but tonight it felt endless. June’s breath was ragged and she was perspiring with the effort. Then suddenly she saw faint light ahead. Relief washed through her body.
They were almost through into Hidden Valley, a narrow delta on the other side of this mountain range. It was inaccessible by road—the only way in was via this secret tunnel or by foot over the mountains, or to fly in by chopper. It was where an eccentric architect-turned-survivalist had chosen to build a large house into a deep warren of caves, and it was in this house the architect had lived, quietly and off-grid, until his death. He’d left everything he owned to his sister, who’d helped turn it into a safe haven for escapees from Samuel Grayson’s lethal cult.
The front of the cave house had been walled in with locally sourced rock. Large tinted windows looked out over Hidden Valley, and a stone porch, partially shaded by a rock overhang, ran the length of the house. A narrow boardwalk led from the tunnel entrance and hugged the rock face all the way to the porch and front door. A creek cascaded from a fissure in the rock face and ran under the boardwalk before meandering out into the valley.
The rooms deeper inside the caves had no windows but were vented via stone flues to the ground on top, and the chill inside, even during summer, was eased by a great stone hearth in the central living area and by smaller cast-iron wood-burning stoves in the rooms. When the architect had left the house to his sister, she’d had no idea what to do with it and had let it stand empty; the place had faded from the memory of those who had known about it. When she found out that Hannah Mendes, a relative by marriage, needed a safe house to help cult victims escape, she had offered the cave house as a perfect solution because of the hidden-tunnel access to the valley on the other side.
As June and her injured stranger reached the boardwalk, Jesse passed out. She struggled to hold him, but he slid from her grasp and slumped with a dull thud onto the wooden slats of the walkway. Adrenaline thrummed through her as she checked his pulse. It was steady, and he was still breathing. She worried now about intracranial swelling pressuring his brain.
Laying him in a prone position on the boardwalk, she ran to the house and banged on the door.
“I need help! Can someone come out here and help me!”
The door swung open. Molly, an eighteen-year-old whom June had brought to the safe house last week, stood in the doorway, pulling on her sweater, eyes wide circles of consternation. “What’s going on! Did they find us!”
God, I hope not.
“I found a man down a ravine while I was searching for Lacy. He’s got a Devotee tattoo, and he’s hurt—”
“Is he a henchman?” Molly peered nervously down the boardwalk. “Why did you bring him here! Does he know what happened to Lacy?”
“I don’t know who he is. He doesn’t remember anything—”
“You shouldn’t have brought him here!”
“Molly, calm down and help me carry him. We’ll lock him in my room until we stitch him up and learn more.”
Molly refused to budge.
“Molly, we can’t leave him to die out here. Go get Davis and Brad—now!”
The two men came running out into the rain and helped carry Jesse inside.
“Take him to my room!” June yelled as she rushed behind them. “Molly, get me some towels, hot water, the big medical kit from the main bathroom.”
June shucked her wet jacket. “Lay him on my bed. Brad, ask your mom to come light the fire in the stove in my room.”
She checked Jesse’s breathing again—still steady. His pulse was okay, too. June palmed off her wet peaked cap, and Molly pulled a side table alongside the bed atop which she put the medical kit.
June shone a small flashlight into the stranger’s eyes. His pupils responded normally, then, as if irritated by the light, he blinked fast, moaning as he came around again.
Relief washed through June. Maybe the guy was just exhausted. She wondered how long he’d actually been in the mountains, how many hours he’d lain, wet and cold, in the ravine, and when he’d last gotten some calories into him. She had to remove his wet clothes, warm him up.
“Molly, please go heat up some of that soup Sonya made the other day—I’m beginning to think our stranger has been walking through the wilderness for some time.”
“Why do you want to help him—you said he’s a Devotee, and look, he’s got a holster. Only henchmen carry sidearms. He’s got to be a henchman.”
June shot her a glance. “Do you recognize him? Has anyone in this house seen him before?”
“No.”
“Then let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, okay?”
The one thing she had not given Matt.
“Just because I don’t recognize him from Cold Plains doesn’t mean he’s not a henchman.”
“Molly, just get the soup. And on your way to the kitchen, ask Davis to fetch a change of men’s clothing from the closet in the big room. There should be sweatpants and a T-shirt in there large enough to fit him.”
June made sure there was always extra clothing in the safe house—she never knew who might arrive in an emergency with only the clothes on their back.
Molly trudged to the kitchen, shoulders set in a sullen slouch. The kid was acting out of fear, thought June as she propped Jesse up on several pillows. Molly was terrified Samuel’s reach would extend into the safe house and June couldn’t blame her.
“I’m going to get you into some dry clothing, Jesse,” she said calmly, maneuvering his wet denim jacket off his shoulders. “Then I’ll clean those wounds properly and stitch you up.”
He cleared his throat. “You’re calling me Jesse—why? Is it my name?” His voice was hoarse.
“That’s what your belt buckle says—probably a clothing brand. But I had to call you something.” June helped him lift his damp T-shirt over his head.
“Great.” His lips almost curved, then he sighed heavily, closing his eyes as he leaned back into the pillows.
His torso was sun-browned, as if he made a habit of working outdoors without a shirt. And his large hands were calloused —a man of physical labor, or a rancher perhaps? June didn’t peg this guy as the poolside- or beach-tanning type.
A thick scar curved down one side of his waist, as if he’d been gored by something. Another scar snaked up the inside of his arm.
June frowned. A violent life, or a bad accident of some kind?
But apart from the old scars there were no fresh swellings or lacerations that she could ascertain.
His chest hair was dark. June’s gaze followed the whorl of hair that ran down his washboard abs and disappeared seductively into his low-slung jeans. She needed to get him out of those wet pants, and the idea suddenly made her think of sex, which was ludicrous. She was a trained paramedic. The human body was part of her job. She never reacted like this.
Nevertheless, this rugged mountain man was doing it for her, and it made her uneasy.
She glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply, rhythmically, his bare chest rising and falling. He had a fine scar across his chin, too, and crinkles fanned out from his eyes—smile lines and sad lines. Deep brackets framed his mouth … a beautifully shaped, wide mouth. She couldn’t help noticing. Or imagining what it might feel like to have those lips brush hers.
She cleared her throat. “I’m going to get you out of your boots and jeans. Is that okay, Jesse?”
No response. Worry washed softly through her again, and inside her heart compassion blossomed.
She shook his shoulder. “Jesse?”
He