The thud from the front porch was definitely a knock.
Kelli Carpenter jumped, clutching the plastic shower
curtain to keep from slipping. "Just a minute," she called
as she reached across the cascading spray to twist off the
taps. So much for the hot, steamy shower she'd been
dreaming about while she lay, freezing her butt off in a
stinking mud puddle, waiting for the perfect shot. She
squirmed back into her grimy jeans.
From the road, she heard the distinctive roar of Harley
engines. The knock repeated, growing more insistent.
Take it easy," she muttered. Without bothering to towel
off, she slipped her sweatshirt over her head, working her
damp arms into muddy sleeves while she headed for the
door, her mind racing through the possibilities of who
would be there. Only park rangers ever came by. But they
wouldn't pound unless something was wrong. And if they
did, they'd call her name. The familiar fear gnawed at her
belly. Had someone found her?
Shit. She'd forgotten her contacts and although she
doubted any of the rangers would notice—or
care—she hadn't survived as Kelli Carpenter this
long by neglecting the details. She hurried back to the
bathroom and inserted the lenses, turning her pale gray
eyes into a nondescript brown and grabbed her oversize
tortoiseshell–framed glasses. "Coming!" She hurried
through the living room and peered through the window.
Her stomach flipped at the sight of a total stranger on
her porch. Hardly anybody knew about this field station,
tucked away in the mountains of Washington state. Behind
him, she caught a glimpse of a gray pickup truck, the one
that had pissed her off by hugging the center line when
she'd driven home.
Calm down. He's lost and wants directions. Tell him
what he needs and he'll be gone.
"Yes?" she called through the door, trying to remember
if she'd locked it.
"I'm looking for Kelli Carpenter," a deep male voice
said.
Kelli. Not Casey. Okay. She inched the door open.
Swallowed. Twice. A man waited on her porch, wearing jeans
and a windbreaker over a black turtleneck, holding an
olive–green duffel bag. He stood at least
six–two, with black hair that hung almost to his
shoulders, and a five o'clock shadow at least two days old.
"I'm Kelli." She forced herself to meet his eyes. Dark
chocolate brown, they grabbed and wouldn't let go. He
stared, a little longer than necessary and she crossed her
arms over her chest, suddenly all too aware her bra lay on
the bathroom floor.
She took a step backward into the dimmer light of the
living room. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing." His startled expression dissolved into
neutrality. "I...um...I suppose I'd expected a man." He
took half a step forward.
Avoiding his eyes, she took a deep breath and managed a
quick smile. "Can I help you with something?"
He dropped his duffel and extended a hand. "Sorry. I'm
Blake Windsor. I'm here to repair a dormitory cabin. If
you'll point me to my room, I can put my stuff away and
take a look before it gets dark."
She ignored the offer of a handshake and suppressed a
shudder at the thought of a stranger invading her
home. "I'm afraid there must be some mistake. There's no
room for you to stay here."
He raised an eyebrow and looked beyond her. "I can take
the couch. No problem. Jack Stockbridge said you'd be
expecting me."
Her mind whirled. Because he knew her boss's name
didn't mean he was legit. Camp Getaway was hardly a secret
project. A ripple of fear crept up her scalp. The way he
looked at her when she opened the door, like he was
studying her, and not in a man–woman way. A man
hadn't looked at her like that in a long time, but not so
long she didn't recognize the difference. Had someone
connected her to Robert after all these years? No. If they
had, that man on the porch would be here with handcuffs,
not a duffel bag.