"Are you going to stay up there all night?"
Slowly she brought her left foot over the saddle's seat and shifted to face him. Dangling both feet directly in front of Killian, she looked down at him. The memory of his embrace came at her without warning, stunning her in the intensity of her reaction. For a split second she imagined herself slipping downward, letting herself be enfolded in his powerful arms, letting herself be comforted.
Fool. She pushed the images away. Clutching the cantle's leather rim in tired, sweaty fingers, she slid downward. The toes of her boots touched his legs, rus-
231
tied the warm denim of his pants, before her feet hit the ground.
His body loomed in front of her, pinned her between him and Captain's damp flank. The humid scent of the animal's sweat filled the air between them. Killian stood as still as a statue, his legs spread slightly, his arms behind his back. She felt the heat of his body against her, felt the warmth of his gaze on her face.
She wet her lips nervously and aimed the gun at his chest, thankful that his hands were tied. That had been a good decision. "Back up."
He waited a full minute, then did as she asked. When they were about ten feet apart, he smiled. "I can't be much help with my hands tied."
"That's true, you can't." She flicked the gun to the side an inch. "Sit there. I'll make us a fire."
He stared at her, saying nothing, not moving. Lainie straightened, forced herself to meet his probing gaze head-on. You 're in control here, she reminded herself a dozen times in the split second the silence lasted. Only you.
Slowly he backed up and sat down on a fallen tree. "I guess I can watch a woman work."
"Of course you can. It's how the West was won." Without another word, Lainie gathered up a few branches and twigs, and threw them onto a pile alongside the river. Reaching into the saddlebags, she pulled out the matchbox and lit the fire. Soon wispy trails of smoke spilled upward, followed by crackling, licking flames.
"I have to take a piss."
She gave him a tired wave. "Thank you for that urinary tract update. So go."
There was a silence that seemed to last forever, until finally he laughed. It was a rich, rumbling sound that
232
drew Lainie's gaze. He was staring at her, and through the shadows on his face, she could just make out his eyes. They were crinkled in the corners, drawn in what would have been a smile on any other man.
She frowned suspiciously. "What?"
He got to his feet and walked toward her. She flinched at every step and wanted to turn away. But she stood her ground, tried to look disinterested. He came to within inches of her and stopped. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, "My hands are tied."
It took Lainie a split second to get it. Then she drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widened. "I'm not untying your hands."
"Then you'll have to unbutton my trousers and take my�"
"Enough!"
He laughed again, and she wanted to slap his face. "Fine," she spat, shoving him away from her. "Turn around."
Still laughing, he stumbled backward and spun around, wiggling his fingers.
She advanced warily, keeping the gun prominently in front of her. With one hand, she untied the sagging knot and unwound the rope. "You have two minutes."
Without looking back, he strolled away from her, fading into the darkness just beyond the fire's glow.
Lainie backed up slowly and found her own place for privacy. When she was finished, she set the gun down on the dirt and stretched her fingers, hearing the snapping creak of tired bones. Standing, she let out a long sigh and pushed the damp tendrils of hair from her eyes. The endless darkness of the desert spilled out before her, a wavering palette of gray and black shadows that melted into a starless, lightless night sky.
"Lainie?"
233
His voice came at her from the darkness, a curious mixture of anger and worry. The control she'd fought for slipped a notch. She hugged herself, trying to make the feelings go away. Slowly she turned toward him.
In the campfire's throbbing circlet of light, he stood tall and straight, his black duster flapping softly in the wind. There was no sardonic smile on his face this time, no taunting curve of a thick eyebrow. His face was drawn into an intense frown. Deep lines etched his mouth and eyes.
"Lainie?" He took a single step forward, then paused, his eyes searching the darkness for her.
She saw an impossible caring in his gaze. She felt suddenly as if she were falling, tumbling into the warm heat of his brown eyes. Her heartbeat picked up, sweat itched across her forehead.
What would it feel like if Vi were right? she wondered again. What would it feel like to have a man like that to protect you, to care about you? To keep you safe . ..
Safe.
The word slipped through her, brought with it an aching sense of longing and loss. She tried to push the foolish thought aside. There was no safe in life; that was a lesson she'd learned a long time ago, and if there was, it wouldn't be with a man like Killian. But the thought wouldn't go so easily this time. It resisted, beckoned.
Safe.
She forced a harsh laugh, disgusted with herself. It was almost impossible to believe, but after all the therapy and work and pain, she still had something of the dreamer inside her.
No, not the dreamer, she thought bitterly. The coward. She had to admit�to herself at least�that deep down, she was afraid. Everything about this journey
234
scared her, from the endless desert to the doorway at the end.
She was used to being afraid, of course. She'd spent more than half her life in constant fear, but this was different somehow. Out here, she felt so desperate sometimes, so frighteningly alone. No wonder she had the unfamiliar hope that Killian would protect her.
But it was only a dream; she had to always remember that. He wouldn't protect her and he wouldn't voluntarily get her back to Kelly.
With an exhausted sigh, she reached down and picked up the gun. The weapon felt cold and hard and reassuring in her grip. She straightened, strode toward the fire. "I'm right here, Killian."
She stepped into the golden cloud of light, the gun held stiffly in front of her.
He sighed. "I thought you'd set off on your own."
She heard the worry in his voice, and it filled her with a sad regret. In another time, another place, they might have meant something to one another. But not here, not now. She tightened her grip on the gun. "Not me, Killian."
He stared at her for a long time, then turned and started to walk away.
She hefted the gun up a bit, aimed it at his back. "Don't move."
He spun on her. "For Chrissakes, Lainie, it's the middle of the night. Where do you think I'm going to go? I'm just gonna make us something to eat."
She kept the gun aimed at his chest and moved warily forward. "Okay. Go to the saddlebags and get some food."
He strode across the small campsite to Captain, who stood calmly alongside the fallen tree, his head drooped forward. Burrowing noisily through the saddlebags,
235
Killian pulled out some beef jerky and canned beans, then untied the mess kit and hauled it back, dropping it at the fire. It hit the ground with a jarring clank. A tin coffeepot bumped over a few stones and rolled to Lainie's feet.
She glanced down at it.
That split second was all he needed. Lainie heard a whirring thwop, and looked up.
A huge circle of rope slithered through the air and fell in a hoop over her head. She gasped as the rope snapped tight around her body, pinned her arms to her sides. Hemp bit through her sweater and abraded her flesh.
The gun fell from her limp fingers and clattered to the ground, useless. She stumbled forward and almost fell, righting herself at the last possible second.
He pulled her toward him, almost wrenching her off her feet. Her legs shot out in front of her, bootheels skidding through the dirt as he reeled her in.
&n
bsp; She stumbled and pitched forward; her knees hit the dirt hard.
He walked slowly toward her.
Fear and fury exploded in her chest. She surged to her feet and hurled herself at him, trying to wrench her arms free so she could scratch his eyes out. "Goddamn you," she hissed.
He grabbed her and shook her hard. "Lainie. Stop it."
She twisted and fought and threw herself backward.
"Damn it, Lainie," he yelled, throwing his arms around her until she couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
She felt his arms around her, clamping and hard and unforgiving. Nothing like the embrace of before. This was the truth, she thought desperately. That moment of caring had been the lie... .
236
And suddenly it overwhelmed her. She thought of Kelly�her beautiful baby girl�and she was lost.
It was over. She had failed, and God knew she wouldn't get another chance. Not by sunset on Sunday.
She should have felt betrayed and furious. But she didn't; she felt hollow and beaten. Everything seeped out of her, melted into the dusty ground at her feet. The fear she'd been holding at bay surged up and swamped her, moved through her blood in a dizzying wave. She went limp in his arms.
He seemed to feel the change. His hold loosened.
She sagged downward, crumpled at his feet. Her head bowed forward. She didn't have the strength anymore to hold it up.
There was no courage left inside her, no well of strength to draw from. Not this time.
She was too tired to do anything, too defeated and drained and beaten to beg or plead. Tears swelled in her chest, a hot, pounding ache that wouldn't release itself. She was too broken for tears. Her sorrow was too deep.
She had failed.
Chapter Eighteen
f
She sat slumped forward, the rope pulled taut around her upper arms, digging into the rough yarn of her sweater. Her head was bowed, her hair dusty and dampened by perspiration. She'd drawn her hands into her lap, where they lay limply atop her thighs. Behind her, the gun lay where it had fallen, the silver barrel cocked against a gray rock.
She looked frightened and vulnerable and beaten.
The anger drained out of Killian, left him with nothing, not even fear. He stood there like a statue, stiff and immobile, staring down at her. He remembered suddenly what she'd told him about her past. He felt mean and low ... so goddamn low....
Was this how Emily had looked the night they came for her? A vulnerable, frightened woman, on her knees, praying for mercy from men who had none to give....
He winced at the image. Shame settled in the pit of his stomach, mingled with a sinking, sickening sensation of regret. When had he become the kind of man he'd always despised? Had he really sunk so low that he would hurt a woman easily, that he'd bind her and wrench her through the night because it suited his own purposes? And when he knew some hint of what she'd been through in the past ...
"Jesus," he whispered, knowing the answer, hating it 237
r
238
with every fiber in his being. Wishing he could make it untrue.
He dropped to his knees in front of her.
"Lainie." He said her name softly, not knowing what else to say, not expecting her to respond.
She lifted her head, met his gaze with eyes that were liquid and shimmering with tears. She looked utterly, devastatingly defeated. "Please . . ." she said, then fell silent again, as if she didn't know what to ask for, or wouldn't ask it of him.
Jesus, it hurt just to look at her.
He reached out and loosened the rope, eased it away from her shoulders. The scratchy fibers caught on her sweater for a second, then released, slid down her body, and landed across her thighs in a whisper of sound. But it wasn't good enough, just taking the rope off her. He wanted never to have thrown it at all. His shame intensified, became a stabbing pain in his gut.
And suddenly he couldn't fight her anymore. Didn't even want to. He was tired, so damn tired of keeping her at arm's length.
He'd take her to the Rock. The decision lifted a weight off his shoulders, made it possible for him to breathe again.
Maybe then he wouldn't look into her sad eyes and feel like such a failure.
"I'll take you where you need to go, Lainie."
She drew in a sharp breath, but didn't move, didn't look at him. "Why?"
It was a question he didn't want to examine too closely. He shrugged. "Does it matter?"
This time she looked at him, and her eyes were glazed with tears. "You'll help me get home?"
The way she said the word, home, was the way he'd once whispered Emily's name. It resonated with emotion, with a longing that bespoke more than just a place to sleep, but a corner of the heart, a resting place for a weary soul. It saddened him somehow, made him wish�for the first time in years�that he belonged somewhere, that he had a place called home.
"Yeah, I'll take you. But . . ." He paused, stared down at her. "But you should know, when the chips are down, I probably won't be there for you. I'm not too dependable."
"I'll take my chances," she said softly.
"Uh-huh." Somehow, he'd known she would say that. "Where's home?"
"Bainbridge Island, Washington . . . 1994." She tensed, her moist gaze fixed on his face, and he knew that she was waiting for him to laugh.
Strangely, he didn't feel like laughing. "You believe it's real, don't you?"
Squeezing her eyes shut, she nodded.
"I'll try to get you home, Lainie. Wherever home is."
She stared past him, gazing out across the shadowy desert, her shoulders rounding downward. "I want to trust you-----"
The quietly spoken words touched him more than he would have thought possible. He understood what it felt like not to trust anyone. How alone it sometimes made you feel. He forced a laugh, hoping she didn't notice its hollow ring. "You're like me, Lainie. We don't trust too many people."
She shook her head. "No."
"Then I guess it'll mean something when you do trust me." The minute the words left his mouth, he winced, wondering what in the hell had made him say that. He was the most untrustworthy person he knew. Trusting him would get her killed.
240
She didn't smile, just looked at him with those heart-breakingly sad eyes. "It would mean everything."
Lainie sat on a boulder near the fire, her legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. A half-empty whiskey bottle was beside her. The crackling red-gold heat licked at the soles of her boots, but for the first time in her life, she felt warmed from the inside.
And it scared her to death. At the thought, she took another drink, thankful that Killian had left the supplies next to her when he went to wash the dishes. If there was ever a time she needed bottled courage, this was it. She wanted to get so drunk, she couldn't think. Couldn't feel. Couldn't hope.
Almost against her will, she glanced across the campsite. Killian was a shadow among shadows, a dark shape squatted in front of a tarnished ribbon of river water. The rhythmic sounds of his labor filled the night, the gritty scraping of sand on tin, then the plunging splash of rinsing the dishes. He'd been washing dishes so long, she knew that he was avoiding her as well.
Why had he agreed to take her to the Rock? The question jabbed back at her time and again. She hefted the bottle and lifted it to her lips, taking another long, desperate gulp. The fiery liquid burned a path to her stomach and set it aflame.
It brought with it the memory of that second, that unbelievable moment in time, when he'd said he'd take her to the Rock. She'd thought for one terrifying second that she would embarrass herself by bursting into tears.
She wanted to believe it. Sweet Jesus, she wanted to believe it more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. And when she looked at him, when she felt the
241
whisper-soft touch of his finger at her chin, she'd almost let herself.
But if she did, if she let herself believe in him, trust hi
m, she could lose everything.
Why would he help her? That was the key question, the starting point for all of it. And there was no good reason, nothing that made sense. There was nothing in it for him.
No, he had to be stringing her along, he had to be. He was waiting for her to break down, to trust him completely, and then he'd pull the rug out from underneath her, leaving her breathless at the turnaround.
She could almost hear his laughter in the rustling of the wind on the water. You didn't really believe I'd take you to the Rock, did you? You didn't really believe ...
She couldn't afford to believe in him. She had to bide her time and play along, find out what his angle was. She'd play along with his little game as long as they remained heading east.
She wouldn't trust him.
A shiver of longing moved through her. But, God, she wished that she could.
She was blind. Either that, or it was exceedingly dark out.
Lainie loosed a throaty giggle. It sounded a little hysterical, a little ragged around the edges, but that wasn't surprising. She was dead drunk and dead tired. A deadly combination, she thought with another laugh.
She made a lunging stab at getting to her feet.
"Having a little balance problem?" Killian's growly voice came from nowhere.
Blinking hard, she looked around for him. At the sudden movement, her legs wobbled, turned watery. She sank to her knees on the cold ground.
242
His gaze flicked from her to the fallen, empty whiskey bottle. One eyebrow lifted slowly, mockingly.
She winced. Embarrassment moved through her in a hot wave, brought a flush to her cheeks that irritated the hell out of her. She lifted her heavy head and tried to focus on Killian. He was a blur of flesh and cloth and silver hair. "Jesus, Lainie, what are you doing?"
"Genuflecting. I thought it was required."
He laughed unexpectedly. It was a rich, rumbling sound that filled her with a vague sense of loss and longing. "Only on Sundays. You may rise."
Easy for you to say. She staggered to her feet, trying to look casual, even though she felt as if she were climbing the face of K2.
"So," he said with a sigh. "You're drunk."
"Nooo." She giggled and immediately clamped a hand over her mouth. It had sounded strained, that laugh, and the very tenor of it depressed her. It reminded her harshly that she was running from something�just like Vi had said�running hard and fast and getting nowhere.
"I can't say I'm surprised."
She frowned. Unable to see him clearly, she stumbled forward until his face came into focus. "Whaddaya mean by that?"
When Lightning Strikes Page 20
