Morgan's Hunter (12 page)

Some of the pictures were close-ups; others had all three bodies lined up, capturing the entire crime scene. Shelly had fallen straight back from the lethal blast of the bullet. Her head bent unnaturally, dangling over her pack. Her long blond hair lay matted with blood and dirt in the pine needles on the ground.

Ian and Tom lay face down in dark red pools of their own dried blood and tissue. Their heads were turned just enough to see that there wasn’t much left of the faces she once knew. The horrid images intermingled with the life and vitality she remembered on Ian’s handsome face. His roguish grin flashed through her mind and the sharp stab of pain slashed her heart.

The last picture broke her. Tom’s bifocals, spattered with blood, lay next to a bright yellow evidence tag. The thick glass had been shattered in one lens while the other lay untouched. She could see Tom pushing the same pair of black framed glasses up the bridge of his nose as vividly as she saw the pictures in front of her. How many times had she watched him do that, never thinking anything of it?

Oh,
God
. Look what someone had done to her friends.

Morgan tried to speak, but all she managed was a barely audible sound in her constricted throat.

Hunter stood after checking the second tire, turned at the quick blast of car horn. He saluted Darren as he drove off in the busy flow of traffic. “Sorry about that. You’re eager to what?”

She knew Hunter had spoken, but couldn’t find her words. Morgan was helpless to do more than stare at the ground.

“Morgan, what…” He took a step forward. “Shit, why did you get in my stuff?” He knelt down and picked up the pictures quickly.

“I-I thought…” Unable to hold back the churning nausea, she ran to the trash barrel by the bench, stumbling once on unsteady legs.

Hunter threw the folder in the backseat, walked to her with the bottle of water she’d set down on the trunk.

Morgan gripped the sides of the barrel, taking deep breaths while her stomach heaved.

“Here, take a drink.” Hunter held the water out to her.

She continued to grip the trashcan.

He brought the water to her lips. “Take a sip, Morgan. Get the taste out of your mouth.”

She did as she was told, spitting the first mouthful into the trash, swallowing the second, easing her raw throat.

“Sit down before you fall. You’re sheet-white and glassy-eyed.”

Morgan dropped to the bench, sitting until the sickness passed. She stared at the cracks in the blacktop. “I thought those were the papers you took from me. I was going to read them over on our drive back.”

He knelt down in front of her, taking her hand. “It’s okay. I’m sorry you had to see that. Do you feel like you’re going to get sick again?”

She shook her head, never taking her eyes from the ground, too sick at heart to care that she’d just barfed in front of Hunter.

Hunter pulled her to her feet and put an arm around her shoulders. She gave in, sagging against him, taking the support he was willing to offer as he guided her to the car.

As they made their way back to the station, Morgan sat silently, clutching her elbows, watching the pine trees rush by the window. Somehow the forty minute drive had gone by in what seemed like an instant.

“We’re here, Morgan. Let’s get you to the cabin.”

Hunter startled her out of her deep thoughts. She tore her eyes from the passenger window, met his gaze, nodded.

“You still look a little shaky. Do you want me to carry you?”

Surprised he would offer, she gave him a small smile. “No, I can walk, but thank you.”

The short hike back to the station felt like a major climb. For a moment Morgan wished she’d given in and let Hunter carry her. Her legs trembled as she fought a fog that tried to overtake her racing mind. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The crisp air and stunning scenery she’d enjoyed hours before no longer held any charm.

When they made it to the small cabin, Morgan walked directly to the bedroom, ignoring Miles and Robert’s friendly greetings. She didn’t have it in her to socialize. She listened to Hunter make excuses when both rangers stopped playing their card game and stood, concerned, commenting on her sickly, pale complexion.

Still shaken and sick to her stomach, Morgan collapsed on the edge of the bed, covering her face with her hands. Her friends. Her poor friends. They hadn’t deserved to die that way.

The door closed with a quiet click and the mattress sagged when Hunter sat next to her. She smelled soap and the fresh air from their hike on his skin.

“Why? Why would someone do that to them?” She could hear the agony in her own voice.

His muscled arm came around her shoulders. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“They were so good.” Morgan’s voice broke. “Such good people.”

He pulled her closer, until her head rested against his firm shoulder.

Morgan desperately wanted to hold on to him, to hang on to the strength he offered, so she stood with her back to him. She didn’t want to need him as she had in her weakened moment by the bench in the parking lot. She was a job; he’d made that very clear. He was paid to care, which meant he didn’t care at all. It was important to remember that.

“You know, I’m okay. I really am. I’m going to be all right.” Her voice sounded hollow and weak, even to herself. “I’m going to bed.”

The mattress squeaked when he stood. His hand rested against her rigid shoulder and she closed her eyes. “I’ll give you a couple minutes to get ready, then I’ll be back.”

“No. You don’t have to. I’m all right.” Maybe if she said the words enough, she might believe them. She didn’t dare look at him; she would fall to pieces if she did. Breaking in front of him, showing him any type of weakness, wasn’t an option.

“I’m coming back. I’ll do some work in here on my laptop. We can turn off the light and you can get some rest.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue. “I need to get undressed.”

Morgan walked to the bathroom, going through the motions of her nighttime routine. Running on auto-pilot, she rubbed moisturizer on her face, brushed her teeth. She just wanted to go to bed and not think about what she’d seen anymore. How would she get those images out of her mind?

Every ounce of energy left her body on the way back to the bedroom. Her legs threatened to buckle with each step so she hurried. She changed into her green tank top and panties, crawled onto her side of the bed, sighed as her head nestled the pillow. She covered herself with starchy sheets, curled herself into a protective ball, and prayed for the oblivion of sleep.

The bedroom door opened with a creak and closed. Morgan continued to stare at the wood-paneled wall, pulling her knees tighter to her chest. She listened to Hunter move around the room—unzipping his bag, zipping it closed again. As much as she hadn’t wanted him to come back, she was glad he did. She found comfort in knowing he was close by.

He didn’t talk to her when he sat on his side of the bed. His laptop powered up, casting a blue tint to the room. She drifted off to the sound of Hunter’s fingers tapping against the keys of his computer.

Late into the night, Morgan whimpered in her sleep. She relived the horror of the pictures she’d seen in a grotesque slideshow that played over and over. The photo of Shelly staring with blank, milky blue eyes and blood on her forehead monopolized her subconscious.

The picture came to life, and somehow Morgan was there. Shelly continued to stare with her head bent back against her pack. Her hands reached out, trying to grab Morgan’s legs as her mouth began to move. She screamed and begged for Morgan to help her. Morgan turned to run, but Ian and Tom lay in her way, bloody and missing most of their faces. Their hands made a grab for her ankles and she jumped back, surrounded by the dead, shrieking.

Morgan cried out and shot up in bed. Covered in sweat, her breath sobbed in and out.

Hunter sat up next to her, instantly awake. “Hey, hey, hey, Morgan, it’s okay.” He pulled her close.

Terrified, defenseless, she let herself relax against his warm chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

He tightened his grip, wrapping his arms around her. “Morgan, you’re shaking. It’s all right. Just take some deep, slow breaths.” He drew her away. “I’m going to get you a glass of water. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She wanted to cling to him, to tell him to wait. She wasn’t ready to be alone, but she nodded. As soon as Hunter left the room, Morgan switched on the light, terrified of the dark.

He came back moments later, handing her the glass. She swallowed a sip of cool water, relieving her dry throat. Sipping again, she took in the sight of Hunter’s naked upper body.

He was broad and chiseled. His black mesh shorts hung low on his hips, accentuating his six-pack. A large scar, circular and puckered, stood out on his well muscled shoulder. There was a tattoo of a cross on the side of his left bicep with a date under it. She wanted to ask him what it symbolized but stopped herself.

Morgan moved to put the glass on the shelf above the beds. The blanket pooling at her waist fell away. Hunter’s eyes traveled the length of her legs before she adjusted the sheet back in place.

Hunter let out a deep breath as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, thanks. Thanks for the water.”

“You’re welcome.” He got under the sheet as she moved farther over on her side.

Morgan cleared her throat. “I’m going to work for a little while before I go back to sleep. I have to generate graphs on my laptop. I won’t need the light, so I shouldn’t disturb you.” She wasn’t ready to close her eyes again, wasn’t ready for the images that might come. If she stayed awake she could block them out with the demands of her job.

Hunter turned off the lamp. Morgan bit her lip, forcing herself not to cry out.

Taking a deep breath, scolding herself for being ridiculous, she continued to sit in the pitch black. “Um, I need a minute to get my computer, to get things up and running.”

The bedsprings creaked as Hunter pushed himself over to her mattress. His leg brushed hers, sending small shockwaves skittering along her skin as he got under her covers. He tugged on her arm until she collapsed against the bed.

“Come here.” Hunter pulled her toward him until her back lay pressed to his chest. He tucked his arm around her waist.

She tried to push herself up, but he held her to him. “Hunter, what are you doing?”

“I’m being your friend, Morgan. We haven’t tried that one yet. You need to sleep. You’re pale and exhausted. Close your eyes. Turn it off for awhile.”

She didn’t speak, didn’t move. She held herself rigid as her body fit intimately against his. It felt good, comforting and safe.

As the minutes ticked by, she relaxed until her breathing steadied out and became deep with sleep.

Chapter 12

H
UNTER WOKE FLAT ON HIS back surrounded by the dark, sexy scent of Morgan. He lifted his head from the pillow and stared.

Morgan’s cheek rested on his chest as her hand lay lightly fisted over his heart. The tank top she wore had ridden up during the night. The soft skin of her stomach and silk of her panties pressed against his side as her knee bent and crossed over his hip. He fisted his hand, realizing it rested upon her naked lower back.

His current situation gave him a jolt. He hadn’t woken with a woman in his arms in over two years. He’d had his fair share of sex since his return from Afghanistan. He just hadn’t stuck around for the morning after. The complications were never worth it.

Hunter stared into Morgan’s spectacular face, took in glimpses of her bombshell body pressed to his, and knew she was the mother lode of sticky complications he’d tried to avoid.

He found himself admiring her more and disliking her less, which worried him. Morgan was tougher than she seemed. That counted for a hell of a lot in his book. She’d had quite a shock the day before and had held herself together far better than he’d expected, earning his respect.

She hadn’t become hysterical, fainted, or screamed despite the graphic pictures of her team. They’d made him a little squeamish, and he’d seen the results of violent death more times than he could count.