"I'll hot-wire it."
"You know how to do that," he said skeptically.
She replied with such innocence that he couldn't help grinning, too. "Of course. Doesn't everyone?"
"Idon't. Let me guess. Seth taught you."
"No. My granny. She was always losing her keys." The smile grew brighter until just looking at her made him hurt. He'd never known anyone with a smile like that. He wished he could capture it on film, for all those future nights when he would need some way to connect with her, when he would need something more than cold, distant memories to hold close. But he'd seen no sign of a camera, and it didn't matter anyway, because no flat, two-dimensional photograph could ever do her justice.
Besides, he would never forget.
"Your granny must have been a resourceful woman," he said quietly. "You take after her."
The compliment pleased her far more than it should have, but he understood. She felt the same things for her grandmother that he felt for his grandfather, and he couldn't think of any greater compliment in the world than being compared favorably to Jacob Boone.
She gave her shoelaces one last tug,then stood up. She had changed into a dress after this morning's bath, a cotton print with short, fluttery sleeves and a shaped neckline that curved above her breasts before dipping low in the center to reveal just a hint of cleavage. It was loose, flowing and thoroughly feminine … even with theragg -wool socks and moss green hiking boots she wore. She looked beautiful.
"Dressing up for Seth?" he asked, making no effort to camouflage the jealousy in his voice.
"Dressing up foryou," she replied, coming around the table to take his hand.
"I'd rather you undress for me."
For a moment she looked so serious, so wistful. He wondered if she was thinking about tomorrow, when she would take him toNashville, or if she was considering all the time they couldn't have together, all the things they couldn't do together. Then the moment passed, and she shook off the somber mood and smiled. It wasn't a very good smile, more than a little on the sad side. "Maybe when I get back," she said quietly. Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to one cheek, then the other, finally reaching his mouth.
Long before he was ready for it to end, she drew away and started toward the door. There she paused and looked back at him. "Dillon…"
He waited for her to go on. She fumbled with the doorknob, moved her purse from one arm to the other, met his gaze,then looked away a half-dozen times. At last, with a deep breath, she went on. "Stay away from the windows and lock the door behind me. I'll try not to take too long. Is there anything special you'd like from town?"
Disappointed because thatwasn't what she'd started to say, he shook his head. He watched as she walked out, closing the door behind her, then did exactly what she'd warned him against. He went to the nearest window, stood off to one side and lifted the sheet there just enough to see out.
With such easy grace, she crossed the clearing to the patch of weeds, where only a moment's search yielded her keys. He liked the way she moved. Whether she was cooking or washing dishes, weaving baskets, nursing his wounds, brushing her hair or simply walking… He was fascinated by it all. He was fascinated byher.
He was afraid he was in love with her.
She climbed into the van, and through the glass he heard the engine crank and sputter before catching. It was badly in need of a tune-up. Given the time, the parts and the proper tools, he could have it running like new—or at least more smoothly—in no time. But he didn't have the parts or the proper tools, and he damned sure didn't have the time.
Letting the sheet fall as she turned the van in a tight circle in the clearing, he locked the door,then went to the chair where she did her needlework at night and slumped down, his feet stretched out in front of him.
Yes, he was in love with her. He wished he could deny it, wished he could write the feelings off as a peculiar mix of lust, gratitude and affection, but he would only be lying to himself. Granted, for his age he had little experience with loving or being loved, but he knew it for what it was. He could identify it by its very absence the better part of his life.
How many times in his life had he thought that maybethis would be the time he would fall in love?This would be a relationship, not an affair.This would be forever and always. Every new relationship had always held the possibilities; every new woman had always held the promise. But after a date or two or maybe three, he had always realized that it wasn't the right time or the right woman. He had even started to wonder if maybe there was nothing wrong with his timing or his choice of women, if maybe the problem was withhim. Maybe, he'd thought, he just wasn't meant to fall in love.
Apparently he'd been wrong.
Blowing out a sigh, he reached into the basket next to the chair for her needlework. The fabric was white, rolled tight around the two long bars of the frame that held it. She had finished less than half of the scene, and the sections she'd done weren't always adjacent, but there was enough to get the general picture. It was a mountain scene, looking out across green valleys that rose intotreetopped peaks,then dipped low into more distant valleys, with houses tucked here and there, fields being tilled, cattle grazing, kids playing. Clouds filled the blue sky, and high above, a brilliantly colored hot-air balloon drifted over the tallest peak. Like everything else she did, it was neat, impressive and beautifully done. She was an incredibly talented woman.
And he was going to miss her when he was gone, more than he had ever missed anyone, even his grandfather.
His fingerhovering a trace above the fabric, he followed a line of trees from end to end, careful not to touch the stitches or the canvas. The shadings of green were so subtle that he couldn't actually tell where one color gave way to another, but he could easily see the depths and dimensions they created.
It was appropriate that she was putting so much time and energy into a mountain scene. He had meant it last night when he'd insisted that she belonged there on her granny's farm at the top of the mountain. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine her in any city, not evenRaleigh, where he knew she'd once lived. She was as inextricably bound to this land and this place as Jacob had been tohis land. The old man had been born on his farm, and he had died there. Sometimes—most of the time—it had been a real struggle for him to keep things going, but he'd never given up. He couldn't have, because losing his land would have meant losing a part of himself. Without it he would have withered away and died.
All his life Dillon had wanted to belong to something—or someone—that way. "Be careful what you wish for," the old saying went, "because you just might get it." Well, now that he had his wish, now that he'd found both a place and a woman he could belong to, he no longer wanted it. Ashley and her damned farm complicated things. They made him went to stay. They made him want to take his chances, face up to his troubles and try to make a life forhimself here. But facing up to his troubles meant one of only two things, and he was neither ready to die nor willing to go to prison. That meant he had to get out, had to head west where no one knew him. Leaving Ashley behind meant his life wouldn't be worth living.
But it beat the alternative. Staying meant he wouldn't even have a life to live.
* * *
I love you.
That was what Ashley had been about to say when she'd stopped on her way out of the cabin. She had come within a deep breath of making a declaration to Dillon that couldn't be taken back. A vow that he might have appreciated at the time, but that probably wouldn't have meant anything to him later, after he found out what she'd done in town. He would hate her once he understood that she'd turned him in, and he wouldn't believe anything she'd ever said. He wouldn't trust her again.
He wouldnever love her.
Maybe she should forget her plan. Maybe she should do exactly what she'd told him she would, then go back home. Fix dinner. Make love. Plan for the trip toNashville. Say goodbye. Forever.
Forever.She was only twenty-nine years old. She couldn't eve
n comprehend how longforever would be. She couldn't begin to understand what it would be like livingforever alone, with unbearable loneliness, intolerable sorrow and the emptiness of never knowing where Dillon was, what he was doing or if he was even alive.
Only twenty-nine years old, and incredibly selfish. Her future, or lack of, wasn't the issue. It washis future at risk, his verylife in danger. If he didn't mind living the rest of it as a fugitive, what right did she have to interfere? Taking him in and nursing him didn't give her that right. Making love with him last night didn't. Even falling in love with him didn't.
But hedid mind living as a fugitive. He hated it, he'd told her last night. He was a good man who deserved a better fate than he'd been dealt. All he wanted was a normal life, and clearing his name could give him that. Even if he chose not to spend that life with her, she still wanted him to have it.
Scowling, she pulled into a parking space in front of the courthouse. Seth's Blazer was parked in the sheriff's reserved spot to her left. She hadn't been sure she would find him in the office this afternoon, but the dispatcher always knew how to reach him. She would have tracked him down if necessary.
Climbing out of the van, she slammed the door and turned not toward the courthouse but across the street instead. If something went wrong—if Seth didn't believe her, if Dillon somehow got away again—she wanted him to have enough money to get by until he was out of the area.
As soon as she'd withdrawn the daily limit from her savings account, she tucked the cash into her bag,then crossed the street once more. The courthouse, built of native stone, was closed on weekends, but there was a small side entrance that led to the sheriff's department on the first floor. She hurried up the steps, passing a state trooper who held the door for her.
Seth was alone, as she'd hoped. The dispatcher, who doubled as receptionist, desk sergeant and surrogate mother, sent her on back before returning her attention to the magazine in front of her.
When she walked unannounced into the small office at the back, her ex-husband was studying a large map that filled the available wall space between the filing cabinets and the window. Entire areas around her place had been marked off—as searched and done with, she fervently hoped. The last thing she needed was for a search party to show up at the cabin this afternoon while she was away. Practically everyone out there had known her all of her life; when they saw that her van was gone and that the padlock that secured the door when she left was also gone, most of them wouldn't think twice about letting themselves into the cabin to search it. And when the door wouldn't open because Dillon had locked it from the inside…
She grimly shook away the thought. "Hey, Seth."
He glanced over his shoulder,then turned to face her. "What brings you into town?"
"I needed some groceries." If it wasn't exactly the truth, it wasn't a lie, either. Shehad stopped at the grocery store and stocked up on milk, eggs and fresh bananas. She had also splurged on the best steaks in the whole meat department, a bottle of the finest wine the store had to offer—which, unfortunately, wasn't particularly fine—and one of Mary Lou's special German chocolate cakes in the bakery. If tonightwas her last night with Dillon, she wanted it to be special, from the dinner straight through to the lovemaking. "You look tired."
"Twenty-hour workdays will do that to you." He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk as he sat down in the one behind it. "Everything okay up at your place?"
"Yeah." She rested her hands on the back of the wooden chair, but she couldn't bring herself to sit. She wanted to pace, but she couldn't do that, either, for lack of room.
Whatever she did in the next few minutes—pumping Seth for information about the roadblocks so she could help his prisoner escape or betraying Dillon's trust—was going to be very wrong. She wished she could just say goodbye and leave, but that would be wrong, too. So, drawing a deep breath, she chose the wrong that just might, with any luck, come closest to being right. "How is Tom?"
Seth's expression darkened. "Still the same. I'm worried about him, Ashley. I don't suppose you have any remedies that the doctors over there at Duke don't know about."
Her smile came and went. "I'm afraid comas are a little out of my field. Have you seen him?"
"I haven't had time. I've been staying here coordinating this blasted search." He gestured toward the map. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to searchone acre of land up there? In places you could walk within five feet of a person and never know he was there."
"You think he's still in the county."
"He was hurt, and the weather's been terrible. He couldn't have gone too far." He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he's dead. Maybe we won't find his body until summer, when the hikers are out in force. Maybe we'll never find it."
She knotted her fingers together and fixed her gaze on her knuckles, turning shades of white, purple and red. "He's not dead."
"If his injuries from the crash didn't kill him, the lack of food coupled with exposure—" Abruptly he broke off. She knew he was staring at her by the heat of guilt that was spreading through her. "How do you know that, Ashley? How do you know he's not dead?"
Suddenly the idea of sitting seemed much more appealing. In fact, she was pretty sure her legs were going to give way if she didn't take her weight off them immediately. Sliding into the chair, she moistened her lips, then finally met Seth's gaze. "If I tell you, do you promise to hear me out before you do anything? And do you promise not to tell anyone else, at least not right away? And promise to keep your deputies out of it. If you need to bring someone else in, let it be a trooper or someone from the State Bureau of Investigation, but nobody local."
"Ashley—"
"Do you promise?"
"No.Now, what the hell's going on here? How do you know that Boone's not dead? Have you seen him? Have you talked to him? Did you—" He stared at her a moment longer, then closed his eyes in an expression of dismay. "My God, Ashley, you've been taking care of him, haven't you?Haven't you?"
The shout made her jump, made her muscles tighten and her stomach knot. In the years they'd been married, in all the years they'd known each other, Seth had never raised his voice to her. Even when he was angry, he'd always controlled it so carefully, had always spoken in an even, calm voice. The fact that he was yelling now didn't bode well for Dillon's immediate future—or hers. "He was hurt, Seth, and half-dead. What was I supposed to do?"
"Let the son of a bitch die!" he shouted, then automatically checked his voice. "You could have gotten in your van, driven into town and told me—or is that too complicated for you?"
His sarcasm stung, and in response her voice soundedpouty . "It was raining. Bessie doesn't run in the rain. You know that."
He started to speak—more advice from the male point of view regarding the unreliability of her transportation?—then made a dismissive gesture. "Is he at the cabin?"
She didn't answer. He didn't need her answer.
"How long has he been there?"
Again she said nothing.
"Was he there when I came up to tell you that he'd escaped?"
Guiltily she dropped her gaze to the desk top, to a bulletin featuring a photograph of Dillon. She reached for it, holding it in unsteady hands, studying the picture. It was recent, taken by theSylvanCountySheriff's Department, she guessed. He looked grim, tough … and afraid. She had seen the grimness and toughness herself that first night, but she had missed the fear, blinded to it by her own. "Can I have this?"
"What do you want with a picture?" Seth asked derisively. "You've got the real thing hidden up there at your cabin." But he didn't protest when she folded the paper carefully so the photo was intact and slid it inside her purse. "Take the bulletin and give me some answers. Is he at the cabin?"
"Yes."
He shoved his chair back from the desk so hard that it banged off the back wall. Quickly Ashley stood up and moved in front of him as he came around the desk. "Please, Seth, you have to listen to me. You have to hear me
out."
"I'll listenafter he's locked up in my jail. Now, move out of my way or I'll move you—right into the cell next to his."
She didn't budge. "If you bring him in," she said, her tone intense, her words deliberate, "one of your deputies will try to kill him."
Shaking his head, he muttered a curse. "Come on, Ashley, you don't believe that. Yes, the men are mad as hell at what he did to Tommy, but—"
"I'm not talking about Tom—and just for the record, Dillon didn't shoot him." She drew a fortifying breath. "I'm talking about the deputy who did."
He stared down at her for a long time, his breathing loud and measured, then slowly returned to his chair. She didn't sit down right away, though, but remained where she blocked his exit from the room. "I'm listening. Start talking."
"Which would you like to hear first? How the bank was robbed? Or how he escaped?" The look he was giving her hardened, lending his eyes a cold gleam. Clearing her throat, she didn't wait for him to voice his obvious preference. "Tom and Dillon were ambushed at Sadler's Pass. The car went off the road and into the ravine. They were both injured, but…"
Survive the Night Page 21
