The Renegade And The Heiress

Chapter 2

It took just a little over three hours to get from Point A to Point B. A heavy twilight had settled in by the time Finn reached the narrow, twisting trail leading up to the cabin. The snow had stopped an hour earlier, and it had turned very still, with just a breath of air moving through the dense spruce and pine. It was so still that the branches remained heavily laden, the caps of snow still clinging to even the most fragile branches. The smell of pine hung in the cold, still air, and even in the fading light, Finn could see the tiny prints of blue jays in the unspoiled blanket of snow.

The snow was so thick, so undisturbed, it was as if a white cover had been draped over the entire landscape, the whiteness now tinged with the purple and blue shadows of the encroaching night. It was going to be one of those pitch-black nights, where the heavy cloud cover blocked out even a trace of starlight, and that suited Finn just fine. That kind of darkness would serve them well.

He wasn’t too sure what was really going on with the woman sagging heavily in his arms. After periodically coming to, then trying to fight her way out of the constraints of the blankets, she had finally gone quiet. And thank God for that. A couple of times she had put up such a struggle that he’d nearly lost her, and he was feeling the strain in his entire body.

But she had barely moved in the past hour, and the only thing that assured Finn she was still alive was the rise and fall of her chest. He couldn’t tell if she’d just given in to whatever was in her system, or if she was genuinely asleep. But one thing for sure was that she was getting damned heavy. His left arm, the one that was bearing most of her weight, felt as if it was being slowly extracted from the socket, and his hand had been numb for at least forty minutes. And on top of all that, he was beginning to feel the cold. He had maybe a hundred yards to go—that was all.

As he guided Gus through the shallow stream adjacent to the cabin, he caught something on the air—something faint—something almost indistinguishable. Reining his mount to a full stop, he went still and turned his head, his expression intent as he listened. His tracker’s senses finely tuned, he was finally able to extract a distant sound from the chilled silence. He shifted his head slightly, his expression tightening. A small plane—he narrowed his eyes and stopped breathing, listening intently—no, there were two, the sound far-off and barely discernible. But there were definitely two distinct sounds. And even with the distance distorting the faint stutters, he knew exactly where the planes were. They were flying over the narrow valley where he had found her—his wildcat in the snow.

Two planes indicated a search, which also indicated a downed plane. But until he got some answers from her, he refused to speculate.

Glad for the cover of both the trees and nightfall, Finn twisted around to make sure Trouper was right behind him, then he shifted around and nudged Gus into a walk. He glanced over toward the underbrush and spoke, his tone clipped with command. “Rooney, heel.” The dog immediately obeyed, trotting along the path at Gus’s shoulder, his ears suddenly pricked.

Shifting his weight to ease the cramp in his back, Finn glanced down at his cargo, the heavy dusk crowding in and obscuring the remaining light. So. Someone had called out a search party to look for her. He didn’t like the feeling twisting in his belly. He didn’t like it at all.

His expression set, Finn guided his mount through a narrow archway of trees, taking care not to disturb the snow clumped on the low-hanging branches. At least for tonight he could keep her out of harm’s way. He’d worry about tomorrow later.

The dark hulking shape of the cabin appeared in the dusk, the tin roof capped with snow, a drift crouching against the single step. Finn walked Gus right up to the low overhang that sheltered the plank door, the weight of his burden pulling painfully at his shoulder. Dropping the reins to ground-tie the horse, he stiffly dismounted, using his good arm to hold her in the saddle. He was so damned sore and stiff, he felt as if he’d been thrown and trampled. He waited until his circulation was restored and the cramps in his legs eased; then he gave her a small tug, and she slid into his arms like a sack of oats. Now all he had to do was pack her inside.

It was pitch black in the cabin, and damned cold. In fact, it felt colder inside than out. He had boarded up the windows that morning, and it was as black as a cave inside, and he had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. Using what little illumination that came from outside, he crossed the small space and carefully laid her on one of the bare wooden bunks, her still form swaddled in the coat and blanket. The inside of the small cabin was planked with rough-hewn fir, the wood weathered and dark, aged by years of exposure. Extra supplies hung suspended in dark, green heavy plastic containers from the open pole rafters, the shapes bulky and irregular in the deepening twilight.

Stripping off his gloves, he went to the shelf by the door and found the stash of candles and matches in an old syrup can. He lit one and let liquid paraffin form, then dripped some of the melted wax onto the lid, the faint, wavering light swallowed by the heavy shadows and the dark weathered planking.

Fixing four candles in place, he set the makeshift candleholder on the battered wooden table, then turned back and latched the door, shutting out the cold and the fading dusk. Glancing at the form on the bunk to make sure she was still asleep, he gathered some kindling from the wood box and placed it in the old potbellied stove, then struck another match and put it to the tinder, assessing their situation as he waited for the bark to catch and flare. With the windows boarded up, there would be no light visible from outside, and with the cabin hidden beneath the heavy canopy of trees, it would be practically invisible from the air. But the most critical factor was that the falling snow had covered their tracks, making their trail invisible. And invisibility was exactly what they needed. At least until he knew what in hell was going on.

Leaving the door of the stove open to provide more light, he disconnected from those thoughts, making himself focus on the tasks at hand. The first thing on his list was to make sure he had a good fire going, then he’d have to go down to the creek for water. And after that, he was going to have to fix something to eat. One way or another, he was going to have to get some nourishment into her. Giving her one final glance, he headed for the door.

It was nearly dark by the time he returned from the creek. The horses were standing slack-hipped by the cabin, and he retrieved his saddlebags and draped them over one shoulder, then pulled the rifle from the scabbard on his saddle. He had no intention of leaving anything to chance.

Stamping the snow off his boots, he pushed the door open and entered the cabin, his expression altering when he saw that his houseguest was struggling to sit up. Still clearly dazed and unsteady, she dragged the scarf and hat off her head, then tried to thrash her way out of her blanket cocoon, her movements oddly uncoordinated. Finn kicked the door shut with his heel, the cold air from outside mixing with the scent of burning spruce pitch. He propped the rifle by the door and dropped the saddlebags beside it, then turned and set the pail by the stove. Not wanting to rush her, he removed his gloves and stuck them in the pocket of his vest, then crossed to her. Deliberately avoiding eye contact, he peeled away the blanket so she could get her arms free.

He felt her gaze on him; then she spoke, her voice very unsteady. “I can’t remember your name.”

He looked down at her, keeping his expression impassive as he answered her question. “Finn Donovan.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide with uncertainty; then she spoke again, her voice stronger, more assertive. “How come…how come you found me…what were you doing out there?”

Carefully, he draped her scarf over the head rail of the bunk, then met her gaze. “I’m an outfitter, and I take most of my clients out in this area. This is my line shack, and I was out securing my campsites for the winter. And I didn’t find you. My dog did.”

As if struggling to assimilate that information, she stared at him, the flicker from the fire glinting in the wild tumble of her hair. She stared at him a moment longer, then she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and he saw the muscles in her throat contract. Finally she straightened her head and looked at him, an odd stricken look on her face. She swallowed again and spoke, a tinge of tightly contained panic in her voice. “Where am I?”

Tossing his gloves on the table, Finn answered her, knowing there was a helluva lot more to the question than those three words. He met her gaze, his own level. “You’re in southwestern Alberta in the Rocky Mountains, just inside the Canadian border.”

A shiver ran through her and she folded one arm across her middle, then covered her eyes. Even from eight feet away, Finn could feel the rigid tension in her. He continued to watch her, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he turned away and went back to the stove, annoyed with himself. One thing he knew how to do was mind his own business.

Sharply aware of both her presence and her silence, Finn dumped water from the pail into two smaller pots—one to heat up a couple of vacuum-packed stews he’d had in his saddlebags, the other for tea. As he set the pail on the floor, he heard the distant drone of a plane, only this time it was much closer. His expression altered. With darkness settled and in this kind of rough terrain, he knew they would have to call off the search soon. If it was a search. And he’d bet his boots it was.

The pots of water heating, he glanced over at her, the inadequate light casting that side of the cabin in deep shadows. She was sitting with her back against the wall, her hands slack in her lap, her head turned to one side, and it appeared that she had fallen asleep again. He knew he was speculating, and speculation was always dangerous, but it had to be drugs that had knocked her out like that. It was the only explanation.

With a dozen questions running through his mind, Finn picked up the rifle and went back outside and tended to the horses. It had started to snow again, the whiteness giving off an eerie light, and Finn checked the sky above the cabin to see if the rising smoke was detectable. Satisfied that they were safe, at least for the night, he lugged the tack, spare gear and extra supplies into the cabin, again propping his rifle by the door. He checked the sleeping woman, then fed Rooney his kibbles, the firelight from the open door on the stove flickering and dancing on the rough-hewn walls. He thought again about the planes he had heard, wondering who had called them out.

The cabin now warm, he stripped off his vest and set about fixing the meager meal, which consisted of opening the heated vacuum packs and dumping the contents back in the pot. Recalling that she had said she was thirsty when they were still on the trail, he stuck a spoon in his shirt pocket, then scooped a tin cup into the ice-cold water in the pail. With the pot in his other hand, he crossed to the bunk. Soundlessly he set the cup on the wooden slats and crouched down, studying the woman on the bunk.

The flickering flames in the stove cast her face in a soft light, banishing most of the shadows. She was sitting in the same position, with her head turned against the wall and her mouth slightly opened, presenting him with her unobstructed profile. Delicate features, full mouth, an aristocratic nose and long, long lashes. His expression sober, Finn assessed what he saw. All the evidence added up to money. The sweater she was wearing was cashmere, the studs in her ears were unquestionably diamonds, and just visible below the cuff of his sheepskin coat was the platinum wristwatch. And even if it weren’t for all those obvious and visible markers, he would have suspected it anyway. He had dealt with enough high rollers in his business to recognize the signs. There was just that air about her, a nuance that reeked of priceless things. And even he could tell that her thick curly hair hadn’t been styled in some discount cut-and-hack shop.

A flicker of light caught in her magnificent hair, and a funny, full feeling climbed up Finn’s chest. Suddenly he felt very alone and solitary. Dragging his gaze away from her face, he wearily rolled his shoulders, his attention snagging on her left hand, which was lying motionless in her lap. No rings—no huge diamond solitaire, no wide platinum band, not even a telltale mark.

Realizing his thoughts were heading down a trail that didn’t go anywhere, Finn gave his head a disgusted shake. He had no time for mental slips like that. Right now he had a job to do, and that was getting some hot food into her.

Schooling his expression, he grasped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake, then spoke, his tone gruff. “You’re going to have to open those eyes, Red. Supper is ready.”

As if taking a massive effort on her part, she opened her eyes and turned her head, her gaze still slightly unfocused. She licked her lips, then spoke, her voice sounding rusty and a tiny bit belligerent. “Don’t call me Red, either.”

One corner of Finn’s mouth lifted as he met her gaze, his amusement surfacing. This one had a bit of scrap in her; that was for sure. He handed her the tin mug, and she closed her eyes and drank the water as if parched with thirst; then she looked at him, her expression softening as she handed him the cup. “Thank you,” she whispered, a husky quality in her voice.

Finn set the mug on the floor, then raised the pot he was holding. “This restaurant isn’t exactly in the best part of town, and it’s damned short of amenities, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat out of the pot.”

She stared at him a moment; then she smiled, her eyes lighting up. She grasped the pot and took the spoon he offered. She met his gaze, her voice soft and husky when she responded. “With all those candles, it looks pretty darned first class to me.” The firelight glimmered in her eyes and she smiled at him again. “But right now I couldn’t care less about ambiance. I’m so hungry I could eat this bunk.”

Finn gave her a lopsided grin and tapped the pot. “Well, have at it. It’s not prime rib, but it goes down okay.”

She took a mouthful and closed her eyes, reveling in the taste. “God, nothing has ever tasted this good.” She savored it a split second longer; then she practically attacked the stew, her hunger obvious, her hair like fire around her face. Crouched on the floor, Finn watched her, amusement altering his expression. He’d bet his bottom dollar that right now, she’d give a starving wolf a run for his money.

Picking up the tin mug, he got to his feet and crossed to the stove. Fishing two tea bags out of another can, he tossed them into the boiling water, then set the pot aside, giving it a chance to steep. A burst of fragrance was released from the perforated bags, the smell kicking off his own appetite. Right now, he could give a starving wolf some competition.

Using a glove as a pot holder, he filled her mug and a second one, then carried both over to the bunk, setting hers on the bare slats. Lifting his mug, he took a sip, watching her eat, wondering how long she’d gone without food. The way she was going after that stew, it had to be quite a while.

As if feeling his gaze on her, she looked up, her expression going very still when she saw he had only a mug in his hand. Then she abruptly clapped her hand over her face, obviously realizing the pot held shared portions. “Lord, I’m such a dummy.” Dropping her hand, she looked up at him, and even in the inadequate light, he could tell that she was blushing. “I’m not normally such a pig,” she said, extending the pot to him and looking sheepish. Then she gave him a warped smile. “I get a little territorial about food.”

Folding his arms, Finn leaned back against the corner of the roughed-in closet. Watching her over the rim, he took another sip, then offered a warped smile of his own. He indicated the nearly empty pot with his mug. “Go ahead and finish it off. There’s more where that came from.”

As if assessing him, she stared at him a moment, then gave him another sheepish grin. “If you were a gentleman, you’d turn your back on my gluttony. I tend to shovel when I’m this hungry.”

Amusement pulling at his mouth, Finn watched her a second longer, then went over to the stove, picked up the poker and stoked the fire. “By all means, shovel away.” Aware of the scrape of the spoon in the pot, he took the package of trail mix out of his saddlebag. Hooking the leg of a battered chair with his foot, he dragged it over to the stove, then sat down. He stretched out and propped his feet on the fender, watching the flames dance as he ate a handful of the trail mix. It was a miracle he’d found her. In all those thousands and thousands of acres of pure wilderness, it was a damned miracle. If he believed in it, he would have said it was fate.

“The china aside, dinner was excellent. Do I get to tip the waiter?”

His feet still propped on the fender, his cup of tea clasped in his hand, Finn turned his head and looked at her. The food and hot tea had had the desired effect. The sluggishness had disappeared and her eyes were absolutely clear. Sprawling in the old willow chair, he crossed his arms and considered her. With the effects of whatever was in her system obviously worn off, it was time to do a little tracking.

His gaze fixed on her, he took another sip of tea. Then he lowered the tin mug and cradled it in his hands, his eyes still riveted on her. Finally he spoke, his tone even. “I think it’s about time you gave me some answers, Red. Like who you are and what in hell you’re doing here.”

As if someone had just pulled the plug on her newly restored vitality, she carefully set her mug down on the wooden bunk and as if suddenly cold, she pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. Avoiding his gaze, she took off the extra socks he had put on her, her expression drawn, the flickering light from the candles casting her face in a patina of soft light.

There was a brief silence; then she finally spoke, her tone almost too quiet. “My name is Mallory O’Brien.” She hesitated a moment, then let out a sigh and tipped her head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, her expression stark. “And to be absolutely honest, I don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

Finn didn’t say anything as he continued to watch her. He sensed she was gearing up to go on with her story, and he simply waited her out. Finally she dropped her head and met his gaze. She stared at him a moment, then began toying with the corner of the blanket. Her voice was devoid of emotion when she spoke. “None of it makes any sense. I live in Chicago. I was driving back to my apartment early last night, and I stopped for a red light. Two men wearing black ski masks yanked me out of my car. It happened so fast it was over before I had a chance to react. They forced me down on the floor of a van and blindfolded me, then injected me with something. And the next thing I remember is being moved—like on a stretcher—with my hands bound, and I was outside. I was lifted into something and given another injection.” She lifted her head and looked at him, her face ashen, her expression stiff. “Everything after that is a blank, until I came to in the passenger compartment of a crashed plane.”