Wild Women of Alaska Collection

by Tiffinie Helmer

  Good Christ.

  He dropped the scrap of fabric as though it had burned him and slammed the drawer shut. Rubbing at his eyes, he tried to get the image of Briar's curvaceous body draped across the pillowed-comforter wearing nothing but sexy lingerie out of his head.

  How was a woman like her single? If she were his, he'd have impregnated her so many times over that she'd be forever branded as his. A woman with hips and breasts like hers was made for birthing a horde of babies.

  He left the room, not bothering to look in the closet, afraid of what he'd find hanging in there.

  The bathroom was standard. Again, everything was extremely clean and neat. He found the first aid kit under the sink exactly where he'd expected it to be.

  But it was what he'd found in the second bedroom that had him worried.

  It was a man's room and faintly smelled of Old Spice. The room was spotless. No dust, nothing out of place. Investigating further, West found clothes that were his size and that didn't happen very often. He was hard-pressed to find clothes in a department store that fit him and usually had to order online. He helped himself to a Black Sabbath t-shirt, flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of well-worn hiking boots he found lined up with others like soldiers in the closet.

  Quickly he returned to the living room. "Who lives here with you?" he demanded.

  Briar looked at him and then at the stack of clothes he held in his hands. She swallowed and something like grief passed over her face before her jaw hardened. Her eyes moved back to his.

  "You don't want to encounter him. He'd skin you alive with a butter knife and then use you as bear bait for what you've already done to me."

  "When will he be home?"

  She shrugged. "I expected him before now. So any time. I'd leave if I were you."

  "You’re lying."

  She raised her chin. "No, I'm not. He probably stopped off for a beer or milk or something."

  "It's getting late. If I had a woman like you waiting for me, I'd be home by now."

  She flushed and for once didn't seem to have a quick comeback.

  West set the clothes and first aid kit on the table and pulled off his top. It was going to feel good to get out of the prison threads.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice raising an octave.

  "Changing."

  "There's a bathroom for that."

  "True, but then I don't want to leave you alone for too long."

  "Like what...I'm going to get into trouble." She scoffed. "Tied up, remember?"

  "Most likely cause some trouble," he muttered as he wetted a rag and cleaned off the wound where she'd cut him with the knife. It wasn't deep and didn't require stitches, thank goodness, but it still stung. He disinfected and bandaged the scratch just in case. He'd be headed back into the woods and the last thing he needed was an infection. It would take everything he had to survive long enough to reach the Canadian border.

  Toeing off his shoes, he picked up the knife he'd stowed there when he'd taken it from her.

  "Give that back," she said.

  He held up the knife. It was military-issue, and while it was old, the knife had been lovingly taken care of. "I like it."

  "So do I."

  He set it on the table and pulled his pants down.

  "Hey!"

  "Don't worry, I'm not going to rape you. I'm just changing my clothes."

  "I didn't think...I wasn't...that is...you just don't strip down in front of people."

  He paused holding onto the pair of folded jeans. She was flustered, her color up, but it wasn't fear in her eyes as she looked him over with that wide cobalt stare of hers. "I could, you know. If you wanted—"

  "I don't! Are you insane?"

  Apparently.

  Tossing the cotton pants aside, he stepped into the jeans. Whoever her man was, he was about his size, maybe an inch or two taller. West zipped and buttoned the jeans closed. They were a little loose in the waist, hanging low on his hips. He'd have to see if he could find a belt in the man's things.

  He flicked open the Black Sabbath t-shirt and pulled it over his head. He almost felt human again wearing real clothes. Yanking out a chair, he sat and pulled on the boots. They were half a size bigger than he normally wore, but they'd do. He laced them up and stood. Grabbing the knife and putting it back in his pocket, he tucked the gun into the waistband at his back. That tightened up the looseness at the waist. He left the flannel shirt draped over the back of a chair for now and gathered up the red, dirt-stained prison garb.

  He turned and faced her.

  Tears pooled in her eyes.

  The sight was enough to almost bring him to his knees.

  "What's wrong?" Had he tied the rope too tight? He'd meant to restrain but not hurt her. He dropped the clothes and hurried over. "Where does it hurt?"

  Shaking her head, she bit her bottom lip as if to trap in any sounds that might seep through.

  "Briar?" His throat thickened as she closed her eyes and tears trailed down her cheeks. Without giving it any thought, he fished out the knife and cut the ropes from her hands and then pulled the bindings away from her ankles. Pocketing the knife, he scooped her off the chair and into his arms. She sank into his chest like a child, her nose pressed against his collarbone, her arms curled in-between them. No sound escaped her, but her body shook with repressed sobs.

  Maybe he had broken her. Ahh, shit.

  He held her, rocking back on his knees and swinging her legs over his so she was more comfortable.

  Grief rolled off of her in waves. Thick and deep, he recognized the loss as he'd felt this way himself. Either she had lost the man whose clothes he now wore or the man had left her. West's money was on him dying as he couldn't see how a man would willingly leave her.

  "Who was he?"

  She shook her head again.

  "Tell me."

  She dragged in a stuttering breath and slowly let it out. He didn't think she was going to tell him and then she softly answered, "My dad."

  "I'm wearing his clothes, aren't I." It was more of a statement than a question.

  She nodded, and her fingers smoothed the printed words covering his chest. "He loved his heavy metal bands."

  "Black Sabbath was one of his favorites?"

  She nodded again.

  "How long has it been?"

  "Almost a year." She made a strangled sound. "I should be over this by now. Sorry, I just—I just miss him so much..." Her words trailed off, and he held her tighter, trying to shoulder some of her sorrow.

  The shadows in the room thickened as they sat there on the floor.

  West took comfort from her and hoped he gave her some in return. It had been so long since he'd been able to hold someone, touch them for any other reason than protecting himself. He barely knew this woman and yet he felt like he'd always known her. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could hold her like this forever.

  "Are there other clothes that wouldn't make you—"

  "No. It wouldn't matter what you wore of his, they all bring back memories." She dragged in a deeper breath and seemed to get ahold of herself, but she didn't move out of his grasp. "I should have packed them up and given them away, but I just couldn't."

  "We all grieve in our own time. I, for one, am grateful you didn't donate his clothes yet. I promise, I will try to return them if I'm...able." He was going to say 'alive' but figured it was better if he didn't.

  "Why?" She lifted her head and regarded him with confusion. "Why would you promise me something like that? I know who you are."

  "You only know what I have been accused of. You don't know me." And God he suddenly wished she could.

  He wiped away her tears. Her brow furrowed in a frown as she studied him.

  "I don't expect you to believe me." Hell, no one else had. Not with the damning amount of evidence stacked against him. "I didn't murder Wade Yakov." But he sure as hell would make sure the man responsible was punished for it, even if it killed him. And it most like
ly would.

  A swish of movement out of the corner of his eye had him tightening his hold on Briar with one hand, and reaching for the gun at his back with another. "Don't move."

  Chapter Four

  Briar grabbed his arm. "No! Don't shoot."

  "Who—what is that?" He'd curled his body over hers, and she lay dipped in his embrace as he sighted out the threat that scurried around the room in a blur.

  "An otter. It's just an otter. He's kind of like my resident cat."

  The otter perked his head up over the coffee table, flicked his whiskers and chattered at him as if to ask: who the hell are you, and why are you holding my girl?

  "That is one big cat."

  "He's harmless. Really."

  Didn't look harmless with his beady eyes squinting at West. He looked jealous. "Why is he in the house?"

  "He's hungry. Remember, this is a wildlife rehabilitation habitat and nobody has had dinner."

  West lowered the gun. The otter ferreted closer chewing him out more. "Is he always this loud?"

  "Only when he's nervous or upset. He isn't the only one you are going to hear if I don't feed them." Briar pushed at his chest. "Would you please let me go?"

  He looked down at her. No, he didn't want to let her go. He liked the feel and weight of her in his arms. It would be so easy to lean over a few inches and place his mouth against the fullness of hers. Her lips parted in surprise and her deep blue eyes widened as if she'd read his mind. The otter knocked over a book and it slammed to the floor, breaking West out of his trance.

  "He gets quite cross if he has to wait, but he's not as bad as Nine Inch Nails."

  "Nine Inch Nails? As in the rock band?"

  "Yeah, he's a porcupine."

  West chuckled. Someone had a sense of humor.

  "I need to feed them," she said. "Please."

  "I'm sorry, that I interrupted, you know, their dinner and stuff."

  Her frown deepened over his stumbled apology while ignoring the otter who was taking books off the shelf like an angry two-year-old.

  "Come on." He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans. "I'll help you feed the Mötley Crüe." He lifted her and held her as she swayed on her feet. "You okay?"

  "Just a little dizzy. You're stronger than most men. I mean...most can't lift me like that."

  He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and show her what his body could do to hers. He cleared his throat. "Let's get them fed before the bigger animals start...destroying your bookcases." A roar sounded far off in the distance that sounded a lot like a bear. "Just how many animals are here?"

  "Right now, only about a half a dozen or so."

  "Or so?"

  "Maybe more like ten if you include the raptors."

  "And you care for them all by yourself?"

  "Sometimes I get help from interns at the Sea Life Center in Seward." She rubbed her wrists and looked up at him from under her auburn lashes. "So, you aren't going to tie me back up?"

  "Don't give me a reason to and I won't. Deal? Think we can call a truce?"

  She stared at him. The otter picked up her mood and came over, perched at her feet, and rose up on his hind legs. Briar swallowed and gave West a jerky nod. "As long as a truce isn't considered aiding and abetting."

  "You can tell the authorities that I threatened you with physical harm, tied you up, and held a gun on you." He hated that all of it was true. What kind of man was he turning into?

  A desperate one.

  Pulling the knife out of the front pocket of his jeans, he offered it to her.

  Tears gleamed again, and she rapidly wiped them away. Something clenched in his chest and made it hard for him to breathe. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her any more pain.

  Slowly she reached for the knife, and when her fingers curled around it, he enclosed her hand in his, the knife sandwiched between their palms.

  "I won't hurt you, Briar. Just let me stay through the night and then I'll be on my way in the morning. Okay?"

  Briar stared at her hand sheltered in his. Wow, he had big hands. She didn't have small hands herself, if anything they'd be described as calloused and capable, but West McAllister's hand swallowed hers and made hers seem...dainty. It was a foreign feeling and caused something to flutter in her stomach. Whatever this emotion was, she couldn't call it fear.

  What would the rest of him look like? She'd gotten an eye-full of what lay under most of his clothes as he'd stripped and changed in front of her. She appreciated a healthy specimen and he was certainly…healthy. She didn't think she'd ever seen a more muscular physique. Broad at the shoulders, tapered at the waist, he had ab muscles that formed a sharp V she'd heard referred to as a "fuck me muscle" but she'd never had the pleasure of seeing one until today. Now she wanted to know how all that sinewy flesh felt under her hands.

  What would it be like to bed a man such as him?

  "Briar?"

  She jerked her gaze up to his. "Hmm, what?"

  "Truce?" His silvery eyes narrowed, and that fluttering in her stomach started to pulsate lower.

  She gave him a short nod and felt the burn of her blush. Dang it. Being a redhead, she didn't blush prettily. More of a blotchy ruddiness that would cover her milky skin instead of a peachy glow. Good Lord, she hoped he didn't have a clue what she was thinking. She wasn't good at hiding her emotions from other people. Animals yes, people no. She'd never hung out with a lot of men, never been tempted after her first couple of stumblings with the opposite sex. They really were more work than they were worth. West McAllister would definitely be more work than the other men she'd been with, but he might be worth it.

  If only he didn't have the murderer label attached to him.

  He squeezed her hand and released it. "Thank you," she said.

  "What's he doing?" West asked. The otter seemed to take their handholding as a sign for a free for all and ran around West's feet, stopping every few turns to stand and high five his knees.

  Briar chuckled. "We're still working on manners. He's not good with boundaries yet. Most otters are social animals, and he isn't very discriminating. That is...I didn't mean—"

  "Don't worry about it." West knelt and held his hand out much the way people did when greeting a dog. "Does he have a name?"

  "O.D. Short for One Direction."

  "You named him after a pop music band?"

  Her dad had christened most of the permanent residents, and he would have saddled O.D. with something else. But he hadn't been here, and it was her turn. She shrugged. "I tried out some of the cuter metal bands—there aren't many—and they didn't really fit. And since he can only swim in one direction, it just worked I guess."

  "Why can he only swim one direction?"

  O.D. climbed between West's legs and then up onto his knee.

  "It's a broken rudder kind of thing. He came to me as a pup, only about a month old. His mother had been killed by a boat propeller which left O.D. wounded. Due to the damage to his spine, and not learning the skills he needed to survive from his mother, we can't release him back into the wild. He didn't do well at the Sea Life Center either, as he thinks he's more human than otter. So he lives here with me." Briar watched in amazement as O.D. crawled into West's arms and snuggled in like a babe. He only did that with her. Most people he would high five, greet, and play with, but not snuggle into the crook of their arms.

  "Aww, he's a cute little fellow." West rubbed his belly and O.D. buried his whiskered face in the escaped convict's chest. "I've never been this close to an otter before, let alone touched one."

  Briar's heart thundered harder in her chest. Animals saw through the lies and deception people tried to cover up. They 'felt' the truth about a person's soul. And O.D., while he wasn't picky about people and was generally friendly, he'd never let his guard down like this.

  "Wait until you meet the others. You have to promise to do what I say and stay back. O.D.'s the sweetest one. They all get crankier and more dangerous from here.
"

  But were they more dangerous than an armed convict?

  Chapter Five

  US Marshal Hugh Wiseman addressed the room of Marshals, Alaska State Troopers, and the local police force of Seward, Alaska. "We have one dead Marshal and one in the hospital fighting for his life. There will be no more casualties. Understood? West McAllister was one of us, so he knows how we work. He's also had extensive training in weapons and wilderness survival. I know this man. Once, I called him a friend. Now I want him captured and returned to prison where he can rot until Hell comes to claim him."

  Hugh paused as three people entered and stood at the back of the room. Former Assistant District Attorney Shyla Pierce, and her husband Alaska State Trooper Judd Iverson, along with his partner Garrett Hunt.

  Well shit, what were they doing here?

  The room stirred as the law enforcement recognized the newcomers. He was losing them, and no way would he allow that bitch to sway this crowd. He needed them to find and eradicate McAllister for good.

  Rather than ignore the newcomers, Hugh pointed them out. "You all know the history of Shyla Pierce and what she's suffered at the hands of men like West McAllister. He is largely responsible for the hell she's been through. So let's make sure that doesn't happen and capture this son of a bitch."

  Shyla narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak. Hugh cut her off before she could address the crowd with her crazy ideas of McAllister being innocent of murder.

  "You all have your assigned areas," Hugh said. "Be prepared to use force if necessary. West McAllister has proven time and time again that he won't come willingly. Dismissed."

  The crowd broke up and dispersed. Shyla cut toward him flanked by Judd Iverson and Garrett Hunt.

  "You know he didn't do this," Shyla said when she was close enough.

  "He's an escaped felon and needs to be captured," Hugh replied. "It isn't up to me to prove his innocence. That was your job and you failed. Can't win them all counselor, especially when they are guilty as shit."