Tiger dived left, cutting off a frisky heifer.
Taken by surprise and numbed by the cold, Elizabeth’s center of gravity shifted out of sync with the horse and she took a nosedive to the right. Her ankle twisted and caught in the stirrup. She tasted snow and grit as she landed face first. She was busy hanging from the saddle and spitting out dirt when two strong arms enfolded her.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Nat Sullivan shouted directly into her ear.
She hadn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, but he felt warm and solid and Elizabeth hated herself for being so relieved to see him.
“Helping out,” she shouted back, although hanging upside-down by an ankle that was being torn in two by pain might not look that way to him. Holding back a shriek of agony was getting harder and harder.
Nat picked her up and hoisted her into his arms like she weighed nothing at all. The screaming pressure on her ankle eased and suddenly she found herself nose to nose with a furious male. She could feel every hard inch of his body pressed from her chest to the top of her thighs. She swallowed.
He snorted, glaring at her, his mouth bracketed by hard lines. “Are you crazy?”
Elizabeth figured it was a rhetorical question.
Blue danced anxiously around them, his old legs skittering about in the snow. Nat told him to sit and the dog immediately sat, his tail churning up fresh snow like a windshield wiper.
She cried out when Nat tried to pull her foot from the leather stirrup. Her boot was stuck fast. He shifted her weight until she was almost all the way over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Elizabeth ignored the pain and the sensation of his hands moving across her body as he manhandled her. Tears threatened to overwhelm her, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She already felt like a fool.
****
Fury rose through Nat as he tugged at Eliza’s boot. He was going to kill Ryan when he got his hands on him. Despite the freezing wind that drove the snow down the mountains, a sweat broke out on his brow. Elizabeth Reed could have died out in this weather. An inexperienced pony could have dragged her off into the blizzard. Viscously, he swore. Ignoring the soft flesh beneath his fingers he shifted her weight higher.
Visibility was down to a hundred yards and once you were disoriented, without shelter, you were as good as dead. Or she could have been trampled, buried under a layer of white death not to be uncovered ‘til the thaw.
“Hold tight to me,” he said. His voice was clipped and angry, but he couldn’t tame it.
Upside-down, she hooked her arms around his back and held on tight.
He ground his teeth and tried to get her boot out of the stirrup once more. It was jammed tight. He pulled harder, but eased the pressure when he felt her flinch.
“Why the hell couldn’t you stay inside? I’ve got enough trouble dealing with the goddamn stock.” He was too tired, too cold, and too goddamned frustrated to be anything but spitting mad.
Finally, Nat worked her foot free and set her down on the soft snow. Her ankle gave way beneath her and she stumbled against him. He held her shoulders, but she reacted like he’d bitten her and jerked away. Her ankle must have been badly wrenched. She staggered and he heard her gasp even though she kept her head down, hiding her expression. She hung onto Tiger’s saddle as the horse stood patiently beside her, sheltering her from the worst of the blizzard.
Watching, Nat decided she was the most stubborn female he’d met in his entire life, and God knew, he’d met some damned contrary women. But when she glanced up through a mass of wavy brown hair, he saw tears tracking down her cheeks and guilt slammed into him like a sledgehammer.
Shit!
Without a word, he scooped her up, shouted to Cal to look out for the horses and strode up to the cottage.
Groping for the door handle, he stepped inside, relieved to find the fire blazing and the place cozy and warm. Once inside, Nat had intended to drop Eliza into the easy chair by the fire, fetch Sas and get the hell back to work. The only trouble was, Eliza’s head was buried under his jacket and he couldn’t seem to remove her clenched fingers from his clothing.
Her breath tickled his neck, brushing warmth across his chilled skin, and sent a quiver down every male nerve ending he possessed.
Standing in the center of the room with its cheery yellow paint he nearly groaned with frustration. She was crying, trying not to make a sound—her shoulders shaking just a little.
Hell.
Dampness from her tears soaked through his chambray shirt and turned cold against his skin. That, and her silence, reached out and grabbed at everything within him, touched him where he was most vulnerable, making him want to comfort and protect her.
Easing down into the chair, he cradled her in his arms and let her weep. He didn’t have time for this, really he didn’t. This was the worst spring for fifty years. He had to get the cows into the barn before those with young froze to death, or before any more cows calved. He needed every single animal on the ranch to pull through this miserable weather if they were to have a chance of surviving the next year. Absently he slipped his hand beneath Eliza’s coat and rubbed the hollow of her back, gently squeezed her shoulders, trying to comfort her. His hands traveled her body the way he would soothe a frightened animal, trying to ease her trembling. He smoothed tangled hair away from her face, stirred up a hint of fragrant lavender that seemed to follow her wherever she went.
“Shush,” he murmured, “it’s all right.” He doubted it was.
Wanting to comfort, he placed light kisses on the top of her head, on her brow, lower, kissing the salty tears from her lashes. His gaze settled on her mouth, her lips half-parted and trembling, watching as her breath hitched and the cloudiness left her exotic green eyes.
Awareness flooded through him as the desire to comfort took on a deeper, more elemental nature. He pulled back and held her away from him with firm hands. “Sorry.”
Eliza stopped crying, her eyes watery and wide. Her gaze dropped to his lips and she grabbed his collar with both hands and kissed him full on the mouth. Taken by surprise, Nat hesitated for all of a second, until she slipped her tongue along the crease of his lips.
Sinking into her like a drowning man in need of oxygen, he exploded. The heat of her mouth burnt, in stark contrast to her cold skin, and Nat felt seared by the contact. He pressed against the soft curves of her body and realized they fit his like they’d been cast together. He laid her back over one arm, kissed her deeper and deeper, plunging into a mindless whirlwind that reared up and sucked him in. There was a desperation to her kiss, an urgency in the way she responded to him that catapulted his desire to full-throttle in ten seconds flat. He forgot the time, the blizzard and the stock. He forgot everything but the fire that burned his fingers wherever he touched her. Heat built between them, scorched flesh and erased thought. His lips never left hers as his hands raced over her body. Her lush curves begged for his attention. He felt her quiver as his hand slid across her flat belly, down firm thighs and between her legs, cupping her through the denim of her jeans.
Without warning she jackknifed off his lap and stumbled onto the floor, ended up sprawled in a heap at his feet.
“Don’t touch me!” she spat. Her hair was a wild storm around her face, her lips pulled back in a snarl.
Nat sat immobile for several seconds, his breath coming in big, harsh gasps. He’d been drugged by passion, aroused so quickly it was embarrassing, only to be doused by ice.
He didn’t remind her that she’d been the one to kiss him. He’d only been kissing her back. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly rose to his feet.
“Don’t worry, lady,” he drawled. “It won’t happen again.” He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen on the floor, turned on his heel and left.
Chapter Seven
Elizabeth lay on the hearthrug as frost spread through her veins. Drawing her knees tight to her chest, she curled up into a ball, too humiliated to move, too desolate to cry. She concentrated on feeling no
thing—just lay on the hard floor, the rough fibers of the rug scratching her cheek as she hugged herself like a child. Seconds stretched into minutes. She didn’t move.
Slowly, stiffly, she uncurled clenched fingers and straightened her legs, stretching them out beneath her and tried to stand. Gingerly, she put her weight on her sore ankle, but pain shot up her leg. She gave up and hopped to the tiny bathroom, using the furniture for balance, and ran the shower while stripping off her damp clothes.
Pulling herself awkwardly into the bath, she knelt beneath the old brass sprinkler and turned the water as hot as it would go. It blasted her skin like a branding iron, but still she shivered. She felt cold on the inside, like hollowed out ice. Grabbing the soap she scrubbed herself, working the lather into every inch of her skin, desperate to remove the taint—the shame.
Not Nat Sullivan. Andrew DeLattio. And herself.
She’d wanted so badly to kiss Nat Sullivan. To prove she wasn’t a victim anymore. To prove she was normal.
Ha!
Skin glowed red beneath her fingers and still she scrubbed. The water began to cool as the tears came. Hot gushes of pure misery wracked her body with sobs that refused to be quiet. So shamed, so stupid. Blinded, she sank down, curled into a ball in the bottom of the tub, the tepid water beating on her head like doves’ wings.
The water ran cold. Shivers turned into great wracking tremors that brought Elizabeth slowly back into herself. Hell was supposed to be burning hot, but Elizabeth knew better. It was bitterly cold.
She got up, leaned heavily on one foot, then slipped and bashed her knee. Swearing, she turned off the faucets and reached for a towel, her movements shaky and deliberately slow. She rubbed her icy skin until it glowed and wrapped her hair in a thick towel. The cold water had actually done her body some good.
Muscles began to heat and warmth spread painfully down to her toes as she moved. She climbed out of the tub, supporting herself on her arms until she got her good foot down. She just managed to reach the toweling robe that hung from the back of the door, before pins and needles attacked her feet in a rush of unwelcome sensation.
She didn’t want to feel anything. But even though she concentrated hard on the numbness inside her head, it didn’t last. Damn, she was sick of it all.
Wrapping her robe tight with quick sharp jerks, even her anger irritated her and she felt as worn and tired as an old rag.
Growing up an orphan had been bad enough, no matter how rich she’d been. Then rape, coming out of nowhere—all her training, all her skills neutralized by a couple of drops of Rohypnol in a glass of champagne.
Her heart hammered and her fists clenched. She hopped over to the bed and pulled the Glock from beneath the pillow, felt a hundred years old as she sat down on the edge of the mattress.
Worse than that, worse even than lying on a gurney under the bright lights of the ER as she was photographed from every conceivable angle, was the betrayal of trust from her colleagues at the FBI. There had been a hidden microphone in her purse the night DeLattio had raped her, and the OCU agents had hung her out to dry. They’d caught the big fish all right. And then they’d protected the bastard.
Tears gathered for another onslaught and she screwed up her eyes in an effort to stop them. When she opened them again she was staring down at the weapon in her hand. She loved her Glock. She retracted the slide to check there was a round in the chamber. Automatically, she popped the magazine into the palm of her hand and peered into the witness hole to see the bullet. Satisfied, she slapped the magazine back in place and ran her index finger along the short black muzzle.
Maybe she should just end it now. Stop the chase. Admit defeat.
Every muscle in her body held motionless.
She was on the run from the mob and a brutal rapist out for revenge. The price on her head was seven-figures and rising. There was no one to trust. And her presence alone was endangering the life of everyone at the ranch. Including the stubborn cowboy who’d begun to make her realize just how pathetic her life had become.
She loved her Glock.
Loved it.
Her weapon was reliable, lightweight and virtually indestructible. More like a friend than an inanimate object, somebody to depend on in a tight spot. And only when she wore her gun did she feel she had some measure of control over the madness her life had become. Only then did she feel safe.
Her hands trembled as she looked down the barrel to see the tip of the bullet gleaming in the dull light. Her firearms instructors at Quantico called this the ‘pre-suicide technique’ for checking that a gun was loaded. She smiled at the irony. They’d been merciless bastards, especially during shotgun training, but she’d liked them. Wanted to be one of them, to fit in somewhere.
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips against the muzzle, then slid the gun into her mouth. Her heart banged so hard against her ribs, she thought it might burst.
It would be so easy to pull the trigger.
Most women shot themselves in the chest, but that was too risky. Her finger pressed lightly against the trigger and she grimaced at the pleasure her death would give DeLattio. That sonofabitch could rot in hell as far as she was concerned. Her revenge was well planned whether she lived or died.
She hesitated. Did she really want to commit suicide? Even the word was distasteful. But it was an option, right? The ultimate way to regain control of her life.
Nat Sullivan’s face flashed before her, not angry like he’d been when he’d left the cottage today, but smiling down at her from the back of a white horse, looking like heaven. Damn, but there was something about that man...
She took her finger off the trigger.
There would be an unholy mess left behind. Gunshot wounds to the head were never pretty.
An image of her parents and baby brother flashed through her mind and she wondered what her life would have been like had they not died when she’d been a little girl. She was the last one left of her family, probably the only person in the world who remembered her little brother’s single-toothed smile.
Taking the gun out of her mouth, she pointed it at the floor. Exhaled a tight breath. Death might be an easy option, but it was still a cowardly escape from a hellish situation. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it to the Sullivans, she couldn’t do it to her long-dead parents, and she couldn’t do it to herself.
Besides, why let Andrew DeLattio have that final victory?
Sensation returned to her body and she stretched out her sore limbs. The weight of misery lifted from her shoulders and dispelled like mist. Her grief was spent, her body aching but whole. Being raped and beaten had damn near killed her, but it wasn’t the end of the world. There were far too many things left that she needed to do and she’d never taken the easy way out before.
Kissing the barrel of the pistol, she slipped it back under the pillow.
DeLattio would not win. She wasn’t going to die a victim. If she had anything to do with it, she wasn’t going to die at all.
****
Snow had stopped falling, leaving a world filled with sparkling sunshine and reflected light so bright it dazzled. Nat cleared the snow off the roads with the snowplow hitched to the front of his truck. Normally he’d have given the job to Cal or Ezra, but right now he wanted his own company and some mindless, honest toil. He turned Tom Cochrane’s Ragged Ass Road CD up too loud to think.
The valley looked beautiful, like a winter wonderland. Fence-posts made valiant attempts to break free of the shallow drifts, cast spindly shadows like cobwebs over the iced fields. He should really go get his camera and take a few shots. But he was avoiding Eliza Reed and that pissed him off. This was his home and she made him feel uncomfortable in it.
The barn and stables were shrouded with white cloaks that melted as a warm Chinook swept down off the mountain slopes. The thaw began in earnest when the sun reached its zenith.
Finishing up, Nat pulled the truck in front of the ranch house and cut the engine. Quietly, he
sat in the quiet sunshine watching the crystal clear water drip rhythmically off the buildings. So what if he’d misread the situation yesterday? So what if he’d thought sticking your tongue in someone’s mouth was a come-on signal? So what if he’d been ready to take her in a fury of passion after she’d just wept an ocean of tears in his lap?
His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening with strain.
Hell.
That was what he couldn’t get past. Yes, she’d kissed him, but she’d been upset, crying. He should have had the strength, and goddamnit, the good sense, to pull away.
He rubbed his fingers over his eyes. Cursed again. The fact that he’d been blown away by a simple kiss just meant it had been way too long since he’d had sex. It did not mean that Eliza Reed was special. Just because she was beautiful, with her stubborn ways and fierce nature, did not mean she was special.
But special or not, he owed her an apology.
Damn.
Thankful he was wearing boots, he climbed out into the gray slush that carpeted the yard and went in search of Eliza. A pile of snow slid off the sloping roof of the ranch house with a solid ‘whoosh’.
There was smoke coming from her chimney, but it was near midday and she’d spent most daylight hours helping out with the horses. He strode toward the paddock, climbed over the wooden rails and headed into the back of the stables, past the piles of hay, hoses and buckets.
Shadow and her foals were in their stall, little Red hiding behind his surrogate dam. The mare nickered as Nat went past, nudged him playfully for a treat. Nat obliged and filled up the feed bucket before he left. He checked all the stalls, but there was no sign of anybody, anywhere.
He heard the soft murmur of voices coming from outside and turned in that direction. Bright sunlight blinded him for a full five-seconds before he could see. Then bile hit his throat and he wished he hadn’t bothered to search for Mizz Eliza Reed because at that moment she was stretched out full-length on top of Cal in the middle of the sodden training ring.
Her Sanctuary Page 9