Hard to Hold. Karen Foley
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trees, and near it a small cabin. Colton thought he’d never seen a place so perfectly situated in the natural beauty surrounding it.
It was a simple log structure with a porch on the front. It faced west across the small clearing to where the pine trees suddenly vanished at the edge of a steep precipice. Spread out before them was a breathtaking panoramic view of the Santa Rosa Mountains in the distance. The sun had dipped just below the horizon, and the blaze of colors that streaked the sky over the peaks stole his breath. Colton drew the truck alongside the small cabin and simply stared.
“I’ll take the keys,” Madeleine said to him, and he handed them to her almost absently.
“Christ,” he murmured, “this place is unbelievable.”
But she had already climbed out of the cab. Colton watched as she shoved the keys into the front pocket of her jeans, and the toy gun into her waistband. She took the steps to the porch two at a time.
He let his gaze travel over the cabin. It was obviously abandoned. Signs of disuse and neglect were apparent in the thick coating of leaves and pine needles that covered the porch and roof, as well as the green moss that had begun to take root on the log walls.
Slowly, he got out of the truck and followed Madeleine. She was on her knees in front of the door, brushing aside leaves and other debris as she searched beneath an ancient mat. When she didn’t find what she was looking for—the keys, Colton suspected—she stood up and began forcibly trying to open the door. When jiggling and pushing the handle didn’t work, she applied her shoulder, grunting each time she threw her weight against the solid planking. Still, the door didn’t budge.
She was going to hurt herself if she kept it up. Colton didn’t know who the cabin belonged to, or why it was so important to her that she gain access, but he suspected it was more than just a place to hide out.
“Here,” he said, and nudged her to one side. He studied the door for a moment and then, standing back, drew his leg up and kicked with the heel of his booted foot, just to the side of the handle. The door exploded inward, shearing the interior dead bolt from the frame.
Colton looked at Madeleine, who was staring at the scene with an expression of awe. She turned to him.
“That was quite...impressive. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he murmured. “Just call me Clyde. If I’m not mistaken, this makes me an accomplice.”
“Nonsense. I’ll tell anyone who asks that I forced you to do it.”
Without waiting for his response, she stepped into the cabin. Colton followed, brushing aside cobwebs that had accumulated across the doorway.
“So, on top of aggravated kidnapping, we now add breaking and entering to your growing list of crimes,” he said sardonically, watching as she took a dusty kerosene lantern down from a hook inside the door.
She set it on a nearby table, ignoring him as she carefully adjusted the wick and then lit it with a long match that she drew from a tin box next to the lantern. The bright flame slowly grew into a soft, warm glow, chasing away the shadows that surrounded them and casting golden light across her features.
“You can’t be accused of breaking and entering when you own the house,” she finally said, looking up at him.
Colton couldn’t hide his surprise. “This is your place?”
“Yeah. At least since my grandpa died. Here, hold this.” She handed him the lantern, and he followed her into the adjoining kitchen. It was small and dark with knotty pine cupboards and an ancient cookstove in one corner. Colton watched as she yanked open a drawer and began rummaging through an assortment of silverware. He arched a brow when she drew forth a stout knife.
To his surprise, she dropped to her knees beside the stove, brushed aside the accumulated dust and began tracing the wide pine floorboards with her fingers. Then she slid the knife between two of the boards and attempted to pry one up. When it refused to budge, she cursed and flung the knife into a corner.
She scrambled to her feet, and as she dug through the silverware drawer once more, Colton slipped out of the room. Keeping an eye on the entrance to the cabin, he retrieved a crowbar from the back of the trunk. He would have liked to retrieve his police radio and contact his boss. But he didn’t want to risk her seeing him, or suspect he was anything more than a cooperative hostage.
Yet.
When he reentered the kitchen, she was on her knees again, this time working at the floorboards with some kind of barbecue skewer. It was no more effective than the knife had been.
“Here, let me try.” He crouched beside her.
She had taken her baseball cap off in the truck. Her hair had come partially free of her ponytail and hung in disarray around her flushed face. Her expression of dismay as she took in the crowbar was almost comical. Horror and then relief flitted across her face, and Colton knew she was thinking he could easily have overpowered her.
Before she could protest, he inserted the end of the crowbar between the planks and wrenched upward. Setting the bar aside, he used his hands to wrest the boards up, pulling them free and tossing them aside. He had a glimpse of a shallow storage area beneath the floor.
With a glad cry, Madeleine reached into the space and withdrew what looked to be an ancient holiday cookie tin. It was covered in dust and mottled with rust. As Colton watched, she pried the top off and spilled the contents onto the kitchen floor. There was a thick wad of folded money among the various items, and with a soft gasp she snatched it up and carried it over to the kitchen table to count it.
Crouching on the balls of his feet, Colton traced a finger through the remaining items. There were several photos, some yellowed and cracked with age, and others that were more recent. He picked one up and tilted it toward the lantern. It was a picture of a girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, sitting on the front steps of the cabin. She had her arm slung around the shoulders of a little boy. They were both skinny, with sun-browned skin and fair hair. He glanced over at Madeleine. It was her, taken maybe fifteen years earlier. Based on the similarity between them, he guessed the little boy was her brother.
There was a photo of an older Madeleine and a frail old man with a grizzled beard. Colton estimated it had been taken no more than a couple years ago. In it she wore a simple sundress, and he raised an eyebrow at the length of leg exposed by the style. He surreptitiously pocketed the photos.
He sorted through the remaining items—a slender length of chain with a small key attached to it, several coins, a handful of poker chips, some old lottery tickets, and what looked to be the deed to the cabin and surrounding land. Colton picked up the key and turned it over in his hand before slipping it into his pocket with the pilfered photos.
He glanced up as Madeleine started laughing. The money was spread out on the table in front of her and Colton could see it was mostly small denomination bills. Her laughter grew, became slightly hysterical. Just when he thought he was going to have to intervene, she buried her face in her hands and the laughter turned to deep, racking sobs.
Colton guessed there wasn’t as much money hidden away beneath the floorboards as she had hoped, and wondered again what the nature of her problem was. He had initially suspected drugs, though he admitted to himself she didn’t seem the type. In fact, she radiated good health. Even with the oversize shirt and no cosmetics, she was more than just attractive. Her hair was a silken mass of dark gold with wheaten streaks, and for one brief instant he wondered what it would feel like under his hands. He had seen the evidence of her slender curves in the photo. There wasn’t anything about her that wasn’t completely feminine. Colton thought she might be breathtaking if she would only smile.
Pushing himself to his feet, he stood uncertainly for a moment. The racking sobs subsided, but she still cried quietly into her hands. The hysterical laughter and deep sobs he could handle. Her soft weeping nearly undid him.
He took one step toward her, then spun away, raking a hand over his hair. He swung back, staring at her bent head and trembling shoulders. The urge