by Nika Dixon
Danny shoved the paper at Sam, yanked his cell out of his pocket, and strode away.
Marshall faced the house, his stomach in knots.
Emma’s nightmare was killing his way to Absolution.
Sam and Danny paced a tense path back and forth beside Marshall, alternating between talking to each other and talking on their phones. Even though they weren’t talking directly to him, Marshall wasn’t missing the gist of the conversations.
The insurance man and the yoga lady had died badly.
Painfully.
When Danny asked the Pikes Falls sheriff if they were tortured, Marshall could no longer keep his feet planted. He took the front stairs two at a time and yanked the screen door open with such force it banged against the wall. He stopped on the bottom step leading to the second floor and jammed his hands against the walls, pushing back from the urge to run up and check on Emma.
She was safe. Here. Now. And damn it all if he wasn’t going to keep her that way.
When Danny called his name, he headed back outside in time to catch a parting wave from Sam as the deputy curled his truck around in a tight circle and headed out the drive.
Danny was sitting in his own truck, the engine idling. “How much did you hear?”
Marshall placed his hands on the roof and leaned closer to the window. “Alexander tracked her to Pikes Falls and now he’s killing his way here.”
Danny took a deep breath, held it, then let it out with a slow head shake. “It’s not Alexander. Not directly.”
“The hell it is!”
Danny held up his cell phone. On the screen was a mug shot of a bald man with no neck and cold, dead eyes. Victor Styles.
“One of the ticket takers at the bus depot pointed him out on the security footage. Said he was flashing a picture around asking after a woman coming in from St. Louis. Got real excited when he found out there was a stolen car that very same afternoon.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“Pollard.”
Luke Pollard was sheriff of Pikes Falls, and a respectable man. Marshall had only met him once or twice before, but Danny liked him, and that might have been good enough if the situation weren’t so dire. It didn’t matter what kind of a man was running the show. If a double murder linked back to Emma, it wouldn’t be long before everyone was looking for her—on both sides of the law.
“How much did you tell him?”
“Nothing yet.” Danny ran his hand through his hair. “Hell, Marsh. I can’t sit on this much longer. I’m the damn sheriff!”
“You’re also a damn Boyer,” Marshall countered. “We don’t throw terrorized women to the wolves to save our own asses, no matter what the hell your title is.”
Danny’s tight grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white. He stared out through the windshield at the front porch, his jaw clenched. “I need to get to the station. Sam’s gone to keep an eye on Georgie. I’ve got Bailey shadowing Bobby. Lucy’s staying with Peaches for the night, and Charlie Sr.’s taking the family out of town to visit his brother. I need you off the ranch. Take Emma to the homestead and send Dad over to Kent’s. I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything.” He put the truck in gear but kept his foot on the brake. “And be careful, damn it. This guy’s a real piece of work.”
Marshall rapped his knuckles on the roof of the truck. “Just watch your own ass, little brother.”
Danny flipped his hand up in a wave and gassed the truck, speeding off down the lane.
Marshall hurried around the side of the house in search of his father. There were supplies to pack, horses to saddle, and a houseguest to hide.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
There was someone at the front door.
Emma waited on the second-floor landing, unsure of why no one was answering. Each time she thought the visitor had given up, a quick-fire rap-rap-rap would sound again. In the pauses between, she waited for signs of life from the main floor, but the only other noise she could hear was Drift’s panting.
She glanced down at the dog beside her. He took her look as permission to engage and dashed down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom, faced the door, and let out a soft chuff.
She placed her hand on the railing and leaned out over the top step.
“Hank?” Her voice barely registered. She cleared her throat and tried to be louder. “Hank? Marshall?” She hesitated before choosing the next one. “Danny?”
No one replied.
Gripping the railing, she tiptoed down the stairs, turning to stone when a board creaked beneath her feet. Drift glanced her way with a perky-eared head tilt, then returned to his staring contest with the front room.
Shaking her head over her paranoia, she descended to the bottom step and peered around the corner into the empty living room. The windowless door was closed, preventing her from seeing who the caller might be. She held her breath and waited for another trio of knocks.
Silence.
Relieved the caller was finally gone, she slipped into the kitchen, curious about where everyone might be. Through the patio doors, she could see movement down the hill. She moved closer to the glass. She picked out Marshall instantly, his stride and stature hypnotizing her. He walked into the barn with unwavering commitment—as though reaching his destination was a personal mission.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Her limbs jerked, and she spun around. She pressed her fingertips to her chest, pushing back on the thumping pressure banging beneath her rib cage. The hallway seemed to narrow with every second she stood staring at the closed front door. When Drift barked, she jumped a second time.
Tittering, she lifted her hand to her throat. “Well, guess I’d better answer that, huh.”
There was no one to confirm or deny her suggestion, so she took her own directive and moved forward. If the visitor was someone with ill intentions, they wouldn’t just stand there knocking politely, they’d be kicking the door down.
Drift bashed into her legs as he ran on ahead. He stopped at front door and sniffed the bottom edge, then scurried a few feet back and let out a sharp bark. He wasn’t wagging his tail, but he wasn’t growling, either.
Unsure of what to make of his behavior, she reached for the handle.
As soon as the latch released, the door slammed back and cracked painfully into her shoulder, knocking her off balance. A hand jabbed through the opening and clamped around her wrist, yanking her off balance. She smashed into the wall, knocking several of pictures to the floor with a shattering crash.
Through the crack in the door, she was greeted by the sneering face of Victor Styles.
She had no time to register her terror before Drift leaped forward, snapping and snarling as he repeatedly tried to force his head between her body and the door in an attempt to get at Victor.
Victor pulled on the handle, wedging Emma into the opening.
Screaming over her predicament, she jumped and thrashed, fighting to get away from them both. With a snarl of his own, Victor hauled her through the narrow opening, popping her out onto the front porch like a champagne cork. He slammed the door closed, trapping Drift inside.
He kicked the door and laughed. “Oh, I like this place.” Then he turned his sneer to her. “Hello, Emmaline.”
The sound of her name coming from his lips made her shudder. She searched the porch and front yard for any signs of Alan or his other men, but Victor was alone. He was off his leash. Unsupervised. There was no one to curb his sick urges. No one to call him off. No one to stop him from going too far.
She whimpered.
“Mr. A is seriously pissed with you.” He bobbed his head slowly, agreeing with himself.
“Victor, please.”
“Victor, please,” he repeated, raising his voice to a sickly sharp pitch.
Drift clawed at the door, rattling it in its frame. There was a muffled crash then he appeared in the bay window, spittle flying from his mouth as he snapped at the glass.
Victor chortled and tapped
on the window. “Like a fish in a tank.”
Capitalizing on his distraction, Emma made a frantic grab for the door handle, but Victor jerked her back and away.
“Nice try.” He towed her down the porch steps and over to a black sedan parked a short distance away.
Jerking against his hold, she backpedaled, but her socks had no traction in the loose gravel.
He switched his hold from her arm to the back of her neck. His fingers pinched her skin, sending a bolt of pain across her shoulders and down her arms. He straight-armed her into the side of the car then opened the door.
If he got her inside, she was as good as dead!
She sucked in air, building a reservoir to power another scream, and realized with a coughing gasp that Drift’s bark was no longer muffled by wood or glass. It was crisp and clear and getting closer by the second.
Victor spun her in front of him like a human shield.
Drift flew around the corner of the house and shot toward them.
The pressure around Emma’s neck disappeared. Before any sense of relief could take hold, Victor shoved her to the ground in front of the snarling dog.
Exhaling her scream, she curled into a ball, covering her head with her arms.
Without breaking stride, Drift bounded over her. He leaped at the car door, snapping at the man hiding inside.
Victor cursed at the top of his lungs. He hammered the steering wheel, repeatedly. Then he shot a deadly glare in Emma’s direction and started the engine.
The flash of white in the taillights was the only warning she had of his choice of direction.
If he couldn’t get her in the car, he was going to get her with the car.
She ran for the porch.
The engine growled, and the car reversed toward her.
Before she reached the stairs, she was tackled into the front garden.
Shrubs and flowers blurred as she crashed to a teeth-jarring stop. She tried to keep moving, keep running, but her body was being held down by a vise. Time slowed to a picture-perfect pause as she locked on the blue eyes of the cowboy who had just volunteered himself as both her savior and her personal landing pad.
There was no time to thank him.
Victor’s car smashed into the porch railing, shattering the wooden spindles.
Marshall flipped her away from the flying splinters, spooning her protectively against him. He covered her head with his arms and shoulders.
“Stay down!” he ordered.
It was a command she had absolutely no desire to disobey.
The deafening crack of a gunshot rang out. Someone was shouting, but it was hard to hear the commands over the whine of the car’s engine, which was so close to her head.
The car sped forward, peppering the front of the house with a rooster tail of gravel.
As the sound of the engine faded with distance, her protective cocoon was broken beneath the assault of a cold nose and sloppy, wet tongue.
“Drift, back off!” Marshall growled, trying to push the dog away with one hand while helping Emma sit up with the other.
She rose to her knees and threw her arms around Marshall’s neck, clinging to him with all her strength, laughing and crying while Drift lapped her tears from her cheeks.
She didn’t mind sharing her rescue with both her heroes.
She didn’t mind at all.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Emma sat on a wooden bench in the back of the barn with Drift at her side, his big head resting in her lap. High above her, Tink sat on a shelf, unimpressed with the dog’s presence but, in true feline style, too stubborn to leave. Emma alternated between reaching up to rub Tink’s side and reaching down to pet Drift’s head. The large brown horse in the stall across from her nickered and bobbed its head.
Marshall’s initial request for her to pack an overnight bag had sent her emotions into a nightmarish spin, and there they had firmly remained. Even though he hadn’t led her out into the waiting arms of one of Alan’s men as she’d believed would happen, she still felt nauseated. Staying stationary was taking every ounce of will she had. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to escape before Victor returned. But instead of following through, she was sitting in the barn because Marshall had asked her to.
Drift lurched to his feet with a bark, startling everyone. The horse whinnied, Tink hissed and scattered into the shadows, and Emma hopped up, her heart slamming in her chest.
It was only Hank.
Drift ran to greet him, then ran back to Emma, his tail wagging. He sat beside her, and she placed her hand on his head, petting him with distraction while she faced a very serious-looking Hank.
“Now, I’m not one to pry into other people’s business,” the older man said, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. “But from what I gather, you’ve gotten yourself into a heap of trouble. Starting with that suit-wearing piece of work who busted up my front porch.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the damage. I promise.”
He held up his hand. “Stop. There’ll be none of that kind of talk, you hear?”
“Sorry.”
His eyebrow quirked up. “And no more of that, either. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She tried for a smile, but it was a very sad attempt. “Can I at least say thank you?”
“For what?”
“For what?” she repeated, incredulous. “For shooting at Victor? For scaring him away?”
Hank shrugged. “Wasn’t nothing. Just wish I hadn’t missed. I would have preferred him in a box and not out there running around my town, truth be told. I’m just glad Marshall figured out what Drift was going on about with all that barking, and we got there in time.”
“Me, too.”
Hank gave her shoulder a comforting pat.
She bit her lip, afraid to ask him the obvious question.
What happens now?
He picked up her hand and hooked it over his arm. “I realize Absolution doesn’t have all the fancy bells and whistles you folks in the city are used to, but what we do have is space. And lots of it. So, if Danny thinks it’s best we make you scarce for the night, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
He escorted her toward the front doors of the barn, with Drift keeping pace on her other side.
They stepped out into the open, and her mind and feet both jumbled to a halt.
Marshall waited beside the barn, holding the reins of two saddled horses.
Wherever she was going, it wasn’t Hank who was going to be taking her, it was Marshall.
She didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or to run away even faster.
…
An hour later, Emma’s emotions still rose and fell with the speed of a playground teeter-totter. She tried to find the beauty in the adventure of horseback riding into the sunset with a handsome cowboy at her side, but despite the movie-perfect hues of the setting sun, she couldn’t concentrate long enough to follow through with the wishful fairy tale. For every time she’d sneak a peek at the man riding to her right, she’d also catch herself glancing over her shoulder, fully expecting to find the boogeyman who haunted her nightmares.
“Em, there’s no one there.”
She jumped at the sudden sound from the man who hadn’t uttered a single word since they’d left. At first, she entertained the idea that the decision to take her to wherever they were going had been his, but his posture and silence told a different story. He didn’t want to be there any more than she did. With Hank, she would have been entertained with stories and tales to keep her mind busy. Marshall’s silence had given her nothing to block all the thoughts of what-if and what was inevitably to come.
She glanced sideways at her quiet companion, wondering if he was going to say anything else. When no further comment came, she tentatively asked, “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”
He glanced at her and frowned. “Dad didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head.
“This land
has been in our family for generations, but we didn’t always have the ranch where it is now. Grandpa Glen was the one who saw fit to build a bigger place down the hill. Before that, the old homestead was farther up the mountain.” The corner of his mouth twitched up. “My great-great-granddaddy was more of a gambling man. Convinced he was going to strike it rich up there.”
“Gold?” A picture popped into her head of a weathered old prospector with Marshall’s hypnotizing eyes and Danny’s easy smile. “Did he find any?”
“Not a single nugget.”
“Is it weird I’m a little disappointed?”
“I’m pretty sure our entire bloodline is disappointed,” he said with a snort.
“So, that’s where we’re going? To this old cabin?”
“Don’t let the distance fool you. It’s still a perfectly good house. Solid. A little drafty in the winter, but as good as they come. Built the way things used to be done—with backbone and sweat—not like the crap for construction people try and pawn off on folks these days.”
Sensing frustration in his tone, she tried to decide if he thought she wasn’t happy with the location, or the entire situation. She decided on the latter, since there was a good chance escorting her into the wilderness hadn’t been his choice, either.
Anger at Alan’s ability to twist the lives of people even from far away curled her fingers into tight fists. He shouldn’t have that kind of power over anyone, especially not good people like the Boyers, who were only trying to help a stranger in need.
But that was exactly what was happening, wasn’t it? Danny knew who she really was. Yet, instead of doing the right thing—the smart thing—and sending her back to Alan, his big plan was to hide her in the mountains. Why? To try and deal with Alan or, worse, Victor?
Money and laws meant nothing to Alan. He would destroy whoever got in his way for the single purpose of getting her back. Maggie. Bobby. Lucy. Any one of them was fair game. Nothing mattered to him but what she could give him.
And he’d sent Victor to ensure the job would be done to a maximum level of terror and pain. Everyone he killed, everyone he hurt, their blood would be on her hands. And not because of any mistake or miscalculation she made, but because of something she’d done on purpose.