Chapter Thirty-Four
Sam’s face was speckled with blood.
The dead man’s blood.
It was all that May could think about, running in circles in her mind: he was blood splattered. And he’d gotten that way saving her.
She’d known he’d been a soldier, known he was a policeman, but watching him grappling with the thug had made her see him as if for the first time. She’d heard the gunshots, knew Sam was in danger, and had gone to help without thinking.
Except he hadn’t needed her help.
Even held down by a thug who’d looked twice as bulky as Sam, he’d moved with quick, deadly precision. He hadn’t panicked. He’d simply shot the other man.
In the face.
“Where are your skis?” he asked, glancing up and down the street. The snow had started, whipped nearly horizontal by the wind.
May shuddered. She’d never seen such snowfall, storm after storm, one right after another. It was almost unnatural, as if the weather were a malevolent force intent on obliterating them.
“Back by the café,” she shouted into the wind. “He came after me before I had the chance to put them on.”
“Did you get the diamonds?”
She patted her pocket. “Yes.”
“Good.” He glanced back at the café. “We could get your skis, but they might be waiting there. I don’t want to take the chance.”
She gasped as the wind blew straight into her face. “So what do we do? We can’t walk back to your cabin in this.”
“I know another place.”
He had to let go of her hand so that they both could make their way through the snow. It was knee-deep on him, nearly hip-deep for her in places, and it was slow, awkward, sweaty work.
She kept her eyes on him as they made their way. His face was set and stern. He didn’t look as if killing the other man had affected him at all.
Maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d killed.
She shivered at the thought. Only days ago she’d thought him a simple good guy, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t bad, he wasn’t good, he was Sam—a man who’d had to make decisions, take actions that couldn’t be categorized as black or white. She’d thought him naïve. She scoffed to herself.
Turned out she was the naïve one.
She should’ve known that no one was entirely good or bad. That people were complex human beings, capable of doing all sorts of things in order to survive. Even small-town cops.
Maybe that was part of what Sam had been trying to tell her all along. She shivered again, because if Sam wasn’t all white, then maybe Dyadya—and she—weren’t all black.
She wasn’t sure what to think about that.
They were at the edge of town now. The prairie stretched ahead, disappearing into the white-gray of the clouds and the snow-covered ground, and it was nearly impossible to tell where they met.
Maisa bowed her head, trying to shelter her face in the hood of her parka. She should’ve worn a scarf. Her cheeks and lips and nose were numb, ice freezing on her lashes. She blinked hard for a moment, and when she looked again a small, single-story cabin was right in front of them.
Sam waded to the door and bent and began brushing away snow from the step with his hands.
“What are you looking for?” she yelled into the wind.
In answer he stooped and pried at a stone frog the size of a cat. When it didn’t move, he grunted and stood to kick it loose. The frog fell over and he picked it up. There was a hidden compartment underneath and he pulled off one glove with his teeth to open it with his fingers.
He took the key and unlocked the door.
The wind pushed them inside and Sam slammed the door.
For a moment Maisa panted in the dark room. The wind rattled the door.
“Stay here.” Sam opened the door again and disappeared.
Maisa blinked, staring at the closed door. Where the hell was he going? Had he just left her here?
She pivoted, her boots scraping against worn linoleum. She stood in a tiny entryway, demarcated by a half moon of linoleum. To the left was a living area with thin carpeting. To the right was an open galley kitchen with an ancient refrigerator, a narrow avocado-green stove, and a chipped sink. The cabinets were dark wood.
A doormat to the side of the door held two pairs of boots, neatly lined up. It was customary in winter in Minnesota homes to take off snowy boots or shoes, but now that she was out of the wind, she realized just how cold the cabin was. Maisa settled for wiping off her boots thoroughly.
She’d just stepped onto the living room carpet when the door banged open behind her.
She jumped, startled, as Sam stamped in, his arms laden with firewood, and nudged the door closed behind him.
He glanced up and saw her staring. “See if you can find some matches and newspaper. Magazines, if nothing else.”
Of course. She went to the kitchen and began opening the cabinets. Behind her, she could hear Sam tossing the logs down by the fireplace.
She finally found a box of matches in a cupboard over the stove.
She took it back to where Sam knelt piling the logs carefully in the fireplace. “I haven’t found any newspapers yet.”
“That’s fine. There’re some here.” He gestured to a pile of yellowing newspapers in a milk crate by the hearth.
She felt odd, standing over him when he was kneeling, so she sat on the cold floor, her knees drawn up to her chin. She watched as he crumpled newspaper and shoved it under the logs.
“Will they light, when they’re that wet?” she asked.
“There’s just a little snow from me bringing them in. Hopkins keeps his firewood under a tarp.” He was working as he talked, keeping his eyes on the fireplace.
She shivered. “You know the owner?”
He nodded. “Tony Hopkins, retired trucker. He takes a two-week trip to Las Vegas every January. Asks me to look after the place while he’s gone.”
Sam dusted off his hands and reached for the matches. He took one out, struck it on the box, and held the flame to the newspaper.
Maisa watched, nearly hypnotized, as the flames began to curl around the paper.
Sam fanned the tiny fire and it suddenly burst into a blaze.
She held out her hands to the fire. “Won’t someone see the smoke from the chimney?”
He shrugged. “In this weather? I doubt it.” He stood, gathering the wood he hadn’t used in the fire and stacking the logs neatly to the side. “Even if they do, they won’t be coming after us in this storm.”
He still wasn’t looking at her.
Maisa knit her brows thoughtfully and then rose herself, walking into the little kitchen. She went to the sink and turned the faucet handle but nothing happened.
“Water’s off,” Sam said from behind her.
Of course it was. Maisa rolled her eyes at herself and took down a pot from the cabinet before moving to the door.
“What are you—?”
The rest of Sam’s question was cut off by the rush of the wind as Maisa opened the door. She leaned down and scooped snow into the pot, packing it down before shutting the door again.
When she turned back around, he was right behind her, frowning at the pot.
“Water.” She gestured with the pot and went to place it on the hearth next to the fire.
“Why do you need—?”
She was already exploring a little corridor just past the living room. As she’d suspected, there were two bedrooms along with a bathroom. Piled neatly on a shelf next to the tub was a stack of towels. She selected two and went back to the living room.
Sam was rummaging in the cupboards. “Are you hungry? Hopkins has some canned stew and a couple jars of grape juice. Some V8 as well.”
She winced at the thought of V8—or grape juice, for that matter, though since the water was off she might end up drinking that later. “I’m pretty full from Becky’s breakfast.”
“Yeah.” He came back with a glass. “Do you want to pour your water in here?”
She shook her head. “It’s not for drinking. Come sit here.” She patted the raised brick hearth.
Sam looked directly at her for the first time since he’d shot the gunman. She expected some resistance, but he merely nodded and sat.
She tested the melted snow with a fingertip and found it tepid. Maisa took a washcloth, wet it, and leaned toward him.
Sam flinched and something within her crumbled. She didn’t want to see Sam flinch away from anything—most particularly her. But she also knew that his reaction at the moment had very little to do with her. She took a deep breath. Time to put aside her own anxieties and concentrate on Sam.
She touched his cheek with the washcloth, gently wiping away the dried blood.
He held very still, staring at her face as she worked.
She cleared her throat. “Did the others make it?”
“Stu’s fine. We got Dylan. Doug was shot—”
“Oh, my God!” She froze, looking at him in shock.
He shook his head. “Only in the arm. He should be okay.”
She blew out her breath and rinsed out the washcloth before returning to her task. There were speckles of blood near his hairline and next to the outer corner of his left eye. “What about Karl and Molly?”
“I don’t know.” His voice rasped and he cleared his throat. “Karl was supposed to take Molly back to my cabin instead of meeting up. They should’ve both gotten away clear. At least I didn’t see them.”
He raised his eyebrows at her.
She shook her head. “Neither did I.”
Leaning closer, she peered at the dots across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were neon blue, beautiful and watchful. Almost painful to meet.
She cleared her throat. “Why did you bring me?”
“To get the diamonds.”
“I know that.” She wrinkled her nose at him as she gently wiped his forehead. “I meant, why me? Why not Becky or Haley Anne or even Walkingtall?”
“Because I wanted you here,” he said. “Because this is your town, too, now.”
For a moment she stared at him, her hands arrested. Her town? Did he really think that?
She sat back, focusing on her hands as she rinsed the washcloth again. The water had turned pink. “What will you do when the storm clears?”
“Go after Beridze.”
“Alone?” She glanced up, worried. “Maybe if we just give him the stupid diamonds—”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. “No. Beridze isn’t getting what he wants and he’s not leaving my town.”
“You’ll kill him?”
“Not unless I have to,” he said calmly. “I’m going to arrest him. Make sure he spends the rest of his life in prison.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Just like that?” he asked. “No arguments?”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “I trust you to do what’s best, Sam.”
“Thanks. All done?”
“Just…” She dabbed at a smear on his chin, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.” He took the washcloth out of her hand and dropped it into the pot. Then he leaned forward and cradled her face between his palms and kissed her.