Rafe maneuvered the truck close to the house.
"You can have camping. All I want is my bed." Aiden grabbed for the door handle before Rafe could put the truck in Park.
"Hold up. We can't go in raising a ruckus. Your mother will have my hide."
Aiden gave him a sly grin. "Maybe you should drop us off then. She's already pissed at you."
Rafe smiled. "Better me than you. Right?"
"Hell, yeah. She's scary when she's mad." Aiden grimaced.
Finn moaned and sat up. He blinked through the lenses of his glasses and pushed forward, his small hands gripping the console in front. "Aunt Jo's here." He pointed at the dark SUV Rafe had parked next to and turned to Rafe and squinched his nose at him. "You think they're having a sleepover?"
Whether they were or weren't was of little concern, except his plans for sneaking up into Bren's bedroom, after judiciously sending his nephews to bed, just got a little bothersome.
Rafe shut off the truck. "Remember, stealth. To your beds and lights out." He peered back at Roscoe, still resting his heavy, slack jowls on a rolled-up sleeping bag, and turned hard eyes toward the boys. "I'm not looking to get my butt chewed by your mother. Keep the hound outside. I'll deal with him."
They both nodded. He unlocked the doors, and they piled out. The rain began to pick up. Rafe drew up his hood and opened the back door. Roscoe jumped out, all four paws splashing in the muck, and Rafe grimaced. Looked like the hound would be coming with him and the gear. He'd sort it out tomorrow, along with his life.
The boys ran ahead of him, the hound bounding behind them. Rafe kept his head down, avoiding the fat raindrops spotting his jeans and boots. The steps came up fast, and he climbed them two at a time. Once he reached the landing, he flipped his hood off and stopped and winced.
"What the—"
The boys stood on either side of the door, their eyes wide, their only responsibility halfway through the door. Roscoe's paws, mud slicked, slapped the wooded foyer, the thrash of his wet tail smacking against one side of the wall. "Shit. I thought I said to keep him on the porch." Texas was looking a might safer.
"But we didn't—"
Rafe put up his hand. He didn't want to hear their excuses. He was wet, bone-tired, and the hound had just put Rafe alongside him in the doghouse.
Finn yanked on Rafe's jacket. The soft underside of his neck craned up, and his brown eyes, resembling black marbles in the dark, widened with worry. "But, Rafe, we didn't open the door."
"What?"
"It was already open." Aiden's wary voice sent a chill racing down Rafe's spine.
"Maybe the wind blew it open," Finn said.
Rafe ruffled his soft blond head. "It's a starting point." Although his gut told him otherwise, he didn't want to frighten him. He glanced at Aiden. "Stay with your brother. I'll get the dog, check things out, and be right back."
Aiden's lips thinned, and his face took on a more serious expression. "You don't think—"
Rafe frowned, hooked his chin toward Finn, and shook his head a definite no. Aiden nodded his point and pulled his brother next to him. "Come on, squirt. Let's see how many puddles we can find."
Rafe stepped over the threshold and reached in to hit the light switch. It clicked, but still he remained standing in the pitch black. He cursed under his breath and turned back toward the boys. "Aiden, go to my truck and get me the flashlight. It's in the glove compartment. The lights are out."
Aiden grabbed Finn's hand and headed for the truck. While he waited, Rafe peered into the front rooms. The living room, off to the left, which he'd rarely been in, looked untouched. The dining room on the other side the same, from his vantage point.
"Here." Aiden shoved the flashlight at him.
Rafe took it, the metal cold against his palm. He moved forward. They should be in bed. The first logical place to look for them would be upstairs. Rafe turned on the flashlight. The bright beam angled up the stairs, and he climbed to the second level, Bren's bedroom two doors down. He moved in that direction and placed the light directly on the four-poster bed and a bundle of covers on top. Edging toward the bed, he pulled them back. She wasn't there.
Rafe's pulse sped up. He checked the master bathroom. It was empty. Heading down the hall, his eyes hunted each room, hoping to find either woman. The boys' beds were made. He swung into and flashed the light into the last bedroom. The bed was unmade and also empty.
Son of a bitch.
Something was wrong. He flew down the steps and rounded the banister. Roscoe came around the corner, and they collided, Rafe stepping on his paw. Roscoe yelped. Rafe cursed, pushing him out of the way with his foot.
"Bren!" If she was trying to teach him a lesson for lying, he wasn't the least bit amused. His heart thumped like a jackhammer. "Answer me, damn it!" He swung into the kitchen and stopped dead—broken glass, a milk jug lying on its side, a puddle seeping under the refrigerator. He took measured steps.
"Jesus."
Jo lay silently on her side, her long black ponytail draped across her face.
Rafe rushed to her and kneeled, ignoring the milk soaking through his jeans. The wound to her head and the blood saturating that side of Jo's pretty face made his jaw clench. What kind of a son of a bitch attacks a woman? He placed his fingers along her neck, her pulse faint but there. He fumbled for his phone on his belt to call 9-1-1, but wet sneakers squeaking behind him brought him around.
"Damn it, Aiden, I told you to stay outside."
"Is... is that my mom?" Aiden's voice cracked. He stood with Finn, looked down at his brother and yanked him next to him, wrapping his arm around him. He pulled Finn even tighter. Aiden's eyes and now those of Finn's gleamed in the dark, staring at Jo's body.
"No. It's Jo."
They took a step closer.
Rafe put out his hand. "Stay put. I'll take care of Jo. She's going to be fine." He held up his phone. "I need you to call 9-1-1 for me while I see what I can do for her."
Aiden made a tentative move toward him.
"It's okay. Come take my phone."
Aiden moved closer, craning his neck. "Man, she's covered in blood." He reached for the phone.
Rafe handed it to him. "Call 9-1-1. Ask for an ambulance and the sheriff to be sent to Grace."
Aiden nodded and took the phone.
Rafe eyed Finn. "Hey, buddy. I need you to find some towels. Can you do that for me?"
Finn nodded and made an about-face, his tennis shoes giving a loud squeak, and headed down the hall.
Rafe concentrated on Jo. What the hell had happened? Wes was in jail. Was it a home invasion? What? As much as he wanted to rip through the house for Bren, he couldn't leave Jo. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse weak. His gut told him Jo's unexpected presence had made her expendable.
Whoever did this to her had Bren.
Where was Bendix? Last he'd seen, the sheriff was nursing his conscience, barking out orders in an attempt at command and control. He'd been too close to this one, to her, believing it was just Bren being Bren.
It cost Rafe his pride, but if he wanted her back, it was up to him to swallow it and call the old man. So he made the call. Hell, he didn't even know what to call him, what to say, except I need your help. To the old man's credit, he didn't pepper him with questions. Only said, I'm on my way.
Rafe paced the front porch, the damp air cool against his face and hands. Like the total pain in the ass the woman had proven to be, she couldn't have been dressed for the weather when she'd been abducted. If she looked anything like Jo, she was prepared for a pajama party, not the elements.
Damn it, but he'd miscalculated this one. He'd just assumed the danger had passed. Wes was in jail, for crissake. If he was that bent on revenge and had hired a hit, it would have been clean. Kidnapping didn't seem logical. If that's even what this was. Hell, he didn't know what to think. But she was gone and not by choice.
His gut told him this wasn't about revenge or Wes.
He took a de
ep breath.
No, this guy had plans for Bren. And it wasn't vengeance. Rafe sensed it with every tightening muscle. He'd been watching her, waiting for an opportunity. Rafe's newly acquired title as uncle and his need to make his point and enjoy Bren's aggravation gave the bastard his edge.
Fat raindrops landed on the wooden steps and Rafe's jaw tightened. Relax. It had been doing this all night. It wasn't enough to kill a scent. That was his worry—a downpour. He only hoped that damn hound lived up to his breed.
Paddy's black Suburban pulled in and maneuvered around sheriff cruisers parked in and around the driveway and parking area. Their lights a constant flash of red and blue made everything blend into a purple haze of confusion. Bendix, for all the eye-rolling he'd done around Bren with her crazy theories of murder, looked like a guy solidly punched in the solar plexus. He'd been wrong, they'd all been wrong, including Rafe, and it could very well cost Bren her life.
Rafe rubbed the back of his neck. How long did it take to set up a damn perimeter? Rafe stepped off the porch and came around to the driver's side of the Suburban. Taking a solid breath, he promised himself he'd keep it together for Bren's sake. Patrick Ryan had something he didn't have—a knowledge of Clear Spring and all its hidey-holes. Something told him she was within a whoop and a holler. He needed only a guide and a sharp nose.
Rafe gripped the door handle and opened it, swallowing his anger. "I didn't know who else to turn to."
"I'm glad you called." Patrick Ryan swung his jean-clad legs out and rested his work boots on the running board, the spat of rain hitting his rain slicker. His expression, left to Rafe's imagination, was hidden in shadow beneath the bill of a John Deere baseball cap. "How are the boys?"
Rafe nodded toward the house. "Inside. Worried about their mother. A deputy is with them now."
Paddy got out and shut the door. "How about Jo?"
Jo's sweet face invaded Rafe's thoughts, and his hands became iron fists. "She's conscious, but barely."
"She give a description? Know which way he took off?"
"No. Nothing." He met his gaze. "She can't even form words. The bastard beat her senseless. Bendix sent a deputy with her. If she becomes coherent, he'll get a statement."
Rafe handed the old man the semiautomatic he'd picked up the other day in town, grateful he'd started the paperwork on getting a permit early. The laws definitely differed from Texas.
Paddy took the gun, hiked up his slicker, and stuck the gun in the back of his jeans. "What about you?"
"I've got Tom's shotgun."
Paddy nodded. "Where's Jeremy?"
"Kentucky." Rafe shook his head. "I left a message at his hotel to call. Didn't want to drop that kind of news in a voicemail." Rafe scratched his head. "You think Wes is behind this?"
"He's in jail, isn't he?"
"Yeah."
Paddy squeezed his shoulder. "What do you make of it?"
Rafe eyed the old man. "Whoever he is, when he's done with her, he's going to kill her."
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bren's head collided with the metal edge of the bed frame. She cursed and ducked underneath. Lying on her side, she wanted to dissolve into the cold stone against her back. She reached up and felt around, her fingers latching onto springs. With all her strength, she pried one off, either end a curved hook she'd jam in his eye if he got close.
The scrape of a door, the clip of a hard-soled shoe on wood, the pop of a light, and the room, which had frightened her in all its darkness, terrorized her with its brilliance. Sweat beaded her brow and the indentation above her lip.
Footsteps deadened by the compact soil floor only made a thunk as they neared closer. A pair of black dress shoes, the light reflecting off their polish, stood directly in front of her, a pair of charcoal dress pants, their cuffs resting perfectly even against the black tips of his shoes.
The spring she held in a death grip bit into her palm, the sharp coil at the top digging into the back of her hand. What the hell was he waiting for? From where she lay curled under the bed against the back wall, she could make out four metal table legs a few feet past where he stood. Down by her feet and a little ways beyond the end of the bed were two wooden steps, she guessed leading to the door. The room was no bigger than a small shed, its damp stone walls and dirt floor making her shiver.
He had to know she hadn't escaped. The only place left for him to look was under the bed.
"Bren?"
The voice gave her a jolt, and her head hit the metal crisscross of springs. She bit down on her lip, but not before a whimper escaped. Shit.
The charcoal pants started to move, a knee hitting the floor, a blond head and serious blue eyes beaded in on her. "God, you okay?" Familiar hands reached under, and Bren dropped the spring and clasped onto him.
Her heart, beating a frantic pace, slowed, and she held tight, letting him pull her to her feet. Bren's toes curled inward against the chill of the floor, her legs wobbling fiercely. She struggled to remain standing. Strong arms encircled her waist, and she clung to him. "Oh, my God, Robert. We need to get out of here."
His hand moved to the back of her head. "Shhh. I've got you." His fingers cradled and slipped under her hair. "You're awake. I'm glad."
Bren stiffened. Awake. Like he knew she'd been asleep. Bren's eyes widened, and it was only then she took in her surroundings. The steel table she'd found in the dark was in front of her. On it lay what was left of the sticky paper that had clung to her palms, she now knew to be photographs of her. The rest littered the floor.
In the corner sat a thick roll of duct tape and scissors glinting menacingly. The fear of bondage rose bitter and all too real in her throat. But it was the photos she'd seen in an instant by match light she concentrated on now. They grew sharper in detail.
And the hideous possibility that the man who'd showed her such compassion following Tom's death, the man who ran interference between her and his father, and the man she neither hesitated to accept when he'd reached for her nor questioned coming to her rescue, now holding her offering his strength, could be the one she should fear most.
Rafe dodged patrol cars and hit the steps of Bren's farmhouse at a dead run, swinging open the door. Ahead of him in the kitchen, uniformed sheriff's deputies and plainclothes detectives from the state police were working the crime scene. The living room and dining room were empty.
"Aiden!" He cleared the hall and almost collided with the boy. Rafe grasped his shoulders, their gazes met, and it was the first time he'd seen any real emotion in Aiden's eyes. They were strained and glassy with unshed tears. "What were you doing in the kitchen?" Rafe's voice was sharp. What the hell was Bendix thinking, letting her teenage son anywhere near that area of the house?
"Sheriff in there?" Rafe hooked his chin toward the kitchen.
"I thought he was her friend. She tried to tell him about my dad. But he wouldn't—"
He gave him a hard shake. "Doesn't matter, son. We just have to work to get her back."
"We going after her?" Aiden's shoulders rose, and his voice perked up.
"No we, Aiden. I called your grandfather. Paddy's in the barn saddling up two horses. I need a long lead and Roscoe. Can you handle that for me?"
Aiden tore himself away from him. "You're just like everybody else."
Rafe grabbed for his arm, holding him in place. "Hey. What's that supposed to mean?"
His lips trembled. "I'm no tool."
"A what?"
"Means I'm not stupid. I'm old enough to drive."
He'd have argued that point if it weren't for the urgency at hand. He understood where Aiden was coming from, and Rafe needed to respect that. Or, at the very least, honor his own words to Bren. Aiden wasn't a boy. He was becoming a man.
"You think you can control Roscoe? Get him to track your mother's scent?"
"Yeah. I know how."
Rafe clamped down on his shoulder. "Where's your brother?"
"One of the deputies took him upstairs to bed."
"I'll meet you in the barn with Paddy. Tell him to saddle another horse. I want you riding with a long lead and Roscoe out front. We don't have time to go on foot."
Aiden's lips parted.
"No more questions. Get your dog. You see Kevin, tell him I want to talk to him. I need to go up to your mom's bedroom and find some of her clothing. I'll meet you in the barn. Get yourself a raincoat. We're expecting heavy rain."
"What about her scent?"
"It makes it more difficult. The sooner we get a move on, the better."
"Let me see your head." Before Bren could utter a protest, Robert turned her around and moved his fingers under her hair, probing her scalp.
"Ow." Bren jerked her head away.
"Hurts?" He frowned at her. "You always were a fighter. Even when we were kids." His eyes lingered on her face, his one hand reaching up to caress her cheek.
Bren backed up, her knees hitting the edge of the bed.
"You don't want me to touch you?" His lips thinned.
Touch her? When had she ever given Robert Connelly the impression she was attracted to him?
"I think you've done enough touching." Keeping him accounted for, she locked onto a black-and-white newspaper photo taped to the wall with duct tape. It had begun to yellow at the edges. But even with the affects of time and the distance from where she stood, she recognized it immediately. Her heart clenched, and her brain spun with understanding. Tom had been marked for murder the moment the small article hit the Hagerstown Herald. The neat, black X drawn over Tom's face, her first indication she'd really screwed up.
It wasn't the father she should have feared, but the son.
In this insidious room, the photos of her plastered over the wall in the eye of the gathering storm—the photo with its caption she could recite by memory, Brenna Maeve Fallon and Thomas Patrick Ryan, both from Clear Spring, Maryland, announce their wedding engagement and their plans to marry, June 9, 1996—she realized Robert Connelly was the enemy she never saw coming.
Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) Page 30