Bounty Hunter (27 page)

“He saved me,” she said, turning her pale, heart-shaped face to Jack. “I—I don’t even
know your name.”

“Jack Gallagher.”

“Jack Gallagher,” she repeated, feeling her throat close with stupid tears. She shook
her head, blinking hard, and held out her hand. “I’m Abby Clarke, and this is my friend
Elaine Shaw, and these are—”

He let go of her hand, finished with introductions. His pack was heavy, and he was
hungry.
And
he had something to take care of first. “Excuse me. I’ve got work to do. And, Jeff—I
want to
talk
to you.” He led the other guide away, then turned and called back over his shoulder,
“Take care of yourself, hear me?”

Abby nodded. She watched him stride away. There was dust in his dark hair, and his
broad back was scratched and cut.

That’s my fault
, she thought suddenly, feeling again the slip of loose gravel, her rising hysteria.
Sickness welled in her stomach, and the world spun.

“Are you okay?” Elaine demanded. “Gee, I bet you were scared to death!
I
would have died, just died! When we saw you across the river, I almost
fainted!
Didn’t you hear us telling you to climb? We were screaming our fool heads off, and
you didn’t even try.”

Abby stared at Elaine, her chest aching with her shallow, teary breaths. Good old
feather-headed Elaine. Abby shook her head in disbelief. “I
couldn’t
I couldn’t even move.”

“Then how the heck did he get you up that rock wall?”

“He—he carried me.”

“Wow! No kidding? Oh, I’d like to get my hands on that brawn!”

Abby turned away, away from the river, away from Elaine, away from the two young men
in their wet khaki shorts and polo shirts. “I’m going to get some dry clothes from
the van. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Meet you at the food!”

Leaning against the door of the van, she wondered briefly if she had the strength
to climb inside. But she knew it would be warm in there. Quiet. She pushed herself
up and staggered down the aisle. In her backpack were a change of clothing, a sweater,
socks, an extra pair of tennis shoes, a hairbrush. Hugging the pack to her chest,
she made it out of the van and to a lean- to marked: “Ladies Only: Keep Out, You Bums!”

Inside the air was close, stifling. Without warning, her stomach coiled in a knot.
In another minute she knew she’d be sick. Quickly, she pulled open the door and stumbled
out.

Jack had been sitting on an overturned barrel with a cold beer in his hand, watching
for her. Now he rose, waved the others back, and strode across the clearing. He caught
her before she fell, and held her against his chest, cradling her gently. “Damn stubborn
woman. I thought I told you to take it easy.”

“I—I was just going to change my clothes.”

“In there? I’d suggest you spend as little time in there as possible!”

“But—but—”

“Stop arguing with me.”

That was all he said. Dark eyes flashing, he scooped her up in his arms and carried
her up the path to a tent pitched in a circle of pines. Inside was a cot. He sat her
on its edge and disappeared. In a moment he was back with a towel and a bucket of
water. He waited while she splashed water on her face and neck, then washed her hands
and arms, and splashed some more on her throat.

“Not feeling too good, huh?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I’m ever going to feel good again.”

“You will, if you’ll just listen to me. I’m talking from experience.”

“Oh, you make a habit of rescuing drowning women?”

“I make it a habit to see no one needs to be rescued! No, I meant firsthand experience;
the river’s knocked me around a bit, too.”

She looked up at him, too exhausted to ask questions. Everything ached. Everything
hurt.

She just nodded in surrender.

“Here,” he said, pouring amber liquid from a bottle into a dusty glass. “Drink this.”

She did, and gasped as it burned a path down to her stomach.

“One more,” he said, filling it again and handing it back.

Tears stung her eyes, but she drank it all.

“Good. Now get out of those clothes. I’ll wait outside. And put on something loose
and comfortable.”

“But this is all I have,” Abby whispered, pulling a T-shirt out of her backpack.

“Here.” He fished in a trunk and came up with a huge faded sweat shirt. “Try this.”

Her arms felt heavy as lead and her head was beginning to whirl, but she didn’t dare
disobey. She pulled off her wet and muddy clothes, including her bra and panties,
and slipped into his sweatshirt. The heavy cotton hung in folds across her soft breasts
and narrow waist, its ragged lower edge coming all the way to the middle of her thighs.
She could see that her legs were scraped and filthy, her knee caked with blood and
beginning to swell, but she couldn’t figure out what to do about it. Her feet were
bare and cut. She must have lost her shoes and socks in the river—she couldn’t remember.
The liquor had the world spinning; if she had to sit up for another minute, she would
faint.

Trying to keep the dirt off his bed, she leaned her head down against his pillow.

All she wanted was the comfort of her own pine bed, the boards polished smooth by
her father’s hand. And her quilt made from squares of calico and hopsacking, homespun
and denim, and the one square of her mother’s wedding gown, yellowed now but the satin
so smooth, smoother than anything she had ever touched as a child and therefore precious.
She wanted it now. Needed to feel its warmth and promise of safety. Needed to be held
and loved—

“Ready?” Jack called from outside, scattering her thoughts.

“Ready.”

“Now,” he said, filling the door of the tent with his body, “sleep!”

“Ah, a man of many words.” She laughed softly, liking him for his directness, his
strength.

“So I’ve been told.” He grinned back. “Good night.” He stepped close and began to
unfold a blanket.

“Oh, but I’m a mess! I’ll get your bed dirty.”

“It’s seen worse.” He tucked the covers up to her chin.

“But where will you sleep?”

“You sure do know how to worry, don’t you? How the hell did anyone talk you into getting
in that raft?”

“I don’t even know how I g-got talked into C-Colorado!” she stuttered, her teeth beginning
to chatter again. “Oh, no! What’s happening? I thought you said I’d feel
b-better.
”

“You will. Later. You’ll probably feel worse for a while, but you’ve got to ease up
and let it all out. There’s no other way to get rid of that kind of fear. Here, I’ll
hold your hand for a while.”

“Oh, you d-d-don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m
just cold.…”

“Damn stubborn woman,” he said, and climbed into bed next to her. He wrapped his arms
around her and pulled her up against him.

She rubbed her face against the front of his shirt. “What if this is a dream and I’m
still down there?” she wailed. “Please—please save me.”

He held her tighter, wrapped one hard leg around hers to stop her shaking, and stroked
her hair. His hand was cool, his body warm and solid and wonderfully real. “It’s all
right,” he whispered into the top of her hair. “All right. I’ll save you.”

He held her until she fell asleep.

ONE

“Whoooo! Struck him out, the stinkin’ loser!”

Elaine Sampson clamped her hand over her month and flopped back into her seat, horrified
at her outburst. It didn’t matter that the crowd at Veterans Stadium was roaring its
own approval as the Atlanta Braves batter walked away dejected from the plate, struck
out by Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Curt Schilling.

“Mom!” her son, Anthony, exclaimed, staring at her with a thirteen-year-old’s complete
mortification for his mother’s embarrassing action. His face was bright red as he
glanced around to see if anyone was looking.

“Hot damn! Leave her be, sugar,” Cleo Burfield said to Anthony. The big black woman
patted him on the back in commiseration. “First home game of the season and your mama’s
ready for action.”

Anthony grinned at Cleo. If Cleo approved, it was cool.

“Never thought I’d hear
that
from you, Elaine,” Mary Ososa said, pressing her rosary beads one after the other
in silent prayer as the next batter faced Schilling. Mary was as prim as Cleo was
sassy, although she was grinning at Elaine.

“It’s about time we heard that from her, Mary,” Jean Keenan said, laughing. “We’ve
been the Widows’ Club for nearly two years now, and she’s never lost it before at
a game.”

“I’ve got to stop listening to the morning guys on WIP radio,” Elaine muttered, slouching
down in her seat. She still couldn’t believe she had shouted like a fishwife. Her,
a seventh-grade schoolteacher with a master’s degree, for goodness sake. But the Phils
were the Phils. They
had
to win their home opener.

The two men in the row in front of her had turned around at her outburst, and she
realized they were still staring at her. Their more formal clothes gave them away
as businessmen attending the game, probably in their company’s block of seats, a business
entertainment phenomenon of the last few years. “Suits,” the fans called the corporate
types, because they just sat and did deals, barely watching the game. Certainly they
never cheered for the team, either team. They never clapped for a player. And they
always
left before the eighth inning, to beat the inevitable traffic jam. Even worse, by
getting season tickets to choice seats, they moved more fans to the upper levels of
the stadium, out of the lower 100, 200, and 300 levels. Elaine felt lucky her little
crowd still managed to get in their same 300-level row year after year when they bought
their own season tickets.

One of the men in front of her, with the perfect hair pulled back in a tiny male ponytail,
and with the perfect tan,
and
with a pierced hoop earring in one ear, glared up at her as if she had uttered absolute
filth at him. She knew he was thinking she was one of “those” kinds of fans, abusive
and without manners in general. The other man, although wearing an expensive suit
and also sporting a perfect, if shorter, haircut, looked less urban-plastic than his
companion. He was older, for one thing—around forty, she judged. His face was lean
and rugged, with age lines beginning around the mouth. His hair was dark except for
a few silver strands at his temples, just one or two, as if he’d earned them early
rather than through the normal aging process. Elaine had noticed him before, when
he had sat down. Throughout the opening innings, she had found herself catching glimpses
of his profile, which had somehow piqued her curiosity and made her wish she could
get a full look at him.

Her wish had now come true. As the man stared at her, her heart beat at lightning
speed, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her brain turned to complete
mush. But her insides were swirling with a deliciously warm sensation that left her
breathless. The intensity scared her, for she hadn’t felt like this in a long, long
time.

His eyes held her own gaze. They were a deep brown, the same color as the eyes of
a fawn she had once nursed to adulthood. Gentleness, though, wasn’t in the depths
of these eyes. They were hard-edged … speculating … impossible to turn from.

Panic shot through Elaine as if she’d just found herself teetering on the edge of
a cliff. The noise of the crowd faded to a vague mumble until the world seemed to
darken and close in around her and the man. He glanced lower, his gaze traveling down
and back up again, taking in her red Phillies cap with her ponytail poking through
the gap in the back, her hooded sweatshirt, jeans, thick white crew socks, and sneakers.
He couldn’t see much of her body, not with the way she was huddled in the molded plastic
seat. But every inch of her felt the shock of his gaze. Here she was, a thirty-seven-year-old
widow with one adolescent son, and she couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked
at her like this. She ought to be flattered, but she felt as vulnerable as a rabbit
under a wolf’s paw. She also wished she was ten pounds slimmer and in a strapless
gown. Heck, this kind of male assessment came along once in a blue moon, and she ought
to look good when it did.

“Mom … Mom!”

The man turned forward again, finally breaking their locked gazes. Elaine blinked.
She took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to regain her equilibrium. The world came
back into focus.

The bright lights of the Vet blazed down on the field, illuminating the players. The
crowd’s cheers were suddenly deafening, the salty odor of popcorn and the sweet scent
of soda overpowering. People all around her were on their feet, screaming at the top
of their lungs.

Curt had struck out another one.

She grinned at her son, who was cheering and hugging Cleo. She knew he would die a
thousand deaths before he hugged his own mother in public. Cleo was different.