Chapter Ten

Glenna bided her time, waiting until she was sure Sam was deep in the woods on his rounds before getting up and moving as fast as her body would let her into the house. Just in case he was watching, she picked up her glass and casually went back into the house as if she were simply doing what he’d told her earlier and going in to rest. Once inside, she grabbed the old yellow phone receiver off the wall and brought it to her ear. Wow, this thing was old. She’d played with one like this in the kids’ museum on a school field trip years ago, but she’d never seen one in anyone’s house. She inserted her forefinger into the nine and cranked the plastic wheel. But there was no dial tone and no sound of ringing. She slammed the receiver back into its hanger and wilted against the wall, listening to the wall clock ticking away the minutes of her life.

She was so tired she was having trouble staying focused. Every movement made her even more tired. She’d never felt like this in her life but she might never get another opportunity like this. Two weeks of not moving had done nothing for her muscles.

She forced herself off the wall and did a quick survey of the kitchen. No cell phones or car keys on the table or the counters. He’d be back any minute. She didn’t have any time and she had no idea where she was. There had to be a tablet, a computer, something somewhere that she could use to contact the police.

She opened drawer after drawer, slamming them shut, sweat beading on her forehead. Cabinets, broom closet, all useless. She moved on to the cozy front room. Couch, TV, chair, books, old magazines. Nothing useful. She found an outlet, and a table next to it. Her stomach clenched.

That was where the phone should have been, but wasn’t. What kind of a doctor didn’t have a land line in the mountains?

She almost gave up and let herself sink down onto the sofa. It would feel so good, just to sleep. No. She had to keep going. Resisting the lure of the beckoning sofa cushions, she moved into the hallway, her heart pounding so loud she was afraid she wouldn’t hear when Sam came back. Four doors lined the hall past the archway into the living room. Bathroom wouldn’t have a phone, but the next one was an office, door shut but unlocked. She ducked a quick look back into the kitchen and out the window. No sign of Sam. She forced her exhausted body in to the office and sank gratefully into the desk chair.

Dr. Lana Pendergast, Certificate to Practice Medicine. Dr. Lana Pendergast, General Surgeon. Diplomas and certificates, all in the name of Dr. Lana; framed in basic black and hanging over the very neat and tidy desk. She tried all the drawers, one after another, while her mind spun.

Nothing about this added up. There were no quarantine signs, no CDC. No one but Lana, and Ellen, and him. Well, if according to Sam she wasn’t sick or dying, or stuck in quarantine, then they had something else up their sleeves. And given the amount of money she stood to inherit when her grandmother died, she had an idea what that was.

Kidnapping.

Lana’s mysterious errand. Sam checking the perimeter. Even Ellen, so friendly and motherly on the surface, but who looked everywhere but at her when questioned. Main drawer held nothing useful: pens, erasers, sticky notes. No computer, just a charger. She moved on to the file cabinet. Locked. Locked. Locked. All three drawers. Apparently Dr. Lana wasn’t very trusting.

The whole thing felt like an elaborate ruse to keep her biddable. She’d been drugged for weeks. She wasn’t sick. If she really had had lycanthroism she would be in a real hospital, dying by going crazy and attacking people. The media had certainly covered that part of the disease in detail.

Her limbs were almost heavy with the unfamiliar exertion but she had to check the other rooms. Next room was a typical exam room, all the cabinets and drawers locked. She yanked at the top one, the metal handle digging into the soft flesh of her palm. But it wouldn’t budge.

“Damn it!” She hit the metal drawer with her hand, wincing at the pain. Shaking her hand she stumbled back into the hall. She had to be running out of time and there was no phone anywhere.

She was starting to shake with the effort of pushing her out-of-shape body past its breaking point. She might not be sick, but being bedridden for weeks and recovering from whatever had happened to her had taken its toll. And she only had a few minutes left. There had to be a phone. Had to be.

The third room was soft and feminine with a full-size bed and a small sofa. It looked like just the type of sanctuary a working woman would want. Glenna went to the closet. Sam would be back any minute. She was running out of time.

What she needed were shoes. As far as she could tell she was miles from anywhere and her fuzzy socks wouldn’t cut it. The driveway was gravel, she’d bet the roads were too. Her grandmother would have told her she’d been brought up better then to steal, but Grandmother wasn’t here, was she?

Lana’s feet were tiny, making Glenna feel like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters trying to shove her toes into the size fives.

How long had her jailer been gone?

She darted a glance at the bedside clock. It had only been ten minutes—it felt like twenty. He’d be back any minute. She tried to swallow past the sand in her throat.

She had to have something, but these shoes would never work. Maybe a sweatshirt or a sweater? She wrenched open the closet door.

The soft lounging pants and t-shirt Lana had brought her this morning were fine for the house, but not for a fall nighttime in the Rocky Mountains—she’d freeze. Once the sun dropped, it was going to get cold. Fast. When she escaped she’d need to be prepared. She didn’t think she’d get more than one chance. Already, the strength was leaching out of her body, each movement like lifting a lead-filled balloon.

The bedside clock changed time. Damn, she’d spent another precious minute.

She grabbed a jacket and moved on, almost stumbling into the last bedroom overlooking the front porch, assailed by the peculiar mix of odor found in rooms occupied only by men. Sweat and soap and spice.

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She could almost pick out Sam’s scent underneath someone else’s. She swayed. God she was so tired she was making things up. There was no way she could do that—she’d only known him for a few minutes.

Forcing herself back to work she took quick inventory of the room.

Two bunk beds—the top one sloppily made, the bottom neat as a pin. A desk in a corner nearly blocked the closet. The rest of the small room was filled with male clutter. Cross-country skis propped on a dresser. A football, two beat-up Frisbees. The seat of the wooden chair was nearly invisible under the pile of ski wax and old rags. She went for the closet and the shoes.

Right away she could tell the enormous boots that must be Sam’s. Way too big for her, but the others were a size ten. A little loose, but they’d do. She’d moved from the stepsister and the glass slipper to Goldilocks. These shoes are too small. These shoes are too big. But these shoes are just right.

And like Goldilocks, she wanted to do nothing more than crawl into one of the bunk beds and curl up to sleep. But she’d already taken too long. The top drawer of the dresser was an intimate glimpse of balls of socks and a pile of underwear that made her hesitate. She hadn’t been brought up this way. Her grandmother would be shocked as she pilfered through someone else’s belongings. She had no right to be going through their drawers.

She shook off the sudden attack of morals. They had no right to keep her here, keep her from having shoes, and real socks, and a phone. She grabbed a ball of socks and stuffed them in one of the sneakers.

Outside the window, she heard heavy footsteps on the front porch. The blood throbbing in her head nearly drowned out the sound of a man’s voice calling out.

She was out of time.

Glenna clutched her stolen booty in hands slick with sweat and ran for the bedroom door. Two more minutes. Just two more minutes and she would be down the cellar stairs, and in her own bed, faking sleep.

She pushed open the kitchen’s swinging door, grabbing it and holding it still when she heard the front door open.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

She glanced around the kitchen, searching for a place to stash the shoes and jacket. Sink. Refrigerator. Cabinets wouldn’t work. Sam cooked; he’d be bound to wonder at a pair of shoes tossed in with the plates and bowls. She kept scanning, her gaze lighting on a row of hooks by the door. She ran over there and hung the jacket up. One down, two to hide.

Heavy steps and men’s conversation by the front door moving down the hall. She had seconds to hide the shoes.

She was shaking, her adrenaline nearly used up. She eased open the narrow broom closet door next to the row of hooks and threw the sneakers into a bucket. Closing the door, she dropped into a chair. Heart thumping in the kettle drum of her chest, she tried to look calm as Sam and another man pushed through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

Sam crossed the room. He stood over her, arms crossed, a furious frown pushing his brows together; he thundered at her like the great god Thor. “What the hell are you doing?”

She looked up at him, past the massive tree trunks of his thighs, and up the wall of his chest. For the first time in her life she had the bizarre feeling of feeling petite. She wasn’t sure if she liked it. “Man, are you tall.”

The shorter man stopped right behind Sam, but she barely noticed him. The air between her and Sam crackled, as if only the two of them were in the kitchen.

“You’re white as a ghost,” Sam said. “And just listen to your breathing. Crazy woman! Why the hell didn’t you stay downstairs today? Don’t you have any sense?” He pressed his hand to her forehead. “You’re running a fever.”

She wasn’t sure if the trembling of her legs was from exhaustion or relief, but she absolutely knew it had to be from one or the other, and not the strange sensation of having this giant of a man standing so close to her, tenderly touching her forehead.

“And you’re shaking. Damn it, woman! You need to get some rest. You’ve been sick.”

The other man raised his eyebrows at her and she tensed. She could see it in his eyes. He knew.

She lifted her chin. “I’m done resting. I want answers.”

“It’s not a matter of what you want.” Sam shook his head. “Another ornery female, just what we needed. Couldn’t you have been sweet and biddable? Just once I’d like to meet a woman who doesn’t think she knows everything.”

The other man’s lips twitched.

Sam stepped back and shook his head. “Damned stubborn woman.”

“Hello, I’m Ian.” The other man moved forward and offered her his hand, a small amused smile on his lips.

He looked enough like Sam to be his slightly shorter cousin, but his long, straight hair, pulled back into a tail, was dark. With his biker bar t-shirt and the green and blue tribal tattoos that ran races up and down his forearms, he looked like nothing less than another thug for hire.

Glenna stayed seated and nodded back. She kept her hand to herself, suddenly hyper aware of being alone in the house with two dangerous men.

“You look wiped. Lana won’t be happy.” Sam squatted down. “I’ll carry you down.” Suddenly, he was right next to her, his face level with hers. She could smell his skin, warm from sun and sweat. Feel the heat of his body.

Her breathing sped up. “No!”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I don’t really care what makes Lana happy.” She wrestled with her intense physical reaction to him, sitting up straight and locking her gaze on his. “You promised me answers. Lana promised me answers.” She did her best to look in charge from her seated position. She’d rather be standing but in her weakened state, after her little adventure, she knew she’d fall flat on her face in front of the men. And there was no way she was doing that. “How did I get sick? Why can’t I remember anything?”

His lips parted, but the sound receded as her ears buzzed. A sudden wave of nausea washed over her and she swallowed, gripping the sides of the chair hard so she wouldn’t fall over. Her head wobbled on her neck and she started to topple.

“Whoa.” Sam scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. “It doesn’t look like you have much of a choice. I’m taking you back down. This time stay there until you can hold your head up.”

“I can hold my head up. I just don’t choose to.” Why would she when it felt so much better resting on Sam’s warm chest, listening to his heart beat through his muscles?

Both men snorted.

She should force herself to push away. Make her muscles behave and stand on her own two feet. But she was weak. In more ways than one.

Ian held the basement door wide and Sam angled her feet through. He thumped down the steep stairs, making sure she didn’t scrape on the rough wall behind them, and carried her into her sickroom, depositing her on the bed like a small child up past her bedtime.

Her head felt heavy, but she needed to know. She forced her eyes to stay open. “You said I was attacked. Who attacked me? Was it you?”

“Christ, no! Why would I do that?” He shook his head and pulled off her slipper socks, ignoring her mumbled protest. “I’m done answering your questions. Get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning. Maybe Lana will be back by then.”

His big body balanced on the side of the single bed, he leaned over her and tucked her under the covers. His spicy scent got tucked in with her and she inhaled. His face was close. She forced her fluttering eyes to stay open and gazing into his secretive eyes.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered, not sure if she asked because she wanted more answers, or if she just wanted his scent for a little longer.

“Sweet dreams, sugar.” He shut off the lights and left her alone.

Sleep pulled her under, but she wasn’t going to give up. She had the hidden shoes and jacket, and now she knew there was no phone in the house except for cell phones. She’d sleep tonight. Tomorrow she’d be stronger. And if Sam wouldn’t give her answers, she’d find them herself.