As he opened a can of vegetable soup, he looked at her tearing pieces of lettuce into a big bowl. She had a look of intense concentration on her small face.
“You want French dressing or Italian?”
She picked up the bottle of French dressing.
“Good choice. That was always my favorite when I was your age.” He wasn’t going to tell her they were leaving until he was ready to load her into the Jeep.
She cocked her head to one side. He realized he did the same thing in just the same way. Had she picked it up from him in only a week? He shook his head, smiling at her. “Yeah, I was once your age. A long time ago. Don’t make fun of me because I’m old.”
She gave him an impudent grin that was as kid-normal as kicking a soccer ball.
They ate the soup and salad in front of the fireplace. The evening had turned cold, really cold once the sun went down. It was probably in the low forties.
A coyote howled.
JUST after dawn, he unbolted the door, unfastened the chain, and as quietly as he could, he went out into a silent world where he could see his breath. He needed to chop wood for the fireplace and the wood-burning stove. He stood very still, looking everywhere for any sign of something that shouldn’t be here. Nothing. He finally laid his Browning Savage down on the ground, really close to his left foot. He looked around again but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
He split half a dozen logs before his leg began throbbing so much he had to stop. It would be enough. He’d agreed to leave the cabin the way he’d found it, and that included a goodly amount of split logs. He was cursing softly as he cradled the logs in his arms, pressed his rifle against his side, and carried it all back inside.
The dawn light was gray, the forest line blurred and indistinct. There was no movement, not even an early-morning squirrel dashing between trees. He crossed the cabin threshold to see her jerk bolt upright, mewling deep in her throat, her face ashen.
He quickly set the logs and his rifle down by the fireplace, then went to her. He sat beside her” on the sofa. Slowly, because he’d learned never to make any unexpected or quick moves, he gathered her against him. He kissed the top of her head. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I had to get some more logs.” He wouldn’t tell her yet that they were, leaving. “You just snuggle down again and I’ll get the fire going really strong. Okay?”
He laid her back down, the covers in his hands to pull up to her small chin.
“Don’t you touch her, you filthy bastard. Step away from her now!”
He and the child both froze at the sound of the woman’s voice. He was the stupidest human alive. He’d left the cabin door unlocked. He looked at his Smith & Wesson on the table beside the sofa.
A shot rang out and his gun went flying off the table, skidding across the wooden floor until it was stopped by one of the Indian rugs.
“Try anything at all and the next bullet will go in your head. I promise you that. Get away from her now.”
He backed away from her and stood. He turned to see a woman standing in the open doorway, wearing a black down jacket, black jeans and boots, a black knit cap on her head. Her face was very white, her irises showing huge and black. She was holding a Detonics.45 ACP, a nasty little pistol that could blow a man’s brains out if he was within twenty feet, which he was.
She looked strung out and quite ready to kill him, but her voice was calm, quiet, filled with hatred. “Move, you creep. I’m not going to tell you again. I don’t want you anywhere near her. If I have to blow your head off, I’ll do it. Damn you, get away from her!”
“You don’t want to kill me. I’m not the one who took her, I swear it to you.”