Point of No Return

by Rita Henuber

  She hesitated and examined the dry rotted steps that looked like they hadn’t been used since the year that truck was made. She cautiously bounced on each step until reaching the safety of the porch, where rolls of screening and cut lumber were stacked. It appeared someone who knew how to use a hammer and nails had plans for the place.

  “Mr. O’Brien,” she called through the cabin’s partially open door. If anyone else was around, or observing, she wanted to give the impression she didn’t know Jack. No response. She toed open the door, her hand on the H&K holstered at her back. The opposite side of the one-room cabin was all windows looking onto a wide covered porch and a breathtaking view of a lake and surrounding mountains. Did they call them mountains here or hills? She edged inside. Ah, the heavenly aroma of a homey log cabin. A powerful odor of wood smoke mixed with a . . . she sniffed . . . locker room smell hung heavy in the air. Along the right wall stood a massive wood cookstove hemmed in with cabinets and beat-up counters overrun with dirty pans and dishes. A cast iron sink with a well pump completed the 1920s look. Clothes littered a well-worn leather sofa and chairs.

  “O’Brien.” No response. The cabin’s scarred wood flooring creaked like movie sound effects as she stepped farther into the man cave. “Jack O’Brien.” He had to be here. The door wasn’t locked. His vehicle, if you could call it that, was here and there were two laptops on an oversized wood farm table by the window. She skirted a stone fireplace flanked by floor-to-ceiling shelves. The shelves sagged under the weight of hundreds of books, National Geographics, and—she ran a hand over a drooping shelf—decades of dust. Two small tables held oil lanterns, dirty glasses, and empty beer bottles. Books on fish and birds, and magazines of the adult kind were scattered everywhere. The one and only bed took up most of a loft that extended over the porch. “Shit.” She deposited her bags on the old sofa and tested the firmness with a knee. It would do. She’d slept worse places. A lot worse for that matter. She hadn’t expected to share Jack’s bed. Her stomach did the hop, skip and a jump it always did when Jack and bed were in the same thought.

  She went to the table holding the laptops. Notepads, files and loose papers covered every remaining inch of space on the table. She nudged a notepad open and found it filled with handwritten notes. Before she could read them, movement at the lake caught her attention.

  “What the hell?” A tall man with long wild hair and holding a fishing pole moved through the water. Her hand flicked to the H&K holstered at her back. The man, wearing nothing but green hip boots, sluiced effortlessly through the thigh-deep water and cast. She palmed the gun, holding it barrel down at her side, and stepped out onto the wide porch to watch.

  His maneuvers gave her a fine view of his wet butt glistening in the afternoon sun. A butt she was quite familiar with. She was a connoisseur of male bodies and Jack’s rated right up there. Insanely broad shoulders, small waist and hips and a tight ass. His muscles weren’t crazy defined but he was rock hard and strong. She returned the gun to its leather home and waited for him to turn and notice her. When he didn’t, she pushed aside the screen door, minus screen, and walked down the gentle slope to where the ripples created by the naked man lapped against the rocky shore.

  Jack’s pole bent and the line snapped stiff. He jerked, setting the hook, and worked the reel furiously. The fish gave him a good fight. The muscles in his back and arms bulged as he alternately leaned back, reeled, and pumped, giving her a good show. She blew out a long breath. The time here was going to be as difficult as she feared. For the first time since meeting, their jobs would collide with their strictly physical relationship. He bent and lifted the silver fish from the clear water. Before she had time to recover from that show he turned, holding his flopping catch strategically. A reflexive “oh” escaped at the sight of a beard, as long and wild as his hair, obscuring his handsome face. She didn’t mind facial or body hair. In fact, she enjoyed the pelt on his chest and his treasure trail, a line of hair low on his belly leading to his jewels. But that much hair together gave her the willies.

  “O’Brien?”

  “Yeah. Who’d . . .” He stumbled, and she was treated to a view of what the wriggling fish had hidden and decided the water must be cold. He recovered and the fish was back in place. “Who’d you expect?”

  Well, damn, she didn’t expect sasquatch. “With all the”—she circled a hand around her face—“hair, I can’t be sure.”

  “They told me to expect you next week,” he said, coming to shore remarkably unconcerned with his state of nakedness.

  “You knew I was the one coming? You were expecting me?”

  “Not you. Someone from DoD.”

  He didn’t even bother to act surprised. Jack O’Brien just lied to her.

  “If I’d known you were coming today I would have cleaned up,” he said and shook his head, “and trimmed this up. I saw you coming and decided dinner was more important.”

  “You knew I was here?”

  “Sure. Saw you on the road.” He pointed the rod to a sparse place in the trees across the lake. Another smile separated the tangle of facial hair. “Heard you call me from the cabin.”

  “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “Told you, I was chasing down dinner.” He wiggled the fish.

  To keep her eyes from wandering over his body she looked around for his clothes and found none. He came closer. “Eh, not that I mind, but you realize you’re not wearing any clothes?” Whatever he was doing, she’d go along.

  “Yeah. You are a Marine Corps major.” He slipped and she was treated to another view. He was warming up or glad to see her. “You’ve seen a guy’s tackle before.” He stopped five feet away. “Speaking of. Would you mind grabbing mine?”

  Honey blinked. He’d been up here by himself too long. They did have a sexual relationship, but what was he doing? “Excuse me?”

  “My tackle. There.”

  She followed the direction of his titled head and saw a black box on top of a crumbling stone barbeque.

  “Carry it up, will ya?” His hairy grin told her the wordplay was deliberate. “My hands are full. Or would you rather take the fish.”

  She went to the box.

  “What’s the cannon for, Major?”

  She picked up the box. “Same thing that . . . looks like a Walther . . . in your boot is for.” It was her turn to give a mischievous grin.

  He looked down to where the impression of the small handgun was clearly visible in his waders. “Surprised you could see that. Thought you’d be looking other places.”

  His grin grew into a full-blown smile, at least she thought it had. Only his teeth showed through the hair. When they were together this man had shaved twice a day even though she told him his scruff was sexy.

  “I’m gonna clean this sucker and get a shower. Leave the box on the porch and make yourself at home,” he said, walking to the side of the cabin.

  Shower? She hadn’t seen a bathroom. “Ahhh.” She remembered the sat photos showed a water cistern. She blew out a breath. Cold showers, sleeping on a sofa, and latrines. Might as well be in the field.

  “There’s beer in the fridge,” O’Brien said, yanking a pair of jeans from the porch railing where several shirts and jeans were draped.

  “Thanks.” Not quite the field.

  The ancient fridge was loaded with paper-wrapped packages, egg cartons, veggies, and beer bottles wedged in wherever they fit. She snagged a bottle and glanced around. No ceiling fixtures. No table lamps. No wall plugs. Tables around the room held candles and oil lamps. The only visible electrical equipment were the fridge and laptops. The fridge’s electrical wire went up. She craned her neck and saw it was joined by others coming from the loft before leading outside. She popped the cap off the beer, went to the porch and listened. Water splashing and the faint drone of a generator punctuated the silence. It was tempting to go to the loft and see what devices needing electric were hidden there, but she thought better of it. Same with messing with the laptop
s. Jack more than likely had cameras, some kind of bizarre alarm system, or a touch it and you disappear in a cloud of smoke setup, otherwise things wouldn’t be left out like this.

  She used her boot to slide a chair close then dropped onto it, leaning to examine the underside of the table. Webbing attached to the thick wood held a Desert Eagle .357. A sawed-off hung on the opposite side. Thornton straightened, took a long pull on the beer and eyed the papers and books spread around. They were right out in the open, and he had said to make herself at home. She opened a notebook and realized these were Rebecca O’Brien’s personal notes. She paged through until Jack came in, shirtless, hair and beard dripping, carrying the filets. Lord, didn’t he have a mirror? Guys in the field take better care of themselves. He said nothing, just went straight to the kitchen area and scrounged in a cabinet.

  “I’m hungry. You mind if we eat now?” He dropped the fish unceremoniously into a black cast iron skillet.

  “I’m okay with that.” She’d skipped lunch.

  “Figured you would be.” He, like everyone else, teased her incessantly about how much she ate.

  She stood. “Can I do something?”

  “Unless you’re an expert on a wood stove, nope.”

  “Not an expert.” She knew her way around one but was no expert. The cook at her father’s hunting cabin in Montana had taught her to use one. Jack bent and shoved paper and several pieces of kindling into the firebox and put a match to the paper. She watched his jeans slide dangerously low over his hips and ass. She turned away. “Can I clean up?” She knew better than to touch a man’s mess without asking.

  He straightened, hitched up his pants and surveyed the clutter. “Later. Rice okay with you?”

  “Sure.” She scanned his expression, his body language, listened carefully to the tone of his voice to get some clue as to why he acted like they didn’t know each other. She got nothing. If he was being targeted by long-range listening devices he would have passed her a note. She sighed in resignation and resumed her seat, watching him pump water into a pot that he transferred to the stovetop.

  “How’d you come by your sister-in-law’s personal notes?” These would have been considered high-value content and confiscated by the alphabet agencies who’d investigated the murders.

  He didn’t answer. He did pull a towel from clothes piled on a chair and came to stand beside her, vigorously scrubbing his head and face and sending droplets of water splattering her and the papers.

  “That was a nice job getting those girls out.” He totally ignored her question. He used a corner of towel to sop up drops from the top file.

  “You have access to my reports?” How the fuck? How long had he had them?

  He nodded. “What do you know about the bastards who took them?”

  Before she could answer, he dropped to his hands and knees, stuck his head and shoulders under the table. Jeesus, was he going for that 357? She reached for her H&K but moved her hand when he reappeared with . . . shoes. “Don’t know who took them,” she said. “Only know who had them when we got there.”

  He twisted and sat. “There’s a difference?” he said, tugging on a shoe.

  “Yeah. The men identified were all petty criminals. In my opinion none were smart enough to plan or execute what went down.”

  “What about the ones in the Land Rovers?”

  She shook her head. “Same thing. They were replacement idiots. My turn with the questions.”

  “Shoot.” He stopped tying his shoes, glanced to her waist and leaned as if looking at her gun. “I mean, ask away.” His tone was warm, engaging. His blue-gray eyes had gone dark and cold.

  “What are you doing with all this?” She tapped her fingers on notebooks and hitched her chin in the direction of the laptops. “Why aren’t you stricter with your security?” She looked around. “Anyone could come in here while you’re out chasing dinner and help themselves.”

  “They haven’t.” He stood and stomped his feet, shaking the legs of his jeans into place, then rested one hand on the table and the other on the back of her chair, hemming her in. The fur on his face was dangerously close to touching her. His eyes fixed on hers. “Why did they send you?”

  “How long have you known I was the one coming?”

  “Answer me.” The afternoon sun played through the trees, sending fractured rays of light on his wet hair and beard, giving him a sinister appearance. The casual attitude was gone.

  “The DoD wants to close the investigation and—”

  “Forget that bullshit.” He shook the chair. “Did they think they could send you here to fuck me and I’d give up information that would put what’s left of my family in danger?”

  She refused to move her head back and give ground. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’d been up here alone too long. She planted a hand on his furry chest, preparing to shove. “I’m here to—”

  “I know what you’re here for. Why you, damn it? Did. You. Tell. Them. About. Us?”

  “No.” The word rode out on a cough. “Why would I tell anyone we were screwing every chance we had?”

  “To get an in on the investigation. Kiss some ass. I repeat, why did they send you, and forget giving me the cover story.”

  The venom in his voice was stronger than any king cobra and stung worse. The fucker thought she’d sold him out. Her temper gage edged beyond the red zone. Spots swam in her vision. She dropped the bottle, shoved him back and shot to her feet, tipping the chair in the process. The bottle clanked, skipped and bounced across the floor, splatting them with foam. O’Brien grabbed her arm and jerked it behind her back.

  “Damn it. Answer me.” He jerked her again.

  She planted her feet and searched for an advantage to take him down.

  “They send you to get me back on their agenda?” His other arm circled her waist, trapping her arm between them.

  “They sent me to get eyes on what you’re doing. See if you’d made any connections you weren’t sharing.”

  “What else?” His hand rested on her H&K. She squirmed and he tightened his grip, pressing them together and forcing her hand against his package.

  His head bent and she tilted her face back. “Let. Go. Of. Me.” Her lips barely moved. Her breaths moved the hair on his face.

  “If I don’t?”

  Her fingers curled around his balls. Not hard enough to drop him, but hard enough for him to jerk and to force the air out of his lungs.

  He squeezed the hand behind her back. “Take. Your hand. Off my balls.”

  “If I don’t?” What was she doing? He needed time to know he could trust her. This was all wrong. She’d come here to work with him. Her fingers uncurled.

  He released her, stepped back and raised his arms like a rodeo cowboy who’d hog-tied a steer. She held her ground. He locked his gaze on her. She did the same and they played eye chicken. She’d win. She could stare down a rock. He took another step back. His foot came down on the bottle. He lost his balance and eye contact.

  Keeping her eyes on him, she righted the chair and for a moment held it between them like a lion tamer in one of those old-fashioned circus posters. O’Brien retrieved the bottle, set it on the table, and made a big show of sweeping back his hair and petting the critter growing on his face. She set the chair down in an exaggerated, slow movement, all the while hitting him with a look hard enough to leave bruises.

  “Let me be very clear about this. I’ve told no one, and I mean no one, about us. I have no reason to believe anyone knows. If I’d been sent here to have sex with you, there is no way . . . let me repeat . . . no way I’d have sex with a hairy beast. At least cover that thing hanging on your chest.”

  He looked down at the light brown fuzz on his chest.

  “Yeah, that thing.” She tossed him the gray T-shirt he’d left on the table

  “You never minded it before.” He made no attempt to catch the shirt and it floated to the floor.

  “Well, with the rest of it”—she ext
ended her arm and made floppy circles with her hand—“it gives me the willies.”

  He said nothing.

  “Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing here but I—”

  “Game!” The word exploded from him and he was on her. “My brother and his wife were murdered.” His fingers sank into the flesh of her upper arms and he drove her backward into the bookcase with enough force to rattle the knickknacks and raise a cloud of ancient dust. “My mother and niece could have been killed.” He gave her a teeth-rattling shake. “This isn’t a game.” Rage swelled his body. The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice were not something she’d seen before. She was familiar with it. Grief. It broke her temper. She went still.

  He let her go. “Leave.” With a gut-wrenching growl he kicked the chair, launching it across the room. He snatched the shirt from the floor, pulling it over his head as he went to the porch. A vicious kick to the no-screen door blew out the bottom hinge, leaving it swinging precariously as he stormed to the lake.

  Honey realized she’d been holding her breath and sucked in a quick puff, priming her lungs as she crept to the porch. Jack paced the edge of the water, his arms folded over the top of his head. He let out a sound, a soulful half sob, half howl, that echoed across the still lake. He turned and ran at the cabin. She backed inside. Jack didn’t come in but ran past. She made it to the front door in time to see him disappear on a trail into the woods across the way. She caved against the door frame and mulled over her options. He’d demanded she leave. He was wary. Hell, she was wary. They had a right to be. The only thing they knew about each other was they were damn good in bed together. Wood snapped in the cookstove and steam rose from the pot of water. She unclipped the H&K’s holster and left it on the table.