Survival Instinct (4 page)

Off on the ridge, Dewey got to his feet, glanced back at Karin with another acknowledging wave of his tail, and trotted down toward the end of the wooded hill. “He’s okay,” Karin said, before Dave could ask. “Just a squirrel or maybe a snake.”

“A snake,” Dave said, quite abruptly checking the ground at his feet. “You’re not just saying that to—”

“Copperheads,” Karin said cheerfully. “Rattlers. We got ’em. And who is this Owen guy, anyway? Your brother?”

He lifted his head to stare at her. “How did you—”

“Because you talked to him like a brother,” she told him briskly, pulling the pail out from under Agatha so the goat could finish eating in peace. The kid eased warily around her legs; Karin dipped a finger in the milk and gave it to him. “Like a big brother, actually. A big brother who can supply a safe house. Now there’s something you don’t find every day.”

“No.” Dave’s features closed down.
No trespassing.

Except she’d never been one to heed the signs.
Stay off the grass, no trespassing, members only
…those were for people who didn’t bother to get around them. Karin did what she needed to accomplish her goals, signs or no signs. “What’s that about?” she asked. “You two don’t get along?”

He shook his head, short and sharp. “It’s irrelevant.”

“Oh-ho,” she said, scratching the kid behind the ears and heading for the gate, a solid wood slat gate that stood up under any goat onslaught. “You think you can break into my life, bring along some goons, push me about lost memories I have no desire to regain, and then draw the line at answering a question or two? I don’t think so.” She felt not a moment’s guilt that they weren’t her memories. It was her life now, and that was enough. “Fair’s fair, Mr. Hunter.”

His impatience turned to outright annoyance. “That’s the way it is. I’m the investigator, you’re the witness. One of us asks questions, and the other answers.”

She gave him one of Ellen’s shrugs just to keep him off balance; made her voice into Ellen’s softer tones. “Except you’re not in the best position to make the rules, are you? You can’t even go to the FBI—not until you have the proof you need. So really, whether I feel like helping depends on you.”

Dave jerked his gaze to hers, eyes deep with disbelief. “A little boy’s life—!”

“Exactly,” she said. He stared; she added another shrug.

He shook his head. “You’re not like you were,” he said, out loud for the first time, though Karin knew he’d been thinking it. Just as well. Face the issue head-on.

“Yeah,” she told him. “You might say it was a life-changing accident.”

True enough.

He narrowed his eyes. “If you really don’t want to cooperate, I can just walk away. Leave you here. Of course, I don’t think you’d be alone for long.”

Karin couldn’t help it—she burst into laughter.
Not this man.
She knew that much already. “But you wouldn’t.”

He stared at her a moment longer and then broke away, muttering a series of indecipherable words under his breath. French words. Huh. He looked as if he wanted something to hit, but even in the height of the moment obviously realized he’d only break his hand on the stout post beside which he stood. He repeated the curse and turned back to her—hands on his hips, and completed the Ralph Lauren Polo model image with the simmering anger behind his glare. “Owen and I ‘get along’ just fine. I was supposed to go into the family business. I didn’t. He hasn’t given up.”

And what, exactly, was the family business?

But she’d pushed enough for now. She didn’t want him on edge. She wanted him confident and comfortable with her. She wanted him off guard and trusting…and she wanted that space so he wouldn’t see it coming when she walked away.

Chapter 5

D
ave looked as though he didn’t quite believe she’d let the conversation drop. He didn’t move as she headed toward the house. She had to reach Amy Lynn and leave credit with her at the farm store…and she’d call the farm store and let them know this particular part-timer wouldn’t be in to work this week.

For starters.

Myriad things ran across Karin’s mind as she opened the gate, slipped through and latched it again. Which way to run. When to do it. She glanced at his pistol and considered the impulse to acquire it before she left.

He’d been watching her with silent and somewhat wary attention, but now his head snapped around, responsive to Dewey’s angry bark.

Karin said, “It doesn’t have to mean anything. We get kids cutting through now and then. They tease him sometimes.”

Dave did a double take of horror. “They
tease
him?”

She knew it wasn’t for Dewey’s sake; he just figured the kids must be insane. “Shh,” she said out loud. “I’m listening.” Trying to gauge…yes. Dewey was heading for the house. “Probably not kids,” she said out loud, and then did a quick count on her fingers. “If that guy dropped his pal off at the county hospital and came right back…”

“Timing’s right?”

She nodded, met his gaze. “Especially if he opened the car door, shoved his friend out and turned around.” She scowled in the direction of the house, a view obscured by winter trees. “He must think I’m an idiot, if he supposes I’m still there.”

Dave cleared his throat. “You
are
still here.”

She waved him off. “I’m
here.
That’s different. Besides, even if I was there, I’d be
ready.
” She spoke more glibly than she felt; the barking clearly came from the yard, and she could only hope Dewey’s dislike of guns would keep him safe.

She suddenly realized that Dave had unsnapped his holster, already turning toward the house. “Hey,” she said. “No!”

“You want to wait for him to find us?”

“I think I can keep that from happening.” She took his hand, leading him on the narrow path between the barn and the currently unoccupied pigsty. He didn’t resist, his fingers firm on hers; when they parted, she’d smell of gun oil.

When they emerged from between the two outbuildings, she gestured at the small, crooked building at the end of the path. The grass and weeds grew more heavily here, and the woods had crept up to enfold the building. At one corner, a stunted-looking tree embraced the narrow wood slats, drooping over the door. “There’s the spot,” she told him. She tucked the half-full milk pail behind the goat shed, behind the rain barrel there. “Come on. Even if he comes looking, he’ll never find us here.” Not to mention the way he’d pay for his snooping.

“He won’t find us, because…there’s an interdimensional transport inside that building? It’s damned sure not big enough for hiding.”

“Have faith,” she said, and tugged his hand. He pulled free to head for the shed door, one hand already reaching to brush away the leaves.

“No!” she said sharply, relaxing somewhat as he heeded her tone and stopped short. “Definitely a city boy.”

“Mostly,” he agreed, glancing behind them as the barking grew louder. Closer. “Not always, but…it’s been a while.”

A year ago, Karin had been the city girl. Immersion learning—and one bad rash—had taught her this particular trick of nature. “It’s poison ivy. That door doesn’t open anyway—that’s the beauty of it. Come on around back.” She caught his hand again and tugged.

This time he came less readily, still staring at the drooping leaves. “That’s a
tree,
” he said, disbelief coloring his tone.

“It’s a big happy bush,” Karin told him, and tugged harder. “I leave it alone and it leaves me alone. Come
on
—if that guy’s serious, he’s going to find his way here fast enough.”

He followed, if not happily. “I can handle him.”

“Oh, be smart. Why bother?” She led him to the shadowed back side of the building, barely accessible within a thatch of staghorn sumac. A small door in the far corner had been meant for chickens. “See? There’s our way in.”

“You’re kidding.” His voice held utter disbelief. “It’s a pet door. Do I look pet door–size to you?”

She gave him a deliberate, critical squint. It would be tight, all right. Whipcord lean wouldn’t do him much good when it came to those shoulders. Still, there was a bright side. “You look…flexible.”

“I—” He stopped, apparently truly without words, and said, “You go. Get out of sight.” He looked over his shoulder, as if he expected their visitor to make an appearance at any moment. “I’ll take care of—”

She gave his hand a yank to cut him off. “Really? Are you going to shoot him? That’d be nice and inconspicuous.”

Noisy, that’s what it would be. Noisy in an official way, a law-enforcement-looking-closely-at-Karin-being-Ellen way, when Karin-being-Karin had a California felony warrant hanging over her head.

“He’s going to come back if he doesn’t find us, too.”

“Right. And then we’ll be
gone.
So give me your jacket and pull off that holster and take your damn car keys out of your pocket if that’s what it takes, but get in there!”

Definitely closer, that barking. Definitely heading this way.

Dave closed his eyes, said his bad word under his breath and shoved his jacket at her. She thought he’d lose a little skin. Definitely put a tear in that sleek shirt. “Let me go first—I can help.”

“Fine,” he grunted, unclipping his holster and moving faster as Dewey’s furious barking marked their visitor’s progress. “If I can’t make it, you’ll already be in.”

“You’ll make it,” she promised him. And they might even both fit inside, hidden among the junk and old feed sacks barely visible through a proverbial knothole. She’d meant to get that door unjammed and get this place cleaned out, but now…

Just as well she hadn’t.

She shoved the little door open with a terrific squeak of hinge. A glance behind showed Dave drawing himself up with tension, the holster in one hand, the Ruger in the other. Yeah. Getting closer. Bless that dog, anyway—smart enough to keep from getting hurt, persistent enough to let them know just where the interloper was.

Even so, she jammed a stick through the door first and listened for the sound of movement. She had no wish to come face-to-face with some rodent, but even more she didn’t want to come fang-to-fang with a copperhead. Then as she pulled herself into the small available space—a dim enclosure turned into a visual zigzag of tools and old shovel handles and buckets and straps and items that defied identity at a glance—she felt a firm hand on her posterior.

A shove, if it had to be said. He planted his palm solidly on her ass and pushed.

Karin sputtered dirt and cobwebs and pulled herself along, tossing the jacket to the side so she could bring her feet through and angle herself out of the way, quickly arranging the shed contents—the pails, the musty burlap feed bags, old chicken wire—between the front door’s knothole and their small retreat.

Dave didn’t hesitate; he stuck his hand through, gun and all. Karin neatly relieved him of it and tugged. For Dewey was at the goat shed and still barking, and Dave, angling his shoulders through the door, had taken on a sudden look of desperation. Karin turned to face him, braced her legs against the sturdiest parts of the old foundation footers, and grabbed his arm for one swift, powerful yank.

Dave made a soft, pained grunt of protest, something ripped…and he popped through. His legs followed quickly enough. They took opposite corners along the back wall, scrunching down low, legs stretched out calf to thigh and cramped at that. Karin padded her back with the until-now very nice suit jacket, and pulled the Ruger out to rest on her stomach.

Dave gestured for it; she ignored him. She squinted at the engraved model number on the slide. P95DAO. Double action only semiautomatic, a 9-round clip, no external safety. That meant a long, hard trigger pull and release, but she could do that. As long as there was a bullet in the chamber, she could fire this gun any time she wanted—with haste or deliberation.

Dewey had moved into the old pigsty, still barking. Not a frantic bark, but an angry one. Karin exchanged a long glance with Dave, sinking even farther into her corner. He held out his hand, twisting sideways to stay low and behind the screen of junk she’d created; this time she handed over the gun. His fingers curled around the grip with easy familiarity, his trigger finger resting over the guard.

He didn’t like hiding this way. That was plain enough. He wanted to go out there, confront the man and get this over with. As relaxed as the hand around the Ruger might be, the rest of him fairly trembled with tension—a condition that Karin knew very much for certain, given the juxtaposition of their legs.

The building gave a sudden little shudder. Karin jumped, unprepared for the intruder to be
here.
She shrank inside her skin, trying to grow small, except her heart had suddenly grown bigger, pounding so hard there couldn’t possibly be room for it.
Be small. Be very small.

Dave lifted his chin, just enough to catch her attention. Just enough so he could nod at her, a bare fraction of reassurance that somehow made a difference.

The old henhouse gave another shudder. The brute, trying to yank the door open. No way. It would take a shovel and crowbar to clear that thing. But she could easily picture the man—one hand yanking at the door, one hand braced against the door frame. Braced against the huge old poison ivy bush, grown to treelike proportions. She smiled.

Dave must have thought she was losing it. He put a hand on her lower leg, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Even with the building shifting around them and dirt raining from disturbed cracks between slats, she still smiled.

Another thirty-six hours and this man’s hands would be swollen with a weeping rash. If Barret Longsford wanted men hunting Ellen Sommers, he’d have to send out a new crew.

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

That thought took the smile off her face, all right. She was going to have to hide out for weeks, maybe even months. She’d lose her planting season, and she might have to give away the livestock. The thought made her downright grim.

Dave’s hand squeezed her leg again, and she scowled at him.
I’m not frightened, you overprotective caveman—I’m mad.
As mad at Dave Hunter as anyone. Mad at Ellen, too, for not warning her about this boyfriend.

Not that she’d had a lot of time to talk.

Another jerk on the door, this one in frustration. And then, unexpectedly, something slammed up against the wall beside Karin’s head. She jumped, nearly levitating, and only barely avoided a startled squeak. Had he simply been frustrated? Or maybe even trying to flush them out. Maybe they’d left too many clues. Even a city boy could read crushed grass.

An equally startling voice bellowed, “Damn dog, shut up!”

Shortly thereafter, Dewey did.
God, please let him be all right.
Please let that mean the intruder was moving away. She started to sit up and Dave squeezed her leg again, kept his hand tight until she looked his way and he could shake his head. She responded in kind, a denial, and he leaned forward enough so she could hear his barely vocalized words. “We’ll be sitting ducks when we leave this place. We have to know he’s gone.”

Okay. Score one for him. Karin settled back against the slats and observed that he’d acquired an artistic slash of dirt across one cheek, but the cobweb in his hair just looked yucky.

And then the sheep darted across their paddock, the soft tickety sound of their cloven hooves catching Karin’s ear; the cow, too, trotted heavily away.
The goats
. Edith’s bell rang wildly, her startled bleat cutting through the air.

This time Karin did sit up, straight up. “Son of a bitch!” she whispered. “He’s not messing with my goats!”

He sat up to grab her arms, neatly trapping her. “No,” he said.
“We can’t leave now.”

“We damn well can!” So what if hiding had been her idea in the first place. She wasn’t about to sit back and listen to the man mess with her livestock. She jerked against Dave’s grip, accomplishing nothing, and subsided to a glare. Just for the moment, but it was long enough for him to lean close.

“Listen,” he said, his voice low.

“Listen, nothing. Hiding only works as long as he’s not taking it out on—”

“No, I mean…
listen.
” He cocked his head.

Karin swallowed a protest and closed her eyes, shutting out the visual distraction.

Silence.

“He’s not hanging around,” Dave murmured.

She opened her eyes again, drawn smack into his gaze. Even in this dim light, his eyes seemed bright. “Dammit,” she whispered. “I should have known better.”

And she should have. She was raised to know better—she was raised to play the games herself. She took a deep breath; his hands on her arms relaxed. “Ow,” she said, feeling it then. “That big carnival geek already left his mark on that arm.”

“Sorry.” He looked abashed and gently rubbed the arm in question. “Carnival geek?”

“Yeah, one of those guys who bites the heads off live chickens.” She scowled. “He’d better not—”

He grinned, ducked his head. The cobweb looked back at her, tangled in hair cut just a little too long to be conservative, just a little too scruffed. “I’m sure your chickens are safe.”

“Easy for you to say.” The scowl deepened. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten why all this is happening. You got ol’ Barret worried—you made him come looking. He’s been out of my life since before the accident, and now he’s back and not in a good way. And
then
—” she narrowed her eyes even more “—you put your
hand
on my
ass
and you
pushed
.”

He took said hand off her arm and regarded it in a bemused way. Then he looked up at her, no visible regret. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

When had they gotten this close?

The moment he got here.