Cover of Night (28 page)

He really did need to sleep, but in an instant of unspoken communication she knew he wouldn’t until he’d done what he thought he needed to do. The fastest way to get him to lie down, then, was to help him.

“One cup of coffee, coming up.” She poured more coffee, and as she did she looked around the basement at her neighbors and friends. They had been alarmed, disoriented, but already they were settling down to take care of business. Some were arranging cushions and pillows and distributing blankets, some were taking inventory of the number of weapons and amount of ammunition they had, Milly Earl was getting some food organized, and Neenah was overseeing Mr. Creed’s care. They had cut away his pants and covered him with a blanket except for his injured leg, which was propped on a pillow. Neenah had carefully washed the wound but seemed at a loss for what to do next.

Cate went to Maureen and mentioned
Cal
’s need for clothes. The jeans Maureen unearthed from a box were too big in the waist, but they would do. Perry made an upstairs raid—on his hands and knees, in the dark—and returned with clean underwear and socks, and a thermal-knit pullover shirt.
Cal
pulled on the underwear under the cover of the blanket, then threw it off to finish dressing as fast as he could.

Cate didn’t let herself stare at his mostly naked body, though she couldn’t resist one look, during which she noticed that all her carefully placed butterfly bandages were gone and the two cuts were oozing blood again. Sherry noticed her looking, and leaned close to whisper, “That’s a
man.
”

“Yes,” Cate murmured in agreement, “he is that.”

When
Cal
finished dressing, he moved slowly to where Mr. Creed was lying, and asked for his first-aid box. Cate braced herself, told her suddenly queasy stomach to take a hike, and went to help him.

“What can I do?” she asked, going down on her knees beside him.

“I’m not sure yet. Let me see what the damage is.”

Neenah moved to Mr. Creed’s head, her face white as
Cal
studied the two wounds and carefully prodded the bone beneath. Creed bit off a curse, his back arching, and Neenah reached for his hand. His big fingers closed around hers with a force that made her wince.

“I think the bone’s cracked,”
Cal
said, “but I don’t feel any displacement. I have to look for any bullet fragments—”

“The hell you do,” Creed snapped.

“—or an infection could cost him his leg,”
Cal
finished.

“Fu—” Creed darted a look from Neenah to Cate and clamped his jaw shut.

“You’re tough, you can stand it,”
Cal
said with a remarkable lack of sympathy. Then he glanced at Cate. “I need more light, a lot more.”

The light from candles and an oil lamp wasn’t suitable for probing, so Sherry stood behind Cate with
Cal
’s powerful flashlight and shined it on Creed’s leg. Taking a pair of forceps from his tackle box,
Cal
probed, and Creed cursed. He found one sliver of bullet fragment, and a chunk of leather from Creed’s boot, plus a tiny piece of blood-soaked cotton from a sock. By the time he finished, Creed was ghost white and covered with sweat.

Neenah held Creed’s hand throughout the ordeal, murmuring to him and wiping his face with a cold cloth. Cate handed
Cal
whatever he asked for, and then held a saucepan under the wounds while he flushed them thoroughly. She swayed once and had to look away when he began suturing, though why a needle piercing the torn flesh should make her queasy, she didn’t know. She wondered when he’d learned how to suture a wound, where he’d gotten his medical training, but those were questions that could wait for another day.

Soon after that, antibiotic had been applied to the closed wounds, Creed had been made to swallow some pills, both antibiotics and painkillers, and a neat bandage was wrapped around Creed’s lower leg.

“I’ll splint it tomorrow, give the bone some support,”
Cal
said as he wearily climbed to his feet. “He isn’t going anywhere tonight.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t try,” Neenah said.

“I’m right here, and I can hear you,” Creed said grumpily, but he looked exhausted, and he didn’t protest when Neenah settled beside him.

“I need a couple of hours’ sleep,”
Cal
said, looking around for a quiet corner.

“That can be arranged,” said Cate. She and Sherry grabbed a couple of blankets and a pillow, and Cate unpacked more of the old clothes from the box Maureen had opened, arranging them to form a rough mattress. They dragged over some more boxes to form a partial shield, stacking them two high on each side of the pile of clothes, then draped an old curtain over the boxes to form an enclosure that would keep out most of the light and give at least the illusion of privacy.

Cal
watched all this with weary bemusement. “A blanket on the floor would have been fine,” he said. “I’ve slept in rougher circumstances than that.”

“Maybe,” said Cate, “but tonight you don’t have to.”

“Good night,” Sherry said. “Look,
Cal
, don’t think you have to do everything. The other men have organized themselves to stand watch for the rest of the night. You can sleep longer than a couple of hours. They’ll wake you if anything happens.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” he said, and Sherry moved away to join the others.

Cate stood there awkwardly, suddenly not knowing what to say or do. She murmured “Good night” and started to follow Sherry, but
Cal
caught her wrist. She froze, staring at him, unable to look away. Abruptly her heart was thudding against her breastbone. His pale gaze moved over her face, settled on her mouth, lingered.

“You’re tired, too,” he said in his quiet voice, as with surprising strength he pulled her down and into his makeshift quarters. “Come sleep with me.”

CATE’S MIND WENT BLANK. “W-WHAT?” SHE STUTTERED, completely disoriented by the suddenness with which she found herself lying on her back on a pile of blanket-covered clothing, staring up at the underside of a curtain draped over two stacks of boxes. She felt a ludicrous moment of pride at how comfy the makeshift bed was, and how dark was the interior of the makeshift tent. Even the steady buzz of conversation from the other twenty-odd people in the basement with them seemed muted.

“Sleep with me,” he repeated softly, stretching out in the limited space and settling his head on the pillow beside hers. His voice was very low, meant for her alone. His gaze met hers, and mesmerized by the crystalline depths, she lost the ability to think, almost to breathe. She felt almost as if she were seeing straight through to his soul, and the sense of connection was more powerful than if they’d been having sex. Almost without realizing it, she reached out, lightly touching his lips, feeling the slightly damp softness of them under her fingertips. He caught her hand, his fingers cool and hard but infinitely gentle, turning it so he could touch his lips to her knuckles in the sweetest, lightest kiss she’d ever received.

The intimacy of lying here with him was staggering; she could feel him all along her body, the way she hadn’t felt anyone since Derek’s death. The long years alone had dimmed her memory of how it was to lie so close to a man that their breaths mingled, that she could smell the heat of his skin, feel his heart beating with strong, solid thumps. They were fully clothed—well, she had on flannel pajamas, as well as the thick cardigan she had pulled on before starting the trek to the Richardsons’ house, but she was covered—yet she felt as vulnerable as if she were naked. She was acutely aware of their neighbors outside this little enclosure, watching and speculating, wondering what was going on between the handyman and the widow.

Her cheeks heated as she wondered that herself. Things had changed so fast that she wasn’t certain how or why, or even
what
had changed. All she knew was that shy Mr. Harris seemed to have disappeared as if he’d never existed at all, and in his place was Cal, a shotgun-toting, wound-suturing stranger who looked at her as if he wanted her naked.

Duh,
her brain whispered. He was a man. Men wanted women naked; that was who they were and what they
did.
Simple as that.

But the way she felt wasn’t simple. She felt confused, upset, worried, and turned on all at once. Nor was
Cal
a simple man. A lot of people had hidden depths, but his hidden depths evidently rivaled Loch Ness’s. She should crawl out of here, and sleep alone. He wouldn’t stop her; he would accept her decision. But telling herself she
should
do it and telling herself
to
do it were two entirely different things, and while she could do the first, the second was evidently beyond her ability.

“Stop thinking,” he murmured, touching one finger to her forehead. “Just for a little while. Sleep.”

He was serious. He expected her to sleep beside him with everyone outside watching their feet to see if their toes remained pointing in the same direction. Fatigue dragged at her bones, but she didn’t think she could even close her eyes. “I can’t sleep here!” she whispered urgently, finally getting her voice to work. “Everyone will be thinking—”

“There’s something I should tell you about that later.” His voice sounded drowsy, and his eyelids looked heavy. “For now, let’s just get some sleep. I’m still cold, and tomorrow will be a bitch. Please. I need you beside me tonight.”

He was cold, and tired. The plea went straight to her heart, arrowed through it. “Roll over,” she whispered, and with a grunt of effort he did, turning his back to her. She pulled the second blanket over both of them and straightened it, leaning out of their enclosure to tuck it around their protruding feet. Her own feet were freezing, and she instinctively tucked her feet against his sock-clad ones as she curled against his back.

He was already half asleep, but he gave a contented sigh and nestled closer. Cate curled one arm under her head and the other over his waist, and tucked her thighs snugly against the curve of his ass. Belatedly she remembered that the cuts on his shoulders and arm needed tending again, but his breathing had gone slow and deep just in the last thirty seconds and she didn’t want to wake him.

Warmth began to steal through her, and with it came drowsiness. Beyond the wall of boxes, voices were going silent as people settled down for what rest they could get. The men had organized a guard system, Sherry had said; tucked underground here, no bullets could reach them. They were relatively safe until morning, when they could find out exactly what was going on. There was no reason why she shouldn’t sleep.

She snuggled closer to his back and moved her free hand, sliding it from his waist, up his abdomen, to his chest. Feeling his heart beating under her touch, she went to sleep.

Long moments after he’d been hit, Teague struggled to a sitting position. He couldn’t see; blood was pouring from the wound at the top of his forehead, getting into his eyes and blinding him. Agony pounded in his head with Satan’s drumbeat. What the fuck had happened? He didn’t know where he was; his searching hands couldn’t find anything familiar, just rocks and more rocks. He was outside, he knew that much. But where, and why?

He waited, experience telling him that memory would return as he came to full consciousness. Until then, he pressed his hand over the jagged cut to slow his blood loss, ignoring the pain the pressure caused.

The first thing he remembered was an ungodly bright flash of light, and a boom as a giant fist punched him in the head.

Shot,
he thought, then discarded that idea. If he’d been shot in the head, he wouldn’t be lying here wondering about it. The shot had missed, then, but not by much. His face felt on fire, as if all the skin had been stripped off. The slug must have hit the boulder right below him, blasting him with pieces of rock.

As soon as the word
slug
formed in his mind, he thought “shotgun” and the pieces of his memory fell into place. That was the boom he’d heard, following so closely on the heels of his own shot that the two sounds had overlapped.

He wondered if anyone else had heard the shotgun; why hadn’t someone called on the radio to check on him? His thoughts were still so sluggish that several moments went by before he realized he’d been unconscious and wouldn’t have heard the radio even if someone had tried to contact him.

Radio. Yeah. He reached for it, found it clipped to his belt right where it was supposed to be; he unclipped it, fumbling because his hands were wet with blood, and then sudden caution made him freeze. If he dropped the radio, he might not be able to find it. Carefully, making certain he had a solid grip, he started to key the “talk” button—and stopped.

He could call for help. Hell, he needed help.
But
—he wasn’t helpless. He could do this on his own. When you ran with a pack of wolves, you didn’t show weakness or you could find yourself eaten alive. Billy wouldn’t turn on him, and neither would Troy, but Teague wasn’t so certain about Blake. He was damn certain about Toxtel and Goss—certain they’d turn on him in a New York minute. If he couldn’t make it off this damn mountainside by himself, if he had to be carried out instead of walking under his own steam, they would view him as weak, and he couldn’t afford that.

Okay. He had to do this on his own, then. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to concentrate, to get past the pounding agony in his head, the dizziness and sense of panic. He had to be operational.

The first, most important thing he had to do was stop losing blood. Head wounds always bled like a bitch anyway, so he could lose a significant amount in a short time, probably already had. He had to put pressure on the wound, a lot of pressure, no matter how much it hurt.

He knew he had a concussion, maybe brain damage that would only worsen with time, but his exploring fingers told him the area around the wound was swelling rapidly. That was good, from what he’d heard. If the swelling was on the inside of his brain, that was bad. He could deal with a concussion; he’d done it before.