by Janet Dailey
“Thanks for the shower,” she said, needing to make conversation. “The hot water made me feel like I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“You didn’t stay in there long.”
“Believe me, I was tempted. But I wanted to leave enough water for you.”
He glanced up at her with sharp, dark eyes, then lowered his gaze to her foot again, giving Emma her first real chance to study him. His features were angular, almost fierce, with a finely chiseled nose, square chin, and high cheekbones. His skin was a deep golden bronze.
From where she sat, she could see one of the old black and white photos that hung on the wall. She couldn’t make out the details, but it appeared to show three people in ceremonial garb, with robes and headdresses, standing at the foot of a totem pole.
“The people in the photos, who are they?”
“My relatives—the Tlingit.”
“The pictures look old.”
“They are. Those people are mostly gone now.” He slipped a white tube sock over her foot and lowered it to the floor. She raised the other foot without being asked.
“And those amazing costumes—do your people still wear them?”
“Only at celebrations.” He inspected the sole of her foot. “Most of the time we’re just people—teachers, lawyers, laborers, fishermen, artists, even pilots.”
“I do believe that’s the longest sentence I’ve heard you speak,” she teased, trying to draw him out.
“Most people talk too much.” He daubed salve on a long scratch. She winced as he touched a deeper cut.
“That one needs more than salve.” He unwrapped a bandage. Taking care to clean around the cut, he applied it and pressed it tight.
Emma unwrapped the towel from her hair and began using it to blot away the water. She wasn’t here to make small talk, she reminded herself. This might be her only chance to learn more about the man she’d been foolish enough to marry.
“So how do you know Boone?” she asked.
“We went to school together.”
“Were you friends?”
“No.”
“And now?”
“No.” He slipped the other tube sock onto her foot, rose, gathered the supplies he’d used, and set them aside on the counter. “The chili should be hot. Hungry?”
“Starved.”
He set butter and a loaf of store-bought bread on the table, and filled two glasses with milk. “Sorry I can’t offer you a beer,” he said. “Since I’ve sworn off alcohol, I don’t keep it around.”
“It’s all right,” she said, surprised that this taciturn man would reveal something so personal. “I don’t drink either. Not even coffee.”
“Salt Lake City. I should’ve guessed.” He spooned steaming chili into two bowls and placed one in front of her.
“It smells wonderful,” she said. “Did you make it yourself?”
“Yes. I even shot the moose you’re about to eat.” He took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
Emma blew on a spoonful of chili and took a cautious taste. “It needs time to cool, but it’s good,” she said, meaning it. “I’ve never tasted moose before.”
“You were married to Boone, and you’ve never had moose?”
Emma sighed and put down her spoon. “Is that my cue for the rest of the story?”
“You need to eat. Your story can wait.”
She shook her head. “I’ll feel more like eating after I’ve told you. Be warned. It isn’t pretty.”
He propped the spoon on the edge of his bowl. “I’m listening.”
* * *
John studied the woman sitting across from him, his bathrobe warming her bare body. Her damp chestnut hair hung past her shoulders, curling around her face in soft tendrils. Even though he knew she was in her thirties, there was a look of almost childlike innocence about her. He found her intelligent hazel eyes, generous mouth, and lightly freckled complexion appealing, but her features came together in a way that fell short of beauty. Such a woman—vulnerable and lacking confidence when it came to men—would be a natural target for a man like Boone. The fact that she had money put away would make her the perfect mark.
Outside, the storm had arrived. Thunder boomed across the sky. Rain battered the windows of the cabin as Emma began her story.
“I flew in last night on Alaska Airlines,” she said. “Boone met me at the ferry landing. He said he had a motel room for us, but . . .” She flushed awkwardly. “I didn’t want to spend the night with him until we were married, so I paid for a room of my own. Early this morning he gave me the marriage license to sign. A minister friend of Boone’s performed the ceremony in a park with totem poles. It was beautiful, with the sun coming up, reflecting on the water. I’d even brought along my mother’s wedding dress to wear. I was so happy, so trusting. . .”
Her words trailed off. She was close to tears. It would be a kindness to stop her. But John knew he had to hear the rest of her story. He’d never meant to get involved with this woman and her problems. But whatever ugly truths he might be about to hear, he was too curious to turn his back and walk away.
He waited in silence while she fought to bring her emotions under control. She seemed determined not to cry. John liked her for that. He remembered how he’d found her, struggling through the muskeg with dogs on her heels. She might appear as fragile as a violet, but she was a scrapper.
“I’m sorry, this isn’t easy.” She took a sip of milk and picked up her story. “I gave Boone all my cash. While I changed clothes, he used some of it to fill his pickup truck with gas and supplies and pocketed the rest. Then we left town and drove most of the day, over old logging roads, into the back country. I’d dozed off, dreaming about the beautiful log home he’d shown me in the photo and how we were going to raise our family there.
“I woke up—literally and figuratively—when he stopped the truck and told me we were home. That was when . . .” She paused, lifting her chin. “That was when I knew I’d been a silly, romantic fool. I was looking at a dilapidated house trailer, surrounded by junk. Two huge dogs were chained by the front wheel—they didn’t look like they’d had anything to eat, except this old deer head they were fighting over. Some kind of animal carcass was hanging from a tree. . . .”
She shook her head. “There was more. But you get the idea. It was awful. But worst of all was the change in the man I’d married. It was like he’d been acting in a play, and the play was over.
“Boone ordered me to get out of the truck and help him unload. You can imagine what the inside of the trailer was like. Food wrappers, garbage, even flies.” She shuddered. “On the stove there were some burnt-looking pans. Back home, I’d had a neighbor arrested for cooking meth. I recognized the smell.”
She’d begun to tremble. Her fingers twisted the gold ring on her finger. John checked the impulse to get up and comfort her. Hands off the lady—that was the only sensible rule.
“So was that when you ran?”
“Not quite.” Her reply was laced with irony. “When we’d finished unloading supplies and were back in the house, Boone announced that he was going to the bathroom. He told me, ‘When I open the door, I want to see you undressed and in that bed.’
“By then I was already searching for a way out—any way I could find. When he closed the bathroom door, I saw my chance. I’d noticed a jug of kerosene and some matches next to a lamp on the table. I poured some kerosene into a pan on the stove, lit a couple of matches, and tossed them into it. When the fire blazed up, I ran for my life.”
“You set the trailer on fire with Boone in the bathroom?” John was torn between horror and admiration. Damn, the woman had guts. No wonder Boone had come after her with a rifle.
“The fire was in a cast-iron pan, on the stove. And I’d left the trailer door open. Boone wouldn’t be trapped—I was sure of that. But he’d have to deal with the fire before he came after me. I was hoping that would give me time to get away.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I was wr
ong. I’d been on the run for an hour, maybe, hopelessly lost, when I heard the dogs. You know the rest.”
“At least you know you didn’t kill him,” John said.
“I wouldn’t want to kill anybody. Not even Boone. But he’s bound to come after me again. And if he recognized you, he could come here. That’s why I have to leave.”
John glanced upward, listening to the drumbeat of rain on the roof. Emma could be right. But she wasn’t equipped to go anywhere. She’d fled Boone’s trailer with no spare clothes, no identification, and no money. Without help, she’d be reduced to begging on the street.
Standing, he took her bowl and scraped the chili back into the pot and turned on the gas flame. “You still need something warm in your belly,” he said. “And don’t worry about tonight. You’ll be safe enough with the storm outside. Tomorrow you’ll be rested and have dry clothes to wear. I’ll drive into town, buy you some shoes, and we’ll take it from there.”
The chili hadn’t taken long to warm. He ladled it back into the bowl and placed it in front of her. “Eat. That’s an order.”
She took one spoonful, then another. He could tell she was hungry. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know my being here is an imposition. I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can walk through that door on my own two feet.”
“And then what? Is there somebody you can call? Your parents? A brother or sister, maybe?”
“My parents are gone, and I was their only child. I’m not used to depending on anybody.”
Another reason Boone would’ve chosen her, he thought. No family to come looking for her. Emma had been the perfect victim. Thinking of what he’d have done to her if she hadn’t escaped made John want to crush the bastard with his bare hands.
He checked the rising tide of anger. This woman’s troubles were none of his business. But his conscience wouldn’t condone his leaving her to the mercy of a ruthless bastard like Boone.
“The only way for you to be safe is to leave Ketchikan,” he said. “I could fly you someplace close, like Sitka, and find you a place to stay while you work things out. I know people there who’d take you in.”
She finished the chili and pushed the bowl aside. “Thank you for your offer. You know I’d repay you for your trouble. But when I think about Boone and what he did to me, and how he’d probably do the same thing, or worse, to some other poor woman. . .” Her hand clenched into a fist. “How can I just walk away? How could I sleep at night, knowing he’d hurt somebody else and I hadn’t done anything to stop him?”
John swore silently. This was a complication he hadn’t counted on. “Boone’s a dangerous man,” he said. “You need to get out of his reach and leave him to the law.”
She gave him a steely look, her chin determinedly set. “I know you mean well. But after what that man did to me, I can’t just walk away. I need to see this through.”
John rose and began clearing away the dishes. “You’ve been through a lot, and you’re tired,” he said. “Sleep on it. Tomorrow, with a clear head, you’ll see your way to a sensible choice.”
“All right, for now at least.” She rose wearily. “I’m so tired I can hardly think straight, but that doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. Thanks for putting up with me tonight. I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can figure out where to go next.”
John was tired of arguing with her. “The room will get cold when the fire goes out,” he said. “The best thing I can offer you for pajamas is a set of thermal underwear. At least it’ll be clean and warm.”
“Thanks.” She yawned. “I don’t suppose you have a spare toothbrush.”
“You’ll find a new one on the shelf above the towel rack. It’s yours. And you can keep the robe for now. I’ll get you the thermals.”
While she brushed her teeth, he put her wet laundry in the dryer and fetched a folded set of gray winter underwear—top and bottom—from his dresser. He handed it to her as she came out of the bathroom. “The bedroom will be warmer if you leave the door open,” he said.
For the space of a breath she froze, her eyes widening. She’d misread him, John realized. Not that he blamed her. After what she’d been through, he wouldn’t blame her if she never trusted a man again.
With a chilly good night, she took the thermals and turned away. John cleaned up in the kitchen and banked the fire for morning. When he stepped into the hall again, he saw that Emma’s door was firmly closed.
CHAPTER 3
Too wired to sleep, John sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and pulled on his jeans. A glance at the bedside clock told him it was after midnight. He could no longer hear the wind, but the rain was falling in a steady drizzle that poured off the eaves of the cabin. He didn’t expect any trouble on a night like this, but as long as he was awake, it wouldn’t hurt to check.
His loaded .44 magnum lay on the bedside table. He usually kept it locked in the Jeep, for easy transfer to the Beaver when he flew. Tonight he’d brought it inside. It didn’t make sense that Boone would drive for hours over rough forest trails on a stormy night, not even to find his runaway bride. But John couldn’t afford to take that chance. His ex-brother-in-law was as unpredictable as he was dangerous.
He had no doubt that Boone had recognized him. True, it had been almost dusk in the forest when he’d rescued Emma. But the red Beaver, with its serial number stenciled on the underside of the wing, would’ve been plainly visible when he’d made those two low passes over the muskeg.
He’d had little to do with Marlena’s family since their divorce fifteen years ago. But they knew his plane, they knew where he lived, and they hated him for giving their daughter a bad marriage and a half-breed son.
Now they could chalk up one more offense against him.
He shoved his feet into sheepskin slippers, picked up the pistol, and stepped out into the hall. Emma’s door was still closed—and probably braced with a chair on the inside. John understood that she didn’t trust him, and he knew better than to take it personally. He was a man—in her eyes, that was enough to make him suspect.
He’d held back the truth about his family connection to Boone because he wanted her to feel secure. But he didn’t like lying, not even for a good reason. When the time was right, he’d come clean.
Unless he could get her out of here first.
Still holding the pistol, he unlocked the front door, stepped out onto the covered porch, and gazed through the curtain of rain that streamed off the roof. He hadn’t expected any cause for alarm, and he didn’t find any. All he could see was more rain dripping off the trees and down the sides of the Jeep where he’d parked it. But at least, if Emma asked, he’d be able to tell her that he’d checked.
Damn the woman. If he’d had a lick of sense, he would have dropped her off at the police station and never looked back. Why did she have to show up now, when he finally felt like he had his life under control?
He’d been cold sober for seven years and still attended his AA meetings. But right now, if someone had thrust a flask of whiskey into his hand, he would have guzzled it dry. Any business involving the Swensons tended to push him toward the edge. He’d battled Marlena and her family for years over the right to see David, losing time after bitter time. Only when he’d given up the fight and backed off had he found a measure of peace.
Now he’d be dealing with Boone, who was the worst of the lot—but not by much.
The night was chilly, and he hadn’t worn his coat. But he wasn’t ready to go back inside. The patter of rain was as soothing as a lullaby. He inhaled the fragrances of evergreen trees and wet ground, letting the sounds and smells of nature calm his troubled spirit. His memory recalled the words of his grandfather, who had built this house and passed away under its sheltering roof.
Look to the earth, my son. She is older and wiser than little people like us. She has seen all things come and go, and she knows that our small trials will pass and fade as if they had never been.
Wise words from a wise old man. But when
John’s spirit was churning, as it was tonight, it was hard to find much comfort in them.
A cold wind whipped his unbound hair and chilled him through the long-sleeved shirt he’d worn to bed. He’d been outside long enough. After a last check from both ends of the porch, he opened the door and stepped back into the house.
“Stay right where you are!” The voice was Emma’s. In the faint light from the dying fire, he saw her to the left of the doorway. She was half-crouched for an attack, her hands gripping the heavy iron poker from the fireplace.
John stifled a curse. “Emma, it’s only me! Put that thing down!”
Straightening to her full, diminutive height, she lowered the poker. John turned on the lamp. Still defiant, she stood in the circle of light with his oversized gray thermals drooping around her legs. Her hair was a mass of tangled curls. Her eyes blazed with annoyance.
“Give me that.” He laid the gun on the table and yanked the poker out of her hands. “What did you think you were doing? I had a gun. I could’ve shot you.”
“I heard somebody at the front door. I couldn’t be sure it was you. Why did you go outside? Was somebody there?”
“Since I wasn’t sleeping, I thought I might as well check around. It was a waste of time. There’s nothing out there but rain.”
Suspicion flashed in her eyes, as if she sensed that he was holding out. Guilty as charged, he thought.
“I wasn’t sleeping either,” she said, hitching up the drawstring waist of her thermals. “Right now, I couldn’t sleep if I had to.”
She was shivering, whether from cold or from stress he couldn’t be sure. But maybe it was time for a truce.
Without a word, he picked up the blanket that lay on the back of the love seat, wrapped it around her, and guided her to a seat. She curled up in it willingly, snuggling into the blanket while he added a couple of small logs and some kindling to the coals in the fireplace.
