Holding Off for a Hero Page 12

  “Yeah, it was. Care for some refreshment? Soda, water, coffee, beer?”

  “Just water, thanks. I’ll get it.”

  Brushing damp curls from her forehead, she headed for the sink.

  “Emma, that deserted logging camp you mentioned… Any more ideas about where it might be located?” He tried to sound casual.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” She swung back to face him, a glass of water in her hand. “I recall we turned off the trail to these cabins about midway. There was an overgrown road to the right, when you’re coming from this direction, with two massive white pines on either side. Actually, it was right about the spot where I had that flat tire—and my encounter with the Eastern Panther.”

  “Interesting. I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

  “Well, I hope you find that cat, and if it’s a she and there’s babies, that you’ll be able to protect them.”

  “I hope so. Now I’d better get you back to your cabin. This is a school night, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  ****

  The following morning Frasier backed his ATV out of the storage shed and put on his helmet. It was a gray, overcast morning, the grass white and crisp with frost from a sharp overnight drop in temperature. Snow couldn’t be far off, he reckoned as he climbed aboard and turned the key.

  The powerful engine leaped into life. Not for the first time he recognized his good fortune in having state-of-the-art equipment. If he came upon his quarry in a hostile mood, it wouldn’t do to have a shoddy vehicle as his only means of escape.

  Heading down the trail in search of two tall white pines with an old logging trail between them, he heard Scout bark. Confined in the cabin, the dog resented being left behind on guard duty. Tomorrow, he vowed, he’d take him along, but this morning he’d packed a lunch in preparation of being gone all day, if necessary, in his attempt to locate that deserted lumber camp Emma had talked about in her wild tale of murder and ghosts.

  He must be getting desperate. There was little chance the old place was still standing, never mind serving as a hideout. But if it had been made of logs… They had a long life span…

  An hour later, after cruising up and down the midsection of the trail and finding nothing that even remotely resembled two ancient white pines with a road running between them, Frasier stopped his vehicle, pulled off his helmet, and took a thermos of coffee from his saddlebag. He’d never find that road with only Emma’s faulty memory and directions to guide him. He poured out a mug of steaming dark brew.

  Leaning back against his machine, he stared up at the lofty white pine beside which he’d stopped. One with no partner. No partner now, but maybe… The idea struck him like a flash. He strode into the undergrowth a few feet to the left of the tree.

  “Yes!”

  Hidden beneath undergrowth was the stump of another big pine. Someone had harvested it just inches above the ground.

  He jogged back to his bike, stowed his thermos, started the engine, and headed into the bush between the two trees. As his wheels fell into a concealed rut, he muttered “Yes!” again. Definitely on the right track!

  His exuberance didn’t last. The trail soon became a tangle of undergrowth and thickets of burgeoning willows and alders. Annoyed, he abandoned the bike. Flinging his packsack over his shoulder, he started off on foot.

  When he paused to get his bearings, he found himself surrounded in an eerie silence. Not the least breeze stirred the branches. Not a single bird sang. About a half mile farther on, he stopped again to listen. A slight rustle in the dead leaves behind him made him whirl, his hand going to the gun concealed in a shoulder holster.

  “Partridge,” he breathed as the little brown hen-like bird scuttled across the faint trail.

  Get a grip. Emma’s tale of mutilated ghosts must be working on my imagination. Wouldn’t the Professor love to hear that! He hefted his pack and started off again. When he heard another scuffling behind him, he didn’t bother to turn around.

  An explosion rent the peace of the forest. Something slammed into his side. Frasier yelped.

  And then nothing. For a long time, nothing.

  Chapter Five

  Frasier came back to consciousness in a murky mix of pain and confusion. His mouth felt as if he’d eaten sawdust. His side burned. Lying face down in the undergrowth, he vaguely remembered hearing a rustling in the dried leaves behind him before the blast.

  He grunted when he eased his right hand from beneath him. His fingers came out red and wet. Sweet Jesus! That explosion! I’ve been shot!

  Struggling against pain and weakness, he pulled himself to a sitting position to look down at his left side. It was matted with blood. Carefully he brought his right hand around to examine the wound. When his fingers found it, he yelped.

  He willed himself to breathe deep and slow, to try to ignore the searing pain and convince himself it was only a flesh wound, that it hadn’t broken any ribs or torn through any vital organs. All he had to do was stop the bleeding and make his way back to his vehicle.

  Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the branches of a young spruce and forced himself to his feet. Damn, it hurts. Blood leaked down his side in a slow, ominous trickle. He had to get something to plug up the tear before he started to walk. He looked for his packsack but couldn’t find it. Whoever had shot him must have taken it. His cell had been in it, although he seriously doubted if it would work at his present location. Someone had deliberately left him to die.

  He clamped down on his lower lip and tried to focus. Think, think. Clutching his side, he eased down onto his knees and grabbed a handful of moss. Grunting, he stuffed it inside his jacket and shirt, over the wound.

  I hope I don’t get some kind of weird infection from this. That would be just too damned ironic.

  He picked up a piece of fallen tree limb, used it to hoist himself back onto his feet, drew a deep breath, and started back in the direction he’d come, lurching and cursing as each step sent a shot of pain through his side. Am I going the right way? His wound disoriented him, made him doubt his ability to find his way to safety. He had no method of checking his location. His compass had been in his backpack.

  Pausing to catch his breath, he leaned against a white birch. Emma. She emerged from the fog in his head. He’d planned to do something about their relationship as soon as his project was completed, as soon as the suspicion around her had been cleared up—she couldn’t be involved with kids and drugs—but if he bled to death now, he’d miss out on something that could have been the best thing that ever happened to him. With renewed determination, he pushed away from the tree, grasped his improvised cane, and stumbled forward.

  When darkness began to filter into the forest, he sank to the ground and rested his back against a massive white pine. Lost. No doubt about it. How long would it take for anyone to realize he needed help? How long would it be before a rescue operation was launched?

  A thin, cold rain began to fall. He shivered. Don’t let me sneeze. Oh, God, don’t let me sneeze.

  He eased the moss away from his wound. No fresh blood. Got a chance…if someone finds me before I come down with pneumonia…or sneeze.

  ****

  “Frasier!” Her voice echoed around in his head. Ah, damn! Now I’m hallucinating.

  “Frasier! Oh, good Lord! Frasier!”

  Scout stared down at him with wide, anxious eyes. In a dreamlike haze, over the dog’s shoulder, he saw her running toward him, her face pale against an encroaching darkness, a darkness that was either evening or another bout of unconsciousness, he couldn’t be sure. She waved a flashlight.

  “Emma…” He mumbled her name just before the blackness washed over him again.

  ****

  “Frasier, Frasier, wake up! We have to get you to my car. You’re soaked and…oh, my God, bloody. Here, put your arm around my shoulders. That’s it. See? That wasn’t so hard. Now, one step at a time. We haven’t got far to go. You must have a great sense of direction. You’re only a few yards from
the road.” She was spewing words so fast he could barely comprehend.

  “Emma, how did you know…?” Dragging along at her side, he knew he was leaning too heavily on her, but he had no choice. His feet felt as if they were filled with lead, and only Emma’s determined body holding him upright kept him moving.

  “I got home from school to find Scout raising a ruckus. I let him out through the gate of the dog pen and told him to find you, and he took off down the road like Seabiscuit. I followed him in my car until he took to the bush, and then I ran after him on foot…and found you. You’ll have to buy the big guy a nice, juicy steak once we get you patched up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, a steak.” Frasier’s head swam. “Damn knees! They’ve turned to rubber.”

  “Here we are!” Emma’s voice sounded optimistic and cheerful, as if they’d arrived at the beach on a fine summer’s day, as if she hadn’t just found and dragged a bloody man through the bush for farther than he’d thought her capable. “Lean on the roof while I open the door. I’ll get you to the hospital in town in no time. Lucky I brought Bruiser along. We won’t have to worry about rushing back to care for the dogs.”

  He grunted when she eased him into the passenger seat and moaned when she leaned across him to belt him in place.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, but his fuzzy mind was suddenly acutely aware of her closeness, of the soft, familiar smell of her hair.

  “Emma,” he breathed and hiccupped. His right hand, trembling and blood-stained, reached out to clutch her curls.

  “Hey, big guy.” She touched his cheek gently and smiled into his eyes. “Don’t go starting anything you’re not fit to finish. Lean back, relax. I’m taking you to the hospital, and damn the speed limit.” She backed out and shut his door. “Bruiser, Scout, in the back,” she called to the dogs. “We’re heading for town. This time I hope the cops do stop me. I could do with a police escort.”

  ****

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  Frasier came back to consciousness with the sound of Emma’s voice.

  “That bullet tore a nasty piece of flesh off his side but didn’t touch any vital organs or even nick a rib,” a man’s voice reassured her. “He was mainly suffering from blood loss. Now, thanks to you, that’s been overcome. Fortunately you’re type O.”

  When he became able to focus, he realized he was in a hospital bed. Emma Prescott stood beside it, talking to a man in surgical scrubs.

  “Hello,” he croaked over parched lips. “I’m back.”

  “Frasier!” Emma clutched his hand, gazing intently into his half-opened eyes. “Bruise and I are going to take you to our cabin and nurse you back to health. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  He closed his eyes and groaned. What was that old saying about the cure being worse than the disease?

  “Mr. MacKenzie.” The doctor standing beside his bed was speaking. “I’ve reported your injury to the local RCMP, as I do all gunshot wounds. They’ll be here to question you when I decide you’re up to it.”

  “A hunting accident, pure and simple,” he mumbled.

  “A bit more than that.” The doctor looked skeptical. “Whoever shot you didn’t come to your aid. I’m no expert on the law, but I’d say that would add up to quite a few charges, with careless use of a firearm right at the top of the list.”

  “I don’t want to make an issue of it.” The anesthetic was wearing off, the pain returning. “But I’ll talk to the officers when they arrive. Right now…” His eyelids drooped and his words trailed off.

  “Come on, Emma. He needs to rest,” Frasier vaguely heard the doctor say softly.

  Emma. He’d called her Emma. Hadn’t taken the guy long to get on a first-name basis. Frasier’s last conscious thought was that the doctor had been about his own age and not entirely ugly.

  ****

  “Good morning.” Emma entered his hospital room looking as bright and cheerful as the sunshine flooding in at the window, a duffle bag in her hand. “Are you ready to come home? I brought fresh clothes.” She waved the valise.

  “Definitely.” He couldn’t wait to escape. He’d argued vehemently with the doctor the previous evening when Emma had been about to leave, but he’d been refused release.

  “I want to keep you under observation for just a few more hours,” Dr. Bradley had insisted. “You lost a lot of blood, and you’re suffering from exposure.”

  “Listen to the doctor,” Emma had insisted. “I’ll be back for you bright and early tomorrow. Right now, I have to take Bruiser and Scout home and feed them. See you in the morning, big fella.” With a teasing grin crinkling her lips, she’d bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. As she’d left the room with a wave and an encouraging smile, Frasier felt he’d never wanted anything so much as to go with her.

  Now she was back with fresh clothes and the promise of their returning to the cabins together. He started to scramble out of bed, then fell back to sit on its edge as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed.

  “Hey, take it easy.” Emma was instantly beside him, her arm around his shoulders. “You’ve still got some recovering to do. Do you think I should help you dress?”

  “No!” The word was emphatic as he managed to come to his feet and stand alone. “I’ll be fine.”

  He took the duffle bag from her and headed more sedately into the washroom. When he turned back at the door to glance in her direction, he saw her repressing a smile.

  “What?”

  “From the back, those hospital gowns don’t leave much to the imagination.”

  “Argh!” He shut the door on her chuckle.

  ****

  “Emma.” As he pulled on his jeans, Frasier recognized the voice of the doctor who’d attended him the previous night. “Good to see you again. Ready to take our patient home?”

  “Ready and willing.” Emma’s reply was bright and bubbly. “Any special instructions regarding his care?”

  “Just try to keep him quiet and well fed for a couple of days. After that, he should be fine on his own. Speaking of his being on his own, I was wondering if you might like to have dinner some time after your friend is back on his feet.”

  Damn! Did the man have no sense of decency, asking out a woman when his patient, her… friend…had only recently been at death’s door?

  “Thanks, but it’s a little early to make plans. Tell you what. Why don’t I take your number and call you when I have some free time?”

  Emma, what do you think you’re doing? Frasier gave his zipper a yank, pinched himself, and bit his lip to suppress the resultant yelp. The quick, sharp pain brought him to his senses. Why shouldn’t she make plans with a good-looking doctor? Did he expect her to live like a nun because he couldn’t offer her more than friendship?

  Trying to convince himself he was being unreasonable, he finished dressing and then went back out into the hospital room determined not to let Dr. Bradley notice his annoyance.

  ****

  “Are you sure there’s no one I should notify?” Emma drove carefully down the trail that led to their cabins, braking gently for each root and bump. “Family, friends…significant other?” She shot a swift glance over at him as she made the final suggestion.

  “Only the Professor. I notified him from the hospital. There’s no need to go around alarming people, since I am going to be just fine.”

  “Okay.” She eased the car over a massive root. “I hope you like pasta. It’s my specialty.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll be cooking for you for the next few days. I’ve taken a compassionate leave to look after you.”

  He felt his breath desert his body in a gust. But, damn it, he wasn’t sure if it was because of anticipation or exasperation. A vision of her giving him a sponge bath flashed across his mind, immediately followed by a vision of the Pug looming over him as he lay helpless on a bed. The little dog was burping, his small round belly heaving… Ah, hell!

  He remembered the conversation he’d overhea
rd between Emma and the doctor. Something about a blood donation.

  “Did you donate blood…for me?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She grinned over at him. “I wasn’t content just to get under your skin and in your hair.”

  “Well, anyway, thanks.”

  “No problem. I figured the Bruise and I owe you more than a bottle of blood.”

  He leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. But the thought of Emma Prescott’s donation coursing through him gave him crazy ideas about her getting into his heart physically as well as emotionally.

  Man, I’m getting weird. Has to be the painkillers.

  He flinched when she hit a root dead-on. The sharp hurt revived the memory of another unpleasant sensation.

  “Speaking of blood donations and hospitals and doctors, what about Dr. Bradley?”

  “What about him?” Emma slanted him a sideways glance.

  “Are you going to see him again?” Frasier heard himself snap. Man, how many of those pills did they give me? I’m definitely losing it.

  “I haven’t decided.” She returned her attention to the trail. “Might be fun to date a doctor. I never have.”

  “Amazing.” Sarcasm belched from the word.

  “Frasier MacKenzie, stop it. Just stop it.” She pulled over to the side of the trail and shoved the gear stick into park. “You!” She released her seatbelt and swung to face him. “You’re acting like a jealous lover. You have no right, since you aren’t prepared to assume the position. Or are you?” She met his gaze squarely, and he flinched inwardly.

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Well, then.” She turned back to face front, rebuckled her seat belt, and put the car into drive.

  “Emma, you know it’s not what I want, what I’d do if things were different.”

  “But right now I’m second to the ghost of the Eastern Panther.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  He sounded like a spoiled little boy, and Emma burst out laughing.