Dare picked up his rifle and sat down near the lantern and began to methodically take the weapon apart. “If he’s trying to get to Lattimore’s, he’ll find out really fast that runoff from a rain like this will put rivers where there weren’t any before, and that only a fool would try to cross a fast-moving current like that.”
Angie scowled, knowing what could happen. “If one of my horses gets hurt or killed—” She stopped, fuming impotently, because the likelihood she’d be able to get her hands on Krugman was nonexistent. He was effectively out of her reach, no matter what his actions. If he somehow made it to Lattimore’s and made his escape, law enforcement would be after him, but unless he settled in a country with an extradition treaty with the United States, he was home free—and she’d bet he’d researched that angle. If he got himself killed trying to get out of the mountains, then he was dead anyway. Scowling, she looked up at Dare. “I know I won’t be able to do a damn thing to him, and that really pisses me off.”
He gave a rusty chuckle, a real, honest-to-God laugh, Callahan style, and that weird squeeze in her chest made the bottom drop out of her stomach as if she’d gone over the big drop in a roller coaster. She watched him for a few minutes, then looked at her own rifle. Normally she would have cleaned it the first chance she had, but when they’d reached the cabin she and Dare had both been at the end of their rope—so, realistically, this was the first chance she’d had.
“Could I borrow that cleaning kit when you’re finished with it?” she asked.
He glanced at her rifle, then resumed his task. “I’ll clean it for you.”
Angie was a bit nonplussed; she didn’t know how to take his offer. Obviously she knew how to take care of her firearms, so it wasn’t that he doubted her ability. Just to make certain, she said cautiously, “I know how to do it.”
He lifted his head and gave her a long, unreadable look. “I know,” he finally said. “But it’s so muddy I’ll take it down to the stalls to knock the dirt off, so this area stays clean.”
“Oh. Good thinking.” But she still had the feeling there was something more behind the offer, something she wasn’t seeing. She suppressed a frustrated sigh. More than likely she was simply second-guessing herself to death, as usual. He was taking care of a chore for her because she wasn’t very mobile, that was all there was to it.
There didn’t seem to be anything she could do, so she pulled the sleeping bag over her lap and watched him as he efficiently stripped, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled his rifle, every movement reminding her of the years he’d spent in the military. How much did she really know about him? Growing up in such a small community, of course she’d known him by sight, but he was five or six years older than she, so they’d never connected socially. When she was in grade school, he was in middle school. When she was in middle school, he was in high school, and by the time she got to high school he was in the military.
She didn’t think they’d ever spoken until he’d returned to the area. They’d both been in the hardware store, someone had introduced them, and she’d gone home with her hand tingling from shaking hands with him and feeling the roughness and strength of his hand wrapped around hers. The second time they’d spoken, he’d asked her out, but she’d been rushing around getting ready for a guide trip and hadn’t had time, so she’d declined, very regretfully. Months had passed before he’d asked her out again, and by then she’d been so angry she wouldn’t have crossed the road with him.
But the people in the community seemed to like him well enough; she’d never heard anyone, other than herself, call him a son of a bitch. She knew he was grouchy, though she had no idea if he came by it naturally or if it was something caused by his experiences in a war; she also knew that a man who’d carried her on his back for miles, under terrible conditions, deserved to be cut some slack for being grouchy. What else? He cussed a lot—and he’d taken care of her without a hint of sarcasm, or a single snide word. He still put butterflies in her stomach. And he’d lied about having a little dick.
Well, hell. Some people got married knowing less about each other than that.
She quickly pushed that thought away. It wasn’t the state of being married that gave her the willies, it was the act of getting married. She’d tried it, and made a complete hash out of the deal. If she could do it over … but there weren’t any do-overs for some things.
When he was finished with his rifle, he took hers down to the stalls below, and she listened to him moving around. He’d turned on one of the flashlights; she could tell by the blue-white glow. Glancing at one of the windows, she saw that night had fallen, and the steady rain was still coming down. She’d always enjoyed rain before, but after this she didn’t know if she’d ever feel the same way about it again. The rain was like the bear: If it hadn’t been for the bear, Krugman would likely have killed her. If it hadn’t been for the storm, the bear would likely have heard or seen her, and she doubted the outcome would have been a happy one for her. But the storm had also almost killed her, though, come to think of it, she’d rather die from hypothermia or drowning than from being eaten alive.
Don’t think about it.
She concentrated on listening to Dare, and reminding herself that she was safe, they were both safe. They had shelter, food, water, heat, even a pretty damn comfortable bed. They weren’t in any danger. There were things, urgent things, that they needed to do, but until the weather cleared everything would have to wait. The runoff from a storm could be deadly in the mountains, all that water gathering on its way down from the peaks, gaining in speed and volume, washing boulders and trees down the ravines with astonishing power. Even on horseback, the trip down-mountain would be dangerous, and walking out right now would be almost impossible, even for Dare.