Free Only My Love by Jo Goodman Page A

care of it myself. My wife's gone stupid with cold."
    Ben chuckled at that description. "Ain't you the lucky one, gettin' to warm her up and all. Well, I'll be just yonder if you need anything." He disappeared beyond the rocks.
    "Would you rather Ben warm you up?" Ethan asked. "No? Then come here so I can do something about it."
    Michael didn't move but she was unresisting as Ethan pulled her toward him. He took off his own gloves and placed his hands between hers and blew on her fingers. After a few minutes he carefully levered her hands near the fire. "Not too close," he cautioned. Taking the extra blanket Ben had given them, he pulled it around Michael's shoulders and raised it along the edge to protect her ears. "You should have told me how cold you were. I could have done something about it."
    Through chattering teeth Michael said, "I don't want anything from you."
    Ethan found the kerchief he had given her earlier and wiped at the tears that lay frozen on her cheeks. "Of course you don't."
    Michael briefly closed her eyes, exhaustion taking its toll again. "Don't patronize me," she said quietly. "You killed Drew. Happy admitted he killed the others. Paul, Jim, Bill, and Dave. All of them gone now... because of you and your friends. I don't want anything from you." Her voice dropped to a whisper and then she only seemed to mouth the words. "I want to sleep. I want to die."
    Ethan stuffed his kerchief back in his own pocket. "You're a piece of work, Miss Dennehy," he said softly, shaking his head from side to side. "Quite a piece of work."
    It took him several minutes to get them bedded down for the night. He sheltered Michael with his own body and the blankets, drawing her close inside his open coat and against his chest. Even in her drowsy, semi-conscious state, she was stiff and unyielding, her every muscle tense with cold and fear of his intentions. She shivered into his shoulder and tremors ran the length of her spine.
    Michael heard his voice coming to her as if from a great distance. It was quietly encouraging, gentle, and best of all, warm on her face. "Sleep," it said. "Just sleep."
    She dreamed she was back in the dining car, playing poker with her friends. She had a mountain of chips in front of her and she had drawn three cards to a full house. Drew was there, disgusted with his turn of luck and asking for an advance of thirty dollars. Michael found herself refusing him again and again in spite of her desire to do otherwise. She wanted to take charge of the dream, refashion it in a way that satisfied her, but she couldn't make it happen. The others started asking her for money as well. Paul and Jim drew caricatures of her smoking a cigar and playing tight-fisted with her winnings. Bill and Dave threatened to report her to Logan Marshall. Happy interrupted the game and drew his gun, promising to kill each reporter in turn, and Michael last. Helpless to stop the grisly chain of events, Michael watched each friend face Happy's gun in turn. When the Colt was leveled at her head she closed her eyes... and woke up screaming.
    Or thought she did. At first she wasn't certain if she was awake or still trapped in her nightmare. Ethan Stone was beside her, one of his legs lying heavily across both of hers. The blankets cocooned them and beyond the darkness of her immediate shelter she could hear the crackle and spit of the fire. Except for that sound, nothing moved or rustled. There was no echo of her scream, no stirring in the night from any of the others. She had dreamed the scream just as she had dreamed every improbable exchange during the course of her nightmare.
    She was left with one lasting impression as the details of her nightmare began to fade. There had been no one to save her, no one to stop Happy's relentless pursuit of the reporters. It seemed more than the vagaries of a dream. It seemed an omen.
    Michael lay very still and pondered escape. Was it possible? Ethan appeared to be deeply asleep, breathing