Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  Folding her arms across the steering wheel, she dropped her head onto her hands. Her thoughts flitted aimlessly. Only one thing seemed clear: they were safe.

  Or were they?

  She lifted her head. Dear God, what was she doing sit­ting here? It wouldn't take the killers long to realize she'd left the highway. As soon as they did, they would turn around and start searching for her. She had to get out of here. To the ski lodge, if possible, where she could care for Michael.

  "Michael? Michael, wake up!" Leaning over him, Sarah caught his head between her hands and slapped his cheeks. "You have to tell me where Rick's lodge is."

  He grunted and turned his face aside.

  "Michael, wake up!" She slapped his jaw harder. "Wake up! Now!"

  "What the—"

  She peered down, trying to see if his eyes were open. It was too dark. "The ski lodge, where is it?"

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "Don't you dare go back to sleep." Grasping his unin­jured shoulder, she gave him an urgent shake. "The lodge, tell me how to get there."

  "—the ski area. Turn right at the store, then right—first road. It's the place—" he broke off to yawn "—at the end."

  She felt his head loll to one side and knew he'd gone back to sleep. What if she got lost out here? What if the men doubled back and saw tire tracks where she'd turned off? What if...

  Throwing open her door, she leaped out and slammed the hood of the car closed. There was no time to worry about what ifs. She had to get back on the highway and find the ski lodge before those men turned around and came hunting for her. She wouldn't get lost. She couldn't.

  Flames rushed at Sarah's face when she lifted the lid on the cookstove to peer at the fire. She reared back, blinking and waving her hand before her eyes. The unmistakable smell of singed hair assailed her nostrils and she glanced down to check the drape of dark hair on her shoulder for scorched ends. A pioneer type, she wasn't.

  Replacing the iron stove lid, she hung the pot holder on its hook and propped her shoulder against the cedar wall. Weakness attacked her legs. She pressed a hand over her eyes, willing the memories away. Singed hair, burning flesh. Those were two smells a person never forgot. It had been years since she had allowed herself to think of that day. Now she had done it twice in one night. The exploding window glass earlier must have unnerved her even more than she'd realized.

  Pushing away from the wall, she stepped across the shadowy kitchen into the adjoining living room. She couldn't risk using the lamps for fear of drawing unwanted attention to the lodge. The only light came from the moss- rock fireplace. She sat on the hearth and stared into the flames, congratulating herself for starting not one but two roaring blazes. In the hour since their arrival, she had helped Michael inside and put him to bed, hidden the car by the creek under a bunch of dead brush and packed in enough wood to last the night. And she'd accomplished all of that in a straight skirt and high heels. She deserved a merit badge. Crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing her shoulders, she shivered and lowered her lashes.

  Through her eyelids, she could still see the amber glow of flames. Pitch ignited and sputtered. She listened for any strange sounds in the silence that lay so heavily over the house. Surely no one could find them here. So why did her nerves leap at every sound?

  Opening her eyes, she heaved a sigh. She'd never relax enough to sleep. Rising from the hearth, she crossed over to the bottom of the rustic stairway, lifting the drape to peer out the window. A tangled oak loomed black against the midnight sky, its twisted branches reaching toward the anemic moonlight like gnarled witch's fingers. Dark clumps of manzanita swayed in the wind. Every movement sent prickles of alarm over her skin. If anyone had followed them .

  Throwing an anxious glance toward the bedroom where Michael slept, she spied a gun cabinet she hadn't noticed earlier. Sweat gathered in her armpits and trickled in icy rivulets down the sides of her breasts. She approached the cabinet, looking through the glass at the rifles perched in their slots. Years ago, her dad had taken her to the rifle range. She'd learned how to load and shoot. With any luck, there was a rifle in there similar to the kind she had used. Opening the door, she reached for a pump action 30.06, and slid open the ammo drawer. Her fingers shook as she fitted bullets into the magazine.

  When the gun was loaded, she hefted it in her hands, then peered down its barrel to check the sights. A heavy feeling pooled in her abdomen. Could she shoot someone? She lowered the stock and stepped across the room, leaning the weapon against the wall next to the fireplace. Glancing back at the bedroom, she lifted her chin and squared her shoul­ders. Yes, she decided, if she had to, she could pull the trig­ger. She might not like it, and it might haunt her the rest of her life, but she could do it.

  She veered away from the hearth and headed for the kitchen. There was only one thing to do when you were going to pace the floors all night, and that was make plenty of strong coffee.

  Blood. Michael held his breath, staring through the bed­spread fringe at a man's pant legs. Where was Helen? His heart slammed, thudding against his ribs, the sound so loud he was sure someone would hear. The man's black shoes stepped ever so softly toward the bathroom. The farther away he walked, the more Michael could see of him. He held something blue-black in one hand that had a funny-looking belt hanging off it.

  Pausing outside the bathroom, the man propped the blue- black thing on his hip and reared back on one leg, kicking the door open. A horrible noise rent the air and the man's body started to jerk. White flame spurted from the blue- black thing in his hand. Glass shattered. The shower cur­tain fluttered and came partway off its hooks. Then silence returned. The man turned from the doorway

  Michael woke from the dream with a jolt, breathing jaggedly. Pain exploded in his shoulder when he tried to sit up and he fell back against the sweat-soaked pillow. Where was he? Panic chewed at him. He stared at the cedar ceiling above him, trying to remember. Pale yellow sunlight spilled across the bed. His head didn't hurt, but he felt terrible otherwise. A hangover? His body ached as though he'd been pummeled by a prize fighter.

  He tried to sit up again. The effort sent excruciating pain stabbing through his shoulder and down his back, stealing his breath. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. The moment he did, images played behind his eyelids, images of Sarah's office, of the windows vomiting glass. He ran a hand over his chest, feeling the thick swathe of bandages. He remembered now... going to his house, discovering the break-in, calling the hospital in Ashland. But what had happened after?

  He rolled onto his right side and pushed himself to a sit­ting position. Sarah, where was she? Fear clenched his guts. He recognized the house now. Rick's ski lodge.

  Staggering to the bedroom door, he leaned against the door jamb until his head stopped spinning. A fire burned low in the rock fireplace, the flames licking feebly at charred logs. A sofa sat catty-corner to the hearth, facing the fire. At one end he could see the top of Sarah's dark head rest­ing against the cushion. He walked slowly toward her, his legs quivering and unsteady.

  A grim smile touched his mouth. She had fallen asleep sitting up. She'd kicked her shoes off and drawn her slen­der legs up under her. An empty coffee mug lay in her lap. Had she watched over him all night? His recollection of getting here was vague at best, but he remembered her helping him from the car into the house. She must have been terrified.

  He glanced uneasily toward the windows. As much as he wanted to know what had happened, he couldn't bear the thought of disturbing her. He couldn't believe he had conked out on her like that, sleeping the whole night through when his father was missing and someone had just tried to kill them.

  From the way she hugged herself, he guessed she was cold. Taking care not to jostle his shoulder, he went to get a pil­low and blanket from the bedroom.

  She murmured something unintelligible, responding like a child to the touch of his hand as he tugged her legs from under her so that she was lying prone. He wished he had two good a
rms. If he could, he'd carry her to the bedroom and tuck her into bed. The thought made him wince.

  He was clumsy getting the pillow under her head. Her eyes opened, confused and bleary. Then she snuggled her cheek into the downy softness, smiling as he unfolded the blanket and tucked it around her. He started to turn away, but the sweet curve of her mouth drew his gaze. Her face fascinated him. Feature by feature, she wasn't a beauty, but blended together, the irregularities in her countenance composed a striking loveliness.

  Her lashes fluttered, feathering her cheeks like fringed velvet. His hand was drawn to her hair. The sable strands slid through his fingers like watered silk, curling in warm tendrils around his wrist. Remembering the barrage of gunfire last night, he felt physically ill. It could so easily have been Sarah who'd taken the bullet instead of him.

  He rasped the backs of his knuckles along the line of her jaw, and straightened his index finger to trace her lips. Her breath felt warm. How close she had come to never breath­ing again. What had he gotten her involved in? He wanted to pull her into his arms and hug her tight. He never wanted to let her go.

  He stood so fast the blood rushed from his head. He swayed for a moment, then veered from the sofa. No mat­ter how strong his feelings for her grew, he had made his decision regarding Sarah, and he had to stick to it.

  His uneasy gaze settled on the fireplace. Leaning against the wall next to the rock was one of Rick's hunting rifles. Sarah must have taken it from the cabinet in case she needed it during the night. As irrational as it was at a time like this, revulsion swept over him. He knew he could never have done the same for her. He closed his eyes, hating himself for his fear of guns. It should have been him protecting her, not the other way around. If it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in danger at all.

  His head swam, whether from seeing the gun or from loss of blood, he didn't know. He licked his dry lips and raked a trembling hand through his hair. In all his life, he'd never felt so helpless. Sarah's life was in danger. His father had been kidnapped. And here he stood, so weak he was quiv­ering. What was he going to do?

  Sarah heard the pitter-patter of raindrops, monotonous, faraway, soothing. She also heard a fire crackling. The aroma of bacon and fresh coffee wafted to her nose, a wonderful smell that made her stomach twist with hunger. Something warm and fuzzy pressed against her cheek. Ah, a blanket. She lifted her eyelids, peeking out at the world through the dark sweep of her lashes.

  The ski lodge. She bolted upright. "Michael?"

  "In here."

  Throwing back the cover, she slipped on her shoes. When she reached the kitchen, she halted next to the wood stove. Michael stood before the electric range, cracking eggs into a skillet. He looked wonderfully healthy and uninjured in clean jeans and a red flannel shirt, with his jaw freshly shaved and his dark hair still glistening from a shower. When his brown eyes lifted, her heart skittered in an unwel­come response.

  "You didn't get your shoulder wet, did you?"

  "I wore a plastic garbage bag."

  She blinked and ran a hand over her sleep-tousled hair. "You what?"

  "I didn't get it wet." His gaze dropped to the open collar of her blouse, then veered away. "Coffee? It's fresh."

  "I, yes, coffee sounds great. Where'd you get the clothes?"

  "They're Rick's. And he's got a couple of sisters who come up occasionally. If you rummage, you might find something that'll fit."

  Watching him more closely, she could see he favored his left arm, moving it as little as possible. He was also pale, though it was hard to detect because of his dark complex­ion. "Should you be up doing this?"

  He tossed an eggshell into the trash can. "I told you last night it wasn't that bad a wound. People have abdominal surgery and walk the next day, even go home sometimes. The worst danger is infection, and we guarded against that with the antibiotic. I found the pills on the table and took another dose this morning. Which reminds me..." He lev­eled the spatula at her nose. "That wasn't just penicillin you gave me last night, was it? I thought I had more than two pills in my mouth. You're lucky I've only got one good arm. You deserve a good paddling for pulling a stunt like that. Capisce?"

  The glimmer of affection in his eyes told her he was teas­ing about the paddling, so she decided to be gracious and let the comment slide. "I understand, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't do the same thing again if you were in that kind of pain."

  He filled a coffee mug and handed it to her. "It was harebrained."

  "Necessary."

  "Emasculating." His mouth twitched at the corners as he turned the eggs. "Do you know how many movies I've watched where the fellow gets shot and still whips the bad guys and saves the lady? My one big chance and you ruined it."

  "You were in so much pain you looked green."

  "But I was still on my feet."

  "You passed out in the broom closet."

  "Only a heartless woman would bring that up."

  She took a sip of coffee, grinning behind the mug as she swallowed. The glow of happiness she felt at seeing him on his feet again radiated through her whole body. ‘‘You were wounded and still dragged me halfway across the lobby to save me. I thought you were wonderful."

  "I agree, I was heroic." Lifting the eggs from the skillet onto a plate, he added, "I usually pass out the second I see blood. Making it to the closet was a miracle."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope."

  "How on earth did you ever make it through med school?"

  "That kind of blood doesn't bother me. It's accidents— blood where it shouldn't be—messy stuff. You will also note that I specialized in psychiatry? There was a method to my madness." The laughter left his eyes, replaced by shadows she couldn't fathom. "I, um, think we'd better eat before this gets cold. Hungry?"

  "Starved. I'm sure glad we thought to clean out your fridge. Rick doesn't keep much here."

  Striding over to the planked table, Michael set the plate of eggs beside a platter of bacon and toast, indicating with a nod of his head that she should sit opposite him. "Com­ing up as infrequently as he does, he can't keep perishables here. If not for you keeping your head last night, we'd be pretty hungry now. I wish I'd had more in the house but I pretty well emptied my fridge before I went to Chicago."

  She took a seat and propped her elbows on the edge of the table. Cupping her mug in her palms, she eyed him through the steam that wafted from her coffee. "I meant it when I said you were wonderful. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have been killed last night. I froze."

  "A lot of people freeze in situations like that."

  "I, um..." She tried to smile and failed, but she pressed on. He deserved an explanation. "Remember when I told you my adoptive parents were killed? It happened in an ex­plosion. There was a propane leak inside our trailer. We didn't realize it." Memories played through Sarah's mind. They were so vivid she no longer really saw Michael. "My mom was taking a nap. My dad and I had gone down to fish on the lakeshore. When we came back, I stopped at the fish- cleaning station to take care of our catch, and he went on ahead to wake Mom. He was holding a lit cigarette."

  "Oh, Sarah...."

  "I saw it happen, tried to reach them. The force of the explosions knocked me off my feet and stunned me." She lowered her eyes, staring into her coffee. "Anyway, explo­sive sounds—they, um, bring it all back. I'm sorry I panicked, but it wasn't something I could really help. I use to have nightmares, too. I'd wake up screaming. Maybe that was why I wanted to help you so badly when you first came to my office and told me about your dream. I knew what it was like."

  Emotion clogged Michael's throat. The haunted look in her eyes made him want to take her in his arms. "Sarah, I didn't blame you for freezing. I hadn't even thought of it."

  "I almost got us killed."

  "And you made up for it a hundred times over later. We all have our weaknesses, which is why team effort works so great. People compensate for one another."

  Her smile was tremulous. "We did m
ake a pretty good team, didn't we?"

  "Damned good. Not that I contributed my share. You held things together through the worst of it."

  She took a deep breath, turning her attention back to the food, desperate for a change of subject before she made a fool of herself and burst into tears. "I should make a trip to the store on Highway 58. It's not that far. We'll need a few supplies."

  He seemed to understand her need to switch topics. She was grateful for the easy way he shifted with her, respond­ing to her unspoken cue. "Let's hope they take plastic money. I'm short on cash, and the lady I'm traveling with forgot her purse." His eyes twinkled with teasing laughter. Unable to use his left hand, he chased an egg, trying unsuc­cessfully to lift it from the serving plate with the spatula.

  She set her coffee aside, and took the utensil from his hand. The longer she studied him, the paler he looked. She knew a class act when she saw one. "You should be flat on your back in bed. Here, let me. Two?" She heaped his plate with food, then served herself half as much, taking a bite of crisp bacon. "Mmm, this is wonderful."

  He nodded. "Not bad for a one-handed cook."

  "I hope you haven't overdone it. I have a vested interest in your health after all I went through to get you here."

  "Had to do something useful. Where'd you hide the car?"

  "Down by the creek. I covered it with brush."

  He cut into his egg, then watched the yolk run onto his plate. A gray pastiness washed over his face and he closed his eyes. She leaned forward.

  "Are you all right?"

  He nodded. "I'm fine, just woozy."

  She started to stand. "You're going directly to bed."

  "No, I'm going to eat and then do a little walking to get my legs back under me. I can't take forever getting my strength back. My dad's out there somewhere. He needs me."

  She sincerely hoped he was right, that his father wasn't dead. "You can't rush it. It'll just take you longer to get well if you do."

  He filled his mouth with bacon and chewed with all the enthusiasm of a child eating spinach. Swallowing, he said, "Do I remember going off the road last night, or did I dream it?"