Fugitive. Shirlee McCoyЧитать онлайн книгу.
TWO
Cold.
Hot.
Logan wasn’t sure which he was, but he was shaking violently, his teeth knocking together.
He shouldn’t have sent Laney away. She had a Jeep, a way off the mountain. All he had were frozen fingers and leaden feet, but he couldn’t pull her into his troubles. Couldn’t risk her life in an effort to save his own.
Laney. Grown up and confident, her soft green eyes looking straight into his. It had been thirteen years since he’d handed her two thousand dollars and a bus ticket to Seattle, but he’d have known her anywhere. Her pretty face and solemn eyes. Her white-blond hair that had only darkened a little as she’d grown older. He’d seen her in the window of her parents’ oversize home the day that he’d arrived at Mildred and Josiah Mackey’s place. He’d been nearly fifteen and in so much trouble that a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was the only place that would have him. He hadn’t been interested in the tiny little blonde with her perfect hair and perfect life. Until he’d realized that nothing about Laney’s life was perfect. Then, he’d wanted nothing more than to free her from the prison in which she lived.
He wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders, the memories more vivid than they should have been. Hypothermia?
Probably.
He’d warm up, though. Find some way to rid himself of the cuffs. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he had unlimited time. The police were already on the hunt. So were the men who’d run the cruiser off the road. He had to warm up quickly and get moving again. And come up with a plan to prove his innocence.
He grabbed a mug from a cupboard and poured hot water from the whistling teakettle into it, his hands burning as he wrapped them around the ceramic.
“Logan?” Laney’s voice came from far away, and he realized he’d closed his eyes and was leaning against the counter, the mug still cradled in his hands. He blinked, trying to bring her into focus.
No perfect hair now.
Curls escaped her long braid, falling against smooth, pale cheeks. She looked scared. She should be.
He straightened, setting the cup on the counter. “I told you to leave.”
“You have a pretty deep cut. You’re going to need stitches.” She ignored the comment and dabbed his temple with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.
He smelled the fumes but felt nothing.
Not a good sign.
“What do you suggest? A trip to the nearest hospital?” He motioned toward his prison uniform, the cuffs on his wrists clanking.
“I see you haven’t outgrown your sarcasm.” She dabbed at the cut again, swiping a fresh cotton ball down his cheek.
“I’m afraid your parents were never quite able to beat it out of me,” he responded and regretted it immediately. He had outgrown sarcasm and his need for revenge. He had become what he’d always wanted to be, part of a community that he had loved, doing a job that he’d loved. Even, for a while, married to a woman that he’d loved.
An image of Amanda flashed through his mind.
Broken glass and her broken body and his own helplessness.
He pushed the memory away.
“I should be able to butterfly the wound closed, but you’re probably going to have a scar.” Laney rifled through a large first aid kit, her fingers long and delicate, the knuckles of her right hand scarred.
It would be so easy for those hands to break, so easy for the light in her eyes to be snuffed out.
“Laney, I want you to leave.” He bit the words out, forcing himself to move away. The cuffs on his wrists felt heavy and cold. His body also felt heavy and cold, but he had to get her out of his life.
“I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Weren’t you the one who once told me I had a million choices?” She pulled butterfly bandages from the kit. “Sit down so I can do this.”
“I could be a murderer. A serial killer planning to make you my next victim,” he spit out because it was all he had left, his last push to get her out of the cabin and to safety.
“In your current condition, I doubt you could make an ant your next victim.” She pressed the bandage to his temple, her eyes cool and calm, her hand shaking.
She didn’t know that he’d been a deputy sheriff for five years and had worked on the Green Bluff police force for five years before that. Didn’t know that he had been falsely accused and convicted of drug trafficking.
What she didn’t know, he could use against her.
For her?
It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was keeping her safe.
He’d failed Amanda. And she’d died because of it.
He wouldn’t fail Laney.
He yanked her hand down, then moved so close he could smell melting snow mixed with flowers in her hair. “Don’t make the mistake of believing that, Laney.”
“I don’t believe you’re a murderer. I don’t believe you’d hurt me.”
“Then believe you’re in trouble if you’re caught with me.”
“Caught by the police?” Her gaze dropped to his jumpsuit.
“It’s not just the police I’m worried about.”
“Then who?”
“It’s a long story.” Too long to tell when danger was breathing down both their necks. Logan felt the clock ticking, trouble drawing near.
“We have time. The storm won’t break for hours.”
“How far are we from the main road?”
“Five miles.” She repacked the first aid kit, putting everything back exactly where it belonged. Neat and tidy. Just the way her parents had trained her to be. He’d hated that about her when they’d met. Her perfection against his rough edges. Her pristine dresses against his worn and dirty clothes.
Now, she wore faded jeans and a soft sweater, the fabric hugging her slender curves.
“Are there other cabins nearby?”
“No. My husband bought a hundred and fifty acres from a logging company fifteen years ago. This is the only place around.”
Not what he’d wanted to hear.
If this really was the only place around, anyone hunting him would know exactly where to look. He needed to get the cuffs off his wrists, get out of his prison orange and put on a few layers of clothing. Then, he needed to get going while he still could.
“Does your husband keep clothes up here? I’m not exactly dressed for the weather. I can pay him for everything I borrow.”
“My husband passed away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She opened a trunk at the end of a queen-size bed and pulled out a pile of clothes. “You can use whatever you need.”
“Thanks. Now, I just need to find a way to put them on.” He lifted his cuffed wrists.
“We might be able to pick the lock.” She leaned over the cuffs, her hands on his wrists as she studied the lock. Warm fingers on cold flesh. Flowers and slow waltzes in the moonlight. It had been a long time since he’d thought of any of those things. In the three years since Amanda’s death, he’d mostly stayed out of the dating game. A few dinners set up by friends. A lunch here or there. Nothing that had