What was it worth anyway? One moment of lust? How badly did she really need sexual affirmation? He was a rolling stone. Sure, he was at a crossroads right now, but once he got his bearings back, what then?
Was it worth the cost of facing the media again, her family, the town? The looks, the curiosity, the questions . . . reliving it all again? And again. Because she knew it would also bring the flashbacks. It would mean a return of the very things she’d tried to obliterate by attempting to kill herself.
Panic, claustrophobia choked her, and bile surged up her throat. She lunged for the toilet, her stomach heaved, and she retched. She braced herself, panting, sweating, until her stomach and chest stopped contracting.
Then she ripped back her shower curtain, turned the water on scalding hot.
Broken Bar had once been safe. Her sanctuary. Her dream of a future. But in the space of a few days ill winds had blown in with the winter frost and converged to change everything. That murder, the news. Myron and his will. Cole. She wished she’d never picked up that goddamn phone and called him.
But she had.
And now she had to accept that this chapter, this phase, this sanctuary, was over.
Because even if Cole left her alone, Adele had seen. Nella and Jason now knew about her scars and her flashbacks. There would be more news about the Birkenhead murder in the media, more references to the Watt Lake Killer. Some reporter, someone in Clinton would get curious and look up the old case, his last victim. And there she would be.
Ethan would find her. Her family . . . She couldn’t do it. Could no longer stay here.
She climbed into the tub. Dry-eyed she sat on the tub floor, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, and let the water beat down on her head and back, scalding her flesh until it turned lobster pink and the gas ran out and the water began to run cold.
Tori’s heart raced as she quickly turned the next electronic page.
Tiny snowflakes began to crystallize in the air and dust the ground.
It helped hide her tracks as she crept like a pregnant Neanderthal woman with animal skins and bare buttocks, weapon in her hand, a wild madness in her head. He’d allowed her to escape. That time. And now, as she crawled, she held her mouth open, and her nasal passages flared as she tested the breeze for his scent, listening for his sound.
She heard it.
The shrill chuk chuk chuk of a chipmunk warning someone away.
He was here.
Somewhere.
She stilled, turned around in a slow circle, heart hammering, mouth dry.
Then she saw it. Bear scat. Oily, green-black in color, the kind of stinking fecal plug released after a long winter of hibernation and not eating. Her gaze darted through the forest. She found what she was seeking—markings at the base of a massive hemlock, and more scat. Scrabbling on hands and knees, she ducked under the curtain of protective hemlock branches. She saw claw marks scratched down the trunk. The marking of territory.
And there it was—an opening into the decaying base of the big tree.
Tentatively she pushed her hand inside, felt around. A den. Warm. Padded and insulated with needles and brush and dead moss. No bear.
She squirmed inside, careful not to squeeze her baby bump. There was enough room for her to curl into a ball. She covered herself with the bits of bark, dry moss, and dead leaves that had been raked inside by the bear.
If the animal returned, then she would deal with it. Anything was better than dealing with him.
She curved her shoulders and spine around her baby inside her stomach. And finally, she stopped shivering.
Outside more snow began to fall. Heavy and muffling. Hiding her path into the den.
Cole entered his cabin. It was cold and dark. He considered starting the fire. Instead he lit a small gas lamp and poured himself a drink. He found a woolen hat in his duffel and pulled it low over his head. He took his drink and sat out on the porch in his down jacket. Looking out over the lake, he watched the fading aurora reflecting on the ruffled surface of the water.
The sky darkened in the south as the band of cloud boiled forward, blotting out stars.
He was an asshole to have even tried to kiss her.
He could see what was going on. She’d wanted him, all right, but she wasn’t ready. She was full of shame and horrific memories. He sipped his drink, wondering if a woman who’d endured what she had could ever be ready. Maybe the kind of damage that had been wrought in her was something that would forever leave her crippled in certain ways—emotionally, mentally, physically. And what would that mean to someone who fell for her?
Shock rustled through him as he realized he had fallen for her. Wholly. He wanted to get to know her on so many more levels, and it wasn’t just to do with this ranch.
It was also why he’d pulled back, why he wanted to take her gently to bed, to move more slowly. But now he’d blown it. And there might never be a way to retrace steps and start over.
He sipped, pondering a deeper question as the warmth of brandy blossomed through his chest.
What might it mean to him, to fall in love with a woman with whom he might never consummate a relationship?
He heard the wolves now, primal. The sound raised hairs on the back of his neck. Wind gusted harder, changing direction.
He glanced toward her cabin. Her lights were still on. He could glimpse them through the ghostly white-barked trees. And he snorted softly. Perhaps he’d finally, after all these years, found the survivor for whom he’d been searching—the person who’d survived against all odds, the one who could help him, on some subterranean level, understand why he’d survived, too, when he shouldn’t have. Maybe if he could just be here for her, help her move steadily, comfortably forward, build something here with her on this ranch, he could atone in some way for having stolen the lives of his mother and brother all those years ago.
Being celibate might just be the cost of absolution.
He cursed softly, and took another sip. It was the drink talking. She was right. He was like his dad.
He’d clung to that twenty-three-year-old incident as bitterly as his father had. Or, it had clung to them. All of them. Even Jane.
Olivia yanked on a terry bathrobe and cinched the belt tight. Hair hanging in dripping wet strings, she went to her closet and hauled out her bags. Opening her drawers, she began to throw in her clothes. Everything. Fast, furious.
She zipped the bags closed and stood there. Ace was still fast asleep in front of the iron stove, oblivious, and she loved him for it. He was her sanity. She went over to him, crouched down, and just nuzzled her face into his ruff, drinking in his popcorn-doggie scent. He groaned and rolled over. She scratched his belly, exhaustion suddenly overcoming her.
She’d finish packing what was left of her meager belongings at first light. Then she’d load up her truck, warn the remaining guests about the storm arriving early. Say farewell to Myron. And hit the logging roads before the snow was too heavy. She’d call the ranch when the lines were back up to organize transport for Spirit. To wherever she’d found a new home.
She put out the kerosene lamps, leaving just the one by her bedside on. She cast back her covers.
Her heart stopped dead.
In the middle of the white sheet lay a sprig of rose hips.
Beneath it, in lurid red lipstick streaks, words were scrawled:
Time to finish the Hunt, Sarah
Run, run . . .
Olivia lunged forward and yanked the covers right off her bed. She stared. His scent seemed to rise up from her bedding to fill her nose. He was here. She could smell him. He’d been in this private place where she slept. She staggered back, crashed against her closet, the past spiraling up to swallow her.
The scream that rose from her throat didn’t even seem to come from her.
She was back in the forest. Runni
ng on the numb stubs that were her feet in cold, wet leather.
He was behind her. Breathing heavily. She could hear his footfalls—soft thuds on the springy, mossy earth matted with needles. She fell. She couldn’t go on. She had no clue how long she’d hidden in the bear den, but when she finally came out, he was waiting.
She rolled onto her back in the pine needles. He was up on the rise, peering down the barrel of his gun at her. She knew this was it. He was going to take the kill shot. He was going to slice the baby out of her belly. She was the pregnant doe his fucking daddy never allowed him to hunt.
She lifted her rifle. Shaking, she aimed, curled her finger through the trigger guard, didn’t hesitate. She pulled. The recoil slammed back into her prone shoulder.
The bullet hit the trunk right at his face. Bark and chunks of wood exploded into him. He stilled, lowered his gun. Staggered sideways.
And fell like a log.
Her heart leaped to her throat. She waited. But he lay motionless. Slowly, she got to her knees, stood. He remained unmoving. All she could think was that shrapnel got him in the head. She had no idea whether he was dead, alive, or dying. She just ran. Down into an alder and willow-choked ravine. Scrabbling through branches and rotten snow deep in the ravine bed, she moved southwest. If she was right, if she was reading the direction of the sun correctly, she had an idea that southwest lay home.
A scream sliced the night.
Cole lurched to his feet, spun, slamming his drink onto the balustrade.
Olivia!
He raced down the path, through the grove of swaying trees, debris shooting down at him in the wind.
In one stride he was up on her deck. The cabin was in darkness now. He lunged for her door. But as he reached for it, an arm clamped around his neck like a vise, choking him backward. A cold blade pressed against his throat.
“Stay right where you are, you fuck. You think you can scare me, you bastard . . .”
“Olivia,” he said quietly, calmly, his heart thundering in his chest. “It’s okay. It’s me. Easy, just lower the knife.”
She didn’t move. Breath rasped in her throat. She couldn’t seem to think, either, as if unable to come down from whatever rush she was on, whatever place her mind had taken her to.
Slowly, he reached up and curled his hand around her wrist with the knife. He pulled it away from his neck. She had the iron strength of madness. “Easy,” he said. “Easy does it.”
He turned around.
Her arms were stiff at her sides, knife still clenched in her right fist. Her mouth was open. She was panting. Her eyes wild. Her hair a wet tangle.
Her bathrobe hung open. She was naked underneath. Warm wetness oozed down Cole’s neck. He touched it with his fingertips. They came away sticky with his own blood. She’d nicked his neck.
She stared at the blood on his fingers, then at his face, confusion chasing through her features.
“Talk to me, Olivia,” he said quietly. “What happened?”
She didn’t seem to know or be able to register. She wobbled, as if she were going to faint.
“Here,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m going to touch you, okay? I’m going to take you back inside. Can I do that? Will you let me touch you?”
He moved slowly forward and put his arm around her shoulders. He escorted her back inside the cabin, closing the door behind him. He took the knife from her hand and placed it safely atop a cabinet.
Her living room lamps were off, just the orange glow from the fire lighting the interior. A whining, scratching noise came from behind her bedroom door.
Tension snapped through him.
“Where is Ace, Liv?”
“I . . . in there.”
He went quickly to open the bedroom door.
“No!” she yelled, suddenly. “That . . . that’s private. My room.”
He paused, hand on doorknob.
Her robe was still hanging open. In the coppery gleam from the fire, he saw the big scars on her bare breasts. The ragged mark around her neck. The scars down her thighs and shins. His gaze lowered slowly. To her feet.
Oh, God.
Missing toes, parts of toes. It explained her awkward gait.
The horror of what Sebastian George had done to her was laid bare to him, mapped all over her body.
Muscles clamped across his chest. Emotion seared through him. Compassion and hot rage bubbled into him. And in that instant, he knew he’d do anything to protect this woman. This strong, incredible, beguiling, kind, generous woman who’d been shattered and shamed so that she couldn’t even allow him to love her.
She registered his scrutiny, and shock visibly rocketed through her body. White-faced, she scrambled to tie her robe. The look of shame, embarrassment in her features killed him.
“What’s inside the room?” he said, gently.
“It’s nothing. Just get out of here. I’m fine.”
He’d heard that one before. “Ace needs out. I’m going to open the door to let him out, okay? I need to see that he’s all right.”
Horror morphed back into her face as her gaze shot to the door. For a moment Cole feared she might bolt.
Carefully, he opened the door. Ace came wiggling out and went straight to her.
She crumpled down around the dog, wrapping in a human ball around him, burying her head into his fur as he licked her face.
Emotion filled Cole’s eyes as raw adrenaline thumped through his blood. Quickly he entered the bedroom, then froze in shock.
Across the white sheet, scrawled in what appeared to be crude strokes of lipstick, were the words:
Time to finish the Hunt, Sarah
Run, run . . .
Next to the scrawl lay a sprig of rose hips.
Cole’s gaze darted around the rest of the room. Her window was closed. Bags littered the floor. Drawers were empty. The bathroom was steamy-damp from a recent shower, the floor wet.
He exited her room, closed the door behind him, went straight to put the kettle on.
“Liv?” he said, coming back to her and placing his hand on her shoulder. She glanced up, face white, hollow eyes. Dry eyes.
“Come sit over here by the fire.” He dragged an oversized stuffed chair closer.
“Cole, I—”
“Come,” he said again, helping her up. “You need to talk to me, Liv.”
Great big shudders took hold of her body, uncontrollable shakes. He sat beside her, wrapped his arms tightly around her, and just held her.
When finally she stilled, he said, “It wasn’t a crab-fishing accident, was it?”
CHAPTER 19
Tori huddled under the bed cover with her backlit e-reader. It was getting colder in the cabin despite the burning woodstove in the next room, and the wind was moaning through the eaves. But she was unable to put away her device and sleep. She started on the next chapter of her mother’s manuscript.
The truck driver put on his fog lights. Mist swirled and fingered among the dark conifers hemming in the steep logging road. Spring snow still lined the banks.
He blinked as he saw a shape in the fog. Right in front of his truck.
Jesus God. A woman? Bare legs, animal skin, matted hair. A rifle in her hand. He slammed on the brakes. His logging rig screeched and skidded sideways toward the apparition in the mist. He tapped the brakes, tried to steer into the skid, desperate to avoid jackknifing or spilling his load. Or hitting the creature.
He came to a stop inches from her. Sweat beaded his brow. The woman turned and looked up at his cab. His heart stalled dead. She was ghost white, dark hollows for eyes. Her skin was streaked with blood and dirt. She had a piece of rope around her neck, no pants on.
He scrabbled out of his cab and jumped down onto the road. She whipped up her rifle, aimed dead at his heart. He put out his hands, palms facin
g her.
“Hey, it’s okay. I mean no harm.”
She sighted him down the scope, unmoving.
Fear spurted through him.
“Please. It’s okay. Can I help you?”
She stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Like a feral thing. Measuring whether to flee. Or kill. Mist swirled around her bare legs. She had boots on. No socks.
It hit him. The missing woman from last year. The posters.
“Sarah?” he said. “Sarah Baker?”
Her mouth opened. She lowered the gun, and she seemed to hang in the air for several beats before she collapsed in a pile on the gravel.
He hurried over to her. Pulse was weak. Skin ice cold. She stank. It was her, the Watt Lake woman—had to be. He’d seen the missing posters everywhere. That was five or six months ago, before the winter.
He struggled to lift her with his bad back and carry her to the truck. She was wrapped in a rotten old bearskin. He gagged at the smell of her. Inside the cab he removed the wet animal skin. Shock imploded through him. She was pregnant. She had large, festering wounds on her breasts, arms, legs. Quickly he wrapped her in a survival blanket from his first aid kit. He covered this with his down jacket. He put his wool hat on her head.
She moaned in pain as he took off her wet boots. His chest tightened. Her toes were blackened with frostbite. She was going to lose some.
Her ankles were chafed raw and bloody. Pus oozed from marks that had been cut deep.
He wrapped her feet carefully in a spare set of work pants.
With shaking hands he reached for his radio, called dispatch.
“Call 911,” he told the dispatcher. “I think I found her—I found Sarah Baker. She needs an ambulance. I’m heading straight for Watt Lake Hospital—medics can meet me on the way.”
Tori swallowed as wind keened outside. A branch tick tick ticked against the window, like something trying to get in.
Cole wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and brought Olivia some tea. She cupped her hands tightly around the hot mug. Her skin was clammy and cold, her breathing shallow, her pupils dilated. She was still in shock.
A Dark Lure Page 27