Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

  On the floor, she lost her patience with his silence. "Damn it, Boone!"

  "Dillon." The fire was burning brightly, filling the cabin with heat and soft yellow-red light, and he was sinking into the drowsy, otherworldly land of sleep, his eyes closing, his breathing evening out,his voice husky and distant. "When you were pleading for Seth's safety, you called me that." He finished in a yawn. "You called me Dillon."

  So she had, Ashley silently acknowledged.Please, Dillon, please let me talk to him. She hadn't meant to. He was a bank robber, for heaven's sake, who might have shot a wounded deputy, who definitely had barged in here and taken her hostage. His name had slipped out only because she'd been afraid for Seth, not because she'd wanted to be on a first-name basis with him.

  She had never heard anyone call him by his first name, she realized. In all the talk she'd heard about him in town right after the robbery, people had called him Boone or Dillon Boone. They had called him thief, liar, lowlife and bastard, but not once had anyone called him simply Dillon. Not Seth, who had liked him, or Bill Armstrong, who had—through the security company—employed him. Not Daphne Meadows at the boarding house,who'd rented a room to him, or Harry Lightfoot at the diner, who had served him dinner every day for weeks, or any of the people at the bank who had worked with and—presumably—liked him. No one had wanted to claim that little intimacy.

  She wasn't thrilled with her first name; given a choice, she would have been Rachel or Sarah, Katherine or Anna. Still, sheliked being called Ashley, not simply Benedict or, worse, Ms. Benedict. She liked the friendliness of first names, the acceptance. She wondered ifhe missed it. If Dillon missed it.

  He was asleep now, his face turned away from her, his breathing even and just a little ragged. She hoped that raspy sound was just a variation on a snore and not the first symptom of an oncoming cold or flu. The last thing he needed in the condition he was in—especially with the rib pain—was a coughing-and-sneezing cold.

  No, thelast thing he needed, she admitted with a scarlet face, was getting hit in exactly the spot where he'd displayed such tenderness last night. She hadn't meant to hit him there, hadn't meant to hit him at all. She had only wanted to push him away, to gain a moment's freedom and possibly make her escape. She hadn't wanted to hurt him.

  When he had fallen to the ground, the color in his face had disappeared, leaving him a sickly, ghastly gray. For a time, she was sure, he had stopped breathing, and his voice, half curses, half agonized groans, had been raw. She'd had terrible images of serious injuries made worse, of cracked bones fracturing, of broken bones puncturing lungs. She honestly hadn't meant to hurt him.

  With a sigh, she pulled a pillow from the bed, slid it behind her back and settled more comfortably. She couldn't blame him for cuffing her here. If she had to be restrained while he slept, she preferred it like this, across the room from him. In some crazy way, she didn't feel as vulnerable, sitting on the floor and handcuffed to the bed, as she did when she was handcuffed tohim. Over here she felt safer, more comfortable. A little damp, maybe, and definitely hungry, but less at risk.

  Less at risk for what?she wondered. He'd had plenty of chances to hurt her or even kill her, and outside she had definitely given him reason, but he hadn't touched her. She honestly believed that she wasn't in physical danger from him. Maybe from the people looking for him, but not from him.

  So why was she afraid?

  Maybe because, next to Seth, he was one of the handsomest men around. Because he was a dangerous man, in ways that had everything—and nothing—to do with his alleged crimes. Because his story of being arrested and probably mistreated in Sylvan County, ambushed at Sadler's Pass, shot in the back while unarmed and most likely handcuffed, roused her sympathies. Because he had little reason to smile and found kind words from others difficult to come by. Because he hadn't asked for a fire when he was cold, food when he was hungry or dry clothes when his were soaked. Because he had been ashamed of his actions last night when he'd fastened the handcuffs around her wrist. Because he wasn't the lawless, unprincipled, psychopathic criminal he was supposed to be, but an apparently decent man who'd gotten himself into the sort of trouble that just might get him killed.

  She wished he would wake up, wished she could ask him why he had robbed the bank in the first place. He'd had a job that he was apparently pretty good at. Maybe he hadn't made a lot of money, but a person could live on very little and be happy; she was proof of that. With his aversion to prison, why had he stolen so much money that a jury would be more likely to put him under the jail rather than in it? Had the temptation just been too great—seeing all that cash, knowing that, with his inside knowledge, he could simply waltz in, pack it up in a bag and walk out again?

  And what had he done with the money? That was the big question, the one that would interest everyone in town. Where had their four hundred and fifty thousand dollars gone? He didn't look as if he'd spent much of it living the good life. If the lines on his face and the expression in his eyes were anything to judge by, the last year had been a tough one. He'd had little comfort and no peace.

  He didn't seem to have spent the money on material goods. His jeans had probably cost less than twenty bucks new and were long past new; his shirt was a simple white T-shirt, three to a pack for six dollars anywhere; and the tennis shoes drying over near the fireplace were inexpensive, an off brand, and had seen many better days.

  Pulling another pillow from the bed, she rested it against the nightstand and laid her head on it. Sometimes life just wasn't fair. Many mornings she had awakened from a restless night's sleep and wished for the opportunity to stay in bed and snooze the morning away, but she'd never allowed herself to do it. When she had made the decision to move out here to the cabin and try to become self-supporting, she had also determined that discipline was the key. If she didn't work, she didn't eat, get paid or pay her creditors. She had to keep fairly regular hours, had to treat her crafting as a regular job and not the hobby it had been for so many years.

  Now she had the chance to sleep in and be lazy, and she was wide-awake and handcuffed to the bed frame while an escaped prisoner lay snoring on her couch. Laynaked on her couch.

  A blush warmed her face as she recalled the instant she had realized that he was going to strip down for his bath without closing the door. The thought had popped into her mind that a proper young woman would close her eyes or look away, followed immediately by the acknowledgment that she just must not be as proper as she'd believed, because she had looked enough to see that he was lean, muscular and the same smooth golden brown shade all over. But then he had stepped into the bathtub and out of sight before she'd seen anything else.

  Outside, a gust of wind rattled through the house and drew her attention to the windows. The rain was coming down hard again, the sky dusk dark. Poor Seth and his men, out beating the brush in this weather for someone who was safe and warm by a fire. She wished she could have talked to Seth privately, wished she could have told him to call off his search and his roadblocks. All he needed to do was post a few deputies at the bottom of her driveway and wait a few days, and she would send their quarry to them. It wouldn't have been hard, if Dillon hadn't heard about the roadblocks, to persuade him to take Bessie and leave the county. After all, he desperately wanted out ofNorth Carolinaas quickly as possible, andin this terrain, on footwasn't the way to go. She would have offered him Bessie, and knowing that it was his best choice, he would have accepted. He would have left her behind—he had promised he would—and he would have driven down her narrow driveway, and when he cleared the grove of oaks and hickories growing so close that their branches blocked out the sun and scraped Bessie's roof, he would have been in perfect position for another ambush, only this time without the shooting. Angry as Seth was about Tom Coughlin's injuries, he would see to it that no harm came to Dillon.

  But she hadn't had a moment's private conversation with Seth, and Dillon had heard about the roadblocks. So what would he do now? Stay for the
days, weeks or even months it would take for the urgency of the search to calm? Stay only long enough to regain his strength,then set out once again through the mountains? Either plan was impossible. If Tom Coughlin died from his injuries, theCatlin County Sheriff's Department wouldnever let up on their search. Seth would be back, probably in a day or two, just to check on her, and sooner or later the trackers would make their way to her cabin. As for Dillon trying to get out on foot, if the cops didn't get him, exposure and the mountains, combined with his injuries, would.

  Maybe she could provide him with a third option. Thanks to Seth and the better part of a lifetime spent in this county, she knew virtually every law-enforcement officer in the area, including those troopers with the highway patrol. If she loaded up her van with baskets, blankets, quilts and boxes that could provide a hiding place to anyone who didn't mind the cramped quarters, she could probably talk her way right through any roadblock using friendship and Seth's name, no questions asked. She could drive Dillon Boone out ofCatlinCounty, out ofNorth Carolinaand out of her life.

  But she would be helping a fugitive—a dangerous man—escape.Could she live with that?

  Better than she could live withhim, she thought grimly.

  Far better than she could live with watching him walk into the mountains to almost certain death.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  The rain was coming down with a vengeance, blowing against the windows, beating a steady cadence on the roof. Dillon lay on his back, propped up by pillows, and gazed out the window. If he hadn't found this cabin yesterday, if he had managed to survive last night, today definitely would have killed him. This rain would have made him so miserable that he would have simply stopped. He would have waited to die or get caught, with little preference for which came first. In his situation, getting caught was as good as dying.

  He wondered what time it was and how long he'd been asleep. Through the workshop windows yesterday, he'd seen the big clock on the wall, round, white with sharp black numerals. If Ashley kept one inside, he hadn't seen it anywhere; there wasn't even an alarm on the bedside table. He liked the idea of being able to live without time-keepers, of setting his own pace and answering to no one, of not worrying over hours and minutes, about being late or having enough time. Unfortunately he couldn't imagine many places where such a life was possible. Everything was regimented, with hours to keep and schedules to maintain.

  Everything except Ashley's life up here.

  From over by the bed came a restless sigh, soft and barely audible but registering instantly. When he'd first awakened, he had sneaked a look at her. She had been sitting exactly where he'd left her, between the bed and the night table, her head tilted to one side, her eyes closed. It had been impossible to tell if she was sleeping or simply resting. He certainly hadn't given her many possibilities for getting comfortable. He could have at least put her on the bed…and then he could have crawled in beside her.

  Then neither of them would have gotten any rest.

  Now he slowly turned his head until his gaze connected with hers. Her hair was mussed again, her skirtdry once more, her expression telling him nothing about her mood. She simply looked at him as he sat up, gathering the quilt close. "You said something about food," he said after it became apparent thatshe wasn't going to break the silence.

  For a time he thought she would continue the mute act, then she gave a sardonic reply. "About six hours ago."

  No wonder his stomach felt so empty. But in general he felt better. A few more days of rest like that, and he would be up to taking off again. There was just one little problem: he had nowhere to go and no way to get there.

  Sliding to the edge of the sofa, he stood up and retrieved his jeans from the hearth. The denim was stiff, but as dry and warm asif he'd taken them from a dryer. He made a trip to the bathroom, got dressed, then came out and got the handcuff key before approaching her. He wasa half -dozen feet away when she straightened, pushing the pillows away, drawing herfeet together, anticipating being free again. He stopped and studied her distrustfully. "You aren't going to try something stupid again, are you?"

  A blush coloring her cheeks, she glowered at him. "I'm sorry I hit you."

  "Uh-huh. I got an apology more sincere than that from one of the deputies over inMossville after his fist connected with my eye."

  "If you were in my place, you would have done the same thing." She sniffed haughtily. "Youdid do the same thing."

  Balancing with one hand on the mattress, he crouched in front of her. "There were people trying to kill your deputy and me. If I wanted to stay alive, I had no choice but to escape."

  Her gaze didn't waver. "Seth says you shot the deputy."

  "Do you believe him? Is that why you ran?"

  Clearly she didn't want to answer. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, looked away,then sighed heavily. Was she afraid her answer would anger him? She needn't worry. He was used to being distrusted. He was accustomed to people thinking the worst of him, expecting the worst from him. Under the circumstances, she was entitled to it.

  But her answer, when it finally came, surprised him. "No," she said quietly, looking at him once more. "I don't believe you shot Tom."

  For just a moment he sat motionless, hearing her words echo in his head, feeling the warm rush of pleasure they brought him.It was an amazing thing, being believed by someone who had no reason to believe him and every reason in the world not to.If there was one little bit of trust inside her, then maybe he could find more;if he could, maybe he could get her help in leavingNorth Carolina.

  The rattle of the handcuff chain against metal brought him out of his thoughts. Moving forward, he leaned close to her and opened the cuff, freeing her.At first she didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe, then she raised her right hand and began an even, steady massage of her left wrist. He watched as her fingertips made slow circles over her skin, pushing with enough pressure to reach deep into the muscles. His stiff joints and strainedmuscles could use a little of that kind of attention. Hell,he could use any kind of attention she had to spare.

  "You need a new dressing, and we both could use some food." Her voice was cool. The moment of trust was gone, the wariness back. "If you'll move…"

  He stood up and backed away. She stood, too, stiff, stretching before she started toward the kitchen. "Sit at the table," she ordered over her shoulder as she began washing her hands.

  He obeyed, pulling out the same chair where he'd sat that morning, settling in. Scents that he recognized but couldn't identify—vanilla, he thought, and spices, maybe cinnamon—came from a basket of potpourri that shared the center of the old table with another basket of dried flowers. Underneath them was a piece of lace, diamond shaped, one point dangling over the center edge of each side. "Is this your work?"

  She glanced his way. "Yes."

  "The baskets, the flowers or the lace?"

  "All of it, including the table. I made it from an old shed that Seth and I tore down."

  He fingered the lace, pretty, delicate, the color of old, old ivory. "There was a lot of lace in the house where I grew up—curtains, tablecloths, doilies, sachets."

  Bringing the basket of first-aid supplies, she sat down in the chair on his right. "Your mother liked lace?"

  He shook his head. "My grandmother did, or so I was told. She died before I was born."

  "You lived with your grandfather?"

  "Until I was eleven. Until my mother didn't have much choice but to move us toAtlanta." He felt rather than saw the curious look she gave him, but he didn't explain. Telling her what his childhood had been like—the looks, the whispers, the gossip, the hostility, the fights—would earn him nothing but herpity, and he'd had enough pity back there inWaterston,Georgia, to last a lifetime. "You grew up around here?"

  She paused in removing items from the basket to glance around the cabin. "In town. This wasmy grandparents' place. My grandfather farmed those fields out front, a
nd my grandmother cooked, cleaned, quilted and sewed, raised five kids and buried three babies and worked alongside him when he needed the help. He died just before I got married, and she died eight months later. She had always said she couldn't get along without him. I'd never guessed how much she meant it." Scooting her chair closer, she leaned forward and loosened the tape that held the bandage to his shoulder. It pulled on the tender skin, making him wince. "Is your grandfather still alive?"

  He realized he was holding his breath and blew it out. "No. He's dead, too." After a moment he grimly admitted, "If he had still been living, this last year would have killed him."

  "I imagine he had higher hopes for you."

  "He was a farmer, too. He worked hard all his life and never had much of anything. He wanted better for my mother. When she let him down, he was hoping for better from me." And he'd let the old man down, too, in ways far worse than his mother had ever managed. As much as he missed his grandfather, sometimes he was glad he was dead. It truly would have broken Jacob Boone's heart to see all that Dillon had accomplished, to see what his only grandson had become.