Same Time, Next Christmas. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
Epilogue
December 23, four years ago...
Even with the rain coming down so hard he could barely make out the twisting gravel road ahead of him, Matthias Bravo spotted the light shining through the trees.
The Jeep lurched around another twist in the road. For a few seconds before the trees obscured his view, Matt could see his getaway cabin in the clearing up ahead. Yep. The light was coming from the two windows that flanked the front door.
Some idiot had broken in.
Swearing under his breath, Matt steered his Jeep to the almost nonexistent side of the road and switched off the engine and lights.
The rain poured down harder, pounding the roof, roaring so loud he couldn’t hear himself think. Out the windshield, the trees with their moss-covered trunks were a blur through the rippling curtain made of water.
Should he have just stayed home in Valentine Bay for Christmas?
Probably. His injured leg throbbed and he was increasingly certain he’d caught that weird bug his brothers had warned him about. He had a mother of a headache and even though he’d turned the heater off several miles back, he was sweating.
“Buck up, buddy.” He slapped his own cheek just to remind himself that torrential rain, a sliced-up leg, a headache and a fever were not the worst things he’d ever lived through.
And at the moment, he had a mission. The SOB in his cabin needed taking down—or at the very least, roughing up a tad and kicking out on his ass.
Matt kept his rifle in a hidden safe at the back of the Jeep. Unfortunately, the safe was accessed through the rear door.
“No time like the present to do what needs doing.”
Yeah. He was talking to himself. Kind of a bad sign.
Was he having a resurgence of the PTSD he’d been managing so well for over a year now?
No. Uh-uh. Zero symptoms of a recurrence. No more guilt than usual. He wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been in a long time. No sleep problems, depression or increased anxiety.
Simply a break-in he needed to handle.
And going in without a weapon? How stupid would that be?
He put on his field jacket, pulled up the hood, shoved open his door and jumped out, biting back a groan when his hurt leg took his weight.
The good news: it wasn’t that far to the rear door. In no time, he was back inside the vehicle, sweating profusely, dripping rain all over the seat, with the rifle in one hand and a box of shells in the other.
Two minutes later, rifle loaded and ready for action, he was limping through the downpour toward the cabin. Keeping to the cover of the trees, he worked his way around the clearing, doing a full three-sixty, checking for vehicles and anyone lurking outside, finding nothing that shouldn’t be there.
Recon accomplished, he approached the building from the side. Dropping to the wet ground, he crawled to the steps, staying low as he climbed them. His leg hurt like hell, shards of pain stabbing him with every move he made. It was bleeding again right through the thick makeshift bandage he’d tied on the wound.
Too bad. For now, he needed to block the pain and focus.
As he rolled up onto the covered porch, he swiped back his dripping hood and crawled over beneath the front window.
With slow care, he eased up just enough to peer over the sill.
He got an eyeful.
A good-looking brunette—midtwenties, he would guess—sat on the hearth, warming herself at a blazing fire. She wore only a bra and panties. Articles of clothing lay spread out around her, steaming as they dried.
Was she alone? He didn’t see anyone else in there. The cabin was essentially one big room, with bath and sleeping loft. From his crouch at the window, he could see the bathroom, its door wide open. Nobody in there. And he had a straight visual shot right through to the back door. Nada. Just the pretty, half-naked brunette.
She looked totally harmless.
Still, he should check the situation out from every possible angle before making his move.
Was he maybe being a little bit paranoid? Yeah, possibly.
But better safe than sorry.
He dragged himself over beneath the other front window. The view from there was pretty much the same. The woman looked so innocent, leaning back on her hands now, long, smooth legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She raised a slim hand and forked her fingers through her thick, dark hair.
Grimly, he pulled up his hood and crawled down the steps into the deluge again. Circling the cabin once more, close-in this time, he ducked to peer into each window as he passed.
Every view revealed the leggy brunette, alone, drying off by the fire.
By the time he limped back to the front of the building and crept up onto the porch again, he was all but certain the woman was on her own.
Still, she could be dangerous. Maybe. And dangerous or not, she had broken in and helped herself to his firewood. Not to mention he still couldn’t completely discount the possibility that there was someone upstairs.
He’d just have to get the jump on her, hope she really was alone and that no damn fool hid in the loft, ready to make trouble.
Sliding to the side, Matt came upright flush against the front door. Slowly and silently, he turned the knob. The knob had no lock, but he needed to see if the dead bolt was still engaged. It was. He took the keys from his pocket. At the speed of a lazy snail, in order not to alert the trespasser within, he unlocked the dead bolt.
That accomplished, he put the keys away and turned the knob with agonizing slowness until the door was open barely a crack. Stepping back, he kicked the door wide. It slammed against the inside wall as he leveled the barrel of his rifle on the saucer-eyed girl.
“Freeze!” he shouted. “Do it now!”
Sabra Bond gaped at the armed man who filled the wide-open doorway.
He was a very big guy, dressed for action in camo pants, heavy boots and a hooded canvas coat. And she wore nothing but old cotton panties and a sports bra.
No doubt about it. Her life was a mess—and getting worse by the second.
Sheepishly, she put her hands up.
The man glared down the barrel of that rifle at her. “What do you think you’re doing in my cabin?”
“I, um, I was on my way back to Portland from my father’s farm,” she babbled. “I parked at the fish hatchery and started hiking along the creek toward the falls. The rain came. It got so bad that I—”
“Stop.” He swung the business end of his rifle upward toward the loft. “Anyone upstairs? Do not lie to me.”
“No one.” He leveled the weapon on her again. “Just me!” she squeaked. “I swear it.” She waited for him to lower the gun. No such luck. The barrel remained pointed right at her. And, for some incomprehensible reason, she couldn’t quit explaining herself. “I was hiking and thinking, you know? The time got away from me. I’d gone miles before the rain started. It kept getting worse, which led me to the unpleasant discovery that my waterproof jacket is only water resistant. Then I found your cabin...”
“And you broke in,”