Linda Howard - Prey

He couldn’t really tell in the darkness, broken by the surreal flashes of light, but he thought she gave a faint, grim smile. “Hold a flashlight? Yeah… I can do that.”

It had been a dumb-ass question; a woman who had crawled down a mountain could definitely handle a flashlight. And at any other time she’d have pointed out to him what a dumb-ass question it was, but tonight she seemed to be passing up opportunities to chew his ass out. That almost worried him more than the situation they were in, because what if she had a head injury she hadn’t told him about?

Well, hell. Only one way to find out, and that was to ask. “Have you banged your head on anything?”

“No.”

And that was it. All he could surmise, then, was that she was holding everything back until after she was safe; after all, she wouldn’t want to alienate her rescuer, not when her general opinion of him was so low she’d expect him to leave her there if she said what she was thinking.

“Let’s get going, then. Here’s the flashlight.” As she took the light he bent down, put his shoulder into her midsection, wrapped his left arm around her thighs, and straightened, his movements fast and seamless. For a moment she was rigid, her arms braced on his back, then he felt her force herself to relax and let her torso lie against him. She hooked her left arm around his waist. If he hadn’t been wearing a slicker she could have grabbed hold of his belt, but as it was she had to use muscle power to keep herself anchored.

Pointing the flashlight at the ground, she switched it on and angled it so the beam was shining in front of him. “Is this okay?”

“Tilt it down a little more.”

Silently she obeyed, and the bright LED lights lit the ground at his feet. She braced the flashlight against his leg, and he began walking.

Hiking through mountainous terrain in a storm, in the dark, carrying another person, and without having a hand free for balance had to rank right up there with combat in the potential for getting hurt. If he hadn’t had the flashlight, he likely would have killed them both within the first half hour. Dare didn’t let himself think about whether or not the task he’d set himself was hard, didn’t let himself think about maybe finding an outcropping of rock and waiting out the storm. He and Angie had one big advantage, and that was that the guy who’d tried to kill her had no idea anyone else was nearby. He wouldn’t know about Dare’s camp, its location or even its existence. Dare wasn’t about to give up that advantage by hanging around.

Moreover, the storm was wiping out all trace of Dare’s tracks as soon as he made them. The farther he could get while it was still raining, the better.

Angie was on the skinny side, but the skinny was all muscle and she was heavier than she looked, plus she had at least ten, fifteen pounds packed into the saddlebags she’d been carrying. Still, he’d toted deer off this mountain that weighed more than she did, so he ignored the complications of weather, having to carry his rifle instead of slinging it by the strap on his shoulder, all the while trying not to jostle her ankle.

She was still too quiet, and that bothered him. He appreciated the lack of complaints, because dangling upside down over his shoulder couldn’t be comfortable, but she was too quiet. He’d have thought she was unconscious except for the tension he could feel in her body, and the fact that the flashlight remained in her hand instead of dropping to the ground.

After half an hour he asked, “You hanging in there?”

Her chest heaved a little; he could feel the movement against his back. “Uh… yeah. Literally.”

Had she laughed? He hadn’t meant to make a joke, but he was glad the question had come off as one. If she could laugh, she was okay.

On the other hand, she might have been gasping for breath.

She had been trembling and shivering, but the involuntary movements had stopped and he wondered if she was sliding into hypothermia. He plowed on for a few minutes, but when he saw a decent-sized boulder with a slight hollow on one side, he decided to make use of it. Stopping every half hour for a brief rest probably wasn’t a bad idea; it would keep him from making mistakes, and give him a chance to assess her condition.

“Let’s stop here for a minute,” he said, propping his rifle against the rock and gently easing her off his shoulder and down to the ground. He retrieved the rifle, then crowded into the small space with her and turned the flashlight so they had just a little bit of light. He wasn’t worried about the batteries going dead; LED lights lasted for months of normal use, and the batteries were new. He even had spares at the camp, just in case, but there was more than enough juice to get them there. Even if there wasn’t, Angie’s flashlight was in her saddlebags, so they had backup.

He sighed. Just being partially out of the rain was a huge relief. His boots were waterproof, but from the knees down his jeans were sopping wet and water had leaked down the inside of his boots. His socks weren’t completely soaked yet, but they soon would be.

His hands were cold, but not as cold as hers. He put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her in close, almost in his lap, then took her hands and folded them against his palms, tucking them against his neck. She made a small sound that could have been either a bitten-off protest or a hum of relief.

“You stopped shivering,” he said. “Are you warmer?”

A slow shake of her head.

Damn it . There wasn’t a lot he could do, no way in hell he could build a fire in this downpour even if he had a fire-starter kit on him, which he didn’t. There was a small camp heater at the cabin, which didn’t do him a hell of a lot of good right now.

Swiftly he unsnapped and unzipped his slicker, then did the same to hers. She didn’t protest, and when he got it open he saw why she was so cold. She was wearing a coat beneath the slicker, but the coat was wet through, and had been leaching her body heat away.

“Shit, we have to get you out of this,” he said, pushing the slicker down her arms.

She frowned, as if she couldn’t understand what he was doing, but didn’t protest. He didn’t have a lot of room to maneuver, and he banged his elbow against the rock; he cursed nonstop as he finished peeling her out of the slicker and the heavy coat. When that chore was finished, he had to put the slicker back on her. Then he unzipped his coat, pulled her across his lap in a half-lying position, and tucked her inside his open coat. Every stitch she had on was wet, and he caught his breath as water soaked from her clothes into his, but he pulled her even closer and did his best to wrap his coat and slicker over her, then covered them both with her wet coat.

That was the best he could do. It wasn’t the same as blankets and hot coffee and a fire, but maybe his body heat was enough to pull her back from the brink.

Her nose, buried against his neck, was as cold as a pup’s. He turned off the flashlight and sat in the dark with her, holding her as close as he could get her without stripping them both down to skin.

Ten minutes later, when she started shivering again, he felt grimly triumphant. He was shivering a little himself, but he wasn’t freezing, and when they started out again his physical effort would warm him up, as long as he didn’t push so hard he started sweating.

He checked his wristwatch, gave her another ten minutes. He’d do this every half hour: stop for a brief rest, get her warmed up a little, change positions. After this time she shouldn’t be as cold. The rest periods would keep him from getting stupid with fatigue, and changing positions would help keep both of them going.