"Don't say that."Don't tempt me.
"You could. You talk about running and hiding. Once they move their search out of this area, what better place to hide than right here?"
"Anyplace where they've never heard ofCatlin,North Carolina." Someplace where all the women had dark hair and dark eyes, where the only tea they drank was iced, where the bread came in plastic wrappers from the store, where herbs were for cooking and never for nursing. Someplace where he wouldn't be enticed, where he wouldn't find hope, where he wouldn't have a future. Someplace where he would never fit in, where he could never belong. Someplace where he wouldn't even want to try.
He could belong here. He could live on this mountaintop, could till those fields, chop firewood and keep the van running. He could spend his days doing the kind of hard work his grandfather had always done, and he could spend his nights…
Heat flushed his face as he turned away from the words that would naturally complete that sentence. He would spend his nights in hell if he even contemplated making a future here. Making a future with her.
"Right now you can't get to someplace where they've never heard ofCatlin,North Carolina," she observed, sounding cautious and a little off balance. "But you're safe here."
"And what about when the search parties come? You know they will. It's just a matter of time."
"You're right. They may come today, maybe tomorrow, maybe even the day after. When they come, chances are good that you'll still be here. Once they're gone, they won't come back, so there's no reason you should leave, too."
Shewas the best reason he had to leave. The way she had nursed him. The way she had lied to Benedict to hide him. The way she had touched him, looked at him, listened to him, kissed him. The way she was looking at him right now. If he stayed, he might forget the lesson Russell had gone to such pains to teach him, and he might start trusting someone again. He might start believing he could have a normal life, with a home, a family, a future. He might start thinking he could make things right, with the sheriff's help, with Ashley's help. He might tell the truth, and it very well might get him killed.
He very well might get Ashley killed.
"What's wrong, Ashley?" he asked softly, seeking to avoid temptation in the only way he could manage. "Been alone too long?"
Her eyes widened, and her breath caught. Then she breathed deeply and offered him a chilly smile. "Yes, I guess I have."
"Since the divorce?" Stupid question, he warned himself. Her sex life was none of his business. He didn't need to know that maybe she'd been celibate since the breakup of her marriage, didn't want to know that there might have been men other than Benedict in her life, men who had kissed her, men who had done with her the things that he'd spent much of the past day—and especially the past night—aching to do.
"Not quite."
In thirty-four years he'd never had occasion to discover that he was a jealous man. Now, in only an instant, he knew. He was. Feeling hot, frustrated and just a little mean, he asked—demanded, "Who was he?"
"A man inRaleigh. His sister was a teacher at my school. He was an accountant who certainly destroyed every preconceived notionI'd ever had about accountants." She stopped,then added, "He was much easier than you are."
Easier to seduce? Dillon wondered. Easier to be around? Easier to want? Damn her, easier how?
Sliding off the stool, she went to the deep cubbyholes that lined one wall and selected a few items: loose coils of reed, oval hoops,a gracefully curved handle. She laid them on the table, picked up a bucket and came around to his side to fill it with water in the small bathroom behind him. When she came back, she stopped close to him, lifting the bucket onto the table in front of him,then giving him a steady look. "But you know what, Dillon?"
He didn't speak but simply looked at her as she leaned closer, close enough that he could sort out all her scents, close enough that he could feel her heat, close enough that he could hear her words even though they were merely whispered.
"'Easier' isn't always better."
* * *
Ashley looked up at him and waited for him to back off. She knew he would, just as she'd known he would end that sweet, unexpected kiss, just as she'd known he would shy away entirely from the possibility of an affair. She didn't have long to wait—just a minute, maybe two. After about ninety seconds by her estimate, he took a long step away, removing himself from what he surely perceived as imminent danger, then moving another dozen feet for good measure. As she returned to her stool, he pretended great interest in everything in the workshop except her.
Maybe his sarcastic little remark had been right on target, she thought with a suppressed sigh. Maybe shehad been alone too long. First she'd gotten turned on doing nothing more than rubbing comfrey salve over his ribs; then she'd given her cardiovascular system quite a workout with the simple task of fitting a sling to support his arm. Now after one kiss—one simple little kiss, one nothing-special, shared-by-millions-every-day kiss—she was willing to make room for him in her life on a permanent basis. She was offering to live a life of deceit, to lie to Seth and everyone else in her world in addition to breaking who knew how many laws, just so Dillon could stay.
Oh, but that kisshad been something special. She wasn't the most experienced woman around, but she knew a good kiss from a so-so one; she knew a sizzle-and-burn kiss from the gee-that-was-nice variety. And it didn't matter, anyway, because Dillon didn'twant to stay. He didn'twant to be a permanent part of her life.
Resting her chin on her cupped hand, she considered the materials she'd gathered. She needed to mark the middle of each of the reeds before putting them in the bucket of water to make them more pliable,then she would lay out the bottom of the small market basket, weaving over and under the handle to secure it. Or she might sit here, watch the weather, listen to Dillon prowl and pray for the longest, heaviest rains since Noah built his ark.
What she needed was physical activity—real activity. Something like stacking firewood under the shelter of the porch roof…but the porch already held all the firewood it could hold. After running out of wood nearby in her first heavy snow up here three years ago, she'd become almost obsessive about keeping a good supply handy.
She could always go back in the house and bake more bread…but there was no room for it in the freezer, and she would hate to see it grow old and stale before they could eat it.
Maybe she could…
"You do nice work."
Slowly she shifted her gaze to Dillon, standing beside the quilt frame, tracing one fingertip over the stitching that secured the three layers together. He sounded grudging and looked annoyed, but she accepted his compliment anyway. "Thank you."
"How long does it take to do one of these?"
"For me, months, but I do them along with everything else. If I devoted my time exclusively to a quilt, I imagine it would take me three or four weeks."
"How much do you sell them for?"
"It depends on the size, the fabric, the intricacy of the pattern and where it's sold. Anywhere from a few hundred dollars to a thousand or more." She gestured to the partial quilt over on the sewing table. "That one will go to the most upscale of the shops I sell in, and it will probably bring fifteen hundred, maybe more."
He circled the frame to look at the unfinished one. "I don't like it as well as this one," he said, comparing it to the one in the frame. Then he gave her a quick, sheepish look. "I mean—"
"I don't, either, but it's not for me." The quilt in the frame was a Jacob'sLadder , a series of squares and triangles placed to create a crisp geometric pattern in sharply contrasting colors. It was bright, clean, pleasing to the eye. The other was a Cathedral Windows. Each window consisted of two squares of fabric, one soft ivory, the other varying. Once each piece of ivory was folded, pinned, stitched and reduced to half its original size, the second fabric was slipped underneath and the four outer edges were slip-stitched to create the effect of looking through a window. Each window was time-consuming, a
nd the entire quilt required hundreds of windows. It was going to be along time in the finishing. "Fifteen hundred dollars for a bed cover sounds like a lot, but when you consider the time invested, it's not much of a return."
"So why do you bother?"
"Quilts are never a bother," she chided. "They're folk art.Americana. A piece of history." Then she shrugged. "I started out making them for myself. I never intended to sell them, but one day the owner of an antique shop inDurhamcame to buy some baskets. He saw the quilts stacked on the rack in the cabin and said he could sell as many as I could make. I agreed to make a few for him, and I've been doing it ever since."
Finally he faced her again. "You should have been born a hundred years ago."
"So I've been told. My chosen life-style and I are throwbacks to an earlier time." She made no effort to temper the sarcasm that crept into her voice, even though, once again, his face turned a deep red.
"I shouldn't have said…"
She mimicked the shrug that followed his trailing words. "Why not? Everything you said was true." It wasn'twhat he'd said that hurt, but theway he'd said it. With derision. Scorn.
Dragging his hand over his face, he muttered a curse. "Hell, who am I to criticize the way anyone else lives? I've screwed up every thing I've ever done. I'm hiding from the cops because I can't face twenty-five years in prison. I don't have a place to live. I don't even knowhow to live except on the run. I should be—Iam grateful that you've chosen to live up here, because without you, I don't think I would have made it through that first night."
Before she could think of a response, a sound outside drew her attention. Slowly she rose from the stool and started toward the window.
Halfway there, though, she stopped and abruptly stepped back. "Oh, no."
Dillon moved away from the quilt frame toward the opposite window, but she quickly stopped him. "It's one of the search parties. You've got to hide."
"Where?"
"In the bathroom. Go on, hurry." She didn't wait to watch him, didn't wait to hear the click of the door as it closed behind him. Instead, she grabbed her shawl, went to the front door and stepped outside. "Good morning."
There were four men coming into the clearing. Two were civilians, the Briggs brothers. They had lived all their lives in these mountains; they were skilled hunters, trackers and expert shots. She recognized the state trooper following them and was fairly well acquainted with theCatlinCountydeputy bringing up the rear. Steven Vickers was a few years younger than her—Gail's age—and had been one of Gail's many boyfriends their last year of high school. After school her sister had moved toCaliforniawith the rest of the family, finished college and started her own business. Steven hadn't done much of anything at all before he'd been hired a few years ago as a deputy, but he seemed to enjoy the job and Seth said he did it well.
All four men looked cold, tired and grim.
All four of them were armed.
"Mrs. Benedict." The trooper spoke first. Jess Briggs's greeting was less formal. "Miss Ashley."
She drew her shawl tighter. "Any luck yet with the search?"
"A little bit," Steven replied. "We tracked him as far as that bluff a couple hundred yards back of here,then lost his trail again. Have you seen anyone suspicious around here?"
Ashley forced a smile, hoping it appeared somewhere close to natural. "Steven, I live five miles from my closest neighbor.Anyone around here would be suspicious." Then she let the seriousness she was feeling take over. "Seth came by yesterday morning to tell me about the escape, but he's the only visitor I've had in weeks. So…you think he came that close to my house."
"Weknow he came that close," the younger Briggs answered. "Those were his tracks, all right. He was walking with a bit of a limp, which makes a difference in the footprints, and there was a cut on the sole of his left shoe. Easy tracks to pick up. Easy to follow."
"Except when he goes across two hundred feet of rock," his brother added.
Ashley's breath was trapped in her chest. Just a short while ago, Dillon had walked from the cabin to the workshop, minus the limp but wearing the same shoes with the same cut on the sole. Surely his footprints were still there, clearly visible for all the men to see. What if theydid see? They would insist on searching the workshop—how could she tell them no?—and they would find Dillon. There was no way they couldn't.
Then what would she do?
Quickly she did a mental scan of the cabin. The dishes from a breakfast for two had been washed, the bed was made, and the quilts she'd slept on were all folded over the back of the couch. Dillon's shirt was in the wastebasket under the kitchen sink, he was wearing his jeans and shoes, and Seth's sweatpants were in the bathroom hamper. There was nothing in there that might give him away … except the handcuffs. What had he done with the handcuffs this morning?
Unable to remember, she clenched her fists over the edges of the shawl and moved to the edge of the stoop, one step away from the rain. "I don't drink coffee, gentlemen, but I do have a wide assortment of herbal teas in the cabin. I'd be happy to fix you some—although I'll warn you that Ihave been told it's god-awful. How about it?"
There was a moment of collective hesitation,then Jess Briggs grinned. "After six hours out in this weather,anything hot sounds good, Miss Ashley."
Out of habit, she reached back and secured the door of the workshop; then she led the way to the porch steps. Every stride was longer than usual, every step landing squarely in the center of a bigger and—according to the Briggs brothers—distinctive step. When they reached the cabin, she stifled a sigh of relief and instead offered a silent prayer that Dillon's other footprints—when he'd arrived Tuesday evening and when he'd followed her to the van Wednesday morning—had apparently been obliterated by the rain.
Stopping in the cabin door, she paused to hang up her shawl, dawdling, subjecting the cabin to a quick look. There was nothing out of place, nothing to indicate that she hadn't been alone, as usual, the past two days. She needn't have worried, though; all four men refused to come inside. Their clothes were wet, their boots muddied, they explained. She didn't mind; they could get warm, and she could clean the floor later, she insisted, but they still refused. Just the tea on the porch, Steven requested.
Inside she put a pot of water on to boil, placed tea bags in four mugs and watched nervously out the window. The men were talking, their voices a low rumble through the glass, their words indistinguishable. There was no sign of life in the workshop.Be patient, she silently pleaded of Dillon.Don't get nervous, don't wonder what's going on, don't come out to check.
Trust me.
At the first sign of a bubble in the pot, she switched off the burner, poured the water into the cups,then nervously tapped her fingers on the counter. When the tea had steeped barely ninety seconds, she fished out the bags, gave each cup a squirt of honey, placed them on a tray and carried them outside, serving each man in turn. "Maybe I should have taken Seth's advice and moved into town."
"You probably don't need to worry, Mrs. Benedict," the trooper said. "The boys think he passed through here at least twenty-four hours ago. If he'd thought he could stay around awhile, he would have made his presence known by now. Still, it might not hurt to think again about staying in town. Boone's a dangerous and desperate man. While he's never used violence before this incident, there's no telling what he might resort to now. After all, hedid almost kill Tom Coughlin."
Poor Tom, she thought, feeling guilty that she'd let him slip completely out of her mind. "How is Tom?"
Steven answered, his expression grim, his eyes cold. "He's still in a coma. The doctors say the longer he stays that way, the less his chances are of coming out of it okay."
"If you talk to Mrs. Coughlin, tell her my prayers are with them."
In the silence that followed, each man finished his tea—and she saw more than one grimace. Maybe Dillon was right, she mused, leaning against the doorframe and watching them. Maybe itwas awful, and she'd just been drinking it too lo
ng to notice.
"We'd best get going," the trooper said, handing his cup to her. "Would you like us to look around before we go?"
"I appreciate the offer, but the only place to check is the workshop, and I've been in there all morning. If anyone were hiding in there, believe me, I would know it." She collected the last cup. "Steven, if you see Seth, let him know that I'mokay— but don't tell him I was in the workshop when you came. He seems to think I should stay behind barred-and-locked doors in the cabin until Boone is caught."
The young deputy looked at her. "He might have the right idea. I'll tell him that you were, that you wouldn't open up even for us."
"Thanks."
They trooped down the steps, one behind theother, and headed south across the clearing, toward the forest there. Ashley stood exactly where they'd left her and watched until they were out of sight. When the last glimpse—the bright yellow cap Jess Briggs wore—disappeared from sight, she gave a heartfelt sigh of relief…and promptly developed a case of the shakes so bad that she dropped the tray and all four cups in a glass-breaking crash.
Survive the Night Page 13
