Hunted

by Jo Leigh

His eyes focused on her from someplace far away.

  “Get your coat, then go to the back door,” she said again. “We have to leave.”

  Sam looked up to the loft. She saw him swallow, then he looked at her again. “Okay.”

  She closed her eyes as relief poured through her. “Hurry.” She let him go, and he raced to the closet to get his coat. In a flash, he was past them again, and in the kitchen. She turned back to Mike. He looked as though he wouldn’t make it another minute. There was so much blood. “You can’t stay. He'll kill you.”

  Mike shook his head. “No, he won’t. Give me your gun. You take the rifle.”

  She looked upstairs again. Mojo was still making noise, but he wasn’t at the door yet. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed two of the dishtowels from the sink. If she didn’t stop Mike’s bleeding, Mojo wouldn’t have to kill him.

  Mike had his arm tight against his chest. When she touched it, his face contorted into a grimace of pain. He let her move the arm down. When she lifted his shirt back, she heard a sharp intake of breath, but no sound.

  The wound looked sickeningly bad. There was a lot more blood then she’d imagined. Her stomach rolled, but she didn’t stop. It was tricky, tying the two dishtowels together and wrapping them tightly around his shoulder and under his arm. Finally, it was done, though, as tight as her shaking hands could make it.

  “I'll be okay,” Mike said. “Go on, now.”

  She reached over and took his good hand in hers. After she put the .45 in his palm, she leaned forward, careful not to touch him too much. She kissed him once, on the lips. “Please don’t die.”

  He gave her a smile. It wasn’t a very good one, but it gave her the courage to move.

  Her coat was still in the closet. She slipped it on. Another sound from upstairs jarred her into stillness. Mojo moved something big, scraping it across the floor. There was no more time. She had to save Sam. God, she didn’t want to leave Mike. But Sam...

  Moving as quickly as she could, she took a box of ammunition from the top of the closet and stuffed it in her pocket, then she hurried over to the far wall, where Mike’s rifle lay. It was very heavy.

  She walked back to Mike. His gaze was fixed on the upstairs door, his gun pointing dead center. When she turned, she could see Sam still standing by the open back door, waiting for her to take him outside.

  What if she stayed? What if she pointed the rifle at the door, just like Mike was doing? Together, they could kill that bastard, she knew it.

  No, that wasn’t true. He might kill them both, and then go after Sam. She forced herself to turn away from Mike and walk to the kitchen.

  Snow from the open door flew into the house, swirling over the linoleum floor. Becky checked to make sure Sam was zipped up and his gloves were on.

  Looking behind her, she could just see the bottom of the staircase. Mojo wasn’t down there, yet. But with each passing second she felt their chance of escape growing narrower. “Come on,” she said. “To the snowmobiles.”

  After one last look at her husband, she stepped outside.

  The cold hit her like a fist. She gasped and felt the ice burn her throat. They would never make it out of here. She couldn’t take it, and neither could Sam. She didn’t even know which way to go. “Over there,” she shouted, pointing to the lumps of snow that hid the snowmobiles.

  Sam started toward the vehicles, moving slowly against the wind. He sank into the snow waist-deep at the end of the deck, and it was incredibly difficult to pull him free, even after she’d put the rifle aside. She was exhausted, and they hadn’t even begun.

  He was too small to go on. She lifted him, and his bulky arms went around her neck, his feet around her hips. She could barely see. There was no way she could carry the rifle and Sam. She left the weapon on the snow, and moved on.

  The steps weren’t too bad to negotiate, but when she’d cleared them the snow was up to her thighs. Moving strained all her muscles. Every step was an effort, with the wind and the cold battering her from all directions.

  She hadn’t put on her gloves; she’d needed her hands free to use the rifle. Now, the ice bit into her fingers with sharp teeth, and she knew frostbite was sure to set in.

  She was almost there. Just another foot to go. She turned to look behind her, and saw nothing but the closed door. If she could only get them out of here, she could go to another cabin. They could hide, until the weather cleared, or until she could get help. All she needed was a few more minutes.

  Closing her eyes for a second, she took another step. Her foot caught on something big, and with Sam in her arms, she couldn’t compensate. She fell forward, turning to her side just in time to get Sam out of the way.

  She let him go while she struggled to get up. When she looked down, she saw what it was that had tripped her.

  Witherspoon.

  * * *

  Mike struggled to stay on his feet, to keep the dizziness from winning. Mojo had to come down those stairs, and he had to be ready.

  It was hard to hold the gun straight. The pain was continuous, a throbbing counterpoint to each breath he took. At least Becky and Sam were outside. They would get away, that’s all that mattered.

  Darkness threatened again, that sickening swirl of blackness from deep inside. He fought it, as hard as he’d ever fought anything in his life. He couldn’t pass out now. Not yet.

  Upstairs, something moved. He didn’t hear it this time, he saw it. Mojo was at the doorway.

  Mike lifted his gun higher and pulled back the hammer. His hand shook uncontrollably, and he cursed as he concentrated on taming his muscles.

  There he was. Blood covered his bad leg—Becky must have shot him. Mojo had no trouble aiming his weapon. The big .357 pointed straight at Mike’s chest.

  Mike pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Witherspoon lay frozen, buried in snow, except for the top of his head where she’d kicked him. Becky backed away, turning so she wouldn’t see, fighting to keep from being sick.

  “Mom!”

  Sam’s voice pulled her back, and she found him standing in waist-deep snow right next to the snowmobile.

  “I'm coming.” She stepped over the old man’s body and kept on moving. “I'm coming.”

  Finally, she reached Sam, and she began brushing the snow from the snowmobile with both hands. The key was in the ignition, thank God. She hadn’t even thought of that. She went to brush more snow away, and realized she hadn’t put on her gloves yet. It scared her that she could barely feel her fingers. She stopped right then, and pulled the thick gloves from her pocket. It was an effort to put them on, and when she did, she hardly felt a difference.

  It didn’t matter. She had to get Sam out of here. What she couldn’t understand is why she hadn’t heard anything from inside the house. The thought of Mike wounded and bleeding, facing that man alone, made her sick to her stomach.

  She threw her leg over the seat, and turned to Sam. “Grab on to me and climb up.” It was still necessary to shout to be heard, but her voice didn’t seem so far away now.

  Bending to her left, Sam wrapped his arms around her neck and climbed in back of her. He let go, then she felt his hands on her waist. She found the key and turned it. The motor started immediately, and she wanted to cry with relief.

  The handles moved, and she tried turning the one in her right hand. That was it. The snowmobile jerked forward, then stopped. She tried it again, this time without letting go. It worked. They moved forward, too quickly at first, then slowly, which was better. She felt very unsure about driving this thing, especially with Sam on the back.

  Turning in a wide circle, she headed toward the front of the house and the main road. Maybe she could find Witherspoon’s cabin. She could try to get help on his ham radio.

  They moved in a relatively straight line, the wind making it terribly difficult to see. She squinted as they rounded the bend, then turned her head to check on Sam. “You okay?”

  He nodded.

/>   Then she heard the gunshot.

  * * *

  Mike fell. He landed on his shoulder, and the pain ripped him in two. He heard screaming, and for a moment he thought it was his own voice. Then he heard the thump of a body landing on the floor, and he realized it was Mojo.

  He’d shot the son of a bitch. It was over. He turned his head, the pain swelling with the movement, until he could see the body.

  Mojo stared at him with the same look, the same evil glare as that night in the warehouse. The bastard was still alive, still moving. Maybe he couldn’t be killed.

  The darkness threatened again, stronger this time. Mike fought to move, to conquer the pain. He needed one more shot. One more. He lifted his hand. The gun was lopsided, not pointing at Mojo. With every ounce of energy left in his body, he turned the .45.

  Mojo smiled.

  Mike blew him away.

  Epilogue

  Becky opened the door to Mike’s hospital room. He was asleep.

  His shoulder had been bad, and the surgery to repair it had been touchy. But the surgeon had been optimistic. The rehabilitation would be grueling, but Mike was a strong man, and she had no doubt he would keep at it until he was one hundred percent.

  She moved toward the bed and noticed Sam’s homemade Get Well card on the mattress by Mike’s pillow. She put it on the side table and sat down.

  The chair and the room were familiar. She’d spent so much of her life in hospitals. This time, though, it wasn’t going to end in tears. Mike would come home.

  “Hi.”

  She put her purse down and scooted closer to the bed. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “Nope. Just resting.”

  She smiled. “Sam wants to know when you're coming home.”

  He lifted his good hand and she took hold of it. “How does tomorrow sound?”

  “Really?”

  He nodded and caught her gaze. “They don’t want me around here anymore.”

  “I know some people who do.”

  “Yeah?”

  She squeezed his hand. “I think we can do this, Mike. But you need to be certain it’s what you want.”

  He pulled his hand away and found the remote control button. The sound of the bed moving was loud in the small room. When he was sitting up, he reached over and touched her cheek. “I've never been more certain of anything.”

  “We still have some work to do, you know. I managed to hurt you pretty badly before. I don’t ever want to do it again.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  She looked into his brown eyes, at the love and peace she saw there. This was the Mike she’d fallen in love with. The Mike she would love for the rest of her days. “The way I remember it, you asked me to marry you last time.”

  He grinned. “That’s how I remember it, too.”

  “So this time, I'll ask.”

  “I accept.”

  She moved to kiss him, but stopped just short. “Would you really have quit the field, even if you hadn’t been wounded?”

  The smile faded from his lips. “Yes.” His hand came up to her face, and he cupped her cheek. “I almost lost you. Twice. It won’t happen again.”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I've always loved you. From the moment I first met—”

  His kiss stopped her, but she didn’t mind one little bit.

  * * * * *

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-8733-4

  Hunted

  Copyright © 1995 by Jolie Kramer

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com