Linda Howard - Prey

In a very surprising way, he’d enjoyed spending time with her, just having her company while he cleaned their rifles. She didn’t chatter, with one thought after another spilling out of her mouth, but if she had something to say she said it, no beating around the bush. She didn’t complain, she didn’t bitch, even though she’d had reason. Hell, he bitched his own head off occasionally, so he wouldn’t have held it against her.

Another thing: She was the most low-maintenance woman he’d ever met. If she had any hint of vanity, he hadn’t seen it. Not once had she even mentioned combing her hair; being clean and brushing her teeth seemed to be the extent of her upkeep. He wasn’t certain she wore makeup, anyway; if she ever had, it had been subtle enough that he hadn’t noticed it, not that he normally did anyway unless a woman went way overboard with the stuff. Maybe her thick, heavy dark hair was naturally sleek and she didn’t have to do a lot to it, period. Maybe tomorrow she’d wake up fretting because she didn’t have mascara and a blow-dryer, but he’d bet she didn’t.

He had a head-fucking mixture of frustration, amusement, and tenderness going on because of her. The first two he could deal with: He was frustrated because he’d wanted to get in her pants from the minute he’d first seen her, which meant he was dealing with two years’ worth of build-up, and he was amused because he had the upper hand now and she kind of knew it, and the way she was fighting back was as smart-ass as always, but she hadn’t yet really figured things out so she was a little off track.

But … tenderness ? What the fuck did he know about that? He just knew that those solemn dark eyes of hers got to him, and when she’d smiled at him, for the first time ever, her face kind of lit up and the adrenaline hit had been almost like going into combat. When she’d actually laughed, that had been it, he’d had to kiss her, and if she hadn’t pulled away he’d still be kissing her plus doing a whole lot more.

He’d had his share of women, but one thing he’d noticed was that chemistry started with kissing. There had been women he’d been attracted to, women he’d slept with, whom he didn’t like to kiss, and all the relationships went nowhere fast. It was as if their incompatibility went all the way to the molecular stage. There had been other women who he hadn’t been all that attracted to, at first, until he kissed them, and their taste just did it for him.

Angie was a bull’s-eye, in more ways than one. He was more powerfully attracted to her than he’d ever been to anyone else, and she tasted as if she’d been made for him. What had started out as something physical had rapidly turned into something he was almost afraid to look at, because, shit, what if he was falling in love with her, and she was being nice now because of the situation, but for her the bottom line would always be that he’d run her out of business and forced her to sell her home? That was a hard thing for anyone to get over. Yeah, he had a plan for that, but would she listen?

Maybe, maybe not. He didn’t want to take that risk. Actions spoke louder than words, and this opportunity was too good to pass up.

By the time Chad had gotten the horse in the corral, the weak light, filtered through that hellish, unending rain, had faded completely away. He had to use his flashlight to maneuver the horse; thank God the animal seemed as glad to reach shelter as he was, because if it had given him any trouble right now he swore he’d shoot the bastard.

The day had been a big piece of shit from start to finish, nothing but wasted effort. He’d already been tired from the night before, but just the thought of getting down the mountain and driving away, winning , had kept him going. He might as well have saved himself the effort and gotten some rest instead. Now he was cold, wet, exhausted, and thoroughly miserable.

It should have been easy. All he’d had to do was ride down the mountain, and if he got to that rancher’s place before dark, just hang out until dark, then get in the SUV and drive away. Piece of cake. In spite of the crappy weather, in spite of the fact that he knew Angie had escaped and was out there somewhere, as well as having a killer bear in the vicinity… it should’ve been easy.

It wasn’t.

He knew he wasn’t a great outdoorsman, but he was smart, and he was better prepared than anyone else knew. He’d practiced his riding for a year. He’d bought the pistol and practiced with it. He’d been as prepared as he’d logically expected he would need to be. This fucking weather, though-no way could he have expected the violence of the storm, the deluge of rain.

He hadn’t expected any real problems on the trek down the mountains, unless by some evil twist of fate he’d encountered an armed and pissed Angie Powell. Once he’d found the campsite, he’d been certain he could get back to Lattimore’s place. He knew which way was down; and he’d studied maps before heading out on this trip, because he knew he’d be making his way off the mountain alone. He and the horse were getting along well enough, so he had that going for him. But the intense rain had slowed him down, making the way so treacherous that every single step was a victory. He’d zigzagged around pitfalls that hadn’t been there on the way up, and after a while he’d lost any real idea of where the trail might actually be.

Water rushed down the mountain in rivulets that turned to streams that turned to rivers. The ground beneath the horse’s hooves was soft and uncertain, making the horse nervous and easily spooked. At one point the horse stumbled and Chad held his breath and prayed as the animal regained its balance. If his ride broke a leg he’d be forced to walk the rest of the way. He was sure he wouldn’t get far on foot, not in this mess.

After a few hours of what felt like constant struggle, he was exhausted from the effort of staying on the horse and being hyperalert to every detail. Constant vigilance was as tiring as physical effort. At least now the horse had a saddle on it, so riding was easier. He’d put on dry clothes and his slicker before heading out, so at least he wasn’t soaking wet, but the chill and dampness slowly began sinking through to the bone. At one point he had to dismount to lead the horse over a particularly treacherous spot; he’d slipped and fallen in the water, so then, damn it, he was wet as well. He hated this fucking rain. Once he was wet, he got colder and colder; his joints were screaming at him, and he shuddered uncontrollably. Every movement, no matter how small, took intense effort. He felt as if he’d aged twenty years in a matter of hours. He’d known he couldn’t survive much more of this.

Finally he had to make a decision. If he couldn’t make it to Lattimore’s, or at least nearby, before dark, he was in real trouble. He’d dismounted in a sea of mud, grabbed a protein bar from his saddlebag, and stood there in the rain, miserable and pissed, his head down to protect his little bit of dry, tasteless food from the rain while he chewed and thought. He hadn’t gotten very far, not nearly as far as he’d planned, and his options were to try to find some shelter now and wait it out, or go back to the campsite. Both options held the element of risk. The good news was if he couldn’t make it off the mountain, neither could Angie. She was probably holed up in a cave somewhere, and the bitch probably knew how to find dry wood even in a downpour like this, and how to build a fire.

He didn’t want to wait out the storm in a cave, or huddling under a rock overhang like the one he’d cowered beneath last night. What he really wanted was a nice hotel suite with room service and a whirlpool tub filled to the brim with hot water. He wanted clean sheets, a soft mattress, and a pile of warm blankets. He wanted a hot bowl of lobster bisque and a pot of even hotter coffee. Unfortunately, all that was going to have to wait.