Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

"Chamomile tea. It'll make you feel better."

  He looked at it suspiciously. It hadn't escaped his notice that she was into herbs. There were pots of them on the windowsills all around the room, there were bunches hanging overhead, and the antiseptic and ointment she'd used on his injuries hadn't come out of any commercially prepared tube or bottle. Anyone who knew the good about herbs had to also be aware of the bad. Maybe the pale brew in the cup was no more harmful than the iced tea served by the gallons in restaurants all across the South. Maybe itwould make him feel better … or maybe it would put him to sleep. Maybe it was beneficial.

  Or maybe it was poison.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake…"Picking up the mug, she blew gently across the surface,then took a drink, followed immediately by another. Then she put the cup down again, took a step back, folded her arms and watched him.

  Working his left arm free of the covers, he reluctantly picked up the mug and sniffed. The fragrance reminded him that he'd had nothing to eat or drink since the breakfast of soggy cereal, dry toast and weak coffee a Sylvan County deputy had served him shortly after dawn and that he'd eaten none too well the three days before that. For a short time out there in the woods, ignoring the emptiness in his stomach had been even harder than ignoring the pain in every part of his body. Then the thirst had kicked in, and the hunger had been immediately forgotten. All that wateraround, and not a drop to drink. A couple of times he had been convinced that he would gladly give up food forever in exchange for a cup of hot coffee.

  He tasted the tea and found it warm on his tongue and sweetened with honey. It wasn't coffee, but it was good, and she was right. Even that one small drink made him feel better. It made him feel a degree or two warmer and a degree or two more human.

  At last she turned away, making another trip to the kitchen while he finished the tea. She brought back a basket—the gingham napkin inside wrapped around warm slices of bread—and a pottery plate holding a bowl filled with vegetable stew and set both on the bed tray.

  When she sat down once again on the edge of the mattress, he scowled at her. "What are you doing?"

  She paused in the act of picking up the spoon. "I was going to feed you."

  "I can manage."

  "You shouldn't be using your arm. Tomorrow I'll fix a sling for it, but tonight—"

  "I'm left-handed."

  With unmistakable relief in her eyes, she stood and returned to the kitchen. Some small part of him regretted her retreat; there was something vaguely comforting about having her so near. The larger part of him was glad for the reprieve. He didn't need a reminder that—right now, at least—she was by far the stronger of them, andshe didn't need a reminder that he was disgustingly weakened. He didn't need to be fed like a baby, taking food from a spoon thatshe held because he couldn't. He didn't need that helplessness, that embarrassment. That intimacy.

  Like hell he didn't.

  His face warm, he reached for the spoon and, keeping hisgaze down, began eating. The stew was rich, heavy with tomatoes, carrots, potatoes and onions, but he would have eaten just as appreciatively if it had come in a can from some unimaginative company. By the time she returned with her own bowl to sit on the hearth near the fire's warmth, his bowl was empty. He laid the spoon inside carefully so it didn't clatter. "That was good."

  Acknowledging his words with no more than a nod, she set her bowl aside on the stones, refilled his and brought it back, then seated herself again. They ate in silence, her gaze directed into the distance, his traveling around the room but all too often returning to her.

  When he had literally stumbled out of the forest and into the clearing, he had first noticed the darkened cabin and had thought he'd found the perfect place—dry and empty. Even when he'd seen her van—probably thirty years old, its dominant color gray primer and missing body parts—his first thought was that the vehicle had been junked long ago. Then he had moved closer, and he had seen the lights on in the workshop. After only a moment he'd caught a glimpse of her—young, blond, vulnerable. For a while he had simply watched her, feeling sneaky and shameful. Even now, every time his glance strayed her way, he felt guilty for it.

  But he could live with guilt. What he couldn't live with was prison. Being locked away for much of the rest of his life. Living up—or down—to the expectations of everyone who knew him. Taking the blame, as he so often had in his life, for something he hadn't done.

  "Why do you live up here?" he asked, awkwardly peeling the golden crust away from a slice of bread with one hand, then taking a bite from it.

  She looked startled, almost as if she had forgotten that he was there, then abruptly her expression turned blank and she shrugged. "I like my own company."

  "You can be a loner in town, where it's safer."

  "I lived in town. InRaleigh. You want to talk about how safe life is in the city?"

  "You could live inCatlin ."

  "I've lived there, too. I prefer it here."

  "Don't you get scared?"

  She gave him a long, steady look that made him want to squirm. "Only when I have good reason."

  "You should at least have a gun."

  She shrugged again. "I would never shoot anyone."

  "That's nice to hear," he said dryly.

  She stood up, her skirt falling in swirls almost to her ankles, and came to the bed, adding her soup bowl to his dishes on the tray, picking all of it up. Before she walked away, though, she spoke again, her voice as soft as a whisper, sending a chill up his spine. "I don't need a gun. There are easier, simpler, subtler ways of stopping someone."

  * * *

  Facing her reflection in theuncurtained window, Ashley filled the sink with hot, sudsy water,then slid the dishes in. Across the room, Boone was still puzzling over her last remark, wondering if she had been teasing, no matter how unexpectedly or more ominously, giving him a warning. She would know what he'd decided when morning came and she served him breakfast. If he refused to eat, no doubt he would have decided that she wasn't to be trusted.

  He would have decided wrong. He could trust her. She wasn't going to do anything foolish that might result in her getting hurt or worse. She wasn't going to race across the room, grab her keys and dash out the door, even though she could probably be halfway to the van before he even managed to get to his feet. She wasn't going out into the rain that was streaming down now, beating a steady rhythm on the roof, wasn't going out into the cold dark night.

  However, that didn't mean she intended to do absolutely nothing. He would surely fall asleep soon. His body bad been taxed to its limits; only sheer determination had brought him this far. He was warm and dry, his injuries had been treated, his stomach had been filled,he was as comfortable as he was going to get outside of a hospital, where pain-relieving drugs could give him peace. Exhaustion was going to take over any minute now, and he would sleep soundly enough that nothing she did would disturb him.

  So what would she do?

  She could find his gun wherever he'd hidden it … but after her comment—Icould never shoot anyone—howmuch impact would it have?

  Better still, she could tie him to the bed. She could make him her prisoner. She had some cord in one of these baskets, and if there was one thing hours of crafting had taught her, it was how to tie a strong knot. The bed was sturdy and had both a headboard and a footboard; there was no way he would be able to pull free. She would have to be careful of his shoulder, of course, but she could rig up something that would cause him no harm and would do her a world of good. Then she would drive down to theParmenters ' and use their phone to notify Seth that he could pick up his escapee at his convenience. Within an hour, two at the most, Dillon Boone would be out of her house and out of her life. He would be in jail, where he belonged.

  Hedid belong there … didn't he?

  "How long have you been divorced?"

  She rinsed the last bowl and placed it in the drainer before turning around. He was pale, almost as white as the sheets, and he looked miserable enoug
h to make her feel more than a twinge of sympathy. He needed better care than she could provide, but not even the bestM.D.s in the state could make things right for him. They couldn't keep him out of prison. They couldn't fix a life that had long ago gone wrong.

  Drying her hands on a tattered towel, she answered his question. "Four years."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Four years."

  "And you're still friends."

  She hung the towel over the front of the sink, then began turning off lights. "Best friends."

  That was what she and Seth had always been—all they had ever been. If they hadn't found themselves in Raleigh at the same time, Seth finishing his degree at the state university there when she had started, if they hadn't both felt out of place, if they hadn't both been homesick and lonely, they never would have married. They nevershould have married. It had taken them no time at all to realize that they'd made a mistake, that friendship was no basis for a marriage—at least, not the sort that they both wanted—but nearly four years had passed before they were able to admit that marriage was destroying their friendship, which was far more important to them both. She was glad that they had managed to save it. They were closer now than ever before.

  Still, she couldn't help but wish briefly that theywere still married. Then Seth would be coming home tonight. Then she would have told Boone yes, she had a husband, and he was due home any minute. Then she probably wouldn't be in the situation she was in.

  But she would find a way out of it, and she would do it without Seth's or anyone else's help. She was strong. Independent. Capable. She could take care of herself. She could take care of Dillon Boone.

  "Why does he come out every Saturday?"

  "To check up on me." She sat down at the far end of the hearth where she could lean back against the warm fireplace stones and tucked her skirt around her legs. "To make sure I haven't fallen from the roof and broken my neck or had trouble with Bessie, my van."

  "Or to make sure you haven't been taken hostage by an escaped prisoner."

  Thinking about his words, she nodded.Of course. With an armed and dangerous fugitive loose in the mountains around her home, Seth wouldn't wait until Saturday to warn her. If he didn't take time this evening, he would surely come first thing in the morning. She might be rid of Boone sooner than she'd hoped.

  "That van…"His voice sounded weaker, fading. "I wouldn't take that van even if I were desperate."

  "I thought youwere desperate."

  "Something that ugly and beat-up would draw too much attention."

  "Bessie suits my needs just fine. She gets me and my stuff where we need to go, and all she asks in return is a tank of gas, plenty of oil and a kind word now and then."

  That last made him smile just a bit. He wasn't a man smiles came easily to, she thought, and that was a shame, because they made a handsome face more so. That one little beginning of a smile softened thehardness, warmed the chill and lessened the sense of danger swirling around him. "All of us do better with a kind word now and then," he murmured. "But sometimes they're damned hard to come by."

  And that was a shame, too, she silently acknowledged.

  He shifted in the bed, making the springs squeak, then, almost immediately, he grimaced. Even across the distance that separated them, Ashley could see the sweat bead across his forehead as he tried to find a position where the pain was tolerable. It wasn't fair that he should be suffering so, wasn't fair that after nearly a year on the run—nearly a year that he had passed presumably unscathed—he should suffer so many injuries as soon as he was taken into custody. Police custody was one place where a person should be safe, one place where he should be able to count on being treated fairly, on being protected.

  Obviously it wasn't.

  "Put some more logs on the fire, then come over here, will you?"

  Although the room was warm and certainly didn't need more heat, she did as he asked, placing another four logs at angles to those already burning,then crossing to the bed. She sat down next to him and raised her right hand to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. That was how he caught her off guard when he snapped one half of a pair of handcuffs around her left wrist.

  For a moment Ashley stared uncomprehendingly at the bracelet that now circled her wrist and connected her, via pathetically few steel links, to the other bracelet that he'd fastened around his own wrist. Then, with a surge of anger, she tried to yank free. "Let me go!" she demanded, twisting her wrist, trying in vain to force the wider part of her hand through the small opening. "Get this off of menow!"

  Her struggle made him groan with renewed pain, but she didn't care. Her sympathy was gone, disappeared inside an ever-growing panic. He couldn't do this! He couldn't chain her to him, couldn't make her, in every terrifying aspect of the word, truly his prisoner. Damn him, he couldn't take away her options and leave her totally at his mercy!

  She tried to rise from the bed, but he caught her with his free hand, tugging her down again so that she sprawled half across the mattress and half across him. "Ashley, damn it—" His face contorted with every shallow breath he drew, with every move she made. "Jeez, don't do that," he whispered. "You're killing me."

  Very carefully she pushed away from him and sat on the bed, utterly still, glowering at him. "Take this off right now," she demanded, her voice low and threatening and trembling.

  "I can't. I'm sorry."

  "What do you mean you can't? Where's the key?" If he didn't have a key, if they were stuck together untilsomeone managed to separate them… Oh, God.

  "It's over there." He gestured vaguely toward the rest of the room.

  She twisted around to look behind her. The most likely place was the pocket of his jeans, still lying on the rug where he'd undressed earlier, but she knew from living with Seth that a handcuff key was small; Boone could have hidden it anywhere. He'd stood at the door, where baskets were stacked on a small half-round table. From there he'd moved to the dining table, with more baskets, a dried flower centerpiece and a tatted lace runner. He had walked past the sofa, had sat in the armchair and passed close to the fireplace, where the mantel was filled with pottery and wooden boxes. He could have dropped the key behind the logs stacked on the hearth, could have slipped it into the drawer of the table next to the chair or the one next to the bed. He could even have the darned thing in bed with him. She hadn't watched him closely enough, had been all too willing to turn her back on him.

  She faced him again. "You can't do this," she pleaded, the words broken by a hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "You just can't—"

  It was the look in his eyes that stopped her. Just a short while ago, when they had stood face-to-face in front of the fireplace and he had commanded her to undress right there, the complete emptiness in his eyes had frightened her into compliance. Now there was emotion in that deep brown. There was guilt. Shame. "I have to," he whispered. "I can't let you go. I can't let you turn me in."

  "I won't—" Once more she broke off.

  He waited a moment, but seemed to know that she wasn't going to continue. "Go ahead, Ashley. Tell me that you won't try to escape. Tell me that you'll sit there while I'm asleep, and you won't do anything to get away." He paused. "Go ahead. Make me believe you. I wouldlove to believe you."

  She sat silent, her mouth clamped shut.

  "As soon as I'm able to travel, I'll be out of here. I won't make you go with me, and, I swear to God, you won't be hurt. I know you don't believe me, but it's the truth. But because you don't believe me, and because I can't afford to trust you, I have to do this."

  He raised his right hand, and the cool steel tugged uncomfortably at her hand, sending a shudder of revulsion through her. "Ican't spend the night like this."

  "Ican't spend it any other way." He sighed grimly. "Get comfortable. It's a long time till morning."

  Scowling, she turned away and slid off the mattress to sit on the floor. Her back was supported by the bed, her bottom cushioned by the ha
nd-woven rag rug beneath her. Her right arm dangled awkwardly in midair, suspended by the steel cuff. He was right: itwas going to be a very long night, and she didn't intend to sleep through one bit of it. How could she, when she was chained to the side of a wanted felon? How could she possibly relax enough to sleep when every move brought discomfort, when every brush of the metal on her skin brought a new sense of helplessness?

  "Ashley?"

  She stared hard into the fireplace, concentrating all her energies on the flames that would surely go out and leave them cold before morning, trying desperately to ignore the drained voice above and behind her.

  "Ashley." He jangled the chain that connected them, making her arm twitch. "You don't have to spend the night on the floor."

  "Oh, yeah?" she responded belligerently. "Are you going to sleep down here instead?"

  "The bed is big enough for two."