All I Need

by Christa Conan

  He glanced across the space that separated them from Doug and Brian. At Doug’s signal that he was all right, Rhone exhaled his sense of relief.

  Then familiar dread took its place.

  In a prone position on his side, Brian didn’t move.

  Doug realized it at the same time. “I’m going after Norton,” he said, rising.

  “No!” Rhone surveyed their surroundings, moving with guarded care toward Brian. “He’s long gone,” Rhone assured Doug. “What’s more important now is getting the kid to a hospital.” If it isn’t too late, Rhone added silently.

  The radio at his side screamed to life.

  “I told you to come alone!”

  Then silence.

  Rhone fisted his hands. He cursed. Recrimination washed over him. He should never have allowed anyone to accompany them.

  “We’d have been right here, with or without your blessing,” Doug stated. “If the situation was reversed, so would you have.”

  It didn’t make the self-disgust diminish.

  Brian’s moan urged Rhone into action.

  Gently, with Doug’s help, Rhone rolled Brian onto his back and dusted dirt from a face turned ashen, brushing away pine needles from lips tinged with blue. He felt sickened when his gaze took in the gaping chest wound.

  Rhone reached for Brian’s wrist, fingers finding a weak pulse. Rhone’s gaze met with Doug’s. “This kid, crazy idiot, purposely stepped in front of me. Why would he do such a fool thing?”

  Doug squeezed Rhone’s shoulder and let go. “I’d have done the same. So would you.”

  Rhone heard and acknowledged the simple truth.

  “Oh, God.” Shannen’s incredulous whisper reminded Rhone of her presence. His first instinct was to shield her from the ugliness, protect her from reality that brutally defined the depth of violence that stalked them.

  She didn’t give him a chance.

  Falling to her knees, she unbuttoned Brian’s shirt, her fingers moving swift and sure. Doug ripped open packages of sterile gauze pads, handing them to Rhone. He held them against the wound, applying pressure to stop the flow of blood.

  Brian’s lids fluttered open, his eyes glazed with agony.

  Rhone spoke, forcing the words through the tightness in his throat. “And just what the hell did you think you were doing, Yarrow?” He heard the gruffness, the concern and strived for a lighter tone. “When I need a bodyguard, I’ll let you know first.”

  Brian winced, then gave a weak smile. “Norton practices what you preached at the academy. ‘Don’t aim to maim,’ you always said. He’d have killed you, Rhone. I couldn’t let that happen. You’re one of the best.”

  Rhone swallowed. Hard. “So are you, kid. So are you.”

  “Hey, boss? No regrets, huh? I wanted to come.” Yarrow coughed. “Now I can tell everyone I saved your butt.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rhone saw Shannen’s eyes widen as she cut a glance in his direction. As the impact of Brian’s words sank in, Rhone sensed her withdrawal, felt the protective barrier he’d struggled so hard to penetrate fall into place once again. He closed his mind to defensive explanations he doubted she would accept anyway. Frustrated, he wanted to shake her. Most of all, he saved his irritation for himself. He knew about traps, shouldn’t have allowed others to walk in with him.

  In tense silence, he and Shannen bandaged Brian’s chest. Doug stood apart, having no option but to use his radio to call for help. Norton would know the outcome of his ambush, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “You’re going with Doug and Brian,” Rhone told Shannen.

  “Wrong. I’m going with you.”

  “The subject isn’t open for discussion.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Shannen dampened a square of gauze with water from the canteen, holding it to Brian’s lips. Slipping in and out of consciousness, he sent her an appreciative glance.

  “Don’t be stupid. You could have just as easily been hurt.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Shannen raged, somehow managing to keep her voice barely above a whisper. “Norton wants us and he wants us alone. That’s what he’ll get.”

  Rhone shook his head, wanting to argue, needing to convince her.

  Brian’s bandage intact, Rhone sat back on his haunches, resting his elbow on his knee. With thumb and forefinger, he rubbed his closed eyes. “Why do I waste my breath?” he asked on a weary sigh.

  Doug saved Shannen from having to reply. “Mountain Rescue is on the way. I hate to leave you two, but someone should go with Brian. I’m the logical choice. Both of you have too much at stake here.”

  Rhone nodded.

  “I’ll be right behind you. In the meantime, monitor our frequency.”

  Rhone agreed, then gave his friend a firm pat on the back. “You’ll be okay until help arrives? We need to get moving before we lose any more daylight.”

  “Now, what do you think?” Doug didn’t expect an answer.

  Slipping his backpack over his shoulders, Rhone helped Shannen do the same. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to go with Doug and Brian?”

  Shannen glanced over her shoulder. “Like Doug said, what do you think?”

  When Rhone didn’t immediately respond, she turned around to face him.

  “I think,” he answered with deliberate calm, “you’re going to be needing this.” He watched her tense as she saw what he held.

  * * *

  Shannen realized the cold metal represented a lot more than a perfunctory necessity.

  Her heart skipped a couple of beats and her breathing became shallow as she reached for the handle of the gun. With efficient motions, he offered an ammo clip. “Twelve bullets,” he said.

  Trying to still the slight trembling of her fingers, she accepted the clip and snapped it into place.

  He nodded. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she said, stiffening her shoulders in order to hide the fear that shook her all the way to the center of her being.

  “Stick close to me. Be ready to drop and take cover on command.”

  She heard a trace of trepidation in his tone.

  “I think I’d die if anything happened to you.”

  “I won’t let you down, Rhone.” She met his gaze squarely. “I swear, no heroics. I’ll follow every command implicitly.”

  He reached for her, giving a quick, nearly brutal kiss that telegraphed a million things he seemed to want to say but didn’t, or couldn’t.

  Following his lead, she fingered the unfamiliar bulge in her waistband. For the first time since he’d arrived in Colorado—heck, for the first time since she’d met him—he was treating her as though she had the capabilities to handle danger. At his side.

  That thrilled her—and made her nervous. What if she failed him?

  Vowing to do what it took, she ignored the lance of chills that claimed her.

  The horrific events of the morning replayed over and over in her mind, in vivid detail and with a slowness that made her think she could have acted quicker, done something, anything, to stop the carnage. But that hadn’t been possible, she told herself.

  The mind had an odd way of working, playing deceptive tricks until you questioned your own sanity. With resolve and determination, she shoved aside the horrible images, the pasty look on Brian’s face, the utter devastation on her husband’s features.

  She had to function the best she could. Rhone counted on it. Both their lives—and that of their son, too—might depend on it.

  Rhone set a slower pace than before, seemingly having the alertness of ten men. In that moment, she wanted to offer comfort, encouragement, to give instead of receive.

  The day dragged interminably. Each noise made her jump, every branch looked broken. Her muscles ached, mosquito bites itched and blisters had long since popped, no longer cushioning sore heels from uncompromising leather.

  Yet she refused to stop or complain, knowing how much was riding on her, and how much depended on Rhone being able to concentrate. />
  Her foot caught on a rock and she winced, giving Rhone a watery smile when he glanced back.

  Nightfall fought to conquer daylight when he finally halved the length of his strides. She gratefully followed suit. Periodically he stopped, peering through the darkness with his binoculars.

  He stopped a few minutes later, unscrewing the cap on the canteen, offering her the water first. Nothing had ever tasted so good. When her throat no longer burned, she handed the canteen back to him.

  “We’ll stop for the night as soon as I find a good spot.” He tipped his head back and swallowed deeply. “You hanging in there?”

  “Fine.” She forced the lie past a tongue that wanted to shape the words and yell the truth.

  “You’re doing great,” he said, closing the canteen with a decisive twist of the cap. “I’m proud of you, Shan.”

  She never imagined those words could mean so much. He’d said them more than once of late, but she never thought they’d have so much impact. Suddenly she felt as if she could climb the tallest mountain, walk all night—whatever he wanted from her.

  Nearly an hour passed before they came across a small abandoned shack nestled among a stand of trees.

  Breath clogged her throat. Norton.

  He had to have been there.

  Her blood froze.

  Rhone studied the building and its surroundings. Without looking back, he managed to close his hand around her wrist, then draw her forward until she stood even with him.

  “It looks deserted—the area is secure. Still, we need to check it out,” he said carefully. “I don’t want to be surprised a second time.”

  “Want me to wait here?”

  “No. Separating us might be the opportunity Norton’s waiting for.” He reassuringly squeezed her hand before releasing her.

  Approaching the door, he hesitated.

  “Something wrong?”

  Rhone shrugged.

  Her heart hammered so loudly, she was certain she wouldn’t have heard a 747 thunder by.

  With the toe of his boot, he nudged the bottom of the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Damn.” Ducking low, he moved to the other side of the door, leaning a shoulder against the jamb. With his free hand, he tried the knob.

  She’d been wrong about the 747.

  The sound of the knob seemed to shred the night air.

  In the faint light from the millions of dots of light in the cloudless sky, she saw Rhone hold up three fingers. Knowing what to expect, she nodded, then was rewarded by his flash of approval in the shape of a thumb’s-up sign.

  Hours seemed to drag as he ticked down from three to one.

  The door flew open, snapping against the inside wall.

  She heard the deafening sound of a gun crack.

  Then realized it was nothing more than the door bouncing back.

  Petrified, she ducked inside, following Rhone.

  The cabin consisted of a single room, which Rhone quickly surveyed, even pulling back the curtains and shining a flashlight beneath the bed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Strange.”

  “What?”

  “He hasn’t been here. Not even a trace. This is obviously a ski hut, and the dust here hasn’t been disturbed in months, most likely since last winter. He couldn’t have gotten in and out without so much as disturbing a cobweb or leaving a single footprint.”

  Her breath whooshed in audible relief. “He hasn’t been here?”

  “No. Which isn’t logical.” He raked a hand through wind-washed hair. “Hell.” He sighed, the sound audible in the stillness.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Maybe we’re on the wrong track. Maybe we took a wrong turn. Maybe I don’t know where the hell he is after all.”

  “We’re not on the wrong track,” she insisted. “Don’t ask me how I know. I just have a gut feeling that he doesn’t want to be found yet.” She sank onto the edge of the bed. “Didn’t you say Norton spent time in the jungle, too?”

  “Yeah. He’s a regular Rambo.”

  “Like you said, he’s waging psychological warfare, Rhone. Surely keeping you—us—guessing is part of it.”

  “But he hasn’t spent as much time in the jungle as I have, and I’m getting damn sick of his games. Damn sick.”

  “Do you think we’re safe here for the night?” The inviting comfort of the mattress tempted her.

  “As safe as outside, and at least there’s some protection here.”

  “Then we’ll stay here?” She hoped she didn’t sound as anxious as she felt.

  “We’ll stay,” he agreed.

  She shucked the backpack, then rotated her shoulders, not realizing until then how badly the pack had pulled her muscles.

  With an apologetic glance, Rhone opened the window that faced the front and pulled the burlap curtain aside far enough to feel a stirring of air in the room.

  “Unfortunately, the accommodations don’t include indoor plumbing.” He shot her a rueful grin.

  He turned the lantern to low and placed it on the single table. “I don’t want to risk starting a fire,” he explained.

  “Let me guess.... Foil packages for dinner?”

  “Sorry. Next time we go camping, I promise to get a fully loaded trailer and stuff it full with real food.”

  He looked at her, the air hanging heavily with the unspoken idea they may have a future together.

  Breaking eye contact, she washed up with the wipes, then read the unappetizing label on the food pack.

  “Not a good idea.”

  She raised a brow.

  “Much better to close your eyes and swallow.”

  “And here I was, thinking your job contained all the promised fun and adventure.”

  “Now you know, kid,” he said, doing a bad Bogey imitation spiced with an even worse John Wayne.

  The fact he could still crack unfunny jokes endeared him even more. She appreciated what he tried to do: take her mind off Nicky. When she finished the food that didn’t taste a thing like the package said, she shoved the remains into a plastic bag. “You know what I think?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I think all those meals are exactly the same and they just change the ink on the printer.”

  He examined the outside of his package. “Is that what they do? I’ve been trying to figure it out for years.”

  He finished, then cleaned up his own mess.

  “I’m not sure how great I’d be at standing watch, but I’m willing to do it while you try and sleep.”

  “Thanks, babe, but there’s no way I’m going to sleep anyway.” With an economy of motion, he zipped their bags together and spread them on top of the mattress.

  Shannen tugged off her boots. Instantly she wished she hadn’t. Circulation returned with a painful rush. “Man,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing that a long soak in Epsom salts and a pair of fluffy slippers wouldn’t solve.”

  “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” he demanded. He dropped to his knees in front of her and gently peeled off her socks.

  “Because you didn’t have time to play doctor.”

  Her feeble attempt at humor didn’t seem to amuse him.

  “Really, Rhone, it’s okay. If we just put a bandage on each foot, I’ll be fine.”

  He shoved to his feet, grabbed a small first-aid kit from his backpack, then returned. As he bandaged her feet, she had an urge to tangle her fingers through his hair, the way she might have when they first married.

  She tried to resist the impulse, then gave in.

  His movements arrested as he looked up at her. Her hands stilled. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”

  “Maybe...maybe half as much as I missed you?”

  He surged to his feet in a fluid motion, pulling her up with him. “Lord, Shannen, I want to hold you, make love with you, make the wrongs go away.”

  “I want that, too,” she admitted
, the confession not as difficult as she thought it would be.

  “That was always good between us,” he said hoarsely.

  She stroked her fingers against the stubble on his face. His eyes held sorrow, regret, exhaustion.

  “Still is,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered, the memory of rediscovery still fresh and thrilling.

  “We can’t take the chance tonight,” Rhone said. Expansively, he raised a hand, communicating their danger.

  “I know.” She wondered if the joy would remain as strong, or whether it would become bittersweet in the years to come.

  “It wouldn’t be wrong to hold me, would it?”

  “No one, no one, could stop me from doing that.” He scooped her into his arms, carrying her the few feet to the bed.

  “Put your gun on the nightstand,” he said.

  She did.

  “Reach for it.”

  Unhesitatingly she did.

  “When you put it down, put it down the same way you picked it up, so there’s no fumbling if you need it in an emergency.”

  “Right, boss.”

  He left her for a few seconds, extinguishing the lantern, then walking back, his boots echoing off the bare wooden floor.

  Rhone joined her on the bed, propping his shoulders against the headboard, while she curled up next to him, familiarly resting her head on his shoulder.

  “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “Survive this kind of lifestyle? How can you bear to watch people you know getting shot?”

  Beneath her ear, she heard the rapid acceleration of his heart. “I’m sorry, Rhone. I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, but the words emerged on a jagged burst of air. “Truth is, I can’t tolerate this kind of lifestyle.”

  For a second, her mind supplied an enticing “what if” scenario.

  “Any more than I can give it up. I can’t stand watching people get shot, but I can’t sit home watching the news, knowing others are out there fighting, making a difference, while I’m pretending the nastiness and ugliness don’t exist.”

  “You know, Rhone, for the first time, I truly understand.”