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“I parked in that shed behind your house and latched the door. Hope you don’t mind.”
Of course, she minded! She was not in the habit of harboring escaped criminals. His phony politeness didn’t fool her for one minute. Jordan Shane had not dropped by for a spot of tea. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m in need of medical attention. I’ve been shot.”
Even if she hadn’t seen the blood, Emily would have suspected serious injuries from the occasional tremors that shook his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His complexion blanched white.
This was a far different Jordan Shane than the handsome benefactor who had visited her cabin a year ago. When he’d been here before, he had a deep Florida tan. Six weeks in the Pitkin County jail erased that healthy glow. He looked thinner but not at all frail. His features were sharpened, as if his ordeal had sliced close to the bone.
As she stared at him, her instinctive empathy emerged. It was an emotion more deeply ingrained than her fear or rage. For as long as she could remember, Emily had been driven to reach out to those who needed help and nurturing. She was a natural-born nurse. She truly believed in the motto of S.A.R.: “…That Others May Live.” In this case, however, her instincts were dead wrong. Jordan Shane was a dangerous man. “I can’t help you,” she said. “If I did, I’d be aiding and abetting a criminal.”
“Not if I force you,” he said, casually displaying the gun. “I didn’t come here to get you in trouble, Ms. Foster.”
“Then why? Of all the places in the world you could have run to, why did you come to me?”
“It was logical.” Jordan took a step away from her and leaned against the arm of the plaid sofa. He was light-headed, but he didn’t think his condition came from loss of blood. More than likely, he was disoriented by his own audacity. He’d never been the sort of man who acted without thinking, and now he was on the lam from the Pitkin County sheriff. At this very moment, a massive search effort would be getting underway.
“Logical? You came here because it was logical?” “That’s right.”
His mental process was a little fuzzy, almost as if today’s events had happened to someone else. He clearly remembered being left in a windowed room at Sardy Field in Aspen. He was being transported to Denver where his trial was slated to start on Monday. Another prisoner waited with him. With no explanation, Deputy Frank Kreiger had entered the room, removed their shackles and cuffs and left them alone again.
The other guy went to one of the windows, unfastened the latch and pushed it open. Fresh air washed inside, and Jordan was drawn toward the scent of freedom.
“I don’t understand your definition of logical.” He heard Emily speaking. Her voice echoed as if she were talking from the bottom of a deep well. “Would you explain?”
He truly didn’t know. Jordan hadn’t consciously decided to escape, but he was suddenly outside, ducked down and running alongside the hangar toward the tarmac.
Gunshots exploded. A stinging heat penetrated his left arm. He turned halfway around and heard a bullet whiz past his cheek. The other prisoner lay flat on the ground, awaiting recapture.
Jordan ran. He dodged and backtracked through the airport where he’d been dozens of times before. He found the employee parking area. After he hot-wired a late model Dodge, he drove away from Aspen. He had no clear escape route in mind but found himself on the road leading toward Cascadia. He remembered the directions to Emily’s cabin from when he came here to drop off the contribution. He also recalled that this location was remote with no troublesome neighbors.
He offered her a summary explanation. “I remembered that you were a former emergency room nurse, and I figured that you’d know how to deal with a gunshot wound.”
“I do.” Her green eyes narrowed. She was guarded, suspicious and wary. Perfectly normal reactions. She probably believed, like everyone else in Pitkin County, that he had murdered Lynette.
“Patch me up, Ms. Foster, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Please call me Emily,” she said with an admirable show of bravado. “After your armed assault, I think we should be on a first-name basis.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. It had been weeks since he’d smiled. “You have a sense of humor, Emily.”
“A sense of survival,” she corrected. “And I’d feel a whole lot more comfortable if you’d get rid of the gun.”
She held out her hand as if he’d be stupid enough to surrender his weapon. “I think not.”
“Don’t you trust me, Jordan?”
“Hell, no.” She was a law-abiding citizen who would turn him over to the cops in two blinks of an eyelash. “Let’s get this over with.”
Though he suspected the gunshot had resulted in nothing more serious than a painful flesh wound, he wanted her professional opinion. The bullet slice across his cheek was more worrisome—partly because it wouldn’t stop bleeding and partly because the wound was inches away from a fatal shot to his skull.
He pointed toward the kitchen where he had assembled her medical supplies. During the half hour he’d been alone in her house, he’d made friends with the dog and conducted a fairly thorough search of this cosy two-bedroom cabin. She had no television, no VCR and no computer. Her bookshelves were crammed with hardback reference works and an eclectic selection of paperback fiction, including a lot of science fiction and medical thrillers. She had a decent sound system and an extensive collection of blues and classical CDs.
Though most of her furniture was worn around the edges, nothing looked shabby. She decorated with warm, bright colors—a patchwork quilt on her bed, dozens of framed prints on the walls and flowers. Emily had captured the outdoor sunlight with glass vases of wildflowers and a golden arrangement of aspen branches on the kitchen table.
When they entered the kitchen, she assumed the brisk attitude of a nurse. “Take off your shirt.”
His left arm was stiff, but he managed the buttons while still keeping a grip on the gun. Underneath he wore a white cotton T-shirt.
“Take off both shirts.” She stood at the sink with her arms folded beneath her breasts. “I see that you gathered up a lot of bandages and brought them to the table. You shouldn’t have rifled through my things, Jordan.”
“You should’ve kept your front door locked.”
“I hardly ever lock up when I leave.” She shrugged. “There are too many other ways to break into the cabin. If someone intends to rob me, I might as well save myself the trouble of fixing a broken window.”
“Generous,” he said.
“Besides, I’ve been hoping that my ferocious watchdog would be a deterrent to crime.”
“He’s a good little fella. What’s his name?”
“Pookie.”
“Well, there’s your problem,” Jordan said. “If you want him to be a watchdog, you’ve got to name him Spike or Killer.”
“For your information, Pookie comes from pukka which is a term of nobility and respect in India.”
“Why not name him Ghandi? Here, Ghandi.”
“Moof, snoofle, moof.” The dog jumped up, ignoring the gun, and licked Jordan’s bare forearm.
“Weird bark,” he said.
“No worse than his bite.”
As he looked down at the loose-limbed golden retriever puppy, Jordan felt the corners of his mouth curving upward. Another smile.
Slowly, it was beginning to dawn on him that he was free. After six weeks of jail time, he was out in the world again, unshackled, unfettered. Freedom meant he had options, choices, the opportunity to do more than to declare his innocence over and over until the words sounded hollow and empty.
“Your T-shirt,” Emily said. “Take it off and come over here to the sink.”
He did as instructed. Though he wasn’t sure how far he could trust Emily, Jordan believed she’d do a good job of nursing. From the first time he saw her, giving a lecture on mountain safety, he’d been impressed by her professionalism. He remembered sitting at the Aspen Ski Patrol meeting with Lynette at his side. Their marriage had already begun to fall apart, but Jordan had been making an effort to share in her interests. Still, midway through the meeting, he’d become fascinated by Emily Foster. Her curly, maize-colored hair and the vivacious color in her cheeks contrasted his wife’s cool beauty. As a married man, Jordan would never do anything but look, but he certainly had taken in an eyeful. Being in Emily’s presence made him feel like springtime after the winter chill of his ice princess wife. Poor Lynette! She hadn’t deserved a bloody death. It wasn’t right that her killer would go unpunished.
“Ouch!” He reacted as Emily washed his wound with stinging antiseptic.
“Betadine antiseptic to prevent infection,” she said. “It’s a neat exit wound. The bullet burned right through without hitting the bone. You’re lucky.”
“I guess.” Although getting shot in the first place didn’t seem much like a stroke of good fortune, he had reason to hope. His improbable escape gave him a second chance, and he needed to make use of this opportunity.
She sat him down beside the kitchen table. Before she dressed the wound, she went to the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice and filled a tall glass. “Drink this. And you should probably eat something.”
“Thanks.” He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was already past two o’clock in the afternoon.
When she went to work on his arm, Jordan barely felt the pain. He was too busy thinking, considering the options. His first priority was to evade capture. “With your S.A.R. work, you’re in contact with the sheriff’s office.”
“That’s right,” she said as she skillfully applied gauze and wrapped the bandages.
“What happens when they go after an escapee?”
“I’m not involved in that kind of search,” Emily said, “but I imagine the deputies will fan out in the most likely areas for searching. They’ll probably bring in bloodhounds.”
“How can they track the scent if I’m in a car?”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “Not all dogs are like Pookie, you know. There was one legendary bloodhound from Denver who found a body days after the murder and miles away from the supposed scene of the crime.”
It sounded pretty far-fetched to him. “What else?”
“Probably helicopters. And roadblocks, of course.”
He’d been thinking about the roadblocks. By now, the sheriff must have determined the make, model and license plate number on his stolen vehicle.
“There,” she said as she finished the bandaging. “The cut on your face is more of a problem. Facial wounds tend to bleed a lot, and you’re going to need stitches.”
She strode toward the kitchen door.
“Hold it!” Jordan raised the pistol. He couldn’t allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, no matter how charming Emily seemed to be. She could make a quick call to 9-1-1 and pinpoint his location. She could make a break for her car. “Where are you going?”
“In your search of my house, you apparently missed the closet in the second bedroom. That’s where I keep a lot of my equipment, including a backpack of medical supplies. I have the stuff I’ll need for stitching in there.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll accompany you.”
“I mind,” she muttered. “I don’t like being a hostage.”
He wasn’t exactly thrilled about his role as hostage-taker. But he didn’t have an option.
The closet in the second bedroom was surprisingly large, and she’d neatly stored much of her S.A.R. equipment inside. Jordan’s gaze lit upon a heavy-duty walkie-talkie combined with a battery operated cell phone. With his uninjured right arm, he picked up the communication device. “Can you use this to pick up the police radio?”
“I have no idea,” she said as she grabbed a red backpack. “I hardly know how to turn it on. Electronics aren’t my thing.”
Fortunately, Jordan was an expert in all things mechanical. His company in Florida manufactured high-tech computer chips. As they returned to the kitchen, he activated the walkie-talkie. Within minutes, he was picking up the police band radio.
“I’m impressed,” Emily commented. “When it comes to mountain survival and emergency medical aid, I do a good job. But that thing baffles me. I hate carrying it on searches.”
As she disinfected the wound on his cheek, Jordan focused on the static reports from the walkie-talkie. The sheriff had already set up roadblocks on the main highway and some of the major roads leading away from Aspen. Had they come this far? Had they thought of Cascadia?
“The stitching is going to hurt,” Emily said. “I don’t have anesthetic. Maybe I should just use a couple of butterfly bandages.”
But he might be on the run for days and wouldn’t have a chance for further medical attention. He needed a more permanent solution than a couple of bandages. “Stitch it up.”
He could manage the pain. What he couldn’t stand was being recaptured again. There was no way in hell he’d go back to jail.
She handed him a bottle of ibuprofen. “Take three.”
He washed down four tablets with another swig of orange juice. “I’m ready.”
As she prepared to stitch, he stared at the curved needle. If she wanted, Emily could inflict serious damage on his face. He nudged the nose of the gun against her rib cage as a reminder. “Don’t try anything cute.”
“I’m a nurse, Jordan. And I take pride in my work. I won’t hurt you any more than I have to. Try not to move around.”
He closed his eyes and retreated deep into his head, seeking a meditative core of stillness. Instead of tensing his body, he willed himself to relax. In an almost objective state, he felt the needle pierce his flesh. He acknowledged the stab and, just as quickly, dismissed the resulting pain.
He inhaled a deep breath before she stitched again. Behind his eyelids, he saw cool blue Gulf waters lapping against the Florida sands. He imagined gentle breakers washing over him, soothing his mind and his spirit, lifting him above the throbbing agony.
He didn’t flinch. The stitching was necessary. The hurt was nothing compared to the thought of spending a lifetime in prison for a crime he did not commit.
“Done,” she said.
When he opened his eyes, he glimpsed a fleeting gentleness in her eyes. For an instant, Emily almost looked like she might hug him. He wanted her touch, yearned for her attention, her affection. If he had only one person to believe in his innocence…
“That’s all I can do,” she said. “You promised to leave.”
Stiffly, he nodded.
Jordan’s attention returned to the police radio. They were setting up roadblocks near Cascadia. He couldn’t use the car for his escape.
Logically, a plan fell into place. He would escape on foot across the mountains where it would be harder to find him. He was, however, ill-equipped to handle mountain survival by himself. He needed an expert. He needed Emily.
“Get your backpack,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter Two
From the start, Emily knew they would have a problem: What would Jordan do with her when he went on the run again? He couldn’t simply wave goodbye and stroll out the door. He couldn’t leave her behind as a witness.
She thought he might tie her up or disable her car. She feared he might knock her unconscious. But she never dreamed his solution would be to take her with him. “Why, Jordan? Why do you want me to go with you?”
“Makes sense,” he said.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Think about it.”
“You want to use me as a hostage.” A helpless pawn, he’d use her as a bargaining chip to gain his freedom. The idea disgusted her. Emily had never been a docile woman. She was descended from warriors. Her father had been in Vietnam, and she liked to think she was like him. “I warn you, Jordan. If you take me with you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re recaptured.”
“Then I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”
Shirtless, he sprawled in the ladder-back kitchen chair with his long legs splayed, gathering his strength after her emergency medical care. His stoic endurance when she stitched his facial wound had astounded her. He hadn’t cried out, hadn’t even twitched a muscle. His intense self-control and determination worried her. This man wouldn’t give up without a fight.
She watched his bare chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. Despite six weeks of jail time, he was in decent physical condition. The span of his shoulders and chest narrowed to a lean torso. She guessed his age to be mid-thirties, a few years older than she was.
