Jack crawled to Emmett’s side. “Oh, God. Oh, no. No. I’m sorry, Emmett. I’m so damned sorry.”
Emmett’s eyes were open wide. He was trying to say something, but no words came.
Jack pressed his hand to his partner’s chest, felt Emmett’s blood surging over his hand, felt Emmett’s life draining out through his fingers.
“Dammit, Emmett!” Jack was screaming. Screaming for help in the hot night air, in a garbage-strewn alley, next to a handcuffed twelve-year-old murderer.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Emmett was dead. Jack felt his own life’s blood flow out of him that night. No taste for being a cop anymore. Quit. Run. They could call it whatever they wanted. But he was gone.
He went home. Back to Montana.
Pete was there. Pete understood. Pete offered his cabin. “Stay as long as you want, boy. As long as you need.”
Pete. Emmett.
Blood. Blood on his hands. Blood everywhere. Jack wondered if he would ever feel clean again.
* * *
Courtney lay perfectly still beside Jack. Any movement at all, she feared, would rouse him from his nightmare. As difficult as it was to listen to him hurt, she consoled herself with the fact that he was oblivious to it. The nightmare had eased her fears that he’d been seriously injured by the bear. He seemed no more or less consumed by this bout of dreaming than he’d been the other night at the cabin. But the other night she had had the freedom to move about. Tonight the temperature and the circumstances obliged her to share a sleeping bag with the man. Nothing short of the bear’s return could persuade her to wake him.
He cried out again, shifting fitfully within the limited confines of their state-of-the-art cocoon. Despite her resolve to ignore him, she reached between them and squeezed his hand. The tension in him eased, just a little.
“Damn you, Jack,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do about you. I don’t know what to feel about you.”
The man had her on an emotional roller coaster. Each time she felt herself daring to care, something would happen to warn her away. Adding to her own curious jumble of feelings was her sense that Jack was just as confused as she was. Given a choice, she was certain neither one of them would have opted for this reunion. And yet here they were.
Things happen for a reason.
This is some kind of test, isn’t it, God? But a test of what?
The answer that occurred to her was the one she least welcomed—and most feared.
The last thing Jack had asked of her just before the bear attacked was that she trust him. Trust him despite what had happened ten years ago. Trust him despite his current backlog of dissembling and deceit. Trust him despite her own abysmal track record with the men in her life.
Jack. Her father. Roger.
Trust.
A small word. A simple concept. And yet time and again the men in her life had abused the trust she’d placed in them.
“Get over it,” one of her friends had told her once, as though it were a cold.
If only it were that simple.
It had been four years since her divorce, and she hadn’t had so much as a date. It wasn’t a question of trusting Jack. It was a question of trusting herself, her own instincts. Instincts about men. Time and again she had counseled other women at Angels’ Wings on how to get back into the mainstream of life, how even to dare falling in love again. But when it came to her own relationships with the opposite sex, the door was not only closed, it was nailed shut. She couldn’t take the risk.
Not when her emotions were involved.
And they were involved in spades with Jack Sullivan.
A breeze wafted over her and she shivered. Grateful for the distraction, Courtney snuggled deeper into the sleeping bag. The bag’s optimal comfort range to twenty below zero had been compromised by the bear’s teeth and claws. Though she guessed the temperature to be near thirty, she still felt cold. There was a way around it, of course. To maximize the benefits from their combined body heat, she and Jack could shed their coats. In fact, she thought with a suffusion of embarrassment, they would probably be warmest if they were both stark naked.
Courtney decided she could handle a few goose bumps.
She could handle them even better, she thought grimly, if she could fall asleep. But between the chill and Jack’s restiveness, sleep eluded her. Or, more honestly, it was driven off by her continuing debate about trust. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that Jack would bring up the subject again this morning. What was she going to say? I can’t trust you, Jack, because I’m falling in love with you?
She’d rather die.
In the end, she opted for the coward’s way out. She would simply have him take her home. She would get back to her life; he would get back to his. The question of trust would become blessedly moot. Her heart might be foolish enough to make the same mistake twice about this man, but her head, she assured herself, would not. Once Jack was out of her life again, common sense would prevail. She was certain he would be just as grateful to have her gone.
That decided, she finally fell asleep.
She woke to Jack’s eyes on her. Her flesh warmed. “How long have you been awake?” she asked.
“Not long. Maybe five minutes.”
“Sleep well?” It was a stupid question. She knew precisely how he’d slept. And the curious regard in those blue eyes told her he knew that she knew.
“You saved my life,” he said quietly. “That bear would’ve torn me apart.”
“I did what I had to do. I couldn’t watch you die.”
He gave her that lopsided grin she liked too well. Then he sighed and stretched a little, stopping abruptly when his every move forced him into contact with another part of her body. “A bit cozy in here, isn’t it?” His voice was light, but the strain in him was evident.
“I’ll get up,” she said quickly, too quickly.
“No. It’s okay. I didn’t mean...” His mouth twisted ruefully. “Life takes some peculiar turns, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, there’ve been a few nights these past ten years that I’ve thought about what it would be like to sleep with you again. And not once did I ever think that that’s exactly what I would do.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sleep.”
“Oh.” Courtney felt her cheeks heat; more than that, she felt an almost overwhelming urge to turn toward him, touch him, let him touch her. Common sense had no chance in such close quarters. Swiftly she grabbed for the zipper and began to extricate herself from the sleeping bag.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Forget it.” She pushed to her feet, crying out when she leaned too heavily on her left ankle.
“Still pretty sore?”
“It didn’t appreciate my cross-country hike yesterday.” She hobbled over to her crutch, determined to put what distance she could between them. At least he hadn’t yet tossed out the trust question. “I’m hungry. How about you?”
“I’ve got some dehydrated soup in my backpack.” He started to get up, but his face paled, and he slumped back.
“Stay still,” she ordered. “I’ll handle the food.” In Jack’s backpack she found the soup packets, some instant coffee, a tin pan and four cups. By melting snow, she soon had a cup of vegetable soup and a cup of coffee for each of them.
“You’re pretty good at this Daniel Boone stuff,” Jack said, pushing up on one elbow and sipping his coffee.
“My forest-ranger dreams finally come true.”
“You would’ve been good at it.”
She flushed. “I doubt my father would agree.”
“Quentin wanted you to follow in his footsteps at Winthrop-Hamilton?”
She grimaced. “Hardly. Women don’t exactly dominate the company’s upper echelons. In fact, I think they have just enough to keep affirmative action off their backs. Which makes it all the more astonishing that I found myself with my f
ather’s power of attorney when I got back to Butte. Fletcher was surprised, too. He wanted me to sign all sorts of papers. That’s the only reason I was even at my father’s office the day I was kidnapped. I was trying to make heads or tails of some corporate documents on his computer.”
“Your father’s been unconscious since his heart attack?”
She nodded. “That’s been the hardest. Not being able to talk to him.” She closed her eyes, fighting back a sudden wave of emotion. “Do you realize that I don’t even know if he’s still alive? Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
He didn’t answer.
“I need you to take me home, Jack.” Almost against her will, she added, “Please.”
He seemed to wince, then said, “There’s more to your kidnapping than you know, Courtney. More than it’s safe for you to know. I can’t take you back. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that. You’ll just have to trust me.”
There it was. Just like that. “And if I can’t?” She expected him to be disappointed. What she saw in those sky-blue eyes was hurt.
He picked up a dried pine needle, twisting it between his fingers. “I can’t take you home, Courtney. I’m sorry.”
Her fingers curled into her palms. She was at his mercy and she knew it. “Then at least take me back to the cabin. I find the accommodations here are a bit...cramped.” She glanced meaningfully at the sleeping bag.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Again he tried pushing to his feet. Again he failed.
Courtney had to rein in her frustration. The man had been attacked by a bear. “You’d best sleep awhile longer.”
“I’ll be fine.” The only color in his face was the bruise over his left eye.
“I can’t carry you, Jack,” she snapped. “Just sleep, okay?”
He shot her a penetrating look. “If I do, will you still be here when I wake up?”
She started, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her that he thought she would run off again. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“That’s not exactly a yes.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
He muttered a curse, but lay back. Five minutes later, he again tried to get up. He took two steps and sagged to his knees. Courtney rushed to his side, easing him back onto the sleeping bag. “I told you to sleep,” she said tightly. “Not try to prove you’re superhuman.”
“Such a tender bedside manner.”
“You’re lucky I don’t hit you in the head with a rock.”
His eyes grew serious. “I’m sorry about all this, Courtney. More than you know.”
“Right.” She was entirely too close to him. Her position, leaning over his supine body, entirely too compromising.
He reached up and trailed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “Anybody ever tell you you’re one beautiful lady?”
“You’re delirious.”
“Nope. Stone sober.”
Courtney did not resist as he pulled her toward him. His kiss was hot, hungry. Courtney’s pulse leapt. She could feel the fire in him, the need. For her. She wanted so much to believe—in his passion, in Jack himself. She could feel her defenses crumbling, feel her heart clamoring for her to give in, surrender.
Trust.
Don’t do it. He’ll break your heart.
No, not this time.
Trust.
The kiss went on and on. Dreamily, Courtney wondered at the feasibility of making love to a man in forty-degree temperatures. The sleeping bag might merit five stars yet. But then Jack’s fervor began to ease. Courtney drew back, puzzled, hurt. Until she saw how ashen he looked. The man’s spirit might be willing, but his flesh was committing treason. He was practically unconscious.
Her mouth tipped upward. “Sleep,” she said.
“Trust me,” he murmured.
She stilled. Is that what his kiss had been all about?
“No,” he gasped, seeming to read her mind. “Not what you think.” He tried to raise a hand toward her, but it fell back. “Not what you—” His eyes closed. He was out cold.
Courtney stared at him, her senses reeling. Stay calm, she urged herself. Think. Jack Sullivan was no fool. If he’d been trying to seduce her into trusting him, he would’ve been a bit more subtle. Still, his timing shook her to the core. She’d been close, so close to making that leap of faith.
She pushed to her feet, still trembling. When he came to, she would renew her efforts to get him to take her home. For now, she would busy herself tending the camp. The fire needed more wood. She hobbled off in search of some.
She was gone too long. By the time she returned, the fire was completely out. Guiltily she checked on Jack. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Hunkering down beside the fire pit, she reached into her parka for her matches, then changed her mind. She would save her miracle matches. Just in case.
Crossing to Jack’s sheepskin coat, she felt around hoping he’d brought along matches or a lighter; frowning when she encountered a solid, rectangular object.
She pulled it free, staring at it in stunned disbelief. Trust him? Is that what he’d asked of her?
I can’t take you down the mountain, Courtney.
I can’t notify your dying father that you’re all right, Courtney.
She gripped the cellular phone so hard, her knuckles went white. He’d had the means to put her mind at ease all along. He’d had the means to martial any forces he wanted to rescue her, guard her, get her off this damned mountain. And he’d done none of those things.
She stared at him, his features relaxed, almost boyish in sleep. Enjoy your rest, Jack, she thought savagely. The next nap you take will be in jail. She yanked out the cell phone’s antenna. It was time to make a few calls.
* * *
Three hours later, Jack stirred and opened his eyes.
“You never stopped lying, did you?” she snapped.
He blinked, disconcerted, then he saw what she was holding. “Tell me you waited for me to wake up,” he said, his voice oddly strained. “Tell me you didn’t call anyone.”
“I’ll admit it was hard to get through in this terrain. But I managed to raise a few people. A ranger station not far from here for starters, then a 911 operator.”
Jack looked sick. “What did you say to them?”
“What do you think? I asked them to relay a message. To tell my father’s people that I’m all right. Mostly, I told them to contact Fletcher Winthrop. Get a rescue team headed up here. And the police. The real police.”
Jack pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly. His face paled, but he forced himself to remain standing. All the while he cursed viciously. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Courtney stood her ground, hands on her hips. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Not anymore. I’m waiting right here for my ride home.”
“Dammit, Courtney.” He raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “Why couldn’t you—?” He stopped, his whole manner suddenly bone weary, lost. “No. Why would you? This is my fault. All of it.”
“Finally,” she murmured, “the truth.”
“Yes, Courtney, the truth.” Those blue eyes bored straight through her. “You just signed your own death warrant. Fletcher Winthrop is the man who ordered your kidnapping.”
Chapter 9
Jack stood splaylegged across the camp fire from Courtney, waiting for his words to sink in. He hadn’t wanted to be the one to tell her about Fletcher Winthrop’s complicity in her kidnapping, but she’d left him no choice. His reluctance didn’t stem from any particular sensibility about Winthrop’s place in Courtney’s life, but from the battle he knew such an accusation would bring. Courtney did not disappoint him.
“I knew you were a world-class liar, Sullivan,” she said through clenched teeth, “but I didn’t think you were stupid. If you think for one minute that I believe—”
“I don’t give a damn what you believe, Courtney.” His head throbbed, and his whole body was
one big ache. “All I can tell you is the truth. Fletcher Winthrop arranged, everything—the pilot, the man in the back seat, the chloroform, the gun. All of it.” His words were cold, calculated—necessary. He needed to break her considerable bonds of loyalty toward Winthrop—and fast. He had no way of knowing precisely when the 911 operator Courtney had talked to might have gotten through to the man. To be safe, Jack had to assume the worst—that Winthrop was now fully aware that Courtney was alive and well, and that something had gone terribly wrong with his plan. “Help me break camp. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Maybe that head injury affected your hearing,” she gritted. “I’m not going anywhere. Not with you. I’m waiting for Fletcher. By now he’s got help on the way.”
Jack cursed low under his breath. “The only thing Fletcher Winthrop has on the way is a hired assassin.”
Fury sparked in those green eyes. “That’s it. Now I know you’re crazy. First you link my kidnapping to a man who’s been like a second father to me all of my life. Then you up the ante to murder.” She shook her head. “You must really be desperate.”
“Bingo,” Jack said. “I am desperate. Desperate to get you the hell out of here. If it means destroying the image of a man you care about, so be it.” Ruthlessly he went on. “As for Winthrop and murder, it isn’t as much of a reach as you might think. It isn’t as though it would be his first.”
She stared at him.
“He already has at least one homicide to his credit.”
“What are you—?”
“Pete Wilson.”
Courtney sank to her knees, her lovely face shrouded with hurt, confusion. “I don’t believe you.” She said the words, but her voice no longer carried the same conviction it had had before.
With everything in him, Jack resisted the urge to go to her, to pull her into his arms, tell her everything was going to be all right. He was the last person from whom Courtney Hamilton would seek comfort. Time and again he’d asked her to trust him. Time and again she’d turned him down flat.
Not that he blamed her. Given the same circumstances, he wouldn’t trust Jack Sullivan, either. The ashes of that bridge he had burned years ago still lay smoldering between them.
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