Nancy Morse - Panther On The Prowl

The examples were different but the underlying emotions were the same, and it made John uncomfortable to think that there existed something like that in common between them.

“There’s a generator out back,” he said.

“In that case, I’ll have the chicken noodle. It’s my favorite.”

He frowned as he walked to the kitchen. It was another thing they had in common, not that there weren’t a million other people with the same taste in canned soup. Still, it made not liking her that much harder.

From the other room Rennie ventured, “You asked if there was anyone I want to contact.”

He forced the cylinder of soup from the can into a saucepan. “Is there?”

“Yes. But I’m afraid my cell phone is buried beneath the wreckage. Do you have a telephone I can use?”

The spoon clicked against the sides of the pot as John stirred the soup. “What sort of work do you do?”

“I’m a professor of anthropology.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “the farther we get from civilization, the more civilized we feel. Out here you’ll find no e-mail, no voice messaging. Just an endless stream of rushing water to answer to. But I do have a cell phone for emergencies. I’ll get it.” He turned the soup to a slow simmer and went to get the phone. “Here you go.” He touched the phone to her hand and stepped away.

The tonal beeps came slowly as Rennie felt her way across the keypad as she dialed the senator’s private number.

“Hi, it’s me. I know I should have called sooner, but I’ve been busy. Actually, I decided to take some time off. I’m staying with a friend. You can’t reach me, but I’ll be in touch.” She hung up, feeling guilty for the evasion, but at least he would know that she was all right without knowing where she was.

“Out here you may not need one, but thank goodness for the answering machine.” She handed the phone back to him. “Thank you, John.”

He liked the way his name rolled off her tongue as if they’d known each other for years. He wasn’t aware that they were friends, yet somehow he liked the idea of that, as well. His throat went dry. “It’s no big deal.”

“I meant for asking no questions.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “I figure if there’s anything you want me to know, you’ll tell me.”

He went back to the kitchen and ladled the soup into a bowl. Thinking that she might still be too weak to get out of bed, he dragged the chair close to the side of the bed and placed the bowl on the seat. He put the spoon in her hand, his strong fingers closing around hers and enveloping her hand in the warmth of his before it pulled away.

Rennie was jolted by the unexpected heat that raced up her arm to flush her cheeks with color. She spoke up nervously. “Aren’t you eating?”

“There’s only one chair. I’ll wait until you’re finished.”

She slid over on the bed and moved her bowl to one side of the chair seat.

John placed a second bowl of soup next to hers and sat down reluctantly beside her on the edge of the bed. He tried to ignore that warmth of her arm that barely brushed his sleeve.

“When you’re up to it,” he said, “I’ll walk you around so you can get the feel of the place. If you’re hungry, help yourself to whatever there is.”

“You’re assuming I can cook.”

“I’m assuming you can open a can of soup or boil water for spaghetti. That’s all you’ll find.”

“I’m good at spaghetti. In college I lived on it. It’s inexpensive and filling.”

“You don’t strike me as the type who’s had to live on a budget.”

Rennie wasn’t surprised that he knew she was well off. She had practically admitted it only a few minutes ago when she had spoken without thinking. Still, what did he know about her reasons for preferring to make her own way rather than live off her family’s wealth, or how her one stab at independence had not come without a price? Annoyance surfaced in her tone.

“Why? Because you think I can afford more? Didn’t you say something about preconceived notions?”

John didn’t like having his own words echoed back at him like that. “I don’t judge people on what I see. I leave that to the hypocrites of the world. But there was nothing preconceived about that Cessna you were flying. You didn’t earn the money for that on a professor’s salary.”

“That’s true,” she said. “I tapped into the trust fund my father set up for me before he died.” She tilted her head up at him. “I owe no one an explanation or an apology for my background. The only person I owe that to is myself. So, I take it you’ve seen the wreckage?”

“I went to have a look at it this morning. It’s hard to imagine anyone walking away from that. I guess if someone wanted to be presumed dead, that would be one way to do it.”

Rennie sucked in her breath. “If you’re suggesting that I crashed my plane on purpose so that people would think I was dead, I assure you, I’m not that devious or that cruel.” Hurt, she pushed the chair away and got up.

His hand caught her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you are.”

“Besides, if I wanted people to think that, why would I have made that call?”

She didn’t see his broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “You also didn’t tell whoever you called where you are.”

“Yes, for now. It’s not that I don’t want anyone to know where I am, just…one person in particular. Look, it’s complicated and not very interesting.” Not to mention humiliating, she groaned inwardly. Pulling her arm away, she sat back down. “Is there any chance of the wreckage being seen from the air?”

John cleared the bowls away and dragged the chair back to the table. “It’s lost in all the soft muck and undergrowth. That’s what cushioned the impact.”

He heard her soft breath of relief and shook his head. Whatever she was running from, could it be as bad as the guilt he himself was trying to escape? He questioned whether she could ever accept what he had done with no questions asked.

“I have to go out in a while. I’ll ask Willie Cypress to look in on you. He’s the one who found you. He can be trusted not to tell anyone you’re here.”

In the brief time Rennie had been with him, she had come to crave his company, what little there was of it and however reluctant he was to give it to her. Eagerly she asked, “When will you be back?”

“Daybreak.”

“Oh.”

Was that disappointment he heard in her voice? He told himself that she was either just lonely or afraid of the dark and that it had nothing to do with him.

“I go out every night,” he said uncomfortably. “I told you that.”

“Do you have to go just yet?”

He glanced toward the window. In a few hours it would be dark, and an aching voice would call to him from the swamp, beckoning to that dark place inside of him, and he would be powerless to resist it. But for now the sky was still light and the lurid urges that haunted him at sunset were at rest. He felt himself waver.

“Maybe I can stay a little longer.”

“Could we go outside for some fresh air?”

John heard the plaintive plea in her voice and saw the hand stretched out to him. He admired the courage it took for her to ask, when it was obvious that she was still in some pain and that she was afraid. He took her hand and guided her to her feet.

Her fingers were long and slender, her skin impossibly soft to the touch, and warm, as if she’d been rubbing her hands before a fire. He was surprised by the confidence of her grip until he remembered that these were the same hands that skillfully piloted a plane. She might look weak and helpless, but he suspected that she was stronger than he, and that possibly even she knew that.