“May.” He cut her off ruthlessly, his voice brooking no dissent. “They were under my command.”
She stared at him helplessly. What could she say to a man who’d lost his men, his friends, and believed it was his fault because he’d led them?
“Sam, you did what you had to.”
“I know.” He turned to her, his expression resolute. “And I’m doing what I have to now. Doc says that you have to be willing to sacrifice a man in order to win, but he’s wrong. Dead wrong. You sacrifice one of your own and the game’s lost already, ’cause your people are what the whole damn game is about in the end. I’m not sacrificing anyone else ever again.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sam stroked May’s hair and listened to the storm raging outside.
“We should get up,” she murmured sleepily.
“No point.” He glanced at the window where the snow blew against the glass. “We can’t go anywhere.”
“I suppose.” She yawned. “How are we going to get back to your cabin after the storm?”
“Walk if we have to.” He thought a moment. He was pretty sure there was an easier way.
“ ’Kay.” She turned to snuggle against his side, and he wondered if he was ever going to recover from this. It was as if she’d shot a bolt through him, and only she could fill the hole.
“This’s pretty great,” he said carefully.
She snorted. “Being trapped in an unheated cabin on a hard floor with a storm outside? I’m especially appreciative of your friend Hopkins’s taste in food.”
“Be nice.” He squeezed her. “I meant us.”
She was quiet so long, he thought she might’ve fallen asleep. “Yeah.”
He turned and brushed his lips against her forehead.
She began struggling. “We ought to get up.”
“May—”
“At least be prepared for when the storm stops.”
He turned and took her arms. “What are you doing?”
“Let me go.”
“May.” He waited until she glanced up at him, her eyebrows lowered ominously. But he wasn’t going to be turned aside by her orneriness this time. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She was so damned stubborn he just wanted to yell at her sometimes, but he knew that wouldn’t get him anywhere. He wondered if that was her goal all along with her bitchiness: to distract and confuse him.
So that they never got to the important issue.
“We’ve got something good here.” He squeezed her arms for emphasis. “Something that isn’t real common. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never felt it before.”
She opened her mouth, but he gave her a look.
“Let me finish and then you can go off on me all you like.” He lowered his voice. “If that’s what you really want.”
She pinched her lips together, but nodded jerkily.
“Okay.” He took a breath. He’d never been much of a talker—wasn’t real eloquent even at the best of times—and this was important. Maybe the most important thing to ever happen to him in his life. So he took another breath and tried to think of the words that might make her see things his way. “You’ve been running ever since I first pulled you over—what was that, summer before last?”
“May.”
“What?” He blinked, confused.
She cleared her throat. “It was in May.”
“Oh, okay.” He smiled a bit and hoped she didn’t see: she remembered the month they’d met in. She cared more than she let on. “So two years, come next May, then?”
“Yes.”
“And the thing is, I’ve never quite known why.”
“You do too know why,” she said at once. “I’m not attracted to you.”
He just let that sit for a space.
“That’s not what I mean,” she said gruffly. “Sex isn’t the same thing.”
“Well, I think it is,” he said, not pushing it too hard, just stating it. “With you, anyway.”
“I don’t want… I don’t need anything beyond this.”
“You know, you act like you’re a real good liar,” he said. “And I suppose to most you are. But the fact is, I’ve gotten to know you a bit, and now? Now I can tell that you’re not being honest with me.”
He thought she’d fly into a rage, maybe yell or even hit him, but she gave a sigh instead, like all the air had gone out of her.
“I don’t know if it can work, Sam,” she said, and he got worried because May could get angry and sarcastic and even kind of evil, but she never got sad. “You’re a cop and I’m… well, you know what Dyadya is.”
“He’s mafiya.”
She nodded, her head down on his chest so he couldn’t see her face. “Exactly. You’re… not.”
He chuckled then, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
Her head snapped up so fast she nearly clipped him in the chin. Her glare could kill a man at thirty paces. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Nothing,” he said hastily. “It’s just… I never knew you were so romantic.”
“What?”
He smiled down at her angry face. This was the May he knew. “Like Romeo and Juliet.”
“What? No…” Her mouth opened, but no more words came out.
He threaded his fingers back through her hair just because he could. “Two star-crossed lovers kept apart because of family politics?”
“It’s not the same at all.” But she sounded uncertain.
“Nope,” he agreed. “For one thing I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t look good in tights.”
She slapped at the hand he had laying on his chest, but then she wrapped her fingers around his, listening.
“And for another,” he continued, his voice low, “I always thought it was kind of stupid they couldn’t get together. I mean, they were teenagers, I know that. But we’re not.”
“They had everything against them,” she said low. “Society, their families.”
“Yeah, but we don’t.” She shook her head, but he talked over her. “I don’t even have family, not really.”
“You have this town.”
Yeah, that was actually kind of true, now that he thought about it. He had Coot Lake. “Okay, and no one in this town is against you and me being together.”
She twisted to look at him, her face skeptical. “Doc Meijers? I always got the feeling he isn’t my biggest fan.”
“Yeah, Doc isn’t particularly happy about us being together. But see, here’s the thing: I’m not a teenager. I’m not Romeo. I make my own decisions, and if I decide to be with you because—” he almost said the words, but then figured it was too soon “—because I want to be with you, then people have to kind of come to terms with that.”
Her mouth twisted cynically. “And if they don’t? Sam—”
“What makes you so sure everyone in this town is against you?” he asked. “Have you asked around? Have you gotten to know people here?”
“No, but people know Dyadya, and—”
“—and they like him.”
“You don’t,” she whispered.
That took him aback. “Yeah, I do, actually. I don’t like what he was, I don’t like him bringing his past troubles to my town and endangering you and Coot Lake, but Old George himself? He’s okay.”
He peered at her, but she still seemed skeptical. “Look, I’m not saying everyone in this town would throw a party if we got together, but you haven’t given them a chance yet, have you? You’ve decided all on your own that we won’t work, and you’ve given up before we’ve even tried.”
That made her brows draw together.
He smoothed a thumb over one. “Why don’t we try? Not forever, nothing permanent, just for a little bit. See what happens.”
“What…” She bit her lip and tried again. “What would ‘trying’ include?”
This was the most she’d ever given him, and it was more than he’d hoped for so soon, but he knew bett
er than to let triumph show on his face. “You could let me take you out to dinner, for one. Come up here twice a month instead of once. I could come down to visit you in the Cities on my off days.”
“That’s all?” she asked softly, but her words were a challenge. “Just a couple of dates.”
The hell with being cautious. He rolled, pinning her beneath him. “You know damn well I want more than just a couple of dates. I want more of this.” He pressed his hips into her sweet warmth. “I want Saturday mornings with French toast, I want walks with Otter, I want to hear about your day and the clients you can’t stand. I want you, Maisa Burnsey. I want you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Maisa lay underneath Sam and stared into his electric blue eyes, hearing the echo of his words: I want you.
The words gave her a cautious sort of hope. Because she wanted Sam, too, though she’d been burying the thought for a very long time.
“It won’t work,” she said, mindlessly repeating the protest she’d had all along. She wasn’t used to hope and was of suspicious of it.
But Sam must’ve given up persuading her with words. He bent and claimed her mouth. That really was the only word for it—the hard, possessive press of his lips, the deep penetration of his tongue. The force of his kiss bent her head back over his arm. She submitted at once, almost as if her body knew something her mind didn’t yet. The action should’ve irritated her.
Instead she gave herself, without thought, without hesitation, without worry for the future. She let herself go, running her hands through his short hair, arching beneath him, widening her legs. He ground down, and she wished they hadn’t dressed again. His cock was hard again behind his jeans. She rubbed up against it, wanting him there.
He groaned and broke their kiss, nipping along her bottom lip. “Say yes, May. Say yes to me, say yes to us.”
“Come back here,” she muttered, pulling at him.
“Say yes first.” He suddenly raised himself on straight arms above her, his pelvis still pressed to hers, still grinding against her.
“That’s blackmail.” She pouted.
“Damn straight it is.” He grinned and she caught her breath, he was so beautiful. Here in this dingy little cabin, the snow beating against the windows, and the cold, hard floor only covered with a thin carpet. The firelight gilded his hair, lit the side of his face, and made his eyes nearly glow. This man, this beautiful, stubborn, good, kind man, a man who knew who he was, who was respected by all who knew him, this man, this wonderful man wanted her. Wanted a relationship with her.
There was no way she could refuse, and truth be told, she was tired of trying.
“Yes,” she said, and then louder, “Yes!”
He threw his head back and laughed, his throat clean and strong, and she felt joy.
Pure joy.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Karl squinted into the snow. His eyelashes were frosted, his cheeks burned, and his fingers had gone numb at least half an hour ago. Thankfully, though, his frozen hands still gripped the sled rail. Actually, he wasn’t too sure he could let the rail go even if he wanted to.
“How’s she doing?” he yelled into the wind.
“She’s holding on,” Molly hollered back.
She sat in the basket with nearly seventy-five pounds of Cookie sprawled over her lap and chest. The bullet had hit her in the side and she was bleeding bad, but she was still alert. Molly didn’t seem bothered by the fact that her winter coat was covered in dog blood and Karl felt a well of emotion for the woman who understood how much that damned bitch meant to him. He’d raised Cookie since she’d been three months old, an adorable ball of terror. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he lost her.
Cookie growled at Molly’s voice, and without missing a beat Molly tapped her on the nose and murmured, “Hush.”
Cookie lowered her head with a little whine and Karl marveled. Never in all the time that he’d known Cookie had she done anything he’d asked of her unless she wanted to. Molly was obviously some kind of dog goddess.
Or just a goddess.
He looked down longingly at the back of her hood-covered head, which wasn’t easy, what with the frosted eyelashes. Molly and he had been friends since the first grade, when he’d noticed her lecturing Scott Henderson on the proper way to color in a banana—always outline first was Molly’s policy. He’d come over and backed up Molly’s philosophy, even though at seven he hadn’t yet formed any personal coloring guidelines. And when Scott had shoved Molly in inarticulate anger over being lectured on coloring, Karl had kicked him in the shins. Kind of like a knight of old championing his lady fair. That had led to a time-out and an awkward letter home to his mom, but seven-year-old Karl figured it’d been more than worth it.
Molly Jasper had had the biggest, brownest eyes Karl had ever seen.
After that Molly had regularly instructed Karl on such things as Why Ding Dongs Weren’t Health Food and How He-Man Wasn’t a Real Name—Karl secretly still wasn’t entirely convinced on that one. He’d learned how to write cursive with her in third grade. In fifth grade, he’d given her an awesome Spider-Man valentine with a bonus Swedish fish insert—only a little smashed. In eighth grade, he’d asked her to the winter dance—which she’d declined, due to stupid Dave Beaulieu asking her first, but he had danced with her and later kicked Dave in the shins in the boys’ restroom. And when Karl had joined the army and left the rez, Molly had e-mailed him and sent him care packages of wild rice and Swedish fish.
They’d always been friends and somehow Karl had figured that, you know, they’d end up together.
Married. Maybe with tiny Karls going ice-fishing with him and tiny Mollys lecturing him on his caffeine consumption.
But now there was that dickhead Walkingtall, looking so serious—just like Molly—and college educated, and even Karl—who had to admit he wasn’t always the quickest on the uptake—could see they kind of matched. And Molly was mad at him because of the stupid arrowheads and he hadn’t had time to explain yet, and now Cookie was covered in a terrifying amount of blood and they were in a blizzard and he couldn’t see Bug, who was taking lead from Cookie, and Bug wasn’t the brightest dog in the world and for all Karl knew they were headed to Canada, and really?
Things had kind of gone down the shitter.
“Maybe we should’ve stopped,” he said to Molly. “Maybe we should’ve found a cabin and broken in and made a fire and, I dunno, brought all the dogs in and gotten Cookie warm.”
Molly didn’t say anything and Karl actually felt his heart sink. There were times, late at night with all the lights off, that Karl had to admit that he was sort of a screw-up. He had the feeling Molly thought so, too.
The wind howled, beating against him, beating against the sled and the dogs, and Karl wondered if they were going to die out here, him and Molly and his sweet, psychotic Cookie and all the rest of the dogs who only wanted to run and chew on the special rawhides he bought in bulk at the feed store.
He might’ve sobbed.
And then… and then he saw the sign for Sam’s road, suddenly there in the white.
Karl whooped and yelled “Haw!” at Bug, and Bug, that big bundle of dumb mutt, swung left, just like he was supposed to, and they raced down the road and then there was Sam’s cabin and Karl whooped again and yelled, “Whoa!”
So, okay, Bug went a little past the cabin, but Karl got him turned around and then they were there and he looked at Molly as he set the brake and grinned. “We made it.”
She gazed at him a little puzzled. “Of course we did. You were driving.”
Her simple faith in him caught him unawares and made his heart suddenly leap up and soar. He came around the sled and bent and kissed her, frozen-mouthed and hot-tongued. Cookie tried to nip him, probably because she was sort of squished between them, but Karl was too busy being relieved and happy and kind of glorying in Molly’s sexy mouth.
Which was when someone cleared their throat.
He loo
ked up.
Walkingtall stood in the doorway to Sam’s house, pinch-faced and too tall and said, “Doug’s been shot, Doc’s got a fever, Sam and Maisa haven’t returned, and George Johnson’s disappeared. That dog is covered in blood. Is she dying? You want to come in? It’s freezing out here.”
Karl kind of wanted to kick him in the shins.
Chapter Forty
By the time Sam and May caught sight of his cabin, dusk was closing in. They’d had to wait until the storm had let up to even set out. Sam had found Hopkins’s ancient snowshoes—fortunately he still had his late wife’s shoes stored away as well—and showed May how to strap them on. Then it’d just been a matter of walking to his cabin. But snowshoeing, though effective on deep snow, was slow going. It’d taken them hours, and May had started lagging the last mile or so, her face tired and drawn.
All in all, he was damned happy to see his front door.
Some of the sled dogs staked out in his yard stood and greeted them with yaps, though most didn’t bother uncurling from their balls of warm fur. He could hear Otter, though, inside the house, racing to the door and barking his head off.
“We’ll get some hot soup in you,” Sam murmured to May as he led her to the door. “And a shower. That’ll warm you up.”
She only nodded at him, which made him worry more, because a May without a snappy comeback was a very cold and tired May.
He tried the handle to his own door, realized it was locked, realized further that he hadn’t brought his keys on the raid on Beridze, and knocked.
The door cracked and Karl and a shotgun barrel peered out.
“It’s us,” Sam said, too tired to even protest being held at gunpoint on his own front step.
“Oh, thank God, dude!” Karl said and flung open the door.
Sam helped May in, an arm around her shoulders, as Otter leaped at his knees. The little dog was nearly beside himself, panting anxiously as Sam gently shoved him aside so he could shut the door.
“We didn’t know what was up when you didn’t come back,” Karl said, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Doug’s been shot.”