by Tawny Weber
He refused to go there.
She was pregnant and in danger. Nash was her protector—nothing more.
He quickened his pace to return to her, fighting forbidden flashes of time they’d shared. Okay, so yeah, a million years ago, he’d planned his entire life around her. They’d talked marriage and babies. But then she’d dumped him, because she’d never wanted to be a military spouse. Her dad met her mom while he’d been stationed at Mayport, near Jacksonville, Florida. Nash’s dad had been stationed there, too. The difference was that his father had been a loyal, loving husband up until three years ago when he’d passed of a heart attack. Maisey’s dad was still alive and well and—Nash assumed—sleeping with a different woman every night. Maisey had been an accident, and he’d married her mom, but only stayed around long enough for her to get out of diapers. When Nash and Maisey had been kids, he remembered her dad showing up for birthdays and Christmases, but that was about it. Her mother never divorced him, and as far as Nash knew, had never been with another man. The whole thing was tragic, which made the mess that had become of Maisey’s life that much tougher to bear.
Maybe Nash could help her adjust to her new routine? Clearly, they’d never again be lovers, but at least friends.
He used a machete to hack his way out of a particularly nasty mangrove patch, then five minutes later exited from the foliage to reach their temporary camp.
“Mais?” Nash rounded the tree he’d instructed her to stay beside, only to have his heart catch in his throat.
This couldn’t be.
Was he in the wrong place?
He swung around to check for landmarks. The fire still burned. The gator still hung on the spit. His CamelBak hung from a low branch, but the spot where he’d told Maisey to stay put was now empty.
Where the hell had she gone?
Pulse hammering, Nash struggled to find her trail, then he made a sick discovery. He picked up her trail easy enough, then followed it to a place where the muddied ground and flattened brush showed evidence of a struggle. Nash’s heart fell as he made out four sets of tracks moving away—clearly not Maisey’s. She wasn’t walking, because she was being carried by Vicente or one of his men.
Chapter 10
A twig snapped.
Not long after Nash left, the sound jolted Maisey from a deep sleep.
Her gaze darted about their latest encampment, but when she saw nothing out of sorts, she drifted off again.
Beneath closed eyes, sunlight played through the branches high above her head, forming a lacy pattern that made it easy to believe she was back home with all of this behind her. Shots hadn’t been fired, and she was no longer in a swamp, but in the park.
Dreaming of a picnic.
Of lying on a blanket spread over tall, swaying grass. Her baby boy rested beside her, giggling while she tickled his tiny nose with a dandelion. Nash was there, too. Not sharing her blanket, but standing watch. He carried a menacing gun and wore all black—cargo pants, T-shirt, boots, and gear. He hadn’t said a word. Just stared at her in that intense way he had back when they’d still been in high school, and she’d told him she’d never marry him
His eyes were dark, expression unreadable.
Her heart ached from the loss of not only her lover, but her best friend.
Maisey woke again.
The dream left her with an uneasy yearning for the way things used to be. She and Nash had finished each other’s sentences and laughed over jokes no one found funny but them. She’d never quite understood how things had gone so wrong, so fast . . .
On a blistering May afternoon at their neighborhood pool—a week from graduation—Maisey and Nash shared a cherry snow cone on lounge chairs crammed together near the diving board. He leaned forward, licking syrup from her chin. “Marry me.”
“What?” She couldn’t help but laugh. Not only was his question silly, but his tongue tickled.
“You heard me.”
“I thought you were joking?”
“I’m not.”
“What about college?”
He frowned. “I can’t go. Mom said we don’t have the money. I signed up for the Navy and leave for basic a couple weeks after graduation.” He looked down, probably because he knew if he met her gaze, he’d find fury.
She’d balled her hands into tight fists. How many times had she told him how she felt about the military? Soldiers were brave and strong and a wonderful necessity for the country, but in her experience, they weren’t so good at being part of families. Case in point—her own father. He’d hurt Maisey’s mother so many times over the years that she’d lost count. Granted, not every man cheated on his spouse, but deployment tossed open the door for marital discord to march in. Why her mother never divorced him was a mystery. She claimed it was because she was a God-fearing woman, and wanted to honor her lifelong vow. But Maisey believed she’d secretly always hoped he’d change.
“Say something,” Nash had coaxed.
“You ruined everything. What’s wrong with you?” Hot tears flooded her cheeks, and her throat ached from what she could only label as betrayal. “You know how I feel, and you did it anyway. I hate you.” She landed a half-hearted slug against his stupid chest, and tried pushing herself up, but he caught her wrists, tugging her back down
In the tussle, she’d dropped the snowcone. It now melted in a sad red pool on the ground.
“You love me.” He said. “Marry me, and we’ll make all our dreams come true. You can still go to college, and I’ll work hard and be an officer. We’ll travel the world on the government’s dime. It’ll be great. You’ll see.”
“All I see is an idiot. You know what my father did. Why can’t you understand?”
He kissed her. Soft and sweet. And like always, it was never enough. When it came to Nash, she could have kissed him all day, every day and it would still never be anywhere near enough.
“What I understand,” he said, “is that your dad hurt you. I get it. But, baby, that doesn’t mean I would ever do the same. Look at how great my dad is. Practically every kid we go to school with is a Navy brat, and tons of them have turned out fine. You can’t condemn an entire organization based on the faults of one disgusting pig.”
But she had.
After telling Nash she never wanted to see him again, she hadn’t—up until he’d shown up to rescue her. His being here for her now made no sense. Not after she’d failed on all fronts to be there for him. When her mom told her his wife and unborn child had died, she could have called—at the very least, sent a note—but she hadn’t.
Just like she hadn’t reached out before that, when she’d learned he’d become a SEAL or when his dad had passed. Why?
Because she’d given up the right to celebrate his successes or mourn his failures and sorrows when she’d turned her back on him all those years ago.
Obviously, her biggest regret centered on ever having succumbed to Vicente’s snake-like charm. But coming in a close second would have to be her naïve refusal to give Nash’s way a chance. What if everything had gone as he’d said? And he had been a man of his word? And they’d since made a beautiful family?
Maisey hugged her belly.
How different would her life now be if this child were Nash’s instead of Vicente’s? The thought crushed her. She was soon going to be a mom. She had to start making better decisions—not merely for her sake, but the baby’s. With Vicente out of the picture, she’d get back to her career.
Maisey and her longtime friend, Delia, were part-owners in a used clothing store. It wasn’t much, but it had been theirs—at least until Vicente whisked her away. When she’d told him she was pregnant, he’d proposed and then paid off her share of the business as well as her student loans for her fashion merchandising degree. Assuming she’d never need or want for anything ever again, she’d naïvely signed over her share of Glad Rags.
How had she been so desperate for love that she’d missed a ridiculous number of signs that Vicente wasn’t quite wh
at he’d seemed? Paying for everything in cash, cutting her off from family and friends, always needing to be the one in control. From day one, he’d shown classic signs of being an emotional abuser, yet she’d been so eager to erase the pain of having been abandoned by her father, that she’d swallowed Vicente’s lies hook, line, and proverbial sinker.
She set Nash’s knife atop a wide cypress knob, then drew a flower with her fingertip in the loamy soil.
If she had willingly, quietly gone with Nash when he’d first appeared, they’d no doubt be home by now. This whole mess was her fault, and she hated that she’d dragged her oldest, dearest friend along for the ride.
Something splashed in the nearby black water.
Maisey looked toward the noise, expecting to find a gator or wild hog or some other biting creature, but there was nothing save for a light breeze rustling leaves on the vines and trees.
“Nash? Is that you?” She found herself craving him. His quiet strength.
She angled, pushing herself up to greet him, but got a nasty surprise when her gaze landed not on Nash’s familiar black boots, but instead a pair of muck-crusted, camo-patterned hip waders.
“Not so fast.” When Maisey tried standing, a man pushed her back down. Three more men silently surrounded her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could take a breath, the nearest man slapped duct tape over her lips.
The knife. Where had she set it? Her gaze turned frantic.
Where had these guys come from? Where was Nash? Was he all right?
Ignoring her muffled shrieks, the men zip-tied her wrists and ankles, then hefted her onto a stretcher.
“Letmegoooo!” She struggled as much as she could, but quickly found too much exertion made it impossible to breathe. “Heeeellllp!” Her garbled cries were as ineffective as her physical struggles.
When one of the men got too close, Maisey pinched the back of his hand hard enough to draw blood.
“Bitch!” He backhanded her just before her world faded to black.
Chapter 11
“Shit, shit, shit . . .”
Leaving the fire, leaving his gear save for guns, ammo and knives, Nash shot into action, easily tracking a group of four men who must have carried Maisey.
When their boot prints vanished into black water, he followed creamy swirls of mud. With the trail this fresh, they couldn’t have gone far. He never should have left her. This was all his fault.
Nash charged faster and faster through stinking muck, uncaring when vines clawed his forehead, nose and cheeks. His whole life had converged to one goal—getting Maisey back.
The sun would soon set, which would give him an additional edge, assuming Vicente’s men failed to follow light discipline.
If only I hadn’t started that fire. If only I’d taken her with me.
Sickened by his mistakes, Nash forged deeper into the wild until the scent of wood smoke alerted him that he was nearing the enemy camp. Hugging the shadows, he caked mud over his exposed skin, then crept to the edge of the clearing.
Their camp held all the luxuries of home—canvas chairs, a folding table loaded with assorted gear and ammo, hammocks with mosquito netting. Best of all, a twenty-foot air boat, equipped with twelve 175-watt halo lights that would turn night into day. Since Maisey was nowhere to be seen, Nash guessed she’d already been loaded onto the boat. But if that was the case, why weren’t her captors already headed back to Vicente? This kind of equipment didn’t come cheap. If he’d shelled out a hundred grand for a boat, Nash would expect him to demand results.
Something about this whole scene didn’t set right.
While three guys kicked back in their chairs, downing freeze-dried food packs, a fourth pissed. They seemed to be killing time. Why?
A radio squawked, then: “You have my attention.”
A mountain of a man rose from the chair nearest the table. He wore hip waders and traditional green camo. He smiled while palming the radio he’d taken from his belt—also green.
Nash, assuming he’d be in and out of Vicente’s compound under cover of darkness, had opted for all-black. As had Vicente’s men . . .
He narrowed his gaze. If this crew wasn’t part of Vicente’s team, then who the hell were they?
“Good to hear. So listen,” Mountain Man said into the mic, “we heard through the grapevine that you’re lookin’ for a preggers gal.”
“Yes . . .”
Mountain Man leered. “We might have her—for a price.”
There was a long pause, during which Nash’s heart damn near beat out of his chest. To be clear, he was now not only dealing with a crazy drug lord ex and his thugs, but kidnappers? Maisey was a freaking scum magnet.
“I’m listening. Can you prove you have my property?”
“You want a finger or toe?” This raised belly laughs in his pals.
“She is not to be harmed. Let me speak with her.”
“No can do, buddy. See—here’s the deal. She’s wearing a little nightie, and her baby bump is looking real cute. How about you leave me a million large on the south end of Milk Cay’s picnic pavilion, then I’ll be sure your lady makes it back to you with her baby still in her belly.”
“I’ll pay—whatever you want. Don’t hurt the child.”
“Well, alrighty, then. Sounds like we’ve got us a deal. What time works for you?”
“Now.”
“You have that much cash on hand? Because, look, I might be a redneck, but even I know a bank’s gonna take a day or two to drum up that kind of dough.”
“I’m not using a bank, and let’s make it two million. Bring her—now.”
A guy with more hair in his ginger beard than on his head busted out in a maniacal giggle. “By God, this is really gonna work. T-Bone, you the man.”
“Damn straight I am.” Mountain Man, AKA T-Bone, took a bow.
“Do we have an agreement? Where are you? When are we making the exchange?”
“Hold your horses there, partner. If you can get your hands on two million, maybe I might want four.”
This drew applause from his greedy onlookers.
“Damn straight, you do!”
“Whatever. I’m tiring of this game. I’ll meet you at the appointed location in an hour. Agreed?”
“Hell, yeah. See you soon.”
It took every shred of willpower Nash had not to finish him where he stood, then take his chances with the others.
Nash aimed his sight at T-Bone’s forehead, but if he dropped him within view of the others, they’d return his favor. He needed to play this cool. Drop them one at a time, then, while they sorted whether it was gators or ghosts doing the killing, he’d eventually get them all, leaving the boat free for Maisey and him to use as their ticket out of this swamp.
Besides, still not knowing her location, he couldn’t chance stray bullets finding her by mistake.
While the boys celebrated their unexpected windfall, Nash crept around the camp perimeter until reaching the boat, his stomach fisted with nerves. Sure enough, Maisey was unconscious on a stretcher. The sight of her lying pale and prone squeezed his chest to the point of pain. A bruise shadowing her right cheek made his trigger finger itchy. The tape over her mouth made him want to use a rocket launcher on these asshats. She was breathing, though, which he took as about the only good sign. Her legs and arms were covered in bug bites, dirt and scratches. Her once adorable blond curls were a tangled mess.
But she was alive.
At the moment, that was all the motivation Nash needed.
Then Ginger Beard caught Nash climbing in the boat. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”
Before Nash had raised his weapon, his opponent fired off three poorly-aimed rounds.
Chapter 12
Maisey played possum with her captors until her nostrils flared, recognizing Nash’s earthy smell.
She opened her eyes in time to see him leap over the boat’s side, then drop the bearded man who�
�d fired at him.
She winced when Nash shoved her stretcher toward the boat’s bow, where the higher metal sides would protect her.
He fired off a few more blind rounds, sliced her wrist and ankle restraints, then ducked to say, “Hey, beautiful. Fingers crossed, maybe T-Bone left the key to this rig in the ignition. Take the tape off yourself—it’ll hurt less. Oh—and here . . .” He thrust a gun into her hand. “Cover me. Safety’s off. Point and shoot.”
In the time it took him to duck-walk to the back of the craft, Maisey suffered at least five heart attacks. Was this really happening?
Ripping the duct tape off her mouth stung like she’d been burned. Her first gulp of air tasted like ambrosia. Then reality set in.
She rose up and fumbled with the gun. With shot after shot being fired at them, adrenaline kicked in, and she fired her first round, not expecting to hit anyone, but at least hoping to dissuade the three remaining men from approaching.
“Good job!” Nash hollered when she’d squeezed her eyes and managed to shoot two more rounds. In movies, guns aren’t as loud—or as hard to hold onto. Her arms ached from the concussive force. “Keep it up!”
“Shoot the bitch!” one of the bad guys shouted.
“Are you crazy?” another one said. “If she’s dead, we don’t get paid. Aim for the hull! They won’t get far!”
Maisey sent up silent thanks when Nash brought the airboat’s engine roaring to life. When the men did fire at the boat, assuming she was no longer their primary target, Maisey worked up her courage to shoot again, this time, keeping her eyes open to hopefully have better aim. Elbows locked, she pointed at the guy with the biggest gun and held her breath before squeezing the trigger. Though she lurched when the first round fired, she kept shooting. The noise made her ears ring, and when Nash moved the boat from land to water, her legs turned to rubber beneath her. She collapsed backwards onto a padded bench seat.
Suddenly, they were no longer pointed toward the bad guys, but across a lovely stretch of water. The beauty of the violet and orange-streaked sky fueled her soul. They’d made it. At least for the moment, they were safe.