Montana Rogue

by Jessica Douglass

  “You’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice still kind, but not the same.

  More tears fell. It had been her imagination. Jack wasn’t there at all. Nor, if she was thinking straight, would she even wish him to be. God above, it had been Jack Sullivan’s rejection that had sent her fleeing into Roger Winthrop’s arms, plunging her into all the misery that followed. No, the last thing she ever needed in her life was to cross paths with Jack Sullivan again.

  “Please,” she whispered, hating the pleading tone in her voice. “Don’t hurt me.” Every skill, every defense she’d ever learned in how to handle a crisis seemed to have deserted her. Not in years had she felt so defenseless, so lost. She was completely at this man’s mercy.

  “Nothing seems to be broken,” he told her. “You’re going to be all right. You’re one lucky lady.”

  “Yeah, lucky,” she murmured.

  And then she was being lifted, carried, cradled in powerful arms. “You’ll be okay, I promise. Those two bastards who did this to you will never hurt you again.”

  It was the oddest thing, but Courtney could have sworn her guardian angel’s voice held a sudden threading of pain.

  “Sleep now,” he told her softly. “Sleep.”

  Courtney slept.

  * * *

  She came awake slowly. Eyes still closed, thoughts muzzy, she became aware first of the pillow beneath her head, the softness of the blankets that covered her. A shudder of indescribable relief flooded through her. Thank God. It had all been a horrible dream after all.

  She was in bed.

  She was home.

  She was safe.

  Courtney Hamilton opened her eyes—and screamed.

  Chapter 2

  Arms flailing, Courtney battled the beast that hovered above her. A black bear? A grizzly? Had she lived through the crash of the helicopter only to be dragged into the lair of some ravenous forest creature?

  A grip of iron manacled her wrists.

  “Be still!” a voice commanded. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Courtney fought harder, her senses still reeling, her vision cloudy. The beast leaned closer, and she could just make out a mane of shaggy dark hair. She screamed again, trying futilely to twist away.

  “Please,” the voice said. “I don’t want to have to tie you to the bed.” Oddly, the chilling words were spoken soothingly, even desperately. “You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. I promise.” Even more incredibly, the words were coming from the beast itself.

  Courtney stilled, though her heart hammered in her chest. Gulping for air, she stared at the hairy, shadowy figure that loomed over her. She was hallucinating. She had to be. How else could this creature be talking to her?

  “It’s all right,” the voice went on. “You have a little cut on your head that scared me for a while, but it bled worse than it looked. You were lucky to get out of that chopper alive.”

  Lucky? Where had she heard that before?

  Courtney forced herself to take in several steadying lungfuls of air. She hadn’t panicked in the helicopter. At least not until that horrid man...

  Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes.

  “What is it?” the beast asked, a sudden alarm threading his voice. “Are you in pain? Is there something I missed?”

  The concern in that deep, husky voice got through to her at last. The concern both in his voice and in a pair of warm brown eyes. Bears didn’t have warm, brown eyes, did they? Brown yes, but warm? Nor did they dress in red flannel shirts and blue jeans.

  “If you don’t intend to hurt me,” she managed shakily, “then take your hands off me.”

  His hands fell away at once, but not before she saw the barest trace of hurt in those remarkable eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

  Courtney frowned. Now he sounded annoyed. “Who are you?” she asked, though the question that sprang more readily to her lips was “What are you?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood and backed away from the bed several steps, regarding her so intently that Courtney had to fight down a new unease. No one is going to hurt you. He’d said that, hadn’t he? she tried to reassure herself. But while his words might have been soothing, his appearance was anything but. She stared at him. She couldn’t help it.

  Dark hair shot through with gray spilled down to broad shoulders. A lush beard all but obscured his mouth. Between the beard and the hair that tumbled across his forehead, all she could see of his face was a hawklike nose and those brown eyes. Teddy-bear eyes, she thought, then grimaced. This was hardly the time for sentimentality. This man may have rescued her from a wrecked helicopter, but she took no solace in the presence of her disheveled knight errant.

  In fact, the phrase out of the frying pan, into the fire seemed suddenly determined to take root in her brain.

  “You said...” She swallowed hard. “I did hear you say that those men on the helicopter...that they were...that...”

  “They’re dead,” he said simply.

  Courtney closed her eyes, ashamed of the relief that rippled through her.

  “Don’t shed any tears over ‘em,” her dark-haired host put in, uncannily seeming to read her mind. “From the way they had you hog-tied, they weren’t planning to hold any parties in your honor. At least none you would’ve wanted to attend.”

  Courtney shivered. “Thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary. I didn’t do anything.”

  “You brought me here.” She glanced around, taking note of her surroundings for the first time. Wherever here was. The walls of the tiny room were fashioned of chinked logs, the fireplace—fire blazing—had been built with ragged-edged fieldstone, the furniture—what there was of it—would have embarrassed a Neanderthal. “Where are we?” she ventured, not certain she wanted to hear the answer.

  “My cabin. That is,” he amended, “it’s mine now. It used to belong to a friend of mine. He died.”

  There was an undertone to his words that spoke of more than sorrow at the death of his friend. But Courtney took no time to puzzle it out. She had her own more immediate problems to deal with. “Those men...they said they were taking me to a cabin.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So?”

  “So I never saw what either one of them looked like. Maybe—” She stopped. What was she doing? If this man was one of her kidnappers, it was hardly prudent to let on that she thought so. “I mean...” She fumbled. “I didn’t mean—”

  “If I was one of them,” he interrupted, with more than a little irritation, “would I have bothered to cut your ropes, take off your blindfold?”

  “I...” She hesitated. She supposed it didn’t make any sense. “I’m sorry.”

  He said nothing.

  Unconsciously, Courtney reached toward her throat, tugging nervously at the tiny charm that hung suspended there on a sterling silver chain. She’d forgotten she had it on. Ten years ago she’d found the exquisitely wrought-silver wolf in a Butte jewelry store. She’d bought it because it reminded her of Jack, and at the time she’d still harbored the faint hope that he would come back to her, that he hadn’t meant the ugly words that had ended their one and only night together.

  Later, when it became painfully obvious that she had just been another Jack Sullivan one-night stand after all, she’d come close to throwing it away. But by then the wolf had become a kind of talisman, a symbol unto itself. She couldn’t part with it, no matter how much it hurt to look at it. So instead, she’d tucked it into a dresser drawer in her bedroom. Two days ago she’d found it again. For reasons she had yet to fathom, she’d put it on. Discovering that it had survived the crash gave her a measure of peace she couldn’t have explained in words.

  “Not many folks in Montana would appreciate someone with an affection for wolves.”

  She blinked, startled from her reverie. “People who don’t like wolves, don’t know them,” she said defensively. “They’re strong, loyal, loving...”

  “Whoa!” He held up a h
and. “You’re preaching to the converted. I’m kind of partial to ‘em myself.”

  Courtney bit the inside of her lip, strangely reassured by this serendipitous bond between herself and her unpredictable companion. She began to massage her wrists, wincing at the pain where the rope had chafed them. Then suddenly she stilled, noting for the first time that not only were her wrists bare, but her arms, as well. A new horror streaked through her. Heart thudding, she lifted the coverlets and gasped. Beneath the blankets she was stark naked.

  “How could you?” she cried, shooting her benefactor an accusing glare.

  He rolled his eyes. “What would you have had me do? You were lying in three inches of snow. Your clothes were soaking wet. I couldn’t very well put you to bed with wet clothes on, could I?” When she didn’t answer, he prompted again, “Could I?”

  “I suppose not,” she conceded.

  “I swear to you, I compromised your modesty as little as possible.”

  Courtney was not reassured. Beneath the blankets she trembled. It wasn’t her modesty that concerned her, so much as the utter defenselessness she felt at being naked in the same room with this thoroughly intimidating stranger. If he made any threatening moves, she could hardly go careering off into the snow in her birthday suit. “Where are my clothes?” she demanded.

  He inclined his head toward the fireplace.

  Propped against the wall beside the hearth was a stripped tree branch that apparently served as the man’s clothes rack. Draped haphazardly across the branch were what was left of her bulky knit sweater and wool blend print skirt. Tossed atop the skirt were her equally wretched-looking bra and panties. Each garment appeared stiff with dried mud.

  “There’s a creek about five hundred yards from here,” he told her. “I was going to wash them out, but—” he shrugged “—I figured I should tend to you first. I didn’t want you waking up in a strange place all alone.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Since last night.”

  The notion that she had been in this man’s company—unconscious—for several hours did nothing to assuage her unease. But then, she reasoned, if he truly meant to harm her, wouldn’t he already have done his worst?

  Out of the frying pan...

  No! She couldn’t afford to think that way. She recalled the crash, remembering vaguely the gentle hands that had cut her bonds away, the kind voice that had whispered words of comfort and encouragement. For the space of a heartbeat she had even fancied that the voice behind those words belonged to Jack Sullivan, a notion made all the more ridiculous as she cast a covert glance at the uncivilized-looking brute standing in front of her.

  The man might have briefly sounded like Jack. But he certainly didn’t look like Jack, not unless Jack had fallen on some seriously sorry times, a notion that, she was ashamed to admit, didn’t exactly displease her. They were of a similar height, that much she would grant. But Jack’s shoulders hadn’t been quite so rounded, nor his face quite so haggard, as though life had dealt him one too many blows. And, of course, Jack’s eyes had been blue. Montana sky-blue. A blue filled with a fiery passion he’d once claimed burned only for her.

  Her heart twisted. Just one of many velvet-tongued lies.

  “How did you find me?” she blurted quickly, too quickly, as memories crowded close.

  This time, if her host noticed her distress, he chose to ignore it. “I was hunting. I heard the copter go down.”

  She frowned. “It’s April. Hunting season’s in the fall.”

  He snorted. “You’d rather I hadn’t been there?”

  Courtney decided it was in her own best interest not to answer that one. “Where are we? I mean, are we still in Montana?”

  “Yep.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, she grimaced. It seemed he was content to do this one syllable at a time. “You say you were hunting. So you’re what? On vacation?” she offered hopefully.

  “I live here.”

  Courtney resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Why had she already known that? Aside from the fact that the man looked like Grizzly Adams on a bad hair day. What had he said earlier, about her being lucky? She was lucky all right. Lucky enough to be kidnapped by armed thugs, and then “rescued” by some wacko survivalist living in the middle of nowhere. If her luck held, she’d soon discover that he was stockpiling weapons for Armageddon and on the prowl for the perfect Mrs. Bigfoot.

  To avoid a bout of hysteria, Courtney pressed her fingers to her aching temples.

  “Are you in pain?”

  She was surprised at the sudden solicitousness in his voice.

  “My head hurts,” she admitted. “I feel a little punchy, like I had too much to drink. Those men used something to knock me out.”

  “Chloroform most likely.”

  Courtney nodded. She’d smelled the sickly sweet anesthetic once during a biology experiment in high school. “But the effects of the chloroform should’ve worn off by now, don’t you think?” How could she be having a rational conversation with a man that under ordinary circumstances would have sent her screaming in the opposite direction?

  “Could be a mild concussion.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You’re a doctor?”

  “A survivor.”

  Courtney almost laughed. Well, at least he hadn’t said survivalist. “I appreciate all you’ve done, Mr....ah, I’m sorry, you haven’t told me your name.”

  He glanced away from her, not answering.

  “If it’s Conan,” she mused aloud, “maybe it’s better that I don’t know.”

  He shot her a dark look. “Just call me J.D.”

  “Now that wasn’t so hard. You’re J.D., and I’m—”

  “I’m well aware of who you are, Miss Hamilton.”

  Her heart jumped. “How could you?—”

  J.D. walked over to a small wooden table beneath a curtainless window. On the table Courtney spied the oversize canvas carryall that had passed for her purse for the past two years. Without so much as a by-your-leave he opened the bag, retrieved her wallet and flipped it open to her driver’s license. “Courtney Anne Hamilton,” he read aloud. “Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Five foot six. Your weight—”

  “Thank you,” she cut in testily. “Thank you very much. Did you rummage through the rest of my bag, as well?”

  He upended the tote bag’s contents onto the tabletop. “Credit cards, three hundred fourteen dollars in cash, an odd amount of change, makeup, a pair of diamond stud earrings, an address book, lipstick, a preliminary draft of this year’s prospectus for Winthrop-Hamilton Industries, a computer disk, a couple of tampons and—” he held up two foil-wrapped packets “—your hope chest?”

  Her cheeks burned. “If you’d be so kind as to put those back where you found them....”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. What kind of Good Samaritan was this? When she’d been all but unconscious, the man had been tender, compassionate and kind. Now that she was awake, he was nothing short of a boorish oaf. Why?

  “Look, Mr. ah...”

  “J.D.,” he repeated evenly. “Just J.D.”

  Her lips thinned. “If I’ve done something to offend you—”

  “You have.”

  She could feel herself flinch. “What?”

  He began shoving her things back into her purse. “You’re here. I don’t like company.”

  “It’s hardly my fault that I was in a helicopter that crashed in your backyard.” She looked past him out the window at the rolling expanse of lodgepole pine and rock beyond. “Especially considering the size of your backyard. Where are we anyway?”

  “The Sapphires,” he said, not looking at her.

  She blinked, surprised. “You’re kidding? Maybe I do have a little luck left, after all.” The Sapphires were a heavily forested ridge of mountains in the Deer Lodge National Forest, scarcely thirty miles from Butte. Back in her teenage forest-ranger-wannabe days, she had e
ven hiked some of the range’s more accessible trails. Apparently she hadn’t been unconscious in the helicopter for as long as she’d thought. “Well, we can take care of both of our dilemmas at once, can’t we?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can get me out of your private domain by taking me home.”

  “Can’t be done.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’ll pay you. Whatever you want. Keep the cash from my purse. I’ll add to it—”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “But you can’t keep me here.”

  The look that flickered in his eyes made her wonder if that thought hadn’t indeed crossed his mind, but he said only, “The roads are out. It’s spring and it’s muddy as hell out there. The nearest trail’s end is a two-day hike on a good day. This isn’t a good day.”

  “Tell me about it,” Courtney muttered under her breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Listen, I’ve done some hiking. Just get me my clothes and you won’t even have to leave your little house in the big woods. I’ll get myself home.”

  He raked his hands through the shaggy mane of his hair. “Maybe I can blame it on the concussion.”

  “What?”

  “The fact that you don’t seem to understand English,” he said tightly. “You’re not going anywhere, Miss Hamilton. Not today. Not tomorrow. And maybe not the next day, either. You don’t know it yet, but you’ve got a badly sprained left ankle. Be sides—” he paused for emphasis “—there are two dead bodies less than a mile from here. I don’t think I want to go anywhere with you until I know more about what the hell is going on.”

  Inside, Courtney recoiled at the reminder of the dead kidnappers, but to J.D. she merely chucked her chin up a notch and snapped, “I was being kidnapped. What more is there for you to know?”

  “Where were they taking you? Do they have confederates waiting in the woods somewhere? How much of a ransom were they after?”

  She glared at him. “You may find this difficult to believe, but they didn’t take me into their confidence.” The last thing she needed to think about were accomplices roaming the countryside.