“There’s something I have to do,” he repeated, holding her stare as he calmly removed her grasping hand from his arm. “It’ll only take a minute.”
She looked mutinous. “I’m coming, then,” she stated, stepping toward him.
He caught her at her shoulders.
“You’re not. I’m sorry. I told you that you had to do what I said, and you agreed. This is something I gotta do alone. Don’t pitch a fit about it.”
The anger slowly drained from her face. Maybe she sensed his grim, sad sense of purpose.
“Okay. But . . . hurry,” she whispered tensely as he turned.
He merely nodded once. He turned and slunk back onto Emmitt’s property.
• • •
She had lead feet, Jake thought numbly several hours later. He hadn’t hesitated to tell her, either, as they hastened through the woods earlier. Now he heard her stomping on the cave’s dusty stone floor a good fifteen seconds before she appeared b
y where he knelt next to a tiny trickling waterfall.
He knew from years of solitary exploring that the waterfall filtered down through stone from the top of the bluff. It was pure for drinking. Caves like this one pervaded the Appalachian Mountains, but this particular one was different. It was unique to Jake for the sole reason that Emmitt didn’t know of its existence. Jake knew this from the simple logic that Emmitt had never successfully discovered Jake there, despite the fact that he’d combed the woods and hills looking for him on dozens of occasions in the past.
He’d brought them there because he was uncertain about the tranquilizer and how long his uncle would be knocked out. Here, he could keep Harper temporarily safe while he determined if Emmitt had picked up their trail.
Harper noisily plopped down on the earth next to him. At least her lack of grace wasn’t as important now that they’d reached the cave. Either Emmitt would fall for Jake’s false trail in the direction of Poplar Gorge, or he wouldn’t. If he picked up their trail to the cave, Harper could be as silent as a flea, and Emmitt would still find them.
During their flight through the woods, Harper hadn’t seemed to have any idea what Jake meant about moving through the woods like a ghost. How could Jake ask her not to make the grass rustle or bend, or twigs break beneath her feet?
She had no idea of what it meant to be prey.
Given the racket she’d made approaching him just now, there’d been time to duck behind the rocks and avoid her. Was it what he’d done back at Emmitt’s, his fear of being caught . . . or his fascination with Harper McFadden that kept him fixed in place? He was too weary to figure it out. He continued to wash his hands in the cool waterfall when she came and sat beside him.
They’d washed and dressed her cut wrists earlier. The white of the bandages flickered in the light of the small camp lantern. He was highly distracted by the feeling of her knee brushing against his lower leg. Half in dread and half in anticipation, he waited for her to speak.
But she didn’t.
Instead, her small, warm hands surrounded his wrists. He stiffened at her touch, but didn’t resist when she gently pulled his hands out of the streaming water. When she released him, he sat back on his haunches, his wet hands leaking onto his jean-covered thighs.
“Your hands aren’t going to get any cleaner,” she stated dryly.
He raised his hands to his face, palms facing him, and peered at them closely. His fingertips were as wrinkled as prunes from being underwater so long.
“What’d you do, Jake?” He heard her whisper from the darkness. “What did you do when you went back to your uncle’s?”
He lowered his hands and braced them on his thighs, rocking back and forth slightly.
“I killed Mrs. Roundabout.”
“Who’s Mrs. Roundabout?”
He was surprised and relieved that she didn’t gasp in horror at his confession. She’d asked the question quickly and calmly.
“My dog,” Jake answered dully. “Emmitt didn’t think she was my dog. But she was. Not that I owned her. Not like that. She was just . . .” My friend. He didn’t say the thought out loud. Harper probably already thought he was a stupid hillbilly. “My dog, that’s all,” he repeated lamely. He lowered his head and studied his knees. “All the dogs on Emmitt’s property are bought for the fights, so Emmitt thought Mrs. Roundabout was his. She wasn’t, though.”
“Fights?”
“Yeah. Dogfights. Men bet on a dog to win in the ring.”
“How do they win?” Harper asked, sounding puzzled.