by Gina Wilkins
“Donovan, you can’t hike when your leg could be broken.”
“Chloe, I have no choice.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Just find some narrow boards to use for the splint, will you?”
Muttering deprecations about foolishly macho men, Chloe searched the small pile of rotting wood for usable boards. She found two that were roughly two feet long and four inches wide, each about an inch thick. Definitely not ideal—but all she had at the moment. Stumbling over the occasional rock or twig—and promising herself she would never step foot outside without her shoes again—she carried them back to where he waited.
With Donovan’s help, she splinted his lower leg tightly. Already it was beginning to swell, and she worried that they could be causing more damage than they were preventing, but he refused to listen to her concerns. He fully intended to keep walking as soon as he was upright again, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do to talk him out of it.
“At least rest a few minutes before we start again. You said there was some food in the cabin. We should eat something if it looks safe. And besides,” she added as thunder made itself heard in the distance, “it’s going to rain again soon.”
He nodded. “Help me up.”
Wedging her shoulder under his arm, she supported him as he rose, keeping his weight on his left foot. She served as his crutch while they made their way to the shelter. The swinging handcuff bracelet bumped her upper arm, but she ignored it. He was heavy, but he spared her his full weight, hopping on his good foot until they reached the building—which really was more lean-to than cabin.
They ducked through the small door that dangled precariously on its hinges. The inside of the tiny building was dark and dusty, little light filtering in through the one small glass pane set into the back wall. The only furnishings were a couple of rickety chairs, a dust-covered table, and what appeared to be a wood-framed bed covered with a heavy tarp. Against one wall was a rough countertop littered with abandoned supplies—a broken lantern, several stacks of cans, and a box filled with assorted tools and utensils.
Chloe helped Donovan into one of the chairs, caught her breath for a moment, then moved toward the counter. There was no sink for washing any of the dirty items. Nor was there a stove of any sort. “How do you suppose he cooked?”
“Probably on a portable camp stove—maybe a campfire, though he wouldn’t risk much smoke in case of DEA planes flying over.”
She found a battered metal saucepan, the bottom scorched black with soot, sitting upside down on the counter. “I’ll bring water in from the stream to wash a couple of utensils so we can eat.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.” Carrying the saucepan, she went back outside to the stream. Kneeling beside the stream, she dipped the pan into the water, then drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders sagging.
She hadn’t wanted to fall apart in front of Donovan, but she was beginning to despair that they would ever be rescued. They were stranded in a remote cabin probably owned by drug dealers, miles from anywhere, with three armed men on their trail. Donovan’s leg could be broken, and she suspected that her bloodied feet were becoming infected. Even if Bryan had been contacted by their kidnappers, he had no way to know where they were now, couldn’t possibly be looking for them here.
Maybe they should have stayed where they were. Who was to say that they wouldn’t have been released, unharmed, after Bryan paid the ransom? What made Donovan so certain their safety had depended on escape?
She drew a deep breath and forced her shoulders straight. They had escaped, and now Donovan was hurt, waiting inside for her to return. He’d been so conscientious about taking care of her; the least she could do was return the favor now.
She scrubbed the pan as best she could with sand, gravel and stream water. When it was as clean as she could manage, she filled it with water and carried it back to the cabin. There was a pinhole leak in the bottom of the pan. Drops of water oozed out of it, but slowly enough that it didn’t concern her much.
Donovan was still in the chair, his head back, his eyes closed, his shackled right hand resting on the thigh of his outstretched, injured leg. It was the second time since she’d met him that he looked even slightly vulnerable. The first had been when he’d lain unconscious in that van, his head resting on her lap.
She ran a hand through her damp hair and cleared her throat. “I brought water.”
He opened his eyes and straightened, apparently embarrassed to be caught giving in to his weakness for even a moment. “No problems?”
“None. Would you like to lie down on the cot? I can help you—”
“I’d like to eat,” he cut in gruffly. “Do you see a can opener over there?”
He was making it quite clear that he didn’t want her hovering over him. She carried the box full of tools and utensils to the table and rummaged through it until she found an old-fashioned can opener—along with a few other things that would definitely come in handy. Two partially-burned candles and a box of matches were an especially welcome sight, since it was growing darker every minute in the cabin as the dark clouds gathered again outside. The sight of an unopened bar of soap still in its original wrapper was almost as welcome a discovery as the food.
Dipping the can opener in the pan of water to clean it as best as she could, she turned to the half-dozen cans stacked in one corner of the counter. A fat beetle waddled across the counter top when she poked at the cans, and there was a rustling in the far corner of the cabin that could only be mice—but she put squeamishness out of her mind and concentrated on the food. A large, undented can of fruit cocktail, the label faded but clearly readable, seemed the best bet.
There were no plates, but she scrubbed a couple of dented forks, then set the opened can of fruit in front of Donovan. “You’re sure it’s safe to eat this?”
He studied the contents, sniffed them, then nodded. “As long as the can was intact, there should be no problem. Trust me, I’ve eaten worse.”
“If you say so.”
He offered her the can again. “Go ahead. Have what you want and I’ll finish the rest.”
“You eat first,” she said, turning toward the soap. “I’m going out to the stream to wash up a bit.”
“That sounds good. Maybe I’ll hobble out to the stream after I’ve eaten.”
“Why don’t I bring water back in here, instead?” she countered, picking up the saucepan she’d used earlier, and adding it to the soap and extra strip of T-shirt fabric she already held. “I’d like you to stay off that leg for a little while.”
He shrugged. “The longer I wait to get back on my feet, the harder it’s going to be when we have to start moving again.”
“Still, it won’t hurt you to rest some first.” She opened the creaky cabin door. “I won’t be long.”
“Just be careful.”
Nodding, she slipped outside.
The sky was so overcast that it looked like twilight, even though she knew nighttime was still officially a couple hours away. Hoping the rain would hold off just a little longer, she set the pan, the scrap of fabric and the soap beside the stream and unbuttoned her shirt.
She wasn’t one to strip outside, but she absolutely had to wash. And it wasn’t as if there was anyone around to see her, anyway. She only wished she had clean clothes to put on when she finished.
Wearing nothing but her ragged socks, she waded into the shallow, fast-running stream, being very careful not to lose her balance. Kneeling, she used the soap and cloth to scrub herself. She used the pan to scoop water over her hair, which she washed as best she could with the hard bar of soap. She was freezing—her teeth chattering, her skin covered with goose bumps—but she was determined to be as clean as she could get under the circumstances.
She put her clothes back on over wet skin—not a particularly pleasant feeling, but at least they helped warm her a little. Turning the pan upside down, she used it as a l
ittle stool so she wouldn’t have to sit directly in the mud while she turned her attention to her feet. The wet, shredded socks were somewhat cleaner now and she was able to peel them away from her scabbed feet with only a little hissing and cursing.
Her feet looked awful—bruised, torn, scraped, swollen—but she reminded herself that Donovan was hurt worse. She washed them gently, trying to ignore the pain, concentrating on how good it felt just to be clean.
She didn’t really want to put the wet socks back on, but she didn’t want to walk barefoot to the cabin, either. She turned the socks upside down so that the relatively undamaged parts were on the bottom to provide some protection for the soles of her feet. Wrinkling her nose at the squishy, soggy feel of wet socks against damp ground, she filled the pan with water and headed back to the cabin.
She was wet, cold, hungry and tired—but Donovan needed her.
Chapter Eight
From his chair at the table, Donovan looked up when Chloe reentered the cabin. He decided right then it was a good thing their unwitting landlord wasn’t vain enough to keep a mirror in the cabin. Because he had already discovered that Chloe was fastidious when it came to her cleanliness and appearance, he knew she would be appalled if she could see herself at that moment.
Her hair was wet and slicked close to her head, her denim shirt was wrinkled, dirty and missing a button in the middle, her khaki slacks were liberally splashed with mud and grass-stained at the knees. Her lips were a bit blue from the cold, and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes. She still limped with every step. But he was pleased to note that she didn’t look quite as pale and worn-out as she had earlier.
“Your bath must have revived you a bit,” he commented.
“It feels so much better to be clean—at least cleaner than I was,” she amended, approaching the table.
Her eyes widened when she saw the handcuffs lying next to the half-full can of fruit. The silver metal gleamed in the dim, flickering light of the candle Donovan had set in the middle of the table. “You got the cuffs off.”
He nodded and unconsciously rubbed his right wrist. “I found a few usable tools in the box of junk.”
“You had to walk over to the counter to get the candle and the matches. Honestly, Donovan, you could have fallen again or reinjured your leg. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“Because it was getting too dark to see in here. And I needed to find out if I could walk on my own.”
He thought it best not to mention that he’d also peeked out the door, just to make sure she was all right. He hadn’t liked having her out of his sight for that long. What he’d seen had caused him to spend the short time that had passed since getting his stubborn and uncooperative body back under control.
He couldn’t recall ever seeing anything more beautiful than Chloe standing unselfconsciously nude in that stream, a gracefully feminine cameo against the heavy gray clouds. It was a vision he would remember for a long time, one he expected to see quite often in his dreams.
Pushing the appealing image out of his mind for the moment, he nudged the can of fruit toward her. “You must be hungry now. Have the rest of this fruit.”
Still shaking her head in disapproval at his stubborn refusal to baby his leg, she moved to the other chair. She sank into it slowly, then nearly pitched sideways out of it when the chair wobbled sharply on uneven legs. She steadied herself quickly.
He’d started to move to catch her, but relaxed again when it was obvious that she didn’t need his assistance. “Okay?”
She bent to peer beneath the seat of her chair. “Looks like you’re not the only one in this room with a broken leg,” she murmured, then seemed to immediately regret the flippant words, judging by her self-recriminating expression.
He chuckled, wryly amused rather than offended. They might as well try to find some humor about their situation. It sure beat whining and griping, which wouldn’t have benefited either of them. And he was greatly relieved that Chloe hadn’t yet succumbed to tears. There was nothing that discomfited him more than a crying woman.
“Eat,” he said. “The fruit tastes pretty good.”
She picked up a fork with a weary smile. “I’m sure it does. But I’m almost too tired to chew.”
But she ate, anyway, and seemed to enjoy the simple fare. She had to have been as hungry as he’d been earlier.
She hadn’t even finished eating before the sky opened up again. Rain hammered noisily against the metal room. There were leaks, of course, but nothing too problematic.
In resignation, Donovan figured they might as well spend the rest of the night here and head out again at dawn. They would follow what little excuse for a road they could find, and hope that they found help before anyone dangerous found them.
He was certainly in no shape to defend himself and Chloe against at least three adversaries now.
Except for the sound of the rain, it was quiet in the cabin. Donovan couldn’t think of much to say as he rubbed his still-chafed right wrist and glared at his injured leg. It still throbbed from his activity earlier, and he could see that there was some swelling beneath the makeshift splint, but he didn’t think the break was too bad if it was broken. Cracked, maybe.
At least the bone didn’t seem to have shattered, and hadn’t punctured the skin. He’d broken bones before, and he knew this injury was more worrisome than dangerous, but he was still furious with himself for allowing it to happen.
How many more stupid mistakes could he make in front of Chloe? He’d been screwing up since she’d first gotten into his car, finally resulting in her being in this dismal position. He’d bet she never wanted to see him again once they got out of this mess. And he would get her out. Or die trying.
It had been well over twenty-four hours since they’d been taken. Donovan had no doubt that Bryan had already mobilized an extensive search, which would begin at the diner where they’d abandoned the car. Jason Colby, Falcon’s head of security, would be leading the search—and he was the best. If there had been any witnesses—anyone at all who’d seen the van near his car—Jason and Bryan would find them.
Because he knew them both so well, and because they’d trained and prepared for eventualities like this one, Donovan knew exactly what procedures Jason and Bryan would be following now. The entire area within driving distance of the diner would be marked into sections and teams dispatched to each. Bryan would spare no money or resources for the search—and he had plenty of each. He would be furious—and he wouldn’t rest until he knew Donovan and Chloe were safe.
Chloe set the empty can aside, the movement drawing his attention back to her. He was beginning to strongly doubt now that Bryan’s selection of a potential mate had been as calculated and cold-hearted as he’d led Donovan to believe.
Bryan had insisted that he’d chosen Chloe because of her qualifications as a potential wife and mother, and Donovan acknowledged those traits now. She was intelligent, competent, composed, resourceful—and stronger than she looked. She’d kept her head during this crisis; he knew plenty of women—and a few men—who would be in hysterics by now. Not once had she complained during the long, difficult night, even though her tender feet had been shredded by the nearly barefoot hike.
But there was more to admire about Chloe, he had to acknowledge. The way her hazel eyes reflected her emotions. The tiny dimples that flirted around the corners of her mouth when she smiled. The graceful sway of her hips when she walked. The silkiness of her hair, the softness of her skin. Her slender waist that emphasized the nice curves of her breasts and hips. Her long, shapely legs.
Since his friend was neither blind nor stupid, Donovan had no doubt that Bryan was aware of those physical attributes.
Donovan was becoming entirely too aware of them himself.
He watched as she smothered a yawn behind her hand. He started to rise, using a heavy stick he’d found propped in a corner for a cane.
Chloe moved to stop him. “What are you doing? If you need something,
I’ll get it for you.”
“I’m just checking out the bed. Maybe it’s reasonably clean since it’s been covered with a tarp.”
“The mattress is probably disgusting.”
But they discovered when he pulled off the dirty tarp that there was no mattress. The homemade, full-bed-sized cot was made army style, consisting of a heavy wooden frame over which had been stretched a strong green canvas hammock. The canvas was faded and slightly frayed in spots, but looked relatively clean and sturdy.
“It’s not too bad,” he said, studying the primitive structure. “Certainly as clean as the cave we slept in last night. Why don’t you try to get some rest?”
She eyed the bed warily. “You’re the one who needs to lie down,” she replied. “You shouldn’t be standing on that leg. You must be in so much pain.”
“It’s not too bad,” he lied.
It was obvious that she didn’t believe him. She glanced toward the cluttered countertop. “I wonder if there’s any chance of finding a painkiller among that mess.”
Donovan chuckled. “I don’t believe I want any of the drugs you’d find in here, thanks.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, an expression he found particularly enticing. “I meant an aspirin. Or some other over-the-counter medication, obviously.”
Still smiling a little, he shook his head. “I’ll be okay.”
She looked again at the bed. “I doubt that this cot is going to be particularly comfortable for you. But then, neither was that cave, I suppose—especially since you had to sit upright all night.”
“I’ve slept in worse positions.”
Moving toward the cot, she cocked an eyebrow at him. “Someday I’d like to hear more about your past adventures.”
That comment made his slight smile fade. Though he knew she was mostly teasing, he couldn’t respond in the same light tone. There were still too many raw wounds from his adventurous past that were barely scabbed over. He’d rather deal with a broken leg any day rather than have those old emotional wounds examined.