Chapter 22

Montreal was a real contrast. The outskirts, from the commercial port where we’d docked to the center city, was an industrial wasteland mixed with depressing, drab homes in characterless neighborhoods. The city center was charming and full of character, old buildings mixed with modern office blocks, broad avenues and quaint side streets, café, bistros, and restaurants giving the city a European feel.

We had time for a delectable lunch of Nova Scotia lobster before catching the Greyhound bus. Passage into Vermont was without incident, telling me our cover I.D.’s were still holding up.

Callie, after the excitement of being off the ship and experiencing Montreal, fell asleep leaning against me. My churning brain didn’t allow me to sleep. The nightmare haunted me as we traveled towards New York.

By nine-thirty we were settled in a nondescript hotel in the Bronx. We made love again, slow and sensual, unadventurous, tender. With soft caresses and loving kisses our arousal built. Now familiar with each other, I rolled on top of her and Callie reached down and guided me to her pussy, her thighs cradling me. I penetrated her gently, again experiencing the exquisite sensation of her snug pussy, warm, welcoming. We moved together, fucking slowly, kissing gently, sighs of pleasure drifting in the air. I loved her tightness, her fine-boned body, and the way she responded, so full of pleasure, her kisses so loving.

Gradually our urgency emerged, slow firm thrusts, erection swelling, Callie murmuring, undulating underneath me. Her arms tightened around me as she curled her pussy up taking me deep, curled back, then took me deep inside her body again. I whispered, “Ayasha.” She sighed, “Hunter,” in response and climaxed, her pussy gently clenching, and I came with her, erection swelling, semen pulsing into her, sweet bliss blossoming. With gentle motions, we fucked, cumming with each sensual stroke into her, semen pulsing, exquisite, beautiful, and too soon, we slowed, movement ceasing, my face buried in her neck inhaling her aroma.

I fell asleep in her arms, a dreamless sleep without nightmares.

By late afternoon we were in Virginia, close to my home. Washington beckoned not far away. It was there the endgame would be played out and Callie’s future would be determined. Tension returned, body taut. I was alert and watchful.

“Where are we going?” Callie asked.

“Home,” I told her.

“Is that smart? Won’t they be watching your place?”

I nodded. “They will. But we’re not going to my official home. We’re going to another place, one registered under a friend’s name.”

“When we get there, you’re going to explain your plan to me. Every detail.”

When I didn’t respond immediately, Callie grabbed my sleeve. Her eyes turned Arctic-ice hard. “Lightfoot, you’re going to tell me everything, you get that? Everything.”

CALLIE HAD NOTICED HOW Hunter had tensed up. Ever-present in her mind was waking up to him thrashing in his nightmare. He’d claimed it was nothing but she knew better. She’d hear him cry out in anguish, No, Ayasha. God no! and it had scared her.

She hadn’t probed when he’d refused to talk. He’d been shaken and sweating, for the first time looking vulnerable, so she’d done the only thing she could think of - try to wrap him in her love, holding him tightly. She hadn’t slept for the rest of the night, worried he might have another nightmare.

Making love with him last night had been very different. For the first time she’d felt his love, his arms holding her carefully, his actions tender, kisses soft, and his whisper, “Ayasha,” had sent tremors through her. Climaxing together had felt wonderful; as if they were one body, souls joined. Hunter loved her. She had no doubt. None. Thank God. She couldn’t imagine living with her love for him not being reciprocated.

Now, however, she could see his tension and it was different from the tension she’d seen in him before. His eyes were obsidian-dark and foreboding, narrowed, restless and ever watchful. He moved like a big cat, staying close to her, protective, his hand resting on her back. His mind was occupied.

He hadn’t smiled once since the nightmare and his tension was contagious, rubbing off on her. She had to know the plan. She needed to know for her own peace of mind.

Callie climbed into the taxi he hailed and let the urban landscape pass, still deep in thought. Worries assailed her. Lost in the excitement of her new, intimate relationship with Hunter, she hadn’t given any thought to the future. Now, with how she felt about him, she worried. What would happen? Would they stay together? What about school and dance classes in Paris? Would she ever see Paris again?

The taxi cruised down Eagles Nest Lane, deep green forests on either side. Hunter leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder, then pointed to the right. The taxi slowed and bumped down a rutted dirt drive, curving around. An old, very large cabin appeared, wooden sided and weather-distressed, small windows, a wrap-around veranda protected by an overhanging roof. Deciduous trees pressed in from all sides. To the right was a wooden shed, also large. Maybe a garage, she thought.

After the taxi left, Hunter, reaching into the overhanging roof, pulled out a set of keys and opened the wood front door, the inset glass panes dusty. He ushered her in.

It was rustic inside. Polished pine floors had the odd rug here and there. The roof soared up. Basic pine furniture with colorful cushions matched the cabinets in the open kitchen to the back, a country island counter separating the kitchen from the living area. To the right in the cabin, she could see a short hallway with three doors.

But, what caught her attention were the framed photographs on the walls. She left her overnight suitcase and meandered over.

To the sound of Hunter moving around, water turning on and off, cabinets opening and closing as if he was checking everything, she studied the pictures.

The photos were landscapes; vast open spaces with dusty-brown buttes in the distance, scrub brush covered land, huge clear sky above. One showed a small family home, rough and worn, with an older man and woman standing proudly in front. It was obviously Hunter’s father and mother. She was arresting: long thick, straight raven hair, dark obsidian eyes, slender, high cheek bones, long calf-length skirt and beaded blouse. Hunter’s father surprised her. He was not Cheyenne: light brown hair cut neat and short, a goatee, and taller than his wife. He wore used, faded jeans, a checked shirt, and stood with a familiar stance, languid and at ease, loose-limbed; the same stance Hunter had.

She studied other photos: Hunter as an eleven-year-old with two younger brothers. In it, she saw Hunter had inherited his mother’s features, both brothers taking after his father.

In a progression of photos she saw the three of them growing up, his father aging, and, noticeably, his mother missing from the images.

Leaving the photos, she explored the hallway. The first door opened into a bedroom decorated with pine furniture; dresser, side tables, and bed. The next room was the bathroom. A white enamel claw-foot tub and shower with a clear shower curtain sat to the left, a toilet to the right, the enamel sink in-between. The third door opened revealing wooden steps leading down into a dark cellar. She closed the door.

All in all, the spacious cabin was rustic but comfortable.

“Are you thirsty? We have water,” Hunter offered.

“No thanks.” Callie wandered into the kitchen and opened cupboards, checked the fridge - it was warm.

“We have to shop this afternoon. I don’t have anything,” Hunter admitted.

“No kidding. Your fridge isn’t even cold.”

“Just turned it on.”

She moved to the living area and settled onto the couch. “Where’s your real home?”

“Near Washington. I have an apartment there.”

Watching him, she said, “Come over and sit down. It’s time you explained your plan.”

He studied her intently and finally nodded. Sitting next to her, he said, “I’m going to blackmail the President.”

Callie waited for the details. When he didn’t speak, she frowned. “I know you’re conversationally challenged, Lightfoot, but I’m going to blackmail the President isn’t enough. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my life on the line, too. I deserve more.”

He nodded. “Okay. While you’re safe here I’m...”

“Stop right there!” Callie interrupted, suddenly angry. “You’re NOT leaving me anywhere. You’re NOT hiding me away. Where you go, I go. That’s all there is to it.”

“Callie...”

“Don’t want to hear it!” she said, closing the discussion, glaring at him, angry he’d even consider leaving her behind.