Either he did or he was oblivious. “Home, sweet home. At least for tonight. Come on.” He grabbed her hand and swept her along toward the plank-sided shed. “It’s a hunting camp. Basic, but dry.”
While he poked behind the single wooden step, Annie stood shivering. Trees marched right up to the lone cabin, leaving only the barest minimum of clearing around it.
She’d assumed from the start of their hike that she and Sam would be sharing the confines of a tent that night. She’d reveled in the closeness of their chaste huddles the previous nights, but was too exhausted and too frightened to feel anything but comfort.
Tonight would be different.
Isolation and comfort in each other, not the cabin, made the difference in that shift. Sam wanted her as much as she wanted him. His kiss earlier had dissolved her knees to pudding. He exploded her senses like no one before. Other than their cooperative escape from the Hunter, they had little in common. Granted, he made her laugh, dare, and move beyond herself. But there could be nothing between them beyond the moment.
She was teetering on the brink of love with him already. Taking the next leap would send her off the cliff.
He was a man with demons to exorcise. Their lives were poles apart. Acting on their attraction would be dangerous for her heart. She had to resist the pull of his sensuality, the intimacy of the cabin, the desire that arced between them.
Or am I fooling myself? Or cheating myself? She frowned, banishing the tiny inner voice that sounded a lot like Emma.
“Now we can get in.” He held up a glass jar containing the key to the rusty padlock securing the heavy wooden door. “Universal’s pampered execs keep this place for when they feel like roughing it. So they can say they’ve spent time in the woods, lived close to the land.” He laughed, a husky, deep rumble that warmed more than one part of her. “It’s the original hunting camp built by the wily old Mainer who sold all this acreage to Universal in the forties.”
“Did that wily old Mainer retire rich, or did they leave him as bare as the clear cuts I saw from Boomer’s plane?” She spied an outhouse a few yards away and the rain-gray ribbon of the Eagle River the other direction.
The cabin looked like only one room. It had a window either side of the door and a metal chimney poking through the tin roof. A stove? Oh boy, heat.
“You’re too skeptical. I heard his heirs are still living off his investments.” He wrenched off the padlock, and the door creaked inward. “Let’s get inside where it’s dry.”
Dry was the kindest thing to say about the interior. One room, yes. A scarred wooden floor with no rugs. On her left, a linoleum-covered counter with a porcelain sink, a few cabinets, and a gas cook stove passed for a kitchen. Against the right and back walls, two sets of metal bunk beds sagged, empty of bedding. Mattresses and pillows hung on coat hangers from the ceiling. Protection against mice nesting in them, she supposed.
Rustic wooden furniture—a plank table, two paint-blotched straight-backed chairs, a rocking chair, and an unpainted settee faced a small cast iron woodstove. Even more primitive than the camp her family had on Crawford Pond.
The cabin, long closed up, smelled of mildew and mice. What did she expect—a condo with a Jacuzzi? The place was dry and solid. A fire would create cozy.
She followed Sam’s example and dumped her pack on the floor. Only then did she realize her teeth were chattering. Some July weather! “Sam, do we dare build a fire? Would he see or smell our smoke?”
“A fire is my game plan. We’ll be safe here until tomorrow. Smoke should blow east, away from him, and the rain will help screen us.” He slipped off his poncho and dropped it on the floor. A stack of yellowed newspapers, kindling, and some logs filled a box near the stove.
Crumpling newspaper, he said, “He might not realize we’re gone until the others make camp. If he does, the rain will have wiped out any tracks we left. Even your spectacular slide down the hill.”
“Don’t remind me. I knew Mother Nature wasn’t finished with me yet.” She returned his grin. His humor and steady confidence in her was somehow dissipating her nature-phobia. Her feud with the old gal didn’t bother her as much as it used to. “So you don’t think he’ll know where we are?”
Sam shook his head as he arranged kindling and logs on the newspaper. “He might figure we’re headed for the river, but he won’t know where we left the others.”
“Won’t he deduce we came to this camp? You led us here.”
She tried not to register the way his biceps bulged as he worked, or the way his wet trousers hugged his taut butt. Just staring at him heated her blood. She peeled off her outer garments and hung them on hooks beside the door. When the cool air hit her damp shirt, she shivered all over again.
Sam hung his poncho beside hers. “I’m damned lucky I remembered where it was. This camp isn’t on any map I’ve ever seen. He couldn’t know of its existence."
He hoisted a Coleman lantern from a hook in the kitchen. “It’ll be dark soon. I’ll see if I can find fuel for this baby while you change into dry clothes. Then we’ll fix up the bunks.” His back remained to her while he rummaged in the cabinets.
“Who knew you’d be such a gentleman?” From her pack she pulled dry jeans, socks, and a sweatshirt.
“I may not be able to unglue my eyes from your tight little nipples, sweetheart, but I don’t take advantage of shivering women.” He located the fuel and appeared to occupy himself with the lantern.
Her cheeks flamed and she hurried to change. She didn’t normally fluster so easily, but Sam had a knack.
He did say bunks, plural, didn’t he? No, she wouldn’t think about that.
When she finished dressing, she could barely contain a sigh at the pleasurable feel of soft, dry garments.
She turned her back for him to do the same, although trousers were his only wet item. They hung the dripping clothes on a line behind the stove.
“They won’t be clean,” she said, stretching to clip a one of her sneakers to the line, “but dry is all I ask.”
“A few more days and you’ll be clean and dry—and safe—back in Portland.” Settling into the rocker, he looked away. His mouth formed a grim seam. “You’ll be away from all this.”
And away from you.
He would remain hidden in his wilderness, and she’d be off in search of... something. Portland didn’t have the appeal it once did. Neither did New York. After this ordeal ended, she’d consider a change. Sam was right. She’d been too obsessed with the Hunter. What Rissa would think of this turn of events, she couldn’t imagine.
The efficient cast iron heated the small room in no time, eddying the cooked-cotton scent of drying laundry around the room.
“Rain’s let up,” Sam said. “I’ll go fetch a bucket of water from the river. Boiling and a few iodine tabs will make it safe enough for drinking. We could do with a hot meal.”
Fear flickered at the thought of his leaving her alone. What if he was wrong about the Hunter not knowing where they were? What if he didn’t come back? “Can’t you just get it from the sink?”
“Sweetheart, you go have a look at it.” He slid his poncho on over his head. “Drain, but no faucet. You’re smack in the middle of the wilderness, remember?”
“How could I forget, Mr. Maine Guide?”
He must have perceived the fear on her face or the edge in her voice because he said, “It’s all right. We’re safe here for now. Why don’t you check out the fine china supply?”
She surveyed the kitchen amenities, such as they were. “Plates and silver in the cupboards.” Both the plastic dishes and the scratched porcelain sink contained tiny deposits. “First thing to do is rinse away mouse turds.”
“You can be in charge of that. Then I’ll get those mattresses down from the ceiling. We’ll make up a bed. Or two.” With a waggle of his mustache, he slipped out the door.
“Mattresses,” she mused, gazing at the hanging ticking. She snatched the broom leaning against the wall a
nd attacked the dirty floor around the stove. “A bed or two.”
Sam was obviously leaving the sleeping arrangement open. She eyed the bunks, which were little more than glorified cots with naked coils for support. Barely wide enough for one adult, let alone two in the throes of passion, supposing she considered sweeping away caution with the dust.
A ribbon of awareness curled through her at the memory of Sam’s heated kisses, his mouth on her breast, at the thought of his hard body covering hers. She squeezed her eyes closed.
Maybe having no future together was an advantage. Maybe she could do lust and not do falling for him. No hang-ups, no strings, no chance for heartbreak. Just the present.
If the Hunter caught up to them, today might be all they ever had.
TWENTY-EIGHT
All her fault. Her fault his hand was on fucking fire. Her fault bits of his scorched hair fell in his face whenever he touched it. His right sleeve hung in shreds.
Her fault the beautiful Remington was fused into a twisted mess. Useless. He flung it into the weeds.
The bitch’s fault. And the fucking guide’s. If they hadn’t headed off alone—
He scrambled up the rain-slick ridge. At the top, he shrugged off his backpack and withdrew a first-aid kit. Shaking, mouth contorted with pain, he unclenched his right hand and extended it for the rain to wash. Blisters on his right palm. Painful but not serious.
If the lightning had struck him directly instead of the tree beside him, he’d have more than a couple of singes. The rifle’s stock had conducted the heat to his hand for only a second. Long enough to blister him. Second-degree burns required a sterile dressing, but a gauze bandage would be soaked in minutes.
The lightning strike was a sign.
A challenge.
That was it. He wasn’t meant to hunt her with a gun. Only his blade.
With his left hand, he slid the custom-made, four-inch skinning knife from its sheath and tested the sharpness. The burned hand would make no difference in the outcome of his hunt. After replacing the knife, he moved the sheath to his left side.
Being ambidextrous had its advantages.
Pain? The Hunter refused pain.
His mind would cast out the pain. The injury would heal.
And she would pay.
He squinted through the late-afternoon rain. Too thick to see smoke from a chimney. Soon it would be dark. No matter. He knew where they must be headed.
He hooked his arms into the backpack and headed down the east side of the ridge.
TWENTY-NINE
When Sam returned with the water, he found Annie waiting by the sink, a scowl on her face. Was she pondering the chores ahead or worrying about the Hunter?
Her baggy sweatshirt covered all the sweet curves the tight jeans would reveal, so why did he find her so irresistible? Maybe it was her straightforward, gutsy nature, her lively wit. Or the idea that she trusted him.
Maybe it was because for the last two nights, he’d held those delicious curves in his arms. Maybe it was because he felt every soft indent and slope against his body. Maybe it was because he knew the sweetness of her lips.
He sweated through the nights in hardened agony. Fear of the Hunter and awareness of their neighbors beyond the thin nylon wall had meant no sex.
There was that trust again. The woman trusted him to keep her safe. Sam Kincaid who hadn’t even kept himself safe, who’d self-destructed and screwed up his future. Hell. Why would an ambitious woman like Annie want a loser like him? The best thing he could do was to get her away from that damn killer.
And then Sam would slide out of her life.
Sliding on a smile, he marched past her and parked the full bucket beside the sink. “This is a start. I’ll haul up more water later. Hey, sweetheart, with that broom you look like Cinderella without the cinders.”
“Cinderella I’m not.” She shoved the broom at him. “Think you can swing this while I wash things?”
“A broom I can swing. Just don’t hand me a baseball bat.” He accepted the wooden tool.
“Sam, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry about your hand... about—” A stricken look darkened her gray eyes.
“It’s okay. I have to be able to laugh at myself at this point.” He wanted to kiss the worry from her lips, but he dragged his gaze away and concentrated on the floor.
After cleaning up the kitchen and herself, she set a pot of water on the stove while he arranged ticking mattresses on the two lower bunks. “With our sleeping bags on top of these, we’ll sleep like bears in a den.”
“No bears.” Her muffled voice came from a lower cupboard where she was burrowing.
His fine view of her backside and its sensuous wriggle drew him like a trout to blackflies, but curiosity won out. “What are you doing?”
She scooted backwards and pushed to her feet. “I was looking for napkins or paper towels, but look what I found instead.” From behind her, she pulled a very dusty bottle of wine. “Will the owners mind?”
“I’ll replace it if they do.” Sam grinned, slipping the bottle from her grasp. He considered her heightened color and gray eyes, no longer dark with fear, but bright with anticipation. “My favorite vintage. Chateau de Camp. I think it’s a red wine.” A little vino would relax them.
“Fancy that. Just the right vintage to accompany our gourmet dinners.” She plucked two glasses from the drain board. “Oops, what about opening it? I didn’t see a corkscrew with the other utensils.”
“No problem. My multi-tool has one.” He swiped grime from the bottle. 1999. Côtes-du-Rhône. He knew less about wine than about computers. “This could actually be a good bottle of wine. Let’s get cookin’.”
Once the water boiled, he poured two cups into each packet. The aroma of food—familiar but unidentifiable—rose from the mixtures. “The packages say two servings, but that’s not for someone who’s hiked cross-country. Want your own?”
“You bet,” Annie said. “I’m hungry as a—”
“Bear?”
Annie groaned. “—hiker.” She wrinkled her nose. “Smartass. Maybe after a little wine, I can persuade you to set some traps tomorrow. We could be ready for the Hunter.”
“Woman, you’re as persistent as a mosquito.” He shook his head as he wrestled to insert the tiny corkscrew into the wine bottle. “I won’t spoil our evening by the fire with an argument. The Hunter’s in a serious rain delay. We may not have to worry about him at all.”
“What do you mean?” Her gray eyes were cloud soft. Her cheeks, rain-washed clean, shone pink with the fire’s heat.
He’d intended to save his surprise for in the morning, but now seemed to require it. “Behind the cabin stashed under a tarp is a canoe. We can paddle away from here tomorrow morning and leave the damn Hunter landlocked. So, let’s not mention him tonight. Agreed?”
“A canoe. That’s wonderful, Sam!” One eyebrow raised, she appeared to ponder the trap idea one last time. Then she smiled. “Agreed. No Hunter talk tonight.”
In the increasing warmth, she’d traded her sweatshirt for a silky turquoise tee. Her bra-free nipples taunted him behind the thin, clingy fabric.
To keep from reaching for her, he gripped the wine bottle. Concentrated on pouring the dark red liquid into small tumblers. When the meals had steeped long enough, they sat down at the table.
Peering at the beef stew in her cracked crockery bowl like a scientist at an alien life form, Annie dipped her spoon. She sniffed. “Smells a little like canned beef gravy. I don’t see much meat.” She tasted, wincing, not like a scientist, but like a five-year-old choking down medicine.
“Well?” He tucked into his chicken casserole—microscopic chicken bits, soggy noodles. It was further from home cooking than an out-of-park home run, but he didn’t care.
She rolled the food around in her mouth. “Peas and potato pieces are okay. A little mushy. Rissa—Emma’s mom—likes to try to disguise tofu. This tastes like a dish she tried once. A cross between baby foo
d and something crockpotted for a week. I wouldn’t want a steady diet of it.”
He raised his tumbler of wine. “Here’s to the wine. It makes anything palatable.”
“Almost.” She clicked her juice glass with his. “The wine’s good, anyway.”
Over their meal and the wine, they talked about everything except the Hunter. They speculated about their canoe compatriots and how far they’d paddled that day. He judged that they’d reached the Lower Otter Pond campsite. Then they talked about their careers—past and present.
Sam talked about his first year with the Red Sox as the greatest experience in his life. He had Annie beaming at his praise of the players and coaches who’d brought him along. She chortled at stories of dugout jokes and clubhouse pranks. As he described the accident that had crippled his hand and his career, tears glistened in her eyes. An emotion he couldn’t name unfurled in him when she cradled his stiff fingers and pressed them against the creamy curve of her cheek.
As they moved to the settee in front of the fire, he poured more wine. He had no trouble nudging the conversation to the life Annie’d left in the big city. If her experience in the oil-slicked South was only part of the reason she escaped to Portland, what was the rest?
Her gray eyes glowed with pride and sorrow as she talked about the interviews she’d conducted. “Eddie—that’s the Who’s Next? editor in chief—ate up those interviews. Kept sending me back for more.” She sighed.
“Who’d you interview?”
“Most of them were rescue workers and locals whose shrimping or tourist businesses were ruined. People who cared about the wildlife and beaches. Hundreds of other people volunteered just because.” Her expression was wistful as she continued. “Everyone felt so helpless. And angry.”
“But that experience isn't why you left New York,” he said gently.
“What do you mean?” Her gaze veering away, she sipped her wine. “Isn’t that enough?”
He slid an arm around her. When she didn’t object, he relaxed. After a rinse at the sink, she’d left her hair loose to curl on her shoulders, the way he liked it best.
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