Trespass (2 page)

“I told you where those came from.”

“Okay… But how about you? How’d you end up on my doorstep this time of night, twenty miles from the nearest streetlight?”

She pursed her lips and looked away.

Russ sighed. “Look. I believe there’s still places in this country where a person can be left alone and not get questioned to death about where they came from and what they’ve done. And you’re in one of them.”

She nodded.

“But how about your name, at least?”

“How about yours?”

Russ raised a brow at that look on her face, that distrustful narrowing of her eyes, the flex of her clenching jaw. He wondered what else she’d suffered to be looking at him like a kicked dog now.

“My name’s Russell Gray,” he said, offering his hand. “Call me Russ, please.”

She shook it with a tight smile. “Sure, Russ. You can call me Nicole.”

“Will do.”

“You live alone?” she asked, scouting the room as though a wife might be hiding behind Russ’s dresser.

“Yeah, just me. And you, ’til you’re feeling better. You hungry? When’s the last time you ate?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I haven’t had anything since this morning.”

“Well, c’mon.” Russ stood and grabbed the chair, carrying it back into the den to set it by the table near the open kitchen. “Have a seat.”

Nicole sat, and he scanned his cupboards and fridge. “What would you like? Oatmeal? Eggs? Cereal? Ham sandwich?” He turned to her.

“Yes.”

He smiled dryly and she returned the gesture. “Whatever’s easy.”

“Right.” Russ grabbed her a bowl and spoon, a box of cornflakes and a jug of milk.

She tore into the cereal, and Russ felt very much as though he suddenly ceased to exist. Nicole ate like a starved animal, wolfing down three bowls in a handful of minutes as Russ watched, fascinated. His wife had been the type of woman who put in long hours and neglected meals, but he’d never seen her attack a bowl of anything even half this aggressively. It was an oddly sexy look for a woman—ravenous abandon.

“Wow, you
were
hungry,” Russ said as she tipped the last of the milk to her lips.

“You have no idea.” She swiveled the glass bottle on the table, studying the label. “I can’t remember the last time I had whole milk.”

“All set?”

She nodded, setting her spoon in the bowl with a clink. Russ half-expected her to complete the performance with an almighty belch, but she just watched him cautiously until he stood and cleared away the dishes and what was left of the cereal.

“Well,” he said, shutting the fridge, “you help yourself to anything in the kitchen while you’re here. I’ll find you some bedding for the couch.”

Another tight smile. “Thank you.”

“Tomorrow morning you can grab a shower and I’ll take another look at those injuries. I think you’ll be just fine, though.” He gave her a slap on the shoulder and watched her eyebrows rise. It was what he always did to a steer or a horse after he was done tending to it, and Russ reminded himself he was dealing with a different breed of patient now, one who might not take so kindly to a friendly smack. He went to his closet and gathered some wool blankets from the shelf, grabbed one of the pillows off his bed. Nicole stood nearby as he got the couch set up.

“Could I get a glass of water?”

“Of course.” He went to the cupboards and filled her a mug from the tap.

“Thanks.” She accepted the cup, downing it in two gulps.

“Like I said, help yourself. And the bathroom’s there,” he added, pointing. “If you want warm water you better beat me to it in the morning.”

A genuine smile overtook her face, eyes crinkling, two dimples punctuating either corner of her wide lips. Russ watched her refill her cup before settling into the pile of blankets with slow, cautious movements, testing her injuries.

“You sleep tight now,” Russ said. “Come knock if you need anything.”

“I will, thanks.”

He nodded, not quite willing to meet her eyes, the strangeness of their new acquaintance sinking in now that his adrenaline had faded. He offered the wall to the left of her face an anxious smile, clicked off the lamp and closed himself in his bedroom.

Chapter Two

A bomb exploding couldn’t have woken Sarah before noon. It was the sunlight that eventually did the job, coaxing her eyes open and ushering in strange surroundings, and a sensation of comfort so foreign she sat bolt upright with fear. She squeaked out a cry from the pain that shot up her side.

She held her ribs, glancing around the sun-drenched den of Russ’s small house. It was Russ, right? Yes. Russell Gray, farmer-doctor-man, the guy who’d come at her in his underwear holding a rifle, called off the dogs, picked buckshot pellets out of her and given her a feast’s worth of cereal and a shirt to sleep in. And she was…? Nicole now. Not Sarah, Nicole. You’d think after more than a week of living that lie she’d be better at remembering.

The clock on the wall above her said it was twelve thirty. She tossed the covers aside, chilly autumn air tensing her body.

She made it to her achy feet, found the bathroom and a clean, threadbare towel folded in half-assed male fashion in the cupboard. Russ Gray didn’t have much in the way of toiletries, but shampoo and soap and toothpaste were all she really wanted. The shower started up with a couple of loud thumps, the water coming strong and hot and sputtery. She stripped and climbed into the rounded, cramped enamel tub, just about dying of pleasure as the spray hit her. She remembered her bandage and gently peeled it from her waist, setting it on the counter outside the curtain. The wounds were nasty, but no worse than she’d expected…far better actually, with all the blood cleaned off. The water stung but the feeling of all that sweat and grime washing away dulled the pain. She lathered her hair with Russ’s no-frills shampoo, scrubbed every inch of her face and body with a soapy washcloth, gingerly lathered and rinsed her cuts.

Sarah stood under the water until the heat faltered. She dried herself and peeled the icky layer of gauze from her bandaging, pasting the cleaner layer beneath it back over her wound. Studying herself in the small mirror above the sink, she traced a fingertip along the scratch on her neck, rubbed at the dark circles under her eyes. A bit of makeup wouldn’t hurt, might trick somebody into thinking she hadn’t been on the lam for the better half of a month. Still, clean was clean. An electric razor sat on the counter, and she made use of it, happy to recapture the most basic feminine upkeep. She soaped and rinsed her bra and panties in the sink, wrung them out and hung them over the rod. Buttoning Russ’s checked shirt over her bare chest, she was glad for one of a very few times in her life that she was a no-bra-required sort of woman. She winced as she bent to pull her dirty jeans up her legs.

She stared at Russ’s toothbrush for a second before picking it up. The little bag that held her meager, scrounged possessions had been abandoned in the cab of that last truck she’d made the mistake of flagging down. “Sorry, doc.” She scrubbed the stale milk taste from her mouth and rinsed Russ’s brush under the hot tap.

She felt nearly new as she stepped back out into the den, and she wished her body were up to a good, noisy stretch to punctuate the mood. She spotted a note propped on Russ’s counter, big letters in fat Sharpie scrawl.

Coffee’s fresh. I’m out back if you need anything. Want to look at your injuries when you’re up.

She fetched her mug off the floor beside the couch and poured herself a cup of coffee from the machine. Adding milk from the quaint glass bottle in Russ’s fridge, she noted the name of a town she’d passed through printed on the label. She bet her host knew the dairy farmer. With a laugh, she wondered if he knew the
cow.
Heck, maybe he’d delivered it, if that was something farm vets did. Or maybe cows didn’t need assistance in giving birth.

Carrying her steaming mug to the rear windows, she stared out over Russ’s overgrown property—waving grass, a sea of faded green flanked by fields of some brown crop that had already been cut down. A few hundred yards beyond was forest, and far beyond that, mountains. Sarah could see the edge of the wooden building next to the house, and most of the fenced-in ring it opened on to. Then Russ himself came into view, leading a horse into the dusty space.

Sarah hadn’t seen a horse in person for a decade or more, and she’d forgotten how huge they were. This one was mostly brown with white on its face and ankles. Or whatever the correct word was for a horse’s ankles. Russ gave its back a couple of slaps and it wandered off toward the far end of the fence. She remembered how he’d slapped her shoulder that way the night before and cocked an unseen eyebrow at him.
Rusty much with women?

Russ disappeared then brought out another horse, this one a dingy whitish color with gray spots. He inspected something on the horse’s leg then slapped it too, leaving it to its own devices.

She watched him vault himself over the ring’s wooden fence like a twelve-year-old, watched him squint up into the cloudless noontime sky before disappearing into the side of the barn, emerging with a hat in his hand, an honest-to-God cowboy hat. She sipped her coffee as he set it on his head, heard his claps and shouts before the two German Shepherds came rocketing from around the house, tongues flapping.

She stood still, hands hugging her warm cup, as she tried to comprehend him. She’d lived her entire life in Buffalo without ever coming across a man like this one—dressed in dusty jeans and a T-shirt, clothes faded and distressed and not manufactured to look that way. No guy back home would wear that hat unless he was being ironic; no dog owner to be found who’d get down and wrestle with his pets as this one was, actually
on the ground,
rolling around, hat lost in the fray.

Eventually Russ stood, then found two big sticks and flung them far into the tall grass, dogs shooting off in hot pursuit. He retrieved his hat and whapped the dust off. Setting it on his head, he turned to the house, eyes locking right on Sarah’s. Her heart stopped for a moment, for as long as it took for him raise a hand and offer a smile. She smiled back, feeling dopey, and raised her own hand. Russ held up a finger in a just-a-minute gesture and disappeared back inside the barn…or stable. Whatever it was called.

She took a seat at his dinner table feeling shy. What had he thought of her, the strange woman freaking his dogs out in the middle of the night, waking him up to pick buckshot from her side then making him watch as she ate half a box of his cornflakes? She knew what she thought of him—she thought he was handsome. Overdue for a shave and haircut, but a nice, handsome face. Not the kind of blow-your-mind sexy face you might be lucky to wake up next to after some random, fortuitous night at a bar. More the sort of dependably handsome face you’d want to see beaming at you when he picked you up from the airport or wheeled himself out from beneath your misbehaving car.

Two thumps outside on the porch pulled her out of these thoughts. The screen door popped open, and Russ stepped inside in his socks, dependably handsome face smiling.

He tucked his thumbs in his pockets as the door hissed shut. “Sleep all right?”

“Best in weeks,” she said, no exaggeration.

“Looks like you got a shower too. Let me wash up and I’ll take a look at you.”

He went to the kitchen sink and scrubbed up to his elbows with soap and water, then grabbed his big case from his bedroom and opened it on the kitchen table.

She chewed her lip. “I um…I rinsed out my bra this morning, so I’m not, you know.”

“Sure. You’re in charge of shirt-lifting, then.”

She raised the flannel and gathered it below her bust with a wince, ribs protesting. Russ pulled a chair close and sat. Peeling her bandaging away, he inspected the punctures, making little faces she hoped were telling her good news.

“How do I look?”

“For a woman with holes in her, you look great.” He rummaged for that horrible rubbing alcohol, and she inventoried his case, the little glass bottles of clear liquid and the larger ones full of gigantic pills. She gasped her way through more painful swabbing, then Russ taped some fresh gauze in place.

“Done. You’re going to be just fine. How does it feel?”

“It hurts to bend over or reach up too high, but it’s okay. It’s way better. Thank you.”

“Great.” Russ replaced his tools and snapped the case closed. Something beeped three times, and he stood, unclipping a phone from his belt. He dusted it off on his T-shirt before he pushed a button and put it to his ear. “Russ Gray. Heya, Tom. How’s she doing?” He stepped to the back windows, staring out over his property as he spoke. “Uh-huh. Well that sounds promising. And the redness? Uh-huh… Great. Sounds like she’s on the mend. You call me if she takes a turn for the worse, otherwise I’d say we’re in the clear… Yeah. Hey, not a problem. I will. Uh-huh. My best to Andrea. Bye.” He pushed another button and set the phone on the table.

“Horse?” she asked.

“Alpaca, actually.”

“Oh. Neat.” Sarah wasn’t actually sure what an alpaca looked like. Like a goat in a fur coat, she guessed. “Well, if my cuts are looking good I guess I should probably get out of your hair.”

Russ’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“You’ve been really kind,” she said, gaze jumping to his open case.

“Can I talk you out of leaving so soon?” He locked his arms over his chest, the gesture giving him a bit of extra authority, as though he’d hung an invisible stethoscope around his neck. “I think you’re going to be fine, but I’ll be honest with you… I don’t know what you’re up to that you’ve managed to get shot and held at knife-point, and I’m not all that eager to send you back out into it. I wish you’d think about staying a few days.”

“I don’t have much money and I wouldn’t want to be a mooch.” Her body tensed, and she waited to see if he was about to step close and offer to let her pay him in
other ways
.

Instead he smiled his kind smile again. “You wouldn’t be a mooch. I have plenty of food, and you can repay me with the company. Maybe I’ll get a couple drinks in you, and you’ll tell me all about what brought you here.” He grinned hopefully.