Running Blind (35 page)

“So show me how to fight dirty.” Her initial eagerness had faded, to be replaced by determination.

So, for almost two hours, he did. The first thing he got out of the way was how to kick a man in the balls—not with her foot, and not at a distance. Instead she was supposed to grab the guy by the shirt and haul him in close, which was usually the last thing the guy was expecting and knocked him off balance, then
hold him there
while she repeatedly hammered his crotch with her knee. She was careful not to actually hammer him, and he was extra careful not to get hammered, but she got the idea. Grabbing a guy instead of trying to get away was a twist she hadn’t expected, so she could see how the move would work.

He taught her how to gouge an eye (thumb) and hit the larynx (knuckles or the edge of her hand). The thought of gouging someone in the eye grossed her out, until she imagined it was Brad’s eye, and that took care of any squeamishness. Zeke didn’t think she’d be able to crush anyone’s larynx except by accident, but she could still make her target choke, which would let her get away.

He also taught her that her legs were her strongest muscles, and how to use them if she got knocked down, how to lie on her side and kick for the knees and groin. The whole idea of everything he showed her was to disable
her attacker enough to let her get away. She wasn’t strong enough or expert enough to take on anyone in a physical fight and expect to win, so simply running was the best outcome for her.

There were a few holds he showed her how to break, and if someone caught her from behind how to bend down, grab the guy’s ankle, and jerk upward so the attacker landed on his ass. The physical exercise was more demanding than she’d expected, and soon they were both sweating. At first she paid rapt attention through the demonstrations and practice repetitions, but the physical reality of such tutoring was a lot of touching, of feeling Zeke’s arms around her in his mock attacks, and the hard, muscled length of his body against her. The soft fabric of his pants didn’t do anything to hide the thickening erection that pushed against her bottom, or her crotch, depending on the position of the move he was showing her.

Concentrating became harder and harder, right along with his penis, and finally she stopped even trying. Leaning back against him, she gripped his thick wrists and closed her eyes. “I think I’ve lost my motivation.”

“Is that so?” His tone was low and rough. His arms tightened around her, pulling her more snugly against him, and one big hand slid under the edge of her T-shirt to flatten on the smooth flesh of her stomach. He rested it there a moment, rubbing his fingertips lightly on her skin, then slicked his hand downward, sliding it under her loose waistband. His thumb circled her navel, then with two deliberate moves he had her pants sliding down her legs to pool around her knees. “Looks like your motivation isn’t all you’re losing.”

He bent his head and his mouth moved slow and hot over the side of her neck, and just like that she was ready for him, her heartbeat thundering, her breath panting out fast and deep. She lifted one arm and curved it back, resting her hand on the back of his neck, feeling the heat
pouring off his body, the hard pads of muscle even there. Her posture offered up her breasts and he took them, covering them with his rough palms, catching her upright nipples between his fingers and gently, at first, pulling them even tighter. Then his fingers tightened and the pulling wasn’t quite so gentle, and she didn’t care. Hot prickles of sensation speared from her nipples straight to her vagina, to her entire body. Every muscle in her tightened, clamping down, and she gave a hoarse cry at her emptiness.

Either her cry was a signal or he’d zoomed from zero to a hundred the same way she had. Swiftly he turned her, clamped his hands on her waist, and boosted her over his shoulder. Dizzily she clung to him as he took the stairs up to his bedroom and deposited her on the bed. He stripped her pants and underwear the rest of the way off, tugged her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. While he was doing that she was fighting his clothes, trying to get his shirt up and off, his pants down and off, or at least enough that she could get her hands on him.

He didn’t give her a chance, sliding between her legs and reaching down between them to guide his penis into place at her opening. Carlin took a deep breath and stilled, her eyes almost shut, holding herself ready for that hot, penetrating slide of flesh into her. It came, not slow as he sometimes did, but deep and a little rough. There it was, the magic of feeling him enter her, the stretching of her body around him, the heat and clinging and something else, something
more
, something exciting and precious and terrifying.

And afterward, when she was limp from coming, when every muscle was shaking with fatigue and all she wanted to do was curl up in his arms and not move again until she had to get up and cook breakfast, she had to force herself to crawl out of his arms, out of the warm, tangled covers, and search for her clothes.

“Sleep here tonight,” he said, the iron in his tone telling her he didn’t like it one bit that she refused to spend the night with him, and that he wasn’t getting resigned to sleeping alone.

“No, I can’t,” she said, though she could have cried from the depth of her longing to do just what he wanted. “It’s too dangerous.” Then she hurried out of the room before she began crying, and he realized she wasn’t talking about the danger of some of the hands maybe seeing them together. She’d checked that the doors were locked so that wasn’t going to happen. The real danger was to herself, and she was way, way too late to stop it.

T
HE DAYS TICKED
past. All in all, Carlin felt ridiculously content. She was happy to stay indoors when it was so cold simply breathing was dangerous. Chili was simmering in the slow cooker, and the hot ham and cheese sandwiches that would accompany it wouldn’t take any time at all to throw together. She’d thought about trying a recipe for chocolate cobbler, but decided to stick with something she knew would be a success: cookies. Zeke was a sucker for homemade chocolate chip cookies.

And she was a sucker for him. Now and then she tried to talk herself out of getting too deeply involved, but it was much too late for that. She was crazy about him. The sex was great, but there was more. That human connection she’d been searching for, and had found, tied her to him in a way she hadn’t expected.

And it was … nice.

Carlin heard the crackle of the radio from Zeke’s office, where he’d been at work for a couple of hours. She couldn’t tell what was being said, but it could be anything: cows being moved, a fence down, a truck or some other kind of equipment broken down. She’d even heard
the question “What’s for supper?” crackling over that two-way radio a time or twelve.

Minutes later, Zeke all but ran though the kitchen, a rifle in his hand. She’d never seen him armed, beyond their shooting lessons, and immediately her heart jumped into her throat and stayed there.

She followed him into the mudroom. “What’s wrong?”

He handed her the rifle, and she held it as he pulled on boots. “Wolves.” He continued to prepare himself to leave, with a heavy coat, hat, and gloves.

Carlin swallowed before repeating his single, alarming word. “Wolves? Shouldn’t you stay inside if there are
wolves
out there?”

He smiled at her, leaned down, and planted a quick and familiar kiss on her mouth. “City girl,” he said.

“Insane man!” she countered as he took the rifle from her. “Who goes out looking for wolves?”

“They killed a cow. We have to take care of this now.” He glanced over his shoulder as he headed out the door. “Lock it behind me. Spencer and Walt are going with me, and there’s no reason for anyone else to head this way before it’s time for supper.”

After he was gone, she flipped the deadbolt with a vengeance, and pursed her mouth as she watched Zeke cross the space between the house and the bunkhouse in long, easy strides. Weren’t there wolf exterminators in this part of the country? Why did Zeke have to be the one riding out looking for hairy, fanged predators? Walt could do it, or Spencer … no, Spencer would probably want to adopt any furry animals he ran across, even if they threatened to eat him alive. She stood there for a few minutes, worried about all three of them, before she returned to the kitchen. Zeke did it because he was the boss, because it was his land and his responsibility, and he took care of what was his.

Carlin wondered if they’d take an all-terrain vehicle or horses. She wondered what would happen if one of the men got thrown, if a wolf might spook one of the horses and cause an accident. In her mind she could see Zeke going toe to toe … well, toe to paw … with a wolf. In her mind, a series of things went wrong. The rifle didn’t fire, the wolf leaped, claws and fangs flashing, and Zeke ended up on the ground, bloody and torn. What if there was more than one wolf that attacked? What if Spencer and Walt weren’t fast enough to save him?

Oh, shit. She needed to get one of the guns and go help, just to guard him.

Except they were already gone.

She finally sat at the kitchen table and forced herself to stop acting nuts. Zeke was perfectly capable, more capable than any man she’d ever known. His rifle was going to work just fine. He’d probably done this a hundred times … she just hadn’t been here to wait and worry.

While she was waiting she might as well do something, so she made two batches of cookies: the chocolate chip Zeke liked and oatmeal-raisin because that was what she preferred. Sitting was impossible, and cooking kept her hands and her mind busy … most of the time. Possible disastrous scenarios ran through her mind, though she did try to keep her mind on what she was doing and not on what they might or might not be doing.

It had been a very long time since she’d had anyone in her life to worry about on a daily basis.

Finally she heard them drive up, and a little while later she heard his footsteps. Before he could unlock the door she was there, opening the door, checking out the little bit of exposed skin she could see for scratches, scrapes, blood. He looked fine. More than fine, he looked great—and annoyed.

“Didn’t find ’em, huh?” she said, being very careful not to give too much of herself away. It wouldn’t do for
Zeke to know that she’d been half-wild with worry for him.

“No.” He handed her the rifle and began to peel off his outerwear. “We’ll head back out early tomorrow. We have a good idea of where they’ll be, we just ran out of daylight.”

Great. She’d worry all over again! Not that she could let him see her concern. Their relationship was supposed to be employee to employer … and sex. No worrying, no taking on each other’s problems.

If she took on his, then he’d probably feel obligated to take hers on, as well.

She walked into the kitchen, still holding the rifle. Instead of handing the weapon back to Zeke she propped it in the corner—carefully—then turned to face him. Her arms snaked around his neck. His arms went around her.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

His eyebrows raised slightly. “We weren’t gone all that long.”

Long enough. Too long. “I made cookies.”

He smiled. “I smell ’em. Maybe you should miss me more often.”

He lifted her; she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“The guys will be in soon for supper,” Zeke said, nuzzling her neck and sounding almost angry at the timing.

“This is true.” She kissed him on the side of the neck.

“Maybe I should just deadbolt the door and let them fend for themselves. One night won’t hurt ’em. I think there’s some tuna in the bunkhouse pantry. Crackers, too. Now, there’s a balanced meal.”

Zeke’s suggestion was tempting, even if he was kidding. At least, she thought he was kidding.

“You get a quick shower,” Carlin said as he reluctantly placed her on her feet. “We’ll get everyone fed and out the door in no time.”

And once they were alone again they wouldn’t talk about wolves or Brad or the rapidly approaching spring.

M
AYBE BECAUSE THEY
spent a few energetic hours before Carlin slipped out of his bed to go back to her own room—and, damn it, he wished to hell she’d quit doing that—the next morning didn’t start quite as it normally did.

Zeke knew something was wrong before he reached the kitchen. The lights weren’t on, there was no scent of freshly brewed coffee to draw him in that direction, and all was quiet. Well, shit.

Either Carlin had overslept or she’d bolted in the night. He didn’t think she’d leave, not now, or at least not without saying something. But … damn, what if she had? He’d been so tired last night after she’d gone to her own bedroom that he’d slept like a dead man until the alarm went off.

No, he wouldn’t let himself think that. For one thing, since the accident she’d been extremely leery—and with good reason—about driving on icy roads. If there was any moisture on the roads, they froze over every night. If she were going to leave, she’d do it at high noon, after the ice had melted on the roads.

He headed down the hallway to her rooms. Her door was closed, which wasn’t a surprise. He knocked, called out. “Carlin!” No response.

Hell,
had
she left in the middle of the night, despite the ice? His own blood felt like ice as he tried the doorknob. Locked. That wasn’t a surprise, given her fondness for deadbolts. Relief flooded through him, because unless she’d gone out the window, that meant she was in there.

He pounded on the door and called her name, louder this time. He finally heard her on the other side of the
door, and started grinning. Not that he could make out every word, but there were several “Oh, shits,” followed by a slightly frantic, “Coming!”

The door opened, and Carlin darted past him, a rumpled, wild-haired frenzy in a blue bathrobe.

“I overslept!” she yelped without looking back. “Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit!”

He followed her at a slower pace, relieved that she was still here, strangely attracted by her fresh-out-of-bed messiness. He stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her blast around like a crazed hummingbird—a very sexy hummingbird, with sleep-flushed cheeks, blond hair falling this way and that, and those pajamas clinging to her ass and boobs as she moved around. Her robe didn’t do much to conceal, well, anything. The hem flipped and danced as she got to work.