Bad Nights by REBECCA YORK Page A

to reach for her and fold her close, the way he had after they’d bested the intruders. Was it possible to transmit what he was feeling from the physical contact? Perhaps if he understood his own feelings better. He’d been closed up for months, willing to take any dangerous case that Rockfort offered because he hadn’t cared what happened to himself. That attitude had gotten him in big trouble.
    And he understood now that his lack of success in figuring out Trainer’s grand plan had made him reckless. Too bad the militia leader played his cards so close to his chest. He was pretty sure the man was planning an attack on D.C., but he had no idea of the method. Chemical weapons? Biological? Nuclear? It depended on his contacts and his funding.
    Even though Wade Trainer never struck it rich in his lifetime, he’d somehow acquired enough money to fund an expensive militia operation. He’d paid cash for fifty acres in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was actually an old camp where wealthy parents had sent their preteen sons to toughen them up in the wild. The camp director had talked a good game, convincing moms and dads who were worried about their offspring’s soft upbringing that he would turn them into men. But when a boy had finally cracked and revealed that the fifty-year-old director was taking good-looking young boys into his bed, the place had been closed down and the owner thrown into jail.
    That had cut the price of the property, but it was still a lot of cash for a guy like Trainer. Ditto the money he’d spent on modifying the buildings and buying enough guns and ammo to outfit a banana republic.
    His recruits were men who felt that the American system had given them the shaft. Men who were looking for a way to get even. Most had been in some branch of the armed forces, usually guys who had been less than honorably discharged.
    Jack had learned all that and more before he’d put himself in a position to be noticed by Trainer by showing up at a bar the guy frequented and picking a fight with another patron. And he’d convinced himself he had enough background to fit in with the other Real Americans Militia recruits. But he understood now that he’d left out an essential ingredient—an emotional investment in the job. Or more to the point, an emotional investment in himself.
    And since Morgan had rescued him, he had discovered that he cared in a way he hadn’t anticipated, although now it was more about her than himself.
    As those thoughts went through his head, rain began to fall again. A good thing, if you wanted to wipe out evidence. Not so good if you were roughing it in the woods on a cold night.
    He struggled to repress a shudder as he considered the mess he and Morgan were in.
    If he hadn’t been functional when those two goons had showed up, she’d have ended up dead, and now he was obligated to get her to safety. Only it felt like more than an obligation. She wasn’t just some person who’d save his life. She was Morgan Rains, a strong resourceful woman he’d very quickly come to admire.
    He knew she didn’t return the admiration. Not now.
    Sliding her a sidewise look, he saw that her expression was still grim as she walked through the rain beside him.
    Was he slowing her down now? Would she have a better chance without him? He wished he knew.
    He started searching through the underbrush and cut a sapling he could use as a walking stick, a stick about four feet long. Leaning on it, he took some of the weight off the ankle.
    It helped, but not enough.
    ***
    As Morgan tramped along beside the man who had rescued her, she tried to evaluate his mental stability, wishing she had continued as a clinician. But she’d gone into teaching because of an incident that still made her cringe.
    She’d been doing an internship at Springfield State Hospital and been working with a man named Leonard Wrigley, who was severely depressed.