Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

  "It looks good."

  He glanced at her,then followed her gaze to his shoulder. She had the dressing off now and was using some cool, tinted liquid to clean the wound. It didn't look good to him; it was raw, red, hot and tender. About the best he could say was that it was no longer oozing blood. But he was no expert. What he knew about medicine began and ended with Band-Aids and iodine.She was the herbalist. The healer.

  And he sorely needed healing.

  "So you grew up inCatlin and moved toRaleigh," he said, seeking—needing—a change of subject. "Why?"

  His question was followed by a moment of silence. He suspected that she didn't want to answer, that she didn't want him to know anything about her,that she certainly didn't want to know anything more about him. Then the moment passed and, with a hint of resignation, she replied. "I wanted to do something with my life, to live someplace else and meet interesting people and do exciting things."

  "What went wrong?" At the questioning look she gave him, he shrugged. "You're living in your grandmother's cabin on topof a mountain only miles from the town you'd wanted to leave, without a telephone or neighbors, and supporting yourself weaving baskets and making lace. That's about as far from interesting people and exciting things as you can get."

  Opening a jar of salve, she used a narrow wooden spoon to scoop some onto a pad of gauze. She laid it over his shoulder,then used two long strips of tape to secure it. "I make the lace only for myself. It's not cost efficient to sell."

  She was entitled to avoid answering his question. Nothing in her past was any of his business. Nothing in herlife except for these few days together was any of his business. But he wanted to know all the same, and so he pressed on. "Was it the divorce? Is that why you hid away up here?"

  She picked up yet another jar and twisted the lid off. "I'm not hiding," she corrected. "I live up here because this life-style suits me. I was young and foolish when I thought I wanted something else." After a moment she set the jar aside and leaned back. "TheCatlinCountysheriff's job came open about the same time Seth and I divorced. He was with the Raleigh Police Department at the time, but he wanted to come back home, so he applied for and got the job. I stayed inRaleigh, kept my job as a teacher and tried not to feel so out of place. I had plenty of friends there, but I was lonely. My grandparents were dead, my parents and sisters had moved toCaliforniaafter I got married, my marriage had ended and my best friend had moved back toCatlin ."

  Best friend.He could buy that description of her ex-husband. He hadn't seen Benedict while he and Ashley talked, but he'd heard all the words and the intimate little silences. He'd heard the concern in the sheriff's voice. He'd seen the fear in Ashley's eyes when she had pleaded with him to let her send Seth on his way. There was no shortage of love and caring between the two.

  So why had their marriage failed?

  "It wasn't the happiest time of my life," she went on, "but I was making it. Then one day I went to school, and a fourth-grader in the class across the hall got angry with the teacher and pulled a gun on her. Afourth-grader. He wasn't even ten years old, and he was threatening his teacher with a gun. I decided that same day that I was giving notice and coming home to live in Granny's cabin."

  Where she could be threatened by a man with a gun, Dillon acknowledged guiltily. Given a choice, she would probably prefer the fourth-grader … but she was safer with the man.He wouldn't hurt her. "How long ago was that?"

  "Three years."

  "Any regrets?"

  She shook her head.

  "Not even about the divorce?"

  With a sweet smile that he wished was meant for him, she picked up the jar again. "I love Seth. I always have. But we weren't meant to be married—at least, not to each other."

  It seemed thathe wasn't meant to be married, period. He had never been against the idea. Most people he knew—his motherexcepted— were married, or had been, and he'd always thought it would be nice to have that sort of relationship, that sort of commitment to someone else. But he'd never met the right woman, and then his life had gone sour, and any possibility of settling down had gone right out the window. If he got caught by the sheriff, he would spend the next twenty-five years in prison. If he got away, he would spend the rest of his life on the run, and if he got caught by Russell's men…he would be dead. What woman in her right mind would settle for a future like that?

  "Where do your ribs hurt?"

  He looked at the jar and the hands that held it. Small hands, fine boned, with long, slender fingers. Forall their delicate look, they were strong; they had to be to manage all the work she did to support herself. Although marked with calluses, small cuts and faint scars, a legacy of all that work, they were soft. Gentle. Soothing. Arousing.

  He didn't want them touching him any more than was necessary.

  But after a lifetime of living alone, if he gave it a moment's effort, he could convince himself that even the slightest touch was necessary.

  When he didn't answer, she brought one of those small, delicate hands to his chest, probing until her lightest touch made him wince. Marking the place, with the other hand she scooped up a dollop of cream and began rubbing it into his skin with the same easy, sure movements she'd used a short while ago to massage her own wrist. He wanted to believe that it was the coolness of the cream that made him shiver, that it was the discomfort her fingers were causing that made his breath catch, but he knew neither was the case. It was Ashley, touching him in a way he hadn't been touched in months. In years. In his lifetime.

  "This is comfrey," she said, her voice soft, her tone conversational. "It's been used for centuries to treat wounds and skin irritations, to reduce inflammation, to heal damaged ligaments and tendons and to help heal the tissue damage caused by bone injuries."

  "Where did you learn about all this stuff?" he asked, pretending he didn't notice that she was so close, that he couldn't smell the honeysuckle that lingered on her skin, pretending that there was nothing intimate about her touch, that his muscles weren't tensing, that his hands weren't shaky.

  "From my mother and some of the other women in the area." She dipped into the jar again, bringing out more salve. "Mostly from my granny. She knew every plant that grew in the mountains and all its uses. She knew as much as any doctor."

  He cleared his throat; his voice had gotten a little husky. "Did she teach your sisters, too?"

  She shook her head, and a strand of soft blond hair fell to brush his arm. "Deborah and Gail weren't interested. Just me." She continued to massage the salve in, her fingers moving in slow circles, starting small, then widening. Did she notice,he wondered, that her attempt to provide comfort was making him uncomfortable? Did she feel the change in his skin temperature, from cool to warm and well on the way to hot? Did she hear the change in his breathing, shallow as before but unsteady now? Did she see that his muscles had gone taut or feel the trembling that rippled through him?

  Closing his eyes tightly, he tried to concentrate on the slight jarring pain every time her fingers passed over a particular point above his ribs, but that little bit of pain was nothing compared to the pleasure. The need. The hunger. It had been so long since anyone had touched him without causing pain, so long since a woman had touched him…

  Abruptly he opened his eyes and clumsily brushed her hand away. His body hard, his face hot, his voice shaky, he said, "I'm kind of hungry. What about lunch?"

  If she noticed anything brusque about his manner, she didn't show it. She simply drew back, screwed the lid on the jar, wiped her hands on a gauze pad and got to her feet. "I'll get it now," she said, gathering her supplies together in the basket again,then walking away. She was calm, collected and completely unaware—or uncaring?—of the effect she'd had on him. Worse, she was completely unaffected herself.He might be dealing with an incredible desire forher, butshe didn't feel a thing forhim.

  Damn her.

  Damn them both.

  * * *

  Making bread was one of Ashley's favorite t
asks. It supplied her with food and—in the spring, when she sold fresh-baked loaves at theHatfields ' vegetable stand on the edge of town—money. It filled the cabin with its warm, rich, homey scent and reminded her of childhood days whose innocence and goodness she would like to recapture, when she had stood on a three-legged stool right at this counter and learned to measure, stir and knead from her granny.

  It also provided her with a few minutes of hard work, kneading and manipulating the stiff dough, that were guaranteed to ease any tension affecting her. She needed that release now.

  She hadn't meant to become so absorbed in tending to Dillon's injuries. She hadn't meant to lose her perspective, to forget the situation they were in, to forget that theirs was no normal association—that at best they were patient and practitioner, at worst captor and hostage. She hadn't meant to let the professional task of providing medical treatment somehow slide into pure personal pleasure.

  She certainly hadn't meant to arouse him … or herself.

  It didn't mean anything, she silently insisted as she began gathering ingredients on the counter. It was just that she'd been alone too long. Since the divorce, she'd made only one effort to revive her all-but-absent social life, and that relationship had died a natural death a few short months later. She was too young to live so all alone, her mother kept warning her. When she found herself attracted to a man like Dillon Boone—a man who had taken her prisoner, a man with a disreputable past,a man with no future—no doubt, her mother was right. She needed people in her life, needed friends and a lover.

  Shedidn't need Dillon.

  Even if he was the only person available.

  With a deep, cleansing sigh, she forced her attention to the ritual of bread making. She measured each ingredient precisely,then ran the water in the sink until it was exactly the right temperature. She oiled the loaf pans, only two this time, and the big pottery bowl the dough would rise in. Next she returned the flour and sugar canisters to their place in thecorner, put the milk back in the refrigerator and the shortening, yeast and salt back in the cabinet. While the yeast softened in warm water and the milk heated on the stove, she put a pot of water on for tea—also part of the ritual—then sorted through the various herbal varieties stored in Mason jars in the cabinet. Already feeling the slightest bit more relaxed, she took two bags from one jar and placed one in each of the two mugs on the counter.

  "Isn't it easier to buy bread from the store?"

  At the sound of his voice, the muscles in her neck tightened again. They hadn't spoken through lunch. He'd eaten two bowls of stew and thick slices of bread spread with the strawberry preserves she'd put up last summer, and he hadn't looked at her or talked to her or even seemed to notice that she was there. But now he was talking to her. Now he was looking at her. She felt his gaze.

  "The nearest store is fifteen miles away," she commented, her tone chiding. "It's raining, so Bessie doesn't want to run, and even if she wanted to, someone threw my one and only key into the weeds, where it will probably get buried so deep in the mud that I'll never find it again."

  From the corner of her eye, she caught the beginnings of a flush as it crossed his cheeks. Was that a little regret for his actions this morning? Had he realized too late that ifshe couldn't drive away in the van without the keys, then neither couldhe? Would he be out there in the weeds when the rain stopped, searching for the keys? Maybe he would simply hot-wire Bessie. He was a criminal; surely he knew how to do that.

  If he didn't, once the rain stopped and Bessie's distributor cap dried out, maybe she would show him how.

  Turning back to the stove, she checked the milk, found it ready and stirred it together with the sugar, salt and shortening. The recipe she used was her great-grandmother's, passed down through the generations. Like the herbs—and the quilting, the weaving, the needlework—her sisters had displayed little interest in baking. They shared Dillon's opinion that it was easier to simply buy. Someday she hoped to have a daughter to share all her knowledge with. Otherwise, when she was gone, her grandmother would be finally gone, too.

  While the milk mixture cooled, she removed the kettle from the burner and filled the mugs with steaming water. She thought about leaving his there on the counter, where he could get it or not, and taking hers over to curl up on the sofa and enjoy the fire. But when she moved from the counter, it wasn't toward the fireplace with only one cup. She carried them both to the table, sat down in the chair opposite him and returned to the conversation. "'Easier' isn't always better, you know. Some things are worth the extra effort, and bread is definitely one of them." She drew a deep breath, savoring the aromas of the steeping tea: roasted grains, carob, chicory and spices. "Wouldn't it have been easier for you if you'd learned to live within your income instead of breaking into the bank?"

  For a long time he simply looked at her, his eyes unreadable. Then he shrugged. "Breaking into the bank had nothing to do with money."

  "Then whatdid it have to do with?"

  "Proving a point. Learning a lesson."

  "Proving to whom? Learning from whom?"

  Again he looked at her without speaking; again he shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

  Oh, but it did. It mattered to Seth and to Bill Armstrong. It mattered to the company Dillon had worked for inAshevilleand to every single person who'd had money in the First American Bank. It mattered to the district attorney, and it especially mattered to the government, which had made good on every depositor's funds.

  It mattered to her, too. She wanted to hear that he wasn't guilty, that he hadn't done anything wrong,that it all had been a terrible mistake. She wanted to think that he was running and hiding to avoid a miscarriage of justice and not simply to avoid paying for his crimes. She would like to think that he was a better man than that. She wanted to believe that she was attracted to a better man than that.

  Even though the evidence indicated that he wasn't.

  Picking up one cup, she used a spoon to remove the tea bag. After sliding the cup to Dillon, she removed the bag from the second, stirred in a squirt of honey,then took a sip. "Did you learn the lesson?"

  His smile was humorless. "I certainly did."

  "What was it?"

  "Never trust anyone."

  She studied his face for a moment and saw that, yes, he had indeed learned the lesson well. There was nothing even remotely resembling trust in his expression, nothing that came close in his eyes. Looking away to hide the sadness that knowledge brought, she quietly commented, "That's no way to live."

  "No," he quietly disagreed. "In prison is no way to live. Dead in a ravine is no way to live."

  "Neither is on the run," she argued. "Why don't you turn yourself in?"

  "I can't do that."

  "They're going to catch you. You heard Seth say that the roads out of the county are all blocked. There are people out there searching for you now. Sooner or later they'll pick up your trail, and they'll follow you here."

  "Maybe not. Maybe the rain will wash away enough to throw them off."

  That wasn't likely to happen. She knew it, and she suspected that he did, too. Even if the signs were all washed away, rather than give up, the search parties would simply forget about picking up and following his trail and would instead focus on canvassing the entire area. They would make their way to every house in the mountains, would ask questions and look around. They would make their wayhere. "If you turn yourself in and get a good lawyer—"

  He interrupted her. "And how would I pay for a good lawyer?"

  She met his gaze evenly. "With the money you stole."

  "When I got arrested, I still had most of the money from my last job—about two hundred and eighty bucks. I don't know where it is now. I assume theSylvanCountysheriff turned it over to your deputy and your sheriff has it, but it's all I have in the world."

  "What about the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars you took?"

  His grin was cynical. "I've never even seen four hundred and fifty thousand dollars
, and I never will."

  She toyed with her cup. Not once had he actually admitted that he'd robbed the bank—but not once had she actually asked. Nobody that she knew of had asked. He had been so easy to blame. He'd been a stranger in town, and he had helped install the very alarm system that had been bypassed in the break-in. He knew the system, the bank,the operations. He had known that the money would be there, had known how to get in and out. His fingerprints had been found inside the bank, in places where he'd worked and they were expected, and in places where they shouldn't have been. Blueprints and notes detailing how to circumvent the security system had been found in his room over at DaphneMeadows's boarding house. He'd been in trouble with the law before—although a long time ago, his boss had offered in his defense. He had even talked to his co-workers at the security company about how easy such a robbery would be.