Читать книгу Fugitive Hearts - Ingrid Weaver - Страница 9

“John? Mr. Becker? Can you hear me?”

Remy floated back to awareness with a confused jerk. When had he drifted off again? How long had he been out? And who the hell was Becker?

“I’m just going outside to get some more firewood, Mr. Becker. The storm isn’t letting up, and it’s going to be a long night.”

Gentle fingers brushed across his forehead, accompanied by the scent of lilies. There was the rustle of clothing and the rasp of a zipper. Remy squinted one eye just enough to see the blond woman pull the hood of a red parka over her head and move away. A door creaked, a blast of frigid air whistled inside for an instant, then the latch clicked shut. Remy waited another few seconds, listening to be sure he was alone before he opened his eyes fully.

Whitewashed beams crossed the ceiling above him, mottled with flickering shadows. A plaid couch with wooden arms loomed above him on his right, and to his left a fire burned low behind a mesh screen.

Right. The resort, the storm. It didn’t take as long for his brain to click into gear this time. Good. That must mean his strength was returning. Remy stretched his arms, then his legs, one at a time. Aches and stiffness but no real damage, from what he could tell. He tried to flex his fingers. Pain, swift and white-hot, knifed through his joints from the thawing flesh. He took shallow, panting breaths until the pain eased, then cautiously lifted his head.

The room was large, taking up the entire front half of the cabin. Along with the couch, there were two overstuffed easy chairs, footstools, bookshelves and a table with a tilted top and a stool. It was a drafting table, Remy realized. Did it belong to the woman who smelled like flowers? Who was she? And what was she doing out here by herself?

Didn’t matter, he told himself immediately. Whoever she was, she was one person too many. He never would have come here if he’d known the place was occupied. She was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. He had to leave, he thought, pushing himself up on his elbows.

The room went gray and tilted. Remy waited until it righted itself again, then straightened his arms and levered himself into a sitting position.

A shudder shook his frame as the air hit his bare skin. He glanced down, puzzled, and noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Using the heels of his hands, he clasped the edge of the blanket that had fallen to his lap and pulled it to his shoulders. That was when he realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.

“What the—” Wincing at the rawness of his throat, he swallowed carefully. He spotted his shirt draped over a wooden rack near the fireplace, along with his jeans. Another shudder rattled through him, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep his teeth from clacking.

Damn, he was cold, so cold. But he had to get dressed. He had to leave. He hung on to that thought as he bent his knees and tried to stand up.

The floor was hardwood, he learned. It rushed upward and slammed into the side of his face.

A marmalade cat padded daintily into his field of vision. “Mrrowww?”

Remy glared at the cat as he regathered his strength, then rolled to his back and gingerly assessed the additional damage. Everything throbbed now, and he tasted blood. He mouthed a string of silent curses as he wiped the blood from his lip. Taking care to move more slowly, he sat up again.

The cat sat back on its haunches and curled its tail around its feet. Its ears pricked forward as it studied him.

Remy ignored the animal’s scrutiny and focused on the clothes on the wooden rack. They were wet. That must be why the woman had stripped them off him. He shuddered again as he realized how completely vulnerable he had been while he had been unconscious. He hadn’t even been aware that a strange woman had taken off his clothes and wrapped him in blankets.

He should be grateful. Whoever she was, she had undoubtedly saved his life.

But she could just as easily have ended it.

He had to leave. He couldn’t count on the charity of a stranger. He knew better than to trust anyone. During the past year, people he had believed to be his friends had turned their backs on him.

He hooked his elbow over the arm of the couch and tried once more to get to his feet. This time, he was able to lurch as far as the fireplace before his legs gave out. The blanket he’d draped around his shoulders tangled around his ankles and he crashed into the rack with his clothes. The thin wooden slats snapped, collapsing under his weight into a tangle of splinters and soggy denim.

Remy took a precious minute to catch his breath, then got to his hands and knees. Lifting his head, he looked at the snow that still swirled outside the window.

He couldn’t make it across the room; there was no way in hell he could make it across another ten miles of countryside in wet clothes. That would be suicide.

But he was risking far worse if he remained here. That blond woman who smelled like lilies had helped him, but the help would end when she discovered who he was. She would call the authorities. He couldn’t let her do that.

Frantically he surveyed the room once more. There on a low table under the window was a telephone. It was an old, black rotary dial set. He had to disable it.

He shook his feet clear of the blanket. Bracing his back against the wall, hanging on to the stones at the edge of the fireplace, he managed to get himself upright.

There was the stamp of feet outside the cabin. Seconds later the door swung open on a blast of cold air.

Remy pushed off from the wall and staggered toward the phone.

“What… Oh, my God! Mr. Becker!”

At the woman’s voice, Remy tried to move faster. If he could grab the wire and rip it from the connection—

“John, wait,” she cried. She dropped an armload of firewood onto the floor. Tossing aside her mittens as she ran, she reached his side before he made it to the phone. “Here,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist. “Let me help you.”

Only two more steps and he would be there, Remy thought. But before he could lift his foot again, his knees gave out.

“Oomph,” the woman grunted. She swayed, propping her shoulder under his arm to hold him upright. Stumbling, she steered him toward the couch.

Remy didn’t have the strength to fight her. He bit back a moan as he fell backward onto the plaid cushions.

The woman landed on top of him, her face pressed into his chest. She pushed off quickly and got back to her feet, then retrieved the blankets he had scattered and covered him up once more. “Don’t move, John,” she said. “Please. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Who…” He swallowed hard and tried again. “Who?”

“My name is Dana,” she said, tucking a quilt around his legs. She took off her coat and paused to look at him. “Dana Whittington.”

She had misunderstood his question, Remy thought. He had been trying to ask who John Becker was.

“You’re in my cabin,” she continued. “At Half Moon Bay. I found you outside.” She brushed his forehead with her fingertips. “How are you feeling?”

The last time she had touched him, her fingers had burned. They didn’t anymore. They were gentle, and they felt good. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead furrowed. No suspicion clouded her blue eyes, only innocent concern.

Remy scowled. No matter how innocent she looked, or how good her touch felt, this woman, Dana, was a threat. “’M ’kay,” he said. He tried to swallow and started to cough.

“Let me get you something to drink,” she said immediately. She hurried through a doorway that led to a kitchen. “Stay there,” she called over her shoulder.

Remy shivered and eyed the distance to the phone. Before he could think about trying for it again, Dana returned. She propped a pillow under his back to help him sit up and brought a steaming mug to his lips.

He hated feeling helpless. He hated being fussed over, but Remy knew that for the moment he had no choice—he couldn’t even hold the mug himself. He took a mouthful of what she offered, endeavoring not to gag as some kind of grassy-tasting liquid slid down his throat.

She smiled encouragingly. “Better?”

He made a noncommittal grunt. “Thanks.”

She stroked his forehead again, then rested her hand on his shoulder. She left it there as his body shook with another round of chills. “You’re still cold.”

“Not…as…bad,” he said through chattering teeth.

“Hang on. I’ll put more wood on the fire.” She set the mug on the table beside him and went over to where she had dropped the firewood. “I was going out for wood when I found you,” she said as she stoked the blaze on the hearth. “You looked half-frozen.”

“My…car went…off the road,” he improvised. He coughed again to give himself time to think. “I got lost. Walking for hours. Lucky…I ended up here.”

“Ah. I knew it had to be something like that.” She came back to his side and pulled up a footstool to sit down. “I tried calling for an ambulance, but the lines are down. The storm’s getting worse, so it’s probably going to be a while longer before I can get you a doctor.”

“I don’t need—” Her words suddenly registered. “The lines?” he asked.

“The storm knocked out the phone service. I’m sure they’ll fix it as soon as the snow lets up.” She glanced toward the telephone, then back at his face. “I’m sorry. It happens up here from time to time.”

If his lip wasn’t stinging and his teeth weren’t starting to chatter again, he could have smiled. As it was, all he could do was let out a relieved breath. The phone was dead. She wouldn’t be calling anyone. All right. He could stay here a few more hours, maybe even another day. That would buy him some time for his body to recover.

“I guess you were trying to call someone when I came in,” she continued. She held the mug up to his lips for another drink. “I know you must have people who are worried about you, John. I’m sorry I don’t have a cell phone or anything.”

Better and better, he thought. He took a second swallow of the hot liquid. It tasted like hay, but it was helping to warm him up. “You called me John.”

“I hope you don’t mind. When I was hanging up your coat, I found your day planner in the pocket,” she said. “Your name was inside the front cover.”

His coat? Remy felt a stab of confusion before he remembered. Of course. She meant the coat he’d stolen from the truck stop. It had been two sizes too small, and he had barely been able to squeeze his hands into the gloves that had been in the side pockets, but he hadn’t been in the position to be choosy. The coat had kept him alive, and the gloves had probably kept him from losing his fingers to frostbite. When this was all over, he’d have to mail everything back to this John Becker, wherever he was.

When this was all over? Remy curled onto his side as a renewed wave of weakness surged through him. No, it was far from being over. He had too much to do before he was finished and a long, long way yet to go.

Dana put the cup of camomile tea on the side table and smoothed the blankets over John’s shoulder. His knees were drawn up as if to hold in the heat of his body. His eyes had closed ten minutes ago. Thankfully, this time it seemed more like sleep than unconsciousness. His breathing was deep and even, and his shivering wasn’t as violent. She hoped that meant he was recovering.

Considering his condition when she found him, he must have a formidable reserve of strength. Just look at the way he had tried to walk when he had barely been capable of standing. The poor man. Judging by the power that was evident in those muscles that ridged his arms and shoulders, he likely wasn’t accustomed to being helpless. She had felt the quivering tension in his body when he had collapsed, and she had seen the frustration in his gaze. It must be horrible to be incapacitated like that and at the mercy of a stranger.

A gust of wind shook the cabin, and Dana glanced at the window. Until the storm eased, they were trapped here. Alone. Together.

John wasn’t the only one at the mercy of a stranger.

She felt a tickle of uneasiness as she watched the snow. Now that it seemed safe to assume John wasn’t about to succumb to hypothermia, she should be pleased. The evidence of his strength should come as a relief, not as a cause for misgivings.

She returned her gaze to her guest, noting how he filled the couch. She’d known he was a large man when she’d wrestled him out of his clothes, but she hadn’t felt the full impact of his height until she had seen him upright…and practically naked. Although he’d been staggering on his feet, he’d nevertheless been an awesome sight, all taut skin and firm muscle. He had to be two, maybe three inches over six feet. That made him a full head taller than her. Still, his height shouldn’t make her nervous, either. He was the same size as her cousin Derek, and Derek Johansen was as gentle as a lamb.

Tucking her hair behind her ears impatiently, Dana got to her feet and went over to untangle John’s wet clothes from the broken drying rack. All right, under other circumstances she would be right to worry about being trapped alone with a very large, strange man, but it was too late to change her mind about taking him in now, not that she’d ever really had a choice. She’d always been a sucker for strays, no matter what size or species they happened to be.

Besides, as long as he remained in his present condition, there was no reason for her to be nervous. It was absurd to think, even for a moment, that John could be some kind of, well, ax murderer.

According to the well-worn agenda book he kept in his overcoat, John Becker was the head salesman for an industrial fasteners company. His home address was in Toronto—he had undoubtedly been trying to make it home before the storm closed the roads. That would explain what he had been doing on the highway. He probably had a wife and children waiting anxiously for his arrival.

Yes, of course. He must have a family. His not wearing a wedding band didn’t mean anything. Neither did his mustachioed-desperado appearance. Why else would someone be anxious enough to risk traveling in this weather, if not for the sake of one’s family?

In that respect, John was luckier than she was. Dana had no one to go home to. She had no child who would press her nose to the windowpane and peer through the snow in hopes of seeing a familiar car pull into the driveway. Apart from Morty, Dana was responsible for no one.

But there had been a time when she had dreamed of having more….

Yes, well, life moved on. She might not have a child, but she had her work. And because of her work, she touched the lives of thousands of children.

She added another few logs to the fire and finished tidying the main room, then gathered her papers from the drawing table and carried them into her bedroom. She was about to close her door when a flash of movement from the couch caught her eye. Despite her efforts to reason away her misgivings, she couldn’t help the nervous little jump of her pulse as she gripped the door frame and looked over her shoulder.

John hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. The blanket that stretched over his shoulders rippled as he shivered. He curled up more tightly. A lock of dark hair flopped over his forehead, softening the harsh planes of his face. It made him look vulnerable, almost…boyish.

There was another blur of motion near his feet. Morty, looking very smug, picked his way across the blanket and nestled into the crook of John’s knees.

Dana turned back to her room. If John Becker had Morty’s seal of approval, her qualms about his character had to be misplaced.

It was hard to tell when the night ended and day began. Beyond the white drift that piled against the window, the snow swirled as if from an endless gray tunnel. Between gusts, Remy glimpsed the shadows of other cabins and the hulking outline of the resort’s main lodge, but he didn’t see any lights. There was no sign of anyone else. The place was deserted.

Well, almost deserted.

He should have realized there would be a caretaker. Too bad about the woman. If not for Dana Whittington, this place would have been perfect. Half Moon Bay Resort was isolated enough to provide concealment, yet close enough to the small town of Hainesborough to allow him access to what he needed. That’s why he’d decided to head up here when he’d gotten out. He could have holed up comfortably in one of the outlying cabins. It had been fifteen years since he’d been at the resort, but he remembered every detail of the layout.

After all, he’d helped to build it.

He’d been eighteen and full of hope and ambition when he’d arrived here the last time. He’d seen the construction job as his ticket to the future, the first step toward his dream of making something of himself. He was fresh from the juvenile detention center, and he’d wanted to prove that the people of Hainesborough were wrong, that he was nothing like his old man, that he wasn’t the boy they thought he was.

Ironic, wasn’t it? He had come full circle. He was once more at Half Moon Bay, once more hoping to prove everyone wrong.

Only now the stakes were a hell of a lot higher.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Remy looked away from the window and turned his attention back to buttoning his shirt. His fingers still felt like slabs of wood, aching and unmanageable. He tried to make a fist. Pain screamed through his joints, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been the night before. Ignoring the discomfort, reining in his impatience for his weakness, he curled his fingers into his palms until he had worked out the stiffness. Not 100 percent, but it would do. Clumsily he pushed most of his buttons through the holes, fastened the stud on his jeans, then braced his hands on his knees and stood.

So far this morning he hadn’t fallen down, but he still wasn’t steady on his feet. If he could hole up here until tomorrow, he would stand a better chance of finding some other base to operate from. In the meantime he had to make sure Dana kept on believing he was just some hapless traveler who had arrived here by chance.

He staggered to the wall where the overcoat he had stolen hung from a peg. The day planner Dana had mentioned finding was in the left pocket. Remy forced his aching fingers into motion once more and flipped through the pages, scanning for any clues to the identity he was temporarily assuming. There wasn’t much personal information. Too bad Becker hadn’t kept his wallet in his overcoat—

Remy drew in his breath. He still wasn’t thinking straight. If there had been a wallet, there would have been identification. Photo identification. If Dana had seen it, his game would have been up before he’d regained consciousness.

He shoved the notebook back into the pocket where he’d found it, then looked at the closed bedroom door. He paused to listen for any hint of movement from within, but there was none. With one hand on the wall for support, he moved around the cabin, taking stock of anything else that might present a risk.

There was no television that he could see, but there was a CD player with a radio in the living room and a battery-powered radio in the kitchen. He didn’t want to waste time searching for tools, so he took a butcher knife from the cutlery drawer, pried open the back of the kitchen radio and disabled it.

A check of the phone revealed there was still no dial tone. He couldn’t gamble on the lines remaining down for much longer. He improved his odds by severing the input wire from the receiver, a sloppy but effective way to ensure it would remain out of order. He hesitated over the CD player, not wanting to do more damage to Dana’s property than he needed to. In the end he merely cut the connection to the antenna—he knew without that, the set wouldn’t be able to pick up a signal this far north.

A door creaked open behind him. “Oh! I didn’t expect to see you awake already.”

Remy straightened up from the CD player and turned around, using his motion to conceal the knife behind his back.

Dana stood in the doorway of her bedroom, her arms filled with a stack of loose papers and what appeared to be a large sketchbook. A bulky sweater came to the top of her thighs, obscuring much of her figure, but the black leggings she wore revealed long, slender legs. And despite himself, Remy felt his pulse move into a slow, steady throb.

He must have been in worse shape last night than he had thought. When he had looked at Dana then, he had only seen a threat. Now he was aware of much, much more.

Her hair wasn’t merely blond. It was warm gold, somewhere between the color of wheat in August and aspen leaves in October. It tumbled around her face to brush her shoulders in sensuous waves. Her eyes weren’t merely blue. They were pure cerulean and stunning enough to steal his breath.

And somehow, she looked familiar. He had the feeling he had seen her face before…

No, that wasn’t possible. If he’d met her, he would have remembered. Any man would.

What had happened to Dana Whittington? Why would a beautiful woman with such a gentle touch choose to live by herself up here in the middle of nowhere?

Not that it should matter to him, he reminded himself. How she looked, who she was, made no difference. One more day, that’s all he wanted. By then he should be able to move on. “Good morning,” he said finally.

“How are you feeling, John?” she asked.

“Better, thanks.”

“I can see that,” she said, placing the papers and sketchbook on the drafting table. “I’m so glad.”

She wasn’t lying, he realized. She really was pleased that he was recovering.

No, she was pleased that John Becker with the fancy coat and the fat appointment book was recovering. Remy tightened his grip on the butcher knife. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you last night,” he said, taking a step backward. He had to find someplace to ditch this knife before she saw it—things would be far easier if he could avoid a confrontation.

“No thanks are necessary, John. Up here, everyone looks out for their neighbors.”

God, he hoped not. That’s all he needed, some nosy neighbor showing up to check on her. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Dana. I’ll be gone as soon as—” His words ended on a sharp curse. Instead of the hardwood floor, his foot came down on something soft. There was a sudden, high-pitched screech.

Damn! He’d forgotten about that cat. It had been following him around since he’d gotten up.

“Morty!” Dana cried, racing forward in a futile attempt to reach her pet.

Remy shifted quickly to avoid bringing his full weight down on the cat. Morty streaked away unharmed in a blur of orange while Remy staggered sideways, off balance and unable to catch himself without revealing the knife.

“Oh, no!” Dana exclaimed. She was by his side in an instant, sliding her arm around his waist and propping her shoulder under his arm. It was a position that was becoming much too familiar…and more comfortable than he would have liked.

She still smelled like lilies, he thought, feeling her hair brush his cheek. And she had a surprising amount of strength in her slender frame. He deliberately swayed against her as she helped him over to the couch. Allowing her to believe he was worse off than he actually was might help to lower her guard, and that could prove to be an advantage. He collapsed onto the cushions more heavily than necessary.

Her cheeks pinkened with her efforts as she disentangled herself from him and straightened up. A memory from the night before flashed into his mind. She had flushed like that when they had tumbled onto the couch together and she had ended up sprawled over his bare chest.

Was she blushing because of him? How long had it been since he’d known any woman who was innocent enough to blush? “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“You need to take it easy. You probably shouldn’t be up yet.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“I wish I could talk to a doctor. I’ll try phoning—”

“The line’s still out. I checked.”

She hesitated, then went over to lift the receiver herself.

So she didn’t quite trust him yet, Remy thought. Part of him was pleased that she wasn’t completely naive, despite those innocent blushes. Living up here on her own like this, she was right to be cautious about strangers. After all, the stranger could turn out to be…someone like him.

Hell, what was he thinking? He should be concerned about Chantal’s welfare—and his own—not this woman’s. “I figured the snow would have stopped by now.”

She glanced at the window, grimacing as she saw the height of the snowdrift. “I’ve never seen it this bad before. I’m not sure I’d be able to get my car through that snow, or even get it out of the garage.”

“If you point me in the direction of the highway, I could try to hitch a ride,” he said.

She shook her head quickly. “No, John. It’s two miles away and you’re in no shape to be on your feet.”

“But—”

“I know you must be anxious to get home, but it would be crazy to go anywhere on foot in this weather, even if you were fully recovered.”

He moved his lips into what he hoped would appear to be a grateful smile. “Thanks, Dana.”

The flush on her cheeks deepened as she looked at his mouth. “I’ll check the weather forecast,” she said. “Maybe we can get some idea how much longer the storm will last.”

Remy tried to ignore the whisper of guilt he felt as he watched her futile attempts to get a signal on each of the radios in turn. Instead, he took advantage of the moment her back was turned and slid the knife out of sight under the couch.