Chapter 7
It still seemed a miracle to Rafe to see open sky when he woke. He had not yet accustomed himself to it: the softness of dawn, the tranquillity that made him anguished and angry and aching, all at the same time.
So much missed. So much that could never be recovered.
In an effort to throw off the melancholy, he stretched his body slowly, savoring the cool, dry air that was so invigorating.
He always slept lightly and woke early. In prison such habits were not a blessing.
It was hell to wake to the small cell, to hard brick and iron, to unbelievable heat and stench, or, in winter, pervasive damp cold.
But dawn was glorious now, the air clean and fresh. Rafe sat up, watching the sun as it peaked over the mountains. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and brushed lightly across his skin.
His sitting up startled Abner, who had found a comfortable, dark spot in Rafe’s wool shirt, which lay next to him. He had placed it there for that purpose. Abner, he knew, liked familiar scents, familiar warmth.
He imagined the woman, too, wanted something familiar. She was probably scared as hell, though she did a damn good job of disguising it.
He didn’t want to think of her, much less in sympathetic terms. Yet he would have to deal with her, would have to feed her, hell, guard her, and that was the most distasteful thought of all. It made him a prisoner, too, unable to wander off as he liked.
Rafe was still trying to accustom himself to the choices of freedom.
He’d been told what to do for so long, it seemed to him that part of his thinking processes had closed up.
He couldn’t decide what to eat, and during the first week on this mountain he seemed to do nothing but sit and contemplate choices, without ever making any.
It was frightening, this indecisiveness that had never been part of him before.
The destruction of Randall, of course, was still his primary goal, but nothing else solidified for him, no definite wants.
He felt as though he were walking along a beach, the sand washing away under his feet, pulling him into currents too strong to resist.
The woman must feel a little like that now.
His lips firming in a grim line, he stood slowly and scooped Abner up, putting him in his shirt pocket.
Maybe he’d go fishing this morning, catch some trout for breakfast. He’d have to close that damn window, again, if he did.
He listened; there was no sound coming from inside the cabin.
He wondered whether she had slept. It had taken him a number of nights before he’d been able to sleep in captivity.
He’d thought it would be different, that he would sleep to escape reality, but it didn’t work that way.
Perhaps because every time he woke, the nightmare had deepened.
Rafe went over to the window and closed the shutters, dropping the bar.
He’d wondered why the previous occupant had placed the bar outside, rather than inside, but apparently whoever had built it had no fear of external enemies.
It had been easier to hinge the shutters outside rather than inside, and the barrier had been designed to protect against weather rather than predators.
He knew, though, the shuttering of the window turned the cabin into a cage. A dark and lonely place. Despite that, he wasn’t going to take her fishing with him. Not Randall’s daughter. Not and break the peace of this morning.
Why in the hell was he giving her any thought at all? She had more than he’d had. Water. Food. Books. Candle. A better bed than his iron prison cot.
He folded his bedroll and took it to the stable.
The horse nickered softly in welcome, and Rafe went over to him, running his hand down the horse’s neck.
“We’ll have a good work session today. Sorry about yesterday.
A bit of trouble, but nothing we can’t handle.
” He wondered whether he was reassuring the horse or himself.
Rafe checked the water; there was plenty. He fed the horse a handful of oats, then went to a corner of the stable where he kept his makeshift fishing pole. He decided he wouldn’t think of her again.
Shea slept in fits, each time waking and experiencing a quiet but intense desperation. The man outside haunted her dreams, the darkness in him overwhelming her, smothering her.
Several times she rose and went to the window silently on stocking feet and looked out at him. Even in sleep, he was disturbing. She thought about trying to climb out the window, but she’d have to step down just about where his hand lay. He’d said he was a light sleeper. She didn’t think he’d bed.
When she woke up the next time, no light at all streamed through the window, no breeze. She looked up and saw that the window had been closed. She tried opening it and knew she’d been locked in once again.
She told herself not to panic. He’d come back yesterday; he would return this morning.
But the closeness of the cabin was stupefying.
She found the matches and lit a candle. There were some logs and kindling in the fireplace, and simply for something to do, she started a fire, taking comfort in both its warmth and bright flames.
Shea wouldn’t give Rafferty Tyler the pleasure of thinking her afraid.
To keep busy, she heated water in a pot for washing, wondering whether the iron container could be used as a weapon. But it was too big, too heavy, too bulky, for her to swing with any accuracy, and she suspected he was quick.
She hunted for the mouse again but couldn’t find it.
Loneliness crowded back, and she tried to banish it.
She’d always been content with her own company before, with her sketching and her books.
But then she’d always felt safe before, had always known there was a mother and friends if she’d felt the need for companionship.
Now there was no one. No one but herself.
Even the mouse had deserted her. She felt tears gathering in back of her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. That would be weakness, surrender.
Why had she been such a fool to accompany Ben Smith?
But regrets didn’t help. Shea mentally made a list of things to do.
Wash first and brush her hair. Eat. There were crackers.
Maybe they would satisfy the gnawing in her stomach.
Then a book. Or perhaps she would try to sketch Tyler again.
Or even that mouse. Perhaps she could bring it back in that manner at least.
She hated the desperation in that last thought.
She wondered how long the window had been closed. What time was it? Glimmers of light filtered through the cracks in the cabin, but was it morning? Noon? She swallowed, that overpowering hopelessness closing in again.
She wondered whether he had felt the same way.
She wished she didn’t think of him so much, but then she supposed it was natural.
She was totally dependent on him at the moment.
But there was something else … something she hated and didn’t understand: a coiling need inside, an inexplicable fascination with something dangerous and unpredictable in a life that, up until two months ago, had been totally predictable.
She had taken the pot from the fire, washed her face, and was brushing her hair when she heard the key in the padlock on the door, a short knock, a pause.
At least her captor proved to be somewhat of a gentleman. She’d thought he would just come in.
There was another knock, and then the door opened, and sunlight suddenly flooded the dark cabin, nearly blinding her and shadowing him.
Her hand stopped in midmotion, frozen for a moment before she let it slide down. She was sitting on the cot, her hair tumbling to her waist.
She felt terribly vulnerable, terribly defenseless.
Her eyes grew accustomed to the light, and while he didn’t shrink in size, he didn’t seem quite as threatening, especially when she saw two large trout hanging from a string in his hand.
Her mouth watered. She didn’t want it to, but it did.
She wanted to ignore the fish, but her eyes were riveted on them.
It had been two days since she’d had a satisfying meal.
“I saw the smoke,” he said as if needing an excuse for entering.
His stance seemed every bit as stiff as she felt graceless, dressed in wrinkled, dusty clothes.
He looked as striking as ever, like a desperado with bristles covering his jaw.
His sun-streaked hair was mussed as if fingers had combed it, and his shirt was open at the neck despite the cool mountain temperature.
But then the temperature in the cabin seemed to rise suddenly as bolts of awareness ran between them.
She watched his jaw set and knew he felt it too.
The silence was awkward, pregnant with unexpected but compelling attraction, made even stronger by the fact that she knew how forbidden, how foolish, how impossible, it was.
He hated her. He hated her father. He was holding her against her will. He was the opposite of everything she held dear, everything she valued. Honesty. Honor. Loyalty.
She hated him for making her feel unwanted things, for stirring a part of her that no one ever had before. Her hand made one more sweep with the brush down her hair as she forced her gaze away from him, the action dismissing him with a contempt she didn’t believe words could.
But he only looked amused at that bravado, apparently seeing it for the fraud it was. “Interesting, Miss Randall,” he said. “I thought for a moment you might have inherited some honesty from someone other than your father. I see you didn’t.”
She glared at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”