The answer was so obvious it was like a shout in a quiet room. None. No proof at all. Zero.
Her head began throbbing anew as she tried to recall every gesture, every nuance, every word that he’d said since the moment she opened her eyes after the crash. Nothing jumped out except the kiss. That had seemed spontaneous and real, but right that moment she was no judge of character, let alone motives.
But wait, how many times had he asked her how she felt, if she was bleeding, if she was in pain. Surely that meant concern on his part.
But why?
Was she being paranoid or prudent?
Either way, she vowed to also be cautious.
* * *
THOUGH THERE WAS a definite chill in the air, Adam decided against building a fire. He retied the tarp over the back of the Jeep to guard against curious night critters and early morning dew, stowed the ice chest inside the tent and shouldered the rifle. As he stood in the dark waiting for Chelsea, he grew increasingly concerned. Had she gotten lost or fainted, or was it something even worse? Had she discovered blood, was she losing their baby?
Or had someone found her, taken her, planning to use her to get to him once again...?
“Chelsea?” he called in a soft voice that he hoped would carry.
A light momentarily blinded him and he raised the rifle.
“It’s just me,” Chelsea said.
He lowered the firearm immediately. “Sorry. Everything okay?”
“Fine.” Her voice sounded terse and tense. Well, whose wouldn’t?
Once his vision returned, he crossed the distance between them and put an arm around her shoulder. “You’re trembling,” he said. “Why don’t you crawl into the tent and get warm.” He handed her a small electric freestanding lantern, hoping that as well as a little reassuring light, it would also emit a tiny bit of heat to ward off the chill.
“Sure you aren’t hungry?” he asked as he followed her inside and opened the ice chest.
“Positive.”
He downed a bottle of water and a handful of nuts, then opened the flap. Picking up the revolver he’d rested beside the ice chest, he handed it to her. “Do you remember how to use this?”
“Yes,” she said, “although I have no idea why.”
“I taught you,” he told her.
“So we know each other,” she said. “Explain that to me. Tell me who I am and who you are to me.”
“I will, I promise, as soon as I get back from answering nature’s call. Meanwhile, keep the gun with you. When you hear someone coming, I’d appreciate you checking first to make sure who it is. If it isn’t me, go ahead and shoot.”
“I will,” she said, her voice shaky.
Using his flashlight until he saw the trail he wanted, he moved off into the dark carrying the rifle. The forest was still and quiet and, to his relief, the dim light from inside the tent seemed to disappear behind the dense undergrowth at a surprisingly short distance. He couldn’t stay up guarding the site all night—his eyes already felt grainy and fatigue had started to gnaw on the fragile edge of usefulness. At some point he was going to have to sleep.
The overriding question on his mind now was how much to tell Chelsea. How much could she bear to know, and when did the out-and-out truth of what they’d meant to each other become a burden she would have to shoulder alone once they separated? Every word of the current truth had marinated in a hot tub of lies—he wasn’t even sure where to begin.
Plus, how would she handle the fact she was pregnant while running for her life? Wouldn’t the best thing to do be to find her a safe spot where she could heal and he could go on alone?
He thought back to that moment on the ridge—he was positive the men at the cabin had caught a glimpse of him, but there was no way they could know Chelsea had escaped the helicopter before it blew. For that matter, there had been no sign of emergency or rescue response. That meadow was the closest staging area—if someone had arrived to search for the helicopter, there would have been visible evidence of it. That meant as far as everyone currently knew, Chelsea had disappeared or died in the chopper.
He had to make that work for her and yet in his gut, he knew she was safest if she was with him.
Oh, really, his subconscious said in a snarky voice. Is it safer for her to be with you, a hunted man, or is it just possible you can’t bear the thought of losing her again now that you’ve found her? Maybe the idea she’ll regain memories that include the fact you allowed her to grieve for you, that you left her to fend alone, maybe that’s what’s really bothering you.
But his next thoughts spoke just as clearly. You left her once and they used her. They could easily have killed her. She’s damned with or without you.
He called out as he approached the camp to announce himself before veering to dig maps out of the Jeep’s glove box. His first priority had to be to get them out of this forest and somewhere reasonably safe. Chelsea moved aside as he crawled into the tent. He set the rifle in front of the flap and turned in the tight space to sit down. She’d unrolled a couple of sleeping bags and had wrapped one around herself.
“Okay,” she said. “For starters—“
“Just a second,” he said as he grabbed the wilderness map. “Let me check something out.” He unfolded the map and did his best to locate their position. It appeared to him that the road they’d been on had emptied into the town of Black Boulder several miles before. What if they doubled back? If he were Holton’s men, he would have staked out that town yesterday afternoon and perhaps moved on to others down the line by now. Scanning the map more closely, he decided that would be their best bet. The added bonus was the place appeared big enough to support a few amenities and services. It had begun to prey on his mind that he’d lost phone connection with Whip. The old guy might have been an Arizona cop for years but he was also a consummate worrier.
Adam looked over more of the map, half plotting a route east, when he recognized the town of Spur located less than twenty miles from Black Boulder right over the state line in Nevada. With a twinge of hope, he wondered if another of his dad’s longtime friends still lived there. Doc Fisher could be a lot of help if he’d maintained his Nevada address.
“Are you stalling?” Chelsea asked.
He looked up from the map to find her knees bent, arms wrapped around her legs, eyes piercing. In a few weeks, a pregnant belly would prevent that position.
“A little bit.”
“Start by telling me who I am.”
He folded the map and set it aside. Her dark hair glimmered in the dim light as she peered at him. Who was she? The love of his life; the mother of his baby; the woman he would take a bullet for. That’s who she was, at least to him.
He started with the basics. “Your name is Chelsea Ann Pierce and you’re twenty-six years old. You live in San Francisco, where you run a food truck that mostly caters to business clients. You’re a fantastic chef, which makes sense since you graduated from culinary school just a couple of years ago. Your parents’ names are Troy and Helen. They live north of the city in a tiny coastal town called Bodega Bay, where they run a seaside tavern. You have three sisters and two brothers. Everyone lives in Northern California except your oldest sibling, Bill, and he lives in Nevada on a few dozen acres of sand with his wife, Jan, and enough guns to overtake a third-world nation.”
“Who are you and how did we meet?”
“My name is Adam Parish. I work construction.” That had been true when he met her and since he was still on the fence about