Trusting a Stranger (4 page)

Chapter Six

Graham could read
Keira’s expression perfectly as she looked from him to the wooden house.

Seriously?
it said.
You’re taking me in
there
, and you expect me to go without a fuss?

If he’d felt inclined to speak, he would’ve replied, “Actually, I don’t expect you to do anything without a fuss.”

Instead he just shrugged, which made her emerald eyes narrow suspiciously. She went back to assessing the single-story structure with its rough shingle roof and its wide porch hung with ancient wind chimes. And likely found it lacking.

For the first time since he’d moved in semipermanently, he wished it was a more impressive abode.

The outside was purposefully left in disrepair, meant to deter anyone who saw it from wanting to enter.

He moved up the stairs, but as he reached the threshold, Keira’s hand shot out, and Graham was too startled to realize what she was reaching for before it was too late. Her fingers closed on the well-worn sign. It was handcrafted by Graham’s great-grandfather almost a century earlier when he’d built the cabin as a hunting outpost. Graham had meant to remove the handmade plate a long time ago.

“Calloway?” she said as she ran her fingers over the barely discernible lettering, then wriggled a bit so she could look at him. “That’s you?”

She eyed him with patient curiosity, and a battle waged inside Graham’s head. The last name wasn’t an entirely common one, but it clearly hadn’t sparked any recognition in her.

Given time, would she make the connection between him and the crime attached to the surname? If she did, would she simply chalk it up to coincidence, or would she investigate further?

In the end, Graham took a leap of faith and nodded tightly.

“Calloway,” she repeated thoughtfully and added, “Is that a first name or last name?”

Graham tensed, but after a second, she smiled—the first genuine one Graham had seen since he found her—and he relaxed again. Her teeth were even, but not perfect, and the grin transformed her face. She went from porcelain perfection to devilish beauty.

“Or are you one of those people who just has the one name?” she teased. “Like the Cher of the survivalist world?”

Graham rolled his eyes, loosened one of his arms, tore the sign from its chain and tossed it with perfect aim into a wood bin on the porch. Then he carried her up to the door, turned the knob and let them into the cabin.

The heavy curtains ensured that it was almost dark inside, but Graham kept his modified woodstove on low, even when he wasn’t in the cabin. As a result, the air was an ambient temperature. The only light—not much more than a dim glow—came from the same stove. At that moment, it highlighted the Spartan decor.

The furniture was limited to a set of rough-hewn chairs and a matching table, and Graham’s own lumpy bed. He carted the girl across the room and deposited her on the latter. She tried to stand, but Graham pushed her back down and shot her a warning glare before he slipped to the other side of the room.

He wasn’t doing anything else until he’d given her a more thorough look-over and tended to the mess of a wound on her leg.

Whether she likes it or not.

He dampened a clean cloth, then set some water to boil. He refused to think about anything but the immediate tasks at hand, and once he had the pot on the stove, he moved back to the bed.

As he seated himself beside her, she crossed her arms over her chest, and her mouth set in a frown. Graham ignored her expression, raising the cloth to her face. She snatched it from his hand.

“I can do it,” she told him, but there was no bite in her words—just exhaustion.

Graham watched as she wiped away the grime left behind from sleeping in a hole and several hours of being carried through the woods. He was unreasonably pleased when she handed the cloth back and he saw that she only had the tiniest of abrasions on her otherwise perfect face.

Perfect face? Calm your raging manhood, Graham
,
he growled at himself.
It’s clearly been far too long since you’ve seen a woman. And her prettiness is not your focus anyway. Her health is what’s important. She needs to heal so you can get on with meeting up with Dave.

He stood up stiffly, filled a tin mug with spices and pressed juice, topped it with the now-boiling water, then added a generous helping of his homemade booze. It wasn’t as good as a painkiller or a sedative, but even if either had been available, he doubted she’d take one from him.

In moments, Graham was back at her side, offering her the steaming liquid. She eyed it suspiciously and didn’t reach for it.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

Graham rolled his eyes, then grabbed the mug and took a pointed swig. Even the small mouthful warmed his throat as he swallowed.

He offered it to her again.

She still sniffed the drink, and Graham had to cover a smile.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I guess you’re not trying to poison me.”

At last, she relented and took first one cautious sip, then another.

Satisfied that she was going to drink it, Graham slipped away again. He banged through the cupboards until he found each item he thought he might need and placed them on a tray. None of it was ideal—he didn’t even seem to own a Band-Aid—but it would have to do.

Once he had everything ready, he opted to get changed. His clothes were dirty, and in some places soaked with the girl’s blood. All of it risked contamination, and the last thing he wanted was to give her an infection.

Graham shot a quick glance in her direction. She was still engrossed in sipping the spiked drink, so Graham dropped his pants and stepped into a fresh pair of jeans instead. Then he stripped off his damp shirt and doused his hands and forearms with soap and some of the boiled water, then rinsed the suds off into a metal pot.

When he turned back to the girl again, the tin mug was at her side, and her eyes were fixed on him. They were wide, their striking shade of green dancing against the fairness of her skin. The orange firelight glinted off her hair, adding otherwise invisible hints of gold to the red.

Another bolt of electric attraction shot through Graham’s blood.

Damn.

She really was beautiful.

Without meaning to, he let his gaze travel the length of her body. The white fur that had been covering her legs had slipped to the floor, leaving her calves bare. She still wore Graham’s big, red jacket, but it didn’t cover anything past midthigh. She tried to tug it down, but when one side lowered, the other rose, and after a second she gave up. It didn’t help at all that he knew she had nothing but panties on underneath the coat.

Even from where Graham stood, he could see two spots of pink bloom in her cheeks. The added color in her fair skin did nothing to dampen his desire.

Double damn.

He forced himself to turn away and take a breath, rearranging the items on his tray until he was sure he could trust himself to get closer to her. He had to count to twenty to normalize his breathing, and even when he was done, he wasn’t sure he was completely in control.

As he turned back, she looked as if she was bracing herself for an attack, and Graham couldn’t say he blamed her. He felt unusually animalistic as he took careful, measured steps toward her. When he sat down, he made sure to leave a few inches between their knees.

Graham balanced the tray of makeshift first aid supplies between them and took her horrified expression in stride.

He met her eyes and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“What? You’re going to start requesting my permission
now
?” she asked.

Graham didn’t cover his eye roll at all. He let her have it full force. Then he tipped the tray in her direction and waited as she inventoried the items there.

A white square of fabric he was going to use as a bandage. A mini airplane-serving size of vodka that would double as a disinfectant. A homemade, gelatinous salve Graham had created for treating the occasional burn. A punch-out package of antibiotics labelled Penicillin in bold letters and, finally, a hooked needle, threaded with fishing line.

Graham had to admit that the last thing glinted ominously in the dim light, but the rest was pretty innocuous.

Though clearly the girl didn’t think so.

“Hell. No,” she said.

She pushed the tray away and took a long pull of cider. Then she moved to set the mug down, but Graham closed his hand around hers, and he forced her fingers to stay wrapped around the handle. He tipped the mug to her lips. She swallowed the last of the cider, and he gave her an approving nod.

For one second, she looked offended.

But her eyes were already growing glassy and unfocused. Graham took the cup from her hands and placed it on the tray, opened the vodka, dabbed it onto the square of fabric and reached for the wound on her leg.

Keira batted at his hand, and when Graham frowned irritably, she just giggled and threaded her fingers through his. Startled, Graham didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he stared down, admiring the way her hand looked in his. Small and delicate. Soft and comfortable. In fact, it fit there. Just the way she’d fit in his lap.

“Hey...Mountain Man?”

Graham dragged his gaze up to hers. Her eyes were far too serious.

“You’re not exactly my type,” she said. “But if—
if—
I went for the angry, brooding hero kinda thing. I’d pick you.” She paused, frowned a little, then added, “I don’t think I meant to say that out loud. Am I
drunk
?”

She wobbled a little, almost slipping from the bed. Graham caught her. He eased her back onto the bed, smoothed back the mop of hair from her face and waited for her eyes to close.

Chapter Seven

Keira woke slowly
, feeling slightly unwell.

Which should have alerted her to the fact that something was wrong even before she remembered where she was and how she got there.

She’d always been a morning person, awake and ready to go before the coffeepot finished brewing. When she’d lived at home with her parents, she and her dad got up at the crack of dawn. The two of them often watched the sun rise together. Then he would read the paper while she made breakfast for her mom, who would get up a solid hour after they did.

Keira valued those early hours, and when she’d finished her degree three years earlier and taken a job in social work, moving into her own place, she continued with the rise-before-dawn ritual.

So if she felt sluggish, as she did right at that moment, she was either hungover or seriously sick.

Which is it now?
Keira wondered, somehow unable to recall quite what she’d been up to.

Then she pried her eyes open, and the sight of the cabin sent a surge of recollection and panic through her. A half a dozen thoughts accompanied the memory.

Calloway and his cider. Calloway, holding her hand, easing her back onto the bed.

And worse...Keira telling Calloway he wasn’t her type.

Keira blushed furiously as she recalled the last few moments before she passed out. She’d been distracted by the way his palm felt over top of her hand. It was warm. Warmer even than the mug. And rough in a way she’d never experienced before. If she took the time to think about—which she now realized she hadn’t—she supposed that Drew’s hands were probably soft from the hours he spent sitting in an office and the occasional indulgence of a MANicure.

But not Calloway’s. He had calluses on top of calluses, and Keira had had a sudden vision of him
actually
wielding an ax. Chopping wood for this very toasty fire. Topless. Because even in the snowy woods, that kind of manual labor worked up a serious sweat.

And there was no denying the potentially romantic ambience.

Secluded location. Check.

Tall, dark and handsome stranger. Check.

The gentle crackle of a fire. Check.

So maybe it wasn’t that she
couldn’t
recall what she’d been up to. Maybe it was that she hadn’t
wanted
to remember it.

Clearly, what she needed was a minute to collect her thoughts and assess her surroundings. So she held very still and took stock of everything she could.

She was on her side, lying with her back pushed to the wall and her hands tucked under a pillow. She had a blanket wrapped around her, but there was an empty space beside her. The last bit made Keira swallow nervously. There was no denying that the spot was just the right size to hold a big, burly man.

Had he slept beside her?

Keira’s face warmed again—both with embarrassment and irritation—at the thought.

Somehow, lying in the bed beside him seemed much more taboo than curling up beside him in a desperate attempt to keep warm postaccident in a snowstorm.

Still without moving, she scanned the limited area that she could see, hoping to find proof that she hadn’t actually spent the whole night cuddled up next to Calloway. But it was a one-room deal—not huge, not small—with a table and chairs in one corner, and the still-burning woodstove in another. She supposed the bed where she lay was in a third corner. So, unless the fourth and final corner was home to a recliner or a second lumpy mattress, her fears were true.

She’d officially slept with the Mountain Man.

An inappropriate giggle almost escaped her lips as she pictured telling her best friend that she had no problem getting past the failed, so-called sign that was supposed to lead her to Drew. At all. She’d simply climbed into bed with the next man she met instead.

Keira knew her cheeks were still red, and she was glad Calloway wasn’t there to see her reaction. If just the
idea
of sharing a bed with him made her feel so squirmy, actually confronting him about it would be a nightmare.

Where was he anyway?

“Calloway?” she called.

Keira wasn’t expecting a spoken reply from the thus far mute man, but she did half anticipate his looming presence to step from some hidden alcove so he could stare down at her with that smirk on his face. But right that second, the cabin was completely silent. Which wasn’t too terrible, considering the dull ache in her temple. The rest of her hurt, too, and she wondered if she needed medical attention beyond that of a serving of liquored-up cider, a questionable dose of penicillin and the makeshift care of a bona fide mountain man.

She pushed herself to a sitting position, and was pleased that her head didn’t spin and that the ache eased off a little. But when she stood, her legs shook, and she realized she was still far weaker than she was used to. With a dejected sigh, she glanced around the room in search of something that would approximate a crutch. She spied a fire iron beside the stove, decided it would do and hobbled toward it.

Maybe there was something in the cabin itself that would answer her questions. She took another slow look around the single-room cabin.

Most of what she saw appeared to be pretty basic. The kitchen contained a wraparound cupboard, an ancient icebox and a rubber bin full of cast-iron pots.

She walked over and opened the icebox. It held the required slab of ice, several flat, wrapped packages that looked like steaks and—

“Beer?” Keira said out loud, surprised.

Calloway seemed more like the moonshine type than Bud Light. But there it was anyway. She closed the icebox and moved on to the cupboards. She didn’t know what she thought she’d find, but it definitely wasn’t instant hot chocolate and packaged macaroni and cheese. A bag of oatmeal cookies peeked out from behind a stack of canned soup.

So he wasn’t that much of a survivalist after all.

As Keira let her gaze peruse the cabin a third time, she took note of some of the more modern accoutrements.

Sure, there was no television or microwave, but there was a dartboard and a current calendar and a digital alarm clock. A stainless-steel coffee mug sat on one windowsill, and a signed and mounted baseball adorned another.

For all intents and purposes, it was a middle-of-nowhere man cave. Minus the requisite electronics, of course.

Her curiosity grew.

Keira took a few more steps and banged straight into a dusty cardboard box, knocking it and its contents to the ground.

Dammit.

She reached down to clean it up. And paused.

A notebook—no, a scrapbook
—
lay open on the floor. An ominous headline popped up from one of the newspaper clippings glued to its page.

Heiress and Son Gunned Down in Ruthless Slaying.

A gruesome crime scene was depicted in black-and-white below the caption, and Keira’s fingers trembled as she reached for the book. She flipped backward a few pages.

Home Invasion Turns Deadly. And a photo of a tidy house on a wide lot.

She flipped forward.

Debt and Divorce. Police Close in on Suspect in Henderson Double Murder. A grainy shot of a short-haired man covering his face with the lapel of his suit jacket.

Something about the last headline struck Keira as familiar, and she frowned down at the page, trying to figure out if it was a case she’d heard about. She scanned the article. It was enticingly vague, just the kind of sensationalist journalism that baited the reader into buying the next edition. The suspect was listed as someone close to the victims and the words
unexpected twist
were used three times that she could see with just her quick perusal, making her think the “twist” was probably not “unexpected” at all, but that the reporter wanted to play it up anyway.

Then she clued in.

Derby Reach.

A chill rocked Keira’s body. It wasn’t just a familiar case. It was
the
case. The affluent community where she’d grown up, home to doctors, lawyers and judges—like her father—had been blown away by the double murder.

Keira remembered the day it occurred, but embarrassingly, not because of the tragedy itself. She’d met Drew that day. While the neighbors stood on their porches, gawking and gossiping, Drew had been walking through the street, totally clueless, as he searched for an open house he’d been booked in to view. She’d been the one to explain to him why no one was thinking about real estate at that moment. And his casual romantic pursuit of Keira started the moment he knocked on her parents’ door by accident.

Now Keira wished she’d paid more attention to what was happening in her own backyard.

But why did Calloway have the scrapbook in his house? What connection could a man like him have with a wealthy socialite’s death?

With the book still in her hands, Keira took a cautious, wobbly step back to the window.

Across the snowy yard stood Calloway. In spite of the subzero temperature, he hadn’t bothered zipping up his coat. The wind kicked up for a second, tossing his thick hair and ruffling his beard. Calloway didn’t seem to notice at all.

As Keira squinted through the glass, she frowned. A narrow figure in full protective gear—helmet, fur-lined hood, thick Gore-Tex pants and knee-high boots—stood facing Calloway, his hand resting on a parked snowmobile. Something about the way the two men faced each other made Keira nervous. And as she tried to puzzle out the source of her distinct but unspecific unease, the wind changed and a loud voice carried in her direction.

“I’ve had a change of plans.”

The breath Keira had been holding came out with a wheeze, and she stumbled back in surprise.

Calloway.

It was he who’d spoken.

Even though he’d turned so that his back was to her and he was blocking her view of the other man, Keira knew it was him. The deep, gravelly nature of the voice couldn’t have suited him more perfectly.

Keira pressed her face almost right against the glass, and gasped again, this time not at Calloway. The other man had a gun, hooked menacingly to his side.

Keira took a step back. Her head spun. She needed to get away. From Calloway
and
his armed friend.

“My phone,” she murmured, then looked toward the window again as she remembered.

It was in the pocket of the coat Calloway wore right that second.