by Linda Howard
Angie was a bull’s-eye, in more ways than one. He was more powerfully attracted to her than he’d ever been to anyone else, and she tasted as if she’d been made for him. What had started out as something physical had rapidly turned into something he was almost afraid to look at, because, shit, what if he was falling in love with her, and she was being nice now because of the situation, but for her the bottom line would always be that he’d run her out of business and forced her to sell her home? That was a hard thing for anyone to get over. Yeah, he had a plan for that, but would she listen?
Maybe, maybe not. He didn’t want to take that risk. Actions spoke louder than words, and this opportunity was too good to pass up.
By the time Chad had gotten the horse in the corral, the weak light, filtered through that hellish, unending rain, had faded completely away. He had to use his flashlight to maneuver the horse; thank God the animal seemed as glad to reach shelter as he was, because if it had given him any trouble right now he swore he’d shoot the bastard.
The day had been a big piece of shit from start to finish, nothing but wasted effort. He’d already been tired from the night before, but just the thought of getting down the mountain and driving away, winning, had kept him going. He might as well have saved himself the effort and gotten some rest instead. Now he was cold, wet, exhausted, and thoroughly miserable.
It should have been easy. All he’d had to do was ride down the mountain, and if he got to that rancher’s place before dark, just hang out until dark, then get in the SUV and drive away. Piece of cake. In spite of the crappy weather, in spite of the fact that he knew Angie had escaped and was out there somewhere, as well as having a killer bear in the vicinity … it should’ve been easy.
It wasn’t.
He knew he wasn’t a great outdoorsman, but he was smart, and he was better prepared than anyone else knew. He’d practiced his riding for a year. He’d bought the pistol and practiced with it. He’d been as prepared as he’d logically expected he would need to be. This fucking weather, though—no way could he have expected the violence of the storm, the deluge of rain.
He hadn’t expected any real problems on the trek down the mountains, unless by some evil twist of fate he’d encountered an armed and pissed Angie Powell. Once he’d found the campsite, he’d been certain he could get back to Lattimore’s place. He knew which way was down; and he’d studied maps before heading out on this trip, because he knew he’d be making his way off the mountain alone. He and the horse were getting along well enough, so he had that going for him. But the intense rain had slowed him down, making the way so treacherous that every single step was a victory. He’d zigzagged around pitfalls that hadn’t been there on the way up, and after a while he’d lost any real idea of where the trail might actually be.
Water rushed down the mountain in rivulets that turned to streams that turned to rivers. The ground beneath the horse’s hooves was soft and uncertain, making the horse nervous and easily spooked. At one point the horse stumbled and Chad held his breath and prayed as the animal regained its balance. If his ride broke a leg he’d be forced to walk the rest of the way. He was sure he wouldn’t get far on foot, not in this mess.
After a few hours of what felt like constant struggle, he was exhausted from the effort of staying on the horse and being hyperalert to every detail. Constant vigilance was as tiring as physical effort. At least now the horse had a saddle on it, so riding was easier. He’d put on dry clothes and his slicker before heading out, so at least he wasn’t soaking wet, but the chill and dampness slowly began sinking through to the bone. At one point he had to dismount to lead the horse over a particularly treacherous spot; he’d slipped and fallen in the water, so then, damn it, he was wet as well. He hated this fucking rain. Once he was wet, he got colder and colder; his joints were screaming at him, and he shuddered uncontrollably. Every movement, no matter how small, took intense effort. He felt as if he’d aged twenty years in a matter of hours. He’d known he couldn’t survive much more of this.
Finally he had to make a decision. If he couldn’t make it to Lattimore’s, or at least nearby, before dark, he was in real trouble. He’d dismounted in a sea of mud, grabbed a protein bar from his saddlebag, and stood there in the rain, miserable and pissed, his head down to protect his little bit of dry, tasteless food from the rain while he chewed and thought. He hadn’t gotten very far, not nearly as far as he’d planned, and his options were to try to find some shelter now and wait it out, or go back to the campsite. Both options held the element of risk. The good news was if he couldn’t make it off the mountain, neither could Angie. She was probably holed up in a cave somewhere, and the bitch probably knew how to find dry wood even in a downpour like this, and how to build a fire.
He didn’t want to wait out the storm in a cave, or huddling under a rock overhang like the one he’d cowered beneath last night. What he really wanted was a nice hotel suite with room service and a whirlpool tub filled to the brim with hot water. He wanted clean sheets, a soft mattress, and a pile of warm blankets. He wanted a hot bowl of lobster bisque and a pot of even hotter coffee. Unfortunately, all that was going to have to wait.
Maybe he didn’t have access to that hotel room and everything that would come with it just yet, but there were tents back at the camp, and a lot more comfort than out here on the mountainside. He hated to backtrack, but he wasn’t sure how long he was going to have to wait before he could travel at a decent pace. There was food, shelter, and dry clothes at the camp. Yeah, the remains of Davis’s carcass were there, too, but he figured the bear had eaten all it wanted and moved on. Didn’t other animals move in really fast? Probably there was nothing left of Davis by now.
He shuddered. If he thought too much about what he’d seen he wouldn’t be able to move forward or back, he’d be frozen in terror and then he’d literally die here, whether it was from the damn cold, or Angie, or some other complication just waiting to trip him up.
No, staying here wasn’t an option. He hadn’t come this far just to give up, no matter what the reason.
Reluctantly, he led the horse back the way they’d come, not willing to risk injuring his ride off this mountain on the uncertain terrain by getting back in the saddle for the trip up the river of mud he found himself in. He cursed under his breath, angry at being forced to turn back, but he didn’t see that he had any other real choice. One thing about it, though: He was very much looking forward to getting out of this damned rain.
He was stuck until the weather cleared, and he might as well accept that. But so was Angie, so she wasn’t gaining any more on him than she had the night before, when she was probably able to cover some ground because the flood conditions hadn’t gotten quite as bad. She was on foot, though, so once he was able to start again, he’d quickly make up for his lost time.
No matter. His ultimate goal remained unchanged; it was just going to take longer to get there than he’d planned. A good strategist was flexible.
So he’d reversed his path down the mountain, and to his dismay found that already he had to make detours from the way he’d traveled just hours ago, because of the unending sea of water pouring from the heavens and rushing down the mountain. Anxiously he noticed the light begin to fade, so he said to hell with leading the horse and got back into the saddle, hoping to speed up his pace a little.
Finally, on the last gasp of daylight, he made it to the campsite.
He put the horse into the corral, resenting every minute he had to spend taking care of it before he could take care of himself, but he’d be in deep shit without the animal, so he forced himself to take the time. He even fed the bastard. Then he stumbled into his tent, turned on the lantern and the small camp heater, and began stripping off his wet clothes. Fuck, he was cold!
He’d never before thought of dry, clean clothes as a luxury, but as he quickly dried himself with a hand towel, Chad knew he’d never again take the simple things, like food, water, and shelter, for granted. This life wasn’t for
him, that was for certain.
He wanted to take the basics for granted. He wanted to forget what it felt like to be wet and cold, he wanted to put all of this behind him and never look back. He wanted to expect around-the-clock comfort again—and oh, what comforts he could afford with the money he’d stashed away! All he had to do was get out of here, which wasn’t going to be today, tonight, and maybe not tomorrow.
He got dressed: dry underwear, jeans, a camo sweatshirt that felt like heaven on his chilled body, thick socks. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an extra pair of boots, so he left his wet boots sitting to the side, close to the camp heater. Maybe they’d dry out before he had to put them back on.
Once he felt fairly decent again, with warm, dry clothing on, he heaved a deep sigh and just sat for a minute, listening to the rain fall hard on the tent. Then he ate another protein bar and drank a bottle of water. He really, really wanted something hot to eat, but that wasn’t possible just yet. So he drank the water and tried not to think about coffee. He chewed on the bar and tried not to notice how shitty it tasted, how the texture was more like sticky sawdust than real food. Still, with every second that passed, his body eased, welcoming the warmth and dryness.
He’d never felt so alone. Except for the horse in the corral, he hadn’t seen anyone or anything out in this mess, not even a bird. Everyone—man, woman, and beast—was holed up in some kind of shelter, waiting out the big rain.
But animals still had to eat, didn’t they, whether it rained or not? Maybe that meant they’d come out at night. He thought of bears and cougars prowling around outside his tent and nervously he got his rifle and put it within easy reach. God, he was so tired. He couldn’t stay awake another miserable night. He had to get some sleep tonight, or he’d be unable to function tomorrow even if the sun came out and the land miraculously dried up.
But he was afraid to sleep, afraid he’d conk out so completely that a bear would be in the tent chewing on him before he woke. He sat on the mattress, and kind of zoned out, thoughts flitting through his brain but not really stopping for him to examine them.
He wondered if the three horses he’d left tied up under the overhang had managed to shake free or if they were still there, waiting for him to return.
He wondered if the bear had come back to finish eating what was left of Mitchell Davis while he’d been trying, and failing, to make his escape.
He wondered if it was possible that Angie had succeeded where he’d failed, if she’d made it off the mountain today, or at least covered some significant ground. She might’ve found the horses, though that was a long shot.
Maybe she knew a shortcut; maybe she was tougher than he’d thought. She might be at Lattimore’s. Unlikely, but he needed to have a plan for every contingency …
He almost laughed at that one. How could he possibly have planned for a killer bear and the storm of the century?
He had to keep going, though; he was much more afraid of Davis’s associates than he was of the cops. He sure as hell didn’t want to be arrested, but he’d rather take on a bear and the law together than, well, he knew what Davis’s thugs had done to people who crossed him, and he knew that Davis himself had had to answer to someone even higher up the food chain, someone who was likely even more brutal. He had to disappear, and that was that. Even in prison, he wouldn’t be safe.
His best bet for getting out of the country was still his original plan. He couldn’t take the chance of heading in a different direction and trying to rent or steal a vehicle somewhere else. Hell, this was Montana. He might end up in some godforsaken part of the state where days passed without a vehicle being seen … kind of like the part where he was now.
He’d stick to what he thought would work best. He needed the SUV; it was rented in his name, so if he got stopped by some traffic cop for not using his turn signal or some other stupid-ass shit, there wouldn’t be any problem. Besides, he’d waded through shit, literally, and stuck his hand in some disgusting things to get the keys out of Davis’s pocket. He wasn’t going to back down now.
If by some chance Angie had made it there before him, and she had men waiting for him, well, it wasn’t like this was a city, or even a town, so how many of them could there be? He had a rifle and a pistol, and he wasn’t afraid to use either of them. Once he made it off the mountain, he’d be smart and cautious and scout out the situation before he showed himself. If someone else was there, waiting for him, he’d look scared. He’d look helpless. After years of practice, he was good at that. He’d beg for mercy, maybe he’d even cry, tell them it was all a mistake and Davis had been about to kill him, it was self-defense, and he hadn’t really shot at Angie at all, he’d seen the bear and panicked … yeah, that was good. And he was good enough that he could make even Angie doubt herself. And then, when they thought he wasn’t a threat, he’d kill them all. He didn’t have a problem with that. And if anyone thought he would, tough shit for them.
He could feel himself drifting. He was so tired, he knew he was punch drunk. He had to get some sleep, or die.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Fifteen minutes, that was all he needed, just fifteen minutes to recharge his batteries. Not sleep, not really, he couldn’t afford to be entirely out of it, but if he could just close his eyes.…
Chapter Twenty-two
As dreams went, this one sucked. Angie was awake just enough to know that she was dreaming, but was unable to pull herself out of it. No good could come of any dream that wouldn’t let go, that kept pulling her down—
She was facedown in the mud. She was suffocating. Mud was in her eyes, up her nose, and every time she tried to take a breath she choked on the vile stuff. She struggled to breathe, to see, but everything was dark. She didn’t know where she was or how she was going to get out of this. Panic pounded through her like drumbeats, she had to get out, get out, get out.… She fought, clawing, to move forward, to lift her head out of the stinking muck, but no matter how hard she tried she didn’t gain any ground, couldn’t fight free. Cold mud threatened to swallow her whole, to suck her down into the earth.
Being caught like this made her so angry. She wasn’t afraid of drowning; there were worse things than being stuck in the mud, and if she couldn’t get out of here those worse things would be there any minute. A murderer and a bear were coming for her. She couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them, but she knew they were close. Behind her. Ahead of her. All around. They were coming for her.
And then the mud changed. What had been dark, smelly muck changed to something sweet and white. Straining every muscle in her neck, Angie was able to lift her head. Right in front of her was a yellow rose made of cake icing. Breathing hard, she licked her lips, tasted the white stuff that covered her from head to toe. Not mud: icing. Icing from her wedding cake was in her eyes and her nose and her mouth, between her fingers, between her toes. But why was she barefoot? Where were her boots?
She shuddered. The icing was worse than the mud, because it was wrong, it shouldn’t be there. She tried to shake it away, but the stuff clung, coating her. Cold chills rippled down her spine. Moving in this sea of icing was more difficult than it had been to move in the mud.
She was trapped.
And behind her, an animal growled.
Angie wrenched herself out of the dream and into a sitting position, gasping for breath, and of course banging her damn ankle in the process. A sharp cry escaped before she could stop it, as if her sudden movements alone weren’t enough to wake the man with whom she was sleeping.
Sleeping with Dare Callahan. Now, there were four words she’d never thought she’d string together in a sentence, in any context.
“What’s wrong?” he growled, the sound slow and soothing, unlike the growl in her dream. She needed the calm he offered, she needed the solid warmth of his body close beside her, anchoring her in reality. What a stupid, disturbing dream!
“Just a bad dream.” She tried to shake it off, to forget the images. Gingerly she rubbed at her an
kle, trying to soothe the ache.
“What was it about?” He sat up, turned on the lantern.
After almost total darkness, the white light made her squint. Angie eased herself back down. “Nothing much.” She didn’t need to analyze the dream to know what it meant, or why she’d had it. She also didn’t want to explain why she’d had a nightmare about wedding cake. That was so stupid. The mud, the bear, Chad … that would all make sense to him. Wedding cake? Not so much.
He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Maybe it’ll help to talk about it.”
She glanced at him, and—Oh, holy shit! He wasn’t wearing a shirt. She could have sworn he’d been wearing one when they’d lain down, but … not now. Some time during the night he must have gotten too warm, and she’d been too out of it to wake up when he’d taken it off. She gaped at him, at the way the light gleamed on the powerful curve of his shoulders, the sinewy, vein-laced muscles in his arms. A dark patch of hair decorated the middle of his chest, spread lightly over his pecs. There was a scar on his right shoulder that ran in a jagged line about three inches long, but it was an old scar, smoothed by time to nothing more than a silver line. It was, nevertheless, a silent reminder that the man next to her was a warrior, a man who had seen battle and been shaped by it. He’d been wounded, he’d faced death, he’d maybe, probably, caused death. He’d know and understand strategy, and he’d go into any situation determined to win.
More rattled than seeing a half-naked man warranted, Angie squirmed, then casually tossed an arm over her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at him, but not because he was too hard on the eyes. Too much the opposite, in fact, so much so that seeing him like that interfered with her thought processes.