Pete shrugged. "If he was tough enough to make it out of the lake and then walk up to the road, I don't think you need to worry. He's too stubborn to die."
Megan remembered the iron determination on the man's face, the strength that had kept him walking when his head must have felt like the aftereffects of a stick of dynamite. And maybe more astonishing, the will that had allowed him to give her his trust out in the water, when most people would have been too panicked to think rationally.
But she also remembered her first sight of him, when he had looked dead. And in the car, when his hard face had gone slack and blood had trickled over his cheek. Trying to hide her shiver, she forced a smile.
"Thanks, Pete."
With a thumb's-up, he departed, and she withdrew her feet from the basin. They were about the color of a fish's belly and wrinkled up like two raisins. A couple of the cuts welled some fresh blood as she inspected them, but Pam reappeared to patch her up, adding a pair of hospital slippers.
"Stay off your feet, okay?"
"I'll try," Megan promised. "Will you let me know when he wakes up?"
"Go home," the petite blond said firmly. "I'll call."
Megan wanted to see him again before she left, but it sounded absurd to ask. She had done all she could for him. She didn't know him; she might not even like him. She simply felt proprietary, as she might have toward a stray dog she had rescued.
But as she allowed herself to be wheeled toward the door, Megan felt as though she were deserting him.
The hospital was only five minutes from her home, a small beach cottage that was cold and dark. After letting herself in, Megan fed Zachary, her golden retriever, who had been patiently waiting on the front doorstep, then built a fire in the cast-iron wood stove. Nothing in her cupboards looked very inspiring to eat, but she finally settled for a grilled cheese sandwich. Afterward she curled up on the shabby couch under an afghan, hot cocoa beside her and a book in her hand. But somehow she felt too restless to read. If only the television reception were better; she could have used something mindless and entertaining. But without a satellite dish, TV was impossible.
When the telephone rang at nearly eleven o'clock, she snatched it up before the second ring. "Hello?"
It was Pam. "I knew I'd catch you up. Listen, how're your feet?"
"Okay," Megan said impatiently. "How is he?"
"Conscious but fuzzy. I'm not sure he remembers what happened."
Was that why he'd asked if she had seen the men? Because he didn't remember them? But Megan didn't quite believe that. He had known he wasn't safe, even once they reached the car. And the wariness in his eyes didn't fit with the picture of a confused victim who had no idea what had happened to him. Of course, he had lapsed into unconsciousness again. If he had forgotten the men, the blow on his head, had he forgotten her as well?
"He wanted to see you," the nurse continued.
Inexplicably, her heart leaped. "You mean, he asked for me by name?"
"No..." But Pam drew the word out, sounding uncertain. "At least, I don't think so. Did he know your name? I'm pretty sure I told him about you, and that's when he said he'd like to thank you."
Why did she feel so terribly let down? Megan wondered in dismay. Had she wanted him, a complete stranger, to need her? Maybe it was natural to have trouble letting go after you had saved somebody's life.
"Just let me get dressed and I'll..."
"Absolutely not," Pam said bluntly. "You can see him in the morning, but not before. We're keeping him under observation. And you have no business walking around on those feet."
"Those feet happen to be the only ones I own," Megan pointed out tartly. Pam always had been bossy, even as a child.
“And you don't have the option of trading them in for new ones," Pam agreed. "I'm going home in a few minutes, but I'll make sure you're expected tomorrow." A click, and she was gone.
Megan slowly hung up the phone. She should have been reassured. Instead, she felt more restless than ever. She wished she had thought to ask what Pete Tevis had found out, if anything. But probably Pam wouldn't have known.
Maybe she should call her mother. No, it was too late. In the morning, then. At last, reluctantly, she went to bed, for what good that did her.
Her mind replayed the rescue over and over. Each time, it seemed more impossible, more frightening. If she had stopped to think, would she have been so quick to dive in? If he had really struggled, had fought her with the mindless fear many drowning victims display, she could well have died out there in the dark water.
When she fell asleep at last, it was to lose herself in a strange, frustrating dream. She was on the starting blocks, every muscle in her body quivering with tension and eagerness. She knew somehow that it was the Olympic games, even though she wasn't conscious of other competitors or officials. But when she dove, the water was dark and cold and all of a sudden she was aware that something more important than a medal was at stake. But the race was endless; she couldn't see, just swam on and on in the darkness, never hitting the wall, never knowing what she pursued. Or what pursued her.
She didn't think, the next morning, that the dream race had ever ended. What did that mean? That the rescue wasn't the end, either? That the killers would be back?
But it wasn't her problem. It was his. Surely he would know why somebody wanted him dead, and could do something about it. She would go see him, accept his thanks, and wish him well. He was a stranger whom she would never see again.
Megan called the clinic first, then her mother. Mrs. Lovell listened in silence to Megan's story, then said quietly, "Part of me is glad you were there. For his sake."
"And the other part?"
"Wishes you had come straight home and never seen anything."
"I don't understand," she said, perplexed.
"Megan, hasn't it occurred to you that when those men find out he was rescued, they're going to know that you saw them? They won't like that."
"But I didn't see them!" Megan protested. "Not close enough to identify."
"Are they going to take that chance?"
She was silent for a moment. "You're scaring me," she said at last.
"I guess I meant to." Her mother's voice softened. "Just...be careful, will you? Until Pete figures out what's going on?"
"I'll be careful," Megan promised. "And I'll make sure that everybody knows I can't identify them. Okay?"
"Okay," Mrs. Lovell agreed. "Do you work today?"
"Are you kidding? It's Sunday. We'll be mobbed."
"Well... Have a good day then. Why don't you have breakfast with us tomorrow morning? We haven't seen much of you for a while.”
"That sounds good, Mom. See you then."
She could have lived without that conversation, Megan thought as she dropped the receiver in the cradle. Trust her mother to worry. Only, she might be right this time.
Was that what her dream had been trying to tell her? Megan wondered. That it might not be over for her, either? That in interfering she had put herself in danger as well?
"That's ridiculous," Megan said aloud. At the sound of her voice, Zachary leaped up eagerly. "No, we're not going anywhere. At least, you're not. No, you have to stay, Zachary. Stay."
Disappointed, the big dog flopped back down. Hobbling, Megan collected her suntan lotion and towels, the lunch she'd made the night before and a book, in case she had a slow moment. Fat chance. Standing in front of the mirror, she brushed her thick, dark hair into a braid to keep it out of her face.
Ten minutes later, she pulled up in front of the clinic. She was apparently expected, so the nurse on duty let her go right in. At least she hoped it was because she was expected. Otherwise, how safe would he be here?
Megan hesitated outside the room, then took a deep breath and knocked on the door. She was inexplicably nervous. When a deep, gravelly voice said, "Come in," she opened it.
The head of the hospital bed was raised to its maximum height so that he sat up, the covers pulled
loosely to his waist. Above that, his chest and shoulders were bare. He was beautifully built, with long, sleek muscles and smooth, tanned skin. But what shocked Megan was the angry scar that slanted across his upper abdomen. It didn't look very old. Clearly, this near drowning wasn't the first time he had come close to death.
At last she lifted her gaze to his face, meeting his gray eyes. He was watching her with an awareness that tightened her stomach, as though he knew what she was thinking, knew her, on an altogether too intimate level. His appraisal wasn't sexual in nature; it was more personal than that. Yet there was a sort of hunger to it, as though he had been waiting for hours just to see her.
Megan shifted uneasily. "Uh, hi. I'm Megan Lovell."
His voice was a little rough, like sandpaper. "I know."
"I wanted to find out how you were feeling. Does your head hurt?"
"Like the devil." He gave a crooked smile. "That's apropos, isn't it? How the hell did your lake get a name like that?"
"It's very cold, and very deep. The Indians had stories about it. They thought something lived here, down in those depths. Maybe it did, once upon a time. At any rate, they avoided it. Devil's Lake is a rough translation of their name for it."
"I came damned close to meeting the devil face-to-face," he said wryly.
She met his gaze. "I think you had already met the devil, in his human form."
His gray eyes narrowed, seemed to search hers. "What about you? Did you meet the devil, too?"
She drew back a little from his intensity. "You asked me that last night. If I had seen them. Does it matter?"
"I don't know. I hope you didn't."
"If I hadn't seen them at all, you'd be dead."
The intensity seemed suddenly to drain out of him, leaving him looking tired. "Yeah." His half-smile was rueful. "You had the guts to put your life on the line for a total stranger's, and I haven't even thanked you, have I?"
"You don't have to. Really. It wasn't a big deal. I'm just glad..."
"I must outweigh you by sixty pounds," he said roughly.
"I didn't know that, when I dove in," Megan admitted. "But I've been a lifeguard for years. I knew what I was doing. Well, sort of. To tell you the truth, I just...reacted. I'm not sure that's being brave. Some people would call it stupid."
His slow smile transformed his hard face, deepening the creases that were carved from nose to mouth. "You can call it whatever you want. Most people don't react that way."
She shrugged uncomfortably. "It's over. I don't want you to feel..."
He made a noncommittal noise, then patted the bed beside him. "Will you sit down? Talk to me for a few minutes?"
"Uh...sure. Why not?" But she had no intention of sitting on the bed. Instead, she pulled a chair over from beside the window. As she sat down, his mouth quirked with faint amusement.
When neither spoke immediately, the silence felt awkward. "You know, nobody has even told me your name," Megan said abruptly.
He looked disconcerted, seeming to hesitate. "Ross," he said at last. "Ross McKenzie. My friends call me Mac."
Again they sat looking at each other, wordless. Megan tried to make him fit with her mental picture of the man she had rescued. She had known, in the back of her mind, that he might be attractive, even handsome, that he had a distinctive face. She had unhesitatingly told Pete Tevis that she would have known if she'd ever seen him before. She'd been right.
He had strong cheekbones, a patrician nose, a hard mouth that was still sensuous. His dark blond hair was a little long, curling on his neck and above the white bandage. The shadow of a beard showed that he hadn't shaved today, and it made him look rakish, even dangerous. Appearances were all too often deceptive; in his case, she had a feeling they were accurate.
She wanted to ask how he had come by the scar. Instead, in a polite voice, she inquired, "Do you live around here?"
"Temporarily. I've been doing some construction work. For Jim Kellerman."
"Oh. I don't think I've ever seen you."
"Or I you."
Another pause as they eyed each other. They weren't getting anywhere, Megan thought. So she said straight out, "Do you remember what happened?"
He didn't move a muscle or change his expression, yet suddenly she sensed his withdrawal. "Only hazily," he said. "I remember that I was going to take a look at a house down the lake. Give 'em a bid for an addition. After that..." He shrugged. "The cold water's the next thing I remember."
Megan watched him intently. "And you don't know why...?"
"It's not the kind of thing you'd forget."
That didn't exactly answer her question. Or perhaps, in a way, it did.
"I'd better let you rest," she said, reaching for her purse. "I'm glad you're recovering, Mr. McKenzie."
He held out one hand, touched her cheek lightly. "I owe you a life for a life now."
The purse forgotten, Megan stared at him, still feeling his touch though his hand lay back at his side. "Don't be ridiculous. That sounds so...melodramatic. It's my job. I've pulled other people in. You don't have to..."
"A rule's a rule." He wasn't even smiling. "You save a life, it belongs to you. So what are you going to do with mine?"
Table of Contents
All Through The House
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
About The Author
Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson
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All Through The House Page 21
