by Rita Herron
And he had moaned her name as he’d come inside her.
He balled his hands into fists. She was the last woman he’d made love to before his freedom had been ripped away. And even though he’d hated her for not stepping forward to clear him, as he’d lain on that brick-hard cot every night in prison he’d fantasized about making love to her again.
Only now his touch made her cringe with horror.
She wrapped her arms around herself, jerking her nightshirt tightly to her, then glanced at the table where her derringer lay. “You broke in?”
Frustration slammed into Carter. But the image of that scar flashed in his mind, and he knew Sadie deserved to be skeptical.
Dammit. He had to be patient. And he had to protect her.
“Because you were screaming,” Carter said, intentionally lowering his voice. “I thought the guy who shot at us had broken in.” He gestured toward the sheers. “Maybe through the window.”
Her gaze darted to the window then back to him, her big, dark eyes searching his face as if she was trying to decide whether to trust him. Whether to believe him.
He suddenly wanted that trust more than anything he’d wanted in a long time.
Almost as much as he wanted his damn freedom.
He shifted and leaned against the doorjamb. But he’d waited five long years to clear his name. And nothing was going to stop him from doing so.
Even Sadie Whitefeather.
SADIE SHRANK BACK against the headboard, needing more distance between her and Carter.
Her heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it roaring in her ears.
Having Carter in the bedroom close enough to touch her, close enough to breathe in his masculine scent, felt too intimate for comfort, and it reminded her that she hadn’t been with a man in five years.
And he had been practically naked. God, the man was sexy. But that sex appeal scared her now, too.
Carter might have spent those years in a cell, but in some ways she’d locked herself in a self-imposed prison of her own. She’d been afraid to get close to anyone, had avoided men, especially physical relationships, and had hidden herself away, as if staying invisible and holding on to her secret could keep her alive and assuage her guilt.
But she hadn’t really been living. No, she’d grieved for her mother, berated herself for her lack of courage, tormented herself with images of the beatings and abuse Carter suffered in prison, and spent each day running in fear.
“I’m sorry,” Sadie said again. “I…thought the nightmares were over, but—”
“But my escape brought them back,” Carter said in a self-deprecating tone.
“It’s not your fault,” Sadie admitted. Suddenly weary, she buried her head in her hands. “You’ve been locked up for a crime you didn’t commit, and I’ve been running from city to city, hiding, trying to lose myself, trying to forget.”
“But you couldn’t forget,” he said bluntly.
She shook her head, tears burning the backs of her eyelids. Tears she refused to let fall. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. “No matter where I moved, the truth—and that man—followed me.”
Carter cleared his throat. “Where did you go?”
The last few years of running replayed through her mind. She’d hated the hiding, the lying, the not being able to trust or make friends. “After my mother died, I moved to Houston for a while. Then Dallas. Then Austin. Each time I thought I might be able to escape the bad dreams. The guilt…” Her voice cracked, and she looked up at him with her heart in her eyes. “The guilt over what I did to you.”
The sound of Carter’s breath rasped in the tense silence that followed. He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck and sighed. “Sadie, don’t—”
“I hated myself,” Sadie said softly. “But I was too scared. Every time I’d get up my nerve to come back, I’d sense someone following me. And then there were the notes. They came every few months.”
“Notes?” Carter asked.
Sadie nodded. “Notes to remind me to keep silent. Sometimes they’d show up in the mail. Sometimes I’d find one stuck in my purse or on my car window. Sometimes one would be delivered with a gift.”
“What did the notes say?”
“That he knew where I was. That he was watching. That I could run but I couldn’t hide.”
Carter crossed his arms, a vein throbbing in his neck. “What about the gifts?”
“Usually photographs.” She pulled the edge of the blanket up over her legs, suddenly feeling naked and exposed. “Candid shots of me at work, at my apartment, working in my garden, getting in my car, taking a walk—”
“To let you know that he was close by.” Carter cursed. “The damn bastard has been stalking you.”
Sadie nodded, and Carter lowered himself onto the mattress facing her. She tensed, then forced herself not to shrink away like a terrified animal. But Carter’s strong masculine scent and body filled the space and made her pulse pound with fear.
And desire.
A desire that she hadn’t felt in years, a desire that she’d never expected to feel again.
Then he reached for her hands. Her stomach clenched, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Carter said gruffly. He splayed his big hands in his lap as if to prove he didn’t plan to maul her. “It’s my fault you’re involved in all this.”
Sadie jerked her gaze to his. Taking blame for her attack was something she’d never expected to hear from Carter. Instinctively, she sensed the turmoil eating at him now just as she had years ago.
He was broken; he had been for a long time.
She ached to comfort him, to fix him. But she was too broken to do anything but try to survive herself.
No, you’re not. You’re stronger than that. You stood up for your people on the reservation. You’ve managed to live in a world between the reservation and the white people.
You can stand up for yourself now.
Emotions welled in her throat. “It’s not your fault, either,” Sadie whispered hoarsely.
They sat for a long moment, the strained silence ticking with the truth that they had both been used, were both victims. The need to reach out and touch Carter crawled through Sadie, but she could not bring herself to follow through.
Finally Carter sighed, a world-weary sound that tore at her. “Maybe not. But we’re here now and I can’t go back to jail.”
Sadie’s lungs squeezed for air. She’d seen the news, knew that the police considered Carter armed and dangerous. He was a wanted felon.
Grasping for the last remnants of the courage she’d once possessed, she forced her hand to move toward his. An inch, another, then she inhaled sharply and covered his splayed hand with hers.
“Then we have to stick together and track down the real killer,” she said, working to make her voice strong. “I don’t intend to live the rest of my life on the run, terrified, looking over my shoulder.”
Carter’s gaze locked with hers, a myriad of emotions playing across his rugged, scarred face. She tried to read them and saw worry, anger, bitterness and frustration. Then something softer, more gentle, something she dared not analyze.
In the next second, she recognized hunger and had the insane urge to crawl into his arms and beg him to hold her. To protect her.
To assuage the pain of the past.
To give herself to him the way she had five years ago and show him that he was lovable.
But her chest throbbed as the memory of her attacker’s knife boring into her chest resurfaced, and she released his hand and folded her arms, once again cloaking herself inside her silent prison.
Together they would find this man and see that justice was served.
But that was all that could ever be between them.
CARTER FELT THE WEIGHT of his hatred for Sadie lifting, the aching bitterness that had eaten at him for the endless months of his confinement shifting on to the man who had assaulted, threatened and stalked her.
The jerk had not only planned the murder, suggesting premeditation, but he had orchestrated a devious plan to cover his tracks and framed him for the crime.
Questions once again plagued him. Why him? Had the setup been personal, or had he simply been an easy pawn because of his own stupid, angry, drunken bouts?
“You’re right. This guy has to pay for what he did to both of us.”
Sadie nodded, looking stronger now she’d made her statement.
He stood, brushing his hands down his jeans, suddenly realizing he hadn’t snapped them and his zipper was riding down.
Sadie’s gaze shifted to his crotch, and his sex hardened. Her eyes widened, then she jerked her gaze to her hands and he backed toward the door.
“I’m going to see if my old man left a computer here,” Carter said. “Maybe if I study the notes about my trial and Dyer, I can find a lead as to who killed him.”
Sadie tucked a strand of hair behind one delicate ear. The braid was gone now, the locks draping her shoulders. He wanted to run his fingers through them.
She backed away from him. “I’ll see if I can find something for us to eat.”
Carter yanked his zipper up and snapped his jeans, willing his erection to dissipate. Being around Sadie was going to test that situation. It might become a permanent problem.
So he turned and hurried from the room, strode to his bedroom and yanked on a T-shirt, then headed down the stairs to his father’s office.
His father had never been much for organization, but the office looked as if it had been ransacked. Either that or his father had turned into one of those hoarders like he’d seen on TV from his cellblock. Papers, magazines, old newspapers and bills littered the battered oak desk, floor, filing cabinet and coffee table, which was situated by the faded leather recliner his father had lived in when Carter was little. How many times had he climbed in that chair when his father was passed out and imagined beating on him the way the old man had beaten on him?
Cigarette burns and scratches marred the ancient wood floor, and the scent of must and mildew clogged the air. Layers of dust coated the rusty brown curtains that had been hanging for decades, and years of stale beer spilled on the floor and chair lingered like the acrid odor of a dead animal.
Using his handkerchief, Carter wiped his face, then inhaled several deep breaths, willing the stench of the past to abate so he could focus.
He didn’t give a damn about his old man. Carter was only here to hide out long enough to dig up some information.
He shoved aside mountains of papers and found an old laptop beneath a stack of bills that had been stamped Overdue. One letter threatening foreclosure drew his eye, and he bit the inside of his cheek with anger.
If he’d been free, he would have worked his butt off to save the ranch. Now…his life was in the toilet and the land was about to go to the bank.
And he would be left with nothing.
Shaking his head at yet another injustice, he reminded himself that the ranch was not a priority. If he didn’t clear his name, he would either spend his life hiding out on the run, go back to prison or…end up six feet under.
With everyone thinking that he’d died a murderer.
Determination set in, and he sank into the rolling desk chair, checked the computer and plugged it in, then booted it up. The old machine whirred and spit out noises that made him wonder if it actually worked, then he checked to see if there was Internet access. No wireless, but there was a modem.
Ancient, but it would have to do until he had access to something better.
He spent the next few minutes reviewing a depressing preview of the articles covering his arrest and trial. God, if he didn’t know he was innocent, he would believe the press and lawyers himself.
They had paraded his past in front of the jury, highlighting every detail of his trailer-trash life, from his scraps as a youth, to the night his mother died, then to his days as a juvenile when he’d purged his anger in brawls with whoever was close by.
Then his brother, Rick, had killed himself.
The video feed from the bar the night he’d tangled with Dyer portrayed him as a two-bit loser cowboy with serious anger issues, cementing the DA’s case and significantly maligning his character.
He rubbed his hand over his forehead, then forced himself to ignore the bitterness building inside him. He had been out of control back then. He had fought with Dyer.
Had woken up with blood on his hands. His prints on the murder weapon. And he’d had no memory of what he’d done.
But he hadn’t killed Dyer.
Not that he hadn’t doubted himself at first.
But during his incarceration, snippets of his memory had returned in flashes that felt so real he’d realized he was reliving actual events. That he hadn’t killed that man in cold blood as the cops had claimed.
He just had to prove his innocence.
He looked up Dyer on Google, then skimmed information on the man he supposedly killed. Dyer had worked construction and odd jobs. He’d also been in trouble with the law himself.
The sound of Sadie entering the room made him jerk his head up. She was dressed in the same skirt and blouse she’d worn the night before. Damn. No more peeks at her legs beneath his shirt.
The scent of coffee wafted toward him and he noticed two mugs in her hands.
“I found some coffee in the cabinet,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how old it is, but I made a pot anyway.”
“Trust me, Sadie,” Carter said, his stomach rumbling. “I’ve had worse.”
She nodded, cradling her cup in her hand. “Did you find anything?”
He shrugged. “All the old articles about the trial. Now I’m researching Dyer.”
“The man you were accused of killing?”
“Yeah.” He clicked another article detailing one of Dyer’s arrests, and Sadie moved closer, peering over his shoulder as a photograph of the dead man appeared.
Sadie’s sharp gasp rattled in the air. “Oh, my God.”
Carter swung his gaze toward her. Her olive skin had faded to a pasty shade. “What’s wrong?”
Sadie pointed to the photo, a picture of a beefy man in handcuffs next to Dyer.
“That’s the man who threatened me.”
Chapter Five
Sadie shivered, her eyes glued to the photograph of the man who had threatened her, carved up her chest and stalked her.
Granted, it had been dark that night, and the shadows in the alley and his black clothing made it difficult to see his face. But for a moment when he’d thrown her against the wall, pressed his heavy body against hers and dug the knife into her flesh, she had looked into his face.
But she’d blocked out the memory.
The image flashed in her mind now with vivid clarity, as if he was standing in front of her again.
The rough, unshaven jaw. The bulbous nose. The jagged front tooth that had been broken. The leering look.
The mole above his left eye.
His body odor, the scent of his sweat and the cigarette dangling from his crooked mouth, the intense aroma of bad beer—the rancid smells swirled around her in a dizzying rush.
She staggered slightly, and Carter stood and gathered her against him. “Sadie, are you okay?”
“I thought I’d forgotten what he looked like, but…it all just rushed back.”
“You were probably in shock,” Carter said gruffly.
She made a sound of disgust in her throat. “But that’s him. I can…still smell him.” And feel the rough bristles on his jaw as he’d scraped his face against hers and whispered threats in her ear.
Carter stroked her back with his hand, rubbing slow circles to soothe her, and she took several calming breaths the way the shaman at the reservation had taught her to do after the attack.
“Sit down,” Carter murmured. “I know this is difficult, Sadie, but identifying him will help us find him.”
She didn’t know if she wanted to find hi
m. To face him…
Carter helped her into the chair, and she fidgeted with the beads around her neck while he scrolled down the page.
“Son of a bitch’s name is Jeff Lester. He was arrested nine years ago for assault and battery. Served four years, then was released on parole a few weeks before Dyer was murdered.”
Sadie rocked back in the chair, desperately trying to remain calm when her heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode in her chest.
“Dyer worked construction and odd jobs,” Carter continued. “He and Lester were arrested together, but Dyer never served time. Apparently the charges against him were dismissed on some technicality.”
“I don’t understand,” Sadie said, struggling to put the pieces together. “You think Lester killed Dyer?”
Carter shrugged. “I don’t know, but they are connected, and it’s the only lead we have.” He pulled a hand down his chin, then scrolled to another article about a scam the two men had been accused of. “Looks like they might have been involved in some crooked deal together. But Lester went to jail, and if they had made money scamming people, Dyer might have taken off with the cash. Then Lester got out of jail and tried to recoup his loss.”
Sadie twined her fingers together. “That sounds feasible.”
“It’s just a theory.” Carter rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Unfortunately we have no proof.”
“If Lester was on parole, he’d have to check in with a parole officer.”
Carter arched a brow. “Right.” He tapped some keys, then researched several other sites featuring stories of arrests, criminal records, any links to Lester that appeared, until he discovered a story about a parole officer named Wade Lungston. Lester had been listed as one of his parolees.
“Dammit,” Carter said, then highlighted the story for Sadie to read.
Her pulse clamored as she skimmed the piece. “Lungston died in a suspicious accident.”
Carter grimaced. “What you want to bet it was no accident? That Lester murdered him?”