Dana.”

  “What?”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Whatever happens, I’m not going to say you were my accomplice. I’ll swear I forced you. You can say the same thing.”

  She looked at the heap of keys on the pillow. The significance of what he was doing hit her all at once. It wasn’t just transportation or phone access he was giving her. He was giving her her freedom.

  She swung her gaze back to his. “I’m not going to turn you in.”

  “That’s because you have no choice. You helped me because I threatened you.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I lied about that, too. I never would have dragged you down with me, Dana. I was bluffing.”

  “Remy—”

  “Do whatever you have to. All I ask is that you give me a day’s head start.”

  “Head start?” She slid to the edge of the bed, tugging the sheet free of the blankets so she could wrap it around herself. The floor was cold as she padded over to where he stood, but she barely noticed. “All right, what’s going on?”

  “You’re free to go.”

  “Why now? Because I slept with you?”

  He hesitated. “In part.”

  She flung one arm toward the keys on the pillow. “Was that supposed to be some kind of payment for services rendered?”

  “No, Dana. God, no.”

  “Because if it is, you can take those keys and stick them sideways somewhere really uncomfortable.”

  He caught her hand. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong. Do you really think I would have let anything stop me if I’d wanted to turn you in?”

  “I gave you no choice.”

  “That’s what I’d wanted to believe, because I needed an excuse to stay with you. It took me a while to admit it, but I don’t believe you’re guilty. I never really did.”

  “That’s all the more reason for you to get as far away from me as fast as you can.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You have to protect yourself before it’s too late, Dana.” He dropped her hand. “I’m running out of places to look for evidence. I might never prove my innocence. The police are going to catch up with me eventually and it would go better for you if you cooperated with them.”

  “No. You’re safe here. Everyone thinks you’re my fiancé.”

  He shook his head. “There are too many holes in that story. It’s only a matter of time before it falls apart. Your cousin could return anyday.”

  “Derek’s not due back until next month. And I’m sure if I explained everything to him, I could make him understand.”

  “What about when John Becker comes back from his trip? Once the police talk to him they’ll realize he wasn’t the person you took in from the storm. They’ll know you really had seen me.”

  “Then I’ll say that I lied, that I made up the whole story. Savard thought I was batty anyway, so—”

  “No, I can’t let you do that.”

  “You can’t let me? Remy, let’s get something straight right now. I make my own decisions. You can’t force me to go now any more than you could force me to stay before.”

  “Then I’ll leave.”

  “Like hell you will,” she said. She grabbed his shirt and lifted herself on her toes to glare at him. “We’re in this together now. That’s what you said, remember?”

  “Dana—”

  “You’re an innocent man, and neither one of us is leaving until we find a way to prove it.”

  He tipped back his head and exhaled slowly. “Damn, it’s been a long time.”

  “What do you mean? It’s only been a few hours.”

  “Not that, Dana. I meant since anyone had faith in me. I can’t remember the last time.” He paused, returning his gaze to her face. “No, I do remember. Your uncle believed in me.”

  “My uncle? Derek’s father?”

  “Axel Johansen. Despite my record, he hired me to help build this resort. Fifteen years ago he gave me my start.”

  “That’s…”

  “Ironic?” he asked. “That I repay his faith in me by using his resort and his niece?”

  “No, it’s not ironic at all. It’s like…fate.”

  Do you believe in fate, Dana? He’d asked her that once, when he’d been John Becker. The more entwined their lives became, the more she was beginning to believe. She swayed into him, her grip on her sheet loosening. How could she have doubted Remy’s innocence for one moment?

  “But it’s not fair to involve you any further,” he persisted. “You came to the cabin to work. You have obligations of your own.”

  He was speaking the truth, but she didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to think about how precarious their budding relationship was, or how little time they might have left. And she knew just the way to drown those thoughts out. She rubbed her nose against the hollow at the base of his throat and reached for his buttons.

  A tremor went through his frame. “Dana…”

  “I can think of a better way to spend the morning besides arguing.” She pushed his shirt apart and kissed his chest.

  “Damn it, Dana,” he murmured. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

  She stepped back, smiled and let go of the sheet altogether.

  He looked down, his breath hissing out between his teeth. He skimmed the heels of his hands over her hips to her breasts and up to her shoulders until he cradled her face in his palms. Holding her steady, he covered her mouth with his.

  Oh, yes, this was better than arguing. Or thinking. She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled into his kiss as he carried her back to the bed.

  Dana emptied the last of the herbal tea from the pot into her cup. The camomile was supposed to be calming, but it wasn’t very effective. Considering t
he level of tension she felt, it might as well have been espresso.

  This morning’s respite from reality in her bedroom had been only temporary. She should have known distractions didn’t work. When a book was giving her trouble, it never magically got better if she vacuumed the floor or shoveled the walk or fixed another pot of tea. Granted, sex with Remy was in another league of distractions altogether, but it had only postponed the problem.

  All too soon she and Remy had turned their attention back to the matter that had brought him to her in the first place. For five hours straight, they had been poring over the material he’d gathered during their trips to Hainesborough. The kitchen table was covered with notes and scraps of paper, but it didn’t matter how many times they looked or sorted or organized, nothing helpful appeared.

  She had told Remy that neither of them were leaving until they had proved his innocence. Unless a miracle happened, her brave words would prove to be nothing but bravado.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any of this?” she asked, carrying her cup to the table.

  Remy glanced up as she took the chair across from him. “No, thanks.”

  “It’s no trouble. I can make a fresh pot.”

  He stretched his arms over his head, arching his back until it cracked. “Dana, I have a confession to make.”

  “What?”

  “I think that herbal stuff tastes like hay.”

  She sputtered. “I thought you liked it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It might help get rid of your tension.”

  “Is it working for you?”

  “Well, not as much as it usually does.” She set the mug down and sighed. “Maybe I should try warm milk. It works for Morty.”

  “Used to work for Chantal, too.”

  “Really?”

  Lacing his hands together behind his neck, he tipped back his chair. “Only if I put it in her cup with the bunnies on it.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Sweet? I’ve had to tear the house apart looking for that cup more than once. She liked to share it with her dolls. One time she’d had a picnic in the backyard and her bunny cup had rolled under the forsythia bush. I was out there crawling around with a flashlight until after midnight…” He paused, then brought his chair back down with a bang. “There’s no point talking about this.”

  “No, please go on,” she said quickly. “I love hearing you talk about Chantal. What does she like besides her bunny cup?”

  He thumbed through a stack of receipts from his office that he had already gone through at least a dozen times. He fingered the thin pile of doctor’s notes. “Tobogganing,” he said finally. “The Mortimer Books. Pyjamas with feet. Strawberry ice cream.”

  Dana propped her chin on her hands as she listened to him talk. Once again she heard more in his tone than in his words. This was a man who had a great capacity for love. That alone was amazing when she considered how bleak his upbringing and his marriage had been. Add to that the hell he’d been living and it was a wonder that he hadn’t turned bitter.

  What would it be like to be loved by a man like that? She already knew he was a wonderful lover—the combination of passion and tenderness he had shown her had made her entire body hum with pleasure. But that was just her body. What about her heart? How would it feel to hear the words from his lips and see the promises in his eyes?

  She gritted her teeth to keep her chin from trembling. He’d already warned her he wouldn’t be giving her any promises, and she had accepted that. There were no guarantees that he’d even be able to give her one more night.

  “She was excited about starting kindergarten in the fall,” Remy said. “She used to ask me to walk her to the school in the evenings so she could see where she’d be going.”

  Despite the poignancy of what he was telling her, there was no self-pity in his tone. Dana marveled at his strength. How could she be worried about her own feelings when Remy was the one whose life had been stolen? She wanted to comfort him, but they both knew any assurances she made would be hollow. Wordlessly she reached across the table to cover his hand with hers.

  He turned his hand palm up and squeezed her fingers. “She won’t have such a long walk now,” he said. “The school is closer to the Haineses’ house than it was to ours.”

  “Who would be taking her to school?”

  “Her grandmother.”

  Dana thought about the woman she had glimpsed at the park. “I’m sure your mother-in-law dotes on her.”

  “She does. She saw more of Chantal than Sylvia did.”

  “How’s that?”

  “That was another source of arguments between us. I never liked how often Sylvia used to get her mother to baby-sit Chantal so she could go out during the day. If I’d known that she was neglecting our daughter so she could meet her lover…” He paused. “Damn, she was a real piece of work.”

  Dana agreed. The more she learned about Sylvia, the more she detested her. “Do you think Marjory Haines knew what her daughter was up to?”

  “It’s possible. Sylvia was always really close to her mother.”

  “Wouldn’t she have tried to intervene?”

  “I doubt it. The Haineses didn’t approve of me. If Marjory knew about Sylvia’s affair, she would have found some way to justify it. Sylvia could do no wrong in her parents’ eyes. They always found excuses. They probably meant well, but their continuous indulgence might have led to her turning out the way she did. Who knows.”

  Dana rubbed her thumb along his. “Are you worried about the same thing happening to Chantal if she’s raised by Sylvia’s parents?”

  “At times. I have to remind myself that she’s a different person from her mother.”

  “She probably inherited a lot of traits from you.”

  He snorted. “God help her if she did.”

  “Seriously, Remy. You’re a terrific father. I can see it in your face when you talk about your daughter, and I hear it in the tone of your voice. I might not have any children of my own, but I’ve had plenty of opportunities to watch other parents. You’d be surprised what I learn about families when I do one of my readings.”

  “If it’s anything like what happened at the post office, I wouldn’t be surprised at all. That woman would have talked your ear off.”

  “People who are familiar with my books don’t act like strangers. They tend to think they know me.”

  “In a way they do, Dana. Your personality shines right through your words and your drawings.”

  She leaned forward, struck by a sudden idea. She grabbed his knee. “Remy, you said there’s a possibility that Marjory Haines knows who Sylvia’s lover was, right?”

  “Sure, but that wouldn’t do us any good. Even if I wanted to risk getting thrown back in prison to ask her, she wouldn’t tell me.”

  “No, but she might let it slip to someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like D. J. Whittington, her granddaughter’s favorite author.”

  He went still. “And how would that happen?”

  “If I struck up a friendship with her, I could nose around a bit and—”

  “Dana, no. You can’t involve yourself any further.”

  “Why not? Think of the opportunity here. I often do readings from the Mortimer books at schools. The kids and the teachers love them. I could arrange to do one at Chantal’s, and I’ll make sure to meet her grandmother afterward when she comes to pick her up.”

  He frowned. “Even if you did meet her, that doesn’t mean you’ll be able to learn anything.”

  “It doesn’t mean I won’t. If Chantal is as big a fan of my books as you say, the Haines would be happy to have me visit them. I realize I can’t come right out and ask directly who Sylvia was messing around with, but there might be clues in their house or…” She drew in her breath. “Or maybe Chantal knows,” she said.

  “The only way she would know would be if she saw them together.”

  Dana nodded.

 
“Even Sylvia wouldn’t have done anything that despicable,” he muttered.

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “I know, but we’ve tried everything else.” She squeezed his leg. “And even if I don’t learn anything useful, I’ll be able to meet your daughter and tell you how she’s doing. That alone makes this idea worth trying, doesn’t it?”

  Dana’s steps echoed down the corridor, stirring up the scent of linoleum tile, winter boots and chalk. Long bulletin boards full of construction paper masterpieces lined the walls. Banks of fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. The classrooms she passed were empty, but she could hear the lilt of children’s voices coming from a doorway at the end of the hall.

  “We’re a small school, so we’ve assembled the students from kindergarten to grade six in the library, Miss Whittington. They’re sitting on the carpet, but of course, we’ve given you a chair.”

  Dana smiled at the woman who walked beside her. Mrs. Hogan, the principal of Hainesborough Public School, was a pleasant, apple-shaped woman in her fifties. She had been virtually gushing with gratitude since Dana had contacted her yesterday, and had been only too eager to arrange an appearance for the local celebrity. “That sounds perfect, but please, call me Dana.”

  “And I’m Betty.” She gestured toward the source of the noise. “As you can hear, everyone is thrilled you could work us into your schedule.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Betty, and I do apologize for the short notice. I usually line these appearances up a few weeks in advance, but I met a woman at the post office the other day who gave me the idea, so I thought, ‘why not?”’

  “Oh, yes, that must have been Mrs. Shaunessy,” she said with a laugh. “I heard little Jared brought your autograph for show and tell. It created quite a stir.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “It’s what you deserve, Dana. In these days of video games and MTV, your books are a refreshing return to real family values. You’re the kind of role model the children need.”

  A role model? Dana thought with a twinge of guilt. Would the school principal say that if she knew Dana was willingly aiding and abetting a fugitive? Would she still be enthusiastic if she knew this entire event was being staged for the purpose of gathering information?