Saved by the Rancher

by Jennifer Ryan

  Saved by the Rancher

  BOOK ONE: THE HUNTED SERIES

  JENNIFER RYAN

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my three children, who never really mind when Mom’s a bookworm.

  To my husband, Steve, who after twenty years of marriage still makes me laugh and believe in love and happy ever after. I’m keeping you.

  A special thank you to Mom and your red pen. Your steadfast belief in me that “I can do it” has always given me the strength and confidence to try anything.

  For George. You’re the dad I never had and always wanted. The grandfather my kids deserve and I always hoped they’d have.

  I’m so lucky to have all of you in my life.

  Contents

  * * *

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  An Excerpt from Lucky Like Us

  About the Author

  An Excerpt from Seduced by the Gladiator by Lauren Hawkeye

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  * * *

  DAVID SAT BEHIND his massive desk, his hand wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey instead of his high-priced, highly educated, but still incompetent lawyer’s neck.

  “She outmaneuvered us, Mr. Merrick. If we’d known about—”

  “You should have known!” he bellowed, barely able to contain his temper. “I lost half of everything to that bitch!”

  “At least it didn’t go public.”

  “Get out.” Voice low, it resonated with his inner rage.

  Alone, David stared out the windows of his thirty-sixth-floor office at Merrick International. His company, and now she’d taken part of it. The fire of fury from that single thought shot through his veins, enraging him more. He tipped the drink to his mouth and swallowed a deep gulp, welcoming the familiar sting down his throat. Three men entered. He tracked their progress toward his desk with their reflection in the window. He’d used his elite security team to investigate many corporate deals, but now he needed them for something much more personal.

  His back to them, he ordered, “Whatever it takes. Find her.”

  They marched out eager to do his bidding.

  David turned his focus from the city lights inside to the anger eating away at him. How could she do this? He’d make her regret winning today in court. She’d pay for besting him. No one got away with taking anything from him. No woman left him, especially not his wife.

  He held his drink aloft and toasted the San Francisco skyline. “The game is on.”

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Two years later . . .

  IS HE STILL here? Lurking, waiting.

  Jenna opened her heavy eyelids a mere slit. She lay sprawled on the cold wood floor, shivering, snow falling everywhere. Inside? She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again, trying to focus on the things around her. Her sight adjusted, the double images coalescing into a morbid scene she didn’t want to see. Feathers from the pillows on the bed floated on the air and rained down, creating a white blanket over the devastation in the room.

  The ringing in her ears quieted, allowing her to better focus on the bedroom of her rented cottage. Shards of glass from the smashed antique dressing mirror lay scattered around her. Some of the pulled-out dresser drawers landed on the floor, others hung open crookedly. Her clothes, though few, lay slashed and strewn everywhere. The overwhelming sweet scent of jasmine perfume mixed with the metallic scent of her blood made her stomach clench and pitch until bile rose and stung the back of her throat, leaving a sour taste on her tongue.

  She took a few shallow breaths to stave off the inevitable, at least until she got to the bathroom.

  His worst rage yet. Mind-sharpening memories of the last hour flipped through her brain like a morbid slide show.

  Him, grabbing her from behind on the front porch when she returned from running. He clamped his gloved hand over her mouth, grabbed her around the waist, and hauled her through the door. Him, spinning her around and with a backhanded slap sending her reeling backward and crashing into the dining room table. Pain radiated from her hip and down her leg. He grabbed her wrist, pulled her forward, and squeezed her so tight to his chest she couldn’t breathe. Pain along her jaw, she opened her mouth to scream in terror, but he clamped his hand over her mouth, cutting off her air, and the scream rising out of her disappeared in the back of her throat. Him, shoving her away. She hit her head against the wall and stars exploded on the inside of her eyelids. Pain in the back of her head, a large throbbing bump swelled under her skin.

  Nothing but him and pain. And, oh God, more to come.

  Forcing her into the bedroom, he held her in his tight grip, grinding his hips and hard arousal against her bottom, inciting even more fear.

  He liked her scared.

  She stood helplessly frozen. Tried to get her mind to work, think, tell her body to flee, but her limbs didn’t heed the wild thoughts in her head.

  Him, snatching her belt off the dresser, pushing her onto the bed. She landed on her stomach and his fingers dug into her skin, bruising. She curled up, tried to make herself as small a target as possible. The belt lashed across her back and buttocks, her screams disregarded, her thin tank top and nylon shorts no protection against the bite of the leather whip and metal buckle.

  The dressing mirror smashed to the floor with a loud crack. He wielded a shard of broken glass, his lips pulled back in a feral smile, he slashed her thigh, tearing the flesh in a jagged line of searing pain. She screamed in agony. Him, sitting on her bloodied, welted back, pulling her hair and hacking at it. She tried desperately to scratch and claw at his hands over her head. Him, shoving her off the bed and onto the floor with a resou
nding thud. Him in a mindless rage, demanding over and over again, yelling at the top of his lungs, “Say you’ll come back. I’ll stop. Say it. Say you’ll come back.”

  Him, whispering in her ear, his knee grinding into her spine, “You’re mine. Wherever you go, I’ll find you. You promised before God you’d be my obedient wife. Till death do us part. Death, Jenna. Say it.” The last he said with such menace, his voice became calm as a flat sea.

  Her whisper, softer than his gasping breath, broke into his raging mind when all her screams went unheard.

  “Never.”

  Fear gripped her mind and heart like a vice, making it near impossible to speak the word.

  “If you’re not with me, you might as well be dead.”

  Him, hitting her in the head. Blessed blackness enveloped her.

  How long have I been on this floor?

  Alone, the silence and stillness in the small cottage reassured her. She couldn’t believe he found her again. God, had she really complained about the flowers left on her doorstep just to let her know he’d found her again, or the threatening notes left in her locked car or house? The late-night phone calls and hang-ups. His showing up at unexpected times and places. Those things were scary. This was . . . madness.

  The first time he slapped her, she made the biggest mistake of her life and stayed with him. Because of his pleas and pretty words, she became his prisoner until his ugly words and petty jealousies forced her to flee. Now he had turned the game into a hunt. He would find her and release her, only to hunt her again at his whim.

  She didn’t know how he found her, but he did . . . again. This time she remained hidden for over five months, longer than their marriage lasted. All she remembered of the last two years, always on guard, running for her life, never truly alive or safe, and once again it came down to this. He wanted her to know no matter where she went, she belonged to him, and he could find her anywhere.

  Sometimes he begged her to come back. Be a family with him. They’d have children. Other times, he yelled and threw things. He blamed her for everything, including his hitting her. This time went beyond verbally abusing her and shoving her around. He raged. She would never be safe. One day he’d make good on his promise and kill her.

  He certainly came close this time.

  She took a moment to inventory all the aches and pains combining into the pounding throb throughout her body. A gash on her head just above her temple from the candlestick he used to knock her out. Blood dripped over the silver base to the floor where it lay beside her. The welts on her back hurt like hell. How many times did he lash her with the belt? Enough that the blood pooled along her spine. Her severely bruised ribs would heal in a couple weeks. He didn’t kick her that hard, probably because she was already out cold. Not as satisfying to kick her if she didn’t grunt and squeal in pain.

  The most serious injury, a long cut on her upper thigh. Probably needed stitches. Not the first time she needed them. Wouldn’t be the last, the gruesome thought came to mind. Once the numbness wore off, she’d feel like a lump of soggy mud.

  Sticky blood coated her right hand where it lay next to her leg. Like moving hundred-pound weights, she pressed herself up onto her hands, dragged her knees up under her, and sat back on her heels.

  Well, I’m almost off the floor.

  She waited a moment for the room to stop spinning and her stomach to settle. She grabbed the bedpost, hauled herself up to standing, her back and thigh screaming in agony. Deep breaths, the pain subsided in small increments. She’d learned to ignore it.

  Get out. Get away. Hide.

  Adrenaline pumping through her veins, the need to run, escape, overtook her and gave her the strength to do what needed to be done to flee to safety. The fear lay beneath all the pain, but she had to ignore it, too, and keep her head.

  Jenna made it to the bathroom in time to puke her guts out. She rinsed her sour mouth and throat and refused to look at herself in the mirror above the sink. Pulling her hacked hair back, twisting it on top of her head, she knocked over the toothbrush holder with her shaking hands, and found a clip to hold her hair away from her bruised face. Hopefully, no one would notice her chopped locks. Hastily, she scrubbed the blood from her hands and face before moving back to the bedroom to dress.

  She pulled clean clothes out of the closet he’d thankfully missed during his rampage. She stripped off her bloody running shorts and tank top. Bending over to pull off her shoes and socks proved to be a challenge with her back in such terrible condition. Her muscles tightened. She wiped away the majority of blood with a slashed T-shirt she grabbed from the floor. The thick cotton staunched the flow of blood from the cut on her leg. She tied another piece of T-shirt around her thigh to keep it from bleeding, until she tended it better. She finally pulled on a loose floral skirt and burgundy tunic and slid her feet into a pair of sandals.

  Dressed, breathless, scared and shaking, she searched the wreckage for the phone and found it amid a broken crystal vase.

  “Stop right there.” Gun drawn, the officer blocked the open bedroom doorway.

  Jenna froze, eyes wide, a new surge of adrenaline pumped through her veins. Telephone in hand, she’d barely had time to dial nine. “This is my place,” she rasped out, her voice raw from screaming.

  Gun still pointed at her, the officer asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Jenna Caldwell.” She left off the Merrick. If she gave that name, the press would be here in ten minutes, the story splashed all over the papers.

  Thank God she’d had time to clean herself up and toss the bloody clothes in the corner of the closet before the cops saw the real damage.

  “Do you have ID?”

  “In my purse on the table by the front door.” She scanned her surroundings. “At least that’s where I left it.”

  He exchanged a look with his partner, who withdrew to the other room to find her purse. “Who were you calling?”

  “You. The police. Why are you here?”

  “We received a report about a break-in.” His gaze went from the smeared blood on the floor to her bruised and swollen face. “You okay?”

  She ignored his question and focused on the problem. How to get out of here without being dragged to the police station, or God help her, the hospital. “A break-in. So that’s why he trashed the place.” Her gaze fell on the bloody candlestick. Bastard probably thought he killed her and needed to cover it up.

  “What happened here?”

  For the next twenty minutes she answered their grueling round of questions. She kept to the point without embellishing or adding any unnecessary details. The police found her uncooperative and attributed it to what happened with many women caught in this cycle. They called for help, then changed their mind and refused to press charges. She wanted to press charges, but knew she didn’t have the evidence needed to bring him down. Right now, she had one goal, escape. As quick and as soon as possible.

  “So, nothing’s been taken and you never saw his face?”

  “Like I said, he wore a mask.”

  “How can you be sure it was your ex-husband?”

  “I know.”

  “Do you want to press charges for the assault?”

  “Against who? The masked man? Even I know the charges would never stick. He’ll have ten people lined up to provide an alibi and a dozen lawyers to drive a truck through my testimony. Sorry, been there, done that.” If she sounded bitter, she’d earned it after years on this merry-go-round.

  “At least let us call an ambulance to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”

  “Just some cuts and bruises,” she lied. Not convincingly, judging by the officer’s frown. “Nothing major. I don’t need an ambulance. Just fill out your report and dump it in the this-will-go-nowhere file.” She pressed her fingers to her temples in a futile attempt to stop the pounding.

  “Do you have someone who can stay with you tonight?”

  “I’m not staying here.” To prove it, she turne
d her back on them and called a cab, using one of the many emergency numbers she’d memorized. On average, a cab arrived within seven minutes at the cottage. She’d timed them. She would head to the fitness club, grab her emergency supplies, and get lost.

  Second, she called her lawyer, Ben Knight. When his secretary, Annie, answered, she said one thing, “Rabbit’s on the run,” hung up and got ready to bolt.

  “What was that all about?” the officer asked, finally moving toward the door.

  “Recurring nightmare.”

  “You know, if you help us, we can help you.”

  “No offense, but you can’t help me. The man who did this knows how to stay in the shady gray of the law.”

  “Like wearing a mask and making this look like a botched robbery.”

  “You’re catching on.”

  “You should press charges,” he coaxed again.

  “My word against his. I’ve filed for restraining orders multiple times and been denied. The anonymous notes could be from anyone, the phone calls all come from disposable phones, and there’s never a witness to any kind of abuse. No judge will side with me against him.”

  “He goes to a lot of trouble to keep this thing just between the two of you.”

  “It’s personal, and he’s got a lot to lose.”

  “Say he did this, a judge will listen.”

  “He’s a rich businessman who runs an international company. His face is splashed all over the society pages, the image of a corporate mover and shaker. I divorced him and took a big chunk of his assets with me, and he ruined me in the press, playing me off as the gold-digging whore. Who do you think a judge or jury would believe?”

  “With your face looking like that? You.”

  “Botched robbery, remember.”

  “This is some twisted shit. Excuse the language,” he said, frustrated. She felt for him. He saw this day in and day out. She lived it.

  “You have no idea.”

  “We’ll follow-up, give him a call, see if we can rattle him into an admission.”