by Jackson, Pam
Chapter 3
The A-frame house rose from the thick growth of snow-covered pine trees and decrepit maples like a lost ancient temple. Beyond the thicket of trees, a warm glow of amber and gold flickered through a large window and was a welcome sight for Andie and her freezing limbs.
The structure was a sweet country home, covered in cedar shake with white trim. A simple garden trellis and a wooden gate adorned with a faded sketch of two kissing swans sat at the entrance of the small front yard.
Andie was thinking this home was a bit feminine for her caveman friend and that the missus must be inside preparing an intimate dinner—or worse yet, maybe dinner for his kids, too. Yeah, can you say awkward?
Looking and feeling like something the cat dragged in, she mentally prepared herself to frighten the children, thank the couple for their hospitality—especially Mr. Tall, Rude and Handsome—and leave as soon as the ranger arrived to bring her back to town.
She hoped to find a local motel room and maybe buy some better gear and trail maps at the outdoor store off the highway. She couldn’t stay here too long, although it looked so inviting to her tired limbs and aching head. Her intuition told her to keep moving before Tivoli’s human bloodhounds picked up on her scent.
Clay opened the gate for Andie, and to her surprise, with all the manners of a true gentleman, he extended his hand and waved her welcomingly toward his humble home. She sensed he was on his best behavior and didn’t want to say or do anything that might send her storming away into the blizzard. No matter how much Clay insulted her outdoor survival skills, cold and soggy was not a good look for her, and right about now she was missing the comforts of her warm apartment and flannel pajamas.
Actually, deep down, she knew she wasn’t being fair to him—he had saved her life. It was her own bullheadedness that was causing her bad behavior—and, of course, feeling like a human Popsicle didn’t help, either.
“Welcome to my home. It’s not much, but it’s warm, and I have a full fridge,” he said, meeting her gaze with a proud grin.
“Will your wife be annoyed that you brought me home?” She was feeling more and more like a lost puppy than like her usual control-freak self.
“Wife!” A muscle ticked in his jaw, followed by a tense laugh. “There is no Mrs. Brandon Clayton—I’m not married.” He walked forward and opened the front door.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” She gave him an embarrassed half grin and maneuvered around him to enter the house.
“This was my aunt and uncle’s house. My Uncle Owen was a park ranger up here for forty years, and I inherited it last year after his death. I’m home on leave trying to fix it up. My Aunt Lorraine was a bit overboard when it came to ‘country cute’ decorating, and Uncle Owen didn’t have the heart to change anything after he lost her to cancer.” He looked at his boots and kicked the snow off the soles before following her into the entry. “It’s mine now, and I’m quickly trying to change it.”
She stepped into a wide, open room with a vaulted ceiling and a large fieldstone fireplace. The walls were painted eggshell white, and overstuffed brown leather sofas were arranged neatly around a Shaker style coffee table. An upright piano with a matching bench was wedged tightly against a corner wall near the front door—most likely a leftover from his aunt and uncle. She couldn’t imagine Clay sitting around his living room on cold winter nights playing melodic show tunes.
A small kitchen was off to the side, and the smell of fresh wood varnish wafted to her nostrils from a newly refinished oak staircase that flanked a small hallway. He wasn’t kidding that he was busy trying to bachelorize his new home and wipe out his poor auntie’s country-fried crib. Andie was already getting a contact high from the varnish fumes, and she hoped Clay would soon open a window.
His taste was pleasing to Andie’s eye, since her apartment in Manhattan was light and airy with the same clean lines and lack of clutter. The only difference was the ceremonial Mayan masks and medieval tapestries that adorned her own walls. She kept all of her books and records at her office, only bringing her laptop computer home with her in case she wanted to research antiquity finds without Tivoli’s approval.
She cringed with regret, wishing she had it with her now. God almighty, she wasn’t herself at all lately. She had completely forgotten about her computer, and instead, she had only packed several heavy reference books, maps, the journal, and some ropes and gear. The only saving grace was that she had deleted all the files she was working on over the last several months and had even installed a virus that would corrupt the hard drive if anyone tried to salvage the deleted files.
“May I take your coat? And please, sit. I’ll rekindle the fire.”
She detected a hint of nervous tension in his voice. She sensed that he wasn’t the entertaining type, and that he was maybe a little concerned about the comforts of his sparsely decorated man ranch.
Clay made a fire and retreated into the kitchen. Within minutes she smelled the fabulous aroma of fresh Kona blend coffee brewing in a Keurig machine. The scent revitalized her dulled senses, and she could feel the blaze of the fire warming her cold limbs. Although it was only early evening, the spring skies were much darker than usual due to thick snow squalls that twirled past the window. Andie shuddered and was thankful for the raging fire that was popping and sparking within the hearth.
Usually, she wasn’t afraid of dark, cold places, but tonight she felt alone. Maybe because she knew she could never return to the life she’d made for herself, by herself—or maybe because she had just entered a stranger’s home not knowing whether he was a good guy or a bad guy. She would need to be on guard with all defenses up.
She looked toward the mantle and noticed a series of picture frames sitting proudly on a large slate shelf perched above the hearth. She crept over to see various scenes of young and old people sporting wide, toothy grins and clothing that reminded her of her own bad fashion sense so many years ago—back then, her hair product and makeup budget alone could’ve fed a small nation for a year. Her eyes continued down toward a group of photos of dirty, brawny men wearing combat fatigues, their sand-painted faces in far off, remote locations—crew cuts and chiseled cheekbones. These photos were all too familiar to Andie. She remembered her father’s pictures of missions and lost men he couldn’t bring back from the grave—they lived on in cheap plastic frames nailed to the thin sheetrock walls of her base-housing home.
She quietly moved to the end of the mantle and noticed a photo of a handsome, clean-shaven man with high cheekbones and beautiful brown eyes that stared coldly back. He was young, but slight lines appeared around his tender eyes and lips, giving him the appearance of being older and wiser than his years. A green felt beret was placed perfectly on his head, and embroidered on this headgear sat a black badge that was trimmed in white with the Special Forces crossed arrow insignia. His dress uniform was impeccably pressed, and the colors of an American flag saturated the background of the photo.
“I was very young and not as cranky when that was taken,” he murmured from behind.
She turned quickly and was startled by his closeness. She could smell the fresh, clean scent of his thick, wavy hair and the overgrown scruff that surrounded his chin and neck—the fragrance tickled her nose. Mmm. Like lavender and fresh cut wood.
“Damn, you scared me! You need a cat bell around your neck.” She feigned a gasp, but she was more thrilled by his proximity than she would’ve liked to admit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop,” she said. “My dad was an Army Ranger, and photos like these take me back.”
A devious grin appeared on his face. His eyes were fixed on her, and she looked away with slight embarrassment.
He handed her a steaming mug of coffee and sat down on the sofa nearest the fireplace. “I put a small amount of half and half in it, but no sugar. Was I right?” he questioned confidently, as though he knew how she took her coffee. “Your dad is in the 75th?”
“Was in the
75th, a colonel. And yes, you were right about my coffee. Lucky guess.” She smiled at him. “I spent most of my life in Georgia. Later on, my dad took a position with the 5th Battalion. He passed away three years ago. I wish I had him around for times like these.” Her last remark was a mere mutter, but she knew Clay heard it, and she prayed he wouldn’t question it.
She was suddenly saddened by the memories that flooded back to her. She was the oldest of three daughters and always the strongest. She had never wanted to disappoint her dad, especially after her mom died when she was ten. Andie had carefully picked up the pieces of her shattered family and had taken on the responsibility her mother had left. She made damn sure that every morning her sisters were up and ready for school and that the colonel always had a perfectly pressed uniform.
She was good at it, too. She knew how to take care of her family and to solve sibling disputes before involving her father with the nonsense of it all. Unfortunately, being burdened with this mature lifestyle as such a young girl was the reason she had rebelled during her teens. Once she had left for college, she had never returned home.
“So you’re a Green Beret. How long are you home for? Or are you retired?” she asked, looking around at the recently updated room as she switched the conversation away from her personal life.
She felt his disarming gaze, and an uncomfortable silence fell upon the room. She knew what he was doing—sizing her up, seeing what kind of stranger he had just let into his personal space. She glared right back at him, letting her powerful green eyes penetrate his cool stare. She was good at this game and played it daily with wealthy, egotistical male clients who felt they had to dominate her before they could trust her with their interests. Dealing in antiquities was still very much a man’s domain, but Andie had learned how to manipulate and earn the respect of her clients. Sometimes she used her physical assets and other times her brains, but most of all, it was the wicked combination of both that always got her what she wanted.
Clay broke the silence. “I’ve been home for a little over a month and probably will take an assignment down at Fort Bragg instructing eager Special Forces applicants in the Q Course around mid-May.”
He looked annoyed, irritated. Something deep down was gnawing at him—anger, maybe? But not with her—with himself, she thought.
He shifted his eyes away from her, “It’s only temporary. That is, until I get this bum leg back into shape.” He patted the top of his left leg.
“What happened?”
“Uh, well … we were training a group of villagers that were hand selected by the local pro-American chieftain. This included the chieftain’s son-in-law and some local goat herders. Anyway, we were reviewing the safety position of an AK-47 rifle, which is your index finger pressed flat against the magazine.” Clay mimicked this position with his right hand and index finger. “Well, the chief’s stupid-in-law decided to disregard this lesson and use my backside for target practice. Next thing ya know, I’m down on the ground and I can’t feel my left leg. The round entered through my hamstring and exited near my groin. Let’s just say I came very close to losing something very dear to most men that day.” He raised an eyebrow and changed his position on the sofa.
“My God, that sounds serious. You seem pretty cool and collected about this—most men I know would be in therapy over that kind of near miss. Are you, I mean ... is everything okay?” Andie couldn’t believe the words that had just popped out of her mouth. She felt like a high school girl asking about her boyfriend’s private parts on prom night. Wow, that was out of line. You’re an idiot, Andie.
Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she heard Clay softly chuckle. She knew he was enjoying her discomfort, and his ego was probably soaring at the thought of her interest in his sexual performance.
A high-pitched, digital chime suddenly sounded from her backpack, which she’d left by the front door. She knew it was the voicemail alarm on her phone, and she was extremely appreciative of the annoying chime that had interrupted her awkward moment with Clay.
“You might want to check that,” he said casually as he trained his stare on her. “Cell phone reception is limited up here, and when you do get it, it doesn’t last very long.”
Andie dug through the nylon ropes, trail maps, books and miscellaneous gear that was stuffed into her backpack, only to finally reach her phone at the bottom of the heap. She walked over to the farthest wall away from Clay to check her messages as privately as possible. Her gut ached, knowing damn well who was leaving her a voicemail message. Her hunch was correct; she had four messages, all from Tivoli. The first three were suspicious in nature, and the last one was a threat. Taking a personal or sick day without contacting Tivoli first set off his paranoia. It was only a matter of time before he would search the files on her computer, and when Tivoli found that everything on Claudius Smith had been deleted, he would know that she was on the run.
Now the race begins—and a deadly one at that.
She turned off her phone and tossed it back into her backpack. Casually returning to the mantle, she resumed looking at the photos, trying her best to remain calm and cool. She hoped that her host wouldn’t notice the shudders that ran up and down her spine.
“Is everything all right?” Clay asked impassively, looking into his coffee mug. “Was that your boyfriend or husband?”
She smiled and ignored his question, focusing on a timeworn piece of paper in a cheap frame mounted to the wall. Her eyes followed the black lines that flowed gracefully across the paper, creating ovals and symbols that were familiar in ancient atlases.
Underneath the dusty glass was a hand drawn topographical map. The paper was yellowing from age, especially in the corners, and there was some noticeable foxing on the paper—a term used by antiquarians to describe age-related brown spots that occurred on vintage paper. The map’s condition most likely had deteriorated because it was mounted on the wall above the fireplace. Andie’s specialty was rare books. Paper was very sensitive to temperature and moisture. The cheap frame and glass were hardly appropriate protection for this fine map. Soon, the ink would disappear and the paper would flake like brittle straw. She moved closer and stood on her toes to get a better view. She felt the shock of a hot electric charge snapping her body to attention, and she blinked rapidly in disbelief. And there it was, right in front of her.
She read the words, Den of the Outlaw, Claudius Smith.
“Where did you get this?” Andie croaked out her question. She cleared her throat and prayed that Clay would not become suspicious of her interest in this map.
“Uh, that ol’ thing. My uncle drew it; he had this crazy infatuation with Claudius Smith, the infamous ‘Cowboy of the Ramapos.’ During the American Revolutionary War, he was all the rage in these hills.”
There was a hint of excitement in his voice, and Andie began setting her trap to get as much information from him as possible. She had played this game before. All she would have to do was appeal to his bold ego, bat her eyelashes a bit, and voilà—instant information. Men loved to teach women, whether it was the boring history of baseball or how to change a car’s oil. She knew if a woman seemed attentive and interested and wrapped it up with a flirty smile and a twirl of some hair around her long, seductive fingers, a man would speak volumes.
“Wow, I never heard of him in any of the history books. Who was he?” She was lying through her teeth, but she needed any information that Clay had on Claudius Smith.
“Claudius didn’t make it into the history books. You usually don’t when you play for the losing team and the locals consider you a traitor.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “He was a few things ... a British sympathizer, cattle and horse thief, burglar ...”
“Murderer?” she interrupted as her eyes focused on the map, noticing the painstaking detail of elevation lines and terrain marks neatly penciled in.
“Murderer? No, that he wasn’t. My Uncle Owen liked to think of Claudius as more of an opportunist than a cattle and horse
thief.”
“This map is amazing. Your uncle had an eye like a Dutch Master when it came to detail. May I see it?” Andie turned toward Clay and fluttered her long eyelashes.
“No, you may not,” he coolly replied, removing himself from the sofa and walking toward the kitchen. “Didn’t you need to make a call to the ranger station? I’ll dial the number for you. Ask for Paul Krause, he’s the head ranger and probably the only one dumb enough to come up here in this storm. I’m gonna make some sandwiches. Would you like to join me while we wait for him?”
She stood in silence for a second, not understanding what had just happened. Her schoolgirl charm and flirtation never failed to get her what she wanted. She became agitated, but she was not yet defeated. This guy was going to be a hard nut to crack, and she was going to get that map no matter what.
She smirked and cocked a manicured eyebrow. “Sure,” she replied. “I’m starved. You said his name was Paul Krause—the ranger? I would love to speak with him.”
She followed Clay into the cozy kitchen, which was still decorated with Aunt Lorraine’s swans, and she graciously took the phone receiver from Clay after he dialed the number and briefly relayed the events of the afternoon to the park ranger. Moments later she found herself speaking to a cool, country voice. “Yes,” she answered. “But can’t you send anyone? This is a desperate matter. Yes, I understand that it’s a blizzard, but—okay, yes.” Her voice wavered with rejection. “Well I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but I don’t want to stay here tonight. Yes, I understand. Thank you, Mr. Krause. Sure, I’ll put him on the phone.” She handed the receiver to Clay and watched his expressionless face as he took the information from the ranger.