Shirlee McCoy - Fugitive

She didn’t know that he’d been a deputy sheriff for five years and had worked on the Green Bluff police force for five years before that. Didn’t know that he had been falsely accused and convicted of drug trafficking.

What she didn’t know, he could use against her.

For her?

It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was keeping her safe.

He’d failed Amanda. And she’d died because of it.

He wouldn’t fail Laney.

He yanked her hand down, then moved so close he could smell melting snow mixed with flowers in her hair. “Don’t make the mistake of believing that, Laney.”

“I don’t believe you’re a murderer. I don’t believe you’d hurt me.”

“Then believe you’re in trouble if you’re caught with me.”

“Caught by the police?” Her gaze dropped to his jumpsuit.

“It’s not just the police I’m worried about.”

“Then who?”

“It’s a long story.” Too long to tell when danger was breathing down both their necks. Logan felt the clock ticking, trouble drawing near.

“We have time. The storm won’t break for hours.”

“How far are we from the main road?”

“Five miles.” She repacked the first aid kit, putting everything back exactly where it belonged. Neat and tidy. Just the way her parents had trained her to be. He’d hated that about her when they’d met. Her perfection against his rough edges. Her pristine dresses against his worn and dirty clothes.

Now, she wore faded jeans and a soft sweater, the fabric hugging her slender curves.

“Are there other cabins nearby?”

“No. My husband bought a hundred and fifty acres from a logging company fifteen years ago. This is the only place around.”

Not what he’d wanted to hear.

If this really was the only place around, anyone hunting him would know exactly where to look. He needed to get the cuffs off his wrists, get out of his prison orange and put on a few layers of clothing. Then, he needed to get going while he still could.

“Does your husband keep clothes up here? I’m not exactly dressed for the weather. I can pay him for everything I borrow.”

“My husband passed away two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” She opened a trunk at the end of a queen-size bed and pulled out a pile of clothes. “You can use whatever you need.”

“Thanks. Now, I just need to find a way to put them on.” He lifted his cuffed wrists.

“We might be able to pick the lock.” She leaned over the cuffs, her hands on his wrists as she studied the lock. Warm fingers on cold flesh. Flowers and slow waltzes in the moonlight. It had been a long time since he’d thought of any of those things. In the three years since Amanda’s death, he’d mostly stayed out of the dating game. A few dinners set up by friends. A lunch here or there. Nothing that had stuck because he hadn’t wanted anything to.

He stepped back, pulling his wrists from Laney’s hands.

“Do you have a tool chest in your car?”

“A small one, but I doubt there’s anything in there that’ll take these off. I think I’ll have better luck in the shop. William kept tons of tools in it.” She shrugged into her coat, dragging her braid over the collar.

“Where’s the shop?”

“Out back. I’ll just be a minute.” She opened the back door and frigid wind blew in, spraying snow across the wood floor and plastering the wet jumpsuit to Logan’s frozen skin. He pulled the blankets closer, gritting his teeth. The last thing he wanted was to walk out that door and follow Laney into the cold, but he couldn’t stay in the cabin while she went herself.

He walked onto the back porch, the wind biting into his throbbing, thawing flesh. He would be frozen again before they were done, but if he was able to ditch the cuffs and the jumpsuit, it would be worth it.

“You should stay in the cabin,” Laney said as she picked her way down snow-covered stairs.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re nearly thawed, Logan. Do you really want to freeze again?”

No.

But he didn’t want her out in the storm by herself either. He didn’t trust that the men who’d shot at him had run when the police showed up. Hidden? Yes. Disappeared from the picture? No way. No one went to as much trouble as they had to fail, and Logan had a feeling that the only way for them to succeed was for him to be dead, his body buried somewhere in the wilderness.

He followed Laney across the clearing. If a shop existed, it was well hidden by the night and by the storm. Snow blew into Logan’s eyes, the raging wind snatching every breath before it formed. He glanced back and saw the vague outline of the cabin and light spilling out from its windows. How far would they have to go before they lost sight of both? In a storm like this, not far.

“This isn’t a good idea, Laney.” He snagged her coat, nearly bumping into her back when she stopped. “If we go much farther, we may not be able to find our way back.”

“We’re already here. William kept the workshop locked, but there’s a spare key.” She brushed snow from a birdhouse nailed to the side of a large building, her fingers sliding under it. It seemed to take forever, but she finally pulled out a key.

Logan crowded into the shop behind her, catching a whiff of wood chips and sawdust and summer flowers.

“There’s a light here somewhere.” Fabric rustled as Laney moved, and a light went on, spilling into the cavernous room.

She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said her husband had tools. Logan figured there were a couple of tons of tools in the building. Table saws. Band saws. Lathes. A plainer. Rows of shelves that housed chisels and sanders. Handsaws hung from the far wall. Antique and new, side by side. Everything orderly and neat.

Obviously, William had loved his tools.

“I think we can drill through the lock mechanism to open the cuffs,” Laney said, her voice tight and her movements stiff as she walked to one of the shelves and lifted an electric drill. Was it the shop or the situation that had her tense?

“You don’t have to help me, Laney. It would be better if you didn’t,” he said gently because he wanted her to take the out he was offering, to run before anyone knew that they’d ever been together.

“You never told me why.” She grabbed a drill from a tool chest, patted a worktable. “Put your hands here.”

“Why what?” he asked, placing his hands palm down on smooth wood.

“Why it’s so dangerous for us to be together. Why you think someone other than the police is after you.” She aimed the drill straight into the cuff lock, her hands steady. If she was nervous, it didn’t show, and he couldn’t help thinking how different she was from the scared and anxious girl he used to know.

“The police cruiser that was taking me to state prison was run off the road. The driver was shot and killed. Another officer was wounded. Whoever was responsible took a shot at me.”

“Why would someone help you escape and then kill you?”

“That’s a good question, and I don’t have an answer.” But he would. All he needed was time and a place to hunker down and plan.

“Why were you on your way to state prison?” The drill whined and protested, a few sparks flying as she pressed down.

“I was convicted of trafficking in illegal narcotics.”

“Were you guilty?” Laney asked—because she had to know and because she couldn’t believe that the teenager who had been so adamantly opposed to drugs had turned into a man who sold them.

“No.” Logan’s answer was short, his hands pressed hard to the table that William had fashioned out of thick oak slabs. Laney had been there with him the weekend he’d finished it. She had smiled as he’d caressed the golden wood and imagined out loud all of the things he could create on it.