Free Boneyard Ridge by Paula Graves Page A

“Dinner?”
    She nodded impatiently. “Whatever. Hunter is your first name. And you’re a former soldier. And there’s something—”
    “Don’t blow a gasket in there.” He tapped her head lightly with his forefinger. “There are a couple of bowls in the cabinet over the sink, and a saucepan in the next cabinet to the right. Grab them while I get the stove going.”
    She fetched the stoneware bowls and a battered but clean two-quart saucepan while he lit one of the gas burners. Blue flames hissed to life, adding soft light to the warm kitchen. “Where’s the can opener?” she asked, scanning the bare counter.
    He pulled open a drawer and handed her a manual can opener.
    “Oh, we’re going old-school.”
    “No, old-school would be an awl and a hammer.” He slanted her an amused look. “You’ve been away from the hills too long, Ms. Marsh.”
    “What makes you think I was ever in the hills?”
    He turned to look at her, a hint of payback glittering in his light eyes. “Scars on your legs, the kind you get from shinning up trees and climbing rocky hills. Your nails are—were—perfectly manicured, but you can’t hide the scars on your knuckles or that rope-burn scar on your palm. You’ve worked with those hands. Used them for more than typing.” He was ticking off the clues in the same way she’d added up her conclusions about his time in the military, she noted with a mix of irritation and grudging appreciation.
    “And no matter how high-priced an accent you’ve adopted, you still slip into a mountain twang now and then.”
    She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him, wishing she could make him disappear as easily. All her hard work to completely erase her former life, and he’d seen through her in hours. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Right.” He took the can opener out of her nerveless fingers and opened the can of chicken and dumplings.
    But her appetite had fled. “I think I’m too tired to eat,” she said quietly, already moving out of the kitchen.
    His hand closed around her wrist, pulling her to a halt. “A minute ago you were hungry enough to eat this stuff, can and all.”
    “Let me go.”
    He released her wrist. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
    Damn him, she thought. “I just spent three hours running from men with guns who want me dead. I’m being held captive in a backwoods cabin by a former soldier who won’t tell me his last name. What kind of trouble could I possibly be in?”
    His lips thinned to a flat line. “You should eat something. You’ll sleep better.”
    He was right. She knew he was right. Even though her appetite was gone, her body still needed fuel, especially after her adrenaline-fed mountain hike. Relenting, she sat in one of the kitchen chairs and rested her chin on her hand, watching as he turned his attention to heating the soup.
    When he was done, he poured the chicken and dumplings into the two bowls and carried them to the table where she sat, sliding one in front of her. He took a couple of spoons from a nearby drawer and handed her one. “Careful. It’s hot.”
    She stirred the creamy soup before dipping up a spoonful and blowing to cool it. She noticed he wasn’t eating any of his own soup. “Not hungry?”
    He dropped his spoon back in the bowl. “No.”
    She threw his own words back at him. “You should eat something. You’ll sleep better.”
    He leaned back in the chair, his chin dropping to his chest as he eyed her through a fringe of dark lashes. He looked tired. Despondent. And for the first time since he’d dragged her into the woods that night, she was beginning to believe his story.
    Nobody could feign the kind of misery she saw in those green eyes.
    * * *
    T HE RAIN ENDED OVERNIGHT , and a watery dawn seeped its way through the thicket of evergreens surrounding the cabin and slanted across Hunter’s face, tugging him out of a light sleep.
    He hadn’t thought he’d sleep at all, given his