A Night Without End. Susan Kearney
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gaping wound and fresh blood on Jackson’s chest indicated that the old prospector had been stabbed just minutes ago. Sean’s vision clouded with a red rage. Spinning on his heel, he slammed his fist into the wall, welcoming the pain in his knuckles, wishing it took his mind off the agony of his loss.
Sean barely glanced at the second body. That Jackson had killed his attacker didn’t satisfy him.
Jackson was the only father Sean had ever known. Unrelated by blood yet bonded by their love of this wild land, the willful boy and the crotchety old prospector had made a family. And now he was gone.
Murdered.
Murdered in the mine he loved.
Jackson’s open eyes were frozen in surprise, horror and pain. The look of a man betrayed.
Sean ached to take out his grief and frustration with his fists. Instead, he ruthlessly quashed his anger, sank onto the floor and cradled his adoptive father’s head on his lap. Rocking, Sean smoothed back Jackson’s hair, gently closed his eyes.
He couldn’t be dead.
But Sean couldn’t deny the truth of the cooling body in his arms.
“I’m sorry, old man. I should have been here sooner. I should have been here when you needed me most.” His eyes filled with tears. He could say no more. Just sat in the cold, rocking Jackson, feeling his warmth slip away and his body grow cold.
Finally, Sean stood on legs grown numb and floated a blanket over the body. Authorities needed to be notified. He pushed his choking grief deep inside and reached for the walkie-talkie clipped onto his belt.
He pressed the talk button, cleared his throat to make the words come out. “Sean to base.”
“Marvin here,” answered the radio operator.
“I’m at the Dog Mush. Jackson’s dead.”
“Come again. Did you say dead?”
“Murdered.” The word tasted bitter in Sean’s mouth.
“I’m sorry. Real sorry. I liked that old man.”
Jackson and Marvin had played poker every Friday night for years. Was Sean imagining the voice choked with tears coming over the radio or did they have poor reception?
“Any sign of who killed him?”
“Looks like Jackson took out the other guy before he died. Send up a couple of men with sleds for the bodies.”
“Roger that. Anything else?”
“Notify the authorities in Fairbanks.”
“Will do. Base out.”
Sean’s attention turned from Jackson to the smaller man who lay unmoving on his back in the dirt, the bloody knife still in his hand. Who was he? He faced away from Sean and a hood partially covered his face, and Sean didn’t recognize the pea-green jacket or the barely broken-in boots. Perhaps his pockets held identification.
Sean knelt beside the murderer, wishing he was still alive—so he could slam a fist into his face, close his hands around his throat and kill him again. If his thoughts were vicious and primitive, at least they were honest. He’d spent eight years in the civilized east, learning that an Italian suit and tie could hide men as vicious and deadly as grizzlies. He preferred the uncrowded mountains, the unpolluted air and the sweat equity of his rough-hewn log cabin to the greedy and callous life in the big cities.
He liked to think of these mountains as pristine and uncontaminated by humanity’s cruelties, a place where man could coexist with nature, not destroy it. Now murder had come to his own neck of the woods, staining the land with a good man’s blood.
And he could do no more than take Jackson’s murderer to the authorities. While leaving the killer’s body on the mountain for carrion to feed on held a certain appeal, Sean knew the police would need to identify the attacker. But with snow coming, it might be days before anyone in an official capacity could reach the town. Once the weather socked in the remote mountain town of Kesky, the only transportation in or out was by dogsled.
Before he changed his mind and left the body to rot, Sean snaked out his hand toward the murderer’s front pocket. What he’d assumed was a corpse snapped to a sitting position, yelled and swiped the knife at his gut.
Sean cursed and with a hunter’s reflexes jerked aside, tumbling away from the weapon. While shock and grief had dulled Sean’s senses, Jackson’s murderer must have been gathering strength and waiting for the opportunity to attack. Sean had broken up enough fights among the miners to know this man was skilled in how to wield a knife or he would stab the weapon—not slice it. Off balance, Sean took a moment longer than he would have liked to recover and scramble upright.
Prepared and agile but unsteady on his feet, his opponent stood and shifted the knife to his right hand. In the dim light, the bloody weapon appeared almost black. The sneaky little bastard was threatening him with the same weapon he had used to murder Jackson.
Relishing his jacked-up senses, Sean felt his adrenaline pump. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, grasping for the attacker’s wrist, grappling for control of the weapon. One quick twist of the captured wrist and the murderer dropped the knife to the dirt and would have spun away if not for Sean’s tight grip.
With his free hand, the man reached into the pea-green jacket, no doubt intent on retrieving another weapon. Like hell would Sean allow that sneaky maneuver. He twisted the surprisingly delicate wrist harder, drawing a grunt of distress.
And received a sharp kick to his shin, an elbow jammed into the ribs. Sean ignored the biting pain. With grim determination, he hung on, using his superior strength and weight to wrestle the other man to the ground.
Together, they toppled, Sean landing on top of a wiry body, straining to escape. He estimated his opponent at five foot nine to five foot ten, no match for his conditioned six foot four. Still the shorter man struggled.
The jacket’s hood fell back and sunny-gold hair spilled across the dirt. What the hell? His hot blood chilled. Sean flipped his opponent over and stared into the face of a woman with eyes as fierce and wary as a cornered fox.
Jackson’s murderer was a woman?
The astonishing revelation of her gender caused him to loosen his grip. That’s all she needed to take advantage. Strong, determined and clearly capable, she rolled away and kicked his feet out from under him. He fell hard, but not without grasping a handful of golden hair, trapping her beside him.
Panting furiously, she looked mad enough to spit bullets, confused enough to make a foolish mistake. She inched her hand inside her jacket.
“Don’t even think it.” He clamped his free hand over her wrist, imprisoning her.
She narrowed eyes that surged with green anger, bewilderment and a hint of fear. Now that he held her trapped, he expected her to plead, cry or beg forgiveness.
Instead she threatened him. “Assaulting a police officer is a federal offense.”
“And what’s murder?” he countered, not buying her claim of being an officer of the law for a millisecond.
“I didn’t—”
“Lady, I walked into this cave and found you next to Jackson.” He fought down the urge to shake her until the lies from her chapped lips ceased. Although she was strong for a female, her neck looked fragile, easy for him to snap. Fighting his own grief, anger and lust for revenge, he sought to tamp down his wildly surging emotions.
“That doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“The murder weapon was in your hand.”
“Which hand?”
“The left.”
She glanced at the blood-smeared cuff of her left sleeve. “I’m right-handed.”
She sounded indignant at his accusation,