Saving Andi: St. John Sibling Series: FRIENDS

by Raffin, Barbara

  She ran a hand over the contents of the drawer…which she'd for the most part left untouched since the day he died. T-shirts and underwear neatly folded, socks rolled into uniform balls.

  She didn't need to open the bottom drawer to know it was missing two pair of jeans. A pair of day-to-day jeans that were in an evidence bag at the cop shop along with everything else he'd been wearing when it happened and his dress jeans. They, along with his least-worn tee and favorite wool shirt went with him into the ground where he'd been buried next to their mother.

  She took his only other pair of sweatpants and a fresh tee from the drawer, closed it, and turned to leave. But the starkness of the loft—the memories it invoked slammed into her.

  Three single beds that were little more than cots lined the walls. None of them had ever had any privacy, not inside the cabin. Even the loft had lost any semblance of refuge as Dal aged, growing more like the old man with every year. He'd tormented her and Theo mercilessly. When she'd begun to develop, his taunts had turned lewd and she'd taken to dressing in the bathroom.

  But it was because she'd recognized his meanness that she'd been able to escape buying into all that crap he and their father had thrown at them about being useless nothings that nobody would ever want. She'd had to work with Theo to get him to see his value beyond that monologue of berating they lived.

  And it had worked…for a while. He made decent grades in school, had even made the junior varsity football team.

  Then Dalmar had gotten his hooks into him and dragged him toward the darkness.

  Suddenly the air in the loft became suffocating. She fled down the steps, stopping outside the other room she'd found suffocating today, though for a far different reason. Cole's questions had been probing and she found confiding in him scary easy.

  Listening, she heard the water still running. She gave the door a couple raps and opened it just far enough to toss the clothes onto the toilet-seat lid as she called, "Here's fresh clothes for you."

  Then she grabbed her jacket and charged out the back door, Tuff on her heels. About half a mile along the trail through the woods she finally figured out she was doing the same thing she'd always done when life in the cabin got too painful or dangerous for her. Run.

  But, no matter how fast or far she ran, she would never outdistance the bad memories or escape reality. Experience had taught her that.

  But realization still didn't resolve her concerns about confiding too much in Cole, either.

  At least the hike rewarded her with a rabbit caught in one of her snares. Toss this baby into a crock-pot with some tomato sauce and she could head to town for supplies, the latter putting some much-needed space between her and Cole. It would give her at least the afternoon to figure out what to do about Cole's probing—about the questions he was bound to keep asking.

  #

  The cabin felt empty without her and, after a nap, he found himself suffering a bit of cabin fever. So he borrowed a jacket off the pegs by the back door and ventured outside with the company of Tuff Stuff, whom Andi had left behind with him as an early-warning system should anyone try breaking in while he was asleep.

  He kept to the well-worn paths through the snow, minimizing any chance of leaving obvious footprints. He stood for a long time near the bank of the lake in the shadows of towering white pines, inhaling the crisp air, waiting for some memory to find him. But, like the boat dock below caught in the grip of the icy lake, his past seemed frozen in place.

  Sure, there were general things he knew, like being able to recognize a white pine tree as opposed to a spruce, his instinctual need to be aware of his surroundings, how comfortable the Glock felt holstered to his hip…and finding Andi's distrust in the law bothersome. But nothing specific—nothing personal since remembering his name.

  Maybe some mindless activity might jar something loose from the depths of his battered brain. He eyed the trail into the woods. Much as he would've liked to follow it, he dared not go too far from the cabin. He hadn't been able to lock the door as he didn't have a key to get back in. Then there were those pesky bouts of weariness that drained him.

  He opted for exploring the garage next to the cabin, entering it from a side door that couldn't be seen from the road. The building was wide enough to house a snowmobile, an ATV, and a small fishing boat beside where her truck would have been parked. Hand-built storage shelves lined half the front wall and were filled with boxes and odds and ends.

  A workbench took up the other half of the wall, a pegboard above it holding hammers, screwdrivers, saws, and…mechanic's tools. He lifted a socket wrench for removing spark plugs from the board and turned it over in his hand. It looked well used, as did all the tools. In fact, none of the tools looked like they'd been hanging on the wall unused for long.

  The case of automotive oil on a bottom shelf suggested his rescuing angel knew how to change the oil in her truck. Given how resourceful she'd shown herself to be—how independently she lived—he wasn't surprised. Impressed was the more appropriate word.

  He replaced the socket to its designated holder on the pegboard and looked up. She'd said she'd hidden the toboggan in the rafters. Hidden was right. The rafters were piled with pieces of plywood, reclaimed lumber, and collapsed cardboard boxes. It took him a bit of exploring to spot the sled.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Andi Johanson was more than capable. Fortunate for him or he'd likely be dead.

  His smile faded as he pondered how she knew about gunshot wounds. From the brother who ended up in prison for murder? Had he also taught her how to maintain mechanical equipment? Or had those lessons come from the baby brother? Which raised yet another question. Who had taught them? The father who'd taught all of them how to poach?

  #

  Andi returned after dark, not a word to Cole why it took her so long to buy a single bag of groceries. She had no intention of letting on how badly she needed to keep her distance from him. Or that she'd spent most of her time making the rounds of Watersmeet's most popular-with-the-locals hangouts seeking gossip about any strangers in the area.

  She'd also visited a few neighbors, asking if they'd gotten any visits from a guy saying he was FBI. Only one other had. They all now knew to keep an eye out for Harley, his FBI-impersonating partner, and any strange vehicles hanging around.

  "Need help carrying in groceries?" Cole asked, opening the front door for her.

  She plopped her canvas bag onto the counter by the refrigerator. "Got it, and you should be keeping clear of the doorway. Someone could be watching the cabin."

  He nodded and eyed the single bag. She headed off any questions about the meager supplies by handing him a carton of eggs. "Put these in the fridge."

  Taking a package of spaghetti with her, she began filling a pot with water, adding in Cole's direction, "There're a few more perishables in the bag you can stow."

  Then she headed toward the bathroom, trailing orders, "If the water starts to boil before I'm back, toss in half the spaghetti and watch that it doesn't boil over."

  Inside the bathroom, she leaned back against the door and drew deep, calming breaths. The attraction had slammed back into her the minute he stepped close enough for her to catch a whiff of his heady musk.

  Wrong. She'd warmed the minute she'd rounded the corner on the highway and seen the cabin lights glowing through the curtained windows, even though anyone staking out the cabin would know she was gone and someone else had turned on the lights. To come home to someone and not dread what lay in wait for her inside the cabin was a new feeling for her.

  That was the real culprit, hope for a normal life.

  But there could never be normalcy for her. Not given her past. Certainly not with a man who found it necessary to wear a gun on his hip.

  Not when his presence had her packing her own pistol…no matter how good his arms felt wrapped around her.

  Getting a grip on her feelings, she washed her hands and returned to the kitchen. The pasta was boil
ing away and the rabbit falling-off-the-bone tender in the crock-pot of tomato sauce. Cole already had the table set and was sitting in the chair facing the door as he had from the first time he'd joined her at the table. The result of her setting his stew bowl there the first night he'd eaten at her table or because he needed to watch the door? If the latter, his were the instincts of a man used to danger.

  "How was your afternoon?" he asked.

  "Fine," she said, eyeing the timer Cole had set beside the stove. Ten more minutes before the pasta was done. Too much time open to too much talk.

  She took a loaf of bread out and sliced off a few pieces.

  "Grocery store must be pretty far from here," he said. "You were gone a long time."

  "Depends on how fresh you want your perishables as to which store you go to," she hedged and turned a question back at him. "How are you feeling?"

  "Good. Showering and changing clothes made me feel better than I expected."

  She took down a bowl and gathered lettuce and tomatoes from the fridge. "Did you remember anything new today?"

  "No."

  She tore the lettuce into bite-sized pieces and sliced the tomatoes into small wedges, dumping them both in a bowl. "You like Italian dressing?"

  "I think so," he said. "It sounds good."

  She dressed the salad and set it, the basket of bread, and the butter on the table. The timer dinged and she gratefully drained the pasta and mixed it with sauce and rabbit meat in a big bowl, which she also placed on the table between them, announcing, "Dig in."

  "Is your father still alive?" he asked as he spooned out a portion of the pasta.

  Her hand stilled over the bread basket, jolted by the abruptness of his question. Okay, so he wanted to know more about her. She could understand that. She'd like to know a lot more about him, too. Then again, she'd bet he would as well.

  As for his wanting to know more about her…

  She'd given more than a little thought this afternoon to the questions she might return to, and had decided giving him a bit of her family history might back him off. Given she was having so much trouble keeping clear of him, maybe a little background would even make him want to keep his distance from her.

  She snatched a slice of bread from the basket, answering, "He got drunk, fell, hit his head, and likely died from a blood clot. That was about ten years ago."

  "I'm sorry."

  She spread butter across her bread with too much force, tearing it. "Don't be. He was a miserable drunk."

  Cole helped himself to a portion of salad, his brow wrinkled. Could she be lucky enough that he'd heard enough already, that he'd quit crowding her with questions and his presence?

  "What about your mother?" he asked.

  She sighed and scooped spaghetti and rabbit onto her plate. "My mother died when I was ten."

  "Is that when your father started drinking?"

  If it took all the sordid facts to back him off, she'd give them to him. She met his gaze. "No. He always drank. And he beat up my mother when he was drunk."

  She'd gone too far. She saw it in his eyes, the pity, the question of "what did he do to you and your brothers."

  She forked spaghetti into her mouth and stared at her plate as she chewed.

  "So you and your brothers were left to be raised by him?"

  She swallowed and, with a flourish of her fork, answered, "Of course not. Our Fairy Godmother stepped in and carried us off to Happy-Ever-After Land."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to probe."

  "Yes you did."

  "Okay, I did. But I didn't mean to bring up bad memories for you."

  "Yeah. Well, too late."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They kept their distance from each other the remainder of the evening…at least as much as the cabin living space allowed. She'd curled up with a book in the recliner angled between the couch and the fireplace—her father's, which she'd long ago vowed to throw out, keeping the ancient thing only because she couldn't afford to replace it.

  But it'd been safer than joining Cole on the couch, even if they would have each kept to their own end. Still, she'd found herself rereading the same page in her book over and over.

  He'd seemed as restless as she, scanning through the four channels she got. No cable service out in the boonies. No extra cash for satellite TV, either.

  When he finally gave-up, turned off the TV, and headed into the bedroom, she'd closed her book, gathered her bedding, and dumped it and herself onto the couch. Sleep eluded her for a long time, but when it came…

  Andi woke with a start, her heart racing, sweat slipping down her sides. She threw off her covers, silently cursing. The nightmares had been fading and now she'd had them two nights in a row.

  She paced the room, checking the locks on the doors and windows. It was a senseless thing to do. She knew they were all secure. But she needed a distraction from the memories haunting her…and from the open door to her bedroom where Cole with his comforting arms slept. She faced the beckoning doorway for several seconds before turning away.

  She refueled the wood stove. She paced the space between the couch and fireplace, refusing to even consider going to Cole for comfort. But the images of the past, a past preceding Cole, wouldn't go away.

  Turning to the fireplace, she slapped the wood mantel with the flats of her hands, the force of impact jolting up her arms, into her shoulders, and across her back. Physical pain. It was easier to deal with than the ghost pains of her past.

  So she hit the mantel again and again and again until her hands went numb and her back ached…until another, larger pair of hands settled on her shoulders.

  She spun at Cole, growling, "No."

  He closed his arms around her. She pushed back from him, slapped at his chest, shouting, "No, no, no."

  But he wouldn't release her, and she so wanted to give in to the comfort of his arms.

  "Let me help you," he said, his words—those words—all it took to flay all resistance, all strength from her.

  Her knees buckled and she sank toward the floor. One arm caught her across the back and the other under her knees. Cole carried her into the bedroom as though he didn't have two gaping holes in his side and she was the most precious thing in the world. That last tore through her, ripping open a lifetime of need.

  So, when he laid her in his bed and crawled in beside her, she gave in to his comforting, gave in to the tears until there were no more to shed.

  They lay together, wrapped in each other's arms for a long time before he spoke.

  "These nightmares, are they because of me being here?"

  "No," she murmured against his chest, her cheek pressed to his tear-soaked tee. Then, remembering how much worse the hope his arms gave her—how much more painful it would be when he took that hope away, she attempted to distance him by stating the reality. "Maybe. I haven't had the dreams in months."

  "And now you've had them two nights in row," he said. "Do you want me to leave?"

  Her heart skipped a beat because she didn't want to let him go, yet she tried to make her voice sound hopeful as she answered, "Do you have someplace to go?"

  "I'm sure I do," he said. "I just can't remember where it is at the moment."

  "Oh," she said, torn between wanting him to stay and needing him to leave.

  "I could go to the police," he offered. "Turn myself in as a missing person."

  She elbowed herself up on her side and looked at him even though she could make out little more than his silhouette. "How much protection can they give a man who doesn't know why he's being hunted?"

  "They might be able to find out who I am. Maybe I have fingerprints on file."

  "Maybe you're a wanted man."

  "In any case, my leaving removes any threat from you."

  "Wrong. One look at your wounds and they're going to want to know who stitched you up."

  He folded his hands behind his head, and she could almost see the smile pushing the dimples into his chee
ks. "I've got amnesia, remember?"

  "Smart ass," she said with a grunt. "They'll follow the evidence."

  "And where will they know to begin looking if I don't tell them?"

  "You're not the first guy I've stitched up and the cops know it. They've just never been able to prove it."

  He went still and the teasing tone in his voice slipped away. "So I'm not your first."

  "They'll figure it was me," she said, ignoring the implied question in his statement, "and search the camps I take care of. Even if I head back up to the one where I found you and put it right, they'll see the signs of activity around the buildings, see the disturbance in the dust inside, and if I replace the glass you broke…"

  "Then leave it as it is. Let them find where I holed up. They can't prove you were the one who rescued me."

  She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest even though the shift caused the warm quilt to fall away from her—even though it took her away from Cole's heat. "Tuff's paw prints are all over the place."

  "Prints any dog could have made."

  She shook her head. "Even if they can't prove it, they'll know it was me. And that'll give them one more reason to keep an eye on me. At the very least, they'll show up on my doorstep with their questions."

  "So what if they do?"

  "I've had my fill of cops. I don't need any more hanging around—watching me—interfering with how I live."

  "Then it looks like you're stuck with me for a while yet."

  "At least until you get more of your memory back." She sighed, both troubled by the prospect and relieved that he wouldn't be leaving just yet.

  "I'll work harder on trying to remember," he said, rubbing her back.

  "Yeah," she said, leaning into his hand even as she thought about the chain with the ring on it rolled up in a sock in the dresser drawer just a few feet away from the bed. She should show it to him. It might be the one thing to break through whatever barrier stood between his present and his past. Why did she hesitate?

  "How's your side?" she asked instead of exploring her own question.