Nat couldn’t believe it.
Holy damn, he’d actually done it. His neck muscles strained so tight his tendons felt like they’d snap and his heart drummed like a marathon runner on the home stretch. Overwhelmed, he stared at the tiny creature as it started to breathe on its own. Body shaking crazily, hands trembling with palsy, Nat realized he’d saved the foal. With his hand over mouth, he stumbled to the corner of the stall and threw up.
Tears slid down his cheeks, unchecked, emotions raw and exposed. Wiping his mouth, he looked over his shoulders at the foal. The colt was pure black, not an ounce of color in his midnight hide. He had a perfect dished profile, huge liquid eyes and wide nostrils that flared wide with each breath.
Nat couldn’t move, couldn’t even reach out his hand to touch the newborn. The foal tried to stand, four delicate legs teetering beneath him like twigs in the wind. Nat wiped his face with his hand, watched Cal bend down and remove the rope from the foal’s legs and rub him with fresh hay, getting rid of the damp mucus and blood.
“You saved him.” Eliza Reed’s voice was rough, no more than a whisper in the shadows.
Relief hit him. Then raw grief settled in as he looked at the mare. His mouth turned arid as he caught Eliza’s gaze, her green eyes huge and brilliant with tears. His own eyes burned again, but he forced himself to get on with the work. He had to clean up Banner, feed the foal.
“Hey?” Shouts echoed down the stable block.
“Nat?” A door banged and footsteps approached.
“You in there?” Logan’s deep voice cut through the darkness.
“Back here.” Nat forced the words past shaky vocal cords.
“She okay?” Sas ran down the aisle, bundled up in a thick down-jacket, carrying her black doctor’s bag. She drew to a halt and her eyes went huge as she stared at the colt. “He’s beautiful, oh God, Nat. He’s gorgeous.”
Then she saw the mare, lying cut open beside him. “Sweet Jesus.”
Nat crawled around to the mare’s head, touched her cheek. “She didn’t make it.”
Grief hit him like electric rain—stupid because she was just a horse. But she’d been beautiful, and hadn’t deserved to die like that, in pain, and desperate. No animal did. He was a rancher and a wildlife photographer, knew the twists and turns of Mother Nature better than most, but nothing had prepared him for such an unnecessary death.
A vet could have saved her.
The foal nosed his hand with velvet lips and Nat looked into the tiny creature’s midnight eyes. The little fellow was hungry and wondering where his mama was. Nat had to get the foal to a surrogate soon, or he had months of bottle-feeding to look forward to.
The door of the stable block banged shut and Nat was surprised by the flash of disappointment he felt when he realized Eliza Reed had left the barn.
Shrugging, Nat turned and watched Logan examine the foal. He broke the umbilical with a sharp jerk, checked the heart rate with the palm of his hand against the thorax.
“I had to resuscitate him.” Nat’s voice was gruff, the walls of his throat tight with anguish.
“Looks pretty damn good to me. I’ll give him a couple of shots, just in case.” The big rancher covered the tiny animal with a blanket to keep him warm. “Got a mare lined up?”
Nat nodded, and prayed to God that the mare would accept a second foal.
“Bumped into Logan at the end of my shift,” Sarah explained. “He told me Banner was having problems and the vet couldn’t get up here.”
Nat nodded. Bitterness wouldn’t do him any good, but he couldn’t let it go.
“I’ll remember that if I ever come across the SOB in a road traffic accident.” She swore softly. Sas might look tiny and sweet, but she was just as ornery as the rest of them. She went over to stand next to the foal, stroked his inquisitive black nose and hugged Cal loosely with her other arm.
“What’re you gonna call him?” Logan asked softly.
Tonight should have been a time to rejoice, but death and hardship tempered it. Nat said nothing for a moment. There was still work to be done and he’d be lucky to see his bed before dawn.
“Redemption.” Nat looked at the delicate black form. “Red, for short.”
“He looks like a Red to me,” Cal said, keeping his arm tightly clasped around Sarah’s waist.
“An awful big burden to put on such tiny shoulders.” Sarah softly stroked the foal’s quivering nose.
“He’ll grow into it.” Logan came to stand next to Nat, clapped him on the back. “He’s gonna be a champ, just like his papa.”
Nat said nothing and prayed.
He hoped it was enough.
****
Tears ran down her cheeks, great ribbons of emotion that flowed like rain, and dripped from her chin. She’d never seen birth before nor death. Never beheld that pure moment when all promise and expectation crystallized into something as wonderful as a newborn foal. Or experienced the agonizing void of helplessness when life ceased. She stumbled out of the stable, barely able to see where she was going. She could hardly breathe, hardly draw the air past her constricted throat as she tried to control the sobs. Blindly, she reached out as a fence loomed in the darkness.
The training ring.
She’d seen violence and evil, wickedness and corruption. But there was more power in that single moment of birth than in everything she’d witnessed while working for the FBI. Power so huge it was staggering. Humbling, heartbreaking, real.
She climbed the rungs and sat astride the top, letting the solitude embrace her, crying her eyes out as she stared sightlessly at the stars above.
She’d loved working undercover at first, before it had sucked out her soul, leaving her as empty as an actor in a never-ending stage play. A grand adventure for a lonely girl with too much money and not much of anything else. She held the top rail between both hands, squeezed the unrelenting wood as hard as she could. She’d had a boring, lonely childhood, raised in the very best private schools, visiting her aunt in America only for the longer breaks. Money was a poor substitute for friendship—a hollow family to love.
Special Agent in Charge Marshall Hayes had approached her during one of her trips to Boston. She swiped at the tears that rolled down her cheeks. His mother and her aunt had been matchmaking—trying to consolidate the family fortunes no doubt. He’d been handsome, exciting. A real live FBI agent.
And he’d pursued her all right. Cornered her in his home office and shown her the FBI recruitment website. With her dual American/British citizenship and master’s degree in Art History she had the perfect background for his team. He wanted her. She just had to pass her basic training.
She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. She’d worked her balls off to get through the sixteen weeks of boot camp. Reveled in the challenge—loved the excitement and the sense of danger, longed for the chance to finally prove her worth beyond her bank balance.
But what she’d discovered was that, on the scales of justice, her worth barely registered.
Life sucked. Then you died.
A wolf howled high in the hills. The sound echoed off the outbuildings and reverberated around the yard. A lonely, mournful sound that felt fitting somehow.
She’d been scouting out the ranch, checking the outbuildings and vantage points from within the trees. She’d even had her cover story all worked out before she’d realized these people wouldn’t care if she snooped around, investigated the place. They had nothing to hide. They’d just think she was plain, old-fashioned nosey.
She rubbed her thighs against the cold as loneliness stole over her, made her think about the things she didn’t have, couldn’t have—like family. She had a few friends, but none she could turn to now. To involve anyone else in her life was too dangerous.
Josie was safe enough as long as she stayed low, and she was street-smart.
Elizabeth wiped the tears from her cheeks with the cuffs of her jacket. She missed Marsh, and Dancer, and all the gang fro
m the Forgeries and Fine Arts Division. But she couldn’t go to them. Marsh had warned her not to get involved with the Organized Crime Unit’s investigation and told her to steer clear of DeLattio. She’d ignored his advice and plowed on. Thought she could handle it. Thought she was clever.
She hooked a strand of hair behind her ear. This was her problem, her mess and she’d clear it up.
A noise behind her startled her and made her jump. She fell off the top rung into the soft sand of the training ring. Her hand slid to the shoulder holster she’d started wearing again, hidden beneath her jacket.
“Sorry,” Nat Sullivan said out of the darkness, “didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no, you’re all right.” Elizabeth smiled, pulled her hand away from her gun. The man made her nervous, but she wasn’t scared of him. Most men made her nervous nowadays. “Sorry.” She wiped her eyes again embarrassed to be caught crying. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Elizabeth found words to try to cover her emotions. “I’ve never seen anything born before.”
“Well,” his voice was troubled, eyes pensive, “I’m not so sure he was born so much as ripped out.”
He stood a yard away, watching her through the gap between the top rail and the next one down, blood-soaked, dirty and rumpled, in his shirtsleeves on a freezing cold night.
He didn’t even shiver. Didn’t appear to feel the cold.
She wrapped her arms tight around her body and wished she had even a fraction of his warmth. He stood absolutely still, but she could feel his energy vibrate through the air. His eyes shone with dark emotions—exhaustion, frustration, grief.
She understood the darker side of life, understood the nature of guilt.
“He’d have died if you hadn’t cut him out.” She spoke quietly. Mindful of the dead.
“Yeah,” he said, “probably.” He placed his hands on the wooden rail between them, leaned closer. “Thanks, for your help.”
“I didn’t do much good.” Elizabeth swallowed, felt the tears burn again. She wanted to reach out and clutch those warm capable hands. There were some days when she needed refuge, isolation from the slightest touch, others, like today, when she wanted to be held so desperately she ached.
She didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” she managed, “about the mare.”
He nodded, lips twisted. “Me too.” Half turning away, he hesitated and looked down at the ground.
“Your accent...” he tilted his head to look at her, “where’d you say you were from?”
Blindsided, she sucked in a quick, startled breath. “I didn’t say.” The words were too sharp, too hard. “I mean, it’s not a simple answer.” She came from everywhere and nowhere. It would take a lifetime to explain.
He nodded, smiled as if she’d said something amusing.
“It’s beautiful—wherever it’s from.”
Surprise jolted her on the spot. He turned back toward the stables and as she watched him walk away, the breeze chased him as if it already missed his company. It whipped her hair across her cheek and rustled the branches of the trees behind her.
She shivered as the night closed around her, pressed against her like a wet blanket. She wanted to follow Nat back into the stables, absorb his warmth and discover what really went on behind those vivid blue eyes
But she didn’t have the guts.
The wolf howled again, lost and lonely. Another wolf answered, then another, and another. The eerie cries picked up and echoed off the trees, through the ditches and valleys, across the wide-open spaces.
She climbed the fence, kept a close eye on the caliginous forest as she made her way back to her cabin. Touching the Glock holstered beneath her jacket, she reminded herself she was safe now, for a while. Wild things wouldn’t hurt her, but it wasn’t wild things she was worried about.
Ten minutes later, she huddled up in the cottage’s double bed wearing a New York Giants T-shirt that came almost to her knees. One hand crept under the pillow, an inch away from her Glock as she tried to fall asleep.
Nat Sullivan’s face formed in her mind, glowing eyes with that half smile of his that warmed her from the inside out. She wanted to touch him so badly that her hand actually reached out, but she let it fall back down to the cool sheets. She fell asleep and dreamed. The foal gamboled about, the mare’s eyes pain-filled, but accepting. Accepting death.
Suddenly she was running fast, lungs bursting with the effort, her body slick with sweat, stumbling, unable to see through the fog that crawled over the ground. She couldn’t see him, but he was close. Too close. Right on her heels. Dogging her.
Shadows shifted and he was straight ahead. Whirling away she lurched suddenly over the edge of a cliff. Fear scraped at her throat as she wheeled again, but there was no escape. He was there. At the edge of the shadows. Watching her. Reaching for her. Shapes shifted, black and gray then coalesced into a solid malevolence. She watched, frozen, as a man began to form out of the fog.
“Daddy,” she cried and thrust her arms towards the shadow. But the shadow turned black and laughed.
Blood-stained hands grabbed at her, and she whirled and threw herself over the edge of the cliff. She screamed as the air whipped past her face, falling and falling. She heard his laughter and screamed again.
Elizabeth jerked awake, the scream echoing through the cabin. Tangled sheets pinned her down. She fell back onto the pillows, her breath harsh in the cold room.
The fire had gone out.
Sweat turned to ice on her flesh as she realized where she was.
It was just a dream. Just another dream.
Gritty-eyed and tired, she huddled in the blankets and tried to think of nothing. Not blood, nor death, not fear nor pain, not humiliation, not rape and not Andrew DeLattio. But it didn’t matter how hard she tried, her mind just kept replaying the videotape.
Chapter Five
Breathing hard, Elizabeth bent over and rested gloved hands against jean-clad thighs. The cold air burned her lungs as she snatched in huge gulps of it. The bright blue sky stretched out like a canvas above her, broken white clouds splotched across it like a child’s painting. No ominous gray clouds today, though Sarah Sullivan had told her that could change in a heartbeat.
Elizabeth’s eyes hurt; she hadn’t slept much last night—again. Stretching up, her muscles loosened and eased. She rested her hands on her hips and looked around. The mountains reared up before her, snow covered granite that looked as unforgiving as broken glass. It looked a barren place near the summit of those spiky peaks. Swathes of conifers stretched dark green across the lower reaches of the mountain, cut off sharply at the tree line. Pine, fir, larch and aspen slowly merged on the far side of the meadow, breaking up the monotony of the landscape.
She didn’t need to go much further.
Trudging across the meadow she was grateful for the snowshoes Sarah had given her; they made walking in the deep powder much easier. She followed a trampled path into the trees and looked down among the underbrush where she could see the tracks of wild things crisscrossing the snow. Recognizing bird and rabbit tracks, she spotted much larger prints that could only belong to a mountain lion, and prayed it wasn’t hungry.
Nervous, she pulled out her .30-30 Marlin from its carry case and inserted rounds into the tubular magazine that ran the length of the barrel. She chambered a round, inserted another cartridge into the magazine, just in case. She’d bought the rifle in a backwoods town in northern Ontario. She’d wanted a backup for her Glock, but hadn’t wanted to call attention to herself by buying another handgun. The little lever action rifle was compact and easy to carry, but it packed a powerful punch at close quarters. Elizabeth left the hammer half-cocked and carried on walking, taking big steps in the cumbersome shoes, holding the gun across her chest.
She reached a small clearing at the foot of a heavily forested hillside. This would do for her purpose. She stopped, shucked off her pack and laid the rifle carefully on the ground. Sitting on a half-
rotted tree stump, she pulled out some brightly colored balloons from her knapsack and started blowing them up to the size of footballs. She tied each one off with long pieces of twine, thankful there was no wind to scatter them around the glade. The balloons looked garish against the white background—unnatural in the pristine wilderness. She stopped to catch her breath, eyed the surrounding thicket suspiciously.
Satisfied with the targets, she gathered the strings, pulled a staple-gun from her pack, and marched 100 yards further up the gentle slope.
Snow flicked over the top of her boots, but the thick socks she wore helped keep it out. After that first day’s ride in the snowstorm with Nat, she’d sworn she’d never leave the warmth of the cabin again. But doing nothing had given her time to think, and that was the last thing she’d wanted. She’d rather freeze.
Elizabeth came to a felled pine that lay like a sacrifice near the edge of the forest. She removed her gloves with her teeth and dropped them to the snow at her feet. With quick efficient movements she stapled the target balloons along the length of the tree trunk where they bobbed gently in a long festive line that looked both jolly and sweet—like a birthday party.
She’d be lucky to see another birthday. But she wouldn’t die alone.
Blowing out a cloud of icy breath, she smiled grimly at her little soldiers and walked back to her pack and then stood, absorbing the atmosphere of the mountain. It felt like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Even the air was different up here, sharper, clearer. They called Montana ‘Big Sky’ country and now Elizabeth knew why. You were so close you could almost reach up and touch it.
The silence was all encompassing. Tangible.
Her heartbeat slowed. Tension eased out of her shoulders, releasing her neck from its iron grip. There was a deep sense of solitude here that embraced and held her. Recognized her for what she was, and didn’t care about the bad parts, the imperfections.
An eagle soared high above the valley, on meager thermals, surveying its kingdom of ice, tree and granite.
Her Sanctuary Page 6
