The Target

he was the only one available. He kept whispering to her, telling her over and over that she was safe, that he'd never let anyone hurt her again. He spoke on and on until he finally felt her begin to loosen. Finally, he heard her give a huge sigh, then, miracles of miracles, she was asleep again.

    It was early afternoon. He was getting hungry, but it could wait. He wasn't about to disturb her. She was nestled against him, her head nearly in his armpit. He rearranged her just a bit, then picked up his book. She whimpered in her sleep. He pulled her closer. She smelled sweet, that unique child sweet. His eyes feral, he said low toward the window, "You come anywhere close, you bastard, and I'll blow your head off."

3

    THE MORNING RAIN slammed against the cabin windows, driven hard by a gusting westerly wind. Ramsey sat beside her on the sofa, one of the many novels he'd brought with him to the cabin in his hand, reading quietly to her as he'd done for the past three days. She was getting more at ease with him, not jerking away from him anymore if he happened to startle her.

    The two of them were sitting on the sofa, a good foot between them, his voice quiet and deep as he read to her. He said, "Mr. Phipps didn't know what he was going to do. He could go back to his wife and deal with her, or he could give up and leave her to all the men who wanted her, all the rich men who would give her what she wanted. But then, he'd never given up in his life." He paused. What was coming, he saw in a quick scan, wouldn't be good for a child. No, thinking about killing his wife wouldn't be cool for her to hear. He should never have begun this one. He cleared his throat.

    The words blurred as he said quietly, pretending still to read, "But he realized that he had another choice. His little girl was waiting at home for him. He loved her more than he loved himself, and that was saying something. In fact, he loved his little girl more than he'd loved anything or anyone in his life."

    She was sitting very quietly beside him. That foot was still between them. He had no idea whether or not she was listening to him. At least she was warm. She was wearing one of his undershirts, a gray one with a V-neck, a cardigan sweater over it that nearly touched the floor, and the afghan pulled to her chin against the chill of the incessant rain and wind. He was getting better at braiding her hair. If she weren't so very silent, perhaps with a small smile on her face, you could take her for any kid, sitting next to her dad, while he read her a story.

    But she wasn't like any kid. Slowly, he looked back down at the book. He said with a feeling that was suddenly crystal clear and true inside him, "He wanted his little girl to know that she would always be safe with him. He would protect her and love her for as long as he lived. She was sweet and gentle and he knew she loved him. But she was scared and he understood that. She'd been through so much, too much for a little girl to have to bear. But she'd come through it. She was the bravest little girl he'd ever known. Yes, she'd survived it, and now she would be with him.

    "He thought of the little mountain cabin in the Rockies with its meadow of brightly blooming columbine and Indian paintbrush. He knew she'd like it there. She'd be free and he'd hear her laugh again. It had been a long time since he'd heard her laugh. He walked into the house, saw her standing there by the kitchen door, holding a small stuffed monkey. She smiled at him and held out her arms."

    He turned to her and very slowly, very lightly, touched his fingertips to her ear. "Do you have a stuffed animal?"

    She didn't look at him, just kept staring straight ahead out the cabin windows, at the gray rain he wondered would ever stop. Then she nodded. "Is it a monkey?" She shook her head.

    "A dog?"

    She turned to him then and tears pooled in her eyes. She nodded.

    "It's all right. Hey, he's not stuffed, is he? He's a real dog? I promise, you'll be back soon enough with your dog. What kind is he?"

    This time she reached over for the pen and paper he'd set on the table by the sofa the previous evening. This was the first time she'd paid any attention to it. He felt a leap of hope. She drew a dog with lots of spots on it.

    "A Dalmatian?"

    She nodded, then she smiled, a very small smile, but that's what it was, a smile. She tugged at his sleeve. She actually touched him.

    "You want the story to go on?"

    She nodded. She moved just