Unzipping her pack, he emptied its contents onto the ground and riffled through them. A change of clothes, a tarp, flashlight with additional batteries, matches, packages of food and a couple of water bottles. Enough to last them a day, maybe a day and a half if they rationed their supplies. And a Glock 22, most likely from the collection of weapons he’d found in her aunt’s cabin. He released the magazine and pocketed it, clearing the chamber before wedging it between his jeans and lower back.
“What’s your plan, Marshal?” Shifting, she tried to put space between her and the tree bark grating against her oversize shirt. In vain. He wasn’t giving her a chance to run this time. His head still hurt from the last time she’d caught him by surprise. “Hide out here until the gunman who tried to kill us loses interest, then just walk me through the Marshals’ office front doors?”
“If that gets your file off my desk and you serve your time.” Beckett collected a few dead twigs and dry grass from another grouping of trees, arranged a circle of rocks around a small cone shape he’d made with the kindling, then used one of the matches from her pack to light the fire. Snow hadn’t started falling this late in the year yet, but there was a frosty bite in the air Beckett couldn’t chase from his veins. Whether it came from the dropping temperatures or from the woman currently handcuffed to the tree a few feet away, he had no idea. Didn’t want to know. “Win-win.”
“If you take me back, I’ll spend at least the next five years in prison for something I didn’t do.” Her voice shook. “Is that what you want for your daughter? Our daughter?”
Beckett raised his gaze to hers over the fire he’d lit between them, then stood. No. It wasn’t. There were plenty of kids who turned out just fine after learning the people who were supposed to care about them were monsters, but he hadn’t been one of them. He’d spent his entire life trying to make up for what his father had done, and there was no way in hell he’d put any kid of his through that same pain. Rounding the perimeter of rocks he’d used to create a barrier around the campfire, he checked the cuffs at her wrists. The sonogram was still clutched in her fist, and his gut clenched. “All right, Raleigh. You say you’re innocent? I’ll give you one chance to prove it before I drag you back to the feds.” He leveled his voice to convince himself he didn’t feel anything for her or their situation, anything at all. “But if you’re lying to me, I’ll make sure you never see that baby again.”
* * *
RAIN PATTERED LIGHTLY on her shoulder, cut through her hair straight to her scalp. A tremor rocked through her, then another. The fire held on, warming her boots and toes, but even with the exhaustion pulling at her muscles, Raleigh couldn’t sleep. Beckett had given his word he’d let her prove she hadn’t stolen the funds from Mothers Come First—her foundation—but he’d made promises before.
And broken every single one.
She’d watched countless mothers across the globe receive the help they needed and deserved because of the foundation. Prenatal care, postpartum services, sex education, ambulance services to rural areas. The work she’d dedicated her entire adult life to achieving made a difference. It’d saved lives. If there’d been an organization like hers when she and her brother had been born, maybe their mother would’ve survived the blood clot that’d killed her two days after childbirth. Maybe their lives would’ve turned out differently. Maybe her brother would still be alive.
Who would want to destroy that by stealing millions of dollars in donations? Who would try to have her killed to keep her from uncovering the truth? And how could Beckett think she’d had anything to do with it?
Raleigh shifted against the tree he’d cuffed her to, rubbing at the rawness between the metal and skin. She’d gotten into the habit of sliding her hands over her growing belly when she needed assurance, but with the cuffs, she was resigned to studying the man who’d put them on in the first place. The man who saw her as nothing more than a fugitive.
Beckett hadn’t changed much over the past few months. Thick dark beard around his jaw, matching hair she’d run her fingers through a hundred times. Rain contoured thick cords of muscle along his chest and thighs as his clothing suctioned to his body, and an answering heat to all his contained power ignited deep inside. The lines around the blue eyes she hadn’t been able to get out of her head had gotten deeper. There was a hardness in his expression that hadn’t been there before, but under all the bitterness and the invisible wall he’d built between them, he was still the same man who’d come to her aid in the middle of that Portland street less than a year ago. Still committed, defensive and cautious as ever.
“Stop staring at me.” That all-too-familiar voice warmed areas where dropping temperatures left her defenseless, and her throat dried. Which didn’t make sense. He’d hurt her, more than anyone had before, but her heart hadn’t gotten the damn idea. She’d trusted him to keep his word, to always be there when she needed him. Then he’d disappeared the moment news of her arrest went public. Beckett Foster didn’t deserve anything from her, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of coming quietly.
Keeping the brim of his hat low over his eyes, he shifted against the tree where he’d taken up guard duty, the butt of his weapon visible from here. He intertwined his fingers below his sternum and crossed his boots at the ankles, perfectly at ease out here in the wild. “If you’re waiting for me to fall asleep so you can make another run for it, don’t bother.”
“You’re a light sleeper. I remember.” He’d taken the supplies from the pack she’d buried in case she’d needed a quick escape and stripped down her weapon. While she had more packs buried out here, he held on to her only weapon. But she wasn’t going anywhere. For now. The last of the fire smoked out as the storm thundered overhead. Her clothes had soaked through in a matter of minutes. A shiver chased down her spine, the major muscles in her legs tightening against the cold. They couldn’t go back to the cabin. Not with a gunman hunting them through these woods, but there was a chance she’d freeze to death out here before Beckett could turn her over to the feds.
Pressure built behind her breastbone, and she raised her gaze to meet his. Instant awareness charged every nerve she owned, as though she’d laid eyes on him for the first time. His lips parted on a strong exhalation as he sat up and reached for the tarp beside him. In a matter of erratic heartbeats, he stood over her. Water clung to the sharp angles of his face as he arranged the edges of the tarp overhead so she was protected from the downpour. “You should’ve brought a coat. Won’t do either of us any good if you drop into hypothermia.”
“I was more concerned about outrunning you than fashion at the time.” She licked the water from her mouth, and his gaze homed in on the action, sending a rush of lightness straight through her. The lack of rain sliding down her scalp and into her collar was already helping her warm up, but her hands still shook. The cuffs rattled around the tree, her jaw aching against the chattering of her teeth. She couldn’t feel her fingers, and her toes had started going numb without the warmth of the fire.
He maneuvered under the tarp, taking the handcuff keys from his back pocket in the same move. Strong fingers slid around her arm as Beckett twisted the key and pried the cuffs from around her wrists.
She pulled both hands in to her chest. Red-and-pink scratches puckered down the length of the thin skin of her forearms from the tree bark, but while the physical pain hurt, the bruising in her heart ached more. Crossing her arms over her midsection, she leaned into the tops of her thighs. “Thanks.”
“It’s one thing not to trust you—it’s another to watch you freeze to death on my watch.” He sat beside her, muscled arms brushing against her side.
Right. Because this was just another fugitive-recovery assignment for him. When—if—they were able to prove she’d been framed for taking all that money, he still had to bring her in for skipping out on her trial. Best-case scenario, the truth would come out, the charges w
ould be dropped and they’d each move on with their lives. That was the job, and the knot in her stomach constricted as loss tore through her.
The neutrality smoothing his expression didn’t show any evidence of the thoughts running through his head. He’d cut her off from the man she’d known, cut her out of his life faster than most people took to rip off a Band-Aid, and there wasn’t a single moment out here on the run when she’d forgotten that choice. She’d known the risk of letting someone close again, known the people she’d cared for the most would have the power to cause the most damage, but she’d been willing to take that risk. For him. Raleigh hugged her knees, the waistband of her jeans fitting tighter than a few weeks ago. Only now she wasn’t the only one who’d end up paying the price. “Beckett, I know this situation isn’t ideal—”
“Let’s get one thing straight. I’m giving you one chance to prove your innocence solely because you claim that baby you’ve got in there is mine. Anything else is off the table, understand?” He dug his heels into the mud, rain echoing off the tarp overhead, and she bit back the apology at the tip of her tongue. He kept his gaze ahead, on some distant point instead of her, and she nodded. She understood. He was doing this for their unborn child, not her, and if he could have it his way, he would’ve chosen someone—anyone—else to take on that calling. “You’re the CFO of the foundation. There can’t be that many people aside from you with access to the donations account. If you’re not the one who embezzled it, as you say, then tell me who else could get their hands on that money without raising any red flags.”
Raleigh forced herself to take a deep breath as the sickening twist in her stomach intensified. She’d helped found Mothers Come First, had vetted nearly every employee herself. Even after all these months, it was still hard to imagine any of them had stolen from the charity, but she’d mapped out her own suspect list soon after escaping federal custody. “The foundation employs thirteen accountants in Finance and Fund Services. There’s Calvin Dailey, the CEO, but...” Bile worked up her throat. But according to Beckett, her founding partner had been killed in his own home. She felt light-headed as reality hit. Calvin would’ve been the only one who could’ve cleared her name. She cleared her throat, focusing her attention on the scratches carved into her forearms from the tree bark. Her shirt should’ve been enough to protect her from the bark while she’d been cuffed, but it’d ridden up when she’d tried picking the lock. At the time, the pain had been worth it. Now, not so much. “Then we have two fund services accountants who oversee the daily donations coming in and the money going out. Plus, my assistant, Emily.”
“Then we’ll start there.” His gaze dipped to her arms, the weight of those hypnotic blue eyes hiking her heart rate into overdrive. Before she had a chance to take her next breath, he reached for her. Rough calluses caught against her skin as he unfolded her arms away from her midsection and smoothed his thumb across the small, angry lacerations. “We’re going to have to clean those before they get infected.”
“I’m fine.” She tugged at her wrist as the hollowness in her chest flared, but he only tightened his hold on her. Blood rushed to the oversensitized skin along her arms.
“I’m not going to risk you getting sick on my watch.” Keeping her arm in his grip, he dug into her go bag with his free hand and pulled the small first-aid kit from the depths. In seconds, the antiseptic burn spread across her skin as Beckett brushed the alcohol pad down along the tendons of her forearms and left a relieving coolness in its wake. Dirt lined the edges of his fingernails, that signature scent of wood and earth filling her senses, and a glimpse of the man she’d fallen for all those months ago surfaced. The one who’d put himself at risk to fight off a mugger on her behalf, however unnecessary it’d been at the time. Who’d ensured she’d gotten home safely and bandaged the wound in her palm when she’d cut her hand on the sidewalk after the attack. Her nerve endings buzzed with familiarity as Beckett moved on to the next arm and cleaned the rest of the scratches. “There. Less likely you’ll die of infection before your next court date.”
The physical pain along her forearms ebbed as he secured gauze and tape over the wounds, but there was an invisible sting in her chest. She’d been fine on her own, taken care of herself for as long as she remembered. Losing her mother right after childbirth, never knowing her father. Then having her brother taken from her right in front of her eyes when she’d been fifteen. Losing Beckett had just been another in the long line of people she couldn’t count on sticking around. She’d never known how strong she was until being strong was the only choice she’d had, but right now, a nervous tremor shook through her. “Thank you.”
“Get some sleep.” His voice deepened as though he’d been affected by his action as much as she had, and that, combined with his proximity, hooked into her senses. “Your one chance to prove your innocence starts at dawn.”
Chapter Three
He could still feel her, feel the softness of her skin against the calluses on his fingers. What the hell had he been thinking, playing nurse like that? As far as he was concerned, Raleigh Wilde was exactly what the prosecuting attorney believed, the very thing he’d battled to stop his entire career. A fugitive. Here he was, cleaning her wounds like what she’d done didn’t matter.
Her head rested against his arm, the slow rise and fall of her chest telling him she’d finally fallen asleep, but he couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe, and he definitely couldn’t think. Long, damp hair plastered to the angles of her familiar jawline, and his fingers tingled to sweep it back behind her ear. Rain lightened against the tarp above them. That, along with their combined body heat, had chased back the numbness in his fingers and toes, but it’d take a lot more than her word to break through the caution he’d relied on to keep himself alive. Beckett curled his hands into fists. One minute, she’d been everything to him, and in cuffs the next.
Now a shooter had tried to kill her, one he highly doubted she’d hired herself. Hell, he could admit it’d been one of his weakest moments considering the idea, because despite the proof stacked against her, Raleigh had gotten one thing right. He hadn’t been willing to see evidence she might be innocent. Not after she’d run from him.
The past rushed to meet the present, and Beckett squeezed his eyes shut. His mother’s scream echoed in his head. Over and over. There’d been a gun, blood. Fear. He hadn’t been able to stop any of it. His father had stolen millions of dollars from hardworking Americans, and one of those Americans had broken into their family home to make him pay. Only the gunman hadn’t found his father that night. The bastard had taken off a few months before. No warning. No note. Just up and left Beckett and his mother to fend for themselves on the ranch passed down from his maternal grandparents. Instead of finding revenge, with a single pull of a trigger, the man who’d lost everything to Hank Foster had taken away the only parent Beckett had left when he’d been sixteen. It’d all been his father’s fault.
“Hey.” That sweet voice, the one that’d haunted him the last four months, broke through his defenses as her hand slid across his chest. Stinging heat exploded through his system as his heart rate tried to keep up with his shallow breathing. Raleigh rubbed soothing circles over the left side of his chest, her voice soft as reality bled into focus. “Are you okay?”
Red and oranges crept across the sky and damp earth of the clearing they’d camped in for the night. Damn it, he must’ve fallen asleep. Beckett scrubbed his face and beard with one hand, his defenses growing stronger second by slow, agonizing second. “I’m fine.”
“You still have nightmares.” Not a question, but he couldn’t help but tense all the same. There’d been times when he’d woken in a cold sweat from the memories of that night, but having her pressed against him, her rubbing his back in soothing circles the same way she was doing now, had made the transition back to sleep easier. He’d spent years training to become a lawman, ready to balance out the hurt and pain Hank Foste
r had caused by bringing criminals like his father to justice, but in those moments with her, Beckett had felt safe. Supported. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“It’s nothing.” He brushed her hand from his chest and shoved to his feet. He ripped the tarp out of his way. The smell of cleansing rain, earth and wet wood penetrated his senses, but none of it was strong enough to dislodge her vanilla scent from his lungs. Beckett forced himself to clear his head, to focus. She had a federal warrant out for her arrest and a gunman on her trail. They’d wasted enough time. Because the sooner he proved Raleigh was exactly what he thought her to be, the sooner he could move on with his life—for good. “We need to keep moving.”
“You’ve been having them for years, and that’s all you say when I ask. That it’s nothing.” She got to her feet, those all-too-familiar green eyes searching his expression, but she wouldn’t get anything. Not from him. Had they stayed together, there might’ve been a point where he’d trusted her with the truth, but that day was long past. She’d made sure of that. “I was there, Beckett. In the middle of the night, when you were screaming and shaking. I was the one who helped you get back to sleep, who reminded you that you were safe.”
This conversation wasn’t happening. “I never asked you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said. “That’s what couples are supposed to do—”
“You’re not my therapist, and we’re not a couple.” He closed the short space between them, internal fire neutralizing the low temperatures. The closer he inched, the more her personal gravitational pull on him intensified, to the point he knew if he wasn’t careful, he might never back off. “You can cut the manipulative interest in my mental health. I’m here for one thing—to give that baby of yours a fighting chance.” He pointed to her stomach. “If that means proving you’re guilty, so be it. At least she’ll grow up not knowing what kind of monster her mother really is.”
The Fugitive Page 3