by Dana Mentink
“So are we,” Keegan said. “You’ve got a handgun and I know you’re just itching to shoot someone.”
“This isn’t the time for joking.”
“I agree. It’s the time for action. Take the logging road. I just texted my brothers our location. They’ll find us. Help us.”
She floored the accelerator, fighting to keep the wheel steady as her lungs constricted. “We’ve got to get to town. Where people are. He won’t be able to do anything then.”
“Tracy, listen to me,” Keegan said. He let go of the jacket and reached his good hand toward her arm, stopping before he touched her. His long fingers were tensed, the nails square and blunt, knuckles threaded with scars as if he’d gotten on the wrong side of a knife a time or two. “I know you’re scared, but I’ve lived here all my life. I know every inch of this valley. We can lose him. Trust me.”
His face was carved marble in the moonlight, all angles and strong planes. Trust him? A man she’d known for less than an hour?
There were precisely two men she’d trusted, and her father was dead. Now there was only her grandfather and her determination to carry out the project they’d all three dreamed about. Though she was still anguished that her father was gone not long after she’d gotten him back, she believed 100 percent that God would give her the strength to save herself. And this well-meaning, pushy cowboy was in no way a part of her rescue plan.
“Sorry, Keegan,” she said as the car flew past the narrow turnoff. “I have to do this my way.”
“Tracy,” Keegan said, voice urgent now. “Car’s dropping back.”
She felt like crowing in triumph. “Good. We’re going to make it.”
Keegan’s tone was ominous. “I don’t think so. You’d...”
The blast echoed behind them as their pursuer fired the rifle out the window. The Jeep’s rear wheel exploded and the car began to spin.
* * *
All Keegan could do was hold on as the Jeep barreled toward the shoulder with a monstrous screech of tires. Tracy fought valiantly for control, but it was useless. The front wobbled and bucked as the tires shredded, turning and spinning until it slammed front fender-first into a drainage ditch. The force of the sudden stop whipped him against the restraining seat belt and then back hard into the seat, igniting fire in his shoulder. With a groan of metal, the rear end of the vehicle tumbled over the front.
In a dizzying whirl, he felt the same sensation he’d experienced when he’d flipped his bike and catapulted himself and his machine over the guardrail as a teen. First the stomach-clenching sensation of dropping, falling. Then the bone-jarring reentry into earth’s orbit. Gravity always wins, he thought ruefully as his senses came back online.
Something dripped from the ceiling, he believed at first, until he realized he was upside down, suspended by the seat belt, and the dripping was warm and sticky, probably his own blood. His shirt was already sodden from his earlier wound.
He jerked his head toward Tracy.
She was also tethered, but her eyes were closed, hands dangling loose as if she were an astronaut, weightless.
“Tracy,” he said, scrambling against his seat belt.
She did not answer, did not stir.
Finally his belt gave way and he dropped to the ceiling, which was now serving as his floor. Tracy’s door had been crumpled in the overturn, so he applied his good shoulder to the passenger door. It didn’t budge. He switched methods. Three desperate kicks and the thing gave way, dumping him out into the night in a squeal of metal. Still dazed, he struggled to his feet. Judging from the damage to Tracy’s side of the car, getting her clear was not going to be easy and he worried about dragging her out the way he’d exited.
The high sides of the ditch in which they’d landed made it impossible to detect anyone bearing down on them. He heard the sound of a car door closing. A smaller vehicle, not a squad car or the heavy ranch trucks his brothers would be driving. Time to move.
Climbing back through the passenger door, he tried to position himself to catch her body when he pushed the button to unfasten her seat belt. She slid into his arms without a sound. Easing her flat, he checked for a pulse with icy fingers. He found one, the steady beat tapping against her smooth throat. He blew out a breath. He should thank God, he knew it, knew his mama would say a prayer, but the urgent desire to take care of things himself dried up the words.
“Tracy,” he said, stroking her cheek. He thought her eyelids might have fluttered, so he bent close, comforted by the warm caress of her breath on his face. “Hey, open your eyes for me, Pockets, okay?”
She stirred, moaning as if in pain.
“Gonna have to slide you out of here, but first I’m going to borrow your gun. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get it back in tip-top condition in case you need to shoot at me again.” What he would have given just then to see her open her eyes and have her fire a snappy comeback at him.
Just as he removed the gun from her jacket, a series of shots ripped into the back of the vehicle. Sparks flew where the bullets struck the metal fender. He shielded Tracy as best he could, peering around the headrest to return fire through the ruptured window.
He waited for the attacker to come again with another volley of shots. The guy either wasn’t much of a shot, or was simply laying down enough fire to keep them in place until he could move in. The next round of shots didn’t materialize, but headlights lit up the night, came close and nearly blinded him. Three sets of cowboy boots pounded the ground.
Jack, Barrett, Owen. The Thorn brothers had arrived.
The twins, Jack and Owen, were the first to get on hands and knees and peer inside.
“Gunman,” he said.
“Yeah. We saw somebody—” Owen handed his rifle to Jack “—heading for their car.” He eyed Tracy. “How bad?”
“Not sure. Ambulance?”
“On the way,” Jack said.
Barrett hustled over and assisted Jack in sliding Tracy loose from the car. He draped a blanket over Tracy while Jack and Owen returned to help Keegan climb free of the wreck. His head swam and his shoulder pulsed with pain.
“You hurt?” Owen asked.
“Yeah, he is,” Jack said. “Shirt’s all bloody.”
Owen didn’t wait for further details. He hauled Keegan away a few yards, forced him into a sitting position and began searching him for the source of the bleeding.
“I’m all right,” he said, trying to push his brother off. Owen, in full-blown Marine Captain mode, ignored him and ripped open a pack of bandages from the first-aid kit he always carried in the truck, then pressed a wad to Keegan’s wound.
Biting back a grunt of pain, Keegan squirmed to get closer to where Tracy lay on the blanket. Owen pinned him at the knees with his body weight. “Stop. She’s breathing. Pulse, Bear?”
His bearded oldest brother nodded. “Strong.”
“Head injury?” Keegan asked.
Owen didn’t answer.
“Why are you getting shot at this time?” Jack said.
“I wasn’t. She was. Witnessed a murder.”
All three brothers stared at him. He wondered what Tracy would think when she woke to a bunch of Thorn cowboys hovering over her.
His heart gave a painful thump at the next thought.
If she woke up.
Owen finally taped a bandage down and released Keegan to go to Tracy’s side. He heard the wail of a siren approaching.
“I’ll go meet them,” Jack said.
Keegan nodded. He recognized the car as belonging to Chief John Larraby, Keegan’s half brother and the man he despised second most out of everyone in his life. Better Jack or any of his brothers than him interacting with John.
Tracy coughed and he leaned close. “Hey there,” he said softly. “That’s it. Open your eyes now for me, okay?”
Slowly, so
slowly, her eyes flicked open. She struggled to sit up, but he held her down with a hand on her shoulder while Barrett did the same. “What...what happened?” she whispered.
“It’s okay. We got away from the killer.”
She blinked, frowning, the dazed look in her eyes awakening a twinge of concern deep in his gut.
“What killer?” she said.
FOUR
She woke from the nightmare, the strong hands squeezing, throttling, killing. Heart slamming, she fought her way to consciousness, waking up with one thought in her mind...murder. Her vision cleared and she jerked to a sitting position to find herself in a hospital bed, startling the three people gathered there. For one long, terrifying moment, she searched her mind and found it blank. Where? How? Who were they? And who was she? Why was an image of murder circling her brain?
“It’s okay,” the gorgeous blue-eyed man said. His arm was in a sling, a cowboy hat tucked in the crook of the other elbow. A fringe of dark hair framed his face. “You’re all right, I promise.”
The dull roar in her head quieted just a fraction. The doctor edged forward and smiled. “You’ve had a little bump on the head. Can you tell me your name?”
Again terror ballooned until facts began to land clumsily into place like heavy stones dropped into a creek. “Tracy. My name is Tracy Wilson.”
“Excellent. That matches your driver’s license, so we’re doing great so far.” He asked another round of questions. Slowly she recalled the year, her age, her career as a bloodstock agent. She would have told him of her father if the ache in her heart hadn’t stopped her. All the while, she eyed the familiar cowboy and the police officer standing next to him. Police, hospital—it all added up to something bad but she could not command her thoughts.
“It’s Friday morning.” The doctor’s words finally penetrated.
“Friday?” she squeaked. Where had Wednesday and Thursday gone?
“Do you remember visiting the Mother Lode Equestrian Center on Wednesday night?” the cop asked.
Did she? Her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket and she blinked hard.
The cowboy shot a hostile look at the cop. “Can’t you let the doctor finish?” There was something difficult between them, something that had started a long time ago, she guessed. The cowboy was beyond handsome, long and lean, a five o’clock shadow darkening his chin. It took her a moment to realize she knew him.
“I’ve met you, haven’t I?”
His face lit with a breathtaking smile. “Yes, ma’am. Keegan Thorn.”
Fear bubbled in her stomach as she tried to recall where. The unruly fringe of hair, the deep baritone of his voice were all familiar. Her fuzziness subsided a fraction. He’d helped her, this cowboy.
“I changed your flat tire, but I practically had to arm wrestle you to do it.” He grinned, but she thought the smile didn’t quite reach through the worry nestled in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “For doing that.”
He shrugged. “No problem. Happy to help.”
“But how did I get a head injury? Was I in an accident?”
Keegan’s smile vanished and he looked away. More alarm bells clanged in her mind.
The crew-cut officer inched forward. His blue eyes were similar to Keegan’s, though edging more toward slate than sapphire, but he was a few inches shorter, his face narrow and mouth not as full. There was certainly a resemblance, though, along with the unmistakable tension. A snippet of conversation flitted through her consciousness.
I’m not the chief’s favorite guy... He’s my half brother.
The cop was staring at her. “I’m John Larraby, chief of the Gold Bar Police Department, Miss Wilson, and yes, you were in a vehicle accident.”
The doctor checked her pulse and the bandage on her head. “You were in a crash and you sustained a moderate head injury in the wreck. Things may be a bit jumbled. Oftentimes the most recent memories are difficult to recover at first.”
“So do you remember visiting the Mother Lode Equestrian Center in Copper Creek?” John asked again.
She rubbed at the ache building between her eyes. “I remember arriving in town. I think I stopped there.” She caught Keegan’s eyes. “When did the wreck happen?”
Something in Keegan’s expression sent nerves jumping along her spine. “Was someone hurt?” Her body went tense, the action sending the blanket askew. “Did I hit anybody?”
“No,” Keegan said, pulling the blanket back into place. “You didn’t hurt anyone. I met you at an abandoned train station where you stopped because of your flat tire. We were... I mean...do you remember why we were in such a hurry to leave the train station?”
Again, the flickering images of violence erupted in her mind. Was it bits of a leftover nightmare? “I’m not sure.”
The officer tucked his thumbs into his gun belt. “You told Keegan here that you’d been at the center to meet Bryce Larraby.” He paused. “You also told him you’d witnessed a murder, but you did not identify the killer or the victim.”
Tracy would have leaped from the bed if the doctor hadn’t restrained her. The nightmare wasn’t a dream. “I did. I thought it was a dream when I first woke up, but it must have really happened. I can remember seeing a man strangling a woman. It must have happened there at the center.”
“What man?” John said. “What woman?”
“I...I don’t know.” She fought against another rising tide of panic. “Did you go there to investigate? To the Mother Lode, I mean? Was there...?” She swallowed.
“We did and found nothing. You never met my father, Bryce Larraby. He said you’d emailed him to set up a meeting, but you two hadn’t confirmed a time. My officers finished combing the place. There’s no sign of foul play, nothing out of the ordinary.”
Tracy stared, mind whirling. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d been? Whom she’d seen? Her mind was a mess, but her gut kept screaming that what she did remember was real. It was clear from the chief’s tone that he didn’t believe her. Her chin went up. She’d learned long ago not to care what people thought of her. “Quietly plow ahead” was her motto. Alone preferably. With others when absolutely necessary.
“Chief Larraby, I’m not a liar. If I said I saw a murder then I did.”
“I’m sure that’s what you thought you saw. People can make themselves believe almost anything.” He paused. “We found medication in your bag. Topiramate.”
She sucked in a breath.
“Wait a minute,” Keegan said, mouth tight. “What are you implying? She’s just been through a head injury, John.”
“I’m well aware.”
Tracy let out a long, slow breath. “Those pills are for seizures, Chief Larraby, and I haven’t taken any lately.”
“How do you define lately?”
“I haven’t had a seizure in more than six months, which is why I can drive.” Her tone was cold and she hoped he got the full impact of her distaste for his questions. “I’ve been tapered off the meds under a doctor’s care. I carry them because my property is in a remote area and I haven’t found a local doctor yet. I’m not an addict, and whatever I witnessed wasn’t a product of drugs. That much I can tell you for certain.”
“Confusion, short-term memory loss.” John ticked the items off on his fingers. “All symptoms of overuse. And the medication, Topiramate—it’s used to treat alcohol addiction, isn’t it?”
“Knock it off.” Keegan’s tone was savage. “We got shot at both at the train station and the road just before we crashed. That’s fact, and you can’t gloss over it.”
Tracy gasped. Shot at?
“We’ve examined the scenes and the car,” John said coldly, “but we’ve got nothing on the shooter except some tire tracks. Doc, can you run a blood test to check for drugs in her system?”
“That’s—” Keegan started
angrily.
“That’s perfectly fine,” Tracy said, cutting him off. “Go ahead.”
“I can run them, of course,” said the doctor. “But most will only stay in the system for two to three days, so you may not find anything anyway.”
“Run the tests,” John repeated. “We have to check out her story.”
“It’s not a story,” Keegan snarled. “Stop treating her like a criminal.”
“I’m doing my job and you need to back off.”
Keegan’s eyes flashed blue fire. “No, you’re not. You’re punishing her because I helped her. Or maybe you’re trying to cover up for one of dear old Dad’s employees. Is that it? Does Bryce have some skeletons over at the center he’s pressuring you to bury?”
John whirled to face him, hands fisted. “Keegan...”
“Gentlemen,” the doctor said. “She needs rest. Your visit is over.”
“I have more questions,” John said.
“They’ll wait. Out.” He ushered them to the door.
John followed the doctor into the hallway and Tracy could hear him begin a conversation on his cell phone.
Keegan stopped and turned before he cleared the door.
“I’ll be waiting out in the hall in case you need anything.” He lowered his voice. “I think they’ve refilled the free cookies at the nurses’ station by now since I ate the last six. Not homemade, but they’ll do. I’ll sneak some in for you.” He turned to go.
“But...” She didn’t know where to begin. Her memory was as ragged as an old coat—they’d apparently been shot at. “Someone tried to kill me? And you got shot because of it? I don’t understand all this. Why can’t I remember the murderer’s face? The victim’s? What is happening to me?” To her dismay, tears flooded down her cheeks and she bit her lip to keep from outright sobbing.
He was at her side in a moment, tender and soft. “Hey there, Pockets. Don’t worry. Soon as you get some rest, we’ll figure it out, okay?”
Pockets? His hands were strong as he brushed at the trickle of tears.
“We’re...friends?” she found herself whispering. Friends were not something she sought out. Too much disappointment down that road after she’d seen her closest friends abandon her when the truth came out about her father. His shame had cloaked her like a stain, it seemed, friendships abruptly evaporating when he’d been sent to jail.