Longest Night (5 page)

He grinned. “Says the woman wearing a Christmas sweater in October.”

***

The door opened, admitting a blast of fresh, cold air and Cecily. She unzipped her down parka and tossed the hood back. Her ponytail was coming undone, framing her face with wavy locks of red hair that matched the color in her freckled cheeks, flushed from the cold. “No, don't get up,” she told Ian.

“Everything all right?” he asked from the recliner where he'd been sitting for the last twenty minutes, browsing through Mags's collection of nature journals.

She nodded, looking past him. “Roof looks good.” He turned the other way and saw Mags in the kitchen doorway.

“Thanks. I appreciate you going up there. I hate ladders,” Mags added with an embarrassed smile. She crossed to the front door and took a heavy white parka from the closet. “Let me go pack up some eggs for you. You brought the box, right?”

“It's on the trailer.”

“Perfect. Get yourself some coffee.” With one last smile, Mags headed out.

He straightened the recliner and stood, feeling much better for the twenty or thirty minutes he'd rested his back. He followed Cecily into the kitchen. “The roof?”

She took a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Her first year here, the garage roof leaked like mad from the weight of the snow. She lost an entire season's worth of river water samples.”

“I'm sorry I can't be of any use,” he said, frustrated. He rinsed his mug and put it in the sink.

“It's fine.” She gave him a half smile and avoided his eyes.

Wondering at her mood, he asked, “So, this house isn't off the electrical grid. Why are you?”

“No point in running a line up to the cabin. I do well enough.” She blew on the coffee and then took a sip.

He nodded and moved to look out the window. The view here was beautiful; he could see the appeal of living so far from civilization, despite how much he missed the city.

The house covered the top of a low hill. At night, the lights would shine through the huge plate-glass windows. In contrast, Cecily's little cabin was almost invisible in the trees, set far from the picturesque river. Had she refused to put in an electrical line because someone could track her to her home? He doubted she was afraid of someone—of anything at all, actually—but she was still carrying her handgun even here, at her friend's house.

“So, I think I'm going to head back. Were you staying?” she asked casually. Too casually.

“Here?” He walked away from the window, confused. “I think I can make it back, though feel free not to hit
every
bump on the way home.”

Her brows shot up, hazel eyes going wide with confusion of her own. “Oh. No, I—” He glimpsed the way her cheeks darkened before she turned to the sink to rinse out her mug. “Right. Sorry. Oh, damn. The chickens.”

He'd missed a turn in the conversation. “Chickens?”

“I'll see if she has any she wants me to slaughter,” she explained and walked quickly out of the kitchen, zipping her parka.

Shaking his head, Ian followed more slowly. Had he been walking so stiffly that she didn't think he'd make it back to the cabin? He hoped not, or it would be hell to convince her to take him out another day. Even if he was surprisingly comfortable at the rustic cabin, he didn't want to be trapped there, with no outings to break up the monotony of the days.

As he put on his coat, though, another thought occurred to him:
Marguerite
. He closed his eyes and thought back to how he'd instinctively flirted with her, how she'd responded—and how quickly Cecily had left.

Was she jealous?

The thought had definite appeal. He'd been trying not to think of Cecily that way. She hadn't shown any overt sign of interest, and he was painfully aware that he was intruding on her solitary life. The last thing she needed was her unwanted guest rudely making advances on her. That would make an already awkward situation untenable.

He bundled up as best he could and went out into the cold. He took the stairs slowly, listening to the river rushing by, until his thoughts were abruptly scattered by a loud
thunk
. Worried, he moved as quickly as he dared. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard another
thud
, and he rushed around the hillside to see Cecily standing by a barn, a bloody cleaver in hand. Nearby, Mags was holding two fluffy white chickens by their feet.

He stopped, heart pounding, and sighed in relief through the scarf around his face. He felt like an idiot. He hadn't actually considered how the chickens would get from Marguerite's barn to Cecily's dinner table without
someone
actually killing them. Some genius he was.

He walked forward at a more reasonable pace, watching the neat, businesslike way she handled the next chicken. One quick chop took its head, and she put it aside with the two others she'd butchered.

After she handed Cecily the fourth one, Mags confessed, “I feel awful. I can't do this. I don't mind fish so much, but the chickens are too…”

“Dad took my brother and sister hunting every year,” he said uncomfortably. He'd never even seen anyone clean a fish, unless he counted sushi chefs. “Preston still goes. Does some sport fishing, too, down out of Miami.”

“I have to use my hunting licenses before the end of the year,” Cecily said, expertly slaughtering the last chicken. She glanced at Mags, asking, “Could you help me bag?”

“Sure, honey.” Mags left Ian's side and went to a wood bench where several other headless chickens were hanging by their feet.

He turned to look at the river, watching the water rush by. He took the ibuprofen from his coat pocket and swallowed two dry in preparation for the ride back home.

Once Cecily and Mags had stuffed six of the chickens into plastic bags, they all returned to the quad. Ian followed more slowly, giving them time to strap the bags down behind the cardboard box that Cecily had brought from the cabin.

“If you need anything, I'm going to town in a few days, if the weather holds,” she was saying to Mags.

“I should be all right, thanks. Dinner next Sunday?”

“What day's today?”

“Monday,” Mags and Ian both answered. Mags shot him a quick grin.

“Right,” Cecily said, cheeks coloring slightly. “Sunday it is. I'll see if I can get some fresh fish.”

“Thanks.” Mags smiled and leaned in to give Cecily a kiss on the cheek. Then she turned and wrapped a hand around the back of Ian's neck to pull him down for a similar kiss. “You take care of her—and yourself.”

“If anything, it's the other way around,” he answered, glancing at Cecily. Thanks to her sunglasses, he could read nothing of her expression. She turned away, picked up her gloves, and got onto the quad.

He climbed on behind her, resting his gloved hands on her hips. The feel of her strong, slender body, even with the padding of her heavy parka, was enough to distract him from the ache in his back. Her body fitted beautifully between his legs, and he thought of how much more pleasant this would be in summer, with nothing more than blue jeans between their bodies. He caught himself gripping her tightly and eased up before he could make her uncomfortable. She twisted to give him a curious look.

“Ready when you are,” he told her casually.

She met his eyes for a second or two. Then she nodded and started the engine. “Keep an eye on the cargo, will you? That chicken's our dinner tonight. No sense having it fly off the trailer and feed the wolves.”

***

Back home, Cecily lost herself in all the physical work required to maintain the house the way she did, enjoying the stretch in her shoulders as she built a fire out back and cleaned and butchered the chickens. She started most days with exercise—once a Marine, always a Marine—but today had been a break in her routine. Tomorrow, she'd get back to her usual morning run.

Ian was on the back porch, wrapped in his inadequate overcoat, waiting for her when she returned with the chickens, now cleaned, quartered, and bagged. “Need help carrying anything?” he offered.

Wary of hurting him further, she handed over the two lightest bags with a nod of thanks. “How are you holding up?” she asked as politely as she could. He hadn't brought up his injury, but anyone could see he'd been in pain from the trip downriver and back.

“I'm fine.” He smiled and held the kitchen door open for her. “You don't have Internet access here, do you? I'd like to check my email.”

Cecily hesitated; she wanted to get the chickens packed away, but ten minutes wouldn't hurt. “Let me wash my hands,” she said, dumping her bags on the counter.

“Thanks. I was thinking… Well, I need better clothes, if I don't want to freeze to death,” he said, leaning against the counter by the sink.

She looked over at him, taking in the casual-chic look of his pristine white button-down shirt and blue jeans that hugged his legs. It would be criminal to hide that body under warm, bulky clothes, but he'd never make it through winter like that. Realizing she was staring, she pulled her eyes away and turned on the water so she could scrub her hands. “The general store in Pinelake might have something, but if not, we'll either have to fly somewhere more populated or have something shipped.”

“Shipping is fine. I take it there's a post office somewhere nearby? Or does FedEx do supply drops here?” he teased, his low baritone making her shiver.

Her laugh was a little tense. “Pinelake has a post office. I'll get you the address for shipping,” she offered, drying her hands quickly. Then she went into the living room, hung her parka, and sat down at the desk.

She had to move the typewriter to clear space. “Did you want to use your computer?”

“If you don't mind.” When she nodded, he went to the bedroom, returning a moment later with his laptop bag.

Once he had the laptop on the desk, she showed him how to set everything up. A wall switch controlled power to the satellite dish and modem. She plugged the modem into Ian's sleek silver computer—about a quarter the thickness of her five-year-old laptop—and explained, “I mostly use it for email. Sorry, it's fairly slow.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

She quickly wrote down her mailing address in Pinelake. “You can ship whatever you want to this address,” she said, handing him the notepad. “It usually takes an extra day or two to get packages here. Think you can last until Thursday or Friday?”

“Only if no one else asks me if I like fishing,” he answered with a quick grin as he started to type. “One more suggestion of fishing, and I can't be held responsible for my actions.”

Cecily laughed. “So much for our plans tomorrow,” she said and went back to the kitchen to put the chickens away and start dinner.

***

Compared to Ian's high-speed connection back home the satellite was abysmally slow, but it was a lifeline to the outside world all the same. It took three minutes to sync his email, even though he'd synced it just yesterday. Mondays were always hellish at the office, though, so the backlog was no surprise.

He ordered his new clothes quickly, focusing on warmth rather than style. It wasn't as if he was going out to dinner every night. Not that he would mind taking Cecily out for a proper dinner. She wasn't emaciated and willowy, like so many women he dealt with. With her strong body and scrubbed-clean complexion and wavy red hair, though, she'd cut quite a figure in any crowd. He couldn't picture her in a dress, especially not the sort of ball gown meant for charity affairs, but a silk shirt and tight jeans and the right jewelry would definitely work for her.

The thought was more appealing than he'd expected. He considered the interested glances and the way Cecily had acted jealous of Mags's attention toward him, and then thought about the bleak months ahead.

Not so bleak, though, if he handled this properly. He couldn't count on Pinelake to have a properly stocked pharmacy and didn't want to be caught unprepared. He doubted that Cecily, living in isolation, was on the pill. Besides, he thought as he navigated to an online pharmacy, he needed more ibuprofen.

Once the orders were placed, he glanced back toward the kitchen. Cecily was still busy preparing dinner, so Ian turned his attention to the real reason he wanted Internet access. As a lawyer, Ian had learned all the tricks of background searches—credit reports, property and tax records, and computer-assisted legal research companies, to start. But he didn't want to use the bandwidth for a proper check, so he logged into Preston's corporate server and searched for “Knight, C.”

He wasn't surprised when the search returned more than a dozen files. His remote access was only sufficient for him to open three; the others were all government and military files that required biometric authentication at headquarters or an authorized Samaritan laptop. The first file was a debriefing form that was blank other than the officer's name: Captain C. Knight. The second was a heavily redacted copy of a U.S. Marine Corps after action report. He skimmed it, but all he could pick out were references to a combat engineer platoon. The third file was a video, strangely enough. Curious, Ian set the video to download—the idea of streaming a video over this connection made him cringe—and turned his attention to the papers on the desk while he waited.

Apparently, Cecily was writing a novel—a
children's
novel, judging by the short sentences and the frequent mention of dragons, elves, and magical swords. He read a few paragraphs at random and found himself caught up in the story. But at the bottom of the pile, the tone of the writing shifted abruptly, going from fantasy to the grim reality of war without warning. He flipped back and forth, looking at the pages, and finally noticed that the notation at the bottom of each page changed. The fantasy pages were marked
CK
, but these new pages had
X
at the bottom. So she was working on two books at once—two extremely different books.