Redemption
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Redemption
Copyright © 2008 by Sharon Cullen
ISBN: 978-1-60504-217-6
Edited by Sarah Palmero
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: October 2008
Redemption
Sharon Cullen
To my own redheaded hero, who’s also named John. I love you.
The guy at the convenience store told her to take the old logger’s road. Said it wasn’t marked, but she couldn’t miss it. That had been twenty minutes ago. She hadn’t counted on the steep, winding hill, the sheer drop to nothing or the snow the weathermen were saying was a blizzard in the making.
Of course, she hadn’t counted on being in Tennessee either.
Sweat made her hands slippery on the steering wheel and she tightened her grip.
Go to Callahan.
The urgently spoken words were a continuous loop in her head, pushing her in a desperate quest to locate the man named Callahan. Where was he? Shouldn’t she have come across his cabin by now?
She leaned forward and narrowed her bleary eyes to peer through the windshield, but no amount of focusing helped her see through the white wall of blowing snow. The thought that she could have easily missed his cabin made her heart nearly stop beating and added to her growing terror.
The convenience store clerk had given her an odd look when Hope questioned her about Callahan. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. By asking, was she leaving a trail for them to follow? A hard wind rocked the car and she jerked the wheel to stay on the road. Her eyes began to water as the grief she’d been fighting tried to break through her weakening defenses. If she gave in to it now, she’d likely wreck the car. If she crashed…
No. She wouldn’t think about that. She had to find Callahan. He’d help her. He had to.
Without warning, the road curved sharply. She yanked on the steering wheel and slammed on the brake. The car went into a skid. The rear end fishtailed, skating sideways. She screamed as the car sideswiped a tree, bounced off it, spun around and began sliding down a steep embankment she hadn’t seen.
Throwing her hands over her face, she screamed again as the car turned end over end.
***
John Callahan stood on the dock and stared out at the pewter gray lake. The falling snow dusted his shoulders and snuck down the collar of his coat, but he wasn’t quite ready to move on.
He needed to take one last look.
Say one last goodbye.
After a few moments, he shoved his gloveless hands into the ripped lining of his pockets, turned his back on the lake and walked away. His boots echoed hollowly on the wooden deck and he didn’t look back when he entered the line of trees.
Countless times he’d walked this path. He’d even enjoyed the hushed solitude of the dense trees. But like everything else in his life, the enjoyment had vanished. Today marked a turning point. No more did he want to shoulder a burden that had become so heavy he could barely make it out of bed in the morning.
It was time.
He was almost to his cabin when a flash of metal made him stop. For a moment, he was too stunned to do anything but stare at the overturned car. Then he cursed. What were the chances of this happening today of all days? He didn’t want to deal with this, but years of seeing to others’ needs and the thought that someone might be seriously injured had him trudging forward, hands still deep in his pockets even though they were fisted in frustration.
When he reached the overturned car, he bent almost in half, swiped at the snow on the driver’s side door and cupped his hands to peer in. Damn it, there was a body in there. He tugged on the handle. The door creaked and groaned as it slowly swung open.
Flexing and folding his fingers, he stared at the unconscious woman still seatbelted in. Clenching his teeth, he reached in and wiggled his hand in search of the seatbelt clasp. Sweat trickled down his temple as he groped for the latch and found the button. He hesitated. If he released the seatbelt, she’d fall. That meant he had to catch her.
Taking a deep breath for courage, he released the belt and shoved his arms out, grunting as he took the weight of her. She groaned. Damn woman wasn’t even dressed for the weather. Where was her coat?
To get a better hold on her, he had to lay her on the ground. That crazy-colored white blonde hair of hers nearly blended with the snow and her head rolled to the side. Blood from her temple soaked into the ground reminding him of some macabre snow cone.
He hitched her up into his arms, ignoring the inner voice screaming at him to back away. Unfortunately for her, he was her only chance. Poor girl. As he trudged toward his cabin, kicked the door open and walked through the living room into the only bedroom, she remained unnaturally still. He placed her on the bed, then looked at her, hands on his hips.
So what now?
Get her warm, he supposed. The electricity had gone out with the start of the snowfall and he hadn’t bothered with the generator, figuring he wouldn’t be around anyway. He threw a blanket over her and made his way into the living room to start a fire.
Once the place began to warm, he checked on her again. Still unconscious but breathing easy. Pulse steady from what he could tell by looking at her neck. He threw another blanket on her, turned on his heel and headed back to the overturned car to search for clues.
There was nothing. No luggage. No purse. Nothing to indicate who the woman was, or where she came from. The plates were from Maryland. Why would someone from Maryland be in Tennessee driving the old logger’s road in the middle of a winter storm?
Long-unused instincts stirred and he let out a frustrated growl when he realized his interest had been piqued. He didn’t want to know, damn it. He stomped back into the cabin where a wave of heat hit him. Although he preferred to ignore her, he went to the bedroom where she still lay on her back, her head turned toward him.
The ugly gash on her head was beginning to crust over with dried blood and closer inspection confirmed what he had assumed from the beginning. A cut, nothing more. Might need some stitches, but probably not. He flicked off the double layer of blankets. She sure was a tiny little thing. Slim legs encased in dark denim. Tiny feet shod in expensive running shoes. If it weren’t for nicely rounded breasts, he would have thought she was a child.
What in the hell was he supposed to do now? Even though it felt like a sauna in his tiny cabin, her lips were still blue. He had to get her wet clothes off and wasn’t that something he didn’t want to do? God, yes. The thought of touching her any more than he already had made his stomach roll, but it was either get her clothes off or have her die of hypothermia in his bed. It showed his state of mind when he actually had to weigh his decision.
This sucked.
He started with the shoes, because with shoes, he could pretend she wasn’t a woman. However, when the socks came off to reveal pink-painted toenails, all pretense fled. Okay. The rest of the clothes had to go. He’d get the worst over with first. Wet denim was never fun to wear. But when he pulled up her heavy sweater, he snatched his hand away and stumbled back.
Holy crap, she was pregnant. By the looks of it, about five or six months. That bit of information took a while to process and get over. Did it change anything? Hell, yes. Now it was even more imperative to get her warm and dry.
Shit, shit, shit
.
Pulling off her jeans wasn’t easy since the denim was wet and stuck to her clammy skin. Satiny underwear cradled her growing belly. Baby-girl pink underwear. She was into pink.
He ran a hand down his face and stared at the ceiling to gather his courage. Then, flicking a blanket over her bare legs, he started on her sweater by pulling out one arm. She whimpered when he touched the other arm. As gently as possible, he felt for broken bones. He didn’t find any, but her elbow was beginning to swell.
Removing the sweater required putting his hand under her neck and lifting her head. Breathing deep, fighting inner demons, he paused.
You can do this.
Closing his mind to the smooth, cool skin, he pulled the wet sweater free and gently laid her back down.
Her bra was light pink with a little bow nestled between breasts spilling over the top. A blue and red bruise colored one side of her chin, but it was her stomach, rounded with child, that drew his gaze. He reached out, his hand hovering over her belly, then pulled back and fisted his fingers.
If he were any other man, he’d be wracking his brain to remember if he’d met the woman before and if the baby was his. He didn’t have to think twice. You’d have to have sex to make a baby and he sure as hell would have remembered if he’d had sex in the last five months.
Goose bumps skittered across her skin and her hand moved to lie on her stomach. Jerked back to reality, John pulled the blankets over her, covering her from chin to toes. She sighed and snuggled into the nest he’d made.
He scooped up her clothes and, with one last look, walked out of the room, turned off the light and pulled the door partway closed behind him.
Outside the door, he absently stared at the wet clothes clutched in his hand. When he lifted his gaze, it fell on his weapon sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. Who would have guessed he’d be sidetracked by a mystery woman who’d crashed in his front yard and now lay unconscious in his bedroom? Pregnant no less. Just went to show what he’d known all along. Things never did go as planned. Especially with him.
In the laundry room, he draped her sweater over the dryer before searching the pockets of her jeans. He didn’t find any identification, but he did find a fistful of cash. Ten one-hundred dollar bills.
No ID.
A beat-up car with Maryland plates.
Expensive running shoes.
The bedroom door creaked and he quickly stuffed the money in his pocket.
Eyes wide, blanket clutched protectively around her, pink-painted toes peeking from beneath, she stepped into the kitchen. They stared at each other for the longest time before she blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.
“You shouldn’t be up yet.” His voice sounded as creaky as the bedroom door.
She swayed until she leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Where am I?”
Her gaze skipped around his kitchen before falling on the gun sitting in the middle of the table. What little color she’d had, drained as she took a step back.
John grabbed the Glock, released the magazine and put everything on top of the refrigerator, out of sight, hoping she didn’t know about weapons and didn’t realize there was still a round in the chamber. “You’re in Tennessee.”
“Tennessee?” Her surprised gaze slid back to his.
“Where were you headed?”
When she swayed again, he forced himself the few necessary steps to stand beside her, reaching for her elbow, not quite touching her, but ready in case she took a facer onto his hardwood floor.
“Maybe you should lie down.”
“No.” She stumbled back. “I, uh, need to go.” Her brows crinkled. “Somewhere.”
“Why don’t you sit?”
When she was settled on the couch, haunted gaze glued on him, he sat in the deep leather recliner. “You thirsty?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Hungry?”
She shook her head.
“What’s your name?”
Delicate brows dipped. Lines formed on her smooth forehead as she stared at the pinewood floor. “Um…” Tiny teeth came out and bit into a full, pink bottom lip. Her breathing came fast, then faster. Blue eyes met his. Pale blue. Like aquamarines. “I can’t remember my name.”
Automatically her hand went to her belly. It felt familiar, and in a world that suddenly didn’t, she latched on to that as she frantically searched her strange surroundings, taking in the stone fireplace, the comfy couch beneath her, the warm blanket and cold pine wood floor at her feet. She was in a log cabin in Tennessee if the man with the gun was telling the truth.
Dark blue eyes—inscrutable eyes—stared at her. Red gold hair nearly glowed in the dim light. He was big. Tall. But then, at her measly height everyone was tall.
“Who are you?” she managed to ask through a throat quickly closing in panic.
“John Callahan.”
Go to Callahan
. The words startled her and she jumped.
His eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Oh God, she couldn’t remember. “Should I have heard of you?”
“Don’t know if you should or shouldn’t, since I don’t know why you’re here.” He paused a beat. “Or who you are.”
She closed her eyes and cradled her aching elbow close to her stomach. Everything on her hurt. Thank God the baby was active or she’d be experiencing another terror. “What happened to me?”
“Your car overturned on the old logger’s road.”
“Overturned?” Her gaze went to the window behind him. To the snow blowing into drifts. “It’s snowing.”
“Been snowing for a good four hours. What were you thinking driving up this mountain in that?” His tone wasn’t accusing, just curious.
What
had
she been thinking?
“You don’t know your name, where you are or why you’re here.”
It wasn’t a question but she shook her head anyway.
“I found this in your jeans.” Hitching up one hip, he withdrew a roll of bills from his back pocket and slapped them on the coffee table in front of her. There must have been several hundred dollars there. “Do you always carry this much money?” His tone was hard. Cold. Different than the tone he’d been using.
Panic closed in fast and furious. What had happened? Who was she? The room became stifling. Far away she heard his voice, asking for her name. Name. Name. Name. She had a name. Everyone had a name. So what was it?
Callahan’s face was suddenly in front of her. “…down. Bend down.” He shoved her head between her knees. She took deep gulps of air and slowly the room stopped spinning. Or rather, the wooden floor she was staring at stopped spinning.
When she sat up, Callahan went back to his chair and crossed an ankle over a knee. Those dark blue eyes gave nothing away, no emotion, no indication of what he was thinking.
Go to Callahan.
She touched her temple where dried blood caked a large lump. “Where in Tennessee am I?”
“Smoky Mountains.”
She stood and, on shaky legs, went to the window. There wasn’t much to see besides lots of snow. “Why would I come to Tennessee?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that.”
“I don’t know. It’s all—” she fluttered her hand in the air, “—like a blank slate.”
“You’re not from Tennessee?”
“I don’t think so.”
A long silence followed. It was quiet in his cabin. Almost too quiet. Her hand went to her belly as her chest constricted and a hollow feeling rose within her.
“Sit down before you fall over.”
She made her way to the couch and sank into it with a sigh.
Callahan left the room. Cupboard doors slammed, silverware clattered. She rested her head against the cushion and closed her eyes. The cabin smelled of freshly sawed wood and warm fires. Something about the scents tickled something in her brain. A warm memory of other fires. A feeling of security. Happiness.
“Drink this.”
A steaming mug was shoved beneath her nose. Instinctively she reared back and whatever memories that had been at the edge of her conscious vanished. “What is it?”
“It’s not poison if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She hadn’t been thinking poison but his statement reminded her they were strangers and she shouldn’t be so trusting.
“Look.” He took a big drink. His Adam’s apple dipped before he licked his lips and set the mug on the coffee table. “Nothing but tea laced with a little honey.”
She took the mug, wrapping her hand around it and inhaling the sweet, warm scent. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He sat in his chair again.
They didn’t talk while she drank the tea. Callahan continued to watch her as she looked at anything but him.
Go to Callahan.
Was it him? John Callahan? Was he the man she had to see? There couldn’t be two John Callahans on this mountain, could there? Her luck, probably. So why was she sent to him? What did she need from him? Why…
Her mind became fuzzy and her eyes began to droop. Her limbs felt heavy and she struggled to sit up but soon lost the battle to fatigue.
John knew he wasn’t going to get much sleep. Most nights he only logged a few hours before the nightmares stole his mind anyway, but tonight, with
her
in his bed, he damn sure wasn’t getting any.
After she’d fallen asleep, he’d carried her to bed, gritting his teeth the entire way, and made sure she was warm before building up the fire and settling into his recliner to contemplate the flames and the bizarre turn his life had taken. Was she lying when she said she couldn’t remember? He’d encountered enough people who lied without remorse to know that sometimes, no matter how hard you looked, you just couldn’t see beneath the deception.
Some sort of amnesia wasn’t all that uncommon in head injuries, but he wasn’t a doctor, and didn’t know if not remembering your own name was standard. But she’d been scared, wavering between trusting him and fearing him. Completely understandable considering she was a woman—a small woman—alone in a cabin in the mountains with a strange man. Yeah, he’d have been apprehensive in her shoes.
That led him back to square one, knowing nothing more than when he’d pulled her from her car. Except the color of her eyes. And the pitch of her voice. Gentle, soft, with an underlying hint of steel. He’d glimpsed a strong personality beneath her confusion. If only she knew—or would tell him—her name.
What he needed to do was call in the tag number of her car but the landline had gone down hours ago. Cellphone coverage was sporadic and only if he went outside. He wasn’t stepping foot in that blizzard right now and chances were the call wouldn’t connect anyway.
Even though he’d chosen to live far removed from civilization, he now cursed his solitude. If he’d built his house closer to town, he could call someone, take her to a hospital, get her out of his hair. He was angry because her presence made his home not his anymore. And the lonely mountaintop cabin had been his welcome respite for so long, it now felt violated by this pregnant stranger.
His eyes began to drift closed and he settled deeper into the chair. Part of him still suspected her motives and warned him to stay awake, but he honestly didn’t think he’d wake to a steak knife at his throat. He was her only chance of survival in these mountains. Besides, if she killed him, so what? He had no problems with dying.
A scream jerked him from his sleep. Before he was fully awake, he’d grabbed his gun from the table next to him, was on his feet and racing toward the bedroom. A surge of adrenaline had his heart pounding in his ears as he burst through the bedroom door, weapon drawn, hazy mind trying to clear.
She was sitting against the headboard, the blanket clutched against her chest, eyes wide and unfocused. Her mouth was open but only small whimpers escaped.
After a quick glance around, he lowered the gun and advanced cautiously. “Hey,” he crooned, cursing that he didn’t know her name. “It’s okay. Just me. See?” He held his arms out to his sides.
She scooted back, making little sounds that reminded him of the small animals he’d freed from traps.
“Nothing to fear.” He tucked the gun in the small of his back and sat on the very edge of the bed, ready to spring if she lashed out.
Slowly her eyes focused although her body wouldn’t stop trembling. She was nearly buried beneath blankets, but it wasn’t the cold making her shiver. “S-sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I was just dozing. Care to tell me about it?”
She bit her bottom lip, worrying it for a moment. “I-I don’t know. It was a nightmare.” Her laugh was shaky. “Obviously. I…” Her gaze went to the window. She seemed to look out the window a lot. “There was blood.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Lots of blood. I remember being scared…” Her voice trailed off as a lone tear traveled down her pale cheek.
“Tell me about the blood. Had someone cut themselves or was there more?”
“More than a cut.” She shuddered. “A lot more. I think… I think someone was k-killed.”
His stomach dropped. “What else do you remember?”
She shook her head, her eyes losing focus again. “Just the fear. Oh God, I was so scared.”
“Were you inside a building?”
She shook her head, then nodded. “Yes. A building.”
“House? Business?”
“I-I don’t know. House, I think. But it could have been an office. There was a desk.”
“Describe it.”
Elegant fingers rubbed her uninjured temple and she closed her eyes. Then her fingers dropped and her eyes opened. Bleak, washed out, filled with exhaustion and fear. “It’s all blurry.”
He tamped down on his frustration. Had she killed someone? Was she taking him for a fool? Using him? She was such a tiny thing and when he looked into her eyes all he could see was despair, desperation and fear.
He stood and she lunged forward, holding the blanket to her chest with one hand and snagging his jeans with the other. Instantly he stepped to the side to break her hold and her hand fell to the bed.
“Don’t leave.”
He wanted nothing more than to get out of the room. No, more than that, he wanted her out of his life. To put her back in that car and watch her drive away. Because he didn’t want to deal with whatever it was she’d just brought to his front door.
“I’m going into the next room so you can get back to sleep.” Even he knew the stupidity of that statement. A veteran of more nightmares than he could count, he knew full well there would be no more sleep for her this night.
The blanket slipped, revealing a creamy shoulder and a pink bra strap. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me alone.”
He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. “I’m not fit company tonight. You’d probably be better off in here.”
“Please,” she said again, chipping away at his defenses. “You don’t have to talk to me. I’ll sit on the couch and be quiet.” Her eyes begged. She was nearly on her knees in front of him in a pleading posture.
“Fine.” He turned on his heel.
“Mr. Callahan?”
“What?”
“I need clothes. I can’t walk around in a blanket.”
That was the truth. The blanket was old, faded green and ragged, certainly not sexy until wrapped around her. He stomped to his dresser, pulled out sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, and tossed them on the bed, ignoring her outstretched hand. Once again he turned on his heel and walked out, breathing a sigh of relief when he closed the door behind him.
She probably needed help getting dressed, what with her injuries, but he was damned if he would be the one to help her. Undressing her had nearly undone him. Touching her again was out of the question.
When she emerged, she held the folded blanket in front of her. She’d had to roll up the sleeves of the sweatshirt several times and it still bagged around her wrists. Her slim hips, swollen belly and legs were swallowed whole by the gray sweatpants. Good, he didn’t want any reminders of her pregnancy.
As she’d done several times that night, she peered out the window. He’d never bothered with curtains. No one came out this way, so there’d been no need for them, plus he liked the morning sun shining in. He liked being able to turn his head and see nature without the screen of gauzy curtains.
“It’s still snowing,” she said.
He grunted.
“How long do you think the storm will last?”
“Few days.”
“Then we can leave?”
We? What was this “we” crap?
Staring at the fire soothed her. Just being in the room with John Callahan seemed to give her some solace, even though she knew he didn’t want her here. She got the feeling if he had his way and a storm wasn’t beating at his front door—and her car wasn’t on its top—he’d put her butt back in it and send her on her merry way.
Go to Callahan.
Her mind slipped back to her nightmare. Unlike the blood, she couldn’t actually picture the desk, but knew it was there. She rubbed her hands over her thighs as if to wipe blood off them. There had been fear. Terror. And shock.
“Do you…” She paused to lick her lips, the words sticking in her throat. “Do you think I did it?”
“Did what?”
“Do you think I killed the person in my dream?”
Another long pause. This one so long she finally looked at him. Navy blue eyes stared back. No emotion.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
Her stomach felt like someone had hollowed it out. She’d been hoping for reassurances, but suspected Callahan didn’t do false reassurances. “I don’t feel like a killer.”
“What does a killer feel like?”
“I know I couldn’t take anyone’s life.”
“What if your life were threatened?”
Her hand went to her belly, to her baby moving fretfully. What if her life
was
threatened? Or her baby’s life? Her lack of an answer told her. And a deep instinct to protect her child told her as well. She’d do what it took.
“Do you think that’s what happened? Do you think someone threatened me?”
He turned his gaze to the flames again. “You have bruises. Did you get them during the car crash or before?”
“You mean was I beat up?”
He grunted. He seemed to do that a lot.
All sorts of scenarios raced through her brain. Was the father of her baby an abuser? Had he beat her and that’s why she’d run away? If so, where had all the blood come from? Maybe she’d been running from him. Maybe Callahan was the father of her baby and she was coming to him. For what? Child support?