at hand. The first thing on his list was to make sure he had a good fire going, then he’d have to go down to the creek for water. And after that, he was going to have to fix something to eat. One way or another, he was going to have to get some nourishment into her. Giving her one final glance, he headed for the door.
It was nearly dark by the time he returned from the creek. The horses were standing slack-hipped by the cabin, and he retrieved his saddlebags and draped them over one shoulder, then pulled the rifle from the scabbard on his saddle. He had no intention of leaving anything to chance.
Stamping the snow off his boots, he pushed the door open and entered the cabin, his expression altering when he saw that his houseguest was struggling to sit up. Still clearly dazed and unsteady, she dragged the scarf and hat off her head, then tried to thrash her way out of her blanket cocoon, her movements oddly uncoordinated. Finn kicked the door shut with his heel, the cold air from outside mixing with the scent of burning spruce pitch. He propped the rifle by the door and dropped the saddlebags beside it, then turned and set the pail by the stove. Not wanting to rush her, he removed his gloves and stuck them in the pocket of his vest, then crossed to her. Deliberately avoiding eye contact, he peeled away the blanket so she could get her arms free.
He felt her gaze on him; then she spoke, her voice very unsteady. “I can’t remember your name.”
He looked down at her, keeping his expression impassive as he answered her question. “Finn Donovan.”
She stared up at him, her eyes wide with uncertainty; then she spoke again, her voice stronger, more assertive. “How come…how come you found me…what were you doing out there?”
Carefully, he draped her scarf over the head rail of the bunk, then met her gaze. “I’m an outfitter, and I take most of my clients out in this area. This is my line shack, and I was out securing my campsites for the winter. And I didn’t find you. My dog did.”
As if struggling to assimilate that information, she stared at him, the flicker from the fire glinting in the wild tumble of her hair. She stared at him a moment longer, then she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and he saw the muscles in her throat contract. Finally she straightened her head and looked at him, an odd stricken look on her face. She swallowed again and spoke, a tinge of tightly contained panic in her voice. “Where am I?”
Tossing his gloves on the table, Finn answered her, knowing there was a helluva lot more to the question than those three words. He met her gaze, his own level. “You’re in southwestern Alberta in the Rocky Mountains, just inside the Canadian border.”
A shiver ran through her and she folded one arm across her middle, then covered her eyes. Even from eight feet away, Finn could feel the rigid tension in her. He continued to watch her, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he turned away and went back to the stove, annoyed with himself. One thing he knew how to do was mind his own business.
Sharply aware of both her presence and her silence, Finn dumped water from the pail into two smaller pots—one to heat up a couple of vacuum-packed stews he’d had in his saddlebags, the other for tea. As he set the pail on the floor, he heard the distant drone of a plane, only this time it was much closer. His expression altered. With darkness settled and in this kind of rough terrain, he knew they would have to call off the search soon. If it was a search. And he’d bet his boots it was.
The pots of water heating, he glanced over at her, the inadequate light casting that side of the cabin in deep shadows. She was sitting with her back against the wall, her hands slack in her lap, her head turned to one side, and it appeared that she had fallen asleep again. He knew he was speculating, and speculation was always dangerous, but it had to be drugs that had knocked her out like that. It was the only explanation.
With a dozen questions running through his mind, Finn picked up the rifle and went back outside and tended to the horses. It had started to snow again, the whiteness giving off an eerie light, and Finn checked the sky above the cabin to see if the rising smoke was detectable. Satisfied that they were safe, at least for the night, he lugged the tack, spare gear and extra supplies into the cabin, again propping his rifle by the door. He checked the sleeping woman, then fed Rooney his kibbles, the firelight from the open door on the stove flickering and dancing on the rough-hewn walls. He thought again about the planes he had heard, wondering who had called them out.
The cabin now warm, he stripped off his vest and set about fixing the meager meal, which consisted of opening the heated vacuum packs and dumping the contents back in the pot. Recalling that she had said she was thirsty when they were still on the trail, he stuck a spoon in his shirt pocket, then scooped a tin cup into the ice-cold water in the pail. With the pot in his other hand, he crossed to the bunk. Soundlessly he set the cup on the wooden slats and crouched down, studying the woman on the bunk.
The flickering flames in the stove cast her face in a soft light, banishing most of the shadows. She was sitting in the same position, with her head turned against the wall and her mouth slightly opened, presenting him with her unobstructed profile. Delicate features, full mouth, an aristocratic nose and long, long lashes. His expression sober, Finn assessed what he saw. All the evidence added up to money. The sweater she was wearing was cashmere, the studs in her ears were unquestionably diamonds, and just visible below the cuff of his sheepskin coat was the platinum wristwatch. And even if it weren’t for all those obvious and visible markers, he would have suspected it anyway. He had dealt with enough high rollers in his business to recognize the signs. There was just that air about her, a nuance that reeked of priceless things. And even he could tell that her thick curly hair hadn’t been styled in some discount cut-and-hack shop.
A flicker of light caught in her magnificent hair, and a funny, full feeling climbed up Finn’s chest. Suddenly he felt very alone and solitary. Dragging his gaze away from her face, he wearily rolled his shoulders, his attention snagging on her left hand, which was lying motionless in her lap. No rings—no huge diamond solitaire, no wide platinum band, not even a telltale mark.
Realizing his thoughts were heading down a trail that didn’t go anywhere, Finn gave his head a disgusted shake. He had no time for mental slips like that. Right now he had a job to do, and that was getting some hot food into her.
Schooling his expression, he grasped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake, then spoke, his tone gruff. “You’re going to have to open those eyes, Red. Supper is ready.”
As if taking a massive effort on her part, she opened her eyes and turned her head, her gaze still slightly unfocused. She licked her lips, then spoke, her voice sounding rusty and a tiny bit belligerent. “Don’t call me Red, either.”
One corner of Finn’s mouth lifted as he met her gaze, his amusement surfacing. This one had a bit of scrap in her; that was for sure. He handed her the tin mug, and she closed her eyes and drank the water as if parched with thirst; then she looked at him, her expression softening as she handed him the cup. “Thank you,” she whispered, a husky quality in her voice.
Finn set the mug on the floor, then raised the pot he was holding. “This restaurant isn’t exactly in the best part of town, and it’s damned short of amenities, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat out of the pot.”
She stared at him a moment; then she smiled, her eyes lighting up. She grasped the pot and took the spoon he offered. She met his gaze, her voice soft and husky when she responded. “With all those candles, it looks pretty darned first class to me.” The firelight glimmered in her eyes and she smiled at him again. “But right now I couldn’t care less about ambiance. I’m so hungry I could eat this bunk.”
Finn gave her a lopsided grin and tapped the pot. “Well, have at it. It’s not prime rib, but it goes down okay.”
She took a mouthful and closed her eyes, reveling in the taste. “God, nothing has ever tasted this good.” She savored it a split second longer; then she practically attacked the stew, her hunger obvious, her hair like fire around her face. Crouched on the floor, Finn watched her, amusement altering his expression. He’d bet his bottom dollar that right now, she’d give a starving wolf a run for his money.
Picking up the tin