State Of Emergency. Cassie Miles

she dressed the wound, she went to the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice and filled a tall glass. “Drink this. And you should probably eat something.”

      “Thanks.” He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was already past two o’clock in the afternoon.

      When she went to work on his arm, Jordan barely felt the pain. He was too busy thinking, considering the options. His first priority was to evade capture. “With your S.A.R. work, you’re in contact with the sheriff’s office.”

      “That’s right,” she said as she skillfully applied gauze and wrapped the bandages.

      “What happens when they go after an escapee?”

      “I’m not involved in that kind of search,” Emily said, “but I imagine the deputies will fan out in the most likely areas for searching. They’ll probably bring in bloodhounds.”

      “How can they track the scent if I’m in a car?”

      “You’d be surprised,” she said. “Not all dogs are like Pookie, you know. There was one legendary bloodhound from Denver who found a body days after the murder and miles away from the supposed scene of the crime.”

      It sounded pretty far-fetched to him. “What else?”

      “Probably helicopters. And roadblocks, of course.”

      He’d been thinking about the roadblocks. By now, the sheriff must have determined the make, model and license plate number on his stolen vehicle.

      “There,” she said as she finished the bandaging. “The cut on your face is more of a problem. Facial wounds tend to bleed a lot, and you’re going to need stitches.”

      She strode toward the kitchen door.

      “Hold it!” Jordan raised the pistol. He couldn’t allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, no matter how charming Emily seemed to be. She could make a quick call to 9-1-1 and pinpoint his location. She could make a break for her car. “Where are you going?”

      “In your search of my house, you apparently missed the closet in the second bedroom. That’s where I keep a lot of my equipment, including a backpack of medical supplies. I have the stuff I’ll need for stitching in there.”

      “If you don’t mind, I’ll accompany you.”

      “I mind,” she muttered. “I don’t like being a hostage.”

      He wasn’t exactly thrilled about his role as hostage-taker. But he didn’t have an option.

      The closet in the second bedroom was surprisingly large, and she’d neatly stored much of her S.A.R. equipment inside. Jordan’s gaze lit upon a heavy-duty walkie-talkie combined with a battery operated cell phone. With his uninjured right arm, he picked up the communication device. “Can you use this to pick up the police radio?”

      “I have no idea,” she said as she grabbed a red backpack. “I hardly know how to turn it on. Electronics aren’t my thing.”

      Fortunately, Jordan was an expert in all things mechanical. His company in Florida manufactured high-tech computer chips. As they returned to the kitchen, he activated the walkie-talkie. Within minutes, he was picking up the police band radio.

      “I’m impressed,” Emily commented. “When it comes to mountain survival and emergency medical aid, I do a good job. But that thing baffles me. I hate carrying it on searches.”

      As she disinfected the wound on his cheek, Jordan focused on the static reports from the walkie-talkie. The sheriff had already set up roadblocks on the main highway and some of the major roads leading away from Aspen. Had they come this far? Had they thought of Cascadia?

      “The stitching is going to hurt,” Emily said. “I don’t have anesthetic. Maybe I should just use a couple of butterfly bandages.”

      But he might be on the run for days and wouldn’t have a chance for further medical attention. He needed a more permanent solution than a couple of bandages. “Stitch it up.”

      He could manage the pain. What he couldn’t stand was being recaptured again. There was no way in hell he’d go back to jail.

      She handed him a bottle of ibuprofen. “Take three.”

      He washed down four tablets with another swig of orange juice. “I’m ready.”

      As she prepared to stitch, he stared at the curved needle. If she wanted, Emily could inflict serious damage on his face. He nudged the nose of the gun against her rib cage as a reminder. “Don’t try anything cute.”

      “I’m a nurse, Jordan. And I take pride in my work. I won’t hurt you any more than I have to. Try not to move around.”

      He closed his eyes and retreated deep into his head, seeking a meditative core of stillness. Instead of tensing his body, he willed himself to relax. In an almost objective state, he felt the needle pierce his flesh. He acknowledged the stab and, just as quickly, dismissed the resulting pain.

      He inhaled a deep breath before she stitched again. Behind his eyelids, he saw cool blue Gulf waters lapping against the Florida sands. He imagined gentle breakers washing over him, soothing his mind and his spirit, lifting him above the throbbing agony.

      He didn’t flinch. The stitching was necessary. The hurt was nothing compared to the thought of spending a lifetime in prison for a crime he did not commit.

      “Done,” she said.

      When he opened his eyes, he glimpsed a fleeting gentleness in her eyes. For an instant, Emily almost looked like she might hug him. He wanted her touch, yearned for her attention, her affection. If he had only one person to believe in his innocence…

      “That’s all I can do,” she said. “You promised to leave.”

      Stiffly, he nodded.

      Jordan’s attention returned to the police radio. They were setting up roadblocks near Cascadia. He couldn’t use the car for his escape.

      Logically, a plan fell into place. He would escape on foot across the mountains where it would be harder to find him. He was, however, ill-equipped to handle mountain survival by himself. He needed an expert. He needed Emily.

      “Get your backpack,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

      Chapter Two

      From the start, Emily knew they would have a problem: What would Jordan do with her when he went on the run again? He couldn’t simply wave goodbye and stroll out the door. He couldn’t leave her behind as a witness.

      She thought he might tie her up or disable her car. She feared he might knock her unconscious. But she never dreamed his solution would be to take her with him. “Why, Jordan? Why do you want me to go with you?”

      “Makes sense,” he said.

      “No, it doesn’t.”

      “Think about it.”

      “You want to use me as a hostage.” A helpless pawn, he’d use her as a bargaining chip to gain his freedom. The idea disgusted her. Emily had never been a docile woman. She was descended from warriors. Her father had been in Vietnam, and she liked to think she was like him. “I warn you, Jordan. If you take me with you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re recaptured.”

      “Then I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

      Shirtless, he sprawled in the ladder-back kitchen chair with his long legs splayed, gathering his strength after her emergency medical care. His stoic endurance when she stitched his facial wound had astounded her. He hadn’t cried out, hadn’t even twitched a muscle. His intense self-control and determination worried her. This man wouldn’t give up without a fight.

      She watched his bare chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. Despite six weeks of jail time,