by Vonna Harper
He'd tried to order her to start for home, but she'd refused, saying she needed answers as much as he did. Then he'd pointed out that she should at least search for their animals. She mentioned a nearby meadow John had told her about where the horses and mules might be.
"He's probably gone anyway," she'd told him when he brought up the sniper. "That way he won't be risking discovery."
Unless he's determined to kill us. He hadn't told her that, just as he hadn't said anything about how vulnerable he felt around her. That's what gnawed at him, not the possibility that he might be dead before night, but that he'd live and have to decide where Ana fit in his life and she in his.
Breakfast had been a shared granola bar and water, but that's not what slowed his pace. He'd stopped asking himself whether this sniper and Aaron's killer were one and the same because there was no way he could answer that now. Neither was he afraid for his life. What made him wish he was doing anything except what he'd thought about for the better part of a year was whether his damnable determination had placed Ana in danger.
He wanted her gone, out of his thoughts and skin.
Out of his life?
"Devin?"
He stopped and turned to look back at her but was careful to remain crouched so his head didn't show over the brush. "What?"
"When this is over, when we're back to civilization, I want you to leave."
"Why?" His chest constricted, and he couldn't force air into his lungs.
"Because I need to think."
"And you can't with me around?" he asked. Although hadn't he just had the same thoughts?
"You must know the answer to that." Her eyes were both dark and bright distracting him from her dirty face and tangled hair. "I need to remember who I was before you came into my life."
"I don't think you can go back to that."
She glared at him. "Tell me something, Devin. Why didn't we have sex this morning? You didn't even touch me."
Earlier she'd stuttered and stammered when discussing sexual matters. Now she sounded, calm, almost clinical. He'd believe that if it wasn't for the midnight in her eyes. "You didn't touch me either," he said.
"You're right. I didn't. But I asked you first." A sad yet relieved smile touched her mouth, then died. "That's all right. You don't have to answer because I already know. We buried ourselves in each other, lost our separate selves. That's frightening."
He nodded.
"I don't want to be afraid of you, or of myself." She blinked rapidly, but he still saw the sheen of tears. "Devin, I want to thank you for what you've done to and for me. Because of you, I finally know what it is to be a woman. But I turned my life over to a man once. I'm not ready to do that again. Maybe I'll never be."
"I'm not the enemy."
"Aren't you? You took away the person I always believed I was." She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. "Devin, I don't want to talk about this now. I'm not sure if I ever will. You scare me. Isn't that enough?"
He scared her? What about how he felt?
On the verge of admitting that, he nodded and started walking again. She was right. They'd gotten too damn close. It was time for physical and emotional distance. As for whether that would ever change.
Lack of food and sleep coupled with the tension he'd been under, stripped him of the ability to answer his own question. Accepting his limitations, he concentrated on the immediate goal. He had no intention of letting her get close to where the ambusher had shot from. He wasn't sure how he'd prevent that short of knocking her out, but if there was the slightest indication that bastard was still around, he'd do whatever it took to protect her.
That was him. Macho man.
A crow cried out, the strident call startling him. He scanned what he could see of the sky but didn't spot the bird. He started to look down again when he realized that his mouth was watering. Stopping, he took a deep breath. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he smelled an orange.
"What is it?" Ana whispered.
"Nothing." He kept his own voice low. "We're almost to the top. I want you to wait here."
She grabbed his arm. "Why?"
Think, man. Keep her safe. "It's not wise for us to be together now. Besides, we only have one gun." He picked up a short branch and handed it to her. "It's better than nothing."
She hefted it.
"Don't be afraid to use it."
"I won't."
"And if something happens to me, get the hell out of here." Not giving her time to argue, he slipped off his back pack and struck out. After taking half a dozen steps, he looked back. She was straining toward him, the branch clutched to her breasts.
Be careful, she mouthed. Then she sank to her knees and waved him on.
The closer he got to where the shooting had come from, the more certain he became that he smelled an orange. Thick brush grew all over the slope leading to the peak. From what he could tell, there was a small flat area at the top, but the growth prevented him from clearly seeing it.
So the would-be killer was waiting for them, was he? Waiting and watching and eating breakfast. How would he like that orange shoved up his ass?
Devin stopped and held his breath. He couldn't do anything to silence his heartbeat, but fortunately there was almost no breeze to hide the sounds of a human being. Hoping to hear something, anything that would tell him where the enemy was, he didn't move for the better part of a minute. He'd deliberately led Ana on a circuitous route so they'd start up the peak on the opposite side from where they'd spent the night. He hoped the orange eater hadn't seen them this morning and told himself that if their attempts at stealth hadn't worked, he'd have already tasted lead.
How would you like the tables turned, you bastard. Give me half a chance and I'll make you regret—
Was the man out there Aaron's executioner? Not John but the faceless, nameless monster who'd nearly killed Ana yesterday?
Unwilling to hide like some terrified animal, Devin unholstered his gun which held a full clip. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to empty it into that unseen man, but if he killed him, he might never know the truth. And neither would Ana.
In the middle of deciding how to best reach the top, he was distracted by the memory of how Ana had looked, acted, sounded as he'd brought her to climax for the first time last night. She'd reminded him of a fine violin waiting to be played. He'd never seen himself as that kind of expert, but he'd known what she'd needed—just as she'd known the same about him.
She was right. They needed distance from each other, time and space in which to find themselves again.
A new sound snagged his attention. He clutched the pistol in both hands, cursing the dense vegetation. After an indecisive half second, he started toward what appeared to be the most direct route to the top. He wondered if Ana could see him but didn't risk looking back at her. One step, two, a half dozen. The sound wasn't repeated, making him wonder if he'd imagined it.
I'm coming for you, you bastard. And before I'm done, you'll tell me everything. You'll—
Boom!
Something slammed into his right shoulder and spun him around. Surprised, he struggled to stop his out-of-control movement. His upper body felt as if bags of cement had been tied to it, and his shoulder had never felt so hot. The gun slipped from his grasp. He took a step. Before he could take another, the strength left his legs, and he collapsed. The world had gone out of focus. The gun was under him. He'd grab it and…and. . .
The rifle blast wrenched a cry from Ana. She clamped a hand over her mouth, sealing off a scream. Her fingers cramped from gripping the branch. Lurching forward, she stared.
Sick, she watched Devin slump to the ground. It wasn't possible, of course, and yet she swore her own blood was pouring out of her; she felt his pain. Disbelief and terror took huge bites out of her. She fought the assault, and when it became manageable, she locked her mind around the only thing that mattered.
Devin had been shot. If he was alive, it was up to her t
o keep him that way.
Think! Damn it, think?
The shot had come from the top of the peak. The sniper had known Devin was coming, but he hadn't shot at her, hopefully because he didn't have a good view of her.
Yesterday she'd crawled on her belly to keep from being detected. She did that now but only after tucking the limb under her shirt. Like Rambo or Tarzan—it didn't matter which—she wriggled and wiggled inch by laborious inch. She'd decide what to do once she'd reached the bastard who'd wounded Devin.
Wounded. Not killed. She couldn't handle that.
Her journey seemed to take forever, and yet a small, analytical part of her knew that wasn't true. She'd covered a little over half the distance when she got her first look at the person who'd turned a sunlit day into a nightmare. The armed man hadn't quite reached Devin. His body language struck her as a cross between arrogance and caution. He wasn't particularly tall with short legs and a barrel chest. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't concentrate on that.
Don't move, Devin. If you do, he'll shoot.
Once again the question of whether Devin was alive slammed into her. She fought it off, refused to let that fear weaken her.
The man's attention was focused entirely on Devin, and there were now less than twenty feet between them. Even if she sprang to her feet and charged, she couldn't reach him before he got off a shot. She'd have to get closer, somehow.
Ignoring her scraped and sore forearms, she continued her too-slow advance. The sniper's legs were bringing him closer and closer to Devin's motionless body.
Unable to do anything except watch, she fought rage as the sniper extended a foot and prodded Devin in the side. The man who'd owned her body last night didn't move.
The sniper kicked at Devin again. Still no response.
Don't be dead! Damn you! Don't be dead.
Despite her terror, she continued belly-crawling. The smell of blood reached her nostrils and knotted her stomach. The sniper tried to roll Devin onto his back, but he must have lacked the leg strength. Either that or Devin's inert body weight—
Cursing, the sniper stepped closer and rammed his foot under Devin. Then he leaned away, adding leverage to the effort. Devin started to roll over.
Then as Ana surged to her feet and pulled out her branch, Devin grabbed the man's ankles and yanked him off his feet. The man hit the ground butt first but didn't lose his grip on the rifle. Devin was trying to sit up but something wasn't working right.
Screaming, she charged. The man looked back at her; his gaze locked on her weapon. Jumping to his feet, he swung the rifle in her direction, but she ducked under it. She felt her branch strike something, but before she determine more than that, she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. The rifle was arcing back toward her. Again she ducked, but the rifle connected with her collarbone, knocking her weapon from her fingers. Pain shot up her shoulder, her neck, exploded inside her head. Although she struggled to keep her footing, she lost the battle.
Disoriented, she looked around for the length of wood. It lay between her and the man she hated as she'd never hated before. His legs were splayed far apart, and he was leaning to one side. Despite her blurred vision, she saw him start to raise the barrel at her.
"No!"
Devin!
Somehow Devin had gotten to his feet. His shirt was blood-soaked, and his right arm hung at his side. Still, he confronted the would-be killer, the pistol gripped in his left hand. Grunting, the stranger swiveled and aimed at Devin.
"Listen to me, bitch," the man ground out. "Don't move or I'll shoot him."
He was going to kill Devin anyway, unless Devin got off the first shot. But how accurate was he with his left hand? If only she knew more about rifles. Did the man have to do anything before it was ready to fire?
"Who are you?" she asked, hoping to distract him.
"Ana? You're all right?"
Although it cost her, she ignored Devin. "What is this about?" she demanded. "Why are you here?"
Instead of answering, the man kept his attention on Devin.
"I don't want to die." Her voice came out a whine. "He m-made me bring him out here. . ." She jerked her head at Devin. "He lied to me. Didn't tell me what he. . .I—I just want to go home." Careful to telegraph her intentions, she got to her feet. The numbness was leaving her arm, but she kept it dangling. "Please, let me go home."
"It's too late, bitch."
"No it isn't. He—" Again she indicated Devin. "He forced himself on me. Made me—I just want to go home."
Devin didn't move a muscle. The tightness at the corners of his mouth chilled her.
"Let me leave, please. Once I'm gone. . ."
"What do you think I am, bitch? Stupid?"
Again she was struck by the sense that she'd seen this man before. "I didn't say that." The rifle was so close. If she lunged—"I won't say anything, I promise."
"Like I'm going to believe you?"
"Please, I'm begging you! He's been saying horrible things about my husband. My dead husband. And he raped me."
"Then why are you still with him?"
"I'm scared of him. He—he's talking crazy. Why did you shoot? If you hadn't, we would have never known you were here."
His harsh laugh nearly made her gag. "You don't get it, do you, Mrs. Briggs?"
He knew who she was. "How can I?" She had most of his attention now. If only she could get closer! "You hurt me." She started to touch her arm, then jerked her hand away as if unable to bear the contact. "Please, just let me go home."
"Too late, bitch."
Ignoring his awful words, she slumped forward, then staggered. Her movements brought her a few precious feet closer to him.
"What the hell are you—"
Devin dove at him, the force knocking both men to the ground with Devin on top. With his first move, the sniper slugged Devin in the shoulder. Devin grunted; the pistol started to slip from his fingers.
Acting on pure instinct, Ana lunged for her branch. Ignoring the pain screaming through her, she clutched it in both hands. But if she attacked, she might hit Devin. The sniper still held his rifle and was trying to increase his grip on it. When Devin reached for it, the man struck Devin's shoulder again. Devin grunted again, went limp, his pistol under his hand.
"Damn you, damn you!" Ana bellowed. At these close quarters, the rifle was worthless, but with the pistol, that monster could kill Devin; that's all she knew.
Propelled by terror and determination, she used her boot to push Devin's hand aside and stepped on the weapon. The man swung the rifle at her leg. Because he was on his back, he wasn't able to put much force behind the blow. Just the same, pain started in her shin and traveled quickly upward.
One chop with her branch. That's all she needed. But the risk to Devin—
The second time the man struck her leg, she yelped and jumped back. Too late she realized she was no longer standing on the gun. Again the man reached for it, but with Devin's inert weight on his lower body, he couldn't reach it. Cursing, he tried to shove Devin off him. As he did, his grip on his rifle slackened. At that moment, Ana dropped her half-rotted branch and grabbed the rifle barrel. Leaning away from him, she used her full weight for leverage.
Then, screaming, she gathered her muscles and shoved. Her forward momentum knocked the man back and onto the ground, bringing her with him. Despite that, she shoved up on the barrel, forcing him to lift his arms. Somehow she kept her balance and sidestepped his body, but her grip was precarious.
She was trying to prevent him from bringing the rifle back down toward his body when she heard a solid thunk. The man bellowed and surged upward. Barely aware of what she was doing, she yanked with all her strength. The rifle came free.
"Ana, get away!"
Not questioning, she back peddled, the rifle clutched to her chest. Devin was on his knees, his face bleached of color. Once again he held the pistol. Like her, the sniper stared at Devin, but he was also gripping his
left knee, rocking back and forth. The now shattered branch lay on either side of his knee.
"Don't move!" Devin warned. "You even think about it, and I'll empty every bullet I have into you."
The man believed him. His wide eyes and slack jaws left no doubt of that. The way he kept trying to touch his knee told her he wouldn't soon be walking on it. She didn't care. Only Devin mattered.
The look in Devin's eyes, part grim determination, part pain, too much of it hatred, stopped her. "What is it?" she whispered.
Standing, Devin continued to glare at the man he'd just wounded, and who had wounded him. "Was it you?" he demanded. "Did you kill Aaron?"
"Who?" the man asked.
"Aaron Powers," Devin ground out. "Not quite a year ago. Near here. Was it you who shot him?"
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Fuck. You broke—"
"Matthew. Matthew Black," Ana interrupted. "Now I remember."
"Who?" Devin asked.
Still in shock, Ana tore her gaze off Matthew. If anything, Devin's face looked even more bloodless, and she hurried over to him. "What do you want me to do? Maybe your cell phone—I've got to get help."
"Soon. How do you know him?"
Knowing Devin was holding himself together through brute determination, she lay the rifle on the ground and held out her hand, indicating she wanted him to give her the gun. After a moment, he did, then swayed. Fighting a fear she'd never known, she wrapped her free arm around his waist. "Sit down. Please. If Matthew so much as moves, I'll shoot him."
Either Devin believed her or he'd come to the end of his strength. With her help, he did as she'd ordered. His shirt was soaked with blood. Looking around, she spotted Matthew's belongings and rummaged through them until she found a flannel shirt. She used that to tie a bandage around Devin's wound.
"How did you know how to do that?" he asked.
"I'm a rancher. I know first aid. Devin, where's your cell phone?"
