Hannah Alexander - Hideaway

“Right.” Ghosts?

“And you’ll have to use the old outhouse, because without electricity there’s no water.”

“That’ll be my problem, won’t it? Go home.”

Still he hesitated.

Her internal tension meter kicked back up a notch. Why wouldn’t he leave?

He glanced at the pistol she still held in her hand. “That a twenty-five caliber?”

“No.”

He nodded and gazed around the room.

“Is there something else you need to tell me?” she asked.

“This place has cockroaches.”

Lovely. “Do you plan to do something about that?”

“No, but ol’ Bertie Meyer says all you have to do is throw a few hedge apples under the house and the bugs’ll leave.”

“Who’s Bertie Meyer?”

“Your nearest neighbor. She and Red are eighty-something and going strong.”

“What’s a hedge apple?”

He frowned at her. “You sure you want to stay here? You got a lot to learn about farm life.”

“I didn’t say I was a farmer.”

“You’re moving in here? All alone? You just came out here to live all by yourself?”

She glared at him. Her hand automatically tightened around the pistol. What was his game?

“All I’m saying is, don’t you need some help carrying your things in?”

“No.”

Without turning her back to him, she reached for the front door and shoved it open wide. She hadn’t completed the task when she heard the slap of shoe leather on concrete behind her on the porch. The long spring on the screen door twanged as it opened.

“Blaze, I guess you know you’re dead.”

Cheyenne pivoted with her flashlight and her pistol as a hulking, short-haired Santa Claus in denim filled the doorway like a mafioso hit man.

He looked at the gun, then looked past Cheyenne toward the kid and lunged forward.

“No!” the kid shouted. “No, don’t shoot! He’s—”

Her scream and the contents of her pistol blasted at the same time as she scrambled away from him. The man fell backward onto the porch with a cry of agony. Cheyenne caught the rebound effect of the spray in her face. It burned like fire, blinding her.

“Dane! No!” The kid shoved past Cheyenne. “You shot him? I can’t believe you shot him!”

“I didn’t shoot him, I sprayed him.”

“This is Dane!” Blaze’s voice barely reached through the curtain of fire that scorched Dane’s face and eyes. “This is the director of the ranch, how could you do that?”

“I’m sorry, we can—”

“He wasn’t hurting anybody, he was just coming to find me and take me home. Dane, it’s okay, we’re going to get you help. Just hold on!”

Dane groaned a response, writhing in agony on the concrete.

“Help me get him to water,” the woman said. “Quickly! It’s pepper mace. If we can get to water, we can dilute the pain. Where’s the nearest—”

“Get away, I’ll take care of him myself! You just get back.” Gentle hands urged Dane to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you to the lake, it’s just down the hill. I can’t believe that crazy woman did this to you.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said again. “I didn’t know—”

“I said get back, just leave him alone! Haven’t you done enough? It’s okay, Dane, we’re going to take care of it right now,” came the tender voice Blaze used with injured or frightened animals. “Just walk with me. No, not you, lady. You just stay right here and keep that gun in its holster.”

“I need the water too, if you don’t mind,” the woman snapped. “I caught the spray in my face. It isn’t as if I do this kind of thing every day. I didn’t know it attacked everything in a five-foot—ouch!”

“Watch that hole,” Blaze said.

“Thanks.”

The cloud of pain stalked Dane as he allowed himself to be guided across the yard. His groans persisted as if as if he had no control over his voice. When they finally reached the lake, Blaze told him to kneel, then splashed the frigid water into his face.

The relief was sweeter than anything Dane had ever felt in his life. He bent forward and plunged his whole head beneath the lake’s surface, held his breath until his lungs threatened to burst, then emerged only long enough to inhale, then plunge again.

Several moments later, after the burn began to subside, he realized Blaze had gone silent. The only sound he heard was splashing.

“Blaze?”

The splashing stopped. “He left,” came the mellow feminine voice of his attacker. “Are you okay?”

“Much better. You?”

“I’m fine, but you took the brunt of it.” She didn’t sound like a mad mace sprayer. She sounded like a reasonable human being.

He dashed the water from his hair and beard with his hands and glanced up at her shadow in the darkness. “Wow. I can’t believe the difference a lakeful of water can make.”

“It’s pretty dramatic.” She switched on her flashlight, illuminating her drenched face, hair, red flannel jacket. “Come on, let’s get to the house before we freeze. Your ranch hand already excused himself.”

“You mean he went back to the ranch?”

“No, up to the house, I think. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”

“I can’t believe he just took off like that. It isn’t like him.” Dane pulled out his own flashlight and joined her.

“You must have been underwater when he said he was leaving. He’s pretty upset with me.”

“He has a lot to learn about women.”

“Oh, really.” There was an edgy pause as they walked side by side up the steep slope of the yard, shoes crackling the overgrown grass. “I take it you’ve been maced before.”

Ah, yes, that mellow voice sharpened nicely. In spite of his recent shock, he felt his lips twitch with a smile that was probably unwise at the moment. “What I meant was that he needs to understand that any woman in her right mind would have done the same thing, accosted by two strange men out in the middle of nowhere.”

There was another pause as she glanced sideways at him, as if to determine his sincerity. “Good save.”

“Thank you.” The smile would not behave. He knew it was a reaction to the relief he’d just experienced, but he’d learned long ago to look for the humor in any situation. He could enjoy a slapstick comedy routine on occasion—and this was definitely that. “I apologize for frightening you, and when I hunt Blaze down, I’ll beat an apology out of him, too.”

Too late, he realized how that must sound. He felt her disquieted gaze. “Figure of speech,” he said. “I don’t beat my boys.”

“You called him Blaze?”

“It’s his nickname, and believe me, it isn’t a slur. He chose the name himself.” He glanced at her. She had an expressive face that revealed her continued concern. Dark eyes that seemed warm, intelligent. She was only three or four inches shorter than his six-foot frame, with straight black hair, now heavy with lake water, that fell in layers across her neck and forehead.

She took the porch steps with athletic grace, then turned to him. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this.”

He stepped into the beam of her flashlight. “I know it’s a little late for the amenities, but I’m Dane Gideon. I run the boys’ ranch across the lake.”

“So I gathered from Gavin. I’m Cheyenne Allison. A friend of mine inherited this place, and I’m on…I’ll be staying here for a while. Does Gavin have a habit of wandering away from the ranch in the middle of the night?”

“On occasion. He’s accustomed to more solitude than he gets with us. I’d like to keep him at the ranch more consistently, but I’ve decided to use my own discretion about discipline with this kid, instead of going strictly by the rules. Until now, Blaze hasn’t let me down.” He opened the screen door and held it for her.