by Paula Graves
She had to tread carefully. Everything she’d worked for over the past few months was at stake.
Dallas stumbled on his way to the door, flashing her a grimace of a smile as she grabbed his arm and kept him from face-planting in the gravel between the Jeep and her kitchen door. “I’m usually steadier on my feet.”
“How long has it been since you ate anything?”
“Not counting roots and berries?” he asked with a lopsided smile, leaning against the side of her house while she unlocked the door.
“Yeah, not counting those.” She opened the door and helped him up the two shallow steps into the kitchen.
Inside, the cabin was blessedly warm and familiar, driving away some of Nicki’s tension. Dallas Cole didn’t seem to be faking his weakness, and she was finally back in her own comfort zone. She knew where the knives were kept and where to find her Remington 870 pump-action shotgun and ammo.
And there was the satellite phone hidden under the mattress of her bed that would get Alexander Quinn on the line in a second. He might be two and a half hours away in Purgatory, Tennessee, but he had eyes and ears all over the hills. She knew from experience.
“How much snow do you think we’ll get?” Dallas asked as she flicked the switch on the wall, flooding the kitchen with light. He squinted at her, as if it had been a while since his eyes had been accustomed to so much light.
“I guess you haven’t heard a forecast in a few days?” She crossed to the stove and grabbed one of the saucepans hanging over the range. “We’ll get an inch or two, maybe. It’ll probably be melted off by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Glad to be out of it.” He nodded toward the small kitchen nook table. “May I?”
Polite, she thought. Though she’d met a few well-mannered devils in her day who’d give you the shaft and thank you for it. “Sit. I’ll see what’s in the pantry.”
He groaned a little as he sat, and she wondered how many injuries he had hidden beneath his grimy clothes. “Thank you. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to repay you for your kindness.”
His accent was subtle but there, the hint of a mountain twang not unlike her own Tennessee accent. She’d done little more than glance over the information Quinn’s mystery operative had left for her at the dead drop a few weeks earlier before she’d destroyed it, not exactly expecting Dallas Cole to show up in the middle of River’s End. But there’d been something about a hometown in eastern Kentucky—
“No repayment necessary.” She looked through the cans in her pantry. “Chicken and vegetable sound okay?”
“Sounds like heaven.”
As she heated the soup, she searched her brain for any other details she could remember from the dossier on Dallas Cole. His job at the FBI wasn’t exactly what she might have expected—that much she remembered. She wasn’t dealing with a special agent or a forensic science whiz.
No, he was a graphic designer with the Bureau’s public affairs office.
How on earth had an artist gotten himself crossways with the Blue Ridge Infantry?
* * *
HE HAD NO idea what to do next, so he did nothing. Nothing but sit and bask in the warmth of this tiny kitchen and watch a blue-eyed brunette with killer curves heating a can of chicken soup on an ancient gas range.
Nicki, she’d said. Short for Nicole?
“This is a nice place,” he said, mostly to end the silence. Over the past three weeks, silence had become his enemy, an auditory void in which his deepest fears had held sway.
She glanced toward him. “Compared to what?”
Her blunt tone made his lips twitch with unaccustomed humor. He hadn’t had a lot to laugh about recently. “I’ve been worse places.”
“Haven’t we all?” She pulled a couple of stoneware bowls from a nearby cabinet and put them on the counter by the stove. “You in the mood for a little or a lot?”
His stomach seemed to be turning eager flips, but his brain kicked in with a stern warning. The last thing he wanted to do in front of a pretty girl like Nicki was throw up. “Let’s start with a little.”
She slanted a curious look his way but put a bowl half-full of steaming soup on the table in front of him. “Careful. It’s hot.” She fetched a spoon and put it by the bowl.
He blew on a spoonful of the soup and took a sip. The savory broth tasted like heaven in a spoon.
Nicki took the seat across from him, not looking at him as she started eating her own bowl of soup.
Prickles of suspicion played at the back of his neck. Why wasn’t she looking at him?
“Just you here?” he asked.
Her gaze snapped up to meet his, and he realized how shady the question probably seemed.
Her green-eyed gaze leveled with his. “Me and my Remington 870.”
He smiled at that. “Message received.”
“Sorry. That was a tad rude, wasn’t it?” One corner of her lips tilted upward.
“Probably earned it with that badly phrased question.” He fell silent and concentrated on eating his soup as slowly as his ravening hunger would allow. His stomach felt unsettled but the food was staying down, at least for the time being.
He needed food and rest, in that order. Because once he left this cabin, he wasn’t sure when he’d get much of either again.
“How did you end up out there in the woods?”
The question he’d been waiting for ever since she’d stopped to help. “It’s a long story.”
“And you don’t want to tell it?” In her voice, he heard a surprising thread of sympathy. He looked up and saw her sharp eyes watching him with understanding.
“Not at the present,” he admitted.
“Okay.” She turned her attention back to her soup.
That was easy.
Too easy.
He didn’t know how to deal with someone who didn’t seem to want—or need—one damn thing from him. Especially after the ordeal of the past few weeks. He didn’t know how to relax anymore, how to sit quietly and eat a bowl of soup without waiting for the next blow, the next trick.
He knew his name was Dallas Logan Cole. He was thirty-three years old and had spent the first eighteen years of his life in Kentucky coal country, trying like hell to get out before he was stuck there for the rest of his sorry life. He was a good artist and an even better designer, and he’d spent the bulk of his college years trying to leave behind the last vestiges of his mountain upbringing so he could start a whole new life.
And here he was, back in the hills, running for his life again. How the hell had he let this happen?
“I guess those are the only clothes you have?”
He looked down at his grimy shirt and jeans. They weren’t the clothes he’d been wearing when a group of men in pickup trucks had run his car off the road a few miles north of Ruckersville, Virginia. The wreck had left him a little woozy and helpless to fight the four burly mountain men who’d hauled him into one of the trucks and driven him into the hills. They’d stripped him out of his suit and made him dress in the middle of the woods in the frigid cold while they watched with hawk-sharp eyes for any sign of rebellion.
Rebellion, he’d later learned, was the quickest way to earn a little extra pain.
“It’s all I have,” he said, swallowing enough humiliating memories to last a lifetime. “Don’t suppose you have anything my size?”
Her lips quirked again, triggering a pair of dimples in her cheeks. “Not on purpose. I can wash those for you, though.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He was finally warm, he realized with some surprise. Not a shiver in sight. He’d begun to wonder if he’d ever feel truly warm again.
She picked up his empty bowl and took it to the sink. “The bathroom’s down the hall to the right. Leave your clothes in the hall and I’ll put them on
to wash.”
“And then what?”
She turned as if surprised by the question. “And then we go to bed.”
Chapter Two
Dallas gave Nicki an odd look. “To bed?”
She looked up quickly, realizing what she’d just said, and couldn’t hold back a grin. “Not together, big guy.”
He smiled back. “Yeah, I didn’t figure you meant it that way. But this cabin’s not very big. Do you even have a second bedroom?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I have a sofa. And extra blankets. So go on and take a shower. Or a bath, if you like. The tub’s pretty big.” She bit back a smile at the thought of Dallas Cole folding his lanky body into her tub.
“Still the problem of clothes. Or the lack thereof.”
“I probably have some sweats around here somewhere. I borrowed them from my cousin the last time I stayed at his place.” Anson was only a couple of inches taller than Dallas, so surely his old sweatpants would fit him well enough. “Go get cleaned up. And let me know if you find any wounds you need treated.”
The wary look he shot her way sent a prickle of unease racing up her neck. He was one more person who didn’t quite trust her version of the truth.
And why should he? Why should anyone? She was lying through her teeth about what she was doing in River’s End, wasn’t she?
There’d been a time, not so long ago, when lying came as naturally to her as breathing. Life was one big story to be told the way she wanted it to happen, and inconvenient truths were discarded like yesterday’s trash.
But she’d learned the hard way that the truth always came out, and usually at the worst possible time. She just hoped the truth about her assignment here in River’s End didn’t come out until she was somewhere safe and far, far away.
* * *
DALLAS LET THE SHOWER run as hot as he dared and stood under the needling spray until he couldn’t stand on his trembling legs another minute.
Wrapping a towel around his hips, he sat on the closed commode and willed his strength to return. The last thing he wanted to do was face-plant in front of Nicki again. She pitied him enough already.
As the steamy heat of the bathroom dissipated, cooler air washed over his damp skin, raising goose bumps again. He grabbed a second towel from the nearby rack and dried off before he pushed to his feet.
Standing in front of the mirror over the sink, he wiped away the condensation to take his first good look at his physical condition after nearly three weeks of captivity.
He’d lost weight. At least fifteen pounds. Maybe more. The people who’d imprisoned him in the cellar of their mountain cabin had used deprivation to try to break him. Sleep, light, food—all had been withheld in an attempt to get him to tell everything he knew about a man named Cade Landry.
He wondered if Landry was still alive. From what little he’d learned from the men who’d held him captive, getting their hands on Landry was a big damn deal.
But they hadn’t gotten any information from him. Maybe they’d thought he was soft because he was nothing but a support staffer at the FBI, working a job that didn’t require him to carry a weapon or stay in fighting shape.
They’d been wrong.
Not that he felt anywhere close to fighting shape at the moment. The mirror was merciless, revealing not only his prominent ribs but also the rainbow of bruises and scrapes he’d acquired during his time with the Blue Ridge Infantry.
He made himself turn away from his self-scrutiny and opened the bathroom door. Cold air from the hall assaulted him, and he wrapped the second towel around his shoulders.
“There are clothes on the end of the bed, across the hall.” Nicki’s voice drifted into the hall from the front room.
“Thanks.” He entered the bedroom and found a small stack of clothes at the end of the bed. There was a pair of black sweatpants that wouldn’t have fit him three weeks ago but now snugged over his hips as if they’d been made for him. She’d also laid out a couple of oversize football jerseys. He grabbed the darker of the two and shrugged it on. It fit only marginally better.
He dropped to the edge of the bed, tempted to lie down and sleep for a few days. But there was the matter of the pretty brunette down the hall. All the way through his shower, he couldn’t stop thinking about what a stroke of fortune it had been to walk into the path of a woman who hadn’t asked any inconvenient questions. Who hadn’t insisted on calling the police when he asked her not to. What absolute luck.
Problem was, he’d never put much faith in the notion of luck.
Why hadn’t she asked him more about who he was and how he’d found himself facedown on a mountain road in the middle of a sleet storm?
He looked around until he found the scuffed oxfords he’d been wearing since he’d been run off the road somewhere north of Ruckersville. The dress shoes looked incongruous with the sweats and jersey, but he didn’t like the vulnerability of bare feet at the moment.
Nicki looked up as he entered the living room. She offered a gentle smile that made her look like a goddess, her skin gleaming in the glow of the fire she’d just turned from stoking.
“Thanks for the clothes.”
“They fit. Sort of.” She stood and dusted her hands on her jeans. They hugged her curves like a lover, sending a rush of desire darting through his belly. He ignored his body’s inconvenient reaction, determined to stay focused and on alert.
“I think I’ve lost weight,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she moved closer to him. “You seemed pretty hungry earlier.”
“You haven’t asked me how I got in this condition.”
For a second, her faint smile faltered, and he realized he’d struck a nerve. But her smile recovered quickly and she gave an artful shrug. “I didn’t want to pry until you were warm and fed. Maybe got some rest, you know? You’ve clearly been through a lot. I figured you might want to wait to tell me about it until you felt better.”
He took a step closer to her, taking advantage of the difference in their height. “I could be a serial killer for all you know.”
She didn’t flinch, her smile expanding as his legs began to wobble under him. “I think I could take you. In this condition, anyway.”
He reached for the nearest armchair and sat, his legs trembling. The heat of the fire nearby was too tempting to resist; he turned toward the flames, stretching out his hands while slanting a look at his pretty hostess. “You’re one of those women who’s not afraid of anything?”
“Oh, you’ve never seen me with a spider,” she answered lightly as she pulled her own armchair next to him.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Now I know how to pay you back for your hospitality. Arachnicide is my specialty. Just give me a rolled-up piece of paper and stand back.”
The smile she darted his way made his gut twist unexpectedly. Damn, but she was a good-looking woman, all wavy dark hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. And those jeans and that snug-fitting T-shirt showed off a slim but deliciously curvy body that he hoped would haunt his dreams tonight.
Anything to drive away the nightmares that had tormented him since the truck full of bearded thugs had run him off the road nearly a month ago.
“Is there someone I should call?” She stretched her own small hands toward the fire.
How could he answer that? The truth was, he wasn’t sure what to do. The FBI employee he’d been for over a decade demanded that he call the authorities, turn himself in and tell his story. The truth would out.
But the boy from eastern Kentucky knew that sometimes, the truth wasn’t enough to keep a man alive. Some of the most evil people in the world could hide behind a badge and the veil of authority. He knew that from experience, including his most recent brush with corruption in the guise of justice.
“
I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I think maybe sleeping on it is a good idea, if that’s okay with you.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly at his words, but she just gave a nod and laid her head back against the chair. They sat in silence for a while, tension sharpening the warm air wafting around them.
Did she think his hesitation meant he had something to hide from the authorities? Was she considering calling the cops herself as soon as he went to bed?
It was a chance he’d have to take, because he was almost asleep as it was. If he stayed here much longer, he wasn’t sure he could drag himself out of this chair. And no matter how tough or strong she thought she was, he doubted she could haul his weary butt over to the sofa by herself.
“I’ll take the sofa,” he offered. “No need to run you out of your bed.”
She shook her head. “Take the bed. You’re the one in bad condition. The sofa sleeps fine, and I’m short enough not to be uncomfortable sleeping on it.” She waved her hand toward the pillows and blankets piled up at the end of the sofa. “I’m set for the night.”
He looked at her, taking in the guileless expression on her face. He wanted desperately to trust someone, especially someone as pretty as the woman who’d introduced herself as Nicki. But trust didn’t come easily to someone like him on the best of days. And good days had been thin on the ground for him for a while now.
“You’re remarkably easygoing for someone who just had a stranger crash her life,” he said as he pushed to his feet.
She rose with him. “That’ll probably change when you’re stronger.”
“Glad to know you plan to keep me on my toes.”
“I’ve seen you flat on your face. On your toes is definitely the way to go.” She nodded toward the hallway. “Go to bed. I’ll lock up and we’ll see how you feel in the morning.”
The walk to the bedroom felt as if he was hiking uphill all the way, but he finally made it to the edge of the bed and sank on the soft mattress, facedown. He would move in just a minute. Crawl under the covers and settle down like a real human being.
