SHATTERED

by Alice Sharpe

  “It’s delicious,” Sarah said, happily munching away.

  Nate took a bite of his own. The apple wasn’t great, but nothing had ever tasted better, and he wished he’d taken time to gather a few more. They ate in silence for a while, savoring the juicy fruit. “Did you come here often when you were a kid?” he asked.

  She swallowed and wiped her chin with her fingers. “Off and on. I wasn’t much for fishing, but I loved exploring the riverbank. We had a cocker spaniel named Rosie. She was a swimming fool.”

  “I like dogs,” Nate said.

  “Do you have one now?”

  “Two. A black Lab and a little scruffy white thing that showed up one day. The Lab likes to go horseback riding with me, but he’s a terror in the river, so I can’t take him when I go fishing. He scares all the fish away.”

  “You live somewhere you can have horses?”

  He smiled at the enthusiasm he could hear in her voice. “Sure. I have a few acres that border a national preserve. I’ve got horses, some cattle, a pregnant goat and a handful of chickens. I’ve also got coyotes and rattlesnakes.”

  “Sounds like heaven, except for the snakes.”

  “It is. I take it you’ve been living in a city.”

  She polished off her apple. “Yes, but my heart is in the country. It tore me apart to leave the ranch, but at least I had plans to work with animals. Those dreams got me through the marriage and Johnny’s death, the meaningless jobs, everything. And then Mom needed the money, and, well...what else could I do but help her?”

  “You have money now,” Nate said gently. “Thanks to your father, you can go to the best college in the country and become a world-class veterinarian.”

  She nodded as she took his apple core and laid it on the floor beside her own. He produced a red bandanna from his pocket and they both wiped their hands dry. “Yeah, thanks to Dad.”

  They were quiet for a minute, then Nate asked a question. “Do you know where you can get a snowmobile in the morning?”

  “I think so. Fred and Emma Crawley live a mile or so from here. They used to let me use theirs. If they remember me, I’m sure I can borrow it.”

  He leaned his head against hers. “They’ll remember you.”

  She pulled away a little and stared up at him. “You sound so sure of it.”

  “Well, who could forget you?”

  She was quiet for a second and he wondered what was going on inside her head, then she murmured, “They haven’t actually seen me since I was seventeen.”

  “When you ran off with an older guy—a cop, to boot. Probably makes you infamous in a small place like this.”

  “Probably,” she whispered, settling against him again. “As long as my mother makes it out of this alive—”

  “I’m hoping you and I make it out alive,” Nate interrupted.

  Again she pulled away to look at him. “That goes without saying. But Mom—”

  “—got you into this mess,” Nate said. “I hope she’s worth what you’re risking.”

  “She’s my mother,” Sarah said with a note of finality in her voice.

  “I understand that,” Nate said.

  She looked down at her lap. “Do you?” she murmured.

  Nate didn’t respond. He was glad when she leaned against him again, but it was obvious it was more for comfort and warmth than closeness, and he guessed he’d earned that from her. He closed his own eyes but his mind raced with the images and impressions of the past few hours. Now, in the relative safety and quiet of this remote cabin, every thought revolved around the woman next to him.

  She was such an enigma to him. There were parts of her so competent and brazen that she made him shudder in despair that she would do something incredibly dangerous—like try to negotiate with the thug she’d described, Bellows. But there was also something about her that suggested she was no fool when it came to self-preservation. And what about that loyal streak of hers, and for a mother who seemed to have done little to earn it? Nate’s own parents were good, upstanding people who had never told a single lie that he knew of. That was the way he’d been raised, too.

  How could he take credit for that? His folks had made choices that spared him having to choose between lying to a stranger and forsaking one of them. They had never asked for help in a life-and-death situation, and if they had, what would he have done to ensure their safety?

  Anything. He would have done whatever it took. In Sarah’s shoes, he would do the same.

  He opened his eyes, intent on telling her this, but she’d grown heavier against him, her breathing softer and more steady. He twisted his head and looked down at her, admiring the sweep of dark lashes against her cheeks and the supple peachy glow of her lips. While part of him ached to wake her with a juicy kiss, another part was content to watch her. Had he ever felt this way before?

  And what would Mike have made of this instant attraction between his daughter and Nate? Mike...almost forgotten in the rush to save his daughter and his ex-wife.

  With thoughts of Mike came equally disquieting ones of Alex. Why hadn’t he shown up in Shatterhorn? Had he had to make an emergency landing somewhere else? If he had, Nate was sure one of the first things he would do was find a phone and try to make contact. However, Nate’s phone was history, so any calls would appear to go unanswered and that would concern Alex. Hopefully his friend would call home and Jessica could explain that they’d spoken.

  With any luck, he and Alex would soon be downing a beer together and recounting their individual adventures. While Nate looked forward to that, he dreaded the thought of trying to explain Mike’s murder.

  Which reminded Nate of Mike’s notebook that he’d tucked beside his leg. He picked it up now, working it free from the rubber bands, holding it turned to the lantern light. At first he wasn’t sure if it was fatigue or poor lighting, but nothing made a lot of sense. Gradually, though, he was able to see that it was part personal diary, part schedules and impressions of interviews and stakeouts, part musings that seemed to be his way of assimilating information. Sometimes Mike had folded a cut-out newspaper article within the pages, or quoted from an article or perhaps something he heard on the radio. It appeared one page had been torn out, as the jagged edge sticking out of the binding attested. And he’d made a list. For an appliance salesman, Mike showed signs of latent detective skills.

  The first word on the list was Fireworks. The second was Pearl. Nate knew that had been the mall shooter’s last word. But seeing it here and followed by the date December 7, with the notation of Pearl Harbor Day right after it, startled Nate.

  The mall shooting had happened on Labor Day. Mike also mentioned a Veterans Day incident at a library in Arlington, Virginia, five dead. The Hawaii shooting had happened on Pearl Harbor Day. Was it possible the dying man’s last word had not referred to a gem taken from a mollusk but the holiday commemorating the attack on Pearl Harbor?

  But how could that sorry excuse for the kid at the mall have known anything about shootings that would take place several months down the road?

  Nate flipped back a page and found an article about a July Fourth incident. Two months before the mall shooting, a gunman had slain two victims during a fireworks display in the middle of Iowa. The gunman had been killed when the crowd finally figured out that not all the explosions and shouting were coming from enthralled onlookers and gone after him. Nate vaguely remembered reading about it. He couldn’t remember if any foreign group had taken credit for it.

  The second-to-last word on the list was Washington. Washington. Sarah had said her father went on and on about it, growing frustrated with her when she kept assuming he was talking about where she used to live. What if he was talking about the city in a different context?

  Memorial was the last word. Did that mean the Washington Memorial? Had he meant the Washington M
onument? Was it possible terrorists were targeting American national holidays? Was that what Mike had thought? Was that why he’d been hounding the editor of the paper and the only politician he knew, the mayor of a small town who had smothered them in accolades after the mall shooting? Had Mike been trying to enlist their aid in reaching a broader audience?

  The last few pages held notes on People’s Liberation, all written in tiny script and all crossed out with a scribbled NO! across the top. And on the very last page that had been used was the number twenty-eight, circled in red ink.

  The words began to swim before Nate’s eyes and he closed the book. Maybe if he slept for a few minutes, his head would clear enough that he could figure out exactly what Mike had been trying to say. He turned off the lantern and adjusted the blankets to cover Sarah’s feet and his own shoulders, then, leaning his head against her, closed his eyes.

  He awoke standing beside Sarah. She was dressed in a blue skirt, her hair curled and bouncy. Her white blouse was covered with little red and black flowers that gradually morphed into the suits of a deck of cards—diamonds, hearts, spades and clubs. She pulled on his hand, yanking him to a booth of sorts. She pointed at a pearl necklace.

  They were suddenly inside a mall and the place was crowded with tiny children, preschoolers, really, running everywhere, laughing, but Nate felt an all-pervading weight of anxiety. He had to get Sarah away from that booth, which was suddenly crawling with babies who were falling to the floor. He and Sarah each started grabbing the infants, but there were too many to save them all.

  Booming gunfire stopped everything and Nate’s arm exploded. He was alone except for Sarah lying at his feet, her blouse red now. He knelt beside her and she opened her eyes. “Save my mother, Nate,” she whispered. “Nate, Nate...”

  He sobbed as she disappeared into smoke. His shoulder ached. He groaned and Sarah said, “Nate? Are you okay? Wake up.”

  His eyes flew open to face the dark room. “I’m awake,” he said at last.

  She gently rolled him over. All he could see of her was the slightly lighter shade of her face and the glistening of the whites of her eyes.

  “You were having a nightmare,” she said, smoothing his hair away from his brow.

  He had nightmares almost every night. The only difference with this one was the fact Sarah had been part of it. If he was honest with himself, she’d been the center of it, a focus for his fears, eclipsing even the children.

  “Are you okay now?” she added.

  He took a couple of shallow breaths, then caught her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. She drew her hand away and he winced inside, but the interruption in physical contact was brief. She lay down beside him and put her arms around him as though he was a scared little kid. No one had done that since he was ten years old; he was used to being the strong one who protected, not the other way around.

  The feel of her body pressed against his began to get through the nightmare hangover and arouse him in all the predictable ways. When she tenderly kissed his lips, he closed his eyes and hoped she’d never stop.

  She kissed him a dozen times, all over the face, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose and ears, all sweet, comforting kisses that he found anything but comforting. The next time her lips landed on his, he opened his mouth and that was like throwing gasoline on a fire. He longed to make love to her.

  As though she’d read his mind, she unzipped his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, doing both slowly, driving him mad as her fingertips grazed his skin. Although she was incredibly careful not to touch his left arm, she touched almost every other place she could reach, her strokes light and sexy and urgent, her kisses on his neck and chest sensuous, and as they traveled down his stomach toward his waist, he almost lost it.

  He pulled her back up so he could claim her lips once again, knowing if she even fiddled with the buttons of his fly he’d stand no chance of making this last. Limited by the fact he could use only one hand, he made up for it with his mouth, sucking on her earlobe, licking her throat. Her coat and sweater were obstacles and he tugged on them, the need to feel her bare skin invading every organ in his body.

  “Take them off,” he whispered and she sat up. When she lay back down, she was naked from the waist up, her breasts soft alluring orbs, the nipples hard beneath his touch. She moaned deep in her throat when he put his mouth to one and fondled the other. He would have given anything for light enough to see her as well as feel her.

  “Do you have something?” she asked, her voice breathless.

  His hand traveled under her low-cut jeans, her heat and warmth and suppleness affecting him like a drug. “Have what?” he managed to say.

  “Protection. A condom?”

  “No,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “Do you?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  He couldn’t get enough of her. He would have sucked her into his lungs if it was possible, tasted every little bit of her.

  But something had changed, and it finally got through to him. His poor brain was so addled by her that it took a second to connect her request with her withdrawal.

  He held her head under his chin and kissed her hair.

  “I have to have protection,” she whispered. “I can’t have sex without it. I mean, I want to have children someday, but not like this. I just can’t risk pregnancy.”

  “It’s okay,” he assured her. “You’re right.”

  “And you were so recently engaged to someone else.”

  “And you were going to shoot me just a few short hours ago. Don’t forget that.” Her soft chuckle made him smile in the dark. “All of this is true, but it doesn’t change the fact that I want you so much it hurts,” he murmured.

  She raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers. “It’s going to be light soon. I’m going to try to get a little more sleep.”

  Holding her was exquisite torture, but that was okay. Her soft, fragrant body pressed up against him would keep him wide-awake all night. He should never have allowed himself to go to sleep in the first place—it wouldn’t pay to forget the image of their adversary poised outside the house ready to pick them off when they tried to escape a fire.

  And there was another image he hadn’t told Sarah about, because there wasn’t much they could do about it. Often, on the ride across the pasture, he’d glanced behind them, afraid they were being followed. He’d never seen anyone, but once the sky lightened, it would reveal the path the horse had left in the snow. For all intents and purposes, they might as well have sprinkled fluorescent bread crumbs in their wake. And down here with the river on one side and a hill on the other, they were as good as trapped.

  Chapter Nine

  Sarah woke up with a start. Morning had come, and soft light filtered through the dirty, cracked windows of the cabin. She twisted her arm up to look at her watch and saw it was almost 8:00 a.m. She’d overslept.

  “Wake up,” she told Nate as she extricated herself from beneath his arm. She grabbed her sweater and jacket from where she’d discarded them the night before, aware of Nate’s gray gaze watching her dress. She grabbed her boots and pulled them on, then got to her feet.

  “Hurry up,” she said, moving to the sink, where she pumped ice-cold water into her hands and splashed it on her face. She rinsed out her mouth with more of the same, glanced at Nate and found him slowly buttoning his shirt. She knew it would be hard for him to tug on his boots with the injured arm, but he’d make it.

  “I’ll go saddle Skipjack,” she said and moved the chair to let herself outside the cabin, where she paused for a second as she closed the door. It was a relief to get away from Nate. She hadn’t even been able to meet his gaze. She’d been embarrassed by recalling overwhelming intimacy after such a short time knowing one another and clearly remembered rattling on about a baby—something she hadn’t thought abou
t in years and something a woman shouldn’t start talking about with a man she barely knew. It was all like a bad dream. Well, maybe not all of it. There was no denying the passion, no denying the desire...and no denying her empathy for his pain.

  She just really didn’t want to know what he thought about her this morning.

  But more important, why had she let down her guard last night and told him so much about her mother’s predicament? Who was to say he wouldn’t start arguing with her again about going to the police? There wasn’t time for a bunch of maneuvering. She had to get back to the house, get the silver and drive to Reno.

  Maybe she should leave him here and go by herself. Why had she even woken him up?

  Skipjack came to her call as she let herself into the corral. She picked up his bridle from where she’d stowed it the night before and slipped it over his head, then lifted the saddle and settled it atop the saddle blanket. As she flipped the stirrup up to fasten the cinch, something glinted in the rocks downstream. She quickly looked away.

  “Let’s see that foot, sweetie,” she crooned to the horse. She bent down to pick up his foreleg and pretended to study his shoe while she peered downstream. Then she put Skipjack’s leg down and wound his reins around the fence. “I’ll be right back,” she said with a pat to his flank. She let herself out the gate and casually walked to the cabin.

  Nate was standing with his back to her at the sink. At the sound of the door, he turned, water glistening on his stubbled jaw, looking twice as worn-out and three times as sexy as he had the day before. “What’s wrong?” he snapped after a searching look at her face.

  “Someone is out there,” she said.

  Drying his face with a towel, he started to look out the window, but she stopped him. “Don’t—he’ll see you. He’s downstream, hiding among some rocks. I saw the flash of something like binoculars.”

  “Could it be a neighbor or someone coming to use the cabin?”

  “No. The land is posted, but beyond that factor, the Crawleys are the nearest neighbors and they’re eighty years old. I don’t think they’re running around spying on people the morning after a snowstorm.”