by Dawn Brown
“Lots of people are nervous about going to the hospital. I can assure you, this will simply be a routine examination. You’ll be home by this time tomorrow.”
“Aye,” Bristol said, following behind the woman, panting a little when he spoke. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Good Christ, would they be bribing him with a loli next?
“Hillary,” he squeaked.
A slow dawning lit Bristol’s features. “Is she waiting to hear from you?”
Caid nodded.
“Well, you go with Ms. Jenkins, here, and I’ll fetch Hillary.”
“I can see to myself,” he said, each word scraping like sandpaper over his raw flesh. He swallowed hard and continued. “I’m going home to clean up, then I’ll get myself to the hospital.”
Ms. Jenkins looked unconvinced. She glanced at Bristol and the heavy man nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” Then to Caid he said, “Ye’re no’ driving.”
Caid whirled around, but before he could croak anything out, Bristol lifted his hand. “I cannae let you drive in yer state. So either you get into my car, or I’ll toss you into that ambulance myself.”
Not bloody likely. But Caid was fed up with arguing. He followed Bristol to his car and climbed into the passenger seat.
As they started down the drive, Caid looked back, his gaze lingering on the charred, smoking rubble that had been Joan’s Inn and very nearly her funeral pyre.
A cold, sick feeling gripped him.
It took only a few minutes to reach Glendon House. Bristol had barely stopped the car, and Caid was out and striding to the front door, leaving the Inspector to waddle behind him.
Caid pushed the door open. Silence greeted him inside.
“Hill,” he started to call, but the word came out as a whispery squeak. What little voice he had was fading fast.
“Hillary?” Bristol shouted. Caid ground his teeth.
No answer.
Maybe she had gone back to bed.
Caid started down the hall toward the kitchen. Perhaps she just couldn’t hear them. As he passed the study door, open about a half a foot, he stopped. A book on the floor near the opening made him frown. He hadn’t left that there.
He pressed his hand against the smooth wood and pushed the door open the rest of the way. His blood ran cold. The room had been torn apart.
Books and papers lay strewn over the floor. The drawers from his desk had been yanked out, dumped and tossed aside. His heart hammered a slow, steady rhythm that continued to gain speed the longer he stood there.
Who had done this? And where had Hillary been while this was going on?
Where was Hillary now?
“Hillary?” Bristol called again, his voice full of the fear coursing through Caid’s tired body.
Caid turned and continued to the kitchen. Again the room had been ransacked, but there was no sign of Hillary.
Bristol tugged at his elbow. “Upstairs?”
He nodded and together they climbed to the second floor. Both his room and Hillary’s had been turned upside down. Even the covers torn from the beds and the mattresses shoved askew.
Still no Hillary.
Frantic with fear, Caid ran down the hall and gripped the doorknob for the loft, but it wouldn’t turn. Locked.
Where could she be?
He went back downstairs and found Bristol, squatting in the hall, inspecting something on the floor. Bristol looked up, his face pale. “I dinnae want you to panic.”
Caid’s insides turned to ice. If there was ever a reason to panic, it was when someone spoke those words.
“It’s blood,” Bristol said, bluntly. “Smeared here.” He pointed to the floor. “And a few drops near the stairs.”
The air sucked from his lungs as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Hers?” he asked stupidly.
“I cannae tell, but it’s no’ very much.”
Caid nodded and swallowed his growing panic. The tiny drops seemed to gleam up at him from the wood . With his heart hammering inside his burning chest, Caid searched every room on the first floor until he’d worked his way back to the kitchen. Once in the empty room, as clueless about Hillary’s whereabouts as he had been when he’d walked through the front door, he leaned against the counter and buried his face in his hands.
Where the hell was she? Had someone taken her? But where? And why?
He just wanted her to be all right. When he lifted his head, a small, dark mark on the stone floor outside the pantry door caught his eye.
He crossed the room and knelt next to the dark, reddish stain. When he touched his finger to it, the cold liquid smeared a lighter shade on his fingers.
He’d found her.
Chapter Nineteen
“Hillary?”
Had someone called her name?
“Hillary!” The voice penetrated the thick gray haze wrapped around her brain. She forced her eyes open, but only darkness greeted her. Where the hell was she?
A sharp, stabbing pain throbbed at the side of her head. Gingerly, she touched the area above her ear and felt something warm and sticky. Blood.
Someone had hit her. She’d been about to go after Caid…
Caid. The fire. Was he okay? And Joan?
Panic crept over her, turning her breath shallow and her skin cold, but she refused to give in to her fear. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and forced her mind and body to relax. She needed to get out of here, wherever here was.
The cool air smelled dank, and as she pushed herself to her feet, her fingers grazed something warm and furry. She shrieked, the sound drowning out the rodent’s squeak and skittery footsteps. A noise from above stopped her in her tracks. It had been distant and muffled, but it sounded like a voice. Probably just her imagination or a sign that her sanity was slipping from prolonged captivity in the pitch black.
“Hillary?”
Definitely a voice, and it sounded like Bristol.
“Hillary, if ye’re down there we’re on our way.”
“I’m here,” she shouted, mentally taking back every mean thing she’d ever thought about his skills as a policeman. “I’m in here.”
A loud scraping sound filled the darkness around her, then a wide shaft of light appeared from above. She squinted and tried to block it with her forearm. The heavy thud of footsteps on the wooden rungs of the ladder filled her ears, then someone was grabbing her hand and yanking her forward. She barely caught a glimpse of Caid before he crushed her against his chest.
Her body went limp against him as the rough wool of his sweater rubbed her cheek. His heart thundered against her ear. The acrid stink of burnt plastic stung her nostrils, but she didn’t care. He was alive and holding her.
“What ever are you doing down there?” Bristol asked, leaning over the opening above.
Reluctantly, Hillary pulled back from Caid, but his arms remained locked around her. She didn’t mind. “I don’t know where down here is.”
“Ye’re in the cellar,” Bristol said. When she continued to stare blankly, he added, “At Glendon House.”
“Someone knocked me out. This is where I woke up.”
“Who hit you?” Bristol demanded.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see.”
When she glanced back at Caid, his eyes blazed from his soot-streaked face, his mouth set in a grim line. Dark shadows played over the stubbled plains of his face from the light spilling through the trap door.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded, but didn’t speak. A slow, sinking feeling rolled over her.
“Joan?” she asked, almost certain of the answer, but afraid to hear it just the same.
He nodded again, his gaze never leaving hers.
“Aye, she’ll be just fine, thanks to Caid. He saved her life.”
Hillary frowned. “Why are you so quiet?”
A half smile lifted the corner of his lips, and Bristol chuckled loudly.
“Took in too much smoke,” Bristol
explained, “and lost his voice.”
Her mouth twitched as she tried not to smile. Caid rolled his eyes and shook his head, taking her hand and tugging her toward the ladder.
Caid stood at the bottom as she mounted the wide rungs, gripping the dry, splintering wood. She popped up in the small, square pantry. The threadbare mat that usually covered the floor had been shoved away to allow the trapdoor to open. All the times she’d come into this room and she hadn’t even known the door existed.
Bristol gripped her hand, pulling her up and through, then turned to help Caid. When Caid emerged from the opening, he looked worse in the light. His hair stood out at strange angles, and he was filthy from the fire. But he was alive and that was all that mattered.
Caid closed the trap door and kicked the rug back into place.
Hillary started into the kitchen, but stopped. All the cupboards and drawers were open, their contents strewn over the floor.
“What happened?” she asked, taking in the mess.
“Looks like someone tore the place apart,” Bristol said, “searching for something.”
“What could they have been looking for? A can opener? Scissors? Why search someone’s kitchen drawers?”
“It’s no’ just yer kitchen that’s been searched. All the rooms you use have been ransacked.”
“Was anything taken?”
“We’ve been looking for you since we arrived here,” Bristol said. “There hasnae been time to take an inventory. Nor is there time now. I’m taking you both to the hospital.”
“Yes,” Hillary said. “Caid really should be checked out by a doctor. Maybe they can give him something for his throat.”
“And you,” Bristol said. “You lost consciousness, I think we might want to get that lump looked at, also.”
Hillary lifted her fingers to her head and ran them over the scabbed gash and matted hair. She felt okay, no double vision or nausea. Only a steady throb remained. Still, no point in taking chances, especially the way her luck was running.
Caid hated hospitals, even if he was only visiting. His own stay had been blessedly short. After spending the morning and most of the afternoon wearing an oxygen mask, his doctor had pronounced him very lucky.
He’d suffered some first-degree burns on his hands, and the damage to his lungs and breathing tubes had been minimal. After prescribing antibiotics and assuring him that the discomfort would ease in a few days, the doctor released him.
Hillary, on the other hand, had to spend the night. Having lost consciousness, her doctor had insisted on keeping her for observation. She’d been furious and tried dragging Caid down with her.
“He,” she’d sputtered, pointing at Caid, “was in a fire, actual flames and who knows what he breathed in with that smoke. He smells like burned plastic.”
“Thanks,” Caid croaked, his voice returning a little.
“I just have a little bump on the head. If he can leave, then I should be able to go, too.”
The doctor had remained unconvinced.
When Caid entered her room, she sat in the hospital bed, scowling at the window. He tried not to smile, but failed miserably.
She turned and caught him, her eyes narrowing. “No one likes a gloater.”
“What’s a gloater?” he rasped.
“You.” Her expression softened. “Your voice sounds a little better.”
He nodded. “Aye, my chest doesnae burn like it did, either. I brought you some things from the house.”
“Like what?”
He set the heavy duffel bag down at the end of the bed as she sat up and leaned forward. She tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, exposing the white gauze patch above her ear.
For a moment he stood frozen, the morning’s terror back and all but choking him. Whoever had done that could have hurt her more than they did. She could have been killed. The realization blew through him like an icy wind in an empty room.
She frowned. “What is it?”
“I didnae even ask how you are.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said with a snort. “So whatever’s in that bag better be good.”
“Does it hurt?” Gingerly, he fingered the bandage.
“Not now. I’m well doped. Physically, my only complaint is this hospital gown. Every time I move, my backside freezes. If they’re not going to give you clothes that cover you properly, you’d think they’d at least heat the place.”
He smiled, sat next to the bag and yanked the zipper open. “Then you’ll be pleased to see these.” He lifted the pair men’s flannel pajama bottoms she loved so much and a T-shirt.
“Oh, you are the most wonderful man, ever.” She snatched the clothes from his hands.
“I’ll remind you that you said that.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll just blame the pain killers.”
He chuckled and reached into the bag once more. When he turned back to her, she had already undone the ties holding the gown closed and was shimmying into the shirt. Then, with the gown draped over her lap, she slipped on the pants without exposing anything more than a little bare leg.
“You know, I’ve seen you naked,” he reminded her.
“Oh, don’t take it personally. Nurses and doctors are constantly coming in here to check on me. What else is in there?”
“Laptop, journals, notebooks and whatever reference books were on yer desk. I wasnae sure which ones you were using, so I brought them all.”
The humor left her face, replaced by something he didn’t recognize. Before he’d left the hospital, she’d given him the key to the loft and asked him to check that the journals were still there.
“What is it?” he asked. Was she angry he’d been through her things?
“Thank you. I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
He shrugged, pleased with himself. “One more thing.” Grinning smugly, he pulled Agnes’s battered copy of his second book. “I noticed you’d marked yer place.”
She cleared her throat before speaking. “I’m sure you did.” Her finely shaped brows drew together. “My laptop’s okay?”
He nodded.
“And the journals were still there?”
“Aye. Whoever searched the house didnae manage to get into the loft. Very clever keeping the key with you, by the way. Do you sleep with it?” he teased.
“No. Last night, I’d planned to get some work done while you were at the store, but when I came out of my room, you were there and…” Pink blush tinged her cheeks. “Anyway, I just shoved it into my pocket and it was still in my jeans when I pulled them on this morning.”
He grinned. “Well, that explains everything, then.”
“Have you seen Joan?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No’ yet. I tried to see her before Bristol drove me back to Glendon house, but the nurses wouldnae let me in. She was resting, and I’m no’ family.”
“Does she have family?”
“Aye, a son in Aberdeen. Bristol was going to contact him.”
She nodded, and he hesitated before asking, “Should he or I contact yer family?”
“For a bump on the head? Or do you know something I don’t?”
“No. But I dinnae mind telling you, I’m worried for you.”
She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”
“For now, but whoever started the fire at Joan’s meant to kill her. And whoever was in Glendon House could have killed you.”
“But they didn’t, and you can’t be sure about Joan’s inn. Surely, it’s too soon for investigators to know what started the fire.”
“Maybe it is, but someone meant to kill Joan. One of the cabinets had been pushed in front of the door in the dining room to block her escape.” His throat started to burn again. His voice was fading.
She paled and her eyes widened. “Do you think whoever did that to Joan was the same person who ransacked Glendon House?”
“It’d be a pretty strange coincidence if it wasnae.�
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She nodded slowly. “But why? Why tear apart the house? Why burn down the inn and try to kill Joan? Why not kill me?”
Caid’s insides turned cold and shriveled. “Maybe he thought he had.”
“He locked me in the cellar. He had to know you would find me, eventually.”
“Aye. Probably.” He stood, raking his fingers through his hair. “But if I’m to be honest, I’d no idea where the cellar was until I had the builder out. If Bristol hadnae found the blood on the floor in the hall, I wouldnae have been looking for anything strange in the kitchen. I never would have thought to look there on my own. You could have screamed yer head off, I wouldnae have heard you. I might never have found you.” Just speaking the words aloud made him sick.
“I doubt that. Maybe you wouldn’t have found me right away, but I’m sure you would have eventually.”
“Oh, aye, eventually. I may not have recognized you, but I’m sure it wouldnae take long to identify yer skeleton.”
“We’re losing focus, here.”
He sighed and sat back down on the end of the bed. “Then, by all means, let’s focus.”
She glared at him for a moment before going on. “We need to consider what the intruder was after. Is anything missing?”
“No’ so far as I can tell.”
She nibbled on her lip, her gaze distant. “So what did he want? And why burn down Joan’s place? Was she a distraction? Maybe our intruder intended to lure us both out of the house.”
“That’s a little far-fetched. Most people, myself included, are normally asleep at five a.m. Had circumstances been normal, I would have been and so would you. Neither of us would have known about Joan until it was too late.”
“You’re right, but there’s one thing we haven’t considered. Maybe whoever broke in wasn’t after me, at all. Maybe they were looking for you.”
Chapter Twenty
Hillary watched the emotions on Caid’s face change from perplexed to outright disbelief. She’d struck a nerve.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head.
Irritation flickered inside her. “And why is that? Because you’re a man?”