Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,43

affluent he’d led police on a life-and-death car chase.

“Here.” He threw her a waterproof packsack. “There’s a spring about fifty yards back in the trees, over to the left. You can wash up and change. You’ll find everything you need in the bag. Jesse got it ready.”

“It seems Dr. Henderson did a great deal toward arranging this voyage of the damned,” she muttered, reaching for the pack and feeling her head pound as she straightened up. “I bet she signed Gramps’ death certificate, too, and recommended no autopsy.”

“She did.” Heath turned from his task and looked at her, squinting in the sunlight. “Under New Brunswick law, none is required in cases like Jack’s, where he’d been under a physician’s care for a serious illness that obviously was the cause of death, unless the family requests one and pays for it. Your father and mother didn’t see any need for one under those circumstances. By the way, you’ll find aspirin in there for that hangover.”

“Hangover! I’m not hung over! I’m…”

“Go.”

She could only attempt to glare at him, hampered by the sun behind him glinting on the sparkling water and making her eyes hurt and her head ache even harder. With a disgruntled mutter, she turned and headed off in the direction he’d indicated for the spring.

When she reached the place where crystal-clean water bubbled out of a hillside, she knelt and splashed handfuls over her hot face. Blessed relief. Then she turned and opened the valise. Inside she was amazed to find toiletries and spanking new clothing appropriate to wilderness travel.

Several white T-shirts, three plaid flannel shirts, three pair of bush pants, a leather belt, a down-filled vest, a weatherproof jacket with a hood, both cotton and woolen socks, a pair of hiking boots, a package of feminine hygiene products, and even some highly practical underwear had been carefully packed into the sack. Mildred Wilson had racked up an excellent sale yesterday.

Digging deep, she discovered shampoo, toothpaste and toothbrush, soap, a brush and comb, and even deodorant nestled in a plastic bag wrapped in a towel and face cloth.

First needs first. She uncapped the aspirin, popped a couple into her mouth, then cupped her hands, filled them with spring water, and washed the pills down her throat.

Lord, I feel grungy. She glanced about at the spring’s surroundings. Secluded by a circle of close-growing alders, it offered privacy of a sort. Although she loathed him, she knew Heath Oakes was no sexual predator. Hadn’t he had a perfect opportunity when she’d—she shuddered to admit it—passed out from too much of that potent wine? And being a peeping Tom definitely wasn’t his style.

She pulled off her sweaty, rumpled clothes. Bathing every inch of her aching, weary body in fresh, pure, albeit icy water would revive her. Naked, she began to wash.

Twenty minutes later she was feeling much better. As she pulled the vest over the plaid shirt, with the white T-shirt peeping out at its throat, she couldn’t help grinning. In this getup even Myra wouldn’t recognize her. She brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her damp hair, and hefted her packsack, ready to return to their campsite.

A twig snapped in the bush to her left.

She whirled but saw only a thicket budding into leaf. Nothing stirred. But no birds sang, either. Jack had taught her that kind of silence in the bush wasn’t good.

An eerie feeling wafted over her. She felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Was it a bear? A ravenous, fresh-out-of-hibernation bear looking for food, any kind of food? Or was it maybe that weird being she and Marty Mason had glimpsed on their way to the Chance?

Bear. It had to be a bear. There were no such creatures as sasquatches. Remembering her grandfather’s first rule of bear defense, she eased off her Tilly hat and whirled it toward the spot from which the sound had issued. Then she turned and raced back to where she’d left Heath.

She ran full tilt into him as he arose from lighting the camp stove. With a grunt, he caught her in his arms.

“What happened?” he asked. When she could only gasp and point back into the bush, he shook her. “What happened?”

“Bear!” she gasped.

“Did you see it?” His hand went to the knife at his belt.

“No…no. I heard it…in the bush.”

“Oh.” He released her and turned back to the stove.

“Oh, right!” She began to get her breath back enough to be angry. “Silly city girl wouldn’t know a