“You can’t be sure of that.”
Flustered and weary, she stared at him. “Can you be certain those three weren’t the target?”
No, he thought with a silent curse. He couldn’t be sure of anything right now. But as soon as he got Blossom and himself out of imminent danger, he was going to find out.
“I’m not certain of anything, Ms. Woodward.”
Once again she crossed her legs and folded her arms against her breasts. The toe of her high heel swished up and down with agitation. “So we’re back to Ms. Woodward now instead of Blossom. What’s the matter? Afraid if you get too personal I’ll try to kiss you again?”
He’d never encountered such impertinence or bravado from a woman. Especially one as young as Blossom Woodward. If the situation hadn’t been so risky, he’d have the pleasure of taking her down a notch or two. But for now, he had to make sure she didn’t get to him—in any way.
“You can try, but that’s as far as you’ll get.”
Stung by his retort, Blossom clamped her mouth shut and stared out the passenger window.
She’d die before she touched the man again, she silently swore. He could choke her with his own hands or toss her back to those idiot gunmen. Either way, he would never be the recipient of her kisses again!
Nearly twenty minutes later, the pickup came to a halt in a small clearing. Blossom whipped off her seat belt and peered through the windshield. They were parked on a rough incline with the nose of the truck a great deal higher than the rear. In front of them was some sort of structure shrouded by huge shade trees.
“What is this place?” she asked. The words were the first she’d spoken since her silent vow to hate the man forever.
“A cabin that belongs to a friend of mine. Where we can stay. Hopefully, where we won’t be used for target practice.”
He opened the door and slid to the ground. When he came around and opened the passenger door, Blossom remained rooted to the seat.
“What’s the matter?” he drawled. “Your legs won’t work?”
Blossom wasn’t sure if anything about her worked anymore. Especially the common sense she’d always prided herself in having. But the last impression she wanted this man to have of her was that she was a weak, helpless female.
“My legs are fine. But I’m not at all certain I want to go into that—house—with you,” she told him frankly.
He shrugged, then lifted the baseball cap from his head and ran a hand over his thick hair. “Suit yourself. As for me, I’d rather eat and lie down on a regular bed than stay out here in the dark.”
Not waiting for her reply, he turned and left her on the truck seat. Blossom watched his dark figure walk onto the shallow porch of the cabin, then disappear through a door. Moments later the dim glow of a light appeared in a single window on the front of the structure.
Apparently the man actually intended to spend the night here, she concluded. And since they were so far back in the boondocks that a bloodhound couldn’t find them, he wasn’t the least bit concerned about her taking flight.
Damn the man, if he hadn’t thrown her cell phone away, she could have used it now. But that was mostly her own fault. She should have sat tight and waited for a better opportunity to attempt to dial 911. Instead, she’d panicked and tried to carry out the plan right in front of him. Stupid, Blossom. Real stupid!
With a weary sigh, she flopped over sideways on the seat and closed her eyes. She could sleep here in the truck seat if she had to, she thought. In a couple of hours, the night air would begin to cool. With the windows rolled down she wouldn’t melt in her own sweat. But right behind that encouraging thought came the realization that the mosquitoes would make a feast of her. Just the thought had her rubbing her legs and arms in anticipation of the itchy pain.
Pushing herself upright, she gnawed fretfully at her bottom lip while staring at the cabin. Was there water and a bathroom inside? she wondered. Food and a place to lie down? If there was and he was enjoying those luxuries without her, she’d make him suffer.
Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she grabbed her purse and climbed out of the truck. Carefully choosing her steps over the rough ground, she stopped now and then to glance around her. There were no lights connected with other human inhabitants, no sounds except for a choir of frogs and katydids and the occasional call of a whippoorwill. She’d never been in such an isolated place in her life.
When Blossom finally gathered the nerve to open the door and step inside the cabin, Larkin was standing with his back to her at a crude counter made of wooden crates. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her presence with words or even throw a glance her way, and Blossom realized that he’d been expecting her, as though he’d known what she would do long before she knew herself. The idea was unsettling. Even more so than being stranded here alone with the man.
“There’s a bathroom on the back porch to the right,” he said. “It’s supplied with gravity-flow water. I’m sure you’ll want to use it before we eat.”
Relieved by this bit of good news, Blossom scurried across the room and out a narrow screen door. As he’d stated, there was a tiny bathroom built on one end of the porch, complete with sink, shower closet, towels, washcloths and bar soap with the tangy scent of pine.
After using the basic facilities, she washed her face and hands, then brushed her hair and secured it into a ponytail with a rubber band she found in the bottom of her purse. Blossom didn’t bother fishing out her compact. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she looked awful, but in this bizarre situation, comfort was more important than her appearance.
Back inside the cabin, she found Larkin scraping the contents of a large can into a black iron skillet. She watched as he placed it on a narrow cookstove with four gas burners, then touched a lighted match to the burner beneath the skillet.
“What is that?” she asked, inclining her head toward the heating food. “It looks like someone has already eaten it.”
“Hash. It might not be gourmet food, but it will keep you from going hungry.”
He stirred the blob with a wooden spoon, and as Blossom continued to watch him, she got the impression that he knew his way around a kitchen, even one as rustic as this.
The idea quickly spawned more questions in her mind, and she realized for the first time since the two of them had spun away from the clinic that she’d been so busy worrying about him having harmful intentions toward her that she hadn’t stopped to consider his personal identity.
“You seem pretty good at handling that spoon. Do you know how to cook things from scratch instead of emptying a can?”
“When it’s necessary.”
“Is that often?”
He turned away from the stove and began to fill a graniteware coffeepot with water. “Whenever I want to eat something other than fast or frozen food.”
“So—you don’t have a wife who cooks for you.”
“No wife. And even if I did have one, that doesn’t necessarily mean she’d want to cook for me.” He glanced at her as he spooned coffee grounds straight into the water. “Are you good in the