Fatal Burn (West Coast 2)

Crap!

Fear sizzled through her body.

Don’t let him get to you. Don’t. You only have to put up with him a few more hours.

Quickly she slid her newfound tool into the hole in the closet floor and threw herself onto her bed. She had to wait. Had to deal with him one more night.

Her throat tightened in revulsion.

Tonight.

No matter what.

After he came back and checked on her, fed her, and went through his eerie fire ritual, he would leave. And when he did she’d have enough time to make good her escape.

Later tonight after he left, she would be outta here.

By the time Shannon got home and parked near the garage, her case of nerves had nearly disappeared. She’d spent the drive convincing herself that she was just tired and edgy. And maybe she’d imagined the man at the cabin. With all that had happened in the past few days her nerves were strung past the breaking point. That was it. She thought of a long bath, maybe a glass of wine, lit candles…and clearing her mind or, even better, letting her mind wander. Maybe if she had a few minutes alone she would be able to make sense of things, put them in order, push back her fears.

She couldn’t let the strain that had ruined her sense of well-being here spread into the dreams she had for her new home, her new beginning.

“It’ll be worth it,” she told herself as she climbed out of the cab. Khan hopped to the dusty floor of the garage to bolt through the open door and relieve himself on a favorite fence post. All the dogs loved that old gnarled stake and Shannon spent the next ten minutes, in the dark, hosing it down.

“You can’t wash the smell away,” Nate said and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

The nozzle of the hose slipped in her hands, water spraying wildly as she readjusted her grip.

Suddenly her hair, arms and front of her shirt were drenched. “Damn it,” she said, but, in truth, the cold water felt good. Refreshing.

“Sorry.”

She caught the hint of a smile, the flash of white teeth against his tanned skin. “You miserable bastard, you do that on purpose, don’t you? You enjoy sneaking up on people.” He opened his mouth to speak and she held up a hand. “Think twice before you start off on some diatribe about it all being a part of your Native American heritage, okay?” She pointed the nozzle at his face. “I’m not unwilling to shoot you where it does the most good.” She lowered her aim, siting her new-found weapon at his crotch.

Nate’s hands flew up, palms outward. “All right, ma’am,” he drawled in a poor imitation of some ridiculous Hollywood cowboy twang, “I surrender.”

“Just the words I love to hear from a man,” she said, leaning down to twist off the spigot. She felt a sharp twinge, reminding her that her ribs were far from healed. “At least the post won’t reek so bad that every stray for a hundred miles will end up wandering down here to take a leak.”

“You’d love it if they did and you’d adopt every one of them.”

She chuckled and felt a faint twist of pain again. But he was right. She’d never found a stray she didn’t take in. “St. Francis of Assisi, I’m not,” she said, wiping her hands on the tail of her shirt.

“No?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then how about St. Shannon?”

“There is no St. Shannon.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Well…no.” She lifted a shoulder and whistled for Khan. “It’s been a while since I attended St. Theresa’s and studied catechism. But I think if someone named Shannon had been canonized, I would have heard.” She eyed him and rested one hand on her hip. “So where the hell have you been?”

“In and out. The truck’s giving me fits. It’s in the shop now. One of the mechanics gave me a lift back here.”

“You could have called.”

“I did. Your cell. You never called me back.”