Deadly Purpose, page 2
She untied the laces on the boot, pulled it off, and brought up her other foot, all the while conscious of Mister Broody watching her out of hooded eyes. Carefully, she placed her boots next to her sleeping bag and scooted back.
“Be a pal and close the hatch.”
“You can’t sleep out here.”
“You’re in my cabin and won’t leave, so this is exactly where I’m sleeping.”
“It’s too cold to sleep in the car.”
She pulled the beanie lower over her ears. “It’s not so bad.”
He swore ripely and Meg forced back the instinctive flinch. She’d dealt with unpredictable moods from men before and survived.
“Get out of the car.”
She eyed him cautiously. “Ah, no.”
He ran a hand over his thick beard, muttering a string of profanities. His dark beard was threaded with strands of silver, and she wondered what he looked like clean shaven. He heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Jesus Christ. Okay, you can sleep in the cabin.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“In the cabin. You can have the couch.”
“No. Thank you, but no.” She reached up to grab the door.
“You’ll freeze your ass out here.” If nothing else, the absolute reluctance in his tone should have been an indicator that she would be safe with him.
“I’ve got a sleeping bag. I’ll be fine.” When she pulled on the hatch, he held it open with a raised hand. Snow dusted his dark hair and the shoulders of his heavy plaid shirt.
“You can’t be serious. You’re sick. It’s fucking snowing. You can’t spend the night out here.”
“Right. Whatever.” Giving in was a strategic withdrawal. Feeling like she was using the last of her strength, she tugged on her boots, not bothering to tie the laces, and grabbed her keys. She pushed out of the vehicle. “I’ll leave.”
“Damn it,” he growled. “You’re going to park on the side of the road somewhere, aren’t you? God save me from stupid women.”
“I am not a stupid woman.”
“You are if you think you’ll sleep in a car in freezing weather. That’s how people die.”
She raised her gaze to his. “Stupid women are the ones who spend the night in a cabin with a strange, angry man.”
“Then get a motel in town.”
“Can’t do that.”
He’d stepped back so she could push the rear hatch shut. With a hand on the side of the car she moved around to the driver’s door. She tipped her head back and gazed up at the sky. If you stared hard enough, you could follow a single snowflake as it drifted from high above. “I’ve never seen it snow before. It’s beautiful.”
Note to self, tilting your head back when you have the flu is to be avoided. The world swam crazily, and she tried to focus once again on getting to the car door. The ripe oath muttered from behind her should have been a warning, because suddenly the world tipped even more as she was swept up in arms as strong and unyielding as the tall trees surrounding them.
Fear rose like vomit, choking her. Bucking, twisting, kicking, she fought to get free, her breath coming in jerky gasps. “Let me down,” she snarled. She swung a tight fist to catch him with a solid clip to the jaw then jammed an elbow into his gut.
He let go, dropping her onto a heap of pine needles. “Shit. Hit me again and I will let you freeze to death.”
She scrambled to her feet, holding on to the side of her car for balance. “I wouldn’t have hit you if you hadn’t grabbed me.”
“Lady, I only grabbed you to save you from passing out and ending up on your ass. Guess you ended up there anyway.”
“Keep your hands to yourself. I’ll leave, but you can place a bet that I’ll be back first thing in the morning, so you better start packing.”
“You’re sleeping in the damn cabin.”
She spotted her keys in the dirt where they’d landed when he dropped her. She bent to retrieve them but he was quicker, swooping down to gather them up. He pressed the remote and the SUV gave its little chirp to let her now it was locked, then deposited the keys in the front pocket of the heavy canvas pants he wore.
“Give me my keys.”
“No.” He strode to the cabin. “Come inside.”
Chapter Two
Indecision warred inside her cloudy brain. He could be a serial killer even now plotting to murder her, hack her body to bits, and bury her in the woods. Or he could be a grumpy squatter who didn’t really want to bother with her, but had enough decency not to want her sleeping in her car when she was sick. The truth? She was hungry, exhausted, and had used up all of the reserves of gumption she possessed.
Damn it. She trailed him across the porch where he stood with the door open. She grabbed hold of the jamb when the warmth hit her once again. The combination of heat with the heady smell of something aromatic cooking were enough to make her knees wobble.
“There’s the couch. You’re sleeping there.”
She looked in the direction he pointed. A long dark leather couch she didn’t recognize stood in front of the fireplace where a blaze snapped behind a screen. The tiny bedroom where she’d slept those long-ago summers was upstairs, but maybe he thought she’d feel safer with a little distance between them. She dragged her gaze back to study the man, trying to gauge his character, his trustworthiness. He didn’t have mean eyes. As if that meant anything. His sheer reluctance to accommodate her was another vote in his favor. But he might be a good actor. If he’d really wanted to entice her to stay with him, to cause her harm, wouldn’t he have been, well, nicer? Or maybe this was his strategy all along—get her to trust him then take advantage.
Standing in the open doorway, she was aware of the life-saving heat escaping into the snowy dusk. The choice between the cozy warmth inside the cabin and subfreezing temperatures outside should have decided her. But she knew danger could hide behind eyes fortified by false concern. The man stood with lowered brows, thumb tucked into the front pocket of his pants. He looked irritated and put out. Anything else would have made her suspicious.
After being so careful, so cautious, for so many months, the idea of putting her faith in a strange man seemed unfathomably careless. But at that moment survival dictated she trust him, because if she didn’t get someplace warm and get some food in her belly, what she hoped was only a routine bout of the flu could easily turn into something much more serious.
She opened her mouth to speak but found her teeth wanted to chatter. It seemed her body had to go through a process before she could be warm. She tightened her jaw and enunciated carefully. “Okay. I need to get some things out of the car, and then I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
“Tell me what you want.”
Suddenly too exhausted to do anything else, she sighed, then answered through gritted teeth. “My sleeping bag, pillow, and big black bag.”
“That’s it?”
“Oh, and my daypack. It’s on the passenger seat.”
She watched him move to the door. Why was he being so…not kind…reluctantly accommodating, perhaps? No, that was too generous. He appeared way too surly for that. But regardless that he obviously didn’t want her around, and didn’t think the cabin was hers, he was willing to let her stay. Under that gruff exterior maybe he felt sorry for her.
When he closed the door behind him, she gazed around the cabin, little things triggering memories of her father. As the child of never-married parents, and her mother having sole custody and only allowing her to spend time with her father on rare occasions, Meg had always felt the short visits she’d had with her dad were special, especially because they were so limited. The two of them had packed as much as they could into those brief summer months when she’d joined him at the cabin.
Despite some subtle changes, the interior was the same. Stairs to the right led up to the loft, and she thought the rail looked new. The big stone fireplace with the solid walnut mantel and the rustic chair with green leather upholstery were the same. A movement caught her eye, and she spied a small calico cat curled on a round bed near the fireplace, licking a paw and rubbing it over her face. For some reason, the cat’s presence was reassuring. The man didn’t look like a cat person, but since he apparently was, how bad could he be? On the other hand, Hitler had loved dogs.
The kitchen took up the back left corner of the first floor, and was pretty sparsely equipped. She had baked chocolate chip cookies for her dad in the unpredictable oven. He’d eaten even the crispy, overcooked ones, saying he’d never tasted better. An accordion door on a track hid a stacked washer/dryer combo, and a Crock Pot sat on the counter, steam escaping from around the lid. The dining table piled with books and papers and an open laptop computer doubled as a workspace.
Memories of her father felt like ghosts from the past, and she fought against the pricking tears. Despite the sadness, there was something comforting about being where she’d been happy as a child.
The door swung open and her reluctant host dumped her sleeping bag, pillow, and pack on the couch, letting her black bag hit the floor with a thud. The keys landed on top of the pile. He must trust her not to rabbit, but she still was nowhere near ready to put her faith in him.
“Packing rocks in there?”
“No.” She glanced at him hastily but his expression remained the same, somewhat aloof and slightly irritated. What if he’d looked inside? She was getting careless.
She moved to the couch and arranged the sleeping bag and pillow. The warmth from the fireplace and the achiness of being ill combined to sap her energy. With her boots set neatly at the end of the couch, it took all her reserves to slip inside and pull the bag up to her ears, sighing as she closed her eyes. The man hadn’t moved. For all she knew he was still staring at her.
Meg didn’t care.
She was finally starting to feel like maybe she wouldn’t fall victim to hypothermia. Her head hurt, her bones ached, and she shivered occasionally, but feeling warm for the first time in what seemed like days made everything else fade in significance.
“Shit. You should have Tylenol.”
Sleepiness slurred her reply.
“What?”
She put more effort into her words. “Crappy bedside manner. Hope you’re not a nurse.”
He snorted. She might have thought he was suppressing a laugh, but she couldn’t imagine that grim face relaxing into humor.
“What’s your name?”
She raised her eyelids enough to see the frown was still in place. “Meg. What’s yours?”
After a long moment he replied, “Declan.”
“Okay.” Feeling oddly safe, she let sleep take her.
***
Dex sat in the chair by the fireplace, legs stretched in front of him. He rubbed his right thigh where a bone-deep ache reminded him he still wasn’t one hundred percent healed. Not as bad as it had been, but still a nagging reminder of his former life. The cat wandered over and he scratched her ears when she jumped onto his lap.
The woman had checked out before he could get her to take anything for the fever. What the hell was he going to do with her? Who drove into the mountains when they were sick, and without a firm idea of where they were going? A check of the registration in the glove box had revealed her name, but he’d asked anyway, testing whether she’d be straight with him. Meghan Bennett, address in Santa Cruz. A quick look through the small SUV and it was obvious she’d been living out of her car.
There were no printouts from motels, and the receipts he’d found told him she’d bought a container of yogurt and a box of granola bars at a gas station in Sacramento, then a banana, protein bars, and a bottle of pain reliever along with gas in Truckee. All paid for with cash.
He rose and moved to the kitchen, the cat trotting in front of him. He dumped a couple spoonfuls of food from a can into her bowl, and once he’d filled his mug with coffee, he returned to the chair, iPad tucked under his arm. The iPad sat unused as he sipped the strong brew, watching the woman.
She was on the run, apparently without much in the way of resources. That she’d insisted the cabin was hers bothered him. She was wrong, and he’d need to move her along once she could stand without doing a face plant. But something about that felt off. She’d sure as hell acted sincere. Regardless, he damn sure didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s drama.
For the most part, he’d managed to avoid people for the past year or so. He’d come up to the mountains to clear his head. Let his leg heal. Lick his wounds, if he was honest. Solitude worked best for him. Solitude and physical labor. He’d rebuilt the supports for the sagging porch. Replaced the handrail along the stairs to the loft. Refinished the cabinet faces in the kitchen and bathroom. And in the last couple months he’d finally begun sleeping better.
He’d even worked up the enthusiasm to go hiking to some of the lakes that dotted the mountain slopes rising above the town. He hadn’t gone far, and his bum leg kept the hikes on the moderate side, but he’d done it. That he’d also managed to get a couple hundred pages of his new book written into the laptop had surprised him because he didn’t suck at writing as much as he’d once feared he would.
Being in the mountains felt like a balm to his soul. He didn’t know if there was any place more beautiful than the Eastern Sierras. Hangman’s Loss was miniscule compared to the city he’d come from, but the town had enough of the necessities so far that he hadn’t needed to look elsewhere for anything. The people were decent, and he could admit to himself that getting corralled into helping Chief Gallagher and the FBI with a police investigation a while back had been a welcome diversion—one that had allowed him to close an aspect of his life with a satisfying ending.
From that he’d somehow made a few friends, men and women he liked and who mercifully left him alone for the most part. If he ventured into town, it was usually to hit the grocery store or the building supply place and then come straight back to the cabin. He was still working himself up to the point where he’d actually accept one of the invitations to hang out, maybe spend an evening at the pub in town.
He studied what he could see of the woman’s features. Meghan Bennett was attractive, and would probably tick that up a few notches to striking when she wasn’t sick and underweight. For a moment there he’d had her in his arms, so he knew she couldn’t weigh more than one ten, tops. Her hair remained hidden under the beanie, but given the sooty lashes and brows, he guessed dark. The eyes were a deep, mysterious blue. At the moment, the lashes lay across cheeks so pale they looked nearly translucent.
The sky darkened outside the windows as night fell, and he rose to pull the curtains closed and throw another log into the fire. He stood beside her, watching her sleep, and told himself emphatically she wasn’t his problem.
***
Meg blinked open her eyes and took a minute to focus. To gather her thoughts. The cabin. She was at her dad’s cabin. She sat up slowly, wincing as her muscles protested. She fingered the woolen blanket draped over the sleeping bag. It was the Hudson Bay blanket that had covered her bed as a child, cream colored and with its distinctive stripes. A small bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water sat on the coffee table.
She froze when she saw the man sitting in the chair, dark eyes focused on her.
Meg held his gaze for a long moment, decidedly uncomfortable to find he’d tended to her while she slept. A blanket, pain meds. It wasn’t only the odd intimacy, but the fact that she hadn’t awoken when he’d gotten that close.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“Declan.”
“Right. Declan.” Unusual name, she thought, wondering if he was Irish. She glanced to the windows. Through the narrow slit in the curtains she could see the blackness of night. “What time is it?”
“After seven. You’ve been asleep over two hours.”
“Wow. Okay.” She shifted to sit up and swung her feet to the floor. “Excuse me.”
She rose slowly, and when her legs remained steady, made her way to the door tucked under the staircase. Even moving carefully every muscle in her body reminded her the battle against the flu had yet to be won.
The door opened to the bathroom, looking better maintained than she remembered. Her father’s habit had been to let things go until they absolutely had to be dealt with or risk falling apart. Minutes later she returned to the living room and found the man, Declan, she reminded herself, had placed a wide-brimmed soup mug on the coffee table, steam rising from its surface. A spoon rested beside it. He stood beside the fireplace, arms crossed in front of him. She was beginning to suspect the frown was habitual.
“What’s that?”
“Stew. Eat it.”
It smelled amazing, rich and fragrant, but she absolutely hated accepting help from anyone. “I have my own food.”
“Like what?”
The question surprised her only because she hadn’t expected him to ask. He’d been so gruff before, so adamant she didn’t belong here. Added to the blanket he must have thrown over her sleeping bag, checking to make sure she had food almost felt like he cared. And she was an idiot if she was looking for caring from a stranger.
She reached over and unzipped the side pocket of her black bag. Fishing inside, her fingers brushed the smooth leather of the holster and the cold metal of the Colt .45 pistol before wrapping around plastic packaging. She pulled out the Kind bar and zipped the bag closed, then held it up. “This.”
Shaking his head, he said, “Eat the soup.”
With that order firmly stated, he crossed the room to the kitchen, leaving her on her own. She decided refusing the stew when it smelled so good really did make her a stupid woman. She picked up the spoon and mug and stirred the contents with an appreciative sniff. Beef stew with lots of broth and chunks of meat and vegetables. He’d used elbow pasta instead of potatoes. Yum.
