by Lisa Bingham
Time alone with Elam away from prying eyes.
Her heart flip-flopped in her chest and she paused, gulping air into her lungs. If it weren’t for the threat of being watched by the contest observers, P.D. had no doubts that she and Elam would have had sex by now. Heck, they might have even found a way to make love last night, if she hadn’t stupidly fallen asleep before Elam had joined her in the bedroll.
Heat plundered her veins at the mere thought of Elam’s hands roaming her naked flesh. What she wouldn’t do for an hour of privacy. Three times now, she’d awakened and realized that she’d spent the night sleeping in Elam’s arms. Only sleeping. And each time, her half-remembered dreams had left her itchy with echoed passion and feeling unfulfilled. She could only imagine how much more powerful the reality of his caresses could be.
So what had happened to loosen the grip of Elam’s grief? A few days ago, there wasn’t a popsicle’s chance in hell that Elam would even kiss her, let alone make love to her. But now, every look, every touch, every caress radiated his desire for her.
P.D. couldn’t fool herself into thinking that she’d been solely responsible for banishing Elam’s ghosts. After all, Bliss was filled with women who were prettier and more feminine than she’d ever be. If all he’d needed were a few stolen kisses and a night or two in a woman’s arms, there would have been dozens of volunteers over the past three years.
She looked over her shoulder at the valley below, finding Elam a few hundred yards north, where he was hunched over a bush. Sunlight glinted off his scissors as he cut a sample. Then he stood, his back broad, his feet braced apart in an unconscious show of strength.
Maybe it was the distraction of the Games, or the physical challenges being thrown at them. Or perhaps it was the way he’d begun to interact with his family and the community again.
Whatever the reason, she was glad that he had found some peace with himself and the past—at least for the time being. P.D. wasn’t foolish enough to think that he’d finished mourning. There would always be triggers—anniversaries, holidays, snatches of music, the scent of Annabel’s perfume.
P.D. herself had only to smell the mixture of diesel exhaust, woodsmoke, and snow to be thrust into the past. In an instant, she was six years old again, huddling outside in a sleeting storm under the faded pink polka-dot umbrella that had been given to her for Christmas. What she’d really wanted was a doll, but when her parents had gone to the thrift store, they’d bought her the umbrella instead. She remembered sitting on a warped picnic bench, trying to ignore her parents’ drunken argument behind the foggy windows. They were talking about her, and she’d begun to hum to herself to drown out their words.
… your fault that we’re saddled … brat …
… you were there … conceived …
… should have kept driving … left her there …
P.D. had insisted to herself that the umbrella was far more useful than a doll, especially in the storm. But she couldn’t completely drown out the knowledge that she would have willingly sat uncovered in a blizzard if she could only have a semblance of a loving friend. Even an imaginary one.
Geez. Why was she thinking about that now? Hadn’t she put all of that behind her? She’d risen above the challenges of her birth and made something of her life.
Challenges? Was that what she was calling them now? Why couldn’t she be honest with herself? Her childhood had been riddled with neglect and abuse by the very people who should have loved her most. And somehow, in showing her the best way not to treat another human being, they’d left her … broken.
The thought was so unguarded, so stunning, so … painful … that P.D. whirled to continue her climb and stumbled instead.
No, not broken. She refused to believe that. Flawed was probably a better term. She was educated and successful. She had a thriving business and a comfortable home.
She just didn’t seem to have what it took to keep a man’s interest for more than a few months.
But she couldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t think about it.
Shaking herself loose from her memories, P.D. continued her climb. As she grabbed for handholds among the scrub, she scoured the path for plants on the list—and her efforts paid off.
“Yarrow,” she muttered under her breath, snapping off one of the tufted yellow blooms. “Aha! Queen Ann’s lace.” She was halfway to her quota.
As she paused to put the snippings in her pocket, she realized she should have brought a bottle of water with her. The late-afternoon sun radiated off the rocks and seemed to simmer through the layers of her clothing. Beneath her bonnet, she could feel a rivulet of sweat trickling from under her braid and running down her back.
Turning, she glanced down into the valley again. Elam was much farther away now. He’d tied up the horse and buggy and seemed to be wandering in aimless circles. Great. That meant he was having trouble finding items from his list.
P.D. turned to continue her ascent, then paused when she heard a rustling in the underbrush above her. She halted, remembering Helen’s warning about snakes.
Her heart began a slow pound, and she wondered if she should abandon her search and return to the valley floor. She was incredibly thirsty, and there’d been a huge tub of iced water bottles near the front stoop of the Colby house. She could always get Elam to ride the horse up the slope to get the sumac. The last thing she needed was to run head-on into a rattler.
But she was almost there. And the rustling noise had seemed … larger … than a snake. Maybe it was a deer or … or a porcupine. That was possible. She’d seen porcupines waddling their way across the highway not too far from here.
P.D. moved even more gingerly, peering around boulders and avoiding the clumps of bushes where a rattlesnake might have gone for shade. At long last, she was able to climb onto an outcropping of rock within arm’s length of the sumac. Turning, she surveyed the trail she’d made, but thankfully, it was free of any “critters.” She should be in the clear on the way down.
After taking a few minutes to rest in the shade, P.D. cut off a branch of the distinctive sumac leaves—then crowed in delight when she saw a copse of scrub oak, which was also on her list. In the autumn, the two types of trees would turn the mountainside to scarlet, but for now, the samples brought her closer to her goal.
Afraid of leaving the safety of the rock, she leaned over as far as she could, finally managing to grab a leathery leaf from the scrub oak. Then, wobbling, she righted herself, and shoved her prize into her skirt. She glanced around—in case there might be other plants she needed. But when a breeze suddenly chilled her clammy nape and the hairs rose on her arms, she realized that she wasn’t about to head into the trees to look for anything else.
Turning to face the valley, she balanced on the boulders again, mentally plotting the best route for her descent. But just as she was about to jump onto the path, something hard whacked her on the back, and she was suddenly pitching forward.
For a moment, P.D.’s arms windmilled frantically as she tried to gain her balance, but there was no way to correct herself. She fell hard, her head striking the ground, her hands pinned awkwardly underneath her. Then, she was rolling down the hill, gravel and scrub scraping at her skin and clothing, her eyes squeezing shut against the dust and the sickening revolution of sky, dirt, sky, dirt, sky.
At long last, she came to a stop, wedged up against a clump of tumbleweed that prickled and stung.
For several seconds, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Then, as if reminded that her body required air, she took a huge gulp and opened her eyes.
The mountain dipped and swayed, and she quickly squeezed them shut again. But in that fleeting moment, she thought she saw a shape slipping back into the clump of trees at the top of the hill.
*
THE shadows were beginning to lengthen when Elam finally found the eighth plant sample on his list. Rolling all the cuttings into the paper, he inserted them in the remains of the guide book and shoved
the whole thing into the back of his waistband. Then he walked toward the spot where he’d left the two horses to drink and graze on the ditch bank. Thankfully, a farmer downstream had begun his water turn, allowing Elam to take care of the animals.
Tying the mount to the buggy again, Elam climbed onto the narrow bench seat and turned back toward the Colby house. Hopefully, P.D. had already finished finding her cuttings and they would be done for the day.
But as he rode back toward the dilapidated building, all he could see was the contest volunteer calling out to a new pair of contestants who were jogging toward her. Damned if the woman didn’t look like an inverted buttercup being beset by a pair of flies. But there was no sign of P.D.
Elam lifted his hat and wiped at the sweat hovering near his eyes, then jammed it onto his head again. He scanned the open field and then the hill beyond.
Nothing.
A cold trickle of foreboding began at his scalp, then swept down the length of his spine. He’d been in the military too long to ignore his instincts. Urging the horse into a trot, he hurried toward the volunteer, who was just sending the next set of contestants on their search.
“Have you seen my partner? Has she checked in with you?”
The woman lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “No. Sorry.”
“When did you catch sight of her last?”
She grimaced. “I couldn’t say. I’ve had two more sets of contestants come through. In between their arrivals, I was reading a book.”
“Thanks.”
Elam knew that he probably shouldn’t leave the buggy unattended. They’d already had a pair of contestants steal their horse. The buggy would provide an even bigger temptation. But the sudden pounding of his heart warned him that there were more important things at stake.
Handing the volunteer the book and his cuttings, he said, “Check these off. I’ll be back.”
To her credit, the woman didn’t seem too upset about the ruined book. She turned it over in her hand as if it were a grubby curiosity, but then she took a pen from her clipboard and wrote his number on the rolled-up paper.
As she returned to her camp chair and umbrella, wrestling with her hoops so that she could settle into the narrow seat, Elam tied the buggy to one of the few remaining support posts of the Colby house and swung himself into the saddle of the other mount instead.
“Don’t let anyone mess with the buggy,” Elam said to the woman as he rode past.
She lifted a distracted hand in his direction, but she appeared more intent on checking off the plant cuttings that he’d brought to her.
Elam spurred his mount into a trot, heading in the last direction that he’d seen P.D.
He tried to tell himself that there was no need for alarm. P.D. had lived in the area long enough that she couldn’t really get lost. All a person had to do was climb one of the hills and take a look around. Bliss was just east of here, and the network of roads leading in and out of town were easy to see. If all else failed, she could find a canal and follow it downstream. He was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. For hell’s sake, there were a hundred logical reasons for her disappearance. She could be watering a bush or sitting in the shade where he couldn’t see her.
But the thoughts didn’t ease the knocking of his heart against his ribs or the twisting sensation in his gut.
Bringing the horse to a halt, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply, then called out, “P.D.!”
But there was no movement that he could discern.
Scouring the dirt ahead of him, he finally found evidence of her trail. She was heading toward the bench.
Riding the fence line, he located a spot where he could pass through with the horse. Then he went back to the place where she’d scrambled through the barbed wire. P.D. had caught her hair on one of the barbs and the distinctive curly strands waved in the breeze.
“P.D.!” He listened, not sure if there was an answer or not. As day bled into evening, the ever-present breeze that blew into the valley from the north was beginning to pick up again, rustling the foliage around him.
Elam pointed the mount up the hill.
“Prairie Dawn, can you hear me?”
And then he heard it, a small cry from up above.
Spurring his mount in that direction, he hurried up the rocky slope.
“P.D.?”
Finally, he heard her voice.
“Here!”
His heart had changed gears from a slow thud of dread to a quicker thump of relief. But Elam didn’t allow himself to analyze the sensation. Instead, he nudged the horse slightly to the left. Then, after making his way around a crop of boulders, he finally saw P.D.
She sat with her back propped up against a rock, her sunbonnet hanging at a lopsided angle from her neck. Her face was scratched and streaked with blood and a lump on her forehead was turning purple. Her clothes were dirty and torn. But what caught him in the gut was her woebegone expression.
Elam had seen gravely wounded men in action. He’d taken his brothers to the emergency room with broken bones and deep gashes. But none of them had ever affected him as much as finding P.D. hurt and bedraggled.
Her lower lip trembled betrayingly as he swung from the saddle.
“What happened?” he asked as he took some water from the saddlebags and rushed toward her.
“I—I fell.”
He sank onto his knees beside her, his pulse still beating an uneven tattoo as he twisted the cap off one of the bottles.
She took it, drinking greedily as he dragged the bandanna from his pocket and used the other water bottle to dampen it.
Gingerly, he began wiping the blood and grit from her face. Thankfully, most of the scrapes and cuts were superficial, but the welt on her forehead had a deeper cut and he was concerned she might have a concussion.
“We need to get you to a doctor.”
She shook her head. “No. No doctor.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would disqualify us from the competition.”
“P.D., you should be examined—”
“No!”
When Elam regarded her in exasperation, her chin wobbled again and her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I need that prize money, Elam,” she whispered, obviously embarrassed. “If not, I don’t know how I’m going to come up with enough cash to make the repairs at Vern’s.”
Elam wanted to insist that no prize money was worth her health, but she gazed at him so piteously, so upset that she’d been forced to reveal her tenuous financial situation, that he folded her into his arms instead. P.D.’s own hands whipped around him, gripping him as if he were a lifeline.
“I bet the contest people have a medic on call who can come to us. But we’ve got to get you off this hill. Can you stand up?”
She nodded into his shoulder, but she didn’t release him. So, tamping down his worry, he held her tightly, absorbing her trembling until it ceased.
“Elam?” she whispered.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, still rubbing her back with long, soothing strokes.
“Elam, I think someone pushed me.”
He eased his hold enough to look at her, sure he hadn’t heard P.D. correctly.
“What?”
She smoothed her hair out of her face with her hands. “I think someone pushed me.”
Elam could scarcely credit the hot anger that roiled through his frame. “Who?”
A look of relief raced over her features. “You believe me?”
He lifted her chin. “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
She shrugged. “It sounds crazy. I didn’t see anyone—and it doesn’t make sense that anyone could be there. But I’m sure I was pushed.”
“Where were you?”
She pointed to a knot of sumac near the summit. “Up there by those boulders.”
“Wait here.” Elam handed her the second water bottle, then mounted the horse, urging it farther up the slope. He could see where P.D. had landed a
nd his gut lurched, but he forced himself to move on. Once at the sumac, he dismounted and headed into the tangle of branches. It was easy to see that the area had been disturbed. There were hoofprints and boot marks in the weeds. And someone had carelessly discarded a candy wrapper and an empty soda can. The garbage didn’t look weathered enough to have been here long.
Elam’s jaw clenched. But when his eyes fell on a heavy branch that had been tossed onto the boulders where P.D. must have been standing, a slow rage rose inside him.
Someone had been here, all right. And they’d taken that branch and swung at her as hard as they could.
Elam bit back a searing expletive. Who the hell would do such a thing? Surely not one of the observers that the contest organizers had warned them about. Another contestant?
He thought of the man that P.D. had accosted at the previous challenge. He’d taken a hit to the gut, but he hadn’t appeared overly put out by it. If anything, he’d seemed to think her reaction was funny. But had he decided to take his own brand of retaliation? If so, how could he and his partner possibly have made it this far on foot? And why was there no evidence of a second man?
Which left him with an even more serious possibility. The fire at Vern’s, the figure he’d found lurking at her house …
Did someone have a private grudge against P.D.?
The thought caused his anger to settle into his chest like a lump of hot coal. His eyes were already intently searching the countryside, the Wild West persona from the Games disappearing beneath years of training as a soldier. If it weren’t that the competition was so important to P.D., he would pull up stakes, notify the authorities, then take her somewhere safe.
But he couldn’t do that. Not when the prize money was so important to P.D. and Vern’s future. He would just have to stay more aware of his surroundings and keep her as close to him as he could.
Elam threw the branch onto the ground and strode back to his horse. Right now, he needed to focus on what was critical: getting P.D. some medical attention. Then he could report the incident and let the contest people decide what to do. But if it turned out it was another contestant …
Heaven help the man, because Elam was going to pound him into the ground.