Prey

savage Davis’s body, all the while knowing it would do the same to her if she didn’t play her cards just right. “I wonder what Krugman’s doing, though. Is he sitting out the rain, is he out looking for me, or is he trying to make it back to Lattimore’s as fast as he can?”

Dare picked up his rifle and sat down near the lantern and began to methodically take the weapon apart. “If he’s trying to get to Lattimore’s, he’ll find out really fast that runoff from a rain like this will put rivers where there weren’t any before, and that only a fool would try to cross a fast-moving current like that.”

Angie scowled, knowing what could happen. “If one of my horses gets hurt or killed-” She stopped, fuming impotently, because the likelihood she’d be able to get her hands on Krugman was nonexistent. He was effectively out of her reach, no matter what his actions. If he somehow made it to Lattimore’s and made his escape, law enforcement would be after him, but unless he settled in a country with an extradition treaty with the United States, he was home free-and she’d bet he’d researched that angle. If he got himself killed trying to get out of the mountains, then he was dead anyway. Scowling, she looked up at Dare. “I know I won’t be able to do a damn thing to him, and that really pisses me off.”

He gave a rusty chuckle, a real, honest-to-God laugh, Callahan style, and that weird squeeze in her chest made the bottom drop out of her stomach as if she’d gone over the big drop in a roller coaster. She watched him for a few minutes, then looked at her own rifle. Normally she would have cleaned it the first chance she had, but when they’d reached the cabin she and Dare had both been at the end of their rope-so, realistically, this was the first chance she’d had.

“Could I borrow that cleaning kit when you’re finished with it?” she asked.

He glanced at her rifle, then resumed his task. “I’ll clean it for you.”

Angie was a bit nonplussed; she didn’t know how to take his offer. Obviously she knew how to take care of her firearms, so it wasn’t that he doubted her ability. Just to make certain, she said cautiously, “I know how to do it.”

He lifted his head and gave her a long, unreadable look. “I know,” he finally said. “But it’s so muddy I’ll take it down to the stalls to knock the dirt off, so this area stays clean.”

“Oh. Good thinking.” But she still had the feeling there was something more behind the offer, something she wasn’t seeing. She suppressed a frustrated sigh. More than likely she was simply second-guessing herself to death, as usual. He was taking care of a chore for her because she wasn’t very mobile, that was all there was to it.

There didn’t seem to be anything she could do, so she pulled the sleeping bag over her lap and watched him as he efficiently stripped, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled his rifle, every movement reminding her of the years he’d spent in the military. How much did she really know about him? Growing up in such a small community, of course she’d known him by sight, but he was five or six years older than she, so they’d never connected socially. When she was in grade school, he was in middle school. When she was in middle school, he was in high school, and by the time she got to high school he was in the military.

She didn’t think they’d ever spoken until he’d returned to the area. They’d both been in the hardware store, someone had introduced them, and she’d gone home with her hand tingling from shaking hands with him and feeling the roughness and strength of his hand wrapped around hers. The second time they’d spoken, he’d asked her out, but she’d been rushing around getting ready for a guide trip and hadn’t had time, so she’d declined, very regretfully. Months had passed before he’d asked her out again, and by then she’d been so angry she wouldn’t have crossed the road with him.

But the people in the community seemed to like him well enough; she’d never heard anyone, other than herself, call him a son of a bitch. She knew he was grouchy, though she had no idea if he came by it naturally or if it was something caused by his experiences in a war; she also knew that a man who’d carried her on his back for miles, under terrible conditions, deserved to be cut some slack for being grouchy. What else? He cussed a lot-and he’d taken care of her without a hint of sarcasm, or a single snide word. He still put butterflies in her stomach. And he’d lied about having a little dick.

Well, hell. Some people got married knowing less about each other than that.

She quickly pushed that thought away. It wasn’t the state of being married that gave her the willies, it was the act of getting married. She’d tried it, and made a complete hash out of the deal. If she could do it over… but there weren’t any do-overs for some things.

When he was finished with his rifle, he took hers down to the stalls below, and she listened to him moving around. He’d turned on one of the flashlights; she could tell by the blue-white glow. Glancing at one of the windows, she saw that night had fallen, and the steady rain was still coming down. She’d always enjoyed rain before, but after this she didn’t know if she’d ever feel the same way about it again. The rain was like the bear: If it hadn’t been for the bear, Krugman would likely have killed her. If it hadn’t been for the storm, the bear would likely have heard or seen her, and she doubted the outcome would have been a happy one for her. But the storm had also almost killed her, though, come to think of it, she’d rather die from hypothermia or drowning than from being eaten alive.

Don’t think about it.

She concentrated on listening to Dare, and reminding herself that she was safe, they were both safe. They had shelter, food, water, heat, even a pretty damn comfortable bed. They weren’t in any danger. There were things, urgent things, that they needed to do, but until the weather cleared everything would have to wait. The runoff from a storm could be deadly in the mountains, all that water gathering on its way down from the peaks, gaining in speed and volume, washing boulders and trees down the ravines with astonishing power. Even on horseback, the trip down-mountain would be dangerous, and walking out right now would be almost impossible, even for Dare.

When the weather cleared and the flash floods had subsided, if she still couldn’t walk, Dare would have to leave her here while he trekked to Lattimore’s place. She didn’t worry about being alone here, but when she thought of everything that could go wrong for him, nausea knotted her stomach.

He climbed back up the ladder with her rifle slung over his shoulder. Most of the mud had been wiped from the weapon, but the mechanism would have to be carefully cleaned. He settled on the floor in his former position, by the lantern, and methodically began the process. She leaned her head against the wall and watched him through half-closed eyes, strangely soothed by the sureness of his movements, the almost fierce concentration he gave to the chore, the way he smoothed his lean, powerful hands over the wood and metal, feeling for any roughness, any grit.

He glanced up once, and a corner of his mouth kicked up. “You look half asleep.”

She couldn’t argue with his assessment. Instead she yawned. “It doesn’t make sense to be sleepy after being awake for just an hour or so.”

“We both burned a lot of energy last night. It’ll take more than a few hours of sleep to get back to normal.” Pouring gun oil on a cloth, he slowly rubbed it along the length of the barrel. “After I’m finished with this, I’m all for turning in again.”

“Suits me. Do you have any disposable toothbrushes?”

“Sure. I also set the bucket-you know, the one you refused to pee in-outside to catch some rainwater to heat, if you want to wash off with water instead of wet wipes.”

“Water,” she said immediately. “But it doesn’t have to be heated. I don’t mind using cold water.” The prospect of washing with water cheered her. Wipes were great on the trail, but as far as she was concerned they couldn’t take the place of water. They left her with a slightly sticky feel that she thought might mostly be in her head, but if she had an alternative, she’d rather take a break from the wipes.

“There should be some hot water left in the percolator, so you won’t be taking an icy bath. I imagine you’re about ready for another trip outside?”

She was, and she’d been dreading it, because her ankle made the process such an effort. “Trip first, then I’ll clean up.” Half an hour later, the whole exhausting procedure was finished; Dare had divided the water and he was on the lower level washing off and brushing his teeth, while she did the same sitting on the mattress in the sleeping stall. After bringing her back up the ladder he’d pulled the heavy privacy curtain over the opening so she’d feel comfortable stripping off as much as she wanted, then he’d left her alone.

Add “gentleman” to the list of complimentary adjectives she had to apply to the damn man.

But she was undeniably grateful for the privacy; even though he’d stripped her clothes off that morning and cleaned her up, she’d been so exhausted and spent she’d been mostly out of it, so that didn’t count. Now that she was thinking more clearly, she was well aware of the risks of letting herself get