Chapter Two

Sam lay flat on his back in freezing snow, watching snowflakes sail down to land in his eyelashes.

A scowling, feminine face inserted itself into his vision. Maisa Burnsey had a sharp little chin and nose, delicately curved lips, and big brown eyes behind those ugly black glasses. She kept her fine, black hair cut very short. The style made her look kind of innocent and girlish at first glance, which was about as far from the truth as could be. She wore a shiny black down jacket and black spike-heeled boots, her hair mostly hidden under a beret—black, natch—pulled jauntily down over one eyebrow. He’d dreamed of her face on lonely nights in his cabin.

Generally in his dreams she’d worn a much more welcoming expression.

“What are you doing?” May asked. Demanded, really. The woman would never win any awards for her sweet personality.

“Breathing.” He sat up gingerly.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she said, her hands spread and hovering as if she wanted to touch him but was afraid to.

Which was pretty much the problem with their entire relationship.

“Breathe?”

She scowled harder, stamping lines between her eyebrows. The look made him want to put his tongue in her mouth until she forgot to frown. “Get up.”

“I’m fine.” He keyed his shoulder radio, contacting the Coot Lake police dispatcher. “Hey, Becky.”

“Yeah?” Becky Soderholm was in her midfifties and had run Coot Lake’s police station since anyone could remember. Probably she’d started in diapers.

“Got a speeder, possible wreck up on 52 just past the 101 mile marker,” Sam said. “Damn fool nearly ran me down.”

“You’re not hurt, are you Sam?” Becky’s voice was full on exasperated. “ ’Cause you know Dylan’s off today and Tick is still up at his aunt’s in Fergus. Not expected back until tomorrow.”

“Nope, just got the wind knocked out of me.” Sam stood and shook the snow off his jacket. His right shoulder and hip ached like hell, but he made an effort not to limp. Male pride and all. He took May’s arm, ignoring her squawk, and helped her up the bank back to the road. “But I may need an ambulance and a wrecker, depending.”

“Depending on what?” Becky snapped.

“If the driver’s still alive.” They’d reached the highway now. He could see the red compact. It had climbed the hardened mound of snow left by the plows on the opposite side of the highway. The compact’s little nose pointed forlornly at the darkening clouds.

Behind him, May muttered under her breath.

A corner of his mouth kicked up. She sounded pissed.

“Get in your car.” He said without turning. A semi rocketed by, making the snow whip around his legs. “You can turn on the heat, but don’t go anywhere.”

“Who’re you talking to?” Becky demanded.

“Maisa Burnsey,” Sam said as he jogged across the highway.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sam,” Becky hissed. “How many times are you going to pull that woman over before you give up?”

“Dunno.” Sam reached the compact. “Just a sec.”

He could hear Becky’s impatient grunt by his ear, but he was more concerned with the compact’s driver’s door opening.

“Don’t move, sir.”

But the driver wasn’t listening. A short, dumpy guy in a bright red windbreaker too thin for the weather tumbled out of the car. He slid on the snow before catching himself with an outstretched hand on the car. He was in his early sixties. His thinning gray hair was slicked straight back from a pasty, soft face that looked like it’d never seen sunlight. Square glasses sat crookedly over an overlarge nose. He had an abrasion on his left cheek and powder from the airbag on his face and chest. Otherwise he seemed fine. ’Course, looks could be deceiving in a crash victim.

“Whoa, there.” Sam placed a hand on the guy’s upper arm. “Becky, that’s an affirmative on the ambulance and we’ll need a wrecker, too.”

“No ambulance!” The man’s voice was high and with a distinct accent. “I do not need an ambulance, you imbecile.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, but kept his voice even and calm. “You might have internal injuries.”

“No.” The guy suddenly clutched at his heart, which didn’t exactly make his case, and sat back down on the tilted driver’s seat. “Do I?”

“I don’t know. That’s why—”

Imbecile Man got up suddenly and staggered to the red compact’s back. His windbreaker nearly matched the color of the car.

“Sir,” Sam said. “I’d appreciate it if you could sit down until we can get you some help.”

The guy was crouched awkwardly, struggling with the trunk.

The radio on his shoulder crackled. “Sam, we’ve got at least an hour’s wait on that ambulance,” Becky said. “And a God-only-knows on the wrecker. Cars in ditches everywhere, looks like.”

Sam keyed the mike. “Okay. I’ll take him in myself. And the wrecker can wait until tomorrow, I guess.”

“No!” The guy turned so quickly he nearly toppled into the snow. He’d worked his way back around to the driver’s side door. “You do not understand! I need… I need to get this car to drive.” He leaned in to pull something and the trunk popped open.

Sam looked at the compact. It was a Hyundai, maybe an Elantra, with rental license plates. Even if the little car were horizontal, the front bumper was ripped off, the left front corner was crumpled, and that wheel was leaning in as if the axle might be broken.

“Yeah, about that,” Sam said. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

The guy looked around wildly. A few strands of his sparse hair were standing on end, waving gently in the wind. He was making an odd sound—kind of a whining moan under his breath. Must need to go somewhere quick.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Let me see your license.”

A clear sneer began on Imbecile Man’s lips before he suddenly switched tactics. He smiled, revealing stained teeth and said with a pronounced accent, “No problem! No problem, Officer! I shall just go on my way, yes?”

Sam didn’t bother replying to that. Just held out his hand and wriggled his fingers.

The guy sighed in defeat and fumbled a wallet out of his pocket. He gave Sam a laminated card.

Sam took it, his brows rising when he saw the State of Nevada emblem. “Long way from home, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Ilya Kasyanov, that right?” Sam waited until Kasyanov nodded. There was something off about the guy—even taking into account that he’d just been in a wreck. “If you won’t accept an ambulance, sir, then I can take you into town. Maybe set you up at the Coot Lake Inn.”

“Coot Lake?” Kasyanov perked up. “This is Coot Lake?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. Most out-of-towners weren’t too thrilled by—or had ever heard of—Coot Lake. It was a small, northwestern Minnesota town and the Crow County seat. Fergus Falls lay a bit to the north and west; Alexandria, a bit to the south; but neither were in Crow County. In winter, Coot Lake had about four thousand residents, give or take. In summer, the population doubled with the onslaught of summer folk heading to their lake cabins.

But in any case, Coot Lake wasn’t exactly on the way to anywhere. “Just outside. How about you get into my squad car and I’ll run you into town. That is, if you still don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“No.” The guy immediately shook his head. “No hospital.”

He scrambled to the back of the Hyundai’s open trunk. There was a black suitcase inside, one of those compact things people took on airplanes.

Sam stepped forward. “Here.”

He started to reach inside, but the guy squeaked and grabbed the handle. “Is okay.”

“I can see that,” Sam said, easy. “Let me help you.” He took the guy’s elbow, despite the man’s instinctive jerk away.

“He needs an ambulance,” came a cranky female voice behind them.

Sam turned to look at May. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose had pinkened in the cold, and he wished he could touch her. Just one more time.

She’d been leaning over his shoulder but jerked back and scowled at his movement. “Or something. What?”

“Thought I told you to go to your car,” he said mildly.

“It won’t start.”

“Shit.” Sam glanced at the little black Beetle. “Okay. Let me take a look at it.”

Her eyebrows winged up her forehead. “Gosh, do you think your testosterone will make it go?”

“Behave, May.” Sam guided Kasyanov across the highway and to his squad car.

May trotted behind. “No, really, I bet that’s why it wouldn’t start for me. Too much estrogen.”

The wind was picking up, driving darts of snow into Sam’s face. He opened the back door to the squad car and settled Kasyanov in it—sitting bolt upright, clutching his suitcase—and then turned to May, standing between him and her Beetle.

She waved her arms over her head. “Probably you’ll just have to squint at my car, all manly and stuff, and vrooom!”

He looked at her patiently. “Do you mind?”

She dropped her arms. “What?”

He took a step, bringing their bodies so close together her pink little nose nearly brushed his chest.

She tilted up her chin.

He leaned down until he could smell that sweet scent she wore. Until he could watch her pupils expand and the flush spread up her cheeks. Until he could almost taste the salt on her lips. “Do you want me to try your car. Or not.”

He watched the soft skin of her throat move as she swallowed. “Okay.”

She held out her keys.

“Coward.” Sam took them and stepped around her, careful not to brush against her body.

“Hey!”

He ignored her, walked to the Beetle, and pulled open the door, leaning down to push back the driver’s side seat all the way before sitting and inserting the key into the ignition.

Three minutes later he shook his head. “It’s not even turning over. Probably your starter. You’re going to need that looked at.”

May huffed from outside the car. She hadn’t sat down beside him, as if she’d thought it was best to keep her distance. “Like I couldn’t figure that out for myself.”

At least she was smart enough not to mention his hormones—or hers—again.

He got out and locked the Beetle before handing the keys to her. “I’ll give you a lift and send a wrecker back out, but Becky says they’re backed up. It may be tomorrow or later before they can get your car in to the garage in town.”

May frowned down at her keys. “I don’t have too much choice, do I?”

“Not really.” He turned to walk to his squad car and then realized she wasn’t following. “Well?”

She opened her mouth as if to argue.

He raised his brows.

She snapped her mouth close and pivoted to make her way to her Beetle. Sam strolled behind her, watching as she opened her passenger car door to retrieve her purse before stamping to the trunk of the Beetle. He was right behind her when she opened it. He grabbed her suitcase and the smaller, black case with a handle sitting beside it before she could. The smaller case was surprisingly heavy.

She huffed. “I can carry that.”

“Yup.” He weighed the smaller case. “What’s in this?”

“None of your business,” she snapped.

He gave her a look, then turned and led the way back to his squad car, toting her bags. Everyone seemed to have one of these black roll-aboard suitcases but him. Must mean he didn’t do much airplane travel—at least not anymore. Not since giving up his former career in the army.

He pushed that thought aside as he put May’s suitcases in the trunk, and then helped May into the front seat.

Sam opened the backseat door and looked at Kasyanov. If the car skidded at all, that suitcase was going to break the man’s nose. “Better let me stow your case in the trunk. Safer.”

He expected an argument, but Kasyanov bit his lip and released his death grip on the suitcase.

Sam stuck it in the trunk next to May’s and slammed the lid shut before getting in the squad car. He checked over his shoulder and then pulled onto 52 carefully. Even with the wind the snow was beginning to pile up, and he didn’t want to spin out as well.

“Your uncle’s?” he asked May without looking at her. She made the trip up from the cities every couple of weeks or so to stay for the weekend with her uncle, George Johnson. They’d first met on this very stretch of highway when he’d pulled her over for speeding. That’d been almost two years ago.

A lot had happened since then.

“You know that’s where I always stay,” she said.

He shrugged one shoulder. “You were at the Coot Lake Inn in August.”

She blushed at the memory, and Sam felt himself getting hot in an entirely different area. “He doesn’t have any air-conditioning. I was going to melt if I didn’t get a motel room.”

Sam decided it wasn’t in his best interest to pursue that line. “Staying long?”

“Through the weekend.”

He signaled and turned onto County D. “Then you might like dinner tonight.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Nope.”

He felt a muscle in his jaw tense. Why did she have to make it so hard? “You sure? Marie’s put Rocky Mountain oysters on the menu at the Laughing Loon Café, special. Thought that’d be right up your alley.” He glanced at her. “Being a ball buster and all.”

She inhaled. “Well, you thought wrong.”

And the damnedest thing was that the little hint of hurt in her voice made him want to gather her close and tell her he didn’t mean it, not really.

Six months she’d been running away from him, throwing insults and withering scorn like grenades in her wake, and for some reason he couldn’t give up the chase. He’d begun to think he was getting off on her cutting words—which was disturbing as hell.

And cutting words were all he’d received these last months.

Before that, though, there’d been that night. One night only. That night she’d whispered words that hadn’t left bruises on his skin. Her body had been open and warm and soft beneath his, and she had seemed—this sounded silly, even in his own mind—but she had seemed like home.

He’d been chasing that warm home ever since.

“The turn’s here,” she said, gesturing to the sign for Pelican Road, as bossy as ever.

“Yup.” He didn’t bother pointing out that he knew where Old George lived. He signaled and turned on Pelican, then slowed, driving carefully. Off the highway and with brush along the road as a windbreak, the snow was beginning to pile up.

Pelican Road ran around the sound side of Lake Moosehead, the bigger of the two lakes bracketing the town. Coot Lake was the smaller lake but had better fishing, though the entire north half of the lake was in the Red Earth Ojibwa Indian Reservation and was marked off with white buoys. In summer, you could catch a mess of sunnies in a morning’s fishing on either lake, a walleye if you were lucky.

Beside him, May shifted, and he smelled it—whatever flower scent she used. Maybe just her shampoo, because it wasn’t strong, just there. Lingering in the heated car. Making him think of August humidity and the damp skin between her breasts.

The squad car was heavy with silence, broken only by Kasyanov, breathing through his mouth.

“There it is,” May murmured quietly, as if she felt it, too.

Sam pulled into the drive of a low, red-stained cabin. On the other side of Lake Moosehead new multi-million-dollar “cabins” had been going up for the last twenty years. This side of the lake, though, was weedy with no beach—artificial or otherwise—which meant the cabins were mostly from the forties and fifties. No a/c in summer, and sketchily retrofitted plumbing and heat.

Sam killed the engine and watched the cabin. The lights were out.

“He even home?”

“Yes, of course.” She was already struggling with her seatbelt. “There’s no need to get out. Just pop the trunk and I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I can carry them in for you.”

“No.”

“May—”

“It’s okay.”

Her glare was so fierce that he raised his hands. “Fine.”

“Just leave it.” For a moment some emotion crossed her face, something more vulnerable than her generally warlike expression.

He ignored the mouth-breathing from the backseat. “You know I’m not going to do that.”

Any softness in May’s expression was gone so quickly he almost thought he’d imagined it. She shook her head once, and then she was out the car door.

He watched in the rearview mirror as she tramped around to the back of the squad car and retrieved her suitcase and the little black case. She carried them to the cabin and set the cases down before knocking on the front door.

There was a moment’s pause, then the door opened and she disappeared inside without a glance backward.

Not that he’d been expecting one.

“Sir?” Kasyanov cleared his throat nervously. “Sir, perhaps we go now?”

“Yeah.” Sam put the squad car into reverse. He glanced at Kasyanov as he looked over his shoulder to back from the drive. “Next stop, Coot Lake Inn.”