his shoulder against the wall. “Under the circumstances, I think it’s allowed.”
She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Her voice was unsteady when she spoke. “Are we safe until morning?”
He continued to watch her, another strange feeling filling up his chest. His voice was husky when he answered her. “Yes. We’re safe until morning.”
“Okay then,” she whispered, then without looking at him, she kicked off her shoes and slid her feet into the sleeping bag and lay down, pulling the covers over her shoulder. Turning on her side, she tucked her hands under her face and watched the fire flicker through the grate in the stove. Finn had to fight the urge to cross the room and tuck the sleeping bag around her, to brush that wealth of hair back from her face. Fragile. She looked so fragile. And alone. And if there was anything he understood, it was how it felt to be alone. Tightening his jaw, he forced himself to turn away.
It was going to be a long night.
He jammed on his Stetson and picked up his vest, then headed for the door. A damned long night.
By the time he returned from outside, she had fallen asleep, her breathing soft and even, her hands still tucked under her face. It was like before—when it hit him that she was like something out of a fairy tale, something otherworldly. He hardened his jaw and turned away. He had never been given to that kind of whimsy, and he sure in hell wasn’t going to start now.
The fire had burned down by the time he decided to retrieve the spare sleeping bag from its container. The containers held the emergency rations he had topped up the day before, and were used as a deterrent against mice and other marauders. His shoulders ached with weariness as he set it on the floor.
The sleeping bag removed, he nudged the chair closer to the stove and opened it up. His body wanted to lie down, but for some reason, he didn’t want to use the other bunk. And he knew if he slept on the floor, by morning the cold would have penetrated every muscle in his body. And he’d be stiffer than hell. So the chair was it for the night.
Draping the open sleeping bag across him, he stretched out in the big old willow chair, again propping his feet on the fender of the stove. His expression somber, he crossed his arms and watched her sleep, a strange sensation unfolding inside him. He had no idea why he was so damned certain, but he would bet his life she was all that she seemed to be—honest, direct, untainted—with a survival instinct that no amount of money could buy.
Resting his head against the high back of the chair, he assessed her features. She wasn’t what he would consider beautiful, but there was a certain quality to her face that appealed to him. A depth of character, maybe. And, from the angle of her jaw, there was also evidence of a whole lot of Irish bullheadedness.
Finn’s expression hardened as he considered her survival. It was probably that strength of will, that bullheadedness that had kept her alive today. It made his gut knot, thinking what might have happened to her if Rooney hadn’t spotted her.
A log fell in the stove, the flare of light burnishing her hair, making it come alive, and Finn locked his jaw together, feeling suddenly hollowed out inside. Dragging his gaze away, he studied the toes of his boots. It was a miracle that he’d found her. Except he didn’t believe in miracles. Nor did he believe in second chances. But he did believe in atonement. And maybe she was his. Because somehow or another, he was going to have to keep her safe.
This one, he had to keep safe.
Chapter 3
By morning, the clouds had settled lower, and it had started snowing again, the thick, fresh blanket obliterating the sharp contours. Dawn seeped over the jagged horizon, casting the landscape in a purple hue, the dull light eerie and filled with gray shadows.
The new snow squeaked under Finn’s boots as he approached the cabin, his rifle in one hand and a pail of water in the other. It was a drab morning, heavy and overcast and muffled in silence, the clouds so low that they nearly touched the ground. Hoarfrost coated the trees and glittered on the fresh blanket of snow, but in spite of the whiteness, everything was cast in a dreary, monochrome gray.
The brim of his hat shielding his eyes from the denseness of the spiraling flakes, Finn paid attention to his footing as he negotiated the slippery rocks that spanned the shallow stream. Unshaven and hungover from lack of sleep, he considered what he was faced with. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t have asked for better conditions. With the heavy skies, he was assured of several more inches of wet snow—enough to cover all their tracks. His only concern was that with this kind of weather moving in, it could get really ugly before the day was over. And if that happened, it would make for very tough going, especially with a greenhorn along. But on the plus side, it also meant that any search aircraft would be kept on the ground, which significantly lowered their risk of detection. Providing it didn’t get a whole lot worse than this, and taking into account how much she was going to slow them down, they could still make it from here to his place in nine or ten hours—providing she could take that kind of physical punishment. And it would be punishing. The ride back would be no picnic. Even with the falling snow, he was going to make damned sure their trail was nearly impossible to track. And that would mean some hard riding.
The horses were in the makeshift corral, their haunches turned into the storm, their long winter coats dusted with snow. He had fed them each a flake of hay before he went down to the creek, and he had given Rooney his morning ration of kibbles. But the dog was nowhere to be seen—likely off chasing rabbits. Finn stepped under the overhang of the log cabin, a gust of wind sending a flurry of snow under the eaves. There was a sharpness in the air that hadn’t been there before, and Finn compressed his mouth. The bite in the wind was a sure sign it was going to get ugly. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few hours, that was for damned sure.
Pressing down the latch, Finn stamped the snow off his boots and opened the door, the flame in the kerosene lamp wavering in the draft. He had left that lamp burning all night. He knew what it was like, to wake up in pitch black, your heart pounding, not knowing where you were.
He closed the door silently behind him, then propped his rifle against the wall and set the pail by the stove, his gaze shifting to the bunk. She hadn’t moved since he’d gone out. With the flap of the sleeping bag pulled over her head, the only indication there was actually a person under the mound of sleeping bags was that he could see the toes of one foot. If she was that huddled in, he doubted she was going to appreciate the chill in the brisk mountain air.
He shucked his coat, then opened the door on the stove and added another log, the crackle and snap of burning resin perforating the silence.
A muffled voice came from the bed. “I’m not going to like getting out of bed, am I?”
Finn closed the stove door and latched it, then set a pan of water on to heat. He glanced back at the bunk, a touch of humor hovering around his mouth. “I think we can safely assume that.”
“Damn.” She pushed back the flap and struggled up on one elbow, her hair absolutely wild around her, her dark green sweater crushed and wrinkled. She scrubbed her hand across her face, then opened her eyes really wide, as if trying to get them to stay that way. She looked at him, a disgruntled tone in her voice when she spoke. “Don’t you ever get cold?”
“No.”
She flopped back down and pulled the sleeping bag up over her shoulders, snuggling deep in the warmth. “Great. I had to hook up with an ice man.” Then, as if recollection had come back in a rush, she abruptly rolled onto her back and covered her face with her hand, a tremor running
