Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver
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feeling. For seven months he had lived and breathed it.
He couldn’t waste time resting. He had to keep moving. He had to find the key that would end the nightmare.
Would he ever see her again? Would he feel the sunshine of her laughter and hear the lilting music in her voice when she called him Daddy?
She would turn five next month. Five. And she was being raised by people who called him a murderer.
No, he thought. No! He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. Not until Chantal knew the truth.
Chapter 2
“John? Mr. Becker? Can you hear me?”
Remy floated back to awareness with a confused jerk. When had he drifted off again? How long had he been out? And who the hell was Becker?
“I’m just going outside to get some more firewood, Mr. Becker. The storm isn’t letting up, and it’s going to be a long night.”
Gentle fingers brushed across his forehead, accompanied by the scent of lilies. There was the rustle of clothing and the rasp of a zipper. Remy squinted one eye just enough to see the blond woman pull the hood of a red parka over her head and move away. A door creaked, a blast of frigid air whistled inside for an instant, then the latch clicked shut. Remy waited another few seconds, listening to be sure he was alone before he opened his eyes fully.
Whitewashed beams crossed the ceiling above him, mottled with flickering shadows. A plaid couch with wooden arms loomed above him on his right, and to his left a fire burned low behind a mesh screen.
Right. The resort, the storm. It didn’t take as long for his brain to click into gear this time. Good. That must mean his strength was returning. Remy stretched his arms, then his legs, one at a time. Aches and stiffness but no real damage, from what he could tell. He tried to flex his fingers. Pain, swift and white-hot, knifed through his joints from the thawing flesh. He took shallow, panting breaths until the pain eased, then cautiously lifted his head.
The room was large, taking up the entire front half of the cabin. Along with the couch, there were two overstuffed easy chairs, footstools, bookshelves and a table with a tilted top and a stool. It was a drafting table, Remy realized. Did it belong to the woman who smelled like flowers? Who was she? And what was she doing out here by herself?
Didn’t matter, he told himself immediately. Whoever she was, she was one person too many. He never would have come here if he’d known the place was occupied. She was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. He had to leave, he thought, pushing himself up on his elbows.
The room went gray and tilted. Remy waited until it righted itself again, then straightened his arms and levered himself into a sitting position.
A shudder shook his frame as the air hit his bare skin. He glanced down, puzzled, and noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Using the heels of his hands, he clasped the edge of the blanket that had fallen to his lap and pulled it to his shoulders. That was when he realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.
“What the—” Wincing at the rawness of his throat, he swallowed carefully. He spotted his shirt draped over a wooden rack near the fireplace, along with his jeans. Another shudder rattled through him, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep his teeth from clacking.
Damn, he was cold, so cold. But he had to get dressed. He had to leave. He hung on to that thought as he bent his knees and tried to stand up.
The floor was hardwood, he learned. It rushed upward and slammed into the side of his face.
A marmalade cat padded daintily into his field of vision. “Mrrowww?”
Remy glared at the cat as he regathered his strength, then rolled to his back and gingerly assessed the additional damage. Everything throbbed now, and he tasted blood. He mouthed a string of silent curses as he wiped the blood from his lip. Taking care to move more slowly, he sat up again.
The cat sat back on its haunches and curled its tail around its feet. Its ears pricked forward as it studied him.
Remy ignored the animal’s scrutiny and focused on the clothes on the wooden rack. They were wet. That must be why the woman had stripped them off him. He shuddered again as he realized how completely vulnerable he had been while he had been unconscious. He hadn’t even been aware that a strange woman had taken off his clothes and wrapped him in blankets.
He should be grateful. Whoever she was, she had undoubtedly saved his life.
But she could just as easily have ended it.
He had to leave. He couldn’t count on the charity of a stranger. He knew better than to trust anyone. During the past year, people he had believed to be his friends had turned their backs on him.
He hooked his elbow over the arm of the couch and tried once more to get to his feet. This time, he was able to lurch as far as the fireplace before his legs gave out. The blanket he’d draped around his shoulders tangled around his ankles and he crashed into the rack with his clothes. The thin wooden slats snapped, collapsing under his weight into a tangle of splinters and soggy denim.
Remy took a precious minute to catch his breath, then got to his hands and knees. Lifting his head, he looked at the snow that still swirled outside the window.
He couldn’t make it across the room; there was no way in hell he could make it across another ten miles of countryside in wet clothes. That would be suicide.
But he was risking far worse if he remained here. That blond woman who smelled like lilies had helped him, but the help would end when she discovered who he was. She would call the authorities. He couldn’t let her do that.
Frantically he surveyed the room once more. There on a low table under the window was a telephone. It was an old, black rotary dial set. He had to disable it.
He shook his feet clear of the blanket. Bracing his back against the wall, hanging on to the stones at the edge of the fireplace, he managed to get himself upright.
There was the stamp of feet outside the cabin. Seconds later the door swung open on a blast of cold air.
Remy pushed off from the wall and staggered toward the phone.
“What… Oh, my God! Mr. Becker!”
At the woman’s voice, Remy tried to move faster. If he could grab the wire and rip it from the connection—
“John, wait,” she cried. She dropped an armload of firewood onto the floor. Tossing aside her mittens as she ran, she reached his side before he made it to the phone. “Here,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist. “Let me help you.”
Only two more steps and he would be there, Remy thought. But before he could lift his foot again, his knees gave out.
“Oomph,” the woman grunted. She swayed, propping her shoulder under his arm to hold him upright. Stumbling, she steered him toward the couch.
Remy didn’t have the strength to fight her. He bit back a moan as he fell backward onto the plaid cushions.
The woman landed on top of him, her face pressed into his chest. She pushed off quickly and got back to her feet, then retrieved the blankets he had scattered and covered him up once more. “Don’t move, John,” she said. “Please. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Who…” He swallowed hard and tried again. “Who?”
“My name is Dana,” she said, tucking a quilt around his legs. She took off her coat and paused to look at him. “Dana Whittington.”
She had misunderstood his question, Remy thought. He had been trying to ask who John Becker was.
“You’re in my cabin,” she continued. “At Half Moon Bay. I found you outside.” She brushed his forehead with her fingertips. “How are you feeling?”
The last time she had touched him, her fingers had burned. They didn’t anymore. They were gentle, and