Witness in the Dark

by Allison B Hanson

  Backing up, she turned about ten yards from the tree, and went downhill. In daylight, she would have been able to see the big tree where she would make an abrupt right and keep going until she saw the shack. But now, in the dark, she couldn’t see a blessed thing.

  She headed in the general direction and looked for the giant tree—a hardwood she wouldn’t be able to reach her arms around. It wasn’t there. Instead, she came to a stream.

  “Damn it!” In frustration, she stood looking at the water she’d never crossed before. She held her watch up to the moonlight. It had been almost an hour since she’d left the house. Even with her leading them back for the first time, it had only taken thirty minutes from the bunker to the house.

  She would not panic.

  And she would not give up.

  She climbed back up the hill, which seemed twice as steep in the dark.

  Eventually, she found a wide, flat pathway which seemed to go on forever. The old railroad bed, she finally figured out. Thank God.

  She started over, and this time she found the big tree. Taking a right at the tree, she trudged on, and on, and on. She was about to assume she’d gone the wrong way again, when suddenly, she saw the dark silhouette of a square building.

  Relief poured through her whole body. At last.

  After wiping her shaking hand down her jeans, she held it up to the panel. The door opened and she went inside, closing the door behind her.

  It was pitch-dark inside the bunker. She fumbled around on the wall until she found the keypad. And froze with her hand on the device. Were the numbers set up with one through three on the bottom like a calculator, or across the top like a phone?

  She should have paid closer attention.

  She pushed the middle of the bottom row, hoping it was zero. To her utter relief, the keyboard lit up and she was able to type in the rest of the code without a problem.

  The sound of the hatch release made her smile as she felt around on the floor for the hidden handle. She raised the door, and felt the colder air come up to greet her. It felt good against her sweaty face as she carefully descended the steps into the blackness.

  Before she got to the bottom, her footing slipped. Dew-soaked sneakers on steep metal steps was a wicked combination.

  She fell backward, hitting her shoulder and the gun on the edge of the stairs. The steel grating ripped open her skin and she instantly felt the warmth as the blood began to flow.

  “Fuck,” she moaned and got up. Conveniently, she was at the bottom of the stairs now, so she fumbled around until she found the light switch and the room lit up.

  It took her a minute for her eyes to adjust. The dim lighting seemed as bright as the sun now. On the second pass she found the empty spot for the rifle and propped it up. She frowned at the marks and dirt she had put on it. Garrett would not be impressed with her clumsiness.

  After a vain attempt to clean it off, she gave up, turned off the light, and headed back up the stairs. She could feel the blood running down her back, and her T-shirt was starting to stick to her skin. No way was she telling Garrett.

  Heeding his words about sounding like a herd of preschoolers, she tried to be quiet as she ascended the metal risers, but failed miserably. Finally, she got out of the bunker and breathed in the cold night air. A breeze had started, picking up the leaves and making even more strange noises.

  She steadied herself for a second and winced at the pain in her shoulder from today’s rifle practice. And told herself the worst part was over. All she had to do now was get back. But she’d already done that once on her own. Garrett may have been following behind, but he’d been no help at all with navigating.

  It wasn’t impossible. She could do it.

  She had to keep stopping to get her bearings. She got lost three times before she finally came across the downed tree…without ever seeing the big tree. She tripped and cut her hand on a rock. Her palm throbbed with pain along with her shoulder, and she felt the warm stickiness of more blood.

  But she kept going.

  Finally, she found the railroad bed. She let out big sigh of relief…only to stifle it immediately when she heard a rustling in the leaves on the other side of the trail.

  “Garrett?” she whispered.

  No reply.

  She walked in the direction of the house as fast as she could without tripping. Happiness flooded her at the sight of the warm light spilling out from the windows at the back of the cabin.

  Home.

  Her feet didn’t make a sound as she swung over the railing onto the deck. Her shoulder and her hand hurt horribly and her head was pounding, but she’d made it.

  Her sense of accomplishment was only tempered by her injuries.

  Not that she’d let Garrett know. She was pretty certain her task had been to complete the trip safely.

  She walked quietly into the kitchen through the sliding glass door, and he came out to meet her. She couldn’t look him in the eyes.

  She still had a—possibly irrational—fear he might give up on her if she became too much of a problem. He’d said more than once that he didn’t babysit or answer questions, and now he was being forced to do both. He may even have gone AWOL from his job to be her guardian. She hadn’t dared ask him about that.

  He was doing so much for her. How would she ever repay him?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Soup?” Garrett asked, acting as if she’d only been gone for ten minutes and not well over two hours. He hid his smile, stupidly proud of her achievement. Damn. She’d actually done it!

  It had been all he could do to silently follow her around in the woods as time after time she went the wrong way. But his patience had paid off, because she’d found her way to the bunker and back in one piece. Well, mostly. Without him having to step in and rescue her.

  But why did she look so beaten? Why wasn’t she talking smack? Was her bruised shoulder worse than he suspected? Or the fall on those metal stairs? Or that last tumble onto the sharp rock? Her hand might need some stitches from that one.

  “No thanks. I’m not hungry.” She bit her trembling bottom lip as he looked her over critically. Her cheeks were flushed, so she couldn’t have lost too much blood.

  “Ice cream?” he offered. She was probably frozen clear to her bones. The thought of adding ice cream to the mix made him shiver.

  “No. I just want to take a shower and go to bed,” she said, clearly trying to get away from him as quickly as possible.

  “Okay.” He tilted his head to the side. “You all right?” He hadn’t planned to ask. He thought she’d mention her injury two seconds after she got done cheering and bragging about how well she’d managed to complete her mission. He didn’t understand her silence, but decided to see how it played out. Maybe she was embarrassed…though that didn’t make any sense.

  Not many people could do what she’d done tonight. Especially without panicking and making things worse.

  “I’m fine.” She half-turned, keeping her cut hand hidden and her bloody back to the wall as she sidled away to her room.

  “Good night,” he called after her, puzzled as hell.

  He would never profess to have vast knowledge when it came to women and their emotions. Sure, he took advantage of the fun parts of female company when they were offered, but his goal had always been to avoid the emotional bits as much as possible. He always made sure everyone knew what they were walking away with at the end of the ride—

  A smile, and nothing more.

  When he heard the water running in the bathroom, he bypassed the lock on her bedroom door and went in. If she was bleeding worse than he thought, he wanted to be close by if she lost consciousness.

  Guilt began to trickle in as he picked up her bloody sweatshirt from the chair. Maybe he’d pushed her too hard. She was hurt, and it didn’t seem like she was going to let him help.

  From a protection standpoint, he should have been elated that she was strong and didn’t need him. But something about it
didn’t sit right with him.

  He didn’t like feeling guilty, so he traded the emotion for one he was more comfortable with.

  Anger.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Inside the bathroom, Sam locked the door and started to cry as she took off the rest of her filthy clothes. Her jeans were covered in mud and blood.

  The gray sweatshirt had come off fairly easily. Her T-shirt, however, was sticking to the wound. She whimpered as she took a deep breath, tugged it away from the cut in one brutal movement, and pulled it over her head.

  Her hand wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it was stiff and painful, which made it difficult to get her jeans off. Her blurry vision from crying wasn’t helping. So she told herself to get a grip, stopped the tears, and started swearing at her jeans until they finally surrendered in a filthy heap at her feet.

  Stepping over the rim of the tub, the stream of water from the shower head made her wince. Not only did the cuts on her back and hand hurt like hell when the water touched them, her bruised shoulder ached from the heat, and every muscle in her body protested from all the exertion.

  Regardless of the pain, she needed to clean her wounds. So, she lathered up the soap in her hand, clenched her jaw at the unholy sting, and steadied herself before quickly reaching around and scrubbing her back.

  The pain was so intense all over her body, she had to sit on the edge of the tub for a long moment. Pink water swirled around her toes and went down the drain. She must have sat there for five minutes, but the water never ran clear.

  When the rest of her was clean, she stepped out and picked up the towel, grateful for the dark burgundy color which would somewhat hide the blood stains.

  After drying off, she wrapped it around the cut and tried to reach up to wipe the condensation from the mirror to check her back. Neither of her arms wanted to move above her shoulders.

  “Come on, Sam. You have to do better than this. Do you want to die?” she asked her reflection.

  Her answer was a resounding no.

  She wiped the mirror with a grunt, and saw the medley of purple bruises on her shoulder from the gun. She turned slowly to see the cut.

  Blood was still running down her back. Not good. She had to figure out how to staunch it.

  She looked in the medicine cabinet for a bandage. Not that one bandage would do it. She’d probably need an entire box. It didn’t matter, there were none.

  As she rooted around in the bottom of the vanity, she found a roll of black electrical tape. She took a pile of tissues from the box on the back of the toilet and folded them in half. In a painful Twister-style maneuver, she managed to affix the makeshift bandage to the wound. She put on a pink camisole and another black T-shirt before sitting on the edge of the tub so she could unwrap her hand and examine that cut.

  This one wasn’t nearly as deep as the one on her back, but it had also started bleeding again. She closed her eyes and hung her head. How the hell was she going fix this?

  Someone banged on the door, scaring her half to death.

  Shit.

  Busted.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Get out here. I need to talk to you,” Garrett yelled through the bedroom door.

  At first, he’d been content to let her little act play out, but he’d soon realized he would never get to sleep if he didn’t check her over. He needed to make sure he hadn’t misinterpreted the level of her injuries. So he’d gone back out of her bedroom and relocked it.

  She pulled open the door a crack and offered him an innocent smile. “What do you need?”

  He walked away without answering, just gave her a stern look. He needed her out of that room and into the kitchen where the light was bright enough to see if she was spurting blood from her back like a whale.

  Also, he didn’t trust himself in her bedroom. If she looked up at him again with the help-me eyes and the I-trust-you smile, he’d end up kissing her.

  While he’d had an excuse for kissing her before—albeit a lame one and not technically an excuse—he had no reason to kiss her now.

  No matter how much he might want to.

  Thankfully, she opened the door followed him down the hall. On the island in the kitchen was a medical kit which he kept well-stocked at all times.

  “Let me see your hand,” he demanded. He should have been nicer about it, but he couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t chewed him out, or so much as uttered a single complaint. What was wrong with her?

  “It’s fine,” she said as he took a bag of ice from the freezer and handed it to her. She eyed the bag, not taking it.

  “It’s for your shoulder. The one the rifle kicked the shit out of all day.”

  Reluctantly, she raised the bag to her shoulder.

  “First take off your shirt,” he ordered.

  Her eyes went wide. “No! Why?” she asked when he just waited.

  “So I can see the wound on your back. The one that’s gushing blood,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Her eyes went even wider. “How did you—”

  “It’s my job to protect you, Sam. I wouldn’t be doing a very good job if I saved you from Howe but let you fucking bleed to death.”

  She swallowed. “No. I’ll be fine.”

  God. Was she being modest? Or just stubborn? Modesty was overrated when one was about to expire from blood loss.

  Sure, he had wondered on more than one occasion what she looked like naked. She was put together pretty well, and he was a man with a working dick and eyes. But he wasn’t trying to get her naked.

  At least, not at the moment.

  “Sam, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not trying anything here. I need to see how bad your injury is. Now take off the damn shirt.”

  She huffed and pulled off the shirt. She peeked down at her pink lacy tank top and her cheeks turned an adorable, even darker shade of pink. She held the shirt in front of her chest as he moved around to her back.

  “What the fuck?” He frowned down at the mess of tissues and electrical tape glued to her back.

  She swiveled around on the chair and snapped, “What?”

  “Your first aid skills could use some work.”

  “You don’t have any bandages in the medicine cabinet.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Right. Because a bandage would have made all the difference.” He pulled off the electrical tape, trying to be gentle. “I’m going to have to stitch this up.”

  “Do you know how?” she demanded.

  “Sure. I took a class. What’s this tattoo?” It had been under the makeshift bandage—some kind of winged creature, but now there was a huge gash taking out its head. “A dragon?” He squinted as he tried to make it out.

  “Yeah. It was cool until I realized I was a cliché,” she said sardonically.

  He chuckled. Even in pain, she had a sense of humor. “Well, the dragon has officially been slain.” He moved around her, took her hand, and examined it more closely. “This will be okay to just glue.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Glue?”

  “Yep. It might hurt a little when I clean it properly.”

  “A little?” She bit her lip, looking more sexy than worried.

  The sight made his dick stand up and take notice. “I’m giving you a shot for the pain and one to numb your back. I’ll take care of your hand while the shot takes effect.”

  She paled a little when he picked up the hypodermic needle. It was small, but he knew from experience it was going to hurt like a bitch.

  “Get ready. One, two—”

  “Ouch! Son of a— You didn’t even say three.”

  “You would have flinched if I had.”

  “I would not.”

  “Everyone flinches when you get to three. Everyone.”

  He did his best not to stare at her breasts as he took her hand to clean it. She’d forgotten to hold up the shirt and it had slipped down precariously.

  God help me.

  After cleaning the cut thoroughly with three different substa
nces, he pulled out a tube of normal, run-of-the-mill superglue. He pulled off the red cap and squeezed.

  “Did you know superglue was originally invented for this very purpose?” He shared that stupid bit of trivia while he waved her hand in the air, wanting to distract himself as much as her.

  “I was not aware. I can die happy now, knowing I’m schooled in all things superglue.”

  “Actually, the goal is to make sure you don’t die, remember? Do you want me to write that down and hang it on the fridge so you don’t forget?”

  She blew out a weary breath. “How long until the trial, again?”

  Rather than answer, he laughed. “Pull your fingers up just a tiny bit,” he instructed, and she did as he said. He smeared the glue across the gash in her hand.

  She always did what he said now. Most of the time without question or complaint. After that first day, he’d never had a more agreeable client. It made him wonder…

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as he pressed her flesh together. He made sure not to get stuck to her. The last thing Ms. Modesty would appreciate would be having a man stuck to her.

  Which reminded him not to look at her beautiful breasts.

  He walked deliberately behind her back. “Can you feel this?” He touched her skin next to the gash.

  “I can feel the pressure of your hand.”

  “Okay, I’m going to get started. You might notice a little tugging, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

  She nodded, and the pulse at her throat picked up when he touched her. She was responding to him…which made his body respond right back. He determinedly ignored it. Just a normal male reaction. It didn’t mean he had to act on it. In any way.

  Under no circumstances could he allow things to get out of hand. This was a job. He couldn’t mix business with pleasure.

  Especially not this business. For very good reasons.

  “Do you mind telling me why you didn’t mention you were hurt?” he asked, now that she couldn’t ignore him or get away.

  “Sending me out there was a test, right? I didn’t want to fail,” she said.

  “You got back to the house. You didn’t fail.”