missed the femoral artery.”
When he was able to focus, he found her back to him as she poured herself a cup of coffee. All he could tell was that she wasn’t nearly as tall as he remembered but was nevertheless a tall woman, was slender in a thin, ribbed sweater and close-fitting jeans, and had long, very pale hair almost silver in color.
Tearing his gaze from her, he looked around to find himself in what appeared to be the main room of a log cabin that was less rustic than one might expect out here in these woods. He could see a hallway, so assumed a bathroom and probably a bedroom. A couple of oil lamps as well as battery-powered lights scattered around testified to the absence of electricity. This main room was on the small side and was divided by a long, narrow table into roughly two halves: cooking/dining and a comfortable living room.
Luther was on the couch. A comfortable couch.
The place was spare, but rather cheery, with a brisk fire in the big stone fireplace and thick, colorful rugs scattered on the wide-planked wood floor. Plain linen curtains covered a couple of small windows. A hunting trophy, the head of a ten-point buck, was mounted above the fireplace, but it was the only sign this might be a hunter’s cabin. On other walls, innocuous prints of peaceful mountain landscapes provided the decor.
Beyond the table where his rescuer stood, he could see a compact kitchenette that looked clean and well organized. Something that smelled good enough to make his mouth water bubbled in a pot on a gas stove. Stew, maybe, or soup. Whatever it was, his stomach growled a longing.
Remembering the coffee cup in his hand, he lifted it and took a cautious sip. As he savored the strong taste he preferred, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head.
A dog lay on a thick rug near the door, watching him fixedly.
A very big black-and-tan dog, heavily muscled.
A Rottweiler.
“His name is Cesar,” she said. “You should thank him. From here, it’s an almost continuous climb to Jacoby’s cabin. I never could have gotten you back down here without him. He’s trained to pull a litter.”
Luther thought the dog could probably have pulled a semi, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he looked at the woman, now facing him.
There was something curiously . . . unreal . . . about her. The pale hair that wasn’t platinum blond or gray or white but truly silver, almost metallic. The heart-shaped face with delicate features, not beautiful but somehow infinitely memorable. Dark, dark eyes. Hypnotic, those eyes.
He guessed she was in her early thirties, less because the few lines in her face hinted at maturity than because there was a curious stillness and serenity about her that could only have come with a certain amount of years and experience.
“I snooped while you were out,” she said, her voice calm and as unremarkable as her face was remarkable. “Checked your ID, assuming it’s real.”
“It is.”
“Okay, Luther Brinkman, your wallet and gun are in the drawer of that end table beside the couch. Your jeans are soaking in the washtub; I managed to get them off without doing any more damage than the bullet had already done, but they were blood-soaked all the way down to the hem.”
Luther, suddenly very conscious of being in a T-shirt and shorts, tried not to think about her stripping his unconscious form. She had, after all, taken care of his wound—undoubtedly her only concern.
“With this chilly weather and without a dryer, those jeans won’t be wearable anytime soon; I usually go to the Laundromat in town no more than once a week, and I went a couple of days ago. Luckily for you there’s a trunk packed with an assortment of clothing kept here, and I think there are some things that’ll fit you well enough.
“My name is Callie Davis. My family built this place about thirty years ago; a lot of them liked to hunt. I don’t like to hunt, even though I can handle
When he was able to focus, he found her back to him as she poured herself a cup of coffee. All he could tell was that she wasn’t nearly as tall as he remembered but was nevertheless a tall woman, was slender in a thin, ribbed sweater and close-fitting jeans, and had long, very pale hair almost silver in color.
Tearing his gaze from her, he looked around to find himself in what appeared to be the main room of a log cabin that was less rustic than one might expect out here in these woods. He could see a hallway, so assumed a bathroom and probably a bedroom. A couple of oil lamps as well as battery-powered lights scattered around testified to the absence of electricity. This main room was on the small side and was divided by a long, narrow table into roughly two halves: cooking/dining and a comfortable living room.
Luther was on the couch. A comfortable couch.
The place was spare, but rather cheery, with a brisk fire in the big stone fireplace and thick, colorful rugs scattered on the wide-planked wood floor. Plain linen curtains covered a couple of small windows. A hunting trophy, the head of a ten-point buck, was mounted above the fireplace, but it was the only sign this might be a hunter’s cabin. On other walls, innocuous prints of peaceful mountain landscapes provided the decor.
Beyond the table where his rescuer stood, he could see a compact kitchenette that looked clean and well organized. Something that smelled good enough to make his mouth water bubbled in a pot on a gas stove. Stew, maybe, or soup. Whatever it was, his stomach growled a longing.
Remembering the coffee cup in his hand, he lifted it and took a cautious sip. As he savored the strong taste he preferred, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head.
A dog lay on a thick rug near the door, watching him fixedly.
A very big black-and-tan dog, heavily muscled.
A Rottweiler.
“His name is Cesar,” she said. “You should thank him. From here, it’s an almost continuous climb to Jacoby’s cabin. I never could have gotten you back down here without him. He’s trained to pull a litter.”
Luther thought the dog could probably have pulled a semi, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he looked at the woman, now facing him.
There was something curiously . . . unreal . . . about her. The pale hair that wasn’t platinum blond or gray or white but truly silver, almost metallic. The heart-shaped face with delicate features, not beautiful but somehow infinitely memorable. Dark, dark eyes. Hypnotic, those eyes.
He guessed she was in her early thirties, less because the few lines in her face hinted at maturity than because there was a curious stillness and serenity about her that could only have come with a certain amount of years and experience.
“I snooped while you were out,” she said, her voice calm and as unremarkable as her face was remarkable. “Checked your ID, assuming it’s real.”
“It is.”
“Okay, Luther Brinkman, your wallet and gun are in the drawer of that end table beside the couch. Your jeans are soaking in the washtub; I managed to get them off without doing any more damage than the bullet had already done, but they were blood-soaked all the way down to the hem.”
Luther, suddenly very conscious of being in a T-shirt and shorts, tried not to think about her stripping his unconscious form. She had, after all, taken care of his wound—undoubtedly her only concern.
“With this chilly weather and without a dryer, those jeans won’t be wearable anytime soon; I usually go to the Laundromat in town no more than once a week, and I went a couple of days ago. Luckily for you there’s a trunk packed with an assortment of clothing kept here, and I think there are some things that’ll fit you well enough.
“My name is Callie Davis. My family built this place about thirty years ago; a lot of them liked to hunt. I don’t like to hunt, even though I can handle
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