by Lee Taylor
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. You were just a child, Mary. You couldn't have stopped those men."
"I caused her death—"
"No, you didn't, Mary!" Connor hesitated, wishing he knew what to say. He had never had to deal with guilt. No wonder Mary hadn’t gotten over that day.
Tears flowed from her eyes and Connor awkwardly wiped them away with one finger. "Turn that stove off and get some rest," he insisted. "You've done enough for today."
Catching back a sob, Mary turned off the flame. Her body shook as she lowered herself down, and Connor reached out to pull her close. He threaded his fingers through the silky texture of her hair, delighting in the simple trust she showed as she laid her head upon the crook of his arm.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little. But nothing you say can change the past."
Connor shifted his weight in his bag, wishing he had removed his outer clothes like Mary had. He felt too hot, but he didn't want Mary to think she had to move away.
She shivered— he knew it wasn’t from the cold, but from sadness— and he pulled her closer, offering what comfort he could, wishing he could do more. After several minutes he felt her take a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.
"I'm better," she murmured— but didn't move away.
"That's good."
The tent flap was suddenly lifted and they both jumped as Judd looked inside. He glanced from one to the other, snorted, and let the flap drop again.
Connor listened to the sounds of his boots as he hobbled away. Judd’s interruption had unsettled him— which was probably the man’s purpose. Never let ‘em know when you’ll be checking up on them.
Mary had cried out, a soft bleat of a noise, scared once again. He could feel her shake and he silently railed against their situation.
She lay quietly for awhile, then spoke his name. "Connor?"
"Yes?"
"Promise me you won't antagonize them."
"Not deliberately. That's all I can promise, Mary."
"I see. I take it you won’t promise the moon if it's not yours to give."
"Correct. I only promise what I'm quite sure I can deliver."
She sighed, then nodded. "It's better that way. It keeps one from raising false hopes."
After that she did fall asleep— not stirring when Wes poked his head inside the tent around seven and again at midnight. Connor let her sleep until early the next morning.
"It's four a.m.," he whispered. "I could try for our boots."
She struggled into a sitting position, shaking the sleep away. "Let's."
"You roll up the bags. I'll search out the boots."
"Okay." She started to unzip her bag, then stopped. "No, it's not okay."
"What do you mean?"
"They won't shoot me. I must be the one who goes."
She was right, of course, but he couldn't stand having a woman go into danger while he stayed behind.
"It's my job, Mary. Not yours."
"We've no other choice. Right now, they need me. They won't do anything to me."
"I don't like it," Connor said, overcome by a feeling of revulsion. He had always been the point man. His teams had always depended on him to pull them through. Now— when it counted most— Mary wanted him to stay behind. Her reason— his death— simply wasn't strong enough. He’d rather die.
But if he died, Mary’d be alone. The thought stifled further objections. It made more sense for her to go. If they did attack her, he was just a few yards away, ready to fight for her. If she managed to get in and out of the tents undetected, she could save both their lives.
As unpalatable as it might be, Connor realized he must accept it. He gave her hand a firm squeeze. He wanted to stop her, but prevented himself from doing so.
"Be careful," he said.
"I will."
"If Ramone wakes up...."
She took a quick breath and squeezed his hand in return. "If anything happens, I'll scream."
Unable to respond in any other way, Connor pulled her against him and kissed her, hard. He didn't know why he did it, except the desire to do so was overwhelming— to demonstrate his admiration for her courage.
He meant it to be an expression of how much he wanted to go instead of her, of how much he wanted to protect her. But as the kiss deepened, he realized Mary was becoming the center of his life.
20
Mary pressed closer to Connor, shifting her weight in the sleeping bag. She ignored the sharp prickle of his new beard and returned his kiss. The warm tenderness that accompanied the pressure of his mouth dispelled any of her lingering fears.
It felt wonderful to finally experience the thrill of mutual affection, so aptly described in books, so missing from her life. A fierce longing assailed her for all the joys she had missed, for potential male friends turned away, for opportunities lost.
“Don’t leave." Connor’s voice sounded deeper than normal, a hoarse whisper. “Stay."
Tempting. Mary steeled herself against it. "No. We must try for our gear now. They're tired. They should be hard to wake."
"Then wait until it gets a little more light, so we can see where to go," he urged, pulling her closer.
She wanted to stay with him more than anything. She dreaded going into the men’s tents. But Mary always did the unpleasant jobs first. If she gave in, it would be just that much harder.
She had convinced Connor she wouldn't be hurt, but she had only half-convinced herself. Actually the thought of leaving the "safety" of their tent— and him— terrified her.
Connor was her only ally. She couldn’t let him weaken her.
"We'll be able to see,” she said. “I have flashlights— and a headlamp."
"A headlamp?"
"Yes. A light on a headband, with a battery pack. It shines two hundred feet or more."
"Don't let Judd see them, or your booties."
"Okay. But I'm going to need a light in their tents."
"Take the smallest, most expendable thing you have."
"I have a key ring light attached to the outside of my pack. I'll take that." She felt him release her and wanted to cry out against it.
"Okay. But don’t try for the coats. They’ll rustle too much. Once we get away, we'll wear our sleeping bags."
His kiss had given her confidence and she unzipped her bag, sitting up. His hand lingered on her arm as if reluctant to let her go. She wondered if he did so because of the danger ahead, or because he wanted her to stay.
Not pausing to ask, she stood, pulled on her wool outer clothes and unsnapped the tiny pen light.
Judd and his men needed her to get them to the cabin. They wouldn't hurt her if she woke them. Unless she woke Ramone. Then she’d scream the snow off the trees.
Slowly lifting the tent flap, Mary stared out into the semi-darkness. Moonlight reflected from the snow and revealed the other tents, doors zipped shut, looking like the tops of two huge umbrellas.
All was quiet. No one stood guard, unless he was somewhere behind her. They probably assumed she and Connor weren't going anywhere.
Mary crawled outside. The wet crystals immediately chilled her feet and the biting coldness of the air penetrated her body. Her heart thudded madly as she stood up, then glanced around to check behind her.
No guard. At least none she could see.
Around them the mountains shone white, ghostly silhouettes against a darker sky. Overhead a myriad of stars sparkled from horizon to horizon, vibrating in the ice-chilled darkness. To the west the combined lights of Tacoma, Seattle, Bellevue and Everett lit up the atmosphere with a soft glow.
Civilization— so near and yet so far.
A serene and lovely place. Violence seemed alien. Unthinkable. Yet its threat was as real as the four men. To fight against them— unthinkable! They held the guns, plus those deadly knives.
If she got caught, would Judd kill Connor— in retribution?
Her mouth felt suddenly dry, so that he
r lips clung to her teeth and her tongue became swollen and awkward. She recognized the effects of fear— a fear which could rapidly immobilize her, leaving her sick and trembling.
She wanted to return to Connor, more desperately than anything she had wanted in her life, but she must face the unknown. Like a tightrope walker afraid to take that first step, she stood on one foot and found it almost impossible to put the other ahead of it.
The longer she stood, the colder she’d get, her muscles tighter and more uncooperative. It reduced her chance of success.
She had to move. Now.
Mary bit down on her lower lip, chapped and pitted from the arid cold, and listened intently. She heard no noise foreign to the quiet forest. She glanced back at her tent, hearing Connor inside, quietly packing their gear. They had to try, and she had to do her part.
The little dragon swung on its chain under her shirt. Perhaps this time they’d win.
Lord God, please hear me this time. Help me get our things. Help us escape.
Taking a quick breath of icy air, she forced her unwilling feet to move, first one, then the other, along the path the men had broken in the icy snow—a tightrope walker crossing a chasm.
“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...”
She tiptoed to the dome-shaped tent on the right, unable to keep her bare feet from scrunching softly on the packed snow.
As she knelt beside the door flap her knee popped. Mary tensed, her hand hovering above the zipper. No noise from inside.
She waited a minute, not daring to breathe, then slowly edged the little tab upward, an inch at a time. It made no sound as it moved and she relaxed just enough to gasp for air.
Peering inside, she saw two forms wrapped in their bags, feet toward her, apparently asleep. Piles of equipment and clothing surrounded them, shoved against the tent sides.
Not seeing the boots, Mary flicked on her pen light to aid her search. Her heart sank as she finally located them, heaped at the far left corner of the geodesic-shaped dome, near the heads of the sleeping men.
One of the men mumbled and she immediately extinguished the light. She wanted nothing more than to give up. But if she didn't try, Connor would. Her thoughts clung to him and to his strength. Not just his physical strength, but his resolve to act in the face of danger. She drew on that strength, hoping to make it her own.
She couldn’t walk around the sleeping men so she must walk between them, where their bags met and overlapped.
Cautiously Mary slipped inside, feeling each step before she transferred her weight onto it, doing a delicate balancing act as she progressed.
The tent wasn’t tall enough to stand upright, so she crouched, her last step going over the head of the sleeper on the left and into the pile of boots. There were just four, so either theirs weren’t here or one of the men must still be wearing his.
Reaching down she lifted one boot, then another, until she picked up one much lighter than the rest. She had found one of hers. Holding it in her left hand, she lifted each remaining boot. She couldn't find the other one. Where...?
Flicking on the pen light, she swept it over the piles of equipment several times before she realized they must have separated her boots, putting one in this tent and one in the other. They had probably done the same with Connor's. How was she going to find his?
Carefully she reached down and felt the rough treads, systematically checking for a difference. Her father had purchased his the year he died, so hadn’t worn them long.
She couldn't even remember what her father's boots looked like. Should she just carry all of them to Connor?
Bending forward, she began to gather them in her arms when she caught the scent of new leather in the boot she held. Quickly she set it down. One more sniff located her father's boot, which smelled heavily of oil and waterproofing.
She had it. Success. One of each.
Now to get out.
Cautiously, Mary balanced on her toes as she rotated slowly, changing directions.
"Gruumph!"
One of the men shifted, throwing himself into a new position, his head landing against her foot. Startled, she yanked it away, balancing on the other foot. He shifted again, then muttered something, moving away from the man sleeping next to him. Of course— his sleep-drugged mind would assume his companion had disturbed him. With renewed courage, Mary put her foot out and down, making the first step toward the door.
Her heart hammered violently, loud enough to wake them with its noise, but after muttering and shifting again, the man settled back down.
Better to move while he’s moving, she thought, and did accordingly, reaching the tent door in three more steps. She dashed quickly across the open space to Connor, handed him the boots and explained why there was only one of each.
"One more tent to go," she said.
He groaned. "I never realized waiting could be so hard. Be careful, Mary."
"Don't worry. I'm nothing but," she assured him.
More confident, she approached the next tent and slowly unzipped the door flap. These men also had their feet toward the entrance and again Mary did her pause-step. Something stiff dangled from the roof. Ira's jeans, hung up to dry. She held them aside as she moved past to the boots.
Ira's boots were still wet as the men had neglected to use waterproofing. They would be cold and uncomfortable in the morning. She found hers and Connor’s immediately.
Triumphant, she shifted her weight back to the center. It hadn't been so hard after all.
Thank you, Lord.
She smiled as she pictured herself with Connor, well on their way before these creeps even woke up. She took a step forward.
A man’s strong grip seized her ankle.
21
Who had grabbed her foot? Flicking on the pen light, Mary aimed it toward the roof of the tent while she stared down at the man directly below her. She hadn't wakened him, she’d swear to that, although she had almost dropped the boots on his head.
A movement made her glance at the second man in the tent. He waved the long-bladed knife slowly back and forth, like the head of a cobra, warning her not to proceed.
Ira.
The knife did his talking for him—motioning her to put the boots back. She did so, her hopes dashed low in the fleetest of moments, her spirits crushed by failure.
Releasing her ankle, Ira motioned her outside. She went, heavy-hearted, her legs hardly able to support her.
He followed her out. He wore long johns, his feet in heavy socks.
"Don't try that again," he said, his voice a harsh raspy whisper that made it even more threatening.
Mary nodded, shivering. She wanted nothing else than to run back to Connor.
"I want your other boots."
She looked at him, startled.
"I heard you get 'em. McLarren!" He raised his voice. "Bring 'em out here."
Connor tossed back the tent flap and charged out, carrying the boots in one hand. Ira stopped, ready to fight, and Mary ran to intercept Connor, her arms spread wide. "I'll take them."
"Here." He thrust them at her, glowering at Ira, then looked down at her. "You all right?"
"Yes." She saw the relief in Connor’s eyes before she turned away, then she took the few steps necessary to hand them over to Ira.
Ira didn't look at the boots. His entire being remained focused on Connor.
"You ever send her again, you’ll pay," he growled. "I know lots of ways to cut a man and have him live."
"He didn't send me," Mary said, feeling sick. "Connor wanted to come, but I insisted. I knew you wouldn't kill me— at least, not you."
Ira flicked a look her way, then nodded as if placing her statement beside what he knew of her character. "And what if Ramone had been on guard?"
She shuddered.
"Get back inside, both of you," he snapped, and Mary scurried inside like a rock pica finding its hole. Seeking refuge, she almost knocked Connor over as he followed her in.
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Kneeling, he scooped her close to him. "It's all right."
The fear that something might’ve happened to her edged his voice with a timbre harsher than its normal tone. He had probably agonized every second she had been away.
His arms tightened in a fierce hug. "It was worth a try," he said, his voice becoming gentle.
She had been trying not to cry. His gentleness destroyed her control.
"But I was so close," she sobbed. She had never felt so down. "I had them in my hand."
"We'll think of something. There has to be some way to escape these brutes."
For Mary, the loss of hope led to complete exhaustion. "It's no use," she cried. "We're never going to get away. Judd’s always one step ahead of us."
"We can't give up." He swayed slightly as held her, making her feel sheltered and safe. After a while the downward plunge halted and turned around.
Gaining strength from Connor's arms, she sniffed away the last of her tears— slightly ashamed of her outburst and once again in control of her emotions. She felt better, although Connor probably wondered how he would ever escape with a blubbering female on his hands.
Her feet felt frozen. Mary pulled away and sat cross-legged to rub some warmth into them. Connor reached beyond her and unzipped her sleeping bag, then urged her to sit on it while he pulled it up over her shoulders. He did the same with his bag.
"Body heat is best," she commented, wiping her eyes dry, glad it was dark enough he couldn't see how red they were. She must look as washed-out as she felt. "Just rub your feet with your hands. I'll do the same with mine."
"I can do better than that," he said, pulling up his two shirts. He placed her cold feet against him, covering them first with the silk undershirt, then his wool outer shirt. The heat of his body cocooned her feet in warmth, while his thoughtfulness comforted her spirit.
"Ah. Cold feet on a warm stomach. That's gotta be love," Mary said.
The words made her feel awkward and gauche. Why did she say that? It was what her father said, whenever she had done something special for him— but Connor wouldn't know.
"I... I mean...."
Connor interjected smoothly, "I know what you mean. If you're going to walk barefoot in the snow, you had better have someone to put them on, don't you think?"
