by Karen Ward
"Not much really, he appeared out of nowhere when my car broke down three years ago. He moved out of his cabin so I would have a place to live and he comes by every couple of months to make sure I am all right. He did tell me once that he is a Vietnam Veteran. He said he couldn't stand being around people when he got back so he moved up here. His name is Clarence Kincaid."
"Clarence Kincaid? You're serious?" Scoot asks stunned. When I nod my agreement he continues, "He is a legend in the Marine Corp, revered by all. He single handedly rescued a whole platoon of Marine's that were ambushed in Vietnam. Everyone thinks he's dead. I would love to have more time to talk to him." Pausing he then adds, "Well, we better get some sleep. We have a long way to walk tomorrow."
I zip up my sleeping bag with the heat packs that are still emitting warmth and think about the handsome Marine that saved my life. His dark green eyes and chocolate brown hair are a great combination. It seems Barry Farrady isn't the only former Marine handsome enough to be a movie star. I wish I were a different person, one who wasn't scarred by a past that only she and Barry Farrady know about now.
I was only eighteen when the attack occurred. I was very naïve since my father kept me in private girl's schools since my mother died. Some friends and I went to a hard rock concert and I got separated from them. A group of six boys, drunk and high on drugs drugged me then brutally raped me repeatedly in the back of a van in the parking lot. They beat me and left me for dead. Barry found me the next morning behind a dumpster in an alley near the concert venue. He carried me home to my father and they nursed me back to health physically but I have never been the same emotionally since that horrible night.
Dylan zips himself up into his own sleeping bag thinking about the beautiful woman lying so close. He senses some deep emotional scars underneath her surface beauty. No wonder Barry wanted him to come alone on this mission. He wonders about her past, what could have happened to cause such fear, and why she feels it's necessary to go to such extreme measures to avoid the Paparazzi.
CHAPTER 2
Just as dawn is sliding across the landscape, I am awakened by the delicious smell of hot coffee and breakfast cooking over an open fire. Stretching languorously I am grateful for the warm clothes that Scoot brought to me. Looking over at the fire I see my handsome rescuer staring at me through hooded eyes.
"Good morning," I whisper.
Dylan has to mentally shake himself out of his daydream of lying with Skye curled against his body. "Good morning. Are you ready for breakfast? We need to hit the trail in a few minutes."
He doesn't know what's wrong with him. He never lets himself dream about lying with a woman. He stopped letting himself fantasize about women years ago when his wife, Elena, betrayed him with the banker in his home town. He lost her and his son, Damian that day. He swore then he would never let himself care for another woman. Now don't think he is a monk because he's not. He seeks his pleasure with a few well chosen women who only want what he wants, no strings attached sex. Besides, this woman obviously has a truckload of baggage.
He had married his high school sweetheart, Elena, right after he retired from the Marine Corp. She swore she would wait for him when he left for the Marines and she did. He was the happiest man alive until he returned home from work early one day and found her in his bed with a man from the bank where she worked. His son had only been three months old at the time. He packed his things and left that day and has not looked back. He filed for divorce and pays his child support on time every month. The worst part of being divorced from her is that every time he has asked to spend time with his son, Damian, Elena has not allowed it. He probably should have carried her back to court years ago, but so far he hasn't. It's been eight years and he thinks often about Damian. Maybe he will take Elena to court after he gets Skye back to the ranch. The illicit visits he shares with his son at the game room in the mall in Amarillo are no longer enough.
Both Dylan and I are quiet during breakfast lost in our own thoughts. When Dylan begins cleaning up the campsite and smothering the fire, I pack up my sleeping bag and get ready for the long walk.
Dylan turns to me and asks, "Skye I found a loaded pistol at the cabin. Do you know how to use it?"
"Yes, Bear taught me and I have been practicing every day. I caught or killed my own food for the past three years so I had to learn to shoot."
When he hands me the pistol he teases smiling, "Just don't shoot me all right?"
I retort smiling, "Don't give me a reason to," and fasten the holster around my waist. A sense of security surrounds me and I feel safer knowing I can protect myself should the former Marine turn out to be untrustworthy.
Dylan's breath catches in his lungs when he glimpses her beautiful smile. Wow! What he would give to see that smile again. She is absolutely stunning!
We head through the woods walking in silence. The terrain is rough, the snow is deep, and we are steadily climbing. Finally I ask, "Where are we headed anyway?"
"I saw a burn area on the map about twenty miles north that is clear enough for the helicopter to land. Once we get close, I'll radio Goose to pick us up. We'll go from the pick area directly to the ranch in Wyoming."
"H..H..Helicopter? Are you telling me you expect me to willingly get on one of those things and fly out of here? Why can't we just drive?" I ask shakily.
"My instructions were to get you out of here without being seen. Flying out is the logical way. Driving would expose you to recognition every time the car slowed or stopped. Are you afraid of flying?" asks Dylan curiously.
"I'm not exactly afraid of flying, just of being in a helicopter with two men I don't know," I answer honestly.
Dylan stops, turns toward me and studies my face. I'm sure he can see the fear reflected in my eyes. He asks, "Skye, are you afraid of me?"
"I'm not so much afraid of you but I don't know this Goose person and in a helicopter I can't just open the door and get out," I reply shakily.
Dylan remembers Barry's warning about a bad experience during her teenage years so he asks "Skye, I would really like to understand. Would you tell me why you are afraid?"
I drop my sleeping bag on the ground and sit on top of it before looking up at him with tears in my eyes, "I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't talk about that ... that time."
Dylan squats on his haunches in front of me and clasps my shaking hands in his. "It is all right Skye. You don't have to tell me anything. I promise you I will protect you with my life from whatever danger we encounter. Will you trust me to do that?"
"Even from your friend Goose if it becomes necessary?" I ask. Warmth emanating from his eyes is filling me with a sense of safety.
"I promise, even from Goose if it becomes necessary," answers Dylan. "Will you trust me to protect you?"
"Y..Y..Yes," I answer with tears streaming down my face.
He pulls a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently wipes the tears from my face. Standing he offers his hand to help me stand. Hesitantly I clasp his hand and allow him to pull me to my feet. When I am upright, he briefly brushes a soft kiss across my forehead.
Shocked by the sensation of his lips against my forehead, I shiver. I'm not exactly afraid but I don't know what I feel.
He continues to hold my hand in his as we start off toward the landing site. After a few minutes, I ask, "Scoot, what is your real name?"
"Dylan, Dylan Drake," he answers.
"Dylan, I like that. It's a strong name."
Smiling to himself, Dylan relishes the warmth her words cause deep down in his soul.
*******
Around noon Dylan stops and hands me a box. On it I read MRE, Meal Ready to Eat. Looking at the package questioningly I ask, "Is this suppose to be food?"
Laughing, Dylan says, "That's what the Marines tell us but we have never known for sure. It is nourishing and will keep you from starving. Try to eat as much as you can."
I nibble at the contents of the package, "Well, it's not too bad. I guess I could l
ive on these for a little while if I had to."
When we head out again, Dylan says, "Let me know if you need to rest. I'm sure you aren't use to walking this far and the snow is making it tougher."
I answer, "I'm fine so far. It's invigorating. I'm in much better shape now than I was when I first came to Montana. Chopping wood and hunting for food gives you a good bit of physical exercise."
Surprised and somewhat impressed by her words, Dylan asks, "Would you tell me about why you came to Montana?"
"Sure, that's easy. I was trying to get away from the Paparazzi. After my Dad committed suicide they were relentless, like vultures picking at the bones of his carcass. I couldn't stand it. Every time I ventured outside my house they would appear out of nowhere stalking me, crowding me, snapping pictures, yelling questions. It terrifies me.
"Finally I got in my car and drove away. It took me a long time just to lose them but with Barry's help I finally did and I made my way to Montana where I have been living in seclusion for three years. On my last trip into Kalispell for supplies I ran into one of the reporters that covered my story in Los Angeles and he recognized me immediately. I fled but he evidently followed me because he showed up at the cabin two days later. I knew he would only be the first and soon the others would follow. I had to leave. I panicked though and I didn't take anything with me except the sleeping bag and my cell phone. I was stupid."
"Can you tell me what happened to cause your Dad to commit suicide?" he asks. He wants to keep her talking so the miles will pass faster and he really wants to know more about her.
Thinking back I say, "Well, I'm not really sure. I know he was putting together a big movie deal based on a book about the mafia. He had been having a lot of meetings with what appeared to me to be some shady looking people. Evidently it all fell through and he couldn't take the financial loss. I know he lost a lot of money, even the house. About all we had left was my trust fund.
"I was in my room that day and I heard the gunshot. When I entered the study, Philip, our butler was leaning over his body feeling for a pulse. At least that is what he told me. He said Daddy had shot himself and to call the ambulance, so I did. Everything is a blur after that. The police ruled it a suicide and I really didn't have a reason to question their decision."
"Didn't I read something about the insurance money, didn't they refuse to pay off on his policies because it was ruled a suicide?" he asks.
"Yes, the insurance company wouldn't pay because it was a suicide. It really didn't matter because I had my trust fund. Although I could have paid off the house if I had gotten the insurance money but I didn't really want to stay in that big house alone anyway."
"How long had Philip worked for you? Did anyone else live at the house with you?" he asks.
"No, Philip was our only help. I think he worked for us for around six months, why do you ask?"
"Oh, just a feeling I guess. It just doesn't add up to me," replies Dylan.
Late in the afternoon Dylan stops and indicates we are going to make camp. I am exhausted but I am not about to complain. Every step takes me further away from the vultures. Helping Dylan set up camp underneath a shallow overhang of rock we work silently together preparing a meal of canned chili and cornbread cooked in the fire.
When he starts to clear the snow away making a shallow hole near the fire I ask, "What are you doing?"
"I'm making us a nest. I'm going to line it with pine straw to help keep our sleeping bags dry. It will help us to stay warm tonight. Haven't you noticed how much colder it is here than last night?" he answers.
Shivering I admit, "It is a lot colder. Won't the fire keep us warm though?"
"Not enough. We are going to need to huddle together and share body heat. I expect the temperatures to drop to well below zero before morning," says Dylan.
"Huddle together?" I ask shakily.
Dylan hears the fear in my voice and stops his work approaching me. Looking deeply into my troubled eyes but not touching me, he says, "Skye, I will never hurt you, I promise. I only want to protect you, to keep you safe and warm."
Dropping my eyes, I say, "The rational side of my brain understands and accepts what you are saying, but I have another totally irrational side of me that is panicking at the thought of being that close to you."
He strokes a finger down my cheek and lifts my chin forcing me to look into his eyes, "I understand Skye. We'll work it out. Don't panic."
At his touch and his warm gaze, my heart starts pounding at a rapid beat. I'm not sure if it's fear or something else. I don't feel like fleeing, so maybe it is something else.
When time comes to try to sleep Dylan says, "You get in your sleeping bag first and turn your back to mine. We will lie back to back. We can still share body heat but we won't really be touching. Will that be all right?"
"I'll try," I say sliding into my sleeping bag and turning my back to Dylan.
When Dylan slides into his next to her he can feel the tension in her body through the thick material separating them.
I am so tired it doesn't take long for my exhaustion to overcome my fear and I slip into a restless sleep. Feeling her body relax, Dylan allows himself to sleep.
We arrive at the landing site around noon the next day. Dylan radios Goose in Kalispell to pick them up. Goose informs Dylan another, even stronger storm is predicted for later in the day and he thinks it will be wise to wait until after the storm passes, maybe as long as two more days. After some discussion, Dylan agrees waiting until after the storm is the prudent decision. He looks around the area searching for the safest place for him and Skye to wait out the storm.
He doesn't find any natural wind breaks so he decides to create one. Using the folding shovel he carries in his backpack for just such a need, he begins to dig a deep hole on the down slope. Once he is satisfied the hole is big enough for both his and Skye's sleeping bags to lay flat he layers the bottom with thick pine straw to increase the softness and help keep the moisture out. He also digs another hole nearby for a fire pit. Then he zips the two sleeping bags together to form one larger sleeping compartment.
I see what Dylan is doing, zipping the sleeping bags together, but I refuse to think about it. I will deal with it later.
While I am gathering wood for the fire nearby I hear the roar of a mountain lion. I look in the direction from where the noise originated and am horrified to see Dylan, arms loaded with wood, staring up at the animal on a ledge above him. I grab my 45 caliber pistol from its holster and run to toward them. I stop taking aim, firing just as the animal leaps off the rock toward Dylan.
Dylan sidesteps the leap and is relieved to hear the shot and see the animal fall lifeless at his feet. Turning and seeing Skye's pistol aimed at the animal he says, "Great shot, Skye, thank you. Now we will have something besides MRE's to eat."
I advance toward the dead animal and fire one more time hitting the animal between the eyes. Laughing I say, "I always like to make real sure they're dead before I skin them. He didn't hurt you did he?"
"He got me with a glancing blow on my arm from his claws. You will probably have to stitch me up. I hope you aren't squeamish and know how to sew, I don't need any more ugly scars than I already have," answers Dylan.
"Oh, let me see."Blood is slowly staining his parka so I say, "Come on and let's get you stitched. Our friend here can wait a few minutes to get gutted."
Dylan is stunned that a woman raised in the world of movie stars in the heart of Los Angeles is even talking about gutting a wild animal. Skye Reynolds is full of surprises.
I help Dylan back to the campsite and then help him to remove his tattered parka, flannel shirt, and thermal top. He is soaked in blood and I dread seeing the injury. As I pull the thermal undershirt over his shoulder and reveal the cuts my stomach rolls. It looks like someone had taken a knife and made three perfect slices down his shoulder and upper arm. Wadding up the flannel shirt I apply pressure to try to slow the bleeding.
After applying press
ure for a few minutes and seeing the blood flow has slowed I say, "Here hold this tight."
While he continues to apply pressure I dig through the contents of his backpack searching for his First Aid supplies. I find gauze dressings, a bottle of antiseptic, antiseptic wipes, tape, silk suture, and a bottle of whiskey. I grab a towel out of the backpack and throw in over his uninjured shoulder to provide him a little protection from the biting cold.
I hand the whiskey to him saying, "Drink this."
Then removing the flannel shirt from his hand I use the antiseptic wipes and begin to clean the blood away from his injury. Once it is fairly clean I warn, "Get ready, this is going to hurt."
Dylan takes a big swig of the whiskey and then nods for her to proceed.
I pour antiseptic directly into the mangled skin and I hear Dylan inhale sharply. Starting with the deepest of the three cuts, I sew the edges back together using the silk suture tying off each stitch before starting another. With each stitch my heart hurts for Dylan. He has to be in extreme pain since I don't have anything to deaden the skin I am stabbing with the needle. Dylan is stoic never uttering a word out loud. He only makes whistling noises through his teeth.
Once I have completed closing the three wounds, I clean his arm and shoulder with the remaining antiseptic wipes and tape clean gauze dressings over the injuries. I help him into a clean thermal shirt and flannel shirt and then back into this tattered parka. Dylan has finished off the bottle of whiskey by this time and has lost a lot of blood so I encourage him to lie down and rest while I clean the carcass of the mountain lion.
I drag the animal several hundred yards away from our camp and gut it. I remove the skin then cut off a large chunk of meat to cook for our dinner. Then I dig a hole and bury the animal's skin and guts along with Dylan's bloody clothes. I hang the remaining carcass from a tree limb several feet off the ground to prevent other wild animals from feasting on it then carry the chunk to cook back to camp. Dylan is resting in our little nest sleeping off the alcohol he consumed while I was stitching up his shoulder.
