The Girl from Her Mirror (Mirrors Don't Lie Book 1) (17 page)

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Hardin apologized.
“You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” A nod was the best she could
manage until the worst of the pain subsided. She stuffed the pillow beneath her
leg to offer a small amount of elevation and protection.

Hardin looked over at her and grinned
unexpectedly. “Pretty exciting vacation, huh?”  

Makenna rolled her eyes. Only a
high-octane male would declare these recent events as exciting. Her version ran
along the lines of terrifying. Horrific. She told him as much.

“At least it’s not dull,” he offered.

“Hardin, what is going on? What is all
this about?” Makenna groaned aloud as she rested her weary head against the
seat and discovered another lump on her skull.

He didn’t answer as he maneuvered a
large pothole in the road. He managed to miss the worst of it, but there were
plenty more to follow. The condition of the road was getting progressively
worse, making it obvious that it received little traffic and therefore even
less attention.

“Why don’t you try to rest?” he
suggested. “We still have a little ways to go, and I need to pay attention to
the road. We take a fork up here somewhere.” When he looked down at directions
on his phone, the front wheel of the truck found yet another pit in the road.
Makenna grunted and he apologized. “See what I mean?”

As the narrow blacktop road wound and
climbed its way higher onto the mountain, the trees became denser. Hardin found
the fork he was looking for, which was really more like a trail into the woods.
Asphalt gave way to gravel. Trees and underbrush crowded near the roadway,
making two-way traffic questionable at best.

“We’re looking for the third lane to the
right,” Hardin said as they bounced along the graveled path. Lanes and pathways
leading off the remote mountain road had been few and far between. Makenna had
gotten a glimpse of one rooftop amid the trees, but no other signs of
habitation were evident. Hardin peered through the truck’s window, squinting
into the late morning sun. “We passed one a while back, and I think that
classifies as the second.”

“You might could get a four-wheeler down
it,” she agreed dubiously.

They hit another bump, jostling her leg.
“Not much further, sweetheart, and we can get you comfortable,” he promised.
“Look for a huge fallen tree with a driveway just past it. That’s where we’re
headed.”

Two dozen bumps later, Hardin turned the
truck onto the small lane to the right. Scattered leaves and small limbs
littered the path that cut through the woods. No one had been down the road in
quite some time. At one point, Hardin had to get out and move a larger limb in
order to pass. As an afterthought, he stopped and replaced the log across the
road. “You never know,” he said with a wry shrug, reminding Makenna of the
danger they were still in. Just because no one seemed to be following them
didn’t mean they were safe.

The lane ended in a large clearing. A
small log cabin was nestled amid the trees, a picturesque setting that brought
an odd ache to Makenna’s chest.

“What’s wrong?” Hardin asked, noting the
sudden pallor to her already pale skin. He pulled up close to the house and
stopped near the porch.

“I-I don’t know. I have the oddest
feeling…”

“Your leg?” he asked in concern.

“No, no, not physical. I feel like…. I
don’t know. I feel like I’ve been here before, but I know it’s impossible.”

Makenna stared at the cozy scene before
her. She couldn’t shake the sensation that she had seen this cabin before. She
had a sudden sense of crisp fall air, scented with pine needles and baked
apples and the odd whiff of moose dander. She could almost hear the crunch of
colorful leaves beneath her feet.

Hardin looked at her sharply, but he
said nothing as she sat up straighter and unfastened her seatbelt. She drank in
the sight before her, trying to justify this overwhelming sense of deja vu.

“I’ll go get the key,” he said, getting
out of the truck. She continued to stare at the cabin as he disappeared around
one side. Moments later he returned, grinning as he held up a key.

Makenna already had her door opened and
was struggling to get out.

“Hold on, hold on,” he said, unlocking
the cabin door and swinging it open. He jumped down off the porch and reached
her side with a long stride. “I’ll help you, if you’ll give me a minute.”

“I want to see inside,” she murmured. “I
already see it in my mind. A hall and bedrooms on the right, a kitchen in the
back. A big blue couch.”

“Here, put your arm around my neck. I’ll
carry you.”

“No, I’m -”

“Not too heavy,” he finished for her,
lifting her into his arms. It was true, she was heavy, but he was in excellent
shape and found the challenge manageable. At the doorway, he paused, turning
her so she got the full view of the cabin.

It was a one-room cabin, cozy without
being crowded. Makenna’s eyes flew to the kitchen at the back, traveling
forward to the bed on the left side of the room, the seating area on the left.
Not a thread of blue was in sight.

She burst out laughing. “So much for deja
vu!” she giggled. “Guess it reminded me of something I saw in a movie.” Hardin
re-shifted her in his arms, causing her to protest. “You can put me down now,
before I break your back.”

“Yeah, one cripple is enough,” he
teased, but he made no move to put her down.

Makenna had to admit, she enjoyed being
in his arms. His chest was hard and solid, his arms corded with muscle. He was
delightfully warm and he smelled completely male. It was a heady combination.

He carried her toward the couch. “Do you
think you can stand for a second, while I check the cushions for mice?”

“Mice?” she squeaked, tightening her
grip on his neck.

“Yeah, mice, those tiny little critters
smaller than my big toe. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of them?”

“I’m not afraid of them,” she corrected.
“I’m petrified of them.”

He merely chuckled, carefully depositing
her so she could lean against the arm of the couch. He lifted up the brown and
tan plaid cushions, beat them once or twice to create a billow of dust, patted
down the sides and back, and declared it mice-free.

Makenna leaned on his arm and hobbled
her way to the front of the sofa, where she sank gingerly onto the cushions,
mindful of her bruised backside.

“Here, swing your legs up and rest,
while I open some windows and unload the truck.” He placed a green throw pillow
beneath her leg as he examined the injury. “It’s pretty swollen. We need to get
some ice on it.”

“Do we have any ice?” she asked
doubtfully.

“In the truck,” he nodded. “Just lay
back and rest.”

Instead, Makenna examined her surroundings.
Along with the couch, a faux leather arm chair and a rustic Adirondack with
plaid cushions clustered around a large stone fireplace. Windows bordered
either side and were now wide open, their simple green curtains billowing as
fresh breezes stirred the stale air in the room. At the back of the cabin, the
kitchen consisted of a small set of rough pine lower cabinets with open shelves
above, and compact vintage appliances. A scrubbed pine table with benches
defined the dining area of the cabin. To the left of the small refrigerator she
could see a bathroom, again with vintage fixtures. Her greedy eyes zeroed in on
the old claw-foot tub. 

She turned her head to look behind her,
to the bedroom portion of the cabin. One chest of drawers, one nightstand, and
one bed. The mattress seemed to sag just a bit the middle, but the red, green
and tan tartan plaid bedding looked fluffy and inviting. Later, she would worry
about the fact that there was only one bed; she had no intentions of moving off
this couch any time soon.

Hardin made several trips in, carrying
luggage and shopping bags she recognized from their visit to the little country
store. Had that really only been yesterday? In amazement, she watched as he
carried in two Styrofoam ice chests and, even more surprisingly, two picnic
baskets like the one they shared on the mountain.

“Hardin, where did all this come from?
When did you have time to get it?” She twisted on the couch to follow his
movements into the kitchen, where he deposited his load. “
Why
did you
get it?”

“Let me move the truck and I’ll explain
everything.”

“Why are you moving the truck?”

He shrugged nonchalantly, but she wasn’t
fooled. “It might be best for it not to be out in the wide open.”

“Wide open? We’re far enough back we
might have to pump in sunshine,” she reminded him. “No one’s going to just
happen upon us back here. If they make it this far back, it’s because they know
we’re here.”

He continued out the door as if she
hadn’t spoken. He backed the vehicle against the far side of the house, where
it was hidden from immediate view of the lane. It was facing forward, ready for
action.
Or escape
, she realized. He caught the end of her weary sigh as
he came in a back door off the kitchen.

“I didn’t know there was a back door,”
she said without opening her eyes. They were suddenly too weary to keep open.

“And a porch. You should see the view
from back here. Gorgeous.”

He began unloading, banging his way
through the cabinets and refrigerator and squeaky Styrofoam coolers. Thinking
she would simply rest her eyes for a few more minutes, Makenna drifted off to
sleep. She didn’t rouse until she felt the cushions sag at her side, jostling
her leg and causing new discomfort.

“Sorry,” he murmured, “but we need to
tend to your leg and some of your cuts.” Very carefully, he placed a dishtowel
on her battered leg, then topped it with a plastic bag filled with ice. The
pressure and the cold immediately hurt, but she knew it would help in the long
run. He had found a bottle of alcohol and some antibiotic cream and clean rags
to apply it all with.

“If you’re going to torture me, the
least you can do is take my mind off it by telling me what the heck is going
on,” Makenna said testily. He had started his administrations on her feet and
planned to work his way up. Her left foot, the one minus the shoe, was badly
battered and bruised. Blisters were already forming and there was at least one
fairly deep cut, along with the gouge left by the stick. He was using bottled
water to wash away the blood and mud and filth, and even though he was trying
his best to be gentle, it still hurt. Everything on her body hurt.

As he cleaned her foot, slathered it
with ointment and then slipped one of his own clean white socks onto it, he
started to talk. “Last night, I kept our date with the Lewises. You owe me big
time for that, by the way. Anyway, I noticed there were a lot of
inconsistencies with their stories, a lot of things that didn’t make sense. I
called it an early evening, then did a little surveillance. When I noticed the
gray Honda parked at their resort, I wanted to see who was driving it. This
morning, Bob went for an early donut run.”

“You stayed up all night?”

“That’s why I was trying to get a hold
of you so early this morning. I was trying to warn you about the Lewises.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I’m
sorry I didn’t trust you.”

He set her doctored foot down and looked
her directly in the eye. “You can, you know. You can trust me.”

She was alone in a secluded cabin with
him, in the middle of the New Hampshire White Mountains. She had only a vague
idea of how to get back to town, which was miles away. She had only known him
for five days, and for the past twenty-four hours she had believed him to be
abusive and cruel, then believed he was involved with the mob. She had no idea
if her cell phone worked up here or where the nearest neighbors were. There was
one bed, one vehicle which he held the keys to, one route of escape. And she
wasn’t the least bit frightened; not of him, at least.

“I do trust you,” she told him softly,
her green eyes earnest.

“I’m glad.” His fingers trailed up her
ankle, sending shivers of delight dancing up her leg, injured though it was. He
pushed the hem of her jeans up, revealing a half dozen scrapes and scratches.
He cleaned them all with alcohol and smeared on more antibiotic salve. Moving
along, he readjusted the ice pack and peeked at the assortment of cuts visible
beneath the gaping denim of her torn pants. Skipping that leg for now, he moved
to the right thigh, which was exposed by more ripped denim. 

“You’re definitely in style with the
ripped jeans,” he said, wiping alcohol across a cut on her thigh.

“Ouch, that burns! And these aren’t even
my jeans. Ken-” She caught herself just before she said the wrong name.
“Makenna’s going to kill me for ruining her jeans.”

He didn’t even notice the slip. His
attention was on the creamy white flesh beneath his fingers. Slick with
ointment, his fingertips slid easily over her skin, radiating out from the
scrape, reaching beneath the flap of ripped fabric to trace along her hip. When
his fingers touched lace, Makenna shifted her leg and pulled him from his
wanderings.