Strangers in the Night (27 page)

“Okay.” He blew out a breath. “Before, when you told me you weren't on the pill, I didn't realize the odds. So what do you want to do? Stop taking chances, or take our chances?” Suddenly, impossibly, she felt him tremble. “Jesus,” he said, his voice shaking. “I've always been so fucking careful, and vice versa.”

“Do you feel reality nibbling?” Hope mumbled against his chest.

“Nibbling, hell. I've got fang marks on my ass.” He trembled again. “The hell of it is … Hope—I like the idea.”

Oh, God. In despair, Hope pressed her face tight against him. He couldn't be a killer, he simply couldn't, not and treat her so sweetly, and tremble at the thought of being a father. He would have to have a split personality, to be both the man she knew and the man she feared he could be.

“Your call,” he said.

He was aroused. She could feel the hard bulge of his erection. Talking about the possibility of pregnancy hadn't scared him, it had turned him on, just the way she had felt earlier, knowing they were making love without protection. And her body was already so attuned to him, so responsive to his sexuality, that she felt the inner tightening of her own desire. She was shocked at herself, but helpless to kill her reaction. All she could do was refuse to satisfy her need.

Her mouth was dry from tension, and she tried to work up some saliva. “We—we should be careful,” she managed to say, thankful he had given her this out. Even if he was one of the other escaped prisoners and not the one considered so dangerous, it would be criminally irresponsible of her to continue sleeping with him. She had already been irresponsible enough. She could live with what she had already done, but it couldn't continue.

“All right.” Reluctantly he released her. His face was tense. “Call me when lunch is ready. I'm going to go shovel some more snow.”

Hope stood where she was until she heard the
door slam behind him; then she covered her face with her hands and weakly sagged against the washing machine. Please, please, she prayed, let the telephone service be restored soon. She didn't know if she could stand another hour of this, much less
days
. She wanted to weep. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab him and slam him against the wall and yell at him for being stupid and getting himself in trouble to begin with. Most of all, she wanted none of this to be true. She wanted to be completely mistaken in every conclusion she had reached.

She wanted Price.

W
hile the stew was warming in the microwave, Hope took the batteries out of the radio and hid them in one of her lidded saucepans. She checked the phone, but wasn't surprised when she didn't hear a dial tone. The wind had died only a couple of hours ago, so the utility crews wouldn't have had a chance yet to begin work in her area; they would have to work behind the road crews.

The bus wreck, she thought, must have happened before the weather got so bad, otherwise no one would yet know about it. The authorities had had time to reach the scene and ascertain the two
deputies were dead, as well as recapture two of the escaped prisoners. Price might not have eluded them if the blizzard hadn't interfered. The radio report had said the bus ran off the road during the storm, but what was reported wasn't always accurate, and the timing of events didn't really matter.

The microwave
pinged
. Hope checked the stew, then set the timer for another two minutes. She could hear the thud of the shovel against the wooden porch, but Price was working on a section that wasn't in view of the windows.

If she could hear the shovel, could he have heard the radio earlier?

Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she sank weakly into a chair. Was he that good an actor?

This was making her crazy. The only way she could make it through was to stop second-guessing herself. It didn't matter whether Price was a murderer or a more ordinary criminal, she had to turn him in. She couldn't torment herself wondering what he knew or guessed, she had to proceed as best she could.

She thought of the rifle again and hastily left the chair to return to her father's bedroom, to search more thoroughly for the bullets. She
couldn't afford to waste any of these precious minutes of privacy.

The box of cartridges wasn't in any of the bureau drawers. Hope looked around the room, hoping instinct would tell her the most likely hiding place—or the most unlikely. But the room was just an ordinary room, without secret panels or hidden drawers, or anything like that. She went to the bed and ran her hands under the pillows and mattress, but came up empty again.

She was pushing her luck by remaining any longer, so she hurried back to the kitchen and began setting the table. She had just finished when she heard Price stomping the snow off his boots, and the door opened.

“Damn, it's cold!” he said, shuddering as he shed his coat and sat down to pull off his heavy boots. His face was red from exposure. Despite the cold he had worked up a sweat, and a frosting of ice coated his forehead. It melted immediately in the warmth of the house, trickling down his temples.

He wiped the moisture away with his sleeve, then added another log to the fire and held his hands out to the blaze, rubbing them briskly to restore circulation.

“I'll make another pot of coffee, if you want some,” Hope called as she set the large bowl of stew on the table. “Otherwise, you have a choice of milk or water.”

“Water will do.” He took the same kitchen chair he had used earlier. Tink, who hadn't been allowed out with Price the second time, left his spot by the fire and came to stand beside Price's chair. With a hopeful look in his eyes, he rested his muzzle on Price's thigh.

Price froze in the midst of ladling a large amount of beef stew into his bowl. He looked down at the soulful brown eyes watching him, and slanted a quick look at Hope. “Am I eating out of his bowl?”

“No, he's just giving you a guilt complex.”

“It's working.”

“He's had a lot of practice. Tink, come here.” She patted her own thigh, but he ignored her, evidently having concluded Price was a softer touch.

Price spooned some of the stew to his mouth, but didn't take the bite. He looked down at Tink. Tink looked at him. Price returned the spoon to his bowl. “For God's sake, do something,” he muttered to Hope.

“Tink, come here,” she repeated, reaching for the stubborn dog.

Abruptly Tink whirled away from Price, his ears pricked forward as he faced the kitchen door. He didn't bark, but every muscle in his body quivered with alertness.

Price was out of his chair so fast Hope didn't have time to blink. With his left hand he dragged her out of her chair and whirled her behind him, at the same time reaching behind his back, drawing the pistol from his waistband.

She stood paralyzed for a second, a second in which Price seemed to be listening as intently as Tink. Then he put one hand on her shoulder and forced her down on the floor beside the china cabinet, and with a motion of his hand told her to stay there. Noiseless in his stockinged feet, he moved over to the window in the dining area, flattening his back to the wall as he reached it. She watched as he eased his head to the edge of the window, moving just enough so that he could see out with one eye. He immediately drew back, then after a moment eased forward for another look.

A low growl began in Tink's throat. Price made another motion with his hand, and without thinking,
Hope reached out and dragged her pet closer to her, wrapping her arms around him, though she didn't know what she could do to keep him from barking. Hold his muzzle, maybe, but he was strong enough that she wouldn't be able to hold him if he wanted to pull free.

What was she doing? she wondered wildly. What if it were law officers out there? They couldn't have tracked Price through the blizzard, but they could be searching any places where he might have found shelter.

But would deputies be on foot, or would they use snowmobiles? She hadn't heard the distinctive roar of the machines, and surely the cold was too dangerous for anyone to be out in it any length of time, anyway.

There were also two other escaped prisoners unaccounted for; would Price be as alarmed if one or both of them were out there? Had he seen anything? There might not be anything out there but a pine cone falling, or a squirrel venturing from its den and knocking some snow off a tree limb.

“I didn't check the cabins,” Price muttered savagely to himself. “God damn it, I didn't check the cabins!”

“I locked them up yesterday,” Hope said, keeping her voice low.

“Locks don't mean anything.” He tilted his head, listening, then made another motion for her to be quiet.

Tink quivered under her hand. Hope trembled too, her thoughts racing. If anyone had stayed last night in one of the cabins, he wasn't a deputy, because a deputy would already have come to the house. That left another escapee. Praying she was right, she clamped her hand around the dog's muzzle and hugged him close to her, whispering an apology.

Tink began fighting her immediately, squirming to get free. “Hold him,” Price mouthed silently, easing toward the kitchen door.

From where she crouched beside the china cabinet, Hope couldn't see the door, and she had her hands full with Tink. The door exploded inward, crashing against the wall. She screamed and jumped, and lost her grip on Tink. He tore away from her, his paws sliding on the wood floor as he launched himself toward the unseen intruder.

The shot was deafening. Instinctively she hit the floor, still unable to see what was happening,
her ears ringing, the sharp stench of burned cordite stinging her nostrils. A hard thud in the kitchen was followed by the shattering of glass. Her ears cleared enough for her to hear the savage sounds of two men fighting, the grunts and curses and thuds of fists on flesh. Tink's snarls added to the din, and she caught a flash of golden fur as he darted into the fray.

She scrambled to her feet and ran for the rifle. Price knew it was unloaded, but the other person wouldn't.

With the heavy weapon in her hands, she charged back toward the kitchen. As she rounded the cabinets, a heavy body slammed into her, knocking her down. The sharp edge of the counter dug into her shoulder, making her arm go numb, and the rifle slipped from her hand as she landed hard on her back. She cried out in angry pain, grabbing for the rifle and struggling up on one knee.

Price and a stranger strained together in vicious combat, sprawled half on the cabinets. Each man had a pistol, and each had his free hand locked around the other's wrist as they fought for control. They slammed sideways, knocking over her canister
set and sending it to the floor. A cloud of flour flew over the room to settle like a powdery shroud over every surface. Price's foot slipped on the flour, and he lost leverage; the stranger rolled, heaving Price to the side. The momentum tore Price's fingers from the stranger's wrist, freeing the pistol.

Hope felt herself moving, scrambling to grab the man's hand, but she felt half paralyzed with horror; everything was in slow motion, and she knew she wouldn't get there before the man could bring the pistol down and pull the trigger.

Tink shot forward, low to the ground, and sank his teeth into the man's leg.

He screamed with pain and shock, and with his other foot kicked Tink in the head. The dog skidded across the floor, yelping.

Price gathered himself and lunged for the man, the impact carrying them both crashing into the table. The table overturned, chairs broke, chunks of meat and potatoes and carrots scattered across the floor. The two men went down, Price on top. The other man's head banged hard against the floor, momentarily stunning him. Price took swift advantage, driving his elbow into the man's solar plexus, and when the man convulsed, gasping, followed
up with a short, savage punch under the chin that snapped the man's teeth together. Before he recovered from that, Price had the pistol barrel digging into the soft hollow below his ear.

The man froze.

“Drop the gun, Clinton,” Price said in a very soft voice, between gulps of air. “
Now
, or I pull the trigger.”

Clinton dropped the gun. Price reached out with his left hand and swiped the weapon back toward himself, pinning it under his left leg. Tucking his own pistol in his waistband, he grabbed Clinton with both hands and literally lifted him off the floor, turning him and slamming him down on his belly. Hope saw Clinton brace his hands, and she stepped forward, shoving the rifle barrel in his face. “Don't,” she said.

Clinton slowly relaxed.

Price flicked a glance at the rifle, but he didn't say anything. He wasn't going to reveal it wasn't loaded, Hope realized, but neither would she let on that she knew it. Let him assume she didn't know.

Price dragged Clinton's arms behind his back and held them with one hand, then took the pistol
out of his waistband, jamming the barrel against the base of Clinton's skull. “Move one inch,” he said in a low, guttural tone, “and I'll blow your fucking head off. Hope.” He didn't look at her. “Do you have any thin rope? Scarves will do, if you don't.”