She dreamed about being stretched on a medieval rack. At the same time she was weirdly comfortable, the cozy warmth feeling as if it came from a heated blanket, but more...solid. Comforting.
Leah surfaced slowly, realizing that she lay on her side with her head resting on her upper arm. That arm was stretched above her, and ached fiercely. Not stretched, she thought on a sudden memory; pulled.
And somebody spooned her, his hips pressed to her butt, thighs to the backs of hers. A heavy arm lay over her, his hand tucked—Leah quit breathing. If his hand wasn’t so relaxed, it would have enclosed her breast.
His chest felt like a wall. Was it possible she could feel his slow, steady heartbeats?
He. Spencer. The man who’d claimed her and now expected complete obedience as payback. How had she let him wrap her in such an all-encompassing embrace?
When he climbed into bed with her as if that was routine, she’d resolved to stay awake. Obviously, that hadn’t gone so well, and no wonder, considering how desperately tired she’d been by then. Not just from lack of sleep. Shock and pain and fear had taken a toll.
Lying completely still, as if she could fend off the reality that she shared the bed with a very large, muscular man who might well have squeezed her breast in his hand while she slept, Leah understood how poorly prepared she’d been for any of this. She’d grown up in a middle-class home with loving parents, had a good relationship with her sometimes irritating little brother, enjoyed college and even her job, although she did want more. Her only major stumble had been being so blind where Stuart was concerned, and compared to her current predicament, that was...normal. Her letting love, or some facsimile thereof, blind her. And to think of the agonies she’d suffered over that jerk. If only she’d known.
Now she had to face the fact that there was a really good chance she’d be gang-raped or—no, make that and—killed in the next few days. It would seem her only chance at survival was to obey the stranger who shared this bed.
His pelvis wasn’t all that was pressing into her butt, she became gradually aware. That hard bar hadn’t been there when she first woke up. His breathing had changed, too.
“I have to use the bathroom,” she said loudly.
His chuckle ruffled the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. “Gotcha.”
He gently squeezed her breast, gave a regretful sigh, and he rolled away from her. The mattress rebounded without his weight.
“Now, what did I do with that key?” he said.
She growled; he laughed.
A moment later he’d unfastened the cuff on the bed frame. Leah scrambled to get out of bed. She hadn’t thought about her bladder until she’d told him that, but now she really needed to go.
Amusement on his face, Spencer stepped out of her way. She rushed for the small bathroom. The warped door didn’t quite latch, but stayed closed. Relief.
The mirror was spotted, but she inspected her face. It wasn’t pretty. She could see out of both eyes, although the one side was still really puffy, the discoloration gaining new glory. The last time she’d had a black eye, a scared Labrador mix had head-butted her in an attempt to escape. This one would be way more spectacular before it was done.
She surveyed the bathroom before she went back out, but didn’t see anything useful. A good, old-fashioned straight razor, or even a disposable kind of razor, might have come in handy. But no; a rechargeable shaver lay on the pedestal sink.
Arming herself might be stupid at this point anyway. A razor blade would look wimpy to men all carrying semiautomatic pistols. And really, given her inexperience, even a gun in her hands might get her in more trouble than it would solve.
Whatever else she could say about the man who’d stepped forward on her behalf—an optimistic way of phrasing it—he exuded danger. So much so, none of the other men had been prepared to challenge him, as he put it. That made him the best weapon she could have acquired...assuming he didn’t have an end game that had nothing to do with her welfare.
She ran through a plus list. A) he hadn’t raped her when he could easily have done so; B) he had done his best not to add to her injuries, even when she was attacking him; and C) he had actually seemed to care that she was hurt and had tried to make sure she was comfortable.
Plenty of negatives came to mind readily, too, starting with the fact that he was a member of a frighteningly well-armed white supremacist militia with big, scary plans. Moving on to B, if she tried something, he could handle her without breaking a sweat; and C, she had no idea how much of what she’d seen was facade and how much real.
She didn’t know him, and one of the greatest threats right now was an unreasoning belief that he wasn’t a member of the group at all, that he despised them and was really an honorable, good man. Oh, yeah—and she would have been sexually attracted to him in any other circumstances at all.
Maybe even these circumstances, which meant...she didn’t know. Was this a primitive response to the fact that he claimed to be standing between her and the world?
Not happening, she told herself firmly. She’d do as he asked, for now. What choice did she have? But she’d watch for an opportunity to escape, and she couldn’t afford to soften toward Spencer Wyatt—or to entirely trust him.
SPENCER FELT ANTSY from the minute he left Leah in the large kitchen at the lodge and headed out to the shooting range with the others. The women were washing up from breakfast, Lisa Dempsey planning lunch while Jennifer Fuller handed out cleaning assignments. Spencer wasn’t sure he could have made himself walk away if TJ Galt had been the one “supervising,” but Dirk Ritchie was staying behind this morning. He’d brought the fourth woman along, Helen Slocum.
Helen didn’t seem so much terrorized as mentally slow, Spencer had come to think. Dirk could be unexpectedly patient with her, even showing flashes of genuine caring. In fact, he seemed like a decent guy in many ways, which left him the low man on the totem pole in this crowd. Decency registered as weakness here. Spencer made a point of supporting the guy. Dirk’s background suggested a reading disability, a lousy school district and a father who was disappointed in his only son’s spinelessness. As with Shelley, Spencer wanted to quietly tell Dirk to take Helen and drive away—and not go home to daddy.
He’d as soon not feel sorry for any of this crowd, but couldn’t entirely shut down that side of himself.
Obviously, or he’d be able to keep his mind on business. As it was, he should have taken this shot two minutes ago.
He lay prone in the dirt looking through a scope at a target that he’d calculated was five hundred and seventy-five yards out, give or take a little. It was crystal clear. He breathed in, out, in, out...and gently pulled the trigger.
Higgs squatted beside him, peering through military-grade binoculars. “Hell of a shot.”
As had been every one he’d taken today.
Higgs was in love with the Barrett M82 rifle, not because of accuracy, although it was fine. What he liked—and why he’d acquired several of these rifles—was that they fired the exact same .50 BMG cartridge used in the heavy machine gun. The heavy-duty round excelled at destroying just about everything up to armored vehicles. Higgs wasn’t interested in subtlety. He wanted a big boom.
One of the downsides of this particular rifle was the lack of accuracy for truly long-range shots. In fact, anything over nine hundred yards. Personally, Spencer had preferred the M40A5, one of many descendants of the Remington 700 rifle commonly owned by hunters. He had comfortably made shots at twelve hundred yards and farther, although there were military snipers who could make longer ones. So far, Higgs hadn’t asked for anything remotely difficult for a man with Spencer’s experience, which meant a simple assassination wasn’t on Higgs’s agenda.
Now Spencer peeled off his ear protection and rose to his knees still cradling the rifle. “That’s it for me. You know I had sniper training at Fort Bennett. I’ve spent enough time on a range to stay sharp. Let’s focus on some of the guys who need the work.”
Happy with what he’d seen, Higgs stood, too, letting the binoculars fall to his chest. “I agree. We’ll be lucky if any of the men become reliable at even a hundred yards out. We could use another real sharpshooter, but unless you have a former army buddy you can recruit, we’ll have to get by with what we have.”
Temptation flickered at the opportunity to bring in another agent, but Spencer was inclined to think the risk was too great. Aside from backup, how much could a newcomer achieve anyway? He was well enough established to be in a good position to be included the next time Colonel Higgs met with his arms dealer. Nailing down who was stealing and selling contraband US Army weaponry to the group was one of his highest priorities, along with finding out the final details of the spectacular attack that Higgs was so convinced would not only deal a major blow to the government, but also fire-start a civil war.
The crack of shots interspersed their few words. Spencer didn’t need binoculars to see how badly Tim Fuller, stationed closest to him, was shooting.
Another week or two, he told himself, but he’d thought the same before. Ed Higgs was being cagey even with Spencer, who wanted some serious time alone with Higgs’s laptop. As it was, he had to hold out for that upcoming exchange of cash for arms.
He’d had better luck tracing the source of the funding, and managed to share that much with his superior the last time he’d been part of a supply run to Bellingham and had had a minute to get away to make a call. Some names weren’t all, though. A lot of the money was coming from someone who remained cloaked in shadows. Even the one chance to share what he’d learned had been a few weeks ago, but now instead of hoping he’d have the chance again, his gut told him bad things would happen if he left Leah for an entire day.
In fact, when he looked around he didn’t see Joe Osenbrock.
“Where’s Joe?” he asked sharply.
The older man’s gray head turned. “Don’t know. Taking a leak?”
The AK-47 Osenbrock had been using lay in the dirt where he’d apparently left it. Spencer had spent time drilling these idiots in how important it was to treat their weapons with care, but nothing he said had sunk in. They thought they were ready, their impatience building almost as fast as their confidence, until they had begun looking at their great leader with doubt. What use was more target shooting? Hand-to-hand combat? Why did they need any of this, when they had the weaponry to shoot planes out of the sky? Spencer had heard the whispers.
Just the other night, for example. Thinking he was alone with Shawn Wycoff walking at the edge of the trees, TJ had said, “I’m starting to think he’s all talk.” Hidden in the darkness, Spencer hadn’t been ten feet away. He didn’t miss so much as a mumble. It never occurred to them anybody could be near, far less breathing down their necks.
That arrogance was good. It would bring these fools down.
Unfortunately, it also explained Higgs’s continuing hesitation as well as his unwillingness to trust anyone.
Speaking of trust, Spencer said, “I need to go check on Leah. Make sure she’s behaving herself and that Joe hasn’t forgotten who she belongs to.”
Leah’s face had looked better this morning, but that wasn’t saying much. He still feared she’d suffered a concussion. He’d checked on her a few times in the night and not seen anything too worrisome, but he wanted to be vigilant.
Higgs’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “I don’t need you out here. Let’s talk after lunch, though.”
Yes. Why don’t we talk about who’s footing the bills, he thought. Better yet, some details about your endgame.
But Spencer only nodded and, carrying his rifle, walked toward the lodge. He was careful to keep his pace unhurried until he was out of sight of the range set up in what had been a beautiful high alpine meadow. They’d undoubtedly destroyed much of the fragile ecosystem.
Then he broke into a run.
LEAH WAS ON her hands and knees scrubbing the floor in the downstairs bathroom when she heard someone stop in the hall. She stiffened, sneaking a look. Without lifting her head, all she knew was that a man stood there, and he wasn’t Spencer or Dirk.
Feet in heavy black boots were planted apart, meaning he filled the doorway. Camo cargo pants didn’t hide powerful legs.
“May I help you?” she asked timidly.
“You sure can,” he said.
Oh, God. She’d heard his name at breakfast. Joe Osenbrock. He hadn’t been one of the two who’d tackled her during her escape attempt, but his perpetual sneer didn’t make him likeable. Plus, she’d seen hunger in his eyes when he looked at her. Almost as tall as Spencer, he was broad and strong.
Swallowing, she stayed on her knees and kept her head bent.
“See, Wyatt’s got no reason to keep you to himself. What he don’t know won’t hurt him, now, will it?”
She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Where was Dirk Ritchie? Had he seen Osenbrock come in?
“You think he won’t know?” she asked, still diffident.
“If he finds out, so what? Not like I’d be spoiling the goods.” His voice changed, hardened. “On your feet, woman.”
Her mind scrambled for any way to get away from this would-be rapist. She couldn’t just let this happen. Finally, she straightened her back, lifted her head and met his eyes, holding his gaze. “If you touch me, he’ll kill you.”
“Nothin’ to say I won’t kill him, you know.”
A dark shape materialized behind him. “I say you won’t,” Spencer said, voice as cold as his eyes.
Joe whirled to face the threat he hadn’t anticipated. “What’re you talking about?”
Spencer spoke softly, but with a sharp edge. “I’ll also tell you right now that if you bother her again, if you lay a finger on her, she’s right. I will kill you.”
“I was just teasing her a little. That’s all. Ain’t that so, Leah?”
She kept her mouth closed, even though agreeing might lessen the tension that made the air hard to breathe.
Spencer leaned toward the other man until he was right in his face. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you!” Joe yelled, and stormed forward. His shoulder bashed Spencer’s, but he kept going. A slam seconds later was the front door of the lodge.
Spencer took Joe’s place in the doorway. “Where’s Dirk?”
“I don’t know.” She used the hem of her T-shirt to wipe her forehead. “He might still be in the kitchen. Why?”
“I expect him to watch out for you when I can’t be here.”
“I thought he’s here to make sure none of us make a run for it.”
The grim set of Spencer’s mouth didn’t ease. “Well, that, too.”
“Will you expect TJ Galt to watch out for me? Or Jennifer’s husband? Or... Is Lisa married?”
“Not married. She lives with Del Schmidt. And no, I wouldn’t ask any of the other men to protect you. Which leaves me with a problem.”
How reassuring. “Leaves you with a problem? That sounds like my problem.”
He shot a glance over his shoulder. “Keep your voice down.”
Leah opened her mouth again but had the sense to close it. She hadn’t sounded meek or deferential at all, which would set any of the others wondering about him, too.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
As usual, his expression remained unemotional, even as his gaze never left her face. “Did you have a choice of jobs?” he asked after a minute.
Leah shook her head. “I wouldn’t expect to when I’m the newcomer. They don’t know me.”
“No.” He rubbed a hand over his face in what she’d decided was the closest to betraying frustration or indecision that he came. “Finish up here. I’ll decide what we’re going to do after lunch.”
She nodded, hesitated...and went back on her hands and knees to resume scrubbing. Not that this ancient linoleum would ever look clean again.
“I’LL TAKE OVER here this afternoon,” Spencer said during a break in conversations around the table while they ate.
Heads turned, the silence prolonged. When Higgs said, “I’ll stick around, too,” the atmosphere changed.
Many of them had the same interpretation: their leader intended to discuss plans with Spencer, the chosen, while everyone else, the mere grunts, continued physical training.
And yeah, Spencer thought with some irony, he’d been guilty of plenty of apple polishing to achieve just this outcome. What he earned today were some hateful glances directed his way only when the colonel wouldn’t see them.
Only Rick Metz kept chewing with no visible reaction. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind that he could have a planning role. The question was why Dirk looked relieved. The same man was never allowed to hang around the lodge all day. Spencer wondered if Dirk knew the other women weren’t safe from TJ or Tim Fuller.
By God, maybe he should slip Leah a knife so she could protect herself.
Nice thought, but even if she could bring herself to stick it into her attacker, the ultimate outcome wouldn’t be good.
Fear of him was her only real protection. He had to say a few quiet words to men besides Joe Osenbrock.
As he and Higgs waited while the other men left the lodge and the women cleared the long table, Spencer tried hard to focus on what might be an important step in closing this damn investigation, instead of on the woman who had become his Achilles’ heel.
LEAH WISHED SHE could hear what the two men were talking about at the table, but she couldn’t make out a word. She had a feeling it was important, but she couldn’t think of an excuse to sidle close enough to eavesdrop. Jennifer Fuller was in the pantry making sure she had everything for tonight’s dinner, which was to be lasagna. Leah had noticed that she poked her head out pretty regularly to survey her worker bees. As intimidated as she was around the men, she seemed to relish lording it over the other women.
Helen was well aware of when they were alone. Now, as she handed over a rinsed pot for Leah to dry, she whispered, “Spencer said something to Dirk that shook him up real bad. Do you know what happened?”
Just as quietly, Leah said, “Joe Osenbrock got me alone when I was cleaning the bathroom and threatened to...you know.”
Helen blushed and ducked her head.
“Spencer heard him and was really mad. I guess he thought Dirk should have kept Joe away from me.”
“Dirk didn’t know nothing about Joe being back here in the lodge. He wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you if he’d known!”
Leah hadn’t known a whisper could sound indignant. She smiled at the small, anxious woman. “I believe you. He seems nice.”
She didn’t actually know any such thing, but at least he didn’t look at her the way most of the other men did, and she hadn’t been able to help noticing that Helen didn’t seem afraid of Dirk.
“Spencer was mostly mad at Joe,” she confided.
“I bet.” Elbow deep in sudsy water, Helen wielded a scrubbing pad with vigor on the pot that had held the baked beans that were part of the lunch menu. They’d been really good, considering the limited resources anyone cooking had to draw on. Plus, the commercial stove and oven had been installed at least thirty years ago. The miracle was that they mostly still worked.
Possibly that was because Uncle Edward had hardly ever used them himself. Most of the time, he’d insisted the hot plate in his apartment was all he needed. Why make baked beans from scratch when you could open a can? Leah remembered her mother’s rolled eyes. Mom had bought him a microwave their last summer here, which had intrigued him. It was safe to say that, as her great-uncle got older and crankier, he would have been even less likely to be inclined to bake a cake or cook anything from scratch.
Too bad he hadn’t lingered as a ghost. If he could know, he’d be horrified by the consequences of his gift to her. If he’d actually rented the resort to this group in previous summers—and she increasingly doubted that story—he couldn’t have known what those men believed, and especially not what they intended. He’d been courtly, old-fashioned in some ways, but also accepting of people’s vagaries. Not for a minute would he have condoned hate-mongering or a threat to the country he loved. Having served as a paratrooper in World War II, Uncle Edward had spent time in a Nazi prisoner-of-war camp. Maybe those experiences explained why, upon returning, he’d chosen a solitary life in the midst of one of American’s wildest places.
Handing Leah the next pan, Helen whispered again. “Dirk says you own this place.”
“My great-uncle left it to me in his—”
Helen jabbed her hard in the side. “Sshh!”
“What...?” Oh. Spencer had settled himself in the doorway between the main room and the kitchen, his posture relaxed, his gaze shifting between the two women. Leah almost whispered that Helen didn’t need to worry about Spencer—but if his reputation as the baddest man here was to survive, she needed to keep her mouth shut. If Helen told Dirk what she’d said, he could tell anyone.
She was supposed to be afraid of him, and she needed to act the part. In fact, she immediately imitated Helen’s fearful posture. But her forehead crinkled as her hand stopped in the act of wiping out the pot. Wait, she thought in alarm. I am afraid of him.
Wasn’t she?