She’d never met a man who affected her as O’Neill had. When she was with him, she often felt as she had when she crested the highest peak of the monster roller coaster at Busch Gardens and plunged downward, her heart in her throat, half scared, half exhilarated. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed getting to know O’Neill better, even though, according to Victoria, such an endeavor would be an exercise in futility. Even if the inscrutable resident manager were to show an interest in her, she was at Endless Sky under false pretenses and a fake name, inauspicious circumstances for any relationship.
Relationship, she thought with a bitter laugh. Fat chance. She had nothing in common with the man, knew nothing about him except that he spent half the year in the mountains, half in the Caribbean, and that he kept his distance from women. Worry over Deb had made her crazy, or she wouldn’t be having such fantasies. The only good that came from speculating about O’Neill was the warmth such thoughts sent spiraling through her, protection against the bitter cold and icy wind.
After what seemed a lifetime on the trail atop the ridge, Trish followed the path as it dipped into the mottled shadows of the forest of dead balsam firs, their gray branches twisting like tortured wraiths in the strengthening wind. Eerie in the daytime, the dead trees were even more forbidding by night. Trish hurried through them and their skeletal branches seemed to grasp at her, snagging her clothing as she passed. Her heart thundered in her throat, but not loud enough to cover the maniacal howl of the growing gale.
She descended into the deciduous forest where the thick canopy of leaves thrashed as if in agony above her head and blocked the moonlight. The bobbing circle from her flashlight revealed only a few feet of path in front of her. The pitch-black night, filled with strange noises and the wailing wind, closed around her.
Terror clawed at her and only the thought of Deb, also alone in the darkness, kept her going.
Do not fear. You do not walk alone.
The ancient voice that she’d heard last night in her suite and again that afternoon froze her steps. Her chest tight with fear, she flicked the beam of her flashlight around her.
You cannot see me. I am a spirit. And I am a friend. Do not be afraid.
“That’s easy for you to say.” Trish spoke through chattering teeth, sounding braver than she felt.
Not all can hear me. You have the gift.
Lucky me, she thought with irony. The telepathic ability she’d developed in childhood to communicate with Debra must have somehow facilitated her contact with whomever…whatever was speaking to her.
“Who are you?”
I have been sent to watch over you.
Trish shivered in the cold, struggled for breath, and wondered if she’d lost her mind. “A guardian angel?”
A spirit. You must hurry. Your sister waits.
“Debra is here?”
Follow the path on which your feet are set. You will find her.
Trish moved forward. The gale shrieked around her. Icy darts of sleet pricked her cheeks and freezing air burned her lungs. Bushes and shrubs contorted, tormented by the violent wind, and branches slapped her face as she passed. Several times, without the support of the walking stick, her feet slipped out from under her, and she stumbled and pitched forward down the steep incline. Each time, she struggled to her feet, brushed forest debris from her clothes and hair, and pushed onward.
As she walked, she prayed harder than she had ever prayed in her life for courage and the strength to keep going. She bargained with God, promising to abandon her wicked ways if He’d just let her find Deb. But, like a sinking ship with no freight to throw overboard, she could think of few bad habits to forfeit: occasional overindulgence in chocolate, an orderliness that drove her friends crazy and a tendency to break the speed limit on her way to work. She owed her lack of sins more to a boring life than a good one. In desperation, she bartered her own life in exchange for her sister’s.
By the time she’d reached the bottom of the ravine, crossed the creek and headed up the steep slope where she and O’Neill had stopped for lunch, her hair and clothes were soaked from wind-driven rain and plastered against her skin. Her teeth chattered violently from cold and fear. Only by continuing to move did she keep from freezing to death. Even her spirit guide, she noted with irony, had had sense enough to get in out of the weather. Either that, or, if he was still around, he’d gone completely silent.
Trish?
Deb’s voice, reverberating in her mind, provided the impetus Trish needed for the long struggle to the top of the next ridge. There, the trees gave way to another barren expanse. In the darkness, only the beam from her flashlight prevented her from stum bling off the path and over the edge of a rock face that fell away into nothingness at her feet.
Deb? Are you here?
I’m here, Trish. I knew you’d come.
O’NEILL TOOK THE STEPS to his bedroom three at a time, yanked a hooded poncho from his closet and grabbed the heavy searchlight from its charger beside the bed. Sleet pattered against the windowpanes and prompted him to return to the closet for a second poncho. Once he caught up with Erin Fairchild, she’d need protection from the elements.
And from him.
He’d gladly wring her pretty neck for putting herself in danger. He couldn’t understand Erin’s obsession with finding the missing reporter, a woman she didn’t even know. Or maybe her reckless quest had nothing to do Debra Devlin. Maybe Erin Fairchild had a death wish. Just because his clients were wealthy didn’t mean they were logical. Or even sane. He had to be crazy himself to go after Erin in this weather. But the rescue squads were already exhausted. Better that he nip Erin’s nocturnal excursion in the bud and save them an additional search.
He was already far behind her. A supposedly urgent summons from the Averys had slowed him down. By the time he’d contacted Janine to deal with their complaint that had turned out to be about the quality of their dinner, he’d lost precious time. In his frustration, he swore, louder than the wind that buffeted the house. He’d caught a glimpse of Erin’s fair hair and pale hands in the moonlight before she disappeared into the underbrush. She hadn’t worn a hat or gloves, much less rain gear. She’d be soaked and freezing if he didn’t bring her back quickly.
As he hurried through the house, he debated telling Metcalf where he was going and decided against it. The sooner O’Neill caught up with Erin and forced her to return, the less exposure she’d suffer.
Why not send the rescue squad after her? the rational part of his brain demanded.
The question almost stopped him short, pointing out a reality he hadn’t faced until now. Besides feeling a personal responsibility, he cared what happened to her. With her sunny smile, flashing eyes and unpredictable personality, Erin was inching her way into his heart. O’Neill, who’d always inclined toward being a loner, had purposely chosen his solitary existence after friends had disappointed him and Alicia betrayed him. Why had he allowed Erin to breach his well-manned defenses?
He shoved the question away and concentrated on the task at hand. Introspection would only slow him down. The screen door of his cottage slammed behind him, and he raced up the hill and across the lawn toward the path through the rhododendrons. He didn’t need the searchlight yet. The encroaching clouds hadn’t reached the moon. And he knew this trail so well that he could have followed it even in the dark.
But Erin didn’t know the trail at all, and she was terrified of heights. She might panic, suffer vertigo and fall. And from every point on the ridge path, it was a long, brutal way down. He hastened his steps, kicking pebbles from the path as he hurried along the top of the ridge. Even with her twenty-minute lead, surely he’d catch up with her soon.
He scanned the terrain ahead as he ran, but saw no sign of Erin’s silhouette. He hoped that meant she’d reached the downward trail safely. If she had fallen, he wouldn’t be able to hear her cry for help above the screaming wind.
Plunging into the stand of dead balsams, he switc
hed on his searchlight. Its powerful beam lit the trail ahead, but it was empty. Wind-driven sleet stung his face, but O’Neill pressed on, wondering how Erin could have moved so fast and praying that she hadn’t disappeared into thin air like Debra Devlin.
He reached the deciduous forest and played the searchlight down the length of the path to the creek. No sign of Erin. Had she lost her way and taken another trail by mistake?
At that instant, the wind dropped and the forest grew still. In the lull, a scream pierced the silence.
“Erin,” he yelled, “is that you?”
O’Neill turned in a circle and tried to identify the direction of the cry, but the wind had picked up again, drowning all other sounds.
Forcing himself to relax and think, O’Neill assessed his options. Should he double back and see if Erin had missed this trail or continue in the direction that she had wanted to take earlier today?
Through the wind-thrashed leaves above, a faint but steady light glimmered at the top of the next ridge. It wasn’t moving. Had Erin dropped her flashlight?
The possibility of her lying hurt on the path propelled him down the incline in a headlong rush. Ignoring the burning in his lungs and the scream of his calves, he leaped over the creek and started up the opposite ridge. As he climbed higher, he again made out the circular glow of a flashlight, lying on the path, but Erin was nowhere to be seen. Recalling the trail’s terrain, he realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the light lay by an overlook above a sheer rock face that dropped a thousand feet straight down.
Had the scream been Erin, falling?
The thought provided an extra rush of adrenaline, and he pushed uphill until he stood on the path beside the flashlight. Sweeping the broad beam of his searchlight in every direction, he caught no sign of Erin on or near the path.
With dread pounding in his veins, he stepped to the edge of the overlook and trained the light downward. A strong blast of wind at his back threatened to send him over the edge. He windmilled his arms, regained his balance and stepped back from the precipice.
Erin was a petite woman, only slightly over half his weight. Had the violent wind swept her off the cliff to the trees a thousand feet beneath the overlook? He braced for a glimmer of blond hair and pale face far below, but nothing broke the dark blanket of rock and forest that lay at the foot of the cliff.
Relieved, he moved from the edge and played his light farther up the path.
Where the hell was she?
The wind died briefly again, and an eerie moan filled the silence. O’Neill moved closer to the overlook’s rim and leaned forward.
Several yards below on a rocky outcrop barely inches from a sheer drop down the steep side, pale blond hair flashed against the dark, wet stones.
Erin had fallen from the overlook.
Chapter Seven
O’Neill scanned the vertical face of the cliff directly below him and cursed his failure to bring a rope. Searching frantically for a way to reach Erin, he finally spotted a break in the shrubs where a narrow path led downward. He lunged down the steep trail. Loose rocks and pebbles scattered beneath his feet, and several times he had to grab a branch that overhung the trail to keep from pitching head-first down the mountainside.
The path ended abruptly on a narrow rock ledge that offered a dizzying drop to the forest a thousand feet below. O’Neill stepped onto the shelf that projected outward only a few feet and swept the underside of the ledge with his searchlight.
Erin’s aqua eyes stared at him from beneath the wide overhang. She huddled over another person, prone and unconscious. O’Neill instantly recognized the woman’s dark hair and colorful clothing.
Miracle of all miracles, Erin had found Debra Devlin.
“Is she alive?” he shouted above the roar of wind.
Erin nodded and shouted back. “The overhang sheltered her from rain and wind. That’s the only thing that saved her. But she’s freezing, and her pulse is slow.”
Fanning his light, O’Neill inspected the cliff above them, but the only way out was the way he’d come in, a trail with an almost vertical incline. To add to the problem, thick wet flakes of snow had begun to fall.
“She needs a doctor,” Erin insisted.
O’Neill frowned. “We shouldn’t move her. She could have broken bones, internal injuries—”
“She’ll die if we don’t get her out of this cold. We have to chance it.”
Erin was right, and they had no time to waste while they considered alternatives.
“I’ll carry her,” he said. “You take the light and come behind, in case I need a boost.”
O’Neill maneuvered past Erin on the ledge and knelt beside the unconscious reporter. Her shorts and lightweight shirt provided no protection against the wind and snow. He handed Erin the searchlight and shrugged out of his jacket beneath his poncho. He tugged it and his extra poncho over Debra. The garments would provide only minimal warmth, but at least they would keep her dry. He lifted her in his arms, slung her over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and staggered dangerously close to the edge of the narrow ledge. Erin grabbed him and restored his balance. Shifting his deathly quiet load, he sidled along the rock shelf and started up the trail. Erin followed, playing the light ahead of him.
Their progress was agonizingly slow. Every step had to be calculated. One slip would send all three backward down the path and over the cliff. His muscles strained under the unaccustomed weight and his lungs protested. At one point, only the firm push of Erin’s hands against his buttocks enabled him to keep moving upward.
They reached the overlook at the top of the trail, but he didn’t stop to rest. Snow was accumulating fast and covering the path. With a sinking heart, he realized they would never make it back to the resort before becoming lost in the blizzard that was increasing in ferocity by the second.
While he paused and struggled for breath, Erin flicked the searchlight around them. Her eyes widened as the peril of their situation struck her. “Snow’s covered the path. We can’t see the way.”
“Don’t worry.” With reluctance, but no other choice, he decided to break his promise and reveal a secret he’d sworn to keep. Lives were on the line. “There’s shelter nearby where we can wait out the storm.”
“But Debra needs medical care.”
“We can’t get help until the weather breaks. For now, shelter and warmth are her best hope.”
Employing his detailed knowledge of the surrounding terrain, O’Neill headed downhill toward the creek. There, instead of heading up the next ridge toward Endless Sky, he followed the creek downstream. Erin stayed close behind, shining the light ahead of them.
“How far?” she called above the wind that blasted snow at them in a blinding curtain.
“Not far,” he lied and prayed they’d reach their destination before the swiftly falling snow obliterated the landmarks he needed to find his way.
Almost half an hour later, he topped a short rise and pointed ahead. “We’re here.”
TRISH’S FEET were blocks of ice, and her aching leg muscles could barely lift them. Even holding the searchlight seemed too much effort. She had never been so tired. The prospect of giving up, lying down in the soft snow and dropping off to sleep lured her. But Deb needed her, so she had to keep going. Just when she’d exhausted her last reserves of energy, O’Neill announced that they’d arrived at their destination.
Trish peered through the blowing snow and gasped in surprise. When O’Neill had stated shelter was nearby, she’d expected a rustic hunting cabin with primitive facilities. From what little she could glimpse through the thick curtain of snowflakes, the house before her was a miniature version of Endless Sky. Yellow light glowed from the twin front windows like the eyes of a night predator, lying waiting in the darkness. Not exactly the most attractive welcome, but she’d take refuge in a bear’s den if it meant getting Deb out of the cold.
“Does someone live here?” she asked.
“No,
the lights are on a timer,” O’Neill explained, wheezing under the weight of a still-unconscious Debra. “There’s a combination lock on the front door.” He rattled off the code. “Open it for us.”
Trish plowed ahead through the swirling white flakes, dragged her weary feet up the porch steps drifted with snow and punched in the numbers on the lock at the front entrance. When she opened the door, glorious warmth engulfed her. O’Neill followed close on her heels and carried Debra inside.
Trish barely noted the well-furnished living room as she trailed O’Neill into an adjoining bedroom.
“Pull back the covers,” he ordered.
Trish quickly complied, and he laid Debra with extraordinary gentleness onto the soft, clean sheets of the king-size bed.
“I’ll let you get her out of her wet clothes,” he said, “while I bump up the thermostat. There’s an electric blanket on the bed. It’ll help bring her core temperature up.”
O’Neill left the room. Sick with worry over Deb, who was too quiet, too cold, too pale, Trish stripped off the poncho that had been only partially effective in keeping her sister dry. She removed O’Neill’s jacket and Deb’s other clothing and noted with dismay the bruises on her sister’s body and the unnatural angle of her left ankle.
Oh, Deb, what’s happened to you?
But her sister had slipped so deeply into unconsciousness that she hadn’t been able to respond, not even telepathically, since Trish had found her.
Mystique Page 8
