Maggie Shayne - Darker Than Midnight

She reached for him.

He shook his head. “C-c-crawl on your belly b-back to shore. Go on.”

“No!” She was panting, breathless. The cold burned through her. “N-not without you.” She moved closer, locking her frozen, nearly numb hands underneath his arms. “Come on.”

She pulled; he pushed as best he could. And finally, finally, they both lay on the ice, soaked, frozen. And even then she knew it wasn’t safe to linger. She struggled to her knees, shook his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

He lifted his head, nodded once, weakly, and began crawling. When they were nearly to shore, they got to their feet, arms around each other because it was the only way either of them could stand, and trudged off the pond and onto the land, through the line of trees to the road. There, he stopped walking, took his arm from around her shoulders, turned away and started off on his own.

Jax gripped his arm. “C-come inside. Just—to g-g-get warm.”

“Can’t.”

“Have to. You’ll d-die out here.”

He held her eyes for a moment, finally gave a single nod and walked with her to the house. She wanted to run the rest of the way, but could barely move at all, much less quickly. They mounted the steps and stumbled over the porch and through the door. She closed it, turned the lock and, gripping his arm, led him straight to the fireplace.

“Get the wet things off,” she told him, stammering, shivering. “I’ll—f-find something.”

He nodded, heeled off his shoes and started to undress. Jax struggled out of her boots and then went to work on her soaked, frozen jeans, her numb fingers barely managing the button. As she struggled out of them and felt his eyes on her, she turned to look at him, and saw him focusing on her legs, from her feet to the hem of her T-shirt. The gun that had been tucked in back clattered to the floor, and she stared down at it, then caught him doing the same.

“G-guess that’ll be no good to me until I’ve had a ch-chance to dry it out.” She picked the weapon up, kicked the jeans aside and stumbled upstairs to the bedroom, setting the gun in a drawer, removing the clip and tucking it underneath her mattress. Then she peeled off her T-shirt and bra, heading for the bathroom, where, thank goodness, she found a stack of towels. No hot water—not yet. She’d have killed for a hot bath. But towels would do. She wiped her skin dry, wrapped her body in one towel, her hair in another, then opened her duffel bag and shook out its contents. She dragged on a pair of sweat pants, a sweatshirt and thick socks. Then she located another pair of socks, big bulky ones, the most oversize pair of sweatpants she owned, a nightshirt big enough to serve as a T-shirt for him, and a big hooded sweatshirt with the Syracuse University logo in bright orange on the front. She yanked the blanket, pillows and comforter from the bed and still shivering, moved back down the stairs, trailing fabric behind her.

He sat on the floor, naked, knees drawn up, arms locked around them, head resting against them. He was close to the fire, apparently soaking up the heat. For a moment, she hesitated, just looking at him. Sitting there like that, in the firelight, he looked like a sculpture. Man in Hell, she thought. Who was this stranger who’d just saved her life? And how smart was she to let him into her house?

She sighed, left the bedding on the bottom step, then moved toward him, deciding it wasn’t smart at all, but it was necessary. She didn’t have a choice.

He lifted his head, and those eyes pinned her to the spot.

“Here,” she said, handing him a dry towel. “Wipe down and then put these on.”

He took the towel from her, seeming wary. She set the clothes on the mantel, then turned her back to him, removing the towel from her head and using it to wipe up the spots of water they’d left on the floor.

When the floor was dry, she took the comforter and spread it there, tossed the pillows on top and set the blanket nearby. Then she moved the fireplace screen aside and added more logs to the fire.

By the time she had replaced the screen, he was dressed. The sweatpants were comically short on his long legs, but the hooded sweatshirt was roomy enough. He’d pulled on the thick socks and rubbed his wet, dark hair with a towel so that it stuck up like the feathers of a wet hen, and he stood there, looking uncomfortable.

She picked up her wet jeans, hung them over the fireplace screen, then reached for his discarded clothes to do the same. But as she began hanging them, he took them from her rather hastily.

She stood there, blinking at him as he clutched the wet garments in his hands. “What are you afraid of?” she asked softly.

He averted his eyes, draping the items over the screen himself, with great care. “I’ll go as soon as they’re dry.”

“You’re on the run,” she said. “You’re in hiding.”

He said nothing, just bent to pick up the shoes, and placed them on the hearthstone, nearer the heat.

“Listen, you just saved my life, okay? Stay here until morning. If you don’t want me to ask any questions, I won’t. I owe you that much.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “I…can’t…no one can know I’ve been here.”

“No? Why not?”

He lowered his head tiredly.

“I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t ask questions, didn’t I?”

He drew a breath, shivered a little.

Jax lay down on the comforter and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. “It’s up to you,” she said. “Stay or go.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he said, “If you tell anyone…I’m here…I’m as good as dead.”

She opened her eyes, met his. She thought he might be a cop. She knew he was in trouble, on the run, from what she didn’t know. But he had saved her life, risked his own to do so. And she wasn’t the least bit afraid of him. “I sure as hell won’t be telling anyone tonight,” she said. “No phones hooked up yet. Cell doesn’t get reception in this spot, either. You have to drive up the road a mile.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then he crawled into her makeshift nest on the floor, curling under the covers beside her.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she said, “you’ll feel more like talking. Maybe I can help you with…with whatever it is that’s wrong.”

“No one can help me,” he said. And his voice sounded utterly hopeless. It clutched at her heart. Then he went on. “Why do you carry a gun?”

Something told her not to tell him she was a cop. Hell, he’d find out soon enough if he was in this town long. Everyone here knew she was a cop. But she had a feeling if she told him tonight, he would bolt. Not that she was sure he was a criminal, exactly. But he was definitely running from something.

“Protection,” she told him. “A woman, living all alone.”

“You’re not afraid of living alone.”

She lifted her brows and rolled onto her side to face him. “And how do you know that?”

“You’re not afraid of me,” he told her.

“Should I be?”

He closed his eyes as if the question brought great pain. They didn’t open again.

“Should I be afraid of you?” she asked again.

“I don’t know.” His lashes were wet. Not from the water, but from tears squeezing out from his deep brown eyes. “Maybe. Probably.”

Her heart contracted in her chest. His words might be a warning, or a sign of the confusion she’d sensed in him when she’d found him sleeping in her bed. “Maybe I should sleep upstairs,” she whispered.

He said nothing, so she started to sit up. And then she gasped as the man’s arms came around her. His head lay against her chest, and she thought he might be crying. “Please stay,” he said.

Frowning hard, utterly confused and wishing the hell she’d kept her gun with her, she found herself touching his still-damp hair, gently moving her fingers through it. “All right,” she said. “All right.”