A Night by my Fire Read online

  Pressing palms over raw eyelids did nothing to shut out the sharp memory of why he was there—the fall into the water... the pain. He should not have been alive. Those who had tried to kill him certainly would never have expected he might survive their treachery or that a filthy woman might have pulled him from the water.

  The callousness one would expect from a disappointed employer... Stephen should have seen it coming. One low flying plane, one open door overlooking tundra, and one boot to the chest. All the while Stephen had just stood there, too dumbstruck to even flail when the man who had practically raised him shoved his body into freefall.

  Mikhailov had thought it through... plotted. If the drop hadn’t killed Stephen, the encroaching inability to move once ice froze in his veins would assure fatality. He’d lay suffering for his failure where exposure, wild animals, or simple starvation would finish the job.

  But his former boss hadn’t counted on unsolicited, stupid compassion.

  It didn’t matter. Everything was lost.

  And for what? For a single missed assassination after so many perfectly fulfilled assignments? For the target’s assistant to unexpectedly jumping in front of a well-aimed bullet when beyond all reckoning she saw him pull the gun?

  Since boyhood, since Mikhailov had taken him from the orphanage, Stephen had followed every last rule, exceeded where others had failed... lived the demanding monastic lifestyle required of a dedicated soldier.

  What was one failed mission?

  Mikhailov said kill, he’d ripped the target to shreds with his bare hands. Mikhailov said steal, he’d dragged back twice as much as he’d been sent for. Mikhailov wanted interrogation, carnage, anything... Stephen had delivered.

  Still, he’d been thrown to his death for a single mistake.

  Abandoned.

  He was nothing now. Purposeless.

  The latch clicked, the cabin’s door swung in. The woman looked up briefly, stomping snow from her boots, and froze when she found him awake. In one arm was a basket of wet laundry, three fresh caught fish dangling from the fingers of the other.

  Tossing the catch aside, she approached, a dark gaze running over his face for signs of sickness, softening to find the eyes that stared back at her were lucid. “Looks like the fever broke.”

  She sounded wary and the reason was there in the light purple blotches around her eye.

  “I struck you.”

  A smirk at his word choice preceded, “That you did, pretty boy. You’re quite a flailer... fought like the devil each time I tried to pour medicine down your gullet. You even puked on me twice.”

  “I did not vomit.”

  “Sure you didn’t.” She shrugged, reaching out to test his brow. “How are you feeling?”

  No one touched him directly outside of combat, and the sensation, the cold brush of foreign fingertips, made him jerk his face away. “Fine.”

  She snorted. “Four whole words in under two minutes and not one of them a thank you.” Ignoring his rudeness, she leaned closer and studied his eyes. “Headache, nausea?”

  Deadpan, empty, Stephen demanded, “Your name.”

  “You can call me River.” She did not ask his in return.

  Eyeing him uncertainly, she reached for a scrap of fabric hanging near the fire. “I washed your clothes, but they won’t be dry for a few hours yet.” River tossed him his underwear before turning to stoke up the flames. “Those were cleaned in the sink last night, princess. The bathroom is through the door behind you if you want to pull on your skivvies and wash up. Don’t be surprised when there’s no hot water. I didn’t have time to catch dinner and prep the heat pump before the few hours of daylight passed.”

  With the beginnings of a better blaze growing, she looked over her shoulder.

  Stephen stared at her breakable, vulnerable skull, scowling as if all his worldly troubles she’d dumped in his lap.

  When he made no move to follow her directions, she frowned. “It’s not so bad, you know. You’re not the first to get lost. You won’t be the last. At least you’re alive... though not out of the woods yet.” She leered, mimicking a rim shot. “Get it? Out of the woods?”

  His attention went to the fire, not at all impressed with her stupidity.

  Snickering, she scooped up her catch. “I thought it was funny.”

  Jacket hung on a chair, the woman’s exposed knit sweater and dirty jeans underneath were worse for wear. Ugly.

  From his seat, he watched her yank the entrails out of a trout. “You claimed I was ill. For how long?”

  Splat went another fish’s insides. “Just the night. You passed out at dawn. I would have stayed with you, but I lost my catch yesterday and canned food needs to be saved for emergencies.”

  “You only caught three.”

  Cutting a glare over her shoulder, River cocked a brow. “Sorry, I was busy cleaning the vomit you didn’t have out of my clothes... not to mention the blood that came down my nose when you clocked me for giving you aspirin and keeping you hydrated.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

  The fillets were slapped into a waiting skillet, sizzling loud enough she had to raise her voice to spit, “No you just cried like a baby. I’m not a sadist. Don’t think I enjoyed it. In fact, don’t think of me at all, and sure as fuck don’t thank me!”

  Shaking the skillet to keep the fish from sticking, River ignored the man, refusing to flinch when he stood and hobbled nearer. Whatever shyness had possessed him the night before was gone. He was utterly naked, unabashed as he leaned against the wall to watch her.

  His hostess looked exhausted, still filthy no matter her splashings in the lake. Throat raw, he pointed it out. “You haven’t slept?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I haven’t slept, sunshine. Sit down, food’s ready.” Turning with two plates of burnt fish, she slapped them down on the table. “And for God’s sake stop flapping your uncut dick around in my kitchen.”

  Unsure, Stephen asked, “Uncut?”

  A nervous giggle escaped the female at his lack of comprehension. The accent and foreign rumblings in his fever… of course she’d recognize that he wasn’t from her hemisphere, but it took him a solid minute to realize she was referring to this land’s concept of male genital mutilation. Circumcision was unthinkable.

  He was uncut indeed.

  Wisely never fully giving him her back, she uncovered day-old fry bread, put down silverware, and plopped, exhausted into her chair. Shuffling closer with his drawers fisted in his hand, again he took pleasure in realizing his presence made her uncomfortable. His nudity doubly so.

  Yet he took a seat and shimmied into the scrap of clothing, if only to protect his skin from the splintered old wood.

  Eyeballing the unappetizing food, hungry but warry, there were long minutes of seeking the hidden poison, the missed shard of fish bone, the trick, before beefy fingers moved to grab a utensil.

  River pointed at him with her fork. “My cooking is pretty hit or miss. Twenty percent hit seventy percent miss.”

  Wasting no time, Stephen shoveled in huge mouthfuls, shuddering when the mass wriggled down his throat. Voice pained, he grumbled, “You are missing ten percent.”

  “The ten percent is unmentionable.” His dirty hostess took another bite, following his lead and eating quickly to avoid the terrible taste. “I would like to blame the gas range, but if I did, I would be lying.”

  He finished the entire serving in three more repeats of the face stuffing first bites, then cleared his throat. “Have you contacted the authorities?”

  “I radioed the Rangers this morning.”

  She was lying and it was painfully obvious to someone with his training. Liars deserved to be punished, yet her oversight was in his favor. Having the local authorities aware a man of his description, a man whose face was on FBI watch lists—a man sought by the CIA, Interpol, terrorist organizations, mafia—would complicate things greatly. With none the wiser, he could kill the horrid female and no
soul would ever know.

  Just as death was not his yesterday, imminent incarceration would not be his tomorrow.

  Thanks to the idiocy of this woman.

  And so he stared, eyes colder than the water she’d pulled him from. He let her feel what would be coming, and measured how best to do it.

  Quickly, because he did owe her some semblance of a debt.

  But River warned, cheeks flushed and lips shined by grease, “Your tracks, stranger, were obvious. Your size, their depth, the fact you walk with a limp. You’d be noticed. This is small country. And, yeah, I’m lying to you. I couldn’t get through, but that doesn’t mean no one has their eye on me.”

  She had a point. A decent point that had to be carefully considered.

  Her open shelves were stocked with canned goods, and though she appeared to be athletic under the sagging sweater, a woman of her size could not carry all that food here alone.

  In answer to his further contemplative silence, River explained, “No trucks get this deep, you’re going to have to shelter and wait for snowfall. With more powder, I can take you on my sled. Or, if you want to try the hike, it’s two days to town. I’ll draw a map on the back of your hand and we can see if you have better luck than last time.”

  “How far? Which direction?”

  “Far. East.” She gave an apologetic shrug, yet those eyes. Those dark, exotic eyes held none of her nonchalance. “If you leave right now, you might make it before the blizzard hits. Clever guy like you did see the sky. You know a storm is coming, right? Options are limited.”

  Stephen said nothing. Silence almost always served best.

  “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”

  More silence, the dense naked chest across from her expanding as he drew in a deep breath.

  “Your ankle, is it broken? Do you need to be airlifted? I’ll make the trip alone and notify authorities if that’s the case. While I’m gone you can keep trying the radio and might get them here sooner.”

  She knew the terrain and might actually get through, so his lips parted, tongue dragging over the grease shining his own. “I do not require such a measure.”

  Nodding, River let the idea go. “I scouted the area upstream from where I found you. I didn’t find a camp or a pack... nothing. Do you have friends I need to worry about?”

  This conversation was over.

  “I have no one.” Stephen stood, hopping to spare his sprained ankle and bracing against the wall on the way to use her facilities.

  * * *

  When the bathroom door closed, River whispered under her breath, “I’m sure you can thank your charming personality for that.”

  While he was out of the way, she hung up the laundry, cleaned up the fish guts, and left the couch for the wounded prick, slouching down in a shabby recliner instead. Immersed in the pages of a worn paperback by the time he navigated all the hanging clothes and reclaimed his throne, she ignored him.

  An hour passed and he didn’t speak, but he did lean forward and tend the fire in her place when the time had come. When it was done, he grunted, like an animal, over and over until she tore her eyes from the page to look at the annoying nuisance.

  “You’ve seen my face.” That’s all he said.

  She knew what he implied.

  And if he was trying to rationalize whatever made him look at her as if ready to rip out her throat, it wasn’t going to fly. Offering a wink and a smirk she gave her honest opinion of said face. “It ain’t nothing to write home about, pretty boy. I like my men a bit more roughed up and craggy.”

  No reply was offered; she pointedly resumed reading her book.

  When her eyes were back on the page, the man felt the need to say, “You believe you are superior to me.”

  Annoyed he was interrupting her reading again, she muttered, “You think you’re the first renegade I’ve found skulking around these woods? I know your type, ex-military who think they can go it alone under the impression they’re so badass. You can’t. This place will kill a fool unwilling to understand just how dangerous it can be. So, yeah, out here I’m better than you.”

  “My survival skills are excellent.”

  Laughing was flat out mean, but by God, she couldn’t hold it in. The book went to her lap and she gave the idiot her full attention. “You’re delusional! You had no weapon, not even a knife... were dressed improperly for this environment, dumb enough to have considered walking anywhere without basic supplies. If I didn’t know better—if I hadn’t seen half a dozen men like you trying to go it alone as Mr. Survivalist—I would say someone dumped you in the wilds to die.”

  And they had, she saw it written on his face.

  Fuck. All those little red flags she’d hoped was pure paranoia waved fast and furious in through her thoughts.

  Rubbing her lips together, unsure why she understood that unguarded look in his eyes so well, River leaned back in the old recliner. “I never could figure them out, you know. People.”

  It was long minutes before a hoarse question came. “Is that why you live like this?”

  “No.” The wicked teasing, her smile, she toyed with him. Because, why not? At this point, what did it matter? Poke the bear, see if it roars. “I’m on the run from the law.”

  And then she went as deadpan as he, River completely disinterested in digging for details. He could keep to his brooding silences. They could call it a wash. She didn’t want to know anything. She just wanted him gone.

  “River,” he tested her name on his tongue.

  Nodding, aware he didn’t recognize that using that name was the first step he’d taking in humanizing her. Which had to mean something, right?

  It wasn’t an olive branch, but it was enough to encourage her to make the next move. “There is a herd of caribou... I saw their tracks while I was looking for your gear. We’re going to need meat to get us through the coming storm. Tomorrow, you will help me carry back a kill.”

  His ankle was still a pulped mess, swollen and ugly. In unison, they both looked to it.

  She offered more. “I’ll manage most of the weight, give you a staff to lean on, but you need to find your footing.”

  “Do you always talk like this, in layers? It is exceptionally irritating.” And irritated he did look. Either that or utterly confounded.

  “Your accent keeps slipping. English isn’t your first language. Perhaps you misunderstand and hear what you want?” White teeth flashed against dark skin, River grinning as she laid it out in the way all men needed to hear. “You looking to be nurtured or are you looking to survive? I gave you a night to laze by my fire, the rest you’ll earn.”

  ***

  Stephen had not been nurtured a goddamn day in his life. No, he’d been honed into what Mikhailov saw fit. To be offered succor from this scamp. This dirty woman… led to a swell of unfamiliar fury. “I don’t need your help!”

  “You damn well fucking do.” Overly long braids in disarray, body cocooned in ugly rags, his would-be rescuer settled back, tired, her book cast aside so she might ignore him and sleep.

  But he was not tired. He still had words to share. “Your vulgar language is completely repellent.”

  River peeked out of one eye, nodding. “There’s the spirit! Feel free to call me ugly and disparage my clothes next. Get it all out, big guy.”

  “Women are supposed to be clean and soft spoken! You stink of the burned fish you mutilated with your lack of cooking skills. I have never seen a free thing so low... so mud caked and unconcerned. Of course no one wants you! I DON’T NEED YOUR CHARITY!”

  Her black eyes went languid through his rant—patient, calm as still waters—until he raged to the point he shot from his seat to tower over her. Practically chewing off his lips, howling so severely at her lack of anything reeking of humanity, the horrid notion crossed his thoughts that he might cry. As he had as a child when beatings followed failure.

  When instructors found fault in his form.

  When Mikhailov looked at him
in that certain way.

  Yet this vagrant waited. Still. As if she counted the pulses stretching the veins in his neck. As if she knew him.

  Unacceptable.

  He did scare her. He was scaring her. And a point needed to be made.

  The risk she’d taken saving a stranger larger than a linebacker and as grateful as a psychopath put her in a bad position. Someone had left him to die... good men didn’t get dumped in the cold.

  Good women didn’t live alone in the tundra.

  But this female, this thing, was forcing his hand. Holding his gaze as if to say that if he was going to kill her, she’d rather see it face on than wait for him to strangle her in her sleep. Yet as they held their ground, a strange thing happened.

  He leaned down, began screaming another language in her face, and she flinched.

  And that automatic, inexorable response was all it took.

  Stephen staggered back.

  He put distance between them... and those strange, blue eyes held something he had not known in ages. Remorse.

  There was no word of apology, just the sounds of a panting animal and the silence of a woman pretending she was not frightened of it.

  Speaking in a whisper, confused as he backed even further away, he said, “I don’t think I am going to hurt you.”

  “Fuck… that’s reassuring.”

  How did this go so sideways? “You should have let me drown.”

  Visibly swallowing, sweat on her temples, she breathed out her personal truth. “I could never do that.”

  By all that was holy, such a statement was even more upsetting. “...a noble woman.” He said the words with more disgust than admiration.

  “You forgot to add dirty.”

  Very dirty. The exact opposite of the sweet smelling women Mikhailov kept or the females Stephen had been sent to kill. Everything about her was an enigma. “It’s a wonder you have survived this world.”

  She tossed back a braid, dared lift a brow, and asked, “Are we having an actual conversation now, or is this the precursor to something terrible?”