Читать книгу Sleeping With Beauty - Laura Wright, Laura Wright - Страница 9

Mosquitoes nibbled on her neck, unseen animals made sounds she didn’t recognize and the package of oatmeal she’d consumed an hour ago sat like a steel plate in her stomach.

But Cathy had never felt happier in her life.

Three days ago, dressed in typical college-backpacking-across-Europe grungewear, armed with a fake passport she’d paid dearly for and an American accent she’d learned to flawlessly imitate during her many years of travel, Cathy had followed through on her seven-year-old plan and left Llandaron for her own tour of the United States.

True to her word, Fran had helped Cathy pack and get to the airport. And as the burden of giving the king his daughter’s runaway note was a great one, Cathy thought it best not to tell her sister-in-law where she was headed.

During the entire flight to New York, Cathy had worried about her father’s reaction. But once she’d arrived in the Big Apple, she’d forced herself to let go of her concerns. Regardless of his anxiety over her whereabouts he would have to understand that in her current state of mind, she was of no use to him or to the people he wanted her to visit.

From New York, she’d taken another flight to Dallas, then another to Denver, then a cab to the hiking company’s office, enjoying her freedom every step of the way.

Her plans for the trip had gone off without a hitch, and she was certain that no one had followed her.

She grinned. She was fairly certain of it anyway.

To her right, the morning sun filtered through a stand of fragrant pine, as though eager to spotlight the needled path she walked. To her left, shards of silvery-white water cascaded down a canyon to a rushing river. The gentle slap of water against rock lulled her, yet drove her farther, up into the majestic mountains. The Colorado Rockies were just as beautiful as her old friend from finishing school had told her they would be.

A perfect place for a weary princess to escape.

As requested, the hiking company had dropped Cathy off at the base of the mountains, where the trails began, climbed and spread. Armed with a full backpack of supplies, a walking stick, pepper spray and an emergency beeper, she hiked deep into the mountains. Each night she followed the map to one of the hiking company’s sparse little cabins. She ate what was packed for her, slept on the hard, thin mattress that was provided and never complained.

She embraced her freedom, the adventure and the survival.

The word survival nicked her on the ear, made her pause midstep on the precarious stretch of narrow trail. Instinct gripped her sharply. She cocked her head to one side, listened.

She’d heard something.

Ten feet below, water smacked against rock. High above, birds twittered gaily in the swaying trees. She’d heard it all before.

Yet, there was something else.

Before she could examine the sound further, all thought suddenly froze in her brain. Barreling out of the woods came a horse and rider. Black stallion and shadowed man, heading straight for her. Time seemed to slow as river and hooves pounded.

Cathy’s heartbeat hammered in her chest, stumbling as she tried to think. She could only stare, motionless, as the snorting stallion drew nearer, nearer, then reared.

Cathy scrambled to get out of its way. Left, then right. Dust and pine needles flew and crackled. But in her haste, her foot caught on a rock still wet with dew.

Down she went, her backpack slipping off her shoulders, tumbling away, over the ravine. A scream escaped her throat as she saw only rock—her last thought on the old woman’s prediction.

“I told them they would lose ye…”

Then the ground rose up to claim her.

A violent blast of curses echoed through the mountain air. Gut tight, Dan Mason jumped off his now-lame horse and scrambled over to the woman. He touched her hand, but she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Where the hell had she come from anyway? he wondered, gaze flickering up and around. These paths were always clear. Especially at 6:00 a.m., when a man was looking to run from the demons of the night before, month before—years before.

As gently as a man used to dealing with hard-core criminals could manage, he rolled the woman to her back, brushed aside strands of long tawny curls and touched the base of her throat. A strong, steady pulse beat against his fingers. He leaned close, felt her easy breath against his jaw.

He shook his head, released a weighty sigh.

With the eyes of a deputy U.S. marshal, he assessed her condition. She didn’t appear to have any broken bones. She did, however, have a ruthless bruise on her forehead, a bruise that, thankfully, swelled outward.

As his gaze moved over her heart-shaped face, those marshal eyes turned into the eyes of a man. He couldn’t help it. He was base, a needful bastard. And she looked like an angel. Cupid-bow lips, satin skin, long neck. Then there was that firm chin that hinted at a real stubborn streak.

His gaze flickered downward. Thin gray sweatshirt, worn jeans and man-killer curves.

He inhaled sharply, called himself a depraved idiot and forced his game face back on. All in all, she was a typical hiker with typical hiking gear. Except for the boots. No mistaking. Those were top of the line. The woman had money.

The river roared from its bed ten feet down, snatching his attention like a fire alarm, spitting up spray. A muscle jumped in Dan’s jaw. She could’ve gone over the edge.

He leaned toward her, whispered sharply, “Lady, wake up.”

He got nothing. Nothing but one helluva sweet scent.

“Lady, can you hear me?”

A soft moan slipped from those pale-pink lips. She moved slightly, her face twisting, no doubt in pain. Pain was good, he thought. But getting her to wake up was better.

In a tone more suited to press criminals than soothe victims, he urged her on, “You’ve got to wake up now. Open your eyes and look at me.”

At that, tawny lashes fluttered, then opened. Eyes the color of violets stared up at him, made his chest constrict.

“Can you hear me?”

Blinking drunkenly, she nodded.

“You out here alone?”

Confusion swept her angel face as she uttered hoarsely, “I don’t know.”

“Do you feel dizzy? Sick to your stomach?”

“A little.”

He frowned. He knew something about head wounds. And this sounded like a concussion. “Your head hurt?”

“Aches.” Her responses came out as uneasy whispers. But it was the look in her eyes, the confusion, the fear that had his teeth clenching in undisguised anger.

He could see another woman, his partner, his fiancée, face pale, lips parted, staring up at a six-foot-five heavily muscled fugitive who was supposed to be on the other side of her gun.

Had Janice looked like this woman? Frightened, desperate?

Dan’s jaw threatened to crack. That horrific night had happened over four years ago, for chrissakes. How many times was he going to go through it, relive it? He hadn’t been there for her, case closed—couldn’t’ve been there for her. He’d been tied to that hospital bed, a bullet lodged in his thigh.

And hell, the bastard was behind bars where he belonged now anyway. Granted, a little more bruised and beaten than when he’d last faced a cell. Something Dan had seen to, something that had gotten his ass suspended and sent up to a mountain cabin to think about what he’d done, and if all went according to plan, feel remorse for it.

He grunted. His superiors were going to be waiting a long time for that to happen.

On a pained sigh, the woman in front of him let her lids close. All questions, all memories dropped to the back of his mind for more pressing and present matters.

This woman needed a doctor. But how was he going to contact one? Her pack had fallen over the crag, had to be a mile downstream by now. He didn’t have a cell phone.

Truth was, he hadn’t wanted any contact with the outside world. And now this woman was forcing his hand.

Options were few. Town was a full day’s ride away.

With a sharp sigh, he gathered her small frame into his arms, snatched Rancon’s reins and headed back to his cabin.