Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

  She wondered whether Seth was out there somewhere, hoped and prayed that he was nowhere near Steven Vickers. She hoped the man Dillon had described wasn't Steven, but either way, she had to tell Seth. She couldn't let him continue working closely with a man who might be dangerous, who might have almost killed another deputy. Shehad to tell Seth, the sooner the better.

  She just didn't know how she was going to manage.

  She sighed so deeply that it made her shiver and, for just a moment, gave her a sense of lightness, of eased burdens, of peace. It was the night, of course. If days were peaceful up here in the mountains, nights were nothing less than heavenly. There were no lights to cast their reflections into the sky and block out the stars, no highways with traffic to break the night stillness, nothing man-made at all to disturb nature. The sounds were soft—crickets, the occasional rustles of wild creatures in the woods—and the scents—pine, flowers both wild and cultivated, clean, clear air—were soothing. Nighttime was a healing time. It was a time to relax, to rejuvenate,to refocus.

  She was going to need a great many nights once Dillon was gone. A great deal of healing.

  The door behind her opened, then closed again, so softly that if it weren't for the prickly little sensations racing down her spine, Ashley would have thought she'd imagined the sound. But it wasn't imagination. Without looking, she knew that Dillon had come out, knew that he was standing at the door, only a foot, maybe two, behind her. She knew that he, like her, needed the night's healing, too.

  The boards creaked, alerting her that he had shifted. "Don't come out into the light," shesaid, her voice as quiet as the air.

  The boards creaked again,then the door gave a faint groan as he leaned back against it. "Nice night."

  "Hmm." She wrapped the ends of the shawl over her hands to warm her fingers,then tugged it tighter. "When I first considered moving here, I knew I'd be fine during the day, but I wasn't sure about the nights. I thought they would be so lonely. So scary."

  "Were they?"

  "No." Gazing out over the untended fields, she smiled. "There was a full moon when I moved in. I was a little edgy and couldn't sleep, so I came out here, wrapped myself in one of Granny's quilts and curled up in the rocker. It was so bright, so clear and quiet. I could see easily all the way to the woods. Everything was sharper, more intense—the light, the smells, the air. I fell asleep there in the rocker and didn't wake until dawn. After that, I was never afraid of the night again."

  "Until I came."

  Finally she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was even more in the shadows than she was. She could barely make out the pale colors that were muslin in the quilt wrapped around him. She couldn't make out his face at all. "Until you came," she quietly agreed. "Now, when you leave, the nightswill be lonely."

  "But not scary."

  She turned her back to him again. "No, not scary." She would have her fears; they just wouldn't be tied in any way to the cycles of the sun, moon and stars. She would worry about him, would wonder where he was and how he was getting along and whether he ever thought about her. She would be afraid that someday he would get caught, that Bradley's men would track him down and finish the job they'd started. She would spend the rest of her life worrying and wondering, and she would never have any answers, because she knew without asking that he would never try to contact her. He would never let her know that he was safe. Of course, if Bradley's men caught him, he would never be able to let her know that he wasn't.

  It would be hell not knowing. She thought she could let him go, thought she could say goodbye to him and get on with her life, if only she could know that he was all right. That he'd found someplace safe to stop running. That he'd settled into the sort of life he deserved to be living, a normal life, with a job and a home, with friends … and family? Could she accept that he'd married someone else, had children with someone else, that he'd found someone else suitable for sharing his life whenshe wasn't?

  She could, she thought with a thin smile. She might hate him for it, but at the same time, she would be grateful for knowing.

  "Will going toNashvillebea problem for you?"

  She swallowed over the lump in her throat. "No. The only person who keeps track of me around here is Seth, and he's too busy looking for you. I do a fair amount of traveling to shops and shows and to buy supplies, so no one will think twice about it."

  "Can you get there and back in one day?"

  "If Bessie and the weather cooperate."

  "Maybe we shouldn't try forNashville. Maybe we should go only as far asKnoxvilleor just some little place inTennessee."

  "Knoxvilleis too close. You've surely been in the news there.Nashville's big enough that they won't have much, if any, interest inCatlin news, not even if it involves a bank robbery."

  He blew his breath out in a hollow sound. "I don't want you to drive that far in Bessie alone. What if she breaks down? What if it rains? I can't even give you the money for a motel room or gas."

  "I've got a little money." She'd told him his first night here that she didn't have any money, not in the bank, not at all, but it had been a lie. Granted, her savings account in Bill Armstrong's bank was on the paltry side; no self-respecting bank robber would touch it. But like her granny before her, she kept a little stash here in the cabin, all the money she'd earned in the past couple of months, tucked away neatly in a round basket with a lid that she'd woven specifically for that purpose.

  "Why don't you let me take Bessie? You can stay here where you're safe."

  Her back still to him, she shook her head. "You wouldn't get past the roadblocks. Besides, your shoulder isn't healed yet. A few days working her gearshift will just make it worse."

  She knew from his silence that he knew she was right on both points; otherwise, he would have argued them with her. Instead, he stood there behind her, quiet and still.

  A light breeze moved up the valley, rustling through the trees, making her shiver. "Want your jacket?" he asked.

  She thought of the coats hanging on the wooden rack behind the door—some water-repellent, the others not, one long, most of them shorter, all of them chosen for function and not style. There was one, a heavy quilted parka in olive drab, that would feel wonderful right now. Even the black-and-blue nylon windbreaker would be warmer than the shawl, but she didn't ask for it or any of the others. "I'd rather share your quilt."

  For a long time there was silence,then she heard a rush of breath and the rustle of fabric. "Come here."

  It took only two steps to reach him. One arm was spread wide, the quilt falling like a cape toward the floor. She snuggled in, taking a place not at his side, as he clearly expected, but in front of him, the back of her body fitting nicely along the front of his. He hesitated a moment, then lowered his arm, drawing her closer, enfolding her in his embrace, both arms clasped around her waist.

  Closing her eyes, Ashley breathed deeply and smelled spices, flowers and vanilla. The scent was warm, sweet and intoxicating, a beady contrast to the cold, clean smells of the night.

  "I'm sorry I came here."

  "I'm not."

  "You'll be safe when I'm gone."

  "I suppose I will." Safe. Lonely. Sad. But she would survive. She was strong. She'd made a satisfying life for herself alone before he'd come, and she would eventually manage to do so again once he was gone. She would get up early, have her tea out here in the rocker and spend her days in the workshop. She would still go to craft shows,resupply the shops with her goods and see Seth every Saturday. It wouldn't be different at all … except that she would be missing Dillon every moment that she was awake.

  "Will you ever tell Seth?"

  "I don't know."

  "Have you ever considered trying with him again?"

  "Trying what?"

  "Marriage. Trying to make it work this time."

  She twisted just enough to get a faint glimpse of his face. "Would you like that? Would it make you feel better if you knew that Seth and I were married agai
n, that I was living with him and sleeping with him?"

  He scowled. "Yes. No. Oh, hell, forget I mentioned it."

  With a private little smile, she turned forward again, clasped her hands over his and rested her head on his shoulder. "You could ask me to go with you."

  "No, I couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you would say yes."

  "Would that be so bad?"

  "You need a home, Ash. You need to stay here, where your work is, where your roots are, where your heritage is. You belong here every bit as much as I don't."

  "I could adapt." She said it quietly because she wasn't entirely sure it was true. He was right: shedid belong here. This was her home, her life. This was who she was. But he was also wrong:he belonged here, too—or he could, if he would let himself. If he would trust her. If he would turn himself in, face his problems squarely and deal with them once and for all.

  "Living with me wouldn't be fun or romantic or exciting. It would just be hard. You can't stay anyplace. You can't trust anyone. You can't do anything. All you can do is run, be scared and wish for something better."

  "You don't sound too fond of the life-style."

  "I hate it. And you'd hate it and you would hate me for making you live it."

  She couldn't imagine anything that would truly make her hate him … but she could see herself simply stopping one day, no matter where they were or what they were doing, and saying, "I have to go home."

  She drew a deep breath. "You know, you could always—"

  Before she could finish, he laid his fingers over her mouth. "Don't say it. We had this discussion just this afternoon, and nothing's changed. I can't surrender, and you can't accept that, so let's forget it."

  His fingers were warm, callused,rough against the tender skin of her lips. She savored the touch for a moment before drawing his hand away, holding it tightly in hers and softly inviting, "Make me forget it."

  He was still, barely breathing, as if he suspected that he was about to walk into a trap but couldn't avoid it. "How?"

  "Kiss me."

  "No way."

  "You did it before, and I do believe you enjoyed it." In the tight cocoon of the quilt, she turned to face him and realized for the first time exactly how intimately close they were. "You did enjoy it, didn't you?"

  "More than you can imagine."

  She laughed. "Oh, Dillon, I can imagine plenty."

  "Ash—" Whatever protest or argument he'd been about to offer died unsaid as he raised his hand to her. He touched her gently, so gently—her hair, her forehead, her cheek, her jaw. Then he found the words again. "It would be wrong."

  She became as serious as he was. "We've both been alone a long time, Dillon. We've both been lonely. I admit that I would like for you to stay, that I can look ahead years from now and easily see the two of us together right here, but I know that's not going to happen. I know you're going to leave. I know that, if you have any control over it, I'll never see you again. I can accept that. What I can't accept is not being able to touch you, not being able to make love with you, not being allowed to have any part of you at all. That's all I'm asking for, Dillon. Until you leave, I just want to be a part of you."

  He lowered his head until his forehead rested against hers. "It's only going to hurt," he whispered.

  Her voice was just as soft and a lot shakier when she answered. "Saying goodbye is going to hurt, no matter what the circumstances. You can't make a commitment. You can't give me a future or make any promises or even give me any hope. At least give me this much." She had to stop to take a breath, to force air into her lungs and to banish—or at least try to—the tears from her voice. "Please, Dillon. Give me just this one night."

  * * *

  Closing his eyes, Dillon swore a silent curse.

  One night. She made it sound like a generous gesture.You can't give me anything else, so please do this for me. You can't stay with me, can't love me, can't marry me, can't give me a family, can't be here when I need you, can't live with me, can't grow old with me, can't die with me, but, hey, you can make love with me, so please give me that little bit of nothing.

  One night. Just one night. Maybe she would be satisfied with that. Maybe it would be enough for her. It would be enough to drive him crazy. Enough to haunt him for as long as he lived. Enough to guarantee that he would spend the rest of his miserable life longing for this place and this woman. Enough to kill him, little by little, every day that he wasn't here and every night that wasn't spent at her side.

  He couldn't do it. He couldn't spend just one night with her and then spend hundreds—thousands—of nights without her. If he made love to her, he would never be able to leave her until they took him away in chains. He would be damned for wanting her.

  And maybe even more damned for not having her. Wouldn't it be easier living among strangers, always alone, with the memory of one night to sustain him? Wouldn't it be better just once to ease the loneliness that sometimes threatened to destroy him? Wouldn't all those hard miles and all that hard living be more tolerable if he had one good, sweet, pure moment to carry him through?

  One night doing the one thing he'd wanted desperately to do practically since the first time he'd seen her. Was that so much to ask? So much to need?

  Ignoring the discomfort in his shoulder, he raised both hands to her face, cradling it in his palms. "Tell me to go to hell."

  "Not unless you take me with you."

  His smile was bitterly sad. "That's one of the things I'm afraid of."

  Her responding smile was utterly sweet. "That's not going to happen. We're no different than a lot of couples out there, Dillon. They know that their relationships are likely to end sometime. We just happen to know when."

  When.Tomorrow or the next day. Sunday seemed like a heartbeat away. If he hesitated, if he blinked, Friday would be gone, Saturday skipped over and Sunday would arrive.

  Or it could be part of another lifetime. They could hold it at bay, if they moved slowly enough, if they tried hard enough, if they loved long enough.

  "We can't have everything," she said softly. "We can't have much of anything.Butdoes that mean we have to settle for nothing?"

  He'd been settling all his life, it seemed. Settling for whatever affection he could have. Settling for the low expectations everyone except his grandfather had saddled him with. Settling for a second-class life as a first-class failure. Now she was offering him exactly what he wanted—not for as long as he wanted, but for a time. For a day or two—and that was a day or two more than he'd ever thought he would have.

  He would be a damned fool to agree.

  But he would be a fool to turn her down.

  "Just promise me one thing."

  He sensed rather than saw her sweet, satisfied smile. "What's that?"

  "That you won't regret this." He could live with almost anything; but not her regret. Not knowing that, later, she might wish this night had never happened. Not knowing that she might be sorry she had asked him to kiss her, sorry she had shared such intimacies with him.

  "Not as long as I live."

  Still holding her with one arm, he reached behind him and opened the door with the other, then backed inside, drawing her along with him. He took a moment to secure the door before letting the quilt slide to the floor, taking her shawl with it. She was wearing a denim skirt, another long one that came almost to her ankles, buttoned, belted and buckled at the waist over a plain cotton shirt. He wondered what she was wearing underneath that shirt—a bra or nothing at all—then realized that in a moment he would find out. He would unfasten every one of those buttons, slide the shirt off her shoulders and down her arms and see her, touch her, kiss her, stroke her. He would remove the skirt, too, and lay her down naked on the bed. He would memorize the feel of her skin against his fingertips, would commit to memory forever the taste of her and all the different scents of her. He would arouse her, satisfy her,then do it again. And again.

  Just thinking
about it arousedhim.

  She reached for the big metal buckle at her waist, but he stayed her hands. "I want to undress you."

  Her only response was a soft smile,then she turned and took a circuitous route to the bed, shutting off the lights as she went. Only the glow from the fireplace lit the room as she kicked off her shoes, turned down the covers then waited, hands folded demurely together, for him to join her.

  As he approached her, he tried to think of a single reason why he shouldn't do this, a single argument that could stop him, but his brain was incapable of cooperating. Hewanted this, wantedher, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, wanted her so badly that he was willing to suffer for it later. Right or wrong, good or bad, sweet passion or intolerable pain, he had to do this.Had to. He just might die if he didn't.