run like hell… The odds that plan would work were slim to none, and he knew it.
His fingers brushed metal. He grabbed the keys, pulled them out, held them clutched in his fist. He almost burst into tears.
For a minute he just stood there, eyes closed, keys clutched in his hand. He was so elated and relieved he almost couldn’t believe he’d actually found them, that something had gone right after such a fucking miserable night when everything else had gone wrong.
Okay. He was back from the brink of disaster. This would still work. Maybe Angie Powell was out there, but he had a horse and she didn’t, and he had a plan and she didn’t. He’d worked too hard for this to let one woman screw it up.
Maybe he’d run into her along the trail. Maybe he’d get another chance to kill her. He wouldn’t look for her-that would take too much time and priority number one was making his escape. But if he did run across her, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her. This time he’d make sure she was dead before he ran.
Holding the keys in his hands made all the difference. Things were back on track. He was in charge of his own fate again, and by God, nothing was going to get in his way.
Chapter Seventeen
The bear roused. After it had fed all it wanted, sated and tired, it had taken shelter from the storm under a giant deadfall that had partially blocked the wind and rain and slept through the rest of the night.
It had fed well the past few days. Early in the evening, before the storm, it had gone back to its previous kill to finish eating, and picked up the fresh scent trail of another human. He followed it to a place that was rich with odors, that of big animals mingled with more of the humans. Then the smell of fresh blood had all but exploded in his nose and he hadn’t been able to wait, the prey was there, the meat still hot and fresh, the blood still flowing. This prey hadn’t even run; catching it was much easier than before.
Now the bear had rested, and for now it was content to stay in its shelter, curled up and content. He heard some noises, but the weather and his own well-fed state gave him no incentive to investigate. There were a couple of interesting smells, but in his content, sleepy state they weren’t strong enough, enticing enough, to pull him back out into the rain.
He had scratched some debris over the uneaten remains, and when his stomach was no longer full he would go back to his kill.
The scent would still be there.
Chapter Eighteen
Angie jerked awake from a deep sleep, sharp pain shooting through her ankle. She must have made a sound, because the big hand resting on her stomach gave her a comforting pat.
“Ankle bothering you?” The mutter, in Dare’s gravelly voice, came from just behind her ear. He sounded as if he were barely awake.
“Just when I move it,” she answered groggily. Her head was so filled with fog she could barely form the words. Her body was still heavy with fatigue, her muscles like noodles. She managed to crack her eyes open a slit; the small space was gloomy with dark gray shadows. She knew where she was, but she didn’t know when she was. Was it twilight? Dawn? Had they slept around the clock?
“How long have we been asleep?” she asked on a sigh, her eyes already closing as she nestled deeper into the delicious warmth.
“Couple of hours.”
“ ’Zat all?”
He grunted. There was an upheaval behind her and chilly air rushed under the sleeping bag, making her hunch her shoulders as he sat up. Frowning, she cranked her eyelids open just enough to see what he was doing as he sat up and turned off the small propane heater. Oh, okay. They were warm now, so they should save the fuel.
Her eyelids drifted shut again, closed out the dim light. It was still raining, hard, but now that she was dry and warm the effect was soporific. Dare lay down behind her again, sliding up close and tight, his heavy arm resuming its place draped over her waist. It was almost like sitting in his lap. She snuggled even closer against him, wiggling her butt to find the most comfortable spot, and went back to sleep.
She surfaced again with a sharp “Ouch!” when she banged her foot against his. Still not fully awake, she struggled to a sitting position and sat there, owlishly blinking her eyes, looking around but not really seeing their surroundings. With a groan, Dare rolled onto his back, letting his arm fall over his face to block out the light.
Angie closed her eyes and leaned against her upraised left knee. The pain in her ankle had already subsided, leaving her with no imperative to do anything except sit there, caught in a sticky web of inertia. She would have glared at the offending joint, but that took too much effort, so she just sat there, grumpy and half asleep. “You awake?” she whispered after a few seconds, when Dare hadn’t moved again. If he wasn’t she didn’t want to disturb him, but if he was… well, she didn’t know why she was asking.
“After you punched me? Yeah, I’m awake,” he growled.
She thought about that, wondering if she should be indignant at being falsely accused, but again unable to muster the energy. “I didn’t punch you.” Maybe. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. She turned her head, still resting it against her knee, and opened her eyes a little. “But I might have kicked you, because it hurt my ankle.”
“You punched me.”
Even as sleepy as she was, as punch-drunk, she was still capable of logic. “How? You were behind me. I can’t punch backward.”
“When you sat up.” He moved his arm just enough for one half-opened eye to glower at her. “You punched me in the stomach.”
They glared at each other, sleepy and irritable. She could feel herself weaving. Heaving a sigh, she closed her eyes again while she thought about what he’d said. “Not a punch,” she finally insisted, having fumbled her way through her cloudy memories and making a decision. “That was my elbow, not my fist.”
“My stomach appreciates the difference. Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it now?”
He looked at his watch. “About half an hour after the last time you asked.”
This wasn’t good. If she woke up every time she moved her foot, she wasn’t going to get much rest at all.
He heaved his own sigh. “Okay, let’s try this.” He flipped the sleeping bag to the side. “Lie down on your back.”
“Hey!” She reached for the sleeping bag, protesting as the chilly air reached her.
“I’ll cover us up again. Damn it, would you just lie down?” He didn’t wait for compliance, just kind of sandwiched her in his arms and laid her back. Then he hooked his right arm under her knees, lifted her legs, and he shifted into the spoon position around her before draping her legs over his thighs. “How’s that?”
It was actually very comfortable, at least for now. “Good,” she muttered.
He stretched to reach the edge of the sleeping bag, and pulled it around them again, making sure the fabric wasn’t tight around her feet. A deep sigh eased from his chest as he settled down, not an impatient sigh but one of relaxation; he curled his left arm under his head, and went back to sleep like a stone dropping into dark water.
The moment, the situation, etched itself on her brain. Carefully (DOT) she turned her head just enough that was she able to see his face. This close to him, even in the dim light, she could see every thick, dark lash, the details of his strong facial bone structure, the small scar across the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t a pretty man, by any means, but he was definitely a
