Longest Night (18 page)

October 30

Cecily shifted her weight without lifting her feet, the movement silent despite the crust of half-inch-deep snow and fallen leaves that carpeted the forest. With every breath, the air in front of her fogged downward, deflected by the field glasses held to her eyes. She turned so slowly that Ian, watching for any sign of movement, almost didn't notice the subtle contraction and extension of muscles as she scanned the area and then went still again.

One corner of her mouth twitched upward in satisfaction. Slowly, she lowered the field glasses, taking care to catch the neck strap so it didn't swing free.

He was supposed to be helping to search for deer. He was positioned thirty yards away, with low-powered field glasses of his own but no rifle. She had started explaining Canadian hunting laws about giving him a rifle, only to admit that they were breaking those laws just by having him come out to help spot game. And then she had negated the explanation by saying, “No one's going to check, in any case. The two part-time rangers around here are both from Pinelake. They don't care, so long as the deer population stays stable.”

Not that he particularly cared about deer. He watched Cecily instead, his mind filled with excitement as he took the measure of her patience. Early in his career, he had spent hours, even days, in alleys and abandoned apartment buildings or on rainy rooftops, observing potential witnesses. Stakeouts had been the worst part of his work. And while this deer hunt had lasted only hours so far, not days, she hadn't shown the slightest sign of being bored. With anyone else, he would have attributed that lack of boredom to a dull, unimaginative mind, but not Cecily.

He watched as she raised her rifle—the one she'd taken out two nights ago to defend against bears—and set it to her shoulder. She shifted position slightly, lowering her cheek to rest above the stock, right eye aligned with the scope. She was focused and alert, yet calm and perfectly controlled. He had no doubt that she was absolutely aware of his position, even though almost a hundred feet separated them.

When the shot rang out, Ian couldn't help but twitch in surprise. The echo filled the forest with sound. Two seconds after the shot, she lowered the rifle to hang across her chest on its sling. Her stillness drained away, and she grinned over at him, expression shadowed by the fur-edged hood for a moment before she pushed it back and ran a gloved hand through her hair.

As he walked over to her, she asked, “Care to help, or are you sore from this morning's exercises?” She picked up her frame pack and started walking toward the buck she'd shot.

Curious, he followed, jogging to catch up. “I'm fine.” She'd finally bullied him into doing the stretches on his physical therapy worksheet, most of which involved him lying on the hard wood floor and wishing for wall-to-wall carpeting. “What about a second deer? You said you can take two.”

She laughed, looking up at him with a grin that seemed to chase away the cold settling into his extremities. “As soon as I took the shot, the others were already running away. Besides, do you really want to try to carry two deer back? We'll come out again tomorrow.”

“I can think of better things to do tomorrow,” he hinted, grinning back at her.

Mock-cheerfully, she answered, “Yes, and then we can spend all of January starving.” She elbowed him and then pulled the rifle sling over her head, offering the weapon to him. “Here, you can carry this. I need my hands free.”

“For what?” He pulled the strap over his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable way to carry the rifle. He hadn't held anything bigger than a .22 for over twenty years.

“Field dressing. We need to remove the lower GI tract to prevent contamination, and we want the meat to cool as quickly as possible. Tastes better that way.”

“Martha Christie,” Ian muttered, thinking back to one of his earliest clients.

“Hm?”

“Reminds me of Martha Christie. She called the police on her fiancé, who hired me to defend him after his arrest. She found a collection of knives and guns in his closet, along with traces of blood.” He huffed in remembered irritation. “It was from hunting. He forgave her, and they got married later that year. Sent me a duck in thanks.”

She laughed, leaning companionably close for a moment before the terrain forced her to step around a half-hidden branch, parting them. “I have a waterfowl license. We could go out to the lake tomorrow, if you'd rather,” she offered.

He glanced thoughtfully at her, barely noticing that they'd reached the fallen deer. “Preston goes hunting every year,” he said with a falsely casual air. “Deer, birds, all of that.”

She dropped her pack next to the deer and crouched down to open it. “Can you help? If not, don't worry. I'd rather you not throw up,” she said as she took out a coil of neon orange rope and a black plastic trash bag.

“Not a problem. I've sat through postmortem examinations,” he said with more confidence than he felt. Postmortems were clean and clinical and scientific. Minutes ago, this deer had been standing and breathing. Thank God she'd felled the deer with a single shot. He wasn't certain he could stomach tracking a wounded animal through the forest.

Unaware of his thoughts, she looked at him across the deer, her grin a bit awed. “Postmortems? You really don't live a very normal life, do you?” It didn't sound like a criticism or accusation.

He grinned back. “Normal is—”

“Boring. Yes, I know,” she interrupted with a laugh. “Right, help me get this fellow on his left side, and drag his feet off to the right a bit.”

Bracing himself, he lifted and moved the carcass as she directed. “You're not.”

She glanced down at the buck, frowning. “Not? Not what?”

“Boring.”

Releasing the deer's weight with a grunt, Cecily straightened and took a folding knife from the outer pocket of her parka. She used a lever to open it without having to take off her gloves. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Ian smiled.

***

It was almost an hour before Cecily finally made it back inside the cabin after butchering the deer and hiding the antlers in the quad. Though she usually didn't take hunting trophies, she had plans for the antlers. She went to the sink to wash off her gloves, sniffing at the stew bubbling away in the Dutch oven.

“God, that smells good. I'm starved.”

“I thought so.” Ian leaned on the counter beside her with lazy grace, a smile playing at his lips. He'd showered, leaving his blond hair streaked dark. The cabin was toasty warm; a glance told Cecily that Ian had restocked the rack of firewood beside the kitchen stove.

“How's your back?”

His smile turned into a grin. “Up for anything you'd like.”

She laughed and dropped her clean gloves on the counter to dry. Turning away to hide her blush, she went to hang her parka by the back door. “I meant, you were carrying firewood. Did you hurt yourself?”

“I'm fine. I suppose,” he admitted with a dramatic sigh, “that all the walking we do out here is good for me. Back home, the only exercise I got was in the gym, on the rare mornings when I had time.”

Cecily huffed, warming her hands at the stove, thinking of the
other
exercise that he hadn't mentioned. Of course, he probably didn't lack for partners back home. Unreasonable jealousy twisted through her.

At a touch on her arm, she turned and looked up into Ian's eyes. “I also didn't have much time for dating.”

Startled, she blurted out, “How did you—”

“Logical next thought,” he said reasonably, running his fingers up to her shoulder and back down in a soothing motion. “But really, there wasn't time for much of anything besides work. How do you think I got myself into so much trouble?”

Cecily smiled at him. “I think you attract trouble, and work has nothing to do with it at all.”

Eyes bright, he ducked to brush a soft kiss over her cheek. “I got you, didn't I?”

Laughing, she swatted at him, and he backed away, wincing when he twisted out of reach. Worry spiked through her playful mood. “Go sit down,” she told him. “I'll set the table.”

Unable to surrender gracefully, he smoothed a hand over her hip and only retreated to the table when she poked at his arm again. “If I wasn't at the office, I was investigating my cases, searching records, even attending autopsies.”

Somehow, she wasn't surprised. “That explains why you handled the deer so calmly.”

“I'm not usually
that
close, but…” He shrugged and sat down. “Sometimes, my cases require specialized information. And it helps me think.”

She set two bowls on the counter and ladled stew into each one. Ian had used a bag of the venison stock she kept in the freezer, and had added potatoes, onions, and stew meat. “What do you mean?”

“It's not always the actual examination results that matter so much as the process. It's methodical and precise—a tool for advanced thinking. Yes, sometimes something interesting is uncovered, but most often, a murder is a gunshot or stabbing or blunt trauma. But watching the examination forces me to think properly. It's about focus, not the postmortem itself.”

“That…makes sense,” she admitted slowly, picking up her bowl with both hands to carry it to the table. “I never thought lawyers and scientists would have so much in common.”

“Logical thinking.”

“What about your brother? Is he just as logical?”

He took a deep, thoughtful breath. “He's more passionate, I'd say. Impulsive. Growing up, he rarely did anything with much planning or foresight, though that's changed now.”

“Fortunately for me,” she said, spooning up some of the stew. She blew on it to cool it. “I'd probably be dead without him.” She sipped at the stew, letting the taste help ground her here, in the reality of her safe, warm cabin on the other side of the world from her nightmares. “I still don't know how or why he sent a team after me.”

He dropped his spoon with a loud clatter, splashing stew onto the table. “My God.”

She looked up; he was staring at the table, frowning in thought. “Are you all right?”

“I'm…I'm fine.” He darted a glance at her. “Preston broke the rules for you.”

“What?”

“Rules. Battlefield customs, whatever they're called,” he said, picking up his spoon to give an irritated wave. “Shortcuts. I remember it now. He flew out to Iraq unexpectedly, at Christmastime. Our parents were furious.”

“What do you mean, though?” she pressed.

“The Marines were looking for you. They don't leave their own. But Preston's soldiers found you before they did.
How?
”

He
broke
the
rules
, she thought, remembering the harsh reality of warfare and how frustrating it sometimes was to be hampered by military law. “But his troops were there on a military contract.”

“Not all of them. That
has
to be it.” He leaned back in his chair and gestured with the spoon again. “Samaritan has contracts all over the world, primarily to provide security for civilians in hazardous areas. I've done contract review for them.
Private
security doesn't need to follow military law. He must have gotten the video and sent the intel to one of his private groups.”

“He… That was incredibly risky. Even passing intel like that…”

“Right after 9/11, Preston was briefly sent to Israel. He…met someone. Her name was Lilit. She was IDF—the Israeli Defense Force. She was in the intelligence branch, training for Mossad. She died.”

“I'm sorry,” she said automatically. By the look on Ian's face, the woman's death hadn't been an accident.

“It was because of red tape. Government negotiation and interference. They couldn't rescue her in time.” He held out his hand to clasp her fingers gently. “That's why he intervened to save you. He won't let that happen to anyone again—not if he can prevent it.”

A tiny thread of guilt wove through her. She was alive because another woman had died. “I'm—”

“There's no record of the organization that took you. They're gone. Entirely eradicated, as though they never existed at all, except perhaps in some buried government record.”

Something inside her came undone, a little knot of fear deep in her gut, carried with her since she'd been taken. She closed her fingers tightly around his hand, letting the touch anchor her.

“I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner, but…”

She shook her head and gave him a forced little smile. “No. It's… It's fine. I didn't choose to live out here so they wouldn't find me. It's not like I've been living in fear of them.”

Carefully, he moved his other hand over hers, fingertips rubbing little circles over her wrist. “But you feel better, knowing they're dead.”

“I do,” she admitted. “Maybe it's wrong, but I—”

“No. You're a survivor, Cecily. It's not wrong at all—not after what happened.” He smiled softly and squeezed her hand.

She sighed, remembering the dead and the dying, the fear of captivity and the elation of rescue. She nodded, and this time, her smile was more genuine. “Thank you.”

He eased his grip to rub his fingers gently over her skin. “How would you like that massage tonight?”

Her words lodged in her throat. The thought of Ian's hands soothing away her tension was nice, but the promise of intimacy was enticing and terrifying in equal measure. And her scars…He'd seen some of them, but not all, and she wasn't ready to show him.

“Rain check?” she asked, smiling weakly.

He nodded, gently smiling. “Anytime.”

October 31

Cecily looked out the expansive window as Ian walked through Marguerite's yard, heading for the river. He was bundled against the cold but walking smoothly in the snow. She couldn't help but wonder if he could be content here in the woods, away from Manhattan, even though she knew it wouldn't happen.

Marguerite turned to take the next piece of venison from the box she had strapped to the quad early that morning. “You two are adorable together,” she said, fitting the meat into her freezer.

“Thanks,” she answered automatically, hiding her flinch. She turned to the bundle she'd brought with her—the antlers, wrapped in canvas. “Do you mind bringing these with you to the Tuckers?”

Mags slammed the freezer door shut and joined Cecily at the counter. “Trading them away?”

“Actually, I was hoping to get them mounted.”

“Really? Since when do you do trophies?”

Cecily glanced at the window, though she couldn't see where Ian had gone. “I—”

“Oh, no. Say no more,” Mags teased, nudging Cecily with one elbow. “Should I ask them to get it done in time for Christmas? Two months should be enough time.”

Hoping Ian would stay that long, Cecily nodded. “Please.”

Mags laughed and hugged Cecily quickly. She went to the stove, picked up the kettle, and then carried it to the sink to fill, saying, “I'm so happy for you. You've been alone too long, you know.”

“Mags…” Cecily gave a smile. “He's only here for the winter. He'll be back in Manhattan before spring.”

“You say that, but I saw the way he watched you through lunch,” Mags answered slyly. “You can't tell me there isn't
something
between you two.”

Cecily nodded, caught herself at it, and shook her head instead as bands of tension locked around her chest. “It's just…casual,” she insisted, and her smile turned brittle, because it
wasn't
. Not for her.

Ian talked about Manhattan all the time—his cases, his social circle, his clients. But Cecily…somewhere inside, she'd still been living day-to-day, and he had just slotted into her life as if he'd always belonged there. She felt
better
now, better than she had in years, as if a part of her from before the war was slowly reawakening.

She didn't allow herself to think about what would happen when he went back to Manhattan. He would pick up the pieces of his old life, and Cecily…Cecily would go back to the cabin, back to surviving instead of really living, back to being alone, and all the work she'd done to fortify herself would be gone, leaving her raw and condemned to her self-imposed isolation.

Mags's quiet voice intruded on her bleak thoughts. “Cecily?”

She gave a quick, forced smile and shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, hearing the unsteady edge in her voice. “I'm just—I should go check on Ian. The weather. Unpredictable.”

Mags's brown eyes went soft and sympathetic. In the years they'd been friends, she'd grown accustomed to Cecily's mood swings. She'd once asked what was wrong, but she hadn't pushed for an explanation. “Let me. The tea is almost ready.”

Cecily thought about going to find Ian. She could imagine how his eyes would sparkle with pleasure at the rare day of sunshine, and she flinched inside. Unable to answer, she nodded gratefully and was relieved when Mags left without another word.

***

The day was gorgeous, bright and brisk. Ian squinted against the glare that came through his polarized glasses and threw another rock into the river. This really was paradise, the sort of place city dwellers dreamed about one day having—somewhere to get away from it all, where life moved slowly and there was no constant buzz of cell phones and typing and shouting and traffic. Even his back felt better, despite the bumpy ride on the quad.

He should have hated it, but every time he felt resentment creep up at the thought of his willing exile, it died out at the thought of being here with Cecily.

Footsteps crunched through the snow and leaves. He turned, grinning with anticipation, and then blinked in surprise to see Marguerite, rather than Cecily. “You have a great view of the river,” he said conversationally.

“Thanks.” Mags came up beside him, hands shoved into her pockets.

Like Ian, she had her hood down, though her scarf was tucked high up under her chin. He glanced at her elegant profile, noting the way the sun brought out light shades in her rich brown hair. He should have been attracted to her. In Manhattan, he would've approached her anywhere, whether in a bar or nightclub or even the courtroom. Now, though, there wasn't a hint of interest—not when his thoughts were full of pale, freckled skin and short red hair.

A hint of accusation crept into Mags's voice as she said, “We were talking about you.”

“Me?”

“You.” She tossed her head and said, “She said you're leaving her.”

The words hit him like a punch, stealing his breath. “What?”

Defiantly, she crossed her arms and said, “I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart when it comes to people.”

He sighed. “I've heard
every
bad lawyer joke—”

“She loves you!”

He froze, staring at her, convinced he'd misheard.

As though his silence gave her courage, she turned and snapped out, “You're breaking her heart.”

He actually backed up a step, scrambling to try and rally himself. This was ridiculous. Cecily was affectionate and friendly, yes, and she smiled more often now than she had just a week ago, but
love
? They were nothing more than friends, as much as he might have liked it to be otherwise.

“You don't even care, do you?” Mags pressed. She stabbed a finger into his chest, hard enough that it actually hurt, and demanded, “If you don't care, why don't you just go back to New York now? Maybe give her a chance to get over you?”

“Whatever you think is going on, you're wrong,” he insisted, going automatically on the defensive. He looked around at the trees, hoping to see Cecily coming to his rescue, but he and Mags were alone.

“At least tell her now, so she—”

“Tell her
what
?” he demanded, glaring at her so fiercely that it was her turn to back away.

Then she rallied and snapped, “That you
don't
love her! It's not fair, leading her on like that.”

Icy cold calm settled over him—always a dangerous sign when it happened outside the courtroom. “Please do me the courtesy of staying out of our private affairs. You have
no
idea
what's going on between us.”

“She's been my best friend for seven years.”

“And what have you done to
help
her?” he asked sharply.

Apparently, she wasn't expecting to hear that. She stared at him, her angry expression melting into surprise, and he took advantage of her silence to leave the riverbank.

Anger carried him across the yard, though his steps slowed as he approached the house. A hint of worry and doubt began to creep through his confidence. What if Marguerite was right? She couldn't be. Ian would know if Cecily was in love with him.

Cecily came out of the house, bundled in her parka, ready to go. After ten days, he could read her mood almost perfectly. He could see the first hints of tension and anxiety before they even registered in her consciousness. He knew when she was bored or tired or frustrated with her writing. He knew how to provoke a smile or that dark, needy shade of brown that came into her eyes when they touched.

She wanted him. But love? He knew how
he
felt. He knew he wanted her to come back to Manhattan with him—to see if they could have something more together—but Cecily… She didn't love him.

Cecily joined him at the foot of the stairs up to Mags's back door. “You all right?”

“Yes.” He fussed with her scarf to have the excuse to touch her face and watched as her smile bloomed. “Are you?”

Her smile faltered a bit. “I'm fine. You'd better put your gloves on,” she said and went to say good-bye to Marguerite, who'd followed them back to the cabin. He looked at her, noting the mix of guilt and stubbornness in her expression, though she didn't say anything to Cecily, as they hugged good-bye. Perhaps she was rethinking her assessment of their relationship, or perhaps she just felt guilty for interfering. Either way, she said nothing, and Ian breathed a sigh of relief when Cecily climbed onto the quad for the ride home.

***

“It's Wednesday, isn't it?” Cecily asked a couple of hours later, breathing deeply as she walked into the cabin. Before leaving, she'd filled the Dutch oven and buried it in the coals of the wood-burning stove. Now, the smell of onions and garlic and rich broth made her stomach growl.

“I think so, yes,” he answered as he followed her inside.

“Halloween, then. God, I used to love Halloween,” she said idly, leaning against the archway between the kitchen and living room. She didn't expect a response—he wasn't one for idle conversation—but when he ignored her completely to go into the living room, she couldn't help feeling a little bit alone. She glanced back to see he'd sat down to open his laptop.

Wonderful. So they weren't talking at all. Or was she just being oversensitive? A week ago, she'd been glad he was quiet company, not placing demands on her time. She needed to find that detachment again. In a few months, he would be gone.

Fuck
. She needed to stop thinking about it.

She got rid of her jacket and went to the kitchen to make coffee. She focused on tonight, looking forward to a hot meal and Ian's attentions and maybe, just maybe, having only one nightmare. He'd enjoy tonight and not think about next week or next month, and it would all be fine.

“Dinner should be ready by now,” she said.

“Bring it here,” he answered, never looking away from his laptop.

Forgetting her resolution to enjoy their time together, she snapped, “Do I look like a waitress?”

His head came up, and he frowned. “I'm sorry. I'm just…distracted.”

She met his eyes and felt a twinge of irrational guilt. He was probably anxious to get back home and get back to work. Not wanting to ruin what little time they had left together, she shrugged. “It's fine,” she said and went to go serve up the roast that had been cooking all day.

She came back to the living room, carrying his plate, just in time to see him shut his laptop and flip the switch that turned off the satellite receiver and the modem. Irritation spiked through her, and she asked, “Change your mind, then?”

He caught her hand before she could move away. Her fingers were warm, and he pressed a kiss to the tips, saying, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…” He gestured at the laptop. “I'm sorry.”

He didn't belong here. He had to be feeling edgy, needing any connection to the outside world. She looked into his blue-gray eyes and saw only contrition. She leaned in and kissed him, nothing more than a brush of lips. “It's all right. Do you want to eat here?”

“Kitchen table, like sane adults?” he suggested.

She laughed. “Sane adults. Sure, we can pretend, for the night.”

***

Through the ride home from Marguerite's, Ian had tried to figure out a way to spark Cecily's interest in coming to Manhattan with him, even for a visit. But after a painfully slow crawl through event websites for the tri-state area, he realized that luring her to Manhattan surely wouldn't be as simple as buying tickets to a museum showing or the symphony. But what
did
she like? Reading and writing, yes, but how could he use that? Offer a tour of Manhattan's libraries? A shopping day to find treasures in little bookstores?

“Dinner okay?” she asked as he finished the last bite.

He smiled, brushing his leg against hers beneath the table. “Very good. I haven't eaten this well since I lived with my family. Our cook won awards before he retired and came to work for us.”

“Wow. Count yourself lucky, then. I lived on noodles and pizza through college,” she answered with a laugh.

She stood to gather the dishes, and Ian caught her hands and rose with her. “Let me,” he suggested. He gave a tug to pull her close, though he didn't put his arms around her—he didn't trap her. Instead, he rested his hands on her hips and suggested, “Why don't you go relax in the shower? I'll clean up here.”

Her smile turned curious, and then pleased. “Thank you,” she said, giving him a quick kiss.

Feeling better, as if he'd redeemed himself for his earlier rudeness, he listened to the water heater gurgle as he washed up after dinner and put away the leftovers. Then he went to the living room and built up the fire.

She came out wearing jeans and a button-down shirt hanging untucked over her hips. He didn't think she was carrying her gun, and he counted that as a positive sign that she was relaxed and happy. She sat down at the desk and took her clunky laptop out of the drawer. “Let me just check my email real quick.”

He decided to take her words as a good sign, and he considered building up the bedroom fire as well, but decided not to push his luck. Instead, he arranged logs and listened to her start up her clunky old laptop. When he heard her start typing, he rose, wincing at the residual ache in his back, and went to stand behind her. Instead of watching what she was doing, he combed his fingers through her wet hair, enjoying the silky soft feel. She didn't use product that made her hair crunchy or sticky, which was one more appealing difference between her and the women he used to date back home.

Her sigh was nearly a purr. She closed her laptop and shut everything down, and he leaned close to brush a kiss against her ear. “All done?”

“Mmm. Yes.” She tipped her head back against his shoulder. Then she rolled the chair two inches back and turned to rise. He stopped her carefully, resting his fingertips lightly on her shoulder. He was wary of triggering another attack, but he needed to push her boundaries. There was no other way to prove to her that she was strong enough to leave the cocoon of the cabin and go back into the world, at his side.