by Lucy Farago
“I don’t want to be more of a bother than I already am.”
Interacting with most people was a bother, but it was nice to be useful. “Do you like chicken? It’s pretty good for a can.” He headed into the kitchen. The log cabin was a simple two-bedroom construction with an open floor plan for the living area and kitchen, fitted with a wood burning stove. A couple of years ago, he’d taken two days off and used a friend’s cabin on Lake Tahoe. Compared to this joint, it was the Taj Mahal. But this wasn’t a vacation home. It had a purpose, and that was to hide good guys away from bad guys, or bad guys they had a use for.
People weren’t Monty’s thing, but he didn’t want her to be uncomfortable around him. Nothing said creepy like silence between strangers, who, unless he was wrong, would have to spend the night together. “So, do you do a lot of hiking?” He’d guessed she didn’t.
“Not much,” she said, with what he suspected was her first honest answer.
“This is a pretty remote area. Not a good choice for hiking alone. Would you like tea or something while you wait?” He didn’t want her to think he was interrogating her, even though he kind of was.
“Anything hot would be nice. Whatever you have. I’m not fussy.” She leaned forward to warm her hands nearer the fire.
The good thing about the cabin was its size and construction. It kept the heat, and the room was warm. Although falling into a cold creek might chill anyone to the bone. He filled a kettle from the water jug and put it on the stove, then tossed an Earl Grey teabag in a cup. “Did someone drop you off?”
“Something like that.”
Could she be more evasive? Was she not alone and they’d somehow gotten split up? You’d think she’d have said something. He grabbed a pot and poured the contents of the can inside. Neither water nor soup would take long. The one good thing about fire: instant heat. He fetched bowls and spoons and set them on the counter, all the while watching her as she warmed her hands. Exactly how much sleep had she lost? “Still cold? I can get another blanket?”
“I just can’t seem to get warm enough,” she said on a yawn. “The creek was colder than it looked.”
“It’s fed from the melting snow on the mountain. It’s clear and great to drink, but being mostly in the shade, it’s icy this time of year.” The kettle whistled. “I don’t have power, so no refrigeration. If you want milk, you’ll have to take it from a box. But I have sugar, even lemon.”
“Just a teaspoon of sugar, thanks” she said over her shoulder. “It feels weird…you serving me.”
“That’s okay. Togas are hard to maneuver.” And his friends thought he wasn’t funny. He was funny. They were morons.
He brought her the tea. When she reached for the cup, he noticed dirty fingernails as her hands curled around the mug. He’d thought she’d looked a mess because of her Jack and Jill impersonation, but maybe there was more to it. She held the steaming mug close to her face for several seconds before taking a shaky sip. Then he noticed something more disturbing. Beads of sweat covered her brow.
“You don’t look so good.”
“Aren’t you the smooth talker.”
“Seriously, are you sick?”
“Just tired…and cold. I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” she sighed heavily, wearily, “but I kept my thong on. I didn’t think…I mean, there’s not much to it. But it’s still wet, so maybe it’s why I’m so cold.”
He might be a computer geek, but he was still a guy, and the words wet and thong in the same sentence definitely made his mind go where it shouldn’t. “I don’t think—” The sizzle of spilling liquid interrupted him. “The soup is boiling over.” He hurried into the kitchen to take the pot off the stove. He cleaned up the mess and tried to remember what the saying was. Starve a cold, feed a fever, or the other way around?
“Excuse me,” he said, returning and not wanting to startle her as he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. “You’re hot.” Just as he’d thought.
“A few minutes ago, you said I didn’t look good. Now I’m hot. They have pills for people with your condition.”
A sense of humor. He could appreciate that. “Glad to see you’re not that sick, but sick you are. You’re running a fever…beautiful.” Two could play the sarcasm game, only he guessed his wasn’t exactly sarcasm so much as the truth.
“Fever? I’m sick?”
She was starting to sound a little punch-drunk.
“That would explain why I can’t remember falling down that hill.”
“And why you feel cold. I was going to invite you to spend the night, figured you’d get a fresh start in the morning, but now I think I’m going to insist. Let me get you something for that fever, then we can set you up in the second bedroom.”
“I think I’m more tired than sick. I haven’t slept…well, the past few nights. But thanks, I appreciate everything you’re doing.”
“Sure.” How had he gone from being left to frolic with stinking nature by his do-gooder friends to playing Florence Nightingale? Well, at least this was better than picking his nose…or plotting his revenge.
Once his guest was settled in the spare room and asleep, he ladled himself a bowl of soup and sat by the fire to eat. Her acquiescence should’ve been harder to come by, but given her condition, it was no surprise she hadn’t argued. By the time he’d gotten her room ready, she’d barely been able to keep her eyes open. Now, alone with his thoughts, he had to wonder again what the hell she was doing—alone—this far from civilization. Clearly, she’d either had a bad day…or several bad days. It looked like they had at least one, possibly two, things in common. Shitty days and being stranded.
On the plus side, for him, not her, the cabin was outfitted with an emergency panic button in a secret underground room. He’d been warned if his reason for hitting it wasn’t a good one, his stay would be extended—four fucking weeks. But if his guest didn’t start feeling better, he’d have to hit it. Right?
By the time he finished his soup, he was no closer to figuring out her story. Normally, he respected people’s privacy, but seeing as, for the time being, he was in charge of her safekeeping, he figured he had an out. Plus, she’d stumbled—literally—onto an ICU safe house, one she could render useless should she find out. For everyone’s sake, it was better he knew more about her. He put his bowl in the sink, then picked up her knapsack. He removed the contents one by one and spread them out on the kitchen table. He found what he thought was a gun, then quickly realized it was a flare gun, two protein bars, a tube of mascara, ChapStick, a small mirror, a pack of gum, two Kleenex packets, a pen, lady stuff, and a small bottle of allergy pills. This wasn’t exactly hay fever season in Alaska. What he didn’t find was a cell phone or any animal pepper spray, a hiker’s must-have. Her wallet contained a credit card and a medical insurance card that proved he’d been wrong. Ms. Taylor Moore would be twenty-eight on her next birthday, four years his junior.
He checked the wallet one last time in case he’d missed something and inside one of the many pockets, found a business card. Strike a Match. Taylor Moore, CEO. A matchmaker? Wow, he hadn’t seen that coming.
Computerized dating services were a crock. People would think he supported technology finding the perfect mate. He didn’t. There were far too many variables in the human condition. Just because two people liked long sunset strolls didn’t mean the ten times a day one of them brushed their teeth wouldn’t annoy the shit out of the other one. And it wasn’t like they’d put that on their applications. On that note, he blew out a breath and, after putting everything back where he’d found it, grabbed the gas lantern and headed to bedroom.
She was out cold. The light from the lantern cast shadows across her face. It was a pretty face when she was awake, but now… He took a step back, thinking he might be dumb enough to touch her. He’d thought her spooky gray eyes had done it for him, but he’d been wrong. Asle
ep, her features relaxed, her mouth fuller and rosy from the fever. Her lashes, although pale in color, touched her cheeks, and even in the dim light he noticed the freckles dotting her eyelids. Some men preferred a great rack or an ass to grab. Those things were good, but he liked freckles.
She could be right, and her fever could be the result of exhaustion, but to be safe, Monty pulled up the only comfortable armchair in the room. He didn’t want Sleeping Beauty dying on him. It would give Ryan another reason to rake him over the coals.
Chapter 2
A loud bullfrog woke Taylor. To her horror, she realized the sound had come from her when she tried to swallow. She opened her eyes to a cedar-lined ceiling. Where the hell was she and why had she dreamed that some half-naked mountain cutie had carried her out of a cold lake? Except for freezing her butt off, it had been a nice dream, better than she’d had the last couple of nights. She turned her head right and something fell off her forehead and blocked her view. A damp towel? She removed it and there, sleeping in a well-worn leather recliner, was mountain guy. Not a dream. She’d taken a wicked fall, head first, into one hell of an icy creek. And the man asleep beside her had plucked her out and, without knowing it, probably saved her.
Two days she’d been running from them. Two days of hiding, camouflaged by the trees…freezing with only the jacket they’d tossed her way and the purse they’d—thankfully—let her keep. She tried to roll to her side and this time groaned for real. It wasn’t bad enough that she’d frozen her tail off sleeping on the ground covered only by leaves and God knew what else. She’d survived a plane crash only to go and break her butt.
The man opened his eyes. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
“Stiff.” She grimaced as she tried to put more space between them. He’d helped her. It didn’t mean she could trust him.
“Your fever came down early this morning.”
“Fever?” She hadn’t felt like this since her debutante days, when the only thing she’d cared about was partying…and shoes. “Well, I guess that’s good. I thought perhaps I’d taken to eating trash…with the trash can.” She missed the shoes. The hangovers she could live without. She glanced around the room, wondering if there was something she could use to defend herself if he turned out to be less than a Good Samaritan. But the room was sparsely decorated, not even a lamp on the bedside table.
He smiled. It was a great smile, and despite herself, she smiled too.
“What can I get you? You should eat. How about that soup?” He stood, his shirt rumpled, looking slept in.
She ignored his bossy undertone. He was just being nice. “Were you here all night?”
He glanced back at the chair. “It’s a comfy spot. Tea? Soup?”
Then she ignored how weirded out she was, knowing he’d been watching her, and realized she seemed to be making him uncomfortable. Why? “Soup would be nice.” Normally, she didn’t eat first thing, but as she hadn’t had real food in days and given her stomach let out an embarrassing growl… And who knew when she’d get to eat next? If she didn’t starve or freeze to death, it would take at least another four, maybe even five days to reach the town she’d managed to spot from the airplane window just before they’d gone down.
He nodded. “Soup it is.”
He left, and she tried to remember his name. She was sure he’d given it to her. Then again, she could’ve been too busy checking him out. Like she’d done just now. Her butt might be sore, but his was very fine. She scolded herself. He was a stranger, and for all she knew, another Ted Bundy. She blew out a breath. She really hadn’t been thinking clearly yesterday. Hunger did that to people. What if he was just a nice man and her presence put him in danger? As great as it was to have a roof over her head and a warm, cozy bed, she had to get out of here. Before trouble found her.
She tossed the covers to the side, then quickly pulled them back on. Except for her panties, she was naked. How had she gotten naked? Then she remembered hanging her clothes by the fire to dry. Were they still there? They weren’t anywhere she could see them. Using the throw off the foot of the bed to wrap around her chest, she swung her feet over the side and immediately regretted it. The room whirled. She tried to blink, only to see stars. She had to shake this off. Cautiously, she stood and took a tentative step. The spinning walls turned into a vortex and her knees began to buckle. Going nowhere really fast, she reached out and hit something, or rather someone.
“Whoa,” snuck through the buzzing in her ears, right before warm hands caught her arms and gently sat her on the bed. “Lying down is better than falling down, especially after two days in bed.”
Two days? She wanted to ask mountain man if she’d heard right but was afraid of what might come out of her mouth. She waited for the nausea to subside and her head to clear.
“Yes,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “You’ve been out for, well, nearly two days. I found you Monday night and its Wednesday morning. I kind of hope no one is looking for you.” He pushed dark-rimmed glasses, which she hadn’t seen him wear before, up the bridge of his nose. “I’d hate to think someone is frantic, wondering where you are.”
She relaxed, if only a little, as her stomach settled enough for her to speak. “No one is looking for me. It’s been just you and me for two days?” Meaning no one had come knocking on his door?
“This area is pretty remote. So, how are you feeling now?” He adjusted the blanket on top of her. “The spins gone?”
They had, actually. “I think I got up too fast. I’m better now.”
“Good. The soup is really hot. Please be careful.” He settled into the chair and pointed to the steamy bowl, next to her on the nightstand. He must have put it there before stopping her near face-plant.
The chicken broth smelled divine. She hadn’t eaten in—she did the math in her head—four days. “Thank you. I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
“No bother. There isn’t much to do around here. Taking care of you kept me busy,” he said, as if she were some pet left behind by an owner. “How about tea when you’re done eating?”
“Actually, I’d really like a shower,” she said, the dirt under her fingernails a reminder that she hadn’t bathed since the morning she’d been taken. “My clothes?”
“I hung them.”
He opened a set of closet doors. Inside, on two separate hangers, were her jeans, the Henley…and her bra. This man had touched her bra. Normally, that would weird her out, but given the last few days, she shrugged it off.
“Are you sure you’re ready to get out of bed?”
“I think I can manage.” The longer she stayed here, the more likely she’d put this man in danger.
“All right. I’ll get you a couple of clean towels. The bathroom is outside this room. Help yourself to whatever is there. But I suggest a quick bath unless you’re into cold showers. The cabin has a fire-heated tank I’ve kept warm, but the one above the shower isn’t heated.”
“A bath sounds nice.” Anything to wash off the last four miserable days.
“I’ll crank up the heat and grab your purse.”
Hiding her panic, she glanced around the room and realized she couldn’t see it. “Thank you.” She couldn’t be more grateful for having chosen to wear it, instead of a normal over-the-shoulder bag, which could easily have been lost. She forced a smile and reached for the bowl. Then she sent a silent prayer for everything to still be inside.
When he returned with her bag, he set it on the foot of the bed. “How’s the food?”
“Delicious,” she said, resisting the urge to snatch it up.
“It’s not bad for a can.”
She remembered now. The canned soup. And his name was Monty. An awkward silence fell between them. As she ate her soup, she got the odd feeling something was on his mind—maybe questions she couldn’t answer. “You know, I’d really like that bath. Maybe I can finish th
is later?”
“Whatever you like. Let me make sure you get to the bathroom without falling.”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, and hoped she wasn’t lying. This time she took it slowly, adjusting the throw to cover as much of herself as she could. Not that it seemed to matter. Either Monty didn’t play for her team or he was too polite to ogle…or pasty-white legs didn’t do it for him. A great hairdresser took care of covering and taming the red hair, but nothing would make her tan. As her head stayed between her shoulders and the floor didn’t move, she pushed to her feet and snatched up her purse. She hadn’t come this far only to lose its contents.
He followed her to the bathroom door, where he turned on an antique-looking spout and water began to spill into the claw-foot tub. “There’s a lock on the door, but shout if you need me.” Then he left.
Did she need the lock? Twice now he’d seen her nearly naked and not once had his face registered recognition of that fact. She was a good judge of character, and nothing about Monty screamed pervert. Maybe if she’d met some of the men hijacking her online site, she might have known them for the scumbags they were. She slid the bolt in place.
The small space wasn’t elaborate, but it was clean and functional and more than she’d had running for her life. She sat on the toilet seat and one by one pulled each item out of her bag. Panicked, she turned her purse upside down and shook it. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her hands were cool against her face as she reminded herself to stay calm. It most likely had fallen out when she rolled down that stupid embankment. She’d have to go back and find it. A small inconvenience. It would be there. And not in the creek. “Shit, shit, shit.” Could it have landed into the water? If it had, she was done for. No one would believe she was innocent. The deal was for her to turn over those files.