exactly where the planes were. They were flying over the narrow valley where he had found her—his wildcat in the snow.
Two planes indicated a search, which also indicated a downed plane. But until he got some answers from her, he refused to speculate.
Glad for the cover of both the trees and nightfall, Finn twisted around to make sure Trouper was right behind him, then he shifted around and nudged Gus into a walk. He glanced over toward the underbrush and spoke, his tone clipped with command. “Rooney, heel.” The dog immediately obeyed, trotting along the path at Gus’s shoulder, his ears suddenly pricked.
Shifting his weight to ease the cramp in his back, Finn glanced down at his cargo, the heavy dusk crowding in and obscuring the remaining light. So. Someone had called out a search party to look for her. He didn’t like the feeling twisting in his belly. He didn’t like it at all.
His expression set, Finn guided his mount through a narrow archway of trees, taking care not to disturb the snow clumped on the low-hanging branches. At least for tonight he could keep her out of harm’s way. He’d worry about tomorrow later.
The dark hulking shape of the cabin appeared in the dusk, the tin roof capped with snow, a drift crouching against the single step. Finn walked Gus right up to the low overhang that sheltered the plank door, the weight of his burden pulling painfully at his shoulder. Dropping the reins to ground-tie the horse, he stiffly dismounted, using his good arm to hold her in the saddle. He was so damned sore and stiff, he felt as if he’d been thrown and trampled. He waited until his circulation was restored and the cramps in his legs eased; then he gave her a small tug, and she slid into his arms like a sack of oats. Now all he had to do was pack her inside.
It was pitch black in the cabin, and damned cold. In fact, it felt colder inside than out. He had boarded up the windows that morning, and it was as black as a cave inside, and he had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. Using what little illumination that came from outside, he crossed the small space and carefully laid her on one of the bare wooden bunks, her still form swaddled in the coat and blanket. The inside of the small cabin was planked with rough-hewn fir, the wood weathered and dark, aged by years of exposure. Extra supplies hung suspended in dark, green heavy plastic containers from the open pole rafters, the shapes bulky and irregular in the deepening twilight.
Stripping off his gloves, he went to the shelf by the door and found the stash of candles and matches in an old syrup can. He lit one and let liquid paraffin form, then dripped some of the melted wax onto the lid, the faint, wavering light swallowed by the heavy shadows and the dark weathered planking.
Fixing four candles in place, he set the makeshift candleholder on the battered wooden table, then turned back and latched the door, shutting out the cold and the fading dusk. Glancing at the form on the bunk to make sure she was still asleep, he gathered some kindling from the wood box and placed it in the old potbellied stove, then struck another match and put it to the tinder, assessing their situation as he waited for the bark to catch and flare. With the windows boarded up, there would be no light visible from outside, and with the cabin hidden beneath the heavy canopy of trees, it would be practically invisible from the air. But the most critical factor was that the falling snow had covered their tracks, making their trail invisible. And invisibility was exactly what they needed. At least until he knew what in hell was going on.
Leaving the door of the stove open to provide more light, he disconnected from those thoughts, making himself focus on the tasks at hand. The first thing on his list was to make sure he had a good fire going, then he’d have to go down to the creek for water. And after that, he was going to have to fix something to eat. One way or another, he was going to have to get some nourishment into her. Giving her one final glance, he headed for the door.
It was nearly dark by the time he returned from the creek. The horses were standing slack-hipped by the cabin, and he retrieved his saddlebags and draped them over one shoulder, then pulled the rifle from the scabbard on his saddle. He had no intention of leaving anything to chance.
Stamping the snow off his boots, he pushed the door open and entered the cabin, his expression altering when he saw that his houseguest was struggling to sit up. Still clearly dazed and unsteady, she dragged the scarf and hat off her head, then tried to thrash her way out of her blanket cocoon, her movements oddly uncoordinated. Finn kicked the door shut with his heel, the cold air from outside mixing with the scent of burning spruce pitch. He propped the rifle by the door and dropped the saddlebags beside it, then turned and set the pail by the stove. Not wanting to rush her, he removed his gloves and stuck them in the pocket of his vest, then crossed to her. Deliberately avoiding eye contact, he peeled away the blanket so she could get her arms free.
He felt her gaze on him; then she spoke, her voice very unsteady. “I can’t remember your name.”
He looked down at her, keeping his expression impassive as he answered her question. “Finn Donovan.”
She stared up at him, her eyes wide with uncertainty; then she spoke again, her voice stronger, more assertive. “How come…how come you found me…what were you doing out there?”
Carefully, he draped her scarf over the head rail of the bunk, then met her gaze. “I’m an outfitter, and I take most of my clients out in this area. This is my line shack, and I was out securing my campsites for the winter. And I didn’t find you. My dog did.”
As if struggling to assimilate that information, she stared at him, the flicker from the fire glinting in the wild tumble of her hair. She stared at him a moment longer, then she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and he saw the muscles in her throat contract. Finally she straightened her head and looked at him, an odd stricken look on her face. She swallowed again and spoke, a tinge of tightly contained panic in her voice. “Where am I?”
Tossing his gloves on the table, Finn answered her, knowing there was a helluva lot more to the question than those three words. He met her gaze, his own level. “You’re in southwestern Alberta in the Rocky Mountains, just inside the Canadian border.”
A shiver ran through her and she folded one arm across her middle, then covered her eyes. Even from eight feet away, Finn could feel the rigid tension in her. He continued to watch her, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he turned away and went back to the stove, annoyed with himself. One thing he knew how to do was mind his own business.
Sharply aware of both her presence and her silence, Finn dumped water from the pail into two smaller pots—one to heat up a couple of vacuum-packed stews he’d had in his saddlebags, the other for tea. As he set the pail on the floor, he heard the distant drone of a plane, only this time it was much closer. His expression altered. With darkness settled and in this kind of rough terrain, he knew they would have to call off the search soon. If it was a search. And he’d bet his boots it was.
The pots of water heating, he glanced over at her, the inadequate light casting that side of the cabin in deep shadows. She was sitting with her back against the wall, her hands slack in her lap, her head turned to one side, and it appeared that she had fallen asleep again. He knew he was speculating, and speculation was always dangerous, but it had to be drugs that had knocked her out like that. It was the only explanation.
With a dozen questions running through his mind, Finn picked up the rifle and went back outside and tended to the horses. It had started to snow again, the whiteness giving off an eerie light, and Finn checked the sky above the cabin to see if the rising smoke was detectable. Satisfied that they were safe, at least for the night, he lugged the tack, spare gear and extra supplies into the cabin, again propping his rifle by the door. He checked the sleeping woman, then fed Rooney his kibbles, the firelight from the open door on the stove flickering and dancing on the rough-hewn walls. He thought again about the planes he had heard, wondering
