As soon as the doctor released Annie, her family surrounded her. Her parents and Thomas drove the four hours from Greenville once they learned of the other campers’ arrival at the take-out point. Having feared never to see them again, she hugged them with tears in her eyes, but her mind kept straying to Sam. She allowed her mom to cluck over her until Justin whisked her away.
He escorted her to a conference room away from medicinal and antiseptic odors, where he and the other detectives interviewed her. Justin sat beside her at the oak table, but an FBI special agent named Tavani conducted the interview.
“That’s an adventure right out of a novel, Ms. Wylde,” said the agent, when she finished her tale. “You’re the only woman we know of who has bested Smith.”
Images of Sam flickered in her mind—guiding her across the Hump, protecting her, building the traps...loving her. She swallowed back the emotion clogging her throat. “Sam Kincaid bears much of the credit. I wouldn’t be here if not for him.”
“So I gather the subject talked to you,” the agent said. “What else did he tell you?”
“Everything. He told me everything.” Her breath hitched. She searched the faces around the table for signs of triumph. Nothing. “You haven’t found Smith yet, have you?”
Justin squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. This is the biggest manhunt in the history of the state of Maine. We have divers scouring the lake and more search teams and choppers in the Gomagash. They’ll bring him in, drowned or bound.”
She stiffened. “He didn’t drown. Count on it. Tell your people to be very, very careful.” She pictured the mist-draped lake with its clumps of tall grass. Cover for a desperate and clever man. A chill threaded up her spine.
Tavani looked up from his notes. “What did you mean, he told you everything?”
“On the long canoe ride down the Eagle to Big Loon Pond, he talked. Big-time. The interview he wanted me to do all along.” If the paddling and navigation hadn’t required much of her attention, the graphic descriptions of his “hunts” could have sent her screaming over the canoe’s side. Especially at his description of conning Emma into riding to Waterville with him instead of on the bus. What he’d done to her—
Her stomach nearly rebelled at the dispassionate way Smith had described the details. She forced herself to return to the interview. “He started with his mother’s locking him in the coal bin and his stay in a youth center, and he finished with the murder of the Gomagash caretaker.”
All the agents and detectives sat at attention.
“When he goes to trial, we’ll need you to testify,” Tavani said.
“Gladly.” She unzipped the waterproof backpack and slid out her tiny digital recorder. “But I can do better than that. I recorded everything. Every word.”
At her announcement, stunned silence ensued, followed by nervous chuckles and a couple of masculine hoo-rahs.
After the interview, she learned that they’d moved Sam from ICU. When she was ready, Justin would face the clamoring media with her, then drive her to her parents’ motel.
So here she stood, palms clammy, staring at the door to Sam’s room. He didn’t love her, so she had no choice. Play it cool. We agreed it was just a fling, a one-night stand. Say good-bye and get the hell out.
Once she saw him, could she do that? Or should she blurt out her true feelings and see what happened? Someone said—she forgot who—that playing it safe never got you anywhere.
Before she could push the door inward, it swung open.
“Annie!” Frank grabbed her hand and tugged her inside. “This is so cool. I was just going to look for you.”
Nora left Sam’s bedside and came to hug her. “I thought we might never see you two again.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
Annie chatted with them for a moment, but couldn’t take her eyes off the man in the hospital bed.
Sam sat propped up by pillows. A long tube connected him to an IV stand. Aside from his sling-bound right arm and a blue-striped hospital gown that concealed his bandaged shoulder, he looked no worse for his ordeal. Yeah, aside from that.
He watched her as inscrutably as a sphinx. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” She cleared her throat, leaned one hand on the bedside table for support. “Dr. LaPlante says your excellent physical conditioning saved your life. Gave you the stamina to keep going.”
“I’m glad you didn’t have to drag me out of the woods. But I bet the only good arm I have left there’s not much you couldn’t do.”
“That’s high praise coming from you, Mr. Maine Guide.”
“Seems like time to excuse ourselves from this mutual admiration society,” Nora said, her hand on her son’s shoulder. They edged toward the door.
Annie turned to them. Her eyes flooded with tears. “I’m so glad I didn’t miss you. I’ll mail your backpack to you.”
Nora shook her head. “No rush. I was glad to help.”
“I want to say good-bye and thank you. To both of you. I’m so sorry—”
“Stop, Annie,” said Nora. “What the Hunter did wasn’t your fault. Besides, Frank views some of it as a big adventure, way beyond one of his computer games. Right, son?” She smiled at the boy who had caused her such anxiety. Pride glowed in her eyes.
“Outrageous.” Tanned and sure of himself, beaming with enthusiasm, he stepped closer to Sam. No longer was he the battery-powered, sullen rebel. “Doing those last three days on our own. That was frigid, man. I could navigate and make camp and take care of myself. All the junk you taught us.”
“He’s right, Sam,” Nora said. “It gave us a chance to use what we learned without you to bail us out if we flubbed.”
“Thanks, you two. Makes me feel like I hit a homer.” Sam’s smile was as big as his beloved Fenway Park.
Frank shrugged. “It was great, except I never want to eat canned ravioli again in my life. And I did have to sleep in a tent with my mom.”
“And a dog,” said Nora. “It was a little crowded.”
“What will happen to Captain now?” Annie asked.
Frank’s panicked gaze fixed on his mother. “He’s my dog now. Mom?”
Nora smiled indulgently. “He seems to know he belongs with my son. He’s a good dog. I’ll talk to Ted Wolfe’s daughter about it.”
Frank pumped his arm in triumph. “Cool! Thanks, Mom.”
The pleasure on Sam’s face faltered. “Too bad Carl doesn’t feel the same as you two. He’s probably going to sue Moosewoods for breach of contract and pain and suffering and God knows what.”
“Oh, no, he won’t sue anyone.” Nora looked smug.
“What do you mean?” Carl’s threat of lawsuit formed one of Annie’s biggest guilt burdens.
“Frank and I convinced him that he’d look a whole lot better if he could brag about finishing the expedition and leading us through the wilderness on his own.”
“Is that the truth?” Sam asked.
“Close enough. But it doesn’t matter. We know what we accomplished. Don’t we, Frank?”
The teenager grinned. “Besides, if he sues, I’ll rat on him in court. He screamed his head off and ran from the latrine in faggy red bikini underwear. Claimed a bear chased him, but a few minutes later a raccoon came out of the woods with his Swiss Army knife in its teeth.”
After everyone recovered from a laughing fit, mother and son promised to keep in touch and departed.
Sam knew he ought to be more elated at Nora’s news that Carl wouldn’t sue, but his brain and other vital parts of his body focused only on Annie. He’d never known her to be shy, but a pink blush colored her cheeks.
She’d changed into a clean T-shirt and shorts, so someone—Nora maybe—must have brought her duffel bag. Up close, she looked fragile, with violet smudging the tender skin beneath her solemn gray eyes. He knew, better than anyone, the core of steel beneath the soft skin. As he breathed in her scent—an odd mix of antiseptic and her sweet-tart trademark—panic frizzed his nerve endings.
<
br /> “My recordings will lead the detectives to Ray’s body and another woman I didn’t even know about. Justin says they haven’t found Smith yet.” Her fingers were locked in a white-knuckle grip.
What she didn’t express was her obvious fear Smith would come after her again. Here in this bed tethered to an IV, Sam could do fuck all to protect her. Knots as big as catcher’s mitts tied up his gut, but he managed a casual shrug. “No sweat, sweetheart. They’ve got him surrounded. He won’t get away.”
“You sound like an Old West sheriff.” Her hint of a smile vanished. “I don’t want to talk about that, about Smith. Sam, what we had those few days, our relationship...” She inhaled deeply, obviously gathering strength.
I love you, Sam. Her whispered words would haunt an endless string of sleepless nights, but he couldn’t let her utter them again. Don’t fall into those cloud-gray eyes. Whatever you fucking do, don’t touch her.
“Hey, yeah,” he said, with forced humor in his tone, “some relationship. Two days of sweat and danger and one night of incredible sex. Guess that line in Speed is right.”
Her breath hitched. The blush faded as blood drained from her face. “ ‘Relationships based on intense experiences never work.’ ”
“Or words to that effect.” He shot her his best mega-watt smile. The forced stretch hurt his lips. “Hell, sweetheart, we have nothing in common but those days.”
She gave a jerky nod. “We’re too different.”
“Total opposites.” He leaned back against the crook of his good arm. That way he couldn’t reach for her, pull her to him for one last kiss.
If he kissed her, she’d know everything he was saying was a damn lie and that he was shattering into more splinters than a broken bat. He was a loser headed nowhere, not worthy of her. She didn’t need an albatross around her neck.
“You probably have to go.” He stared at the blank TV hanging on the opposite wall.
“Justin’s waiting.” Her words were clipped, her tone brittle. Crackling with the same fear he’d heard when she faced the Hunter. “I’m sorry you were injured, Sam. There are no words to thank you for what you did.”
He made the mistake of looking at her again. Tears glistened in her eyes. He nearly folded. But what the hell could he do? She deserved better than a washed-up jock who’d slink back into the woods once his shoulder healed.
“Sweetheart, don’t thank me. You were the one who captured the bastard. You were the one to bring him down.”
“And lose him.”
He wouldn’t let her beat herself up about that. “They’ll get him. They know what he looks like, and they have his prints. It’s only a matter of time.”
If he didn’t chase her away soon, he’d cave. He stretched—as much as his sore arm would let him—and yawned.
“You’re tired. I’ll go.” She backed away, her face a mask, except for her expressive eyes. “If you ever get to Portland, give me a call.”
He wanted to haul her back, to hold her, to erase the pain in her gaze. The pain he’d put there. He wanted to tell her— But it would only prolong the agony.
“You got it, sweetheart. We’ll...do lunch. Catch a game. Or something.” When he yanked his lips into another smile, the effort stabbed deep into his chest.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Annie made it to the door before the truth butted her in the belly. His nonchalant pose, his phony smile, his practiced dismissal. Nothing in common...we’ll do lunch. Sweetheart.
Somewhere along the way, he’d gone from kidding around to tender caring. Sam was no good at deception. He was sending her away, lying to her because he loved her. And because he didn’t believe in himself.
Wings sprouted in her chest.
She pivoted, girding for battle. When his eyes widened with hope and pain, she saw she was right. Her heart fluttered, but she stayed put. She would leave him something to chew on. Then it would be up to him.
“You are so full of shit, Sam Kincaid.” Hands on hips, she planted her feet apart. Keeping her distance lent her strength. Any closer and she might throw herself at him and beg. “When did you trade princess for sweetheart?”
His mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You can lie to yourself, Sam, but I won’t let you lie to me. Relationship based on intense experience? Maybe that’s what you want to believe, but we had more than that. Total opposites? Definitely, but in our case opposites attracted like steel to a magnet. We complemented each other. Didn’t we use each other’s strengths, depend on each other’s strengths out there? We made a hell of a team. Yes, we had mind-blowing sex, the best, but sweetheart, we connected on more levels than that.”
He sat up, his good left hand fisted in the sheet. “You don’t want to—”
“You be quiet, Sam Kincaid, and let me get this out.” She squared her shoulders. Seeing in his face that her arrows had hit the bull’s-eye gave her courage to continue.
“I admit that at first I saw you as only another self-centered, arrogant jock, and, well, sometimes that’s true. But you’re more, Sam. You’re sensitive to other people’s needs and problems. Look how you handled young Frank, helped him. And his mother. You may not know it, but you have a talent for guiding and teaching, and I don’t just mean woods lore, Coach.
“Underneath the joking and the other layer of resentment you don’t let most people see is a good man. A caring man, a talented, capable man. The man I have fallen in love with. The man who loves me.”
She closed her mouth and waited for that to sink in.
He swiped a hand across his eyes. “You don’t want to love me, Annie. I have nothing to offer you. No future. And when would we see each other?”
“Excuses, excuses,” she scoffed, pumping a mental fist. He didn’t deny anything she said. “Nothing is tying you to those damn woods. You know where you belong, and it’s not there. No future? Only if you continue your self-pitying downhill slide. I don’t want to love you? What you mean is you don’t believe you can be loved.”
She gripped the door handle, held on, and prayed. Her knees had turned to lake water. If she didn’t get out of there fast, she’d slide to the floor in a puddle.
“I love you, Sam, with all my heart. When you’re ready to be loved, you know where to find me.”
Before he could utter a word, she slipped out the door.
***
The next Monday, Greenville
Sam dragged himself from the cocoon of his sofa to test his right arm’s mobility. The knife wound and the surgery had stiffened him like cement. He was supposed to let the blasted thing heal before he had physical therapy, but he couldn’t wait. Yesterday he could raise the arm only a few inches above his waist. On a deep breath, he lifted.
Higher.
Shoulder height today?
Pain blasted through the entire side of his body like a dozen fast balls, and he sank again into the cushions. Movement hurt like hell, but he could do it. A groan sieved from between his teeth, not of pain but of relief. His arm would be whole again. Not the fingers. Never the fingers.
But hey, the Bangor Daily News, both Portland papers, and the Boston Globe called him a hero. He had the clippings to prove it.
The newspapers lay on the floor in front of him. He scanned the BDN headline, then kicked the paper across the room.
Shit. What a crock.
Annie was the real hero. He’d told the reporters how she saved his life. Twice. Once when she whacked the Hunter over the head, and again when she did most of the work bringing him—and the damn killer—to safety. Three times, counting fishing him out of the lake.
The news stories included those facts, but insisted on hyping “former Major League batting champion Sam Kincaid” a hero.
Him, a hero? If he was a freaking hero, he would do something to turn his life around instead of moping around Moosewoods Resort.
Maybe he hadn’t cleaned up his act, but cleaning up his pigsty of a cabin was a step in the right direction. Only yesterday, Ben
had ragged him about getting off his ass. At least he hadn’t dived back into the bottle.
He stalked around the dark cabin, opening windows to the morning breeze and hooking discarded shorts and shirts from the floor. After tossing everything in a pillow case, he stomped out and headed to the laundry room in the main lodge.
Chickadees chattered in the white pines that lined the path. Smells of baking bread and blueberry muffins from the restaurant kitchen should have had his mouth watering. No appetite. Not one cookie in his pockets. Not much interested him. He hadn’t shaved since the hospital sent him home five days ago. He’d done nothing except relive the last time he’d seen her. The ache in his shoulder dimmed compared to the ache in his heart.
I love you, Sam.
Damn, she’d said it again. Twice. She’d seen through him like an X-ray. Except she’d called him sensitive and talented.
What could you do with a female like that? Who saw what she wanted to see in a man. Who thought him better than he was. She was supposed to be so smart.
He scowled, tossing clothes into the washing machine. The middle-aged lady at the next machine took one look at him and moved her laundry basket two machines farther down. He cleared his throat and tried to smooth his thoughts along with his face. Ben would bench him for frightening the guests.
Something crinkled in the pocket of his shirt. He extracted the pink paper with his good left hand, opened it.
The phone message from the Sox guy. He’d forgotten about that. Or blocked it. He set the note aside while he started the machine.
The pink paper blinked neon at him. The phone number dared him to call. His stomach clenched. Hell. He could give the guy a ring. Why not? Find out what he had to say. They sure as hell wouldn’t want him back in the freaking office. Damn, he’d hated that.
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