Hunted Read Online Free PDF Page A

her. “It’s no one’s fault, but people keep dying, don’t they? Well, not my son. So help me God, I won’t let him take my son.”
    “I'll keep him safe.”
    He stood straight and tall, his hands loose and open by his sides, ready to fight. His warrior stance. Once upon a time, she’d found it the most reassuring sight in the world. But she’d learned how dangerous it was to believe he could fight every battle and beat every foe. “I know you'll try,” she said, unable to hide the sadness from her voice.
    “I'll do more than try.”
    She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She studied his tall, fierce body, the determination on his face, the hard cut of his jaw, and she wanted to run to him. To fold herself inside his arms. To have him stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be all right. But she knew she wasn’t welcome in those arms. She never would be again. “I just want this over,” she said. “I want to go back to my life. I have to meet with the florist and the carpet man. Sam’s got a geography test.”
    “I understand.”
    “Do you?” She bent down to pick up the sheets. “I'll go put these in the wash. Then we'll put the groceries away.”
    Mike was next to her then, grabbing for the linens, too. He touched her, his fingertips brushing lightly across the back of her hand, and the shock of it ran up her arm. She pulled back, but it was too late, the damage was done.
    It had been a long time. It used to be that she needed the feel of his skin like she needed water to drink or air to breathe. It had taken her a year to stop needing him. To stop waking up in the middle of the night, alone and frightened. To stop longing for his touch.
    She risked a glance at him. He’d felt the shock, too. He was still, like an animal is still when it smells danger. She wished she could tell him there was no danger here. But there was. It wasn’t just about the madman out there, either. No one had ever had the power to hurt her like Mike had. And she knew she had that same power over him. That’s why they needed to be apart. So no more damage would be done.
    She gathered up the laundry as he straightened up. Then she walked away.
    Mike watched Becky head to the basement door. She’d made her feelings clear—she hated him for this. Which wasn’t a surprise. He was no good for her. They both knew that. The best thing was for him to keep his distance, for his sake as well as hers. Hadn’t he just proved that? He’d touched her and she couldn’t get away fast enough. It didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered for a long time.
    He stilled. Something had caught his attention, but he wasn’t sure what. He looked around. Nothing had moved. Then he heard it. A high-pitched engine, getting louder as it approached the cabin.
    He moved quickly to the window and pushed aside the curtains just a hair while he reached for his gun.
    He saw the snowmobile coming up the road. The driver was taking his time. There was no way to make out a face behind the fur-lined hood of the parka. He eased the gun’s safety off with his thumb. Logic told him there was no way Mojo could be here this soon, but with Mojo, there was no logic. He waited as the driver stopped the snowmobile and cut the engine. In the silence, he could hear the sound of water going through the pipes downstairs.
    The man walked up the front steps. Mike tensed, lifting his gun shoulder high. Then the driver pushed back the hood of his coat. It was Witherspoon.
    Cliff’s description of the caretaker had been right on the money. Tall, whippet thin, a shock of white sparse hair. There was no one behind him. The scene from the window couldn’t look more innocuous.
    Mike breathed again, and cursed himself for letting his feelings about Becky get in the way of the job he had to do. It wouldn’t happen again. He slipped his gun into the holster, then opened the door.
    “McCullough?”
    Mike nodded.
    “Witherspoon’s my name. Cliff said you were