She remembered waking up this morning to a cold cabin and the warm quilt Boone had covered her with. She thought about him taking the time just a short while ago to heat that same quilt and tuck it around her before he went into the bathroom. Those didn't seem like the actions of a man who could cold-bloodedly shoot an already injured man and leave him to die.
She gave Seth an apologetic smile. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I can't go. The gift shop over near the parkway has an order in for more trays, and I've got to get six dozen candles in the mail to South Carolina this week, and there's that market basket I'm making for a certain person's grouchy mother's birthday. I've got too much going on to waste even a minute of time packing or moving into your house or moving back out here."
"Ashley—"
"Seth." She mimicked his strained-patience voice,then smiled.
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes dark, his entire face dark and handsome and dear. She kept her smile in place by sheer force of will, wishing all the while that he would simply leave, praying that he would leave before Boone's patience ran out or his fear grew unmanageable. Finally, running his fingers through his hair, Seth grudgingly asked, "You'll be careful, won't you?"
"I'll keep the doors locked and the windows barred and my hickory stick at my side."
"I'd prefer that you keep my shotgun at your side." He added hopefully, "It's in the truck, loaded and ready to go."
"I've never handled a gun in my life, Seth, and I don't intend to start today. I'll be careful. I'll stay inside. I'll keep the doors locked. If any escaped prisoners happen along, I'll cower and hide until they've gone on their way."
"Don't joke about it, Ashley," he said sharply. "If anything happened to you—"
"Nothing will. I'm safe here. Dillon Boone, if he makes it this far, will take one look at this place and at Bessie, and he'll keep on going." Reaching out, she gave his hand a squeeze."You be careful, Seth. You're the one who's going off into the mountains in the rain and the cold to track down a desperate fugitive. You're the one who will be out there with a bunch of nervous, trigger-happy cops. Take care of yourself, and don't worry about me. I'll be fine." She was counting on that.
He held her hand and her gaze for a moment, then, releasing her, he turned to look out across the valley. With the low clouds, the mist and the fog, visibility was at a minimum. Tramping around in the forest looking for signs of Boone was going to make for a miserable day, and Ashley felt guilty that she couldn't spare Seth the discomfort. But how could she try to give him any sort of message when the man he was looking for was on the other side of the door at her back and holding a gun? When he was prepared to use that gun?
After a moment Seth faced her again and, changing the subject, tried to lighten up. "That wouldn't be hot coffee you're drinking while I stand here and freeze, would it?"
"When have you ever known me to drink coffee?" she asked chidingly. "This is green tea. I have more inside. Would you like a cup?"
His answer came quickly and was delivered with conviction. "No, thanks."
"Are you sure? It's good for you."
He didn't look convinced.
"I can fix you some ginger tea—it'll warm you up from the inside out. Or chamomile to ease your stress. Or how about some cayenne—"
"How about I wait until I stop by theParmenters ' on the way back down? Nell will have a pot of strong coffee on the stove."
"Strong enough to melt iron," she said with a touch of scorn. "It'll destroy your stomach lining, but suityourself ." She swallowed the last of the tea,then dangled the mug from one finger by its handle. "I appreciate your coming by, Seth."
"But you're not going to reconsider my request."
"Yourrequest?" she echoed. "I must have missed that. All I heard was orders."
He put his cap on, pulling it low over his eyes. "Go in and lock up."
"I will."
"Stay inside."
"Absolutely."
"Don't do anything foolish."
Too late,she wanted to reply, but she smiled brightly and gave him the answer he wanted. "I promise I won't."
Coming forward a few steps, he bent to kiss her forehead. "Be careful."
"You, too." Tugging the shawl tighter, she watched him move down the steps and sprint across the saturated ground to the truck. She watched him climb inside, start the engine and back away, and all too soon she watched him drive out of sight. As his taillights disappeared down the hill, she gave a sigh. Seth was safe, for the time being.
Butshe still had to deal with Dillon.
* * *
Inside the cabin, Dillon was watching, too, his fingers tightly gripping the pistol, as the sheriff drove away. He didn't breathe a sigh of relief as the Blazer disappeared from sight. Benedict could change his mind and come back, could get to the bottom of the driveway and decide that he wouldmake Ashley leave. She might be stubborn, but acting in his official capacity as sheriff, her ex-husband was probably just as stubborn.
Her ex-husband.Jeez, how bad could his luck get? Of all the women inCatlinCounty, the one he took as hostage was the sheriff's ex-wife—an ex-wife whom, judging from that exchange on the porch, the man was still quite attached to. He'd just given Benedict reason to make this whole thing personal, and when cases got personal for cops, they could also get deadly.
But this case was already deadly. Russell's men had tried to kill him once; they wouldn't miss on their second chance. Every cop in this part of the state believed he had shot an injured deputy; if they found him, they weren't going to be inclined to exercise much restraint in dealing with him. The fact that Ashley's ex-husband and best friend was the county sheriff was just the icing on a very bad cake. If anything happened to her, Benedict would surely see that the person responsible was punished for it.
And so much for his plans to have Ashleytake him outside the area today. They would never get through the roadblocks, and he would prefer not to involve her in his capture. It could get nasty.
He wished he had never met Russell Bradley, wished he'd never heard ofCatlin , North Carolina, and had never set foot in the First American Bank. He wished that son of a bitch on the highway had been a better shot, wished that the ravine had been deeper, that his miseries had ended at Sadler's Pass.
He wished like hell that he'd never met Ashley Benedict.
Wondering why she was dawdling so long in the chill weather, he pulled the door open just in time to see her reach the bottom of the steps. Her head was bent against the rain, and her hands were clutching the edges of the shawl together. Her right hand was also clutching something else: keys. He had forgotten about the keys she'd dropped on the table last night. He had seen them this morning, had noticed that there were only two—one to the cabin, presumably, and one to the van—and then he had promptly forgotten them.Fool.
Switching the gun to his right hand, he stepped outside, the cold hitting him with a vengeance. The porch, at least, was dry, but only a few strides took him to the steps, icy wet, and into the rain. Looking ahead, he saw that Ashley had reached the van, had climbed inside and was probably trying to still her shaking long enough to get the key into the ignition. He reached the bottom of the steps, and mud, squishy and frigid, closed over his bare feet. He ignored the discomfort, though, the pain and the chill, and made his way, limping and awkward, to the driver's side of the van.
She was trying to start the engine and having no luck. Jerking the door open, he leaned inside, grabbed the keys and threw them as hard as he could into the weeds that separated the house from what had once been tilled fields. Catching hold of her upper arm, he hauled her out and to the ground, fighting to maintain control when she resisted, when she struggled against him. He lost that control when she shoved him hard, both hands banging on his chest, over his ribs, sending bolts of pure agony shooting through him.
Doubling over, he released her and turned away, his knees buckling. Sinking to his knees in the mud, he tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to expand, r
efused to accept even one particle of oxygen that might increase the pain radiating through him. Oh, God, he'd never known what it was like to hurt sobad , to feel such torture. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't hear anything but a loud rush in his ears; then there was a voice, soft, feminine, frightened.
"Are you all right?"
Rain was dampening his hair, running down his back, and the mud where he knelt had quickly stolen the last of the warmth that had taken him all night to find. The pain was gradually receding, though, the edges dulling, the sick churning in his stomach calming. He was going to survive.
She touched him, her hands cold but infinitely warmer than he was, but he pushed her a few feet back and held her there with the pistol, pointed level at her throat, as he staggered to his feet. She swallowed hard. The fear was in her eyes once again, exactly where he wanted it. "I—I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean—"
"Move." He gestured toward the cabin, and she started hesitantly in that direction. Together they climbed the steps,then went inside after she'd paused to remove her shoes. He paid no attention to his muddy feet, made no effort to wipe them on the mat outside the door or the rag rug just inside.
When she came to a stop near the table, he nudged her with the barrel of the gun. "Go over to the bed."
There she stopped again and waited silently, not turning to look at him. She couldn't see the handcuffs he'd picked up as they'd passed the table, but he had no doubt she knew what was coming. That was why, when he moved around her, she was so pale, why, when he shoved the nightstand aside and reached for her hand, she was trembling. She opened her mouth, but no words came out on the first try, and by the time she tried again, he already had one half of the cuffs fastened around her wrist.
"Please don't," she whispered. "I had to try. You would have done the same thing. Please…"
The headboard of the bed was wood, solid, and there was no place where the remaining cuff could be secured. Pushing the covers back, though, he found that the metal side rail supporting the mattress and springs on wooden slats was more than adequate. He closed the cuff around it, locked it down tight, then moved to the warmth of the fire and drew a calming breath.
Laying the gun on the mantel, he faced the fire and braced his hands on the rough-hewn wood. Bearing only a small portion of his weight made his arms tremble, and his legs were also unsteady. He hadn't been in great shape before the sheriff's arrival, and that little exertion—down, then up, one short flight of steps, across thirty feet of rain-saturated ground, pulling her out of the van—left him almost too weak to stand. And he'd had hopes of being able to move on today, he thought scornfully.
Behind him there came the scrape of wood on wood, and he turned his head to see that Ashley had pushed the nightstand farther from the bed and was now sitting on the floor between the two pieces of furniture, her back against the wall, her face dark with anger as she scowled at him. She'd discarded the woolen shawl, tossing it onto the rug. Her skirt was stained with rain, her legs splashed with mud, but he didn't offer her a chance to change clothes. The shawl should have kept her sweater dry, and it was only the bottom few inches of her skirt that had gotten damp. She wasn't going to suffer for wearing it until it dried.
He,on the other hand, felt wet from head to toe, and it was definitely adding to his misery. "Do you have any more of Seth's clothes here?"
The gruffness of his voice made her mouth thin into a narrow white line as she shook her head.
Great. The sweats were wet and caked with mud from the knees down, and his jeans, left in a heap all night, were also still wet. Modesty be damned, he was going to find comfort somehow.
Turning away from the fire, he spread his jeans out to dry,then grabbed the quilt from the sofa, carrying it along with the gun into the bathroom. He didn't bother closing the door; he had learned quickly this morning that the fireplace was the only source of heat for the entire cabin, and he wasn't going to freeze in the name of privacy. Bending over the tub, he turned the water on, waited until it got warm, secured the rubber plug, then stripped off the sweats and carefully lowered himself into the tub.
The first rush of liquid heat sent a muscle-relaxing shudder through him. The water was hot enough to steam, rising up to warm his still-exposed skin, carrying with it a familiar fragrance. Honeysuckle. A bottle on the window ledge was labeled Honeysuckle. There were others alongside it, fanciful glass shapes filled with jewel-toned gels and labeled in flowing script. Tea Rose. Chamomile. Lavender. Vanilla. He reached for the honeysuckle, removed the glass stopper and started to pour a thick stream under the faucet, but stopped before the first drop escaped. Returning it to the ledge, he took down the vanilla and added it to the water instead. It was better, he thought with a scowl, that hesmell like a vanilla bean than like Ashley.
Leaning back in the tub, he closed his eyes and was about to settle down so that as much of his body as possible was underwater when a grudging warning came from the outer room. "Don't get your dressing wet."
With a grimace, he resettled so that his shoulder with its white gauze bandage was well above the surface of the water.
"I don't suppose I'm going to be allowed to take a bath this morning."
He didn't suppose so. In fact, he didn't plan on leaving the tub until every last drop of hot water had been sacrificed for his comfort.
"What about fixing breakfast? Or changing your dressing?"
He didn't answer. Eventually, of course, he would have to let her go, but until that moment came, he would find relief in knowing that, forthis moment, he was safe. He didn't have to worry about her, and he didn't have to be close to her. He didn't have to fear that she might try another escape. He didn't have to breathe in her scent. He didn't have to spend hours only inches away from her. He didn't have to worry about what she might do.
He didn't have to fear whathe might do.
As the water neared the top of the tub, he leaned forward and shut it off, suppressing a groan of discomfort. He didn't think his ribs were broken, after all. Cracked, maybe, or perhaps he'd just torn some ligaments in the accident. As painful as their little struggle had been outside, he assumed that getting hit the way she'd hit him, directly above a broken bone, would have been even worse.
If her escape attempt had taken him by surprise, that blow she'd dealt him had left him shocked. He had begun to believe that he could trust her, he realized. It didn't take much to sucker him—a few tender touches, a little genuine concern and a pair of innocent blue eyes. She could never shoot anyone, she'd insisted, and she had passed up more than a few opportunities to do him harm. She'd had a number of weapons in her hands last night—the scissors with which she had cut away his shirt, the logs she'd added to the fire, the knife she'd used to slice the bread for their dinner. She could have cracked open his skull with that heavy crock she'd used when she had cleaned him up, scalded him with hot tea or poisoned him with one of her herbal concoctions. He had believed that he was safe with her, that she wouldn't deliberately hurt him.
Once again he'd been wrong.
How many times did he have to get knocked to his knees before he learned to quit trusting? How many times did he have to get let down hard? He was a reasonably smart man; he should be capable of learning from his mistakes. But he just kept repeating them, and he kept falling harder.
Ashley Benedict could be the hardest fall of all.
Sliding a little lower in the water, he yawned. She had mentioned breakfast a few minutes ago, and it had sounded like a good idea, but right now all he wanted—all he really needed—was sleep. As long as he was asleep, he couldn't worry, couldn't be bothered by the mess he'd gotten himself into. He couldn't wonder how in God's name things had gone so bad. He couldn't brood over whether they could ever be set right. His body could continue the healing processes, and he could escape to some dreamland where Russell Bradley,Catlin , prison and Ashley Benedict didn't exist.
Finally he pulled the plug,then stood up, stretch
ing slightly less sore muscles, drying much warmer skin. When he was done, he wrapped the quilt around him, returned to the fireplace and added several logs to the fire, then, in a carefully controlled move, dropped down on the sofa.
"You need to eat."
He glanced across the room at her. She was probably hungry herself. Maybe it would do her good to miss a meal. Maybe she would think twice next time about trying to run off before she'd eaten.
"You can take these off now." She rattled the cuffs against the metal rail. "Obviously I'm not going anywhere. I don't have an extra set of keys to Bessie, and, as you heard, she wasn't about to start. Sometimes she gets cranky when it's wet. Seth says it's the distributor cap and I should get it replaced, but I just tend not to drive her when it's raining."
The sofa was old and well-worn. The fabric, an ugly green weave, was threadbare in places, and the cushions were lumpy underneath him. Still, he could easily see why she didn't throw it out. With one of her quilted throw pillows under his head, he was almost as comfortable there as he'd been last night in her bed.
Survive the Night Page 7