Doranna Durgin - Survival Instinct

She followed the nurse in Igor mode, stiff and pained in every muscle she had. An interminable length of time later, she came back out, somewhat less stumbly and somewhat more floaty. Painkillers were a wonderful thing. Dave waited for her, bleary-eyed and rubbing his neck; she guessed that he’d only just woken up.

“Sleep well?” she asked him, and couldn’t help but grin.

“Ha,” he said, and rubbed his neck again. Served him right. He nodded at her wrist, where a short arm cast enclosed her arm from elbow to halfway up her hand. “Broken?”

“You must be an investigator of some sort.” But she relented and gave a short nod. “It’s not bad. One of those little wrist bones. Or two. They gave me pain meds and told me to see my family doctor when I get home.”

“About that-”

She gave a sharp shake of her head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I want to find a hotel-you’ll have to drive, by the way-and I want to sleep until I wake up. Then I want decadent room service and an old black-and-white movie. And then I’m going to sleep again-until sometime tomorrow, at which point we can pick up my truck here, and I’ll drive myself home.”

He stood up; he was closer than she’d meant them to be. “There’s more than that,” he said gently. “There are things we’re not done with.”

She’d figured. But pretending otherwise…it had been worth a try.

And then she thought of that moment on the cliff, when he’d come to help her. When he’d closed his strength and warmth around her and she’d had that flood of relief and she’d thought this is what it’s like. To be frightened and to know you’re trapped in your desperate situation…and to have someone come along and make a difference.

And to know there was still a little boy out there, and his only chance was if someone did the same for him.

Dave knew it, too. She had the feeling Dave never let himself forget it.

So she sighed and she rubbed a finger over her brow and she looked back at him with the slightest of nods. “Okay,” she said. “But not now.”

“Okay,” he said back. “Let’s find a hotel. One with really heavy curtains and good soundproofing.”

Damned if he wasn’t doing it again.

Making a difference.

Karin woke to a muttering television and the tickety-tacking of a keyboard. She followed the low light in the room to find Dave in the corner, ensconced with his laptop and that yellow pad of paper. He slouched in a chair by the room’s little round table, his feet propped on the double bed Karin hadn’t fallen into upon arrival and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses settled firmly on his nose. His eyes looked slightly larger than normal through the lenses…huh. Farsighted, was he?

“Hey,” she said, and it sounded like a frog being stepped on. She sat up in the bed-carefully-and reawakened every single bruise anyway. “So were you wearing contacts before, or do you do the vanity thing and leave the glasses off?”

He finished a few more keystrokes and looked up at her. “More like I break them on a regular basis if I leave them on. Never could adjust to contacts. Doesn’t matter…unless I’m using this thing or tired, I’m just fine.”

“Working late,” she observed, discovering the clock on the bedside table between them. Just after midnight. No wonder her mouth tasted so vile. And ugh…that smell…was that her?

“I caught up with my sleep a little earlier,” he said drily. “It seemed wise to get in a report to the local LEOs as soon as possible.” He nodded at the foot of his bed. “There’s a sub in there for you. Didn’t know what you’d like, so I went for blah.”

Surprised gratitude twinged through her. “Thanks. Blah is fine. Anything is fine. I think…I’m going to take a shower first.” Yeah. That smell was definitely her very own.

“I talked housekeeping out of a garbage bag and some rubber bands.” He looked back at his computer, typed a few words. “For your cast.”

“Jeez, who are you? An ex-Boy Scout?” She hadn’t meant for her words to come out so sharply.

He looked up again, catching her gaze for a long moment. But when he looked back at his work, he said simply, “There’s a sweatshirt in there, too. It’s all I had…it’ll be too big, but it’s clean.”

She plucked ruefully at her own long-sleeved waffle-weave shirt. “I can’t believe we didn’t bring my bag.”

“Other things on our minds.” It was a noncommittal reply, and she knew she’d hurt him with her sharp words after all. No big surprise that someone who was so fixated on helping children would have a heart big enough to be a target.

Well, so be it. She wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him.

And he’s only trying to help a little boy.

With much care, she left the bed and went into the bathroom, leaving the sound of his swift keystrokes behind. Her inner wince of contrition followed her right on in.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been a luxurious shower-hard spray, hot water, lots of lather. But tonight, it was merely a challenge to avoid the bruises and abrasions. She washed out her jeans and underwear and then hung them with the stern admonishment to dry overnight. The small fine-toothed comb he’d left would do nothing but foul up her hair, so she left it to dry uncombed, knowing she’d pay for it later. And though his sweatshirt hung down below her hips, she wrapped a towel around herself anyway. She surveyed herself in the mirror-tangled hair down around her shoulders, gray eyes wary and pained, abrasions artfully scattered around her face. The sweatshirt had another Red Wings logo on it-a ball with wings-which at least stiffened the cloth and obscured her breasts.

Sort of.

Turned out she wasn’t that brave after all, and she kept one hand at the twist of the towel as she left the steamy bathroom. Just in case. She rummaged in the open television cabinet, coming up with the hotel stationery and a pen, snagging the food on the way back.

“There’s a soda on ice,” he said, not looking up. Or rather, desperately not looking up. She caught his eyes following her, heard the slight strain in his voice.

She was about to say, you do think of everything, but stopped herself. “Thanks,” she said. And when she put it all down on the bed and sat, safely tucking the covers around her, she popped the top of the soda, fiddled with the tab a moment and said, “Thanks for getting me off that cliff, too.”

This time he looked up. And again, he didn’t answer right away. Then he nodded, and said, “You’re welcome. And you’re right. It was my fault.”

Startled, she nearly spilled the soda she’d just put her lips. “I didn’t say-”

“But you’ve thought it. More than once.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take a mind reader. I’d think the same, if I were in your place. But…I thought we were on the same page. About the safe house. I didn’t think you’d-”

“Drug you.” She said it without remorse. “The safe house probably seems like a great idea to you. But it wasn’t my idea, was it? I can take care of myself.”

“So I saw.” He shook his head, but he smiled a little as he did it. “You certainly do rise to the occasion.”

“I could say the same of you.” It was an attempt to divert him, but it was lame and she knew it had failed when he just looked at her. Then faint amusement crossed his features and he said, “So. Mad Sheep disease?”

She couldn’t help it; she snorted, raising a hand to keep the current swallow of soda in her mouth where it belonged. “Hey, he’d just tossed me over the cliff. He didn’t mean to, but he was getting ready to walk away-with Longsford’s blessing. I figured he’d have a little rash starting from the poison ivy, an itch or two. So I told him he’d been exposed by my sheep.”