Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (50 page)

Boudreau didn't move, but his head bowed a fraction of an inch. “Can't do a thing but wait, son. A woman's body is a powerful thing when it's protecting a child. Have faith.”

But Tristan heard a worried tone in the other man's voice. “What's the matter?” he asked.

“There's two of them varmints, at least. Maybe three. I don't know where they are. Like I said, I heard something a while back. Could have been them, but they never showed themselves, neither did they shoot.”

“Two? Maybe three? You mean including the two you shot at the house? Because I only saw three total.”

“Nope. Remember, I saw another guy get out of their truck. And there could have been another one still. I thought I saw a shadow, but I was intent on aiming at the one I did see, not checking shadows.”

“Are you sure they're still following you? Maybe they turned back, or—” He'd almost said,
Or went another way
, but Boudreau had already told him there was only one way out. They were surrounded by swamp water that covered gumbo mud.

“They ain't turning around,” Boudreau said. “Not with the firefighters and the sheriff down there. And if the sheriff tries to pursue them up here, he'll be like a sitting duck on that path.”

“So they're lying in wait on the path for us to go down or the sheriff to come up.”

“I suspect that's right. They might not have sense enough to know what the land around here is like, but I'll bet either them or their boss know how to read a topo map. He won't know about the log bridges to the hideout, though. All he can see on those maps is swampland.”

Tristan nodded. For the first time in his life he found himself hating the gumbo mud and murky waters of the bayou. Right now they weren't beautiful and mysterious—they were the reason he couldn't get Sandy to a doctor.

“God, Boudreau. We shouldn't have come up here. We're stranded now. We should have run for the car.”

“I told you earlier, son. They shot your tires out.”

“Then we should have—hell, I don't know—grabbed one of their trucks or run up the road toward town or called the sheriff. Something other than coming here to be trapped. Boudreau, she could die.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Maybe we should go to the hideout.” But as soon as Tristan said it, he knew he couldn't do it. He cursed. “I can't walk the log bridges. They were slippery and wobbly back when I was a kid, and this damn leg's already quitting on me.”

Boudreau sent him a sidelong glance. “Then you'll crawl across if you want to live—and save your wife and that baby.”

Tristan took a deep breath. Boudreau was right. He was acting like a spoiled kid. He straightened and looked Boudreau full in the eye. “Then I'll crawl across.”

“Okay, then. Get her up and go. It's going to be dawn in a couple of hours and those varmints will probably think they can do things in the daylight they can't in the dark.”

“You can't stay here by yourself. You're exhausted, too. I'll take her, then I'll come back.”

“Nope. No, you won't, son. You come back here and I'll feed you to 'em and leave that bad leg for last, just so it'll hurt you longer.”

“Yes, sir,” Tristan said, too tired and worried to react to Boudreau's attempt at humor. “But what about the sheriff? What do you think is going to happen when he comes upon those guys? He'll figure they set the fire.”

“Maybe,” Boudreau said. “But he's not going to be expecting hostiles. If he tries to walk over here, he'll be thinking he'll see me and maybe your little wife. And that's all.”

“We can't let them kill him.”

Boudreau laid his hand on Tristan's arm. “Son, if you can think of something we can do, I swear I'll do it. But it's up to you. I'm all out of ideas. The only thing I got left is hide till they find us and try to pick them off, wait for the sheriff to bring in reinforcements, or attack them, although I'd rather not risk that. I don't know.”

Tristan stared at him. For his entire life he'd looked up to Boudreau. He'd thought the old Cajun was the smartest man he'd ever known. He'd never heard him say the words
I don't know
.

In the silence, a bird sang out. Boudreau lifted his head, then he lifted his rifle. “Mockingbirds don't sing at night. That's them. Why don't you get inside there and find your little wife something to wear while I make sure those varmints aren't getting any closer.”

Tristan fetched the mines and flares and brought them inside, along with some nylon rope he found back there. He pushed them underneath Boudreau's bed, then went to the old trunk. When he opened it and dug beneath the winter coat and a couple of blankets, he found something that surprised him. It was a gown. Not a nightshirt. A woman's nightgown, made of cotton with a lace collar.

He hesitated a second, then decided that Boudreau meant for him to find it and use it. But even as he tried to imagine the woman who had worn it here in this cabin, he vowed that if Boudreau didn't bring it up he never would.

He set the gown on the bed and fetched some rags, which he tore into long strips then tied together. He hated to wake her. She was sleeping peacefully. Her breathing was almost normal and she wasn't coughing every few breaths.

She woke up with little effort and he got the bandages around her and anchored the cloth without too much trouble. She was obedient and raised her arms so he could slip the gown over her head and down.

He wanted to hold her and kiss her and tell her how much he loved her, but there was no time for that. Sadly, there might never be if he didn't hurry up.

“Everything okay?” he asked as he pushed her gently down to sit on the bed so he could slip her shoes on.

Then he took her hands and urged her to stand. She did, leaning against him, the heat of her body reaching him through the gown and his shirt. Her cheek against the side of his neck felt hot. For a brief moment, he stood there, letting her heat warm him.

But then it occurred to him that she might be too hot. He put his palm against her forehead, but he couldn't decide if she was giving off the comforting yet sexy warmth of sleep or if she had a fever.

“Is it far?” she asked, her head lolling a bit. “I need to go back to sleep.”

“It's not far, I promise,” he said, squeezing her tight and kissing the top of her head. “Okay, hon, ready?” He guided her and supported her on his left side while he used a walking stick that Boudreau kept by the cabin door to steady his right side.

When they came out of the cabin, he didn't see Boudreau, but he wasn't worried. There hadn't been any gunfire and he knew if Boudreau felt he needed to know where he was, he'd have told him.

“Okay, Sandy. We're off,” he said with more spirit in his voice than was in his heart. He didn't know how much longer his leg was going to work. He knew that for the sake of avoiding damage, he should have stopped hours ago. But that was under normal circumstances, when he was not trying to save his wife and unborn child.

He looked in the direction of the hideout. There was no path visible. In fact, there was no indication that there was anything but dense, thick groves of cypress and mangrove along the entire perimeter of Boudreau's little clearing. But he knew there was a narrow strip of dry land there somewhere. Not exactly a path, but a way to get to Boudreau's hideout. He just had to find it.

He'd been to the hideout several times in the past—twenty years before. Praying for enough sense to find the hideout and enough strength to get that far, he trudged on, supporting Sandy.

“Tris,” Sandy said, her voice slurred. “Where we going?”

“We're going to have a spend-the-night party in Boudreau's hideout.”

“Spend-the-night party?”

“Yep. At his hideout. It's a great place to play cowboys and outlaws. And it's comfortable, too. Like camping out.”

“Tris? Don't patronize me,” she said, her voice still soft and sleepy-sounding, but her tone was imperious. Tristan's heart ached at the familiar warning tone in her voice. She was still weighted down by the fog of sleep. If she were fully awake this would be the beginning of an all-too-familiar argument. So familiar that he could quote it. It would be a lot like the last argument they'd had.

“Why won't you tell me the truth? I've got sense enough to know that there's something wrong.”

“I am telling you the truth. I do enjoy working on the rig. I like the computer work.”

“I see you, Tristan. Every time you come home, you're more worried. You don't talk to me. You don't touch me.”

“I'm talking to you right now.”

“No. This is not you. You've changed. This person standing in front of me is not the man I've loved all my life.”

“Well, I don't know who you think I am, but I can assure you, I'm me.”

“See, this is what I mean. I just can't talk to you.”

“Sorry,” he said to his sleepy wife. “I didn't mean to patronize you. We're going to Boudreau's hideout for a day or two.”

“Because of those men who set fire to the house?”

So she was awake enough to remember the fire. He felt her straighten. “They're looking for us, but they won't find us there.”

“How long till we get there?”

“Not long. Just a few minutes more. I know you're sleepy.”

She put her free hand on her baby bump. “My tummy hurts. Little bean, what are you doing to me?” she said, then stumbled a bit.

“Whoa,” Tristan said, struggling to keep his balance and hold on to her at the same time. He shuddered as pain shot through his calf. “I know you're hurting. But you've got to be aware of everything, okay? We're going to have to walk over a log bridge, and every step counts. Try to wake up.”

He hoped she wasn't bleeding again. He had no idea if there were bandages in the hideout. Knowing Boudreau, there probably were. He hoped his friend had stashed some medication there, too.

“Bridge?” Sandy roused a bit. “Not those log bridges you and Zach used to play on? They were so slippery.”

“We'll be fine. The logs are sturdy. And they'll keep us from having to walk in the swamp water. It's not deep, but you know how the mud is, and there could be snakes or alligators. And besides, these are the only clothes we have, so we've got to stay dry and that means no matter how tired we are or how much we hurt, we've got to stay on the bridge.”

“You'll be right beside me, won't you?”

Dismay and fear roiled through him. Would he make it better or worse for her if he walked with her across the narrow logs Boudreau had put between the tiny islands of dry land deep in the swamp? “I will. I'll be right beside you. I'm sorry your tummy hurts, but it'll be all right. It's just the bean, jumping around.”

“Jumping bean,” she said sleepily. Tristan's eyes stung and his throat wanted to close up. He had no idea what kind of damage the bullet had done to her or to the baby. If she was bleeding internally, he didn't know if she would live long enough to have the baby or if the baby was even alive.

What he did know was that it was his fault she'd been shot. He hadn't taken good enough care of her. He should have been between her and the shooters the entire time.

She was looking at him with a frown on her face. He started to say something, but she spoke first. “Don't worry, Tris. I'll be fine. You always take good care of me. I know I'm safe with you.”

He nodded at her, then put his arm around her so she couldn't look up into his face. He shook his head disgustedly. She thought she'd be safe with him. Well, he'd made a major mess out of that. Not only had he abandoned her for two months, as soon as he came back to her, he'd brought nothing but trouble following in his wake.

Sandy's left hand rested on her baby bump, her fingers curled as if she was afraid to let go. He wanted to ask her if the baby had moved, but he was sure that if the bean had kicked or wiggled, she'd have told him. What if their child was dead?

“What's the matter, Tris? You got a cold? You're sniffing so much.”

“Yeah, hon,” he said, gritting his teeth and blinking against the wetness in his eyes. “I must have caught a cold.”

Chapter Thirteen

It was a slow and pain-filled walk to the first log bridge, during which Tristan heard several faint rounds of gunfire that he couldn't identify. He thought he heard rifles and Boudreau's shotgun and a third, different sound that might have been the echo of the flare gun. It was hard to tell, what with the distance and the muffling effect of the trees and underbrush.

About the time Tristan thought that sawing his leg off with a nail file couldn't hurt any worse than continuing to walk on it, he came upon a familiar and welcome sight. It was a large pile of dried foliage, vines, branches, twigs and leaves.

It looked as though a small whirlwind had blown it into the shade of a big cypress tree. But Tristan could see Boudreau's hand in the carefully disarranged pile. He knew the back of the deceptive pile of underbrush and leaves was woven together to create a mat that fit over the opening to the hideout. The other three sides were a wall built of mud and vines and brush that had been there for who knew how many years and completely hid the rough-hewn lean-to from even the most suspicious eyes.

He pushed aside the cover of woven vines and branches. The inside was as clean and carefully maintained as it had always been. For a marginal shelter, it contained some surprising and clever amenities.

The lean-to was made out of scrap lumber and sturdy branches with a tarp draped over them. Over the years the wood had weathered and rotted and been replaced, as had the tarp. So the inside walls were an abstract patchwork of blue, silver and brown.

The largest item inside was a long, shallow wooden crate turned on its side. It was deep and wide enough to sleep one person easily or two if they were very close. The way it was positioned, it was always dry. The floor of the shelter was covered with thick sisal mats. They wicked water easily and kept the shelter floor feeling relatively dry.

Tristan got Sandy inside and laid her down in the makeshift bed. He found two thin wool blankets wrapped in plastic and took them outside to shake them. They looked clean and whole and the plastic hadn't been chewed through. So he covered Sandy with them. By the time he got her tucked in, he was shivering with exhaustion.

“I'm sorry, Tris,” she murmured as she pulled the covers up to her chin. “You need to rest, too.”

He shook his head. He didn't have the strength to answer her or tell her that she had nothing—
nothing
—to apologize for.

“What's in all the boxes?” Sandy asked, pushing a wad of blanket under her head as a makeshift pillow.

Tristan shot her a sidelong glance. “I thought you'd gone to sleep. You need to conserve your energy.”

Sandy looked at her husband. The small scar on the side of his head where the roughneck's bullet had grazed him stood out against his dark hair. He sat with his back against the lean-to wall and his right leg carefully extended. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“You're the one who needs to rest,” she said. “You look like you're about to pass out. I haven't been up for two days.”

“Actually, I don't think you've had much more sleep than I have,” he said without moving.

“Well, I'm not down to one leg to walk on.”

“No. You've just—” He stopped, but she knew what he'd been about to say.
You've just been shot in the stomach.

He grimaced. “I'm going to watch for Boudreau.”

“You are a stubborn, stubborn man,” she muttered, then louder, she said, “I'm exhausted, but I'm not sleepy. What's Boudreau got in here?”

His shoulders rose a little, then relaxed. “Survival stuff. Canned food, coffee, water and tools like a can opener, a screwdriver, hammer. You know. Things you might need in an emergency.”

“So this is a storm shelter?”

“Storm house, hideout, maybe even guesthouse.”

“What?” Sandy lifted her head and stared at his profile. He grinned and her heart skipped a beat. She loved him so much. On the heels of that thought came the memory of her mother's words.
Don't fall in love if you can help it. By the time it's over, he'll own every tiny sliver of your broken heart.
Sandy smiled sadly, her gaze still on her husband. “Every sliver,” she whispered.

“Hmm?” Tristan asked.

“Provisions and some tools? Is that all? This looks like a lot of crates.”

“He's probably got some clothes in here. Maybe a couple of sleeping bags. He had one he'd let Zach and me use.”

“That's what's in these big ones?”

“No. Actually that's his weapons stockpile.”

“Weapons?” She wasn't sure if she liked sleeping in a weapons stockpile. “Not loaded, I hope. What kind?”

He sat up and wiped his face, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I remember a revolver and a few boxes of ammunition. Oh, and a gun-cleaning kit.”

“A revolver. That's like a six-gun, isn't it?”

He nodded. “Maybe some shotgun shells, too, for his big gun.”

“What about the other big crate?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Boudreau caught me looking in that first one and nearly skinned my hide.”

“Really? When was that?”

“Years ago. I wasn't thirteen yet. Maybe not even twelve. He got madder than I've ever seen him. He said, ‘You never touch those crates.
Mais non.
You do not come here without me from now on. Understand, you?'”

Sandy chuckled softly. “You do a pretty good impression of him. Wow...” Her voice trailed off. After several seconds, she spoke again. “Tris?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“Are we going to be okay?”

He scooted closer to her and leaned over and kissed her on the temple. “We're going to be fine. The sheriff has to know that these guys are up here. He's probably got the Coast Guard on their way in helicopters, or at least standing by.” Tristan had little hope that his words were true. He prayed that Sandy, who knew him so well, didn't notice.

“How long will they take?” she murmured, almost forgetting what she was asking about.

“Not long,” Tristan whispered.

She yawned. “Probably going...sleep now.”

Tristan sat down and carefully stretched out his legs. He hadn't meant for her to know how badly he was doing. But she knew him too well.

He stretched, trying to get the aches and knots out of his arms and neck. Everything hurt and quivered with fatigue. His calf muscle was on the verge of a cramp and so he flexed his foot, but his effort was too little too late. In spite of his care, the overworked muscle seized.

He clenched his jaw and massaged it, holding his breath against the pain. He tried to keep quiet, but once in a while a quiet moan or grunt would escape. Luckily, they didn't wake Sandy, who was snoring softly by the time the muscle settled down.

Watching her sleep was relaxing to him and he began to get drowsy. With a quiet curse, he straightened, stretched and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after three. The sky was clear, but with the thick overhang of branches in this dense part of the swamp, there were lots of shadowy places. The sun wouldn't go down until after seven o'clock, but the bayou would be dark long before that.

He was worried about Boudreau. Tristan had been able to sleep a few hours, but his friend had been awake for as long, if not longer, than he had. He wasn't even sure if Boudreau had taken a nap in all that time.

It was frustrating to sit and do nothing, knowing Boudreau was out there, exhausted and sleep-deprived, defending them all alone. Still, it was Tristan's job to protect Sandy. And Boudreau knew the bayou better than anyone.

He shifted and felt something in his pocket. He pulled out the small rhinestone-encrusted baseball glove that hid a flash drive. He smiled as he turned it in his hand. He'd chosen the baseball glove on a whim, hoping it might portend a boy. The fact that it matched the mobile closely enough that he could hide it in plain sight was a happy accident.

Thank goodness he'd grabbed it. The tiny, sparkly flash drive held the recordings that he hoped would match Vernon Lee's voice. He wanted to see the evil man's multibillion-dollar empire fall.

A shot rang out and he jumped. The report sounded like a rifle, so it was one of Lee's men. He waited, listening for Boudreau to return fire with his shotgun, but heard nothing.

Boudreau must not want to give away his position by firing back. At least, Tristan hoped that was why he was quiet.

Still, just in case, Tristan crawled inside the lean-to and grabbed one of the large magazines for his handgun. He inserted the magazine, then hefted the gun to feel how the extra weight was distributed. Not bad. He positioned himself in the opening of the lean-to, where he could see and hear.

“Tris.” Sandy's sleep-softened voice floated over him.

“Hey,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“What's going on?” she asked.

“It's okay. I heard something.”

“A gunshot,” she said matter-of-factly. “What's that blue thing you're holding? Is that part of the mobile over the baby's crib?”

He looked at it. “It's—” He was momentarily stumped. Did he tell her what it was and explain that this was the proof that Vernon Lee had tried to kill him? Or did he make up something?

“Wait. Shh. I think I hear something again.”

She lifted herself up on one elbow. “No, you don't. What's the deal about the baseball glove?” She stared at it. “Oh, I see. It's a flash drive. That's your evidence, isn't it? You hid it in the nursery? In the mobile?”

Tristan let it dangle from his fingers. “I was going to transfer the files to Homeland Security the next time I was home,” he said quietly.

“But you never came home,” she said, her voice breaking. “You should have told me. I could have sent it to Maddy.”

He nodded. “I thought there was time. I won't make that mistake again,”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I won't, either,” she said.

Tristan looked away. He was afraid if their gazes held very long Sandy would see the worry in his eyes.

“Tris?”

He winced at her tone. “Sandy—”

“No, wait. What's going to happen? It looks to me like there's a standoff. I'm afraid two injured people and one exhausted man are no match for those men.”

He had a reassuring answer all planned, but a noise interrupted him. He held up a hand.

“Shh!” he said.

He heard the sound of footsteps tromping through the woods toward them. He slid inside the lean-to and pulled the cover across in front of him, leaving a small slit. Carefully, he thumbed the toggle switch on the side of the weapon to Auto.

When Boudreau appeared from the tangled woods, relief cascaded through Tristan's veins. His friend was all right.

The first thing the Cajun said was “Cover's not all the way over the opening.”

“I left myself room to see and shoot. Sandy was asleep on her feet, so I got her tucked in as quickly as I could,” Tristan said defensively, knowing that wasn't the whole truth. He was too tired and so he was making mistakes and Boudreau knew it.

“Going too fast can slow you down a lot, yeah,” Boudreau said as he looked around 360 degrees, then stared at nothing, listening.

While Boudreau checked out the area, Tristan checked him out. His sun-browned face had a greenish-gray tint to it, and his mouth was drawn down and pinched looking. His eyes looked weak and his shoulders were slumped even more than they'd been a couple of hours ago at the cabin. “You're about dead on your feet. Climb in there and take a nap. I'll keep watch.”

“
Non.
Something to eat and some water and I'll be fine.”

Tristan reached back into the lean-to and pulled out one of the small food crates.

Boudreau pried the wooden lid open with the big knife he always carried. There were two glass jugs inside and what looked like jerky and some kind of fruit and nut bars in a glass jar. Boudreau grabbed a jug and drank about a pint of liquid out of it.

“That's water?” Tristan asked.

Boudreau nodded and handed the jug to Tristan, who took a long drink, then stuck his head inside. “San? Want some water?”

She opened her eyes to a small slit. “Please,” she said. Tristan left the bottle with her.

Boudreau grabbed a handful of jerky and closed the glass jar. “She doing okay?” he asked softly.

“I don't know. I don't think she's bleeding anymore, but she felt hot. I think she has a fever.”

“Could be,” Boudreau said. “I reckon it's time to fight.”

Tristan flung his head back and sighed deeply. “I guess we can hope they're as tired as we are.”

“Probably are. Plus, although they got good weapons, they're slow and they don't know the swamp.”

“They don't, but hell, Boudreau, you're so exhausted you probably can't lift your gun, and I'm not even half a man with this leg.”

Boudreau lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed at the path. “This look like I can't lift my gun?”

Tristan didn't bother answering his question. “How close are they?”

“Probably as close as they can get without running into the mines.”

“The mines?” Tristan said, “What did you do? Are they going to step on them?”

“
Non.
I don't want to kill them. I want them to turn tail and run right smack into the sheriff. I chopped down all but one log on the longest bridge and I wired a mine in full view on either end of the log.”

Tristan tried to picture what Boudreau was describing. Each mine was about fourteen inches in diameter. It might fit across the log. “Can't they jump over them or remove the wires?”

“Son, how long you known me? Did you ever see me do something halfway?” Boudreau didn't wait for Tristan to answer. “They can try to do something with the mines, but it wouldn't be a good idea. I wrapped the wire that I used to fasten 'em to the trigger. If they try to cut the wires or unwrap them they're liable to blow themselves up.” He chewed on the jerky. “And the way I've got the wire strung, they can't jump high enough from that wobbly log over the mine without catching their feet on the wire. They should know they can't touch them. And if they try to walk through the swamp—”