She glanced back down the slope at her trail and winced. A blind man could follow her tracks.
But then, it was no secret where she was headed. Again she glanced behind her. No sign of Jack.
Her heart turned over. Had she killed him?
No. You hit him in the head, remember? she thought acidly. More likely she’d damaged her crutch.
No matter, she should’ve checked on him. If he’d been unconscious, she could’ve tied him up, spared herself this whole ordeal. At the very least she could’ve taken a few precious minutes to gather some supplies. Instead, she’d panicked. Flat-out panicked and run. Now she was paying the price.
Behind her, a twig snapped. Courtney whirled, ready to fight, make a stand. There was nothing there.
But he was coming. She knew it, felt it.
He was coming.
Another hour passed, maybe more. Cloud cover moved in, obscuring the movement of the sun. With every step she took, the muscles in her legs screamed for her to stop. Her ankle was so swollen inside her boot, she feared the blood supply had been cut off. One of these times she was going to fall and not be able to get back up again. She thought of her father, and how they would never resolve the pain between them. She thought of her dear friend Maggie and knew that at least the women and children of Angels’ Wings were in good hands. Then she thought of Jack, felt a surge of pure fury, and took another stumbling step forward.
And another.
And another.
She stumbled smack into the helicopter. Hidden beneath dozens of snow-covered branches, she might have passed it by. But she’d tripped over a protruding landing skid.
Here amongst the trees and rocks, the pilot had managed to guide the wildly spinning copter into a small clearing. Blind luck? Skill? Divine intervention? With Jack Sullivan as the pilot she would vote for A or B. She refused to consider C. The Almighty could not possibly have had a hand in this madness.
But at least she’d found the copter. Still, she didn’t crawl inside it. Not yet. She was so tired, she feared that if she did, she would simply curl into a fetal ball and go to sleep. She spent the next several minutes tromping about in the snow, trying to restore some circulation to her numbed feet. As she walked, she slapped her arms against her sides.
Finally she headed back toward the copter. She hadn’t gone six steps, when she tripped over an unnatural swell in the snow-covered earth and went sprawling. Spitting out a mouthful of snow, she cursed vividly, holding her right knee. Perfect. Just perfect. What the hell was—?
She gasped, scrabbling off the mound of stones. Heaven save her, she’d tripped over a grave! A grave with two wind-tilted markers at one end. Her back seat tormentor, she presumed. And?—
Sickened, but resolved, she fell to her knees and pawed at the stones. When she uncovered a booted foot, she gagged. But she didn’t stop. Long, torturous minutes later, she confirmed her worst nightmare. The shallow grave held only one body, a body she could not identify.
The last tiny ray of hope she had held out that she had made a terrible mistake about Jack was gone.
With waning strength and less interest, she shoved some of the stones back over the remains of her kidnapper. It was better than he deserved. Her previous scruples about even kidnappers having mothers who loved them vanished in a haze of anger and despair. If Jack were here, she’d toss him in right next to his perverted friend. And she knew Jack had had a mother who loved him.
You’re losing it, Courtney.
Pushing to her feet, she staggered over to the helicopter. Dragging aside a couple of branches, she practically fell into the cockpit. That’s when she saw the radio. Or rather, what was left of it. It hung in a tangled heap of exposed wires, the kind of damage that couldn’t possibly have occurred in a crash. No wonder Jack knew the radio didn’t work. He had personally destroyed it!
The tears came then. She couldn’t stop them. Tears of frustration, rage and hopelessness. It was suddenly all just too much. She was in the middle of nowhere without food or supplies, the temperature hovering near freezing. She had been a fool to come up here. She should’ve just bolted down the mountain and hoped for the best. Any chance of rescue she might have had felt as shattered as that radio. Nor was the irony of the situation lost on her. After all she’d been through, she was going to die in this helicopter anyway.
At least Jack wouldn’t get his blood money. Fletcher Winthrop would never authorize any ransom payment unless he could speak to her personally, assure himself that she was unharmed. Of that much she was certain.
But it was hardly consolation.
If only she had some matches. She could get by without food, even shelter—as long as the weather held—if she could just build a fire.
Desperate, she shook off her mittens and groped around in the pockets of her parka. Maybe Pete Wilson had been a smoker. She would give her family fortune for a lighter. In the right side pocket, she found a small notebook. She was about to shove it back in her pocket in disgust when she noticed a phone number scrawled on the first page. She stared at that number, her heart skipping a beat. The number was to her father’s private line in his Butte office. Only a handful of people in the world knew that number. Why would Pete Wilson be one of them? She closed her eyes. No, not Pete. Jack. The parka had been in Jack’s possession. The call about her father’s “relapse” had come in on Quentin Hamilton’s private line. Somehow Jack had gotten the number. One more nail in that coffin full of lies, Sullivan.
She shoved the notebook back where she’d found it, then unzipped the parka’s inner pocket. Her last chance. She said a quick prayer. After all this, it was time she had a little good luck for a change.
Snugged up against a bottom corner of the pocket she felt something. With a whoop of pure joy, she pulled free a dilapidated book of matches. The advertising read M & M Cafe, Butte, Montana. Inside were seven precious matches.
Matches—and a very real chance to stay alive. She felt ecstatic, rejuvenated. She would build a fire, get warm, then find a way to get herself home. But first she needed to get as far away from the crash site as she could before sunset. Because Jack was still out there somewhere. And this would be the first place he’d look.
With a new sense of purpose Courtney headed toward a stand of lodgepole. Quickly she manufactured what she hoped was a convincing false trail into the woods. Then, taking special care to obscure her tracks, she took off in the opposite direction.
Some two miles into the trees, she stopped. Above her, an opening in the canopy of branches reached all the way to the sky. Here, melting snow from the heat of her fire wouldn’t drop onto the flames. Using her bare hands, Courtney scooped out a two-foot-wide fire pit, then scavenged the forest floor for dead branches. Her forest-ranger-wannabe days were coming in quite handy. In fifteen minutes she had herself a fine camp fire and had only used one match.
Next, she began the agonizing process of pulling off her boots. Her right boot offered only minor problems. But her left, the ankle swollen to nearly twice its normal size, was a much more grim task. She almost didn’t take the footwear off, fearing that if she did, she’d never get it back on. But it was a chance she had to take. She needed to inspect her chilled flesh.
Finally the boot pulled free. Peeling off her sock, she was pleased to see that while the flesh was indeed swollen, there was no sign of frostbite. Pete Wilson had had good taste in high-country bootwear.
For the next half hour, Courtney massaged her feet, then endured the arduous task of putting her boots back on. She couldn’t risk being caught barefooted by some prowling forest creature—or some two-legged counterpart with tousled dark hair and Montana-sky eyes.
She let out a soul-weary sigh. The last thought was the true agony of being stuck here for the night. Worse than any physical discomfort was the unwelcome opportunity to think. Think about Jack. About his warmth and compassion when she’d told him about Danny. About his outrage at the knowledge that Roger had abused her. About how ar
oused he had been when he’d caught her up in his arms and kissed her. Was it really all lies? Just role-playing in some sick, twisted game?
“I hate you, Jack Sullivan. I’ll hate you until my last breath.”
“Can’t say as I blame you,” came his quiet voice.
Her head jerked up and she gasped. He was standing between two pine trees not fifteen feet away from her. She noticed two things: he had a nasty bruise on the left side of his face near his eye, and he was carrying an oversize backpack, which he began to ease off of his shoulders.
It would be her only chance. As he struggled with his pack, Courtney scrambled to her feet and ran, just ran, not caring which direction she took, only knowing that she had to get away.
But her ankle betrayed her. It buckled, just as Jack launched himself at her from behind. He caught her just below the knees. Courtney pitched forward into the snow, just barely getting her arms out in time to catch herself. With a cry of pure rage, she twisted onto her back. She kicked, fought, cursed, pummeling him with her fists. But he was too strong, and she was too exhausted. He caught first one wrist, then the other, pinning her arms down on either side of her head as he straddled her middle.
“You’re going to listen to me,” he said.
“Never!” She bucked upward, and he pressed down harder, so hard, she could scarcely breathe.
“So typical!” she hissed.
He eased back a little. “What’s that?”
“The tried-and-true male method to get a woman to do what he wants—brute force.”
Jack’s eyes glinted like blue steel. “Don’t put that on me, Courtney. I’ve never raised a hand to a woman in my life.”
“No? What do you call kidnapping me at gunpoint? Letting that partner of yours paw at me.”
“That was never supposed to happen. If I’d known what he was doing, I would’ve broken his arms.”
“Liar!”
Abruptly he rolled off her and climbed to his feet.
Courtney, too, scrambled to stand, all the while keeping a wary eye on him. At the slightest hint he meant to harm her, she would run again.
“I can see we’re not going to get anywhere trying to talk this out,” he said. “So I’ll just say it—you’re stuck with me ’til I say otherwise. If you run, I’ll find you. And next time I’ll tie you to the nearest tree.”
“Right. God forbid you lose your big payoff.”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I did not kidnap you.”
“And I’m not standing in the middle of a pine forest, talking to the world’s biggest son of a—” She turned her back on him, shaking with fury.
“I’m not trying to scare you, Courtney. I’m trying to save your life.”
“You were the pilot of that helicopter, Jack. Every single thing you say to me goes straight back to that single incontrovertible fact.”
“I want to show you something,” he said quietly, walking around in front of her and reaching into the inside pocket of his sheepskin jacket. He pulled out what looked like a leather billfold. “I was in on your kidnapping, yes. But not for the reasons you think.”
“Flying lessons?”
He ignored her sarcasm and continued, his voice calm, almost gentle. She wanted to hit him. “I got wind of the plot to kidnap you ten minutes before it was supposed to happen. I had just enough time to arrange for the original pilot to have a little accident. Luckily, he was the bigmouth who told me about the plot.”
“So let me get this straight. You knew I was going to be kidnapped, but it didn’t occur to you to stop it. You just said, ‘Hey, great idea,’ and joined in?”
She got him that time. A muscle in his jaw jumped, but his voice remained remarkably even. “I was there to protect you. But the kidnapping had to proceed as planned.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that, except to say it was the only way to get certain evidence.”
“You’re talking in riddles. In fact, you almost sound like a—” She shook off the thought. Now he really was making her crazy.
And then he opened his billfold and held it out to her. “I’m a cop, Courtney.”
She stared at him, stunned, speechless. He didn’t blink, didn’t move. She snatched the billfold from him, scrutinizing the official-looking credentials. A gold shield with the engraved insignia of the Los Angeles Police on one side, a photo ID on the other. She stared at the picture for long seconds, trying to reconcile its crew-cut, spit-and-polish image of Jack D. Sullivan with the beard-stubbled, long-haired mountain man standing in front of her.
The man in the photo also had a title. Lieutenant Detective, Homicide.
“Nice forgery,” she said.
“It’s real.”
“Right. And if I don’t buy this one, what’s in the other pocket? You’re the CIA? The Pope? Elvis?”
“Stop it!”
“No! You stop it,” she cried, tossing the ID back at him. “How stupid do you think I am? An L.A. cop can’t work undercover in Montana.”
“I didn’t say it was an authorized assignment. I resigned from the LAPD eight months ago. You might say I’m conducting my own investigation.”
“For eight months? From a cabin in the middle of nowhere?”
“For two months.” He shoved a hand through his dark hair. “The first six I was just...living here.”
“So what happened two months ago?”
His voice tightened. “Pete Wilson was murdered.”
Courtney staggered back a step.
“And I intend to find out who did it.”
“But the Butte police—”
“Say it was an accident. He drowned ice fishing. Period.”
“So how do you know he didn’t?”
“I just know.”
Courtney began to pace, but quickly stopped when her ankle objected. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying there’s some tie-in between Pete Wilson’s murder and my kidnapping?”
“I’m not saying anything of the kind. In fact, I’ve already said too much.”
“You’ve said nothing! Dammit, Jack, this is my life we’re talking about. That is, if I decide to believe a word you’re saying. For all I know, this could just be another pile of lies to keep me in line until...until you get your money. I mean, that jerk in the back of the helicopter said you were taking me to a cabin. And that’s exactly where I’ve been for a week. How do you explain that?”
“The cabin is—was—Pete’s, Courtney. My hand to God. That piece of scum in the back seat was expecting another cabin, one up near the Canadian border. I had the coordinates for it, but I flew around in circles. Frank couldn’t tell one rock from another. But I knew exactly where I was going.”
“I hate you.”
“We’ve established that.”
She was wavering again, wanting so much to believe.... “I can’t do this anymore, Jack. There’ve been too many lies.”
He reached into his left-hand pocket. This time he pulled out a gun. One she hadn’t seen before. He gripped it by the barrel, offering it to her, butt first. “It’s a Beretta 9 mm. Holds fifteen rounds in the clip. I put a new one in before I left the cabin.” He showed her how to release the safety. “Take it.”
She held back, not wanting to touch the gun. “How do I even know it’s loaded?”
He clicked off the safety, pointed the gun in the air and fired, the echo resounding through the trees like cannonfire. “Fourteen bullets should be plenty, don’t you think?” He put the safety back on and tossed the gun at her feet.
Courtney did not pick it up.
He turned and walked back over to the gear and supplies he’d brought along. “You’ve got a good fire going. It’s going to be dark in a couple of hours. I suggest we get bedded down.” He hefted the pack over one shoulder. “We can talk more in the morning.”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t think we were going back to the cabin, did you? I
t’s too risky in the dark.”
“I was referring to the bedding-down part.” Courtney’s gaze skated past him to the pack on his back. “I only see one sleeping bag.”
His blue eyes were unreadable, his voice maddeningly matter-of-fact. “I could hardly bring the whole cabin with me. It’s a big bag. We can share.”
“Like hell!”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. You’re going to get awfully cold, though.”
“Me?”
“It’s my sleeping bag.”
Her lips thinned. “Fine, we’ll share. But remember—” she glanced toward the Beretta “—I’ve got the gun.”
He laughed, amused and, she thought, just a little impressed. Then he sobered, those blue eyes suddenly deadly serious. He stepped close, so close she could see all too well the ugly, purplish bruise that tracked from his hairline to just above his left cheek.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” she said.
“You thought I kidnapped you.” She could tell the thought pained him, maybe more than the bruise. “The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you again, Courtney. I swear.” He reached a hand toward her face, then seemed to change his mind. He curled his fingers into his palm and dropped his hand back to his side. “I’ve got no right on God’s earth to ask you this—but I’m going to ask anyway. I’m going to ask you to trust me, Courtney. To trust me with—”
Behind them they heard a snuffling sound. They both turned.
A bear cub, likely a yearling by its size, gamboled through the trees, heading straight toward them. Jack gripped Courtney’s arm, his voice low, urgent. “The sow won’t be far behind. We need to get the hell—”
The mother bear lumbered into view some eighty yards from where they stood. Her head went up, testing the air, assessing the safety of her offspring. The bear was a black bear. A tiny consolation at least. Black bears were rarely as aggressive as their grizzly cousins.
“Don’t move,” Jack whispered. “Don’t even breathe.”
Courtney had no trouble obeying. She stood, transfixed, terrified.
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