That was a bad idea. Her dad would find out she had survived eventually from his radio communication. But he didn’t want her father knowing exactly where to find them.
“Not yet.”
She lifted a brow but said nothing, keeping her thoughts to herself as they continued up the hill.
He moved farther up and over the ridge. He had left the road to climb past the wreckage and so had not seen beyond the epicenter of the blaze to the pristine pavers of the curving drive that led to the untouched gate and gatehouse beyond the flashpoint of the fire. His mouth quirked in a smile.
Meadow arrived beside him a moment later. Her face was dangerously red. He gave her the mouthpiece to the camel pack and she took a long drink. Then he led them to the gatehouse. The only standing structure had survived the blast by being well down the private road and back from the ridge. The fire had spared the gatehouse only because prevailing winds had carried the blaze in the opposite direction, westward from the epicenter of the blast.
The Rustkin gatehouse was larger than his home on the rez. Dylan knocked on the front door but received no answer.
“You said on the phone the guy would be here,” said Meadow.
“That’s what Cheney told me.” Dylan tried again, knocking louder. Then they gave up and circled the home. He broke a window in the garage and crawled inside, then disconnected the opener and hauled up the door himself. Meadow stepped inside.
“Phew,” she said. “Cool in here.” She glanced around. “No cars.”
Dylan hoped the caretaker was far away because the road that circled down the unscathed side of the mountain met the burning side at the break in the ridgeline. If the caretaker had evacuated, he would not get far.
She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted a hello. There was no reply. She turned to Dylan. “Well, we have lights and AC.”
“Generator out back. Saw it on the way in.”
“Let’s take a look around,” she said.
She was a bold one, he’d give her that—perhaps a little too daring. Dylan didn’t just charge forward. He was more of a planner.
“Maybe you should wait here.”
“Hell with that.”
Meadow pivoted and led the way down the hall and past the office facing the drive, through the small living space and into the kitchen in the back.
There she stuck her entire head under the sink faucet and soaked her hair making the blue and purple turn a darker shade. Then she drank until he thought her stomach might rupture.
When she drew back, she whipped her head up so that the ends sent a spray of water to the ceiling.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Alive, thanks to you. But I’m dizzy...and what a headache.”
“Heat exhaustion.” Or heat stroke, he thought.
“Never had it this bad.” She stepped aside and Dylan drank. Then he soaked his head, letting the lukewarm water wash away the sweat and sand from his short hair. The water was heaven.
“I’m going to find a bathroom. I need a shower.”
“I’ll check the generator.”
She cast him a glance over one shoulder and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Had she been inviting him along? That idea should have sent him in the opposite direction because he did not want to listen to the water running while he imagined Meadow washing her tempting body clean. Instead, he watched her walk away.
She strode down the hall that presumably led to the bedroom and bath. On the way she dropped the shirt he had lent her, giving him an unforgettable view of her back broken only by the lace bra. He’d kept her from being burned. Every inch of her was perfect, if dirty. Her tan covered her skin all the way to her bottom, which seemed very white by comparison above the scrap of pink lace. She cast a final glance over her shoulder and gave him a wink.
“You’re up next.” She reached behind her back and unfastened the bra as she turned, heedless of the glimpse she gave him of her body in profile. She was smaller up top than he had imagined, small and round and perfect. Thanks to him.
Dylan found the generator ran on propane and had switched on automatically when the power quit. How long it would last was just a guess, but he thought this would be the place to bed down tonight. Still, he would be careful about what electricity they used. He did a perimeter check familiarizing himself with his surroundings, then returned to the house and checked the rooms. The kitchen had a small table and chairs, and both the living room and the single bedroom were furnished. Someone had been living here, judging from the books, laptop and half-full coffeepot. The mail on the counter was addressed to David Kaneda. Dylan used his camera to snap a shot and sent it to Jack Bear Den with the message that they had reached the caretaker’s house, which was empty. Jack’s replay was the letter K.
Okay.
He busied himself filling his camel pack and then checking the landline, which was dead. The security system was not yet functioning, though the metal gate across the drive was locked. Unfortunately, the wall was not finished and a temporary road had been graded beyond the gate for construction vehicles to complete one of the most expensive homes in Arizona—and the only one that broke the ridge. Was that why they had blown it up?
They’d achieved a two-for-one, endangering the affluent community in the valley, as well.
He searched the cupboards and refrigerator. The refrigerator had bottled water, some of those sixty-four-ounce soda-fountain drinks and leftovers from lunches, some fruit, two half sandwiches—one meatball and one roast beef that smelled edible. On the counter he found chips.
Dylan arranged some of the food on the kitchen table and listened but did not hear the water running.
“You done?” he called.
“I didn’t start yet.”
“Why?”
“No soap.”
Meadow called from the shower. “Is there soap out there?”
He searched and came up with a bottle of liquid hand soap and was halfway down the hall when he paused as all kinds of erotic images flooded him.
Dylan debated his options. Sex meant nothing to her. He patted his front pocket where his wallet held two condoms. He had principles, but he was still a man.
“Dylan?”
“I found some.”
He stepped into the steaming air of the bathroom. The glass door gave him a pretty fair image of what she looked like naked and wet. He growled and lifted the soap over the top of the glass barrier.
“There are no towels,” she said, accepting the soap and then tipping her head back to let the spray of water cascade over her crown.
“They’re in the linen closet in the hall.”
She rolled back the shower door. He didn’t look away.
“So, do we have a bed?” she asked. She was so casual about her body and sexuality. Do we have a bed?
“There’s only one.”
“That’ll do.”
Now his skin was prickling and his body responding to the possibilities she raised.
“Is that all you ever have on your mind?” he asked.
She faced him, pressing herself against the glass, giving him a view he would never forget. “Only since I met you.”
He didn’t believe it, but he found himself growing hard.
“Why don’t you step in? I’ll