Too Close For Comfort. Sharon Mignerey
unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked made her stop. Slowly she turned around, her heart pounding, her hands and cheeks suddenly icy cold.
The man stood, and with a remarkably steady arm, he aimed a revolver at her.
‘‘Who the hell are you?’’ he asked, his voice gritty.
‘‘You’ve got to be kidding,’’ she said, angry all over again in spite of the fear swamping her. ‘‘You assault me, then pull a gun on me, and you—’’
‘‘Lady…’’
The sky had lightened enough that she could see beads of sweat on his forehead. Probably a reaction to the injury she had just inflicted. Good. In the next instant she noticed a dark stain that spread across his chest from the collar of his jacket. She could smell the blood. Her instant of triumph was replaced by curiosity and unwanted concern.
She edged to one side, weighing her chances, intending to run at the first opportunity. If the blood was any indication, he wouldn’t be standing much longer.
‘‘Don’t move,’’ he commanded, pressing his free hand against his shoulder.
She stopped. His posture straightened, and his demeanor became even more threatening as he deliberately closed the distance between them, the gun still aimed at her. Her heart began to pound even harder.
She held his gaze, determined that he wouldn’t see a bit of her fear.
‘‘Where’s Marco?’’ he demanded.
‘‘Where’s the child—Annmarie?’’ she countered.
The man became suddenly still, and a glitter returned to his eyes.
‘‘You’re the man who called, right?’’ She swallowed.
Dark hair fell over his forehead above a slash of straight, equally dark brows. His jaw was square, covered with a heavy stubble, sharply defined without a hint of boyish softness, and further emphasized by a cleft in his chin. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean. Everything about him suggested his veneer of civilization was thin.
‘‘What child?’’ It was more a command than a question.
‘‘The one reported missing.’’
He muttered a string of swearwords under his breath.
They were as menacing as the gun he held on her. Her gaze again focused on the dark blob of the radio lying in the grass where she’d dropped it.
‘‘Hell,’’ he muttered, setting the gun’s safety and shoving it in his waistband at the small of his back. That action shocked her. Why pull a gun on her in the first place? ‘‘You’re out here because somebody called you. Mighty generous of you, coming out in the middle of the night like that.’’ Sarcasm laced his voice.
‘‘Not just anybody. The constable.’’
‘‘Constable?’’
‘‘Sheriff. Police.’’
‘‘Ah.’’
Sly’s deep bark interrupted him, instantly followed by a frightened cry.
A child’s cry.
She whirled toward the sound, but not before the man sprinted toward the edge of the clearing, where only Sly’s lazily wagging tail was visible within the drooping branches of an immense fir tree.
‘‘Your damn dog better not bite!’’ he yelled back to Rosie.
She easily caught up with him. ‘‘He hasn’t so far.’’ She passed him. Seconds later she skirted through the brush that hid the base of the tree. ‘‘What have you found, Sly?’’ she asked.
The wagging of Sly’s tail became more enthusiastic, and from under the branches came a soft whimper. Pulling a flashlight from her pack, she dropped to her knees, flicked on the light and lifted the branch out of the way.
Huddled next to the trunk was a little girl no more than four or five, hiding her face behind her small hands. Her braids had come mostly undone, and her pale hair hung in wisps around her face, which was dirty from the tracks of tears that had been wiped away more than once. She sat with her face averted, and her eyes were tightly closed.
‘‘Sweetie, are you all right?’’ Rosie asked gently, hearing the man crash after her.
At the sound of her voice, the child opened her eyes and turned to face Rosie.
A shock of recognition poured through Rosie. The sprinkle of freckles over the child’s nose and cheeks, the almond-shaped, dark-brown eyes and the blond hair were a stamp that marked Rosie, her two sisters and this child.
‘‘Annmarie?’’ This couldn’t be Annmarie, Rosie thought, even as she asked the question.
The child nodded, then swallowed. ‘‘I’m not supposed to talk to anyone till Mr. Ian comes back.’’
‘‘Sweetie, I’m your aunt Rosie.’’ This really was her Annmarie. My God, what was she doing here?
Annmarie uncurled herself a little. ‘‘I haven’t seen you for a long, long time.’’
‘‘That’s right.’’ It had been nearly eighteen months since their last visit. A long, long time. And, she had grown so much since then. ‘‘But on your last birthday I sent you a big teddy bear that you named Lulu.’’
Annmarie’s chin quivered. ‘‘I couldn’t bring her.’’
Rosie held out her arms. ‘‘Then maybe we can find her a sister to keep you company while you’re here.’’
Annmarie scrambled forward. ‘‘Mommy said I should stay with you. So here I am.’’
‘‘Here you are.’’ Rosie chuckled softly, mostly to reassure the child, then shut off the flashlight and dropped it in her pack. First things first. Make sure Annmarie was okay, then find out why she wasn’t with Lily in California.
Annmarie reached toward her. Rosie’s arms closed convulsively around the little girl. Between Lily’s infrequent visits to Lynx Point, she had sent Rosie tapes and pictures. So Rosie knew how Annmarie had grown, had listened to tapes as her cooing became real words, had remembered her birthdays and Christmas with the teddy bears and chocolate the little girl loved. But this was only the fourth time since Annmarie’s birth that Rosie had seen her. As she absorbed the sweet warmth of the child in her arms, Rosie felt a pang of sharp regret.
Tears threatened. Tears Rosie couldn’t afford. She blinked them away, crawled from beneath the canopy of thick branches and stood with the child in her arms. The man—Mr. Ian, she supposed—was breathing heavily. He rested his hands on his knees without taking his eyes off her. My God, why was Annmarie with this wounded, gun-packing stranger?
‘‘She’s okay?’’
‘‘You got hurted, Mr. Ian,’’ Annmarie said. ‘‘Did those bad men find you?’’
‘‘They’re gone, petunia,’’ he answered. The gentle tone in his voice was at odds with his scowl.
‘‘Good,’’ Annmarie responded. ‘‘I was real scared, but Mr. Ian hid me under the tree and told me if I was real quiet, everything would be okeydokey.’’ She smiled. ‘‘He was right.’’
‘‘I can see that.’’ More and more curious about the connection between Annmarie and this man, Rosie hoisted the child more firmly against her hip. ‘‘Bad men? What bad men?’’
‘‘The ones Mr. Ian saw in Ketchup Can,’’ Annmarie supplied.
‘‘Ketchikan,’’ he explained when Rosie glanced at him.
‘‘Ah,’’ she murmured. ‘‘And where is your mom?’’
‘‘She’s