Jamie (5 page)

Faith swallowed hard, her smile slipping away to be replaced by sympathy. “Like they hurt you.”

She said that as if she had firsthand knowledge of his pain. But she couldn't, not unless she'd been involved. Stony and cold, Jamie asked, “What do you know of that, Faith?”

“You're angry again.” She started to turn away.

In a lightning-fast move, Jamie snatched her wrist in his hand and jerked her against him. She squealed, startled, then leaned into him.

In a momentary loss of control, Jamie shook her. “What do you know of it?”

Rather than retreat from his rough treatment, she put her free arm around his neck, her fingers twining in his long hair. “I'm sorry, but I was there.”

Dread, regret, and blazing anger clawed through him. “At the institute?”

“Yes.”

She stepped away, and he let her, too shocked to do more than stare at her. He felt her memories, how they hurt her—just not as much as they hurt him. He felt her concern, her caring.

And he saw that little girl again, almost reaching out to him, dredging up an unslaked hunger to be accepted, to maybe be loved....

The disturbing image and emotions disappeared when Faith spoke. “They won't ever hurt you again, Jamie. I promise.”

He couldn't even blink. How the hell could she make such an asinine pledge? He knew what they were capable of, and he had an awful suspicion that she did, too. Were she and her daughter on the run from them? Did Faith want him to hide them on the mountain? To protect them?

Faith stood by the toilet, her knees pressed together. “Don't worry about it right now. It'll be okay.”

Incredulous, Jamie glared at her.

She gave a little jiggle. “I'm sorry, but now I really do have to go.”

Jamie finally recovered enough to leave the bathroom. She knew about the institute.

She knew about
him.

For one of the few times in his life, he had absolutely no idea what to do.

Chapter Three

The rain aided in the plan, offering camouflage and keeping almost everyone indoors and out of sight. With the country roads all but empty, following Lamar Knute, a pathetic local drunk, home from the bar proved to be a piece of cake. Too smashed to pay attention to anything other than keeping his car on the road, Knute hadn't even glanced in his rearview mirror. He'd be the perfect pawn, as long as things worked out.

Word about town was that the local sheriff and deputy were watching Knute, hoping to catch him in unlawful activity so they could lock him up. But putting Knute in a cell wouldn't have the desired effect.

It wouldn't keep the lawmen busy.

And it wouldn't bring Jamie Creed out of hiding.

Waiting in the bushes wasn't fun, not soaked to the knees with only the ridiculous disguise for protection. But if it'd bring Creed out . . .

The dog cried, cold and scared, the noise annoying. Hopefully it wouldn't be too much longer.

Ah-ha.
Finally Knute left his car and headed for his house, red-eyed and mean drunk. But that didn't matter.

Yesterday the dog had gotten loose and wandered through town. One and all had seen the signs of neglect, the burs and ticks, the lack of flesh.
Stupid bastard.

Yes indeed, Lamar Knute would serve perfectly as the first target.

When he neared the dog, it barked, startling him so that he almost tripped. He cursed, raised his hand—and that was all the distraction needed. With speed, training, and experience, the body erupted from the bushes, kicking out fast and hard. Well before Knute could touch the poor dog, a steel-toed boot connected squarely in his chest, sending him backward into a puddle of mud.

“Son of a bitch!” Knute roared, then clutched his chest in pain.

A thick stick, collected earlier from the side of the road, hit him next, connecting with his hip, his thigh, his shoulder.
Thwack, thwack, thwack.
Too fast to be deflected, too hard for a quick recovery. Once more, not as hard, against his jaw, and Knute screamed out.

God, it felt good to dominate, to take ultimate control.

“Stop! Stop it, please.” The bastard curled in on himself, sniveling, cowering.

The dog served as a good excuse for the attack, which would keep others from guessing at identities. “You aren't very good to your dog.”

“It's a fucking animal.”

“Animals need care. When was the last time you brushed him? Or took him to see a vet?”

Knute obviously lacked good sense, to provoke an attacker. “A vet! That costs money. And I ain't wasting good money on a worthless hound—”

Perfect.
Thwack, thwack.

“Stop! Why are you doing this?”

“Ow, stop!”

Thwack.
“You're a slimeball, Knute, you know that?”
Thwack, thwack.
The stick landed again and again with satisfying force. With each strike, the sense of power grew.

“For the love of God,
stop!”

One breath, then another, and calm settled in. “You won't ever mistreat the dog again.”

“Fine, fine! I won't. Jus' quit beatin' on me.”

“You better not change your mind.” The thick stick lifted into the air with credible menace. Holding back the blow took Herculean effort. “You won't know when, and you won't know where. But trust me, next time, I won't stop until your black heart does.”

“Jesus.” The man stared hard through the pouring rain, petrified, his ugly face pale and twisted in pain. “Who the hell are you?”

Beneath the silly black mask, white teeth flashed in a cocky grin. “I'm your worst nightmare. Remember that.”

“I ain't likely to forget.” Knute pushed to his feet and stumbled. “I think you crippled me.” And still grumbling, he headed for his house in a haphazard, awkward trot, constantly looking over his shoulder in fear. Seconds later, he disappeared into his house and slammed the door.

No more time to waste. Getting caught now would ruin well-laid plans.

The dog whined, unaware of its improved future. “Sorry dog. You're on your own now.” Rain dripped off the dog's snout, its stooped back. Pitiful. But surely someone else's problem.

A twig snapped, and bushes rustled.

Filled with anticipation, the stranger jerked around and searched the surrounding area. Nothing. Not a single sign of Creed. Must have been an animal, or maybe the wind.

Disappointment set in, but not for long.

Sooner or later, Jamie would come out of hiding. He couldn't help himself. His do-gooder nature dictated that he try to protect everyone, more than he protected himself. That was the key.

The plan would work. If not today—then tomorrow or the day after. Eventually, all the pieces would fall into place. Patience. That's all it took. Patience ... and planning.

Within minutes, the hidden car pulled out of the bushes and drove away.

 

 

Half an hour later, bushes at the back of a sprawling, well-maintained farmhouse provided cover. Knute's old dog went straight to the door, scratched once, and seconds later it opened. A girl of about fifteen looked at the shivering mutt huddled on her stoop. She promptly yelled for her daddy while stepping out into the rain, trying to shield the dog's body with her own.

A very tall man appeared, scanned the area, then went to one knee. His gentle voice carried on the wind. Seconds later, a woman appeared with an old blanket, cooing and tsking, and the dog went inside with a lot of attention.

Swallowing around a melon-sized lump of emotion proved impossible. Cold, wet, but pleased with the end result ... yep, it was time to call it a night.

There were a lot of unanswered questions, but tomorrow would bring more time to investigate. Patience, that's all it took.

A laugh bubbled out.
Yeah, right. Patience? Ha. Anticipation beat patience any day of the week.

 

 

Jamie's head hurt with questions.

Why would the mother of a young girl be in his cabin? Where was her daughter? What did she want from him?

Faith knew him from the Farmington Research Institute. But how?

Worse than the awful confusion, he kept thinking about her naked body, her open
sexual
invitation. And he kept thinking about that elusive comfort he'd felt for only a heartbeat, the comfort that had reached out to him from her daughter.

He wanted to trust Faith, no two ways about that. But what would she do to him?

The shower shut off and he heard humming.
Humming.

Like a caged animal, Jamie prowled around his cabin—which didn't feel like his cabin anymore. Not only did it smell different with a woman flitting about, but things were out of place. The cushions on his couch. The jar of moonshine. The few dishes in the sink.

The fire shone bright, and the room had already warmed.

But damn, he'd become more accustomed to his cold shadows.

Prodded by anger and uncertainty, Jamie went to the couch and straightened the cushions. He picked up the damp towels and tossed them in the dryer, then put his wet jeans in the laundry basket. He stored things away, cleaned dishes, added more wood to the fire, and then ... he had nothing left to do.

The fire snapped and crackled, and with it his apprehension expanded, his pulse accelerated. By the time Faith finally opened the door and stepped out, Jamie felt ready to jump out of his skin.

Speaking as she left the bathroom, she said, “I used some of your toothpaste and a corner of a washcloth to clean my teeth. Oh, and your lotion. Hope that's okay.”

Jamie saw that she'd also taken his comb from the medicine cabinet to tackle the tangles in her hair. Head bent to the task, she wobbled forward, no less drunk but now pink and fresh and ...

She looked up and found him just standing there in the middle of the floor, watching her. Her open happiness assailed him. She swayed, dropped the comb, and regained her balance. “Hi.”

It was a miracle she'd managed her shower without drowning herself, given her state of inebriation. Jamie swallowed. “Hi.” He cleared his throat. “I meant to ask, how's your head? You hit it pretty hard.”

“Oh, yeah.” She gingerly prodded the injury and winced. “Sore, but the moonshine helped. It's something of a cure-all, huh?”

“That's why I keep it on hand.”

“And it's easier to get than real supplies?”

Shrugging, he said, “The men who make it want me to know as little about them as I want them to know of me.”

“Unlike your friends in town.”

He started to deny having friends, but ended up with another shrug.

He hadn't even thought to put on a shirt. Or maybe, to be honest, he hadn't wanted to. And now her admiring gaze moved over him with drunken appreciation.

She swaggered toward him to touch his beard, her expression absorbed, wondrous. “You are so shaggy,” she breathed, making it sound like a damned compliment. “I remembered you being clean-cut and well groomed. If it hadn't been for your eyes, I might not have recognized you.”

Defensiveness burned to the surface, but he didn't allow it to sound in his reasonable reply. “Why should I bother shaving?”

Her fingers continued to stroke him, down his throat and back up to his jawline, making him nuts. “Because all this facial hair hides your handsome face.”

“Yeah?” He held himself rigid. “Maybe that's the point.”

Weaving unsteadily, she touched the end of his nose. “You think certain people are still after you, don't you?” She smiled in a
you're-so-silly
way.

Jamie had had enough. Too much. He'd grown used to dealing with other people's problems, their chaos and disappointments. He had none of that in his life, because he had no one in his life.

That's the way it had to be, and damned if he'd let a chatty, pushy,
stacked
redhead disrupt what he'd so carefully built.

Jamie curved his hands around her throat and held her still. “I have reason to be concerned, Faith.” Menace lacing his tone, he growled, “After all,
you're
here, aren't you?”

 

 

Through the night, Jamie sat in a chair, watching Faith sleep. Too restless to give in to sleep himself, he'd been sitting there since she dozed off, trying to understand her.

And trying to understand himself.

Faith wasn't the least bit afraid of him. Just the opposite, she seemed to trust him implicitly.

He didn't have a clock up by his bed, but he didn't need one to know dawn approached. She would wake up soon.

Drawing his feet up to the hard wooden seat of the chair and wrapping his arms around his knees, Jamie studied her. Contrary to his expectations, she hadn't shied away from his veiled accusation, hadn't paled in the face of his fury.

Instead, she'd gone on tiptoe, hugged him tight, and told him not to worry so much. Her scent intoxicated him. The feel of her soft body stirred him.

And her hug had been ... reassuring.

While he'd mentally floundered for a response, she'd yawned and announced that she needed to sleep.

Getting her up the ladder had been a trick. Because she wore only a shirt, he went up first and then half pulled her up behind him. He'd figured that with her stuck in his bed, he'd sleep on the couch and have privacy in the rest of his cabin. He'd even carried a glass of water up to her since she had a sore throat.

But then he couldn't make himself walk away.

Jamie didn't want privacy. Not from her. Not right now.

He wanted to crawl into that bed with her and feel her all along the length of his body. He wanted—

She shifted the tiniest bit, and Jamie went on alert, as fascinated with her as with the wild animals that often crept around outside his cabin. He shouldn't be.

Now that she'd eaten and had some sleep, he should probably get her out of his home and away from his life. If he took her down the mountain to Clint, or to Joe or Bryan, or hell, even Alyx, they'd help him.

If he told them to run her out of town, they would.

But Jamie sat there in the chair, his feet and chest bare, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm.

Curled on her side, facing him, Faith exuded peace.

Jamie tipped his head, studying the shapely line of her body: the dip in her waist, the rise of her full hips, and the slope of her long thighs. He considered the way his shirt hung on her narrower shoulders, the way her breasts filled out the front. Thinking about the warmth of her body, he wondered if the shirt might carry her delicious scent when he got it back.

His eyes narrowed a little at the rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her eyelashes as she dreamed. He could have given her some sort of bottoms—sweatpants, maybe—but he hadn't wanted to, and she hadn't insisted.

Her slight fever, combined with the trapped heat from the fireplace, made her too warm. Minutes ago, she'd kicked the sheet away, leaving herself displayed, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up closer to her body.

Jamie's blood thrummed through his veins, thick and hot. He hadn't touched a woman sexually in years upon years, and this woman would let him. She'd as much as said so, and it plagued him, made his guts clench and his lungs burn with each steady, deep breath.

Damn it, he knew a few things about her, so why couldn't he know her reasons for being here, offering herself? Even when tanked the night before, and now sound asleep, her thoughts eluded him, staying just out of reach. How could she deliberately hide them from him when no stranger had ever been able to do that? Not in Visitation, not even at the institute.