Strangers When We Meet

by Marisa Carroll

  “I didn’t just bring you up here so you’d realize Tubb was the two-timing bastard he is. I wanted there to be no doubt in your mind he was a worthless SOB. I wanted to make sure you’d send him packing tonight.”

  “How did you intend to convince me of that?”

  He didn’t know if it was an invitation or a challenge. He didn’t care much which it was, but he was damned certain he wasn’t going to answer it with words. “Like this.” He pulled her close and covered her mouth with his.

  She didn’t open to him, not right away. She stiffened a little and he gentled his touch. He didn’t want this to be the hurried, furtive coupling it had been in the pile of leaves. He wanted this to be a kiss that she would never forget, a branding, a claiming. Pulling back slightly so their lips barely met, he lifted his hands to her face, twining his fingers through her hair to hold her still. Before returning his quest to her mouth, he brushed his lips across her cheek, her eyelids, the curve of her earlobe, which had so intrigued him earlier. At last he touched his lips to hers once more, lightly, testing.

  She opened slightly to his touch, tasted his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. Blake felt control begin to slip out of his grasp and clamped down on it with an iron hand. He slanted his mouth across hers, sliding his tongue between her teeth, drinking deeply of the silky moistness within. She tasted of cinnamon and spice and the sweet heat of desire. Her hands clenched handfuls of his shirt as she strained toward him, letting her tongue duel with his. She wanted him. He knew that as well as he knew his own name and exulted in the certainty. She didn’t have to tell him with words that she was through with Tubb. He could sense it in her response to him. Emma Hart was not the kind of woman to play one man against another.

  But God help him, he wanted to hear her say the words. To tell him aloud that she was free of her obligation to Tubb. Free to love again, completely and until the end of time.

  His heart beat like a drum in his chest. His blood pounded in his ears. But it was no longer from the intoxication of physical desire. Something wasn’t right. The atmosphere around them had changed subtly, ominously. He could feel it in his gut, in the primitive brain at the base of his skull. Responses embedded in his bones and psyche by the unrelenting taskmasters at Parris Island many years before, and honed to a fine edge by Desert Storm and the street fighting of Somalia, kicked into high gear.

  He lifted his mouth from hers and scanned the darkening woods beyond the ravine.

  Emma stood rooted to the spot, her eyes closed, her mouth still open slightly as though waiting for another kiss. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, and lifted herself on the tips of her toes to bring his mouth to hers. “Not yet.”

  “Emma, we’re not alone.” The hardness in his voice got through to her.

  Her eyes flew open, the dreamy desire that had darkened them to burned sugar giving way to unease. “What do you mean? Is someone watching us?”

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right,” he said as she spun to follow his gaze, peering into the gathering darkness of a short November twilight.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  Neither did he. Not that he could pinpoint. But the prickling at the base of his skull wouldn’t go away. And once again he noticed the silence of the creatures who called these woods home. There should be a grouse drumming for his mate off in the distance. A squirrel or two scolding the human intruders away from their treetop nests. Crows noisily settling in for the night. But he heard none of those things. Nothing but the wind in the trees. He couldn’t even hear the car idling out on the road anymore.

  He’d been more than a little preoccupied with kissing Emma, but he couldn’t remember hearing it drive away.

  The short hair at the back of his neck stood on end.

  “Time to go, Emma,” he said gruffly. A flicker of movement through the trees on the far side of the ravine added a harsh urgency to his words.

  Emma gave him a narrow look over her shoulder. “I still don’t see anyone,” she said in the tone of voice he already knew presaged an argument.

  He wasn’t about to stand on top of a six-foot-high granite rock and discuss the finer points of Marine survival training with her. He wanted to get low and keep moving. The farther into the trees they went, the less of a target they presented. He reached out and grabbed her hand, spinning her around as the unmistakable sound of a shotgun shell being loaded into the chamber broke the unearthly silence. Dragging Emma along with him, he launched himself off the rock. It was a split second too late.

  He never heard the shot that caught him low on his left side.

  There was a jumbled confusion of sound and sensation. He would recall until the moment he died the swirl of green and red-orange as the skirt of Maureen’s coat billowed around Emma’s slender form, the look of disbelief on her face as the force of the slug tearing through the fabric and into his flesh threw them backward off the rock.

  They landed hard, knocking the air out of both of them. His mind eddied with darkness and white hot pain, a nauseating combination that kept him on his knees for too many precious seconds. They had to get moving, away from the shooter in the trees.

  Emma was curled into a ball beside him. She moaned a little, and he rolled her onto her back. Her face was white, and a tiny smear of blood marred her cheek where it had been scraped raw by a twig or branch. When he pressed his fingers to the pulse in her throat, it was fast, but steady. Her eyes opened, and she stared into the trees with a blank expression. “How did I get on the ground?”

  “Emma, are you okay?”

  She turned her head and winced with pain, then lifted her hand to the back of her head. “Ouch. What happened? Was that thunder? Did we get struck by lightning?” It had started to rain sometime during their kiss. He hadn’t even noticed.

  “Someone took a shot at us.” It was an effort to speak. All his senses were screaming for them to get out of there, but he was in no shape to pick Emma up and carry her, and she wasn’t making any effort to get to her feet by herself. He pressed his left hand to his side, and it came away covered with blood. He had no idea how badly he’d been hit, but it was a safe bet he wouldn’t last long out here in the woods, bleeding like a stuck pig.

  “Took a shot at us?” Emma struggled to one elbow. She turned even whiter and moaned in pain. “My head hurts.”

  Blake reached around with his right hand and felt along the back of her neck. A bump was already forming. “Look at me, Emma.” She did, and her gaze was clear and focused, but unbelieving. No concussion. That was good. She was dazed by the hard landing.

  “Someone shot at us?” she repeated, as though she hadn’t heard him right the first time.

  “Damned straight.”

  “But who? Why?” She tried to lever herself into a sitting position, but he held her down.

  “Keep your head low. The shooter may still be out there.”

  Her attention shifted to his side, and her mouth dropped open in horror. He didn’t follow her gaze. He didn’t have to. He could feel the blood trickling out between his fingers. Even in the failing light it had to be a frightening sight.

  “You’ve been hurt,” she whispered.

  “I’ve been shot, Emma. And the guy’s still out there. We’ve got to get moving. Put some distance between us.” The speech left him panting for breath.

  “Who in the world would have a gun out here? Now? It’s not hunting season yet, is it?

  She didn’t seem able to take it all in. He could feel the darkness that had been lurking at the edges of his vision begin to move inward, stealing his sight and his strength. “Keep low and follow me,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She tried to shake off his restraining hand and stand. He clamped down tight on her arm. “Surely whoever it is knows they’ve made a mistake. That they—” she faltered a moment “—sh
ot you.” Once more she looked in horror at the blood spilling through his fingers. “We have to get help. The hunter, or whoever it is, has to help us.” Her voice was rising in frustration and fear. “He must know he made a terrible mistake by now. Listen. I can hear him coming this way through the ravine.” She opened her mouth and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Over here. Help us. My friend’s been shot.”

  The silence was so intense he could hear the raindrops splashing on the big rock, feel it pelting on the top of his head. His hat was gone. He spotted it lying ten feet away, but he wasn’t about to go after it.

  “He isn’t answering. He must not have heard us down in the ravine. I’ll try again.”

  Blake jerked on her arm, hard. It startled Emma enough that she shut her mouth for a moment. “Don’t say another word,” he hissed, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs to keep breathing and talk at the same time. He was losing too much blood and he had to do something about it. Fast. But not here. It wasn’t safe. He didn’t need the ominous silence that had greeted Emma’s call for help to tell him that. They had maybe three minutes until the shooter worked his way through the ravine. Thank God he wasn’t just staying put and waiting for them to put their heads up so he could take another shot.

  She stared toward the ravine with a look of mingled alarm and fury on her face. “He didn’t answer.”

  “If he wanted to help us he’d have called out by now. This isn’t some kid shooting squirrels after school with a twenty-two. My guess is he’s a poacher, out for a deer before the season starts. He’s not going to rescue us and get caught.” He was wasting breath and time trying to explain. “We’ve got to move. Put some distance between us and him.” Before she could get another word out, he gritted his teeth and stumbled to his feet, pulling her with him. “Keep low and keep moving, no matter what. Do you hear?”

  “You can’t travel with a bullet in you.”

  “Emma, I haven’t got the strength to keep arguing with you. Do you hear? Keep moving. Don’t stop for anything until you get to the inn.” He stumbled on a branch, or maybe over his own two feet.

  The continued lack of response from the gunman must have convinced her. She was beside him in a heartbeat. Sliding her arm under his shoulders, she took his weight with only a tiny grunt of surprise. “I’ll keep moving as long as you do.”

  It would have to do. They could both hear the sounds of the gunman climbing the ravine, moving fast but making no effort at all to call to them.

  It was too dark to try to circle the ravine to find the road. He could barely stay on his feet. They limped through the thickening dusk, downhill, toward the water and the trail to Twin Oaks. Every breath was agony. He couldn’t hear anything above the drumming of his blood in his ears.

  He stumbled once, twice. The third time he fell heavily to his knees, dragging Emma with him. “I can’t go on, Emma. Do what I told you. The stream we followed can’t be far ahead. You can find your way to the falls from there.”

  “Shh,” she warned, as breathless as he was. “Do you hear anything?”

  He tried to quiet his harsh breathing and listen. He lifted his head and closed his eyes against the swoop and swirl of tree branches against the pearl gray sky, calling on skills he hadn’t used in a decade. He waited for a full minute, two. Nothing. “He’s given up the chase.”

  “I know. We’re safe, I think,” Emma whispered in case they were wrong about the lack of pursuit. “Safe enough to take time to try to stop the bleeding.” She pushed him against the tree trunk he’d slumped in front of. “Lean back a little.” He did, but the pain was exquisite. “Do you have anything we can use to make a pressure bandage?”

  “Handkerchief. Coat pocket.” Even one-word responses were getting to be too much effort. They had to keep moving. He grunted and tried to sit up, but she held him down with a hand on his chest.

  “Stay still.” Leaning forward, she reached into his coat pocket. She eyed the linen square. “Not big enough.” Emma was biting her lower lip again. She did that when she was agitated. He could barely see her face, a pale oval in the twilight. She stuck her hands in the pockets of Maureen’s coat. “I don’t think—my Lord.” She was looking at the bullet hole she’d found in the fabric. “He almost shot me, too?” When her eyes rolled back, Blake reached out and pushed her head between her knees.

  “You’re okay, Emma. He didn’t hurt you.”

  She lifted her head, her eyes flashing fire. “I wasn’t worried about myself. If he’d shot us both, I wouldn’t have been able to help you.” She pulled Maureen’s orange scarf from around her neck. “I’ll use this. Take off your belt.”

  “I’m not wearing one.”

  For a moment he thought she might cry. Then she squared her shoulders. “Okay. Plan B. I...I’ll use my socks. They’re heavy cotton.” She tried for a smile and almost managed one. Sitting in the wet leaf litter, she began untying her shoes. “They’re clean—I just put them on this morning.”

  “You can’t walk in those shoes without socks.”

  “Let’s see,” she said with a definite touch of sarcasm in her voice. “What would I rather have? Blisters? Or a lifeless Marine on my hands?” She slanted him a look from beneath her lashes. “Now, that’s a hard choice.” She pulled off the heavy crew socks and folded them into a pad, took his handkerchief and put it on top of them. “This should work. Can you get your coat off?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t.” One-word answers were the easiest.

  “Okay. No problem.” She pushed aside the ruined leather and sucked in her breath. His shirt was black. The light was almost gone, so the blood wasn’t as obvious as it might have been, except on his hands. “Is—is the bullet still inside?” she asked, her eyes narrowed against the gathering darkness.

  “No. And it wasn’t a bullet. It was a slug,” he said. Another inch or so to the right and he’d have been gut shot. There weren’t many worse ways to die.

  “Are you ready?” she asked with just a tiny quaver in her voice.

  “When I take my hand away, press down hard. Then wrap the scarf around my waist and tie the knot as tight as you can.”

  “I can do that.” She took a deep breath and went to work. Blake sucked in his breath and tried to think of anything but the pain.

  It didn’t work. The agony coalesced in a blinding white light behind his eyes. He couldn’t get away from it. The light expanded until it filled his brain and then it exploded into darkness, and he sank thankfully into its depths.

  CHAPTER TEN

  EMMA DIDN’T KNOW how far they’d come. Or how far they had to go. The last of the daylight had faded into the silvery gray of twilight, and most of that precious light had been washed away by the rain. In ten minutes she wouldn’t be able to see her hand in front of her face, let alone where to put her feet.

  They weren’t going to make it to the waterfall. In fact, they’d stumbled across the feeder stream they’d followed to the ravine moments before. At least she hoped it was the same stream. There was no way to tell. And if it was, that meant they were less than halfway to their goal. And if it wasn’t—they were well and truly lost. That didn’t bear thinking of.

  Blake’s weight dragged at her shoulders. She knew he was doing the best he could to keep on his feet, but it was a losing battle. She was going to have to find some kind of shelter for him, then try to find her way back to the house on her own.

  It didn’t matter that it was raining hard. It didn’t matter that it was going to be pitch dark in a handful of minutes. It had to be done. She wanted to sink onto the wet pine needles and bawl like a baby, but she wasn’t going to do that, either.

  A splotch of color caught her eye. Blue. Not the blue of the autumn sky, or a jay winging its way home for the night, but a definite flicker of a neon-bright, decidedly man-made shade of blue. The same color as the plas
tic tarp her grandfather used to cover the woodpile behind the garage. She narrowed her eyes against the rain. It was a tarp, and it covered the roof of a small lean-to. The only reason she had seen it was that it had frayed loose from its bindings and was flapping in the fitful breeze.

  “Blake.” He was starting to sink to his knees. She shouldn’t have stopped even for a moment. “Don’t quit on me now. Keep moving, Marine. We’re not there yet.”

  “Ex-Marine,” he mumbled.

  She bit back a little sob of relief. She hadn’t been certain he was still fully conscious. “My granddad says there no such thing as an ex-Marine, only inactive ones.”

  “Dead Marine, then.”

  “Blake, don’t say such a thing. Please, don’t give up on me now.”

  “I’m moving.” But just barely. Panic jabbed at her, and she beat it back. He lifted his head. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Not where I thought we were,” she admitted, and the panic level increased a notch or two. She ignored it. “There’s some kind of lean-to or hunter’s shelter over here. I don’t remember seeing it when we came up this afternoon. That’s why I don’t know where we are. Sorry. I have a lousy sense of direction.” The long speech winded her. She shut her mouth and concentrated on getting her breath.

  He tried to follow her pointing finger. “Can’t see it.” His words were more slurred than before. The panic was beginning to feel like sheer terror.

  “Just a few more steps, Blake. Please.”

  “I’m moving, Drill Sergeant.” He did keep going, but she didn’t know how. A half dozen faltering steps brought them to the lean-to.

  Emma peered inside. It was made of slender, rough-cut pine logs. Three-sided and about the size of a tollbooth, the lean-to was just big enough for two men to take shelter in from the weather if they were out hunting or snowmobiling. The roof had been covered with the blue plastic tarp for extra protection, but that must have been years ago because it was faded and flapping in the wind, and thankfully so, or she would never have seen it in the gloom.