He didn’t even shiver. Didn’t appear to feel the cold.
She wrapped her arms tight around her body and wished she had even a fraction of his warmth. He stood absolutely still, but she could feel his energy vibrate through the air. His eyes shone with dark emotions—exhaustion, frustration, grief.
She understood the darker side of life, understood the nature of guilt.
“He’d have died if you hadn’t cut him out.” She spoke quietly. Mindful of the dead.
“Yeah,” he said, “probably.” He placed his hands on the wooden rail between them, leaned closer. “Thanks, for your help.”
“I didn’t do much good.” Elizabeth swallowed, felt the tears burn again. She wanted to reach out and clutch those warm capable hands. There were some days when she needed refuge, isolation from the slightest touch, others, like today, when she wanted to be held so desperately she ached.
She didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” she managed, “about the mare.”
He nodded, lips twisted. “Me too.” Half turning away, he hesitated and looked down at the ground.
“Your accent...” he tilted his head to look at her, “where’d you say you were from?”
Blindsided, she sucked in a quick, startled breath. “I didn’t say.” The words were too sharp, too hard. “I mean, it’s not a simple answer.” She came from everywhere and nowhere. It would take a lifetime to explain.
He nodded, smiled as if she’d said something amusing.
“It’s beautiful—wherever it’s from.”
Surprise jolted her on the spot. He turned back toward the stables and as she watched him walk away, the breeze chased him as if it already missed his company. It whipped her hair across her cheek and rustled the branches of the trees behind her.
She shivered as the night closed around her, pressed against her like a wet blanket. She wanted to follow Nat back into the stables, absorb his warmth and discover what really went on behind those vivid blue eyes
But she didn’t have the guts.
The wolf howled again, lost and lonely. Another wolf answered, then another, and another. The eerie cries picked up and echoed off the trees, through the ditches and valleys, across the wide-open spaces.
She climbed the fence, kept a close eye on the caliginous forest as she made her way back to her cabin. Touching the Glock holstered beneath her jacket, she reminded herself she was safe for now. Wild things wouldn’t hurt her, but it wasn’t wild things she was worried about.
Ten minutes later, she huddled up in the cottage’s double bed wearing a New York Giants T-shirt that came almost to her knees. One hand crept under the pillow, an inch away from her Glock as she tried to fall asleep.
Nat Sullivan’s face formed in her mind, glowing eyes with that half smile of his that warmed her from the inside out. She wanted to touch him so badly that her hand actually reached out, but she let it fall back down to the cool sheets. She fell asleep and dreamed. The foal gamboled about, the mare’s eyes pain-filled, but accepting. Accepting death.
Suddenly she was running fast, lungs bursting with the effort, her body slick with sweat, stumbling, unable to see through the fog that crawled over the ground. She couldn’t see him, but he was close. Too close. Right on her heels. Dogging her.
Shadows shifted and he was straight ahead. Whirling away she lurched suddenly over the edge of a cliff. Fear scraped at her throat as she wheeled again, but there was no escape. He was there. At the edge of the shadows. Watching her. Reaching for her. Shapes shifted, black and gray then coalesced into a solid malevolence. She watched, frozen, as a man began to form out of the fog.
“Daddy,” she cried and thrust her arms towards the shadow. But the shadow turned black, and laughed.
Blood-stained hands grabbed at her, and she whirled and threw herself over the edge of the cliff. She screamed as the air whipped past her face, falling and falling. She heard his laughter and screamed again.
Elizabeth jerked awake, the scream echoing through the cabin. Tangled sheets pinned her down. She fell back onto the pillows, her breath harsh in the cold room.
The fire had gone out.
Sweat turned to ice on her flesh as she realized where she was.
It was just a dream. Just another dream.
Gritty-eyed and tired, she huddled in the blankets and tried to think of nothing. Not blood, nor death, not fear nor pain, not humiliation, not rape and not Andrew DeLattio. But it didn’t matter how hard she tried, her mind just kept replaying the videotape.
FIVE
Breathing hard, Elizabeth bent over and rested gloved hands against jean-clad thighs. The cold air burned her lungs as she snatched in huge gulps of it. The bright blue sky stretched out like a canvas above her, broken white clouds splotched across it like a child’s painting. No ominous gray clouds today, though Sarah Sullivan had told her that could change in a heartbeat.
Elizabeth’s eyes hurt; she hadn’t slept much last night—nothing unusual in that. Stretching up, her muscles loosened and eased. She rested her hands on her hips and looked around. The mountains reared up before her, snow covered granite that looked as unforgiving as broken glass. It looked a barren place near the summit of those spiky peaks. Swathes of conifers stretched dark green across the lower reaches of the mountain, cut off sharply at the tree line. Pine, fir, larch and aspen slowly merged on the far side of the meadow, breaking up the monotony of the landscape.
She didn’t need to go much further.
Trudging across the meadow she was grateful for the snowshoes Sarah had given her; they made walking in the deep powder much easier. She followed a trampled path into the trees and looked down among the underbrush where she could see the tracks of wild things crisscrossing the snow. Recognizing bird and rabbit tracks, she spotted much larger prints that could only belong to a mountain lion, and prayed it wasn’t hungry.
Nervous, she pulled out her .30-30 Marlin from its carry case and inserted rounds into the tubular magazine that ran the length of the barrel. She chambered a round, inserted another cartridge into the magazine, just in case. She’d bought the rifle in a backwoods town in northern Ontario. She’d wanted a backup for her Glock, but hadn’t wanted to call attention to herself by buying another handgun. The little lever action rifle was compact and easy to carry, but it packed a powerful punch at close quarters. Elizabeth left the hammer half-cocked and carried on walking, taking big steps in the cumbersome shoes, holding the gun barrel pointed toward the ground.
She reached a small clearing at the foot of a heavily forested hillside. This would do for her purpose. She stopped, shucked off her pack and laid the rifle carefully on the ground. Sitting on a half-rotted tree stump, she pulled out some brightly colored balloons from her knapsack and started blowing them up to the size of footballs. She tied each one off with long pieces of twine, thankful there was no wind to scatter them around the glade. The balloons looked garish against the white background—unnatural in the pristine wilderness. She stopped to catch her breath, eyed the surrounding thicket suspiciously.
Satisfied with the targets, she gathered the strings, pulled a staple-gun from her pack, and marched 100 yards further up the gentle slope.
Snow flicked over the top of her boots, but the thick socks she wore helped keep it out. After that first day’s ride in the snowstorm with Nat, she’d sworn she’d never leave the warmth of the cabin again. But doing nothing had given her time to think, and that was the last thing she’d wanted. She’d rather freeze.
Elizabeth came to a felled pine near the edge of the forest. She removed her gloves with her teeth and dropped them to the snow at her feet. With quick efficient movements she stapled the target balloons along the length of the tree trunk where they bobbed gently in a long festive line that looked both jolly and sweet—like a birthday party.
She’d be lucky to see another birthday. But she wouldn’t die alone.
Blowing out a cloud of icy breath, she smiled grimly at her little soldiers and
walked back to her pack and then stood, absorbing the atmosphere of the mountain. It felt like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Even the air was different up here, sharper, clearer. They called Montana ‘Big Sky’ country and now Elizabeth knew why. You were so close you could almost reach up and touch it.
The silence was all encompassing. Tangible.
Her heartbeat slowed. Tension eased out of her shoulders, releasing her neck from its iron grip. There was a deep sense of solitude here that embraced and held her. Recognized her for what she was, and didn’t care about the bad parts, the imperfections.
An eagle soared high above the valley, on meager thermals, surveying its kingdom of ice, tree and granite.
There was power here, in the eagle and the land.
The savage strength of the ocean had often called to her as she’d watched storm driven seas and seen the fury of waves that pounded surf and rock. But this power had a different feel. Older, dignified, like inner peace. The backbone of the world forged by molten heat, time and patience. For some reason, that conjured an image of Nat Sullivan. He was big and beautiful with an underlying core of strength.
When she’d first seen him in the stable last night she’d barely recognized him. Fiercely intent, there’d been no twinkle in his eyes, no good humor teasing his mouth. He’d been sharp-edged with desperation.
Watching the mare die, and seeing the foal born, had been one of the saddest and most poignant moments of her life—an emotional whirlwind of sorrow and joy. It had taken courage to cut the foal out of its still warm mother. Decisiveness and action.
A bird twittered in a nearby tree, jumping excitedly from naked twig to naked twig with dexterous hops. Shaking her attention back to her objective, Elizabeth looked across at her targets. Latex bubbles lined up in the snow, waiting to party. She braced her feet one behind the other, a stride apart, her weight balanced evenly on the balls of her feet. Taking a calming breath, she raised the rifle to her right eye and closed her left, took in the slack of the trigger and slowed her breathing. She exhaled and squeezed smoothly. The rifle recoiled and the balloon vaporized as the shot echoed around the hills, shattering the silence.
***
Nat swore under his breath as he tightened the cinches on Winter’s saddle before mounting up. Goddamned poachers on his land. Poachers who sneaked up into the mountains and killed whatever they wanted, regardless of the law. Regardless of nature’s rhythm.
There was nothing in season this time of year.
Nat’s mind raged as he thought of the lowlifes who left piles of trash blowing in the wilderness as a sign of their contempt. Well, after the week he’d had, he was more than ready to deal with them.
Shots rang off in the distance again.
He checked his Remington .308 and ammunition. Looked up into the woods—his woods, his land, his mountain.
For now...
These guys were too close for comfort.
Normally, he would have waited for Ryan or Cal to join him, but they were busy moving cattle in from the lower pasture near the river and he couldn’t afford to wait. Clouds were gathering against the northern horizon, moving fast. More snow was on its way.
He kicked-on Winter and they headed out at a ground-eating canter. Nat narrowed his gaze as if he could see past the trees with sheer willpower. His wolves were up in these hills. They used this part of the mountain to den-up and raise pups each spring.
People in these parts held wolves in about as much regard as serial killers and maybe a pack would take out the occasional sick steer, but most cattle were too big and strong to be tackled by the elusive creatures. His father had been a nature lover—recognized early the threat people were to the natural predators that lived in the parks nearby. Nat had only ever hunted them with his camera and had spent years photographing this particular pack.
Goddamn
Urging Winter on with his heels, he rode faster, up the gentle rise of the meadow with the reins wrapped loosely around the saddle horn, the horse moving with little instruction from him.
Winter was a Morgan, the oldest American breed, and standing at just under sixteen hands, he was bigger than average. His short, pricked ears faced towards the gunshots, his fine intelligent head held high on alert. The straight, clean legs and deeply muscled shoulders worked tirelessly to plow through the deep snow.
They were close to the shooter now. Nat could smell the gunpowder tainting the pristine mountain air. He approached carefully from well behind the direction of the shots, frowning as he looked down at the ground and noticed a single set of tracks of someone on foot. Unless someone else had flanked the area, there was only one hunter to deal with.
Nat smiled, nudged Winter forward. One wouldn’t be a problem.
The horse picked his way through the thick snow with barely a sound. Nat judged the shooter to be about a hundred yards away behind a stand of trees. He slid off Winter’s back and left the horse loose in the clearing.
Cautiously, Nat inched forward, careful not to step on any buried branches that would trip him up or snap and give his presence away.
He hunkered down and kept the thick trunk of a Douglas fir between himself and the shooter. He didn’t want to end up stuffed on somebody’s mantel.
Leaning against the trunk, he peered cautiously around the tree and jerked back with surprise as he spotted Miss Eliza Reed, computer specialist from New York, shooting targets.
She wasn’t exactly camouflaged in her red and black lumberjack coat, standing out in plain view, and Nat figured by the steadiness of her stance and confidence of her bearing that she knew what she was doing.
Sonofabitch.
At least she wasn’t a poacher.
Using the old 3-9 Redfield scope on his rifle, he checked out her progress. She hit each balloon dead on, over and over. Despite himself, Nat was impressed. She was a good shot—for a computer nerd.
Nat lowered his rifle, stood silently in the protection of the trees as he watched her put the Marlin through its paces. There was a mechanical fluidity to her movements, a rhythm in how she took the shots and reloaded. She looked like she’d done it a million times before. The action wasn’t rushed, and nothing was forced.
He didn’t trust her. Knew she was hiding something beneath that porcelain-fine exterior. He looked down the scope, admired the curve of her cheek, the slight pull of her lips to one side as she concentrated on a shot.
Not that he wouldn’t mind tasting those lips...
Christ.
Just because he’d found the woman he’d loved in bed with a bartender only hours after he’d left to visit his dying father, didn’t mean he’d sworn off sex. Hell, no. Just because he’d been a fool once didn’t mean he didn’t occasionally enjoy what women had to offer. Not that Mizz Elizabeth Reed was offering. Unlike Troy Strange’s wife.
Hadn’t that been fun. He rested his forehead against the tree trunk, pulled his lips back in a grimace.
Marlena. That damned woman had to be the reason Troy Strange was putting the squeeze on them. What the hell had she told her husband about him?
A woman scorned.
A couple of weeks ago he’d gone into town for supplies and stopped by the Screw Loose for a drink on the way back home. He’d bumped into Marlena in the parking lot. She’d asked him for a ride home as her Porsche wouldn’t start. It wasn’t out of his way and even if it had of been there wasn’t a person in the world he’d have hesitated giving a ride to. Except this one. She was model thin and exotically beautiful, but he didn’t care for her. Didn’t trust her, didn’t like her. But ingrained manners had had him saying ‘sure’ before he could get the word ‘no’ past his stupid lips.
She’d gone for his zipper five miles from the ornate security gates of Strange’s ranch. Nat had damned near crashed the truck into a Douglas fir. By the time he’d pulled over she’d had him in her mouth and he’d damn near come on the spot. The tiny portion of brain that hadn’t been in her mouth had wondered what her angle
was.
Not that his body had given a damn. Turned on just thinking about it, he shifted uncomfortably from the memory. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman and a hell of a long time since he’d had a blowjob. And for the first few seconds his body had been praising the Lord and doing Hallelujah cartwheels, but even his steam-fogged brain had realized he couldn’t do it. Even though his body screamed for release, he couldn’t do it. She was a married woman and he didn’t like her.
Removing her hot mouth and manicured claws from his dick had been a dangerous procedure, and he’d been damned proud of himself for doing it.
But she’d been pissed.
He’d forced her out of the truck while she’d screamed and spluttered and then he’d got the hell out of there, abandoning her on the side of the road. Should have known she’d cause trouble. Maybe he should have just fucked her, like every other guy in town. He blinked as the sound of another shot rebounded off the granite peaks.
An idea sprang into his head. It was crazy and she’d probably shoot him, but right now he didn’t give a damn. Slowly he crept out of his hiding place and moved silently through the thick snow. He counted off the shots. Figured the rifle should be empty. Got about three feet behind her and waited for her to lower the weapon to reload.
“Howdy ma’am.” He tipped his hat and grinned as she jumped a mile into the air, swinging her rifle around and pointing it straight at his heart.
“Holy Mother of God!” she shrieked, her green eyes glittering. “You scared the shit out of me, you crazy—”
Nat kept a wary eye on the rifle. Should be empty, but you never know for sure.
“Didn’t ya hear me walking on over here?” He scratched his chin and stretched his accent, added a little cowboy color.
Looking thoroughly pissed, Elizabeth Reed narrowed her eyes, obviously seeing through his ploy. The woman sure was pretty, even when she was spitting nails.
“I could have shot you, you idiot.”
Nat raised the brim of his hat off his head and ran his hand through his hair before settling the hat firmly back in place.
Crimes of Passion Page 36