Night Resurrected by Joss Ware Page A

a hint of
    disdain. But there’s a box of Trojans in
    the damn truck, Earp.
    She bristled, as he expected she
    would. So predictable! “I don’t see how
    what I did with Ian has any bearing on
    your conduct this afternoon.”
    She sounded like the principal at his
    middle school, prim and outraged at the
    same time. And she had neatly confirmed
    what he suspected: she and Ian Marck
    had been lovers. He wasn’t certain why
    he wanted to know, but now he did.
    “That was a sorry excuse,” she
    continued in that prim, princessy voice.
    “I hope your curiosity was assuaged.”
    “It certainly was,” he said, his voice
    emotionless. “And you can be assured it
    won’t happen again.”
    If they had been in a real kitchen, she
    probably would have thrown a frying
    pan at him—or a knife. Instead, her face
    went blank with shock and then rosy
    with fury and she pressed her full, pink
    lips together so hard they became little
    more than a white line.
    Then they softened enough for her to
    mutter something that sounded like
    “Dickhead.”
    Yes, indeed. That, he could be, when
    he felt there was cause for it. Cathy
    hadn’t ever used that word in particular,
    but there had been times she probably
    wanted to. But at least with her, he’d
    always made it up to her later. The stab
    of grief laced with guilt left him
    breathless, and he forced his thoughts
    away from the funny, bright-eyed woman
    he’d loved deeply.
    The important thing now was that
    he’d reset the boundaries, reinstated the
    barrier between him and Remy. He
    began to cut the tough ends off the
    asparagus, idly tossing a piece to Dantès
    just to see whether he’d eat it. He didn’t.
    By the time the meal was ready, it
    was twilight and Wyatt’s mouth was
    watering. It smelled unbelievably good
    for such a rudimentary setting. He
    wondered at the last minute if she was
    angry enough to feed his portion to
    Dantès, but Remy didn’t. She merely
    handed him a laden plate and settled
    back into her spot to eat.
    “This is really good,” he said after
    the first bite of flaky trout. Nothing like
    fresh-caught fish over the fire, and she’d
    done a great job. “Thanks.”
    Remy shrugged. “You caught ’em and
    cleaned them.”
    He took another bite. “We can leave
    tomorrow. Dantès seems ready to go.”
    This time she nodded. “I agree.”
    “It’ll take about two more days to get
    there,” he said, spearing a potato. These
    wild ones were smaller and sweeter
    than the large brown ones he’d grown up
    on. Cooked directly in the coals, their
    skins were crispy and the insides
    creamy.
    “I know.”
    He swallowed, took a drink of water,
    then manned up. “Look, Remy, I’m sorry
    about today. I was a little . . . uh . . .
    rough when I grabbed you, and after
    what happened—”
    She looked up at him, her brilliant
    blue eyes calm and steady. “You were
    being a jerk, but you don’t need to worry
    that you upset me. It was a kiss, not an
    attack. Seattle . . . uh—” Her voice
    cracked, but she forged on, swallowing
    visibly. Her eyes went hard. “There was
    no kissing . . . then.” The words sat
    there, cold and stark.
    Christ. Now he really felt like shit.
    “Hell, Remy, I—”
    He stopped as Dantès sprang to his
    feet. They both turned and Wyatt saw
    Remy reach behind her for her gun. He
    tensed, peering into the darkening forest,
    listening.
    The dog’s ears were up but his mouth
    was closed. He was neither panting nor
    growling; just at attention. Watching and
    waiting.
    Wyatt was about to duck into the
    truck to get his gun when the shape of a
    man emerged from the trees. Dantès gave
    a short bark of recognition and ran over
    to him.
    The intruder looked around, patted
    the dog on the head and said, “I thought I
    smelled your cooking, Remy.”
    Jesus. Wasn’t Ian Marck supposed to
    be dead?
    Chapter 7
    R emy bolted to her feet the moment
    Marck came into view. “Holy crap, Ian,
    what are you doing here?”
    He gave her a