by Misty Evans
“Bind his hands first,” he said, wiping rain from his eyes. “Then we’ll see about stopping the bleeding.”
Will nodded and Mitch’s phone rang. He pulled it out, relieved to see his boss’s name on the screen. Absentmindedly, he glanced to his left toward the lane and the gate at the far end. “Please tell me you’re close,” he said upon answering.
“Five minutes out,” Cooper said. “You all right? You sound funny.”
“I’m fine. Hope you brought your cuffs.”
Cooper’s voice took on urgency. “Did you catch him?”
“Not Goodsman, but two men who were working for him. One is Sean Gordon, our arsonist. Gordon’s dead, but his accomplice is alive, so maybe he can tell us where that prick is.”
“Nice work, Holden. We’ll be there shortly.”
Mitch hung up and let his shoulders slump. “Any chance you have a chainsaw?” he asked Will.
Will’s gaze went between Mitch and the man at his feet. “You want to cut him up?”
Don’t tempt me. “Gotta get the gate open and the only way I can see to do that is to cut it down.”
Will held his injured arm. “I’ll be back in a minute with something.”
He had no choice but to trust the man. “I’ll tie this asshole up and let Emma know the coast is clear.”
As Will took off for his cabin, Mitch let out a long, slow breath. He’d kept his shit together and took out the immediate threat. A feeling of relief seeped into his body.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Chapter Twenty
The coast was clear.
Emma flew out the kitchen door, the dogs following.
“Mitch!” she yelled as she ran past the juvenile detention van and out toward the driveway. Mitch was cinching a plastic tie around the man’s wrists. Her rifle lay nearby.
As she got close, Mitch stood and faced her. He was a total mess—blood, rain, dirt and ash. It didn’t matter. She threw herself into his arms.
“You did it,” she said, hugging him tight with her bandaged hands. She’d gotten most of the glass fragments out of her palms and wrapped them in gauze.
The dogs were happy to see him, too, Salt and Pepper jumping on him and dancing around. Lady sat in a mud puddle, panting. “You were supposed to wait in the bathroom until I came and got you.”
He smelled like smoke and rain and Mitch. “You saved me and the horses,” she said, nuzzling her face into his wet neck and ignoring his chastising. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
His body was solid and he held her close. Close enough she could hear the wheeze coming from his lungs.
“You need a doctor,” she said.
One hand stroked her back. “I have you.”
Yes, he did. “A medical doctor, Mitch. You have smoke inhalation symptoms.”
She tried to break their embrace and step back so she could look him over properly, but he didn’t let her. He just kept hanging on to her and she didn’t resist. It felt too damn good to be inside his arms, to know he was alive.
Will appeared in her peripheral vision, carrying a blowtorch and some large, insulated gloves. Welder’s protective goggles rested on his forehead. He’d wrapped his injured arm with burlap.
He was grinning.
Grinning? Emma shook her head as she and Mitch disengaged. “What are you doing with that?” she asked, pointing to the contraption in his hands.
“Cutting down the gate,” he said, his eyes like a kid’s on Christmas morning.
“That should do it,” Mitch agreed. He wiped his forehead on one sleeve. “Emma, get back inside until my teammates arrive. They’ll be here any minute and then we can get you to the safe house. Grab your bag, and yes, the dogs can go too. I’ll snag their food once I’m done here.”
He needled the unconscious man with a boot toe. “Once this asshole regains consciousness, I’ll interrogate him to find out what he knows about Goodsman’s whereabouts.”
The man’s skin under his beard had a grayish tint. Blood from his wound soaked the ground. “Are you sure he’s alive?” she asked.
Mitch let go of a sigh that suggested he wished the man weren’t. “I hit him in the shoulder blade and he hit his head when he fell. Probably has a concussion, but he’s alive.”
Emma wiped wet hair from her face. “Will, are you okay?”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m better than okay, Doc. This is the most alive I’ve felt since I set foot on American soil again.”
“Then this must be why you made it back home.” She saw understanding light in his eyes. “You’re good to have around, I’d say.”
“Ditto,” Mitch agreed and Will’s neck flushed red.
“What about your arm?” Emma asked her hired man.
“This?” He waved the bandaged arm around. “This is nothing. Barely grazed me.”
She’d never seen Will smile this much. The psychologist in her wondered if his being so happy at getting shot and taking down a couple of criminals was a good thing, but the other part of her felt pretty darn good herself, so she let it go. “What should we do about the horses?”
The equines in question were slowly making their way toward the pasture. Hope had caught up with her mother and Second Chance was head-butting the foal in a happy hello. None of them seemed too upset anymore about their barn home, now smoldering in the rain.
“I’ll get them inside the fenced area in a minute,” Will said, flipping down the welding goggles and heading for the gate. “Tomorrow, I’ll draw up plans for a new barn. We needed one anyway.”
As Lady went to follow Will, Emma glanced back at her house, the front porch and entryway battered from the attack. “I suppose I better find some plywood to cover the window. What a mess.”
“Will can handle that once we get you moved.” Mitch picked up the rifle. “After we get the gate open for Coop and the gang, I’ll go round up Gordon’s body and confirm his ID.”
He kissed her sweetly and headed after Will, Salt and Pepper loping along beside him.
“Mitch?” she called, seeing the tired slope of his shoulders. It made her feel completely undone. He’d saved her and her ranch. She owed him everything.
He stopped, turning back to give her a weary smile. “Yeah, Doc?”
“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she said. “I hope when this is all over, you and I can have a fresh start, but if you decide this isn’t for you—this thing between us—I understand.”
If anything, his shoulders drooped even more. He stood there staring at her in the rain, the rifle dangling beside his leg. “This thing between us?” His smile turned wry, almost mischievous. He shook his head. “Jesus, Emma.”
“What?” she said, suddenly self-conscious. Had she misunderstood? Had he slept with her and told her all those intimate things but never planned on sticking around after his assignment was done?
“Sounds odd,” he said, chuckling, “to hear you use such a piss-poor description for what’s going on between us.”
She shifted her weight between her feet and worried her hands. “What exactly is going on between us?”
She felt stupid asking, but personal relationships—her personal relationships—were one area she never felt comfortable talking about. Helping others explore their emotions when it came to those they loved was easy—she had no attachment to the people they talked about. Exploring her own emotions, her own feelings, was sort of foreign soil.
Mitch stood motionless for another moment, studying her, then lumbered back to her, lifted her chin with his wet fingers and stared down into her eyes. “In less than three days, you’ve turned my world completely upside down, woman. This thing between us is the best thing I’ve ever had. I don’t need a fresh start. I need you, with all the chaos, and the dogs, and the horses, and your freaky mind-reading.”
This time his kiss was anything but sweet. He held her chin while he ravaged her lips, gave her some tongue, and made her see stars.
W
hen he finally broke away, they were both breathing hard. He turned her around, smacked her ass, and said, “Now get back inside and get ready to go to the safe house.”
Grinning, she did as she was told, giving him a wink over her shoulder as she walked away. Maybe she didn’t need to analyze her relationship with Mitch. All she had to do was accept it.
When she got to the back door, she looked over her shoulder again. Will was torching the latches on the gate, melting the old, rusty metal. Mitch, feeling her stare, looked back at her, the dogs milling around his legs in the soft rain.
Emma let out a sigh of relief, her heart full from his words.
Her bag was still in the living room, so she tip-toed through the broken glass and grabbed that first. Then she headed upstairs for dry clothes.
Noise outside brought her into her office to glance out the window. Two vehicles pulled up at the gate, several men and women emerging from them as Mitch held up a hand and Will continued to work on the latches. Emma could see greetings going back and forth between Mitch and his teammates, lots of smiles all around. Emma found herself smiling too, watching him exchange manly clasps through the gate with one of the men she guessed might be Cooper Harris.
She planned to tell Mr. Harris all about Mitch’s heroics. Victor too. Did they know what an amazing man he was? Probably, but it wouldn’t hurt to remind them. Mitch had problems, but he knew his job and did it well.
If he stayed with her, how would he work for the taskforce? Would he continue with National Intelligence? The thought sat uncomfortably between her ribs. Mitch was an incredible agent, and she had no doubt she wasn’t the first person he’d saved during his career. Could she really expect him to leave that world for her?
Turning away from the window, she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Right now, she needed clothes and to get back downstairs ready to leave.
Because Chris Goodsman was still on the loose. She still hated the idea of leaving the ranch, but there was no telling who else he might send after her if she stayed here.
In the bathroom, she stripped off her wet clothes. Leaving them on the tile floor, she went to her closet to grab jeans and a dry shirt. A sexy red silk blouse caught her eye and she rubbed the fabric between her fingers. Should she wear another flannel over a T-shirt and be comfortable or should she chose something a bit more festive for Christmas Day? Did Mitch like red? Did he like silk?
She had the feeling he would answer yes to both questions.
The red silk won out and she slipped it off the hangar. Back in the bathroom, she realized she needed a different bra, her current cotton one was slightly damp and sticking to her skin, putting her nipples on full display under the red silk.
Off went the shirt before it ended up damp as well. Grabbing a towel to dry her hair, she headed back out of the bathroom for a second trip to her closet, when a voice stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Hello, Dr. Collins,” Chris Goodsman said.
Emma stumbled backward, her pulse skyrocketing.
Chris sat on the end of her bed, running his fingers over the pair of panties Mitch had peeled off her the night before.
His long, brown hair fell forward in that messy Hollywood-bad-boy style and his chocolate brown eyes did a slow perusal of her nearly naked self. “Miss me? I sure missed you.”
Gun.
She’d left it on the counter while taking off her wet clothes.
Moving backward, her feet slipped and tangled, her elbow crashing into the door frame, knocking her off balance as panic swept through her. The door banged backwards into the wall.
Dropping the towel, she scrambled for the sink and the shiny metal lying on it.
Her hand slapped at the gun, catching the butt. It spun and tumbled to the floor.
She fell to her knees, grabbing it with both hands and flicking off the safety. Raising it to point at the man defiling her panties, her bedroom, with his very presence, she tried to firm her shaking grasp.
He smirked at her attempt to protect herself, his eyes letting her know he wasn’t scared of her gun. Wasn’t scared of her. He had everything under control.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped, still working on keeping the barrel from shaking.
“I came for you.” His tone suggested it was a stupid question.
It probably was an inane thing to ask. She’d known since the moment Mitch had shown up on her doorstep that Chris might indeed be for real in his hunt for her. “Why?”
“You ruined my life.” He pushed off the bed and stood. “Thought I’d repay the favor.”
Emma stood too, slowly rising from her knees and keeping the gun on him. “Your men killed a police officer and nearly killed an innocent girl. They burned down my horse barn. They shot up my house! But you know what? It ends here. You and I? We’re done.”
Chris gave her an odd look. “I could have ordered my lieutenants to kill you, Dr. Collins.”
Lieutenants? “So we’re playing this game, huh? I’m a cyborg and you’re The Chosen One?”
“I don’t know why you believe this is a game.”
Heart pounding, she licked her lips, trying to decide where exactly to shoot him. Leg? Chest? Should she wound him or shoot to kill?
She wasn’t a killer, but she was damned tired of living in fear from this man. “So why didn’t you order your lieutenants to kill me, Chris? You and I both know you don’t have the guts to kill me yourself.”
“Who’s Chris?” He snickered, but she saw the slight twitch at the corner of his left eye. Her words had hit home even though the narcissist in him hid it well. “You know who I am and why I’m here. I am going to kill you, Dr. Collins, and lead The Resistance to freedom.”
“Good luck with that, Chris.” She gave him a smile that she hoped conveyed she was really the one in control here because she knew the truth. “You know what you are underneath your fame and manipulation? Nothing but a scared little boy who never felt loved. It doesn’t matter if you’re really Chris or you’re Tom. Bottom line is, you’re nothing but a pussy, afraid to act like a man.”
It had worked on the other men, she thought it might be worth a try on him.
He went totally still. Not even the tick near his eye moved. “You really think I don’t have the guts to kill you, bitch?”
She cocked the gun. He had to know she’d defended herself before against one of his fans, but maybe he needed reminding. “You really think this is the first time I’ve ever shot someone?”
His gaze flickered to the gun and back to meet her eyes. That same smirk crossed his lips, his body no longer tense. “Guess it comes down to who has the most to win or lose, doesn’t it?”
She would only have one chance. One shot. If she didn’t make it count, he’d be on her in a second. No telling what he might do.
And not just to her.
Mitch and the others were still down by the gate. While she hadn’t seen anyone else, she knew Linda had to be around somewhere, maybe more of the Resistance fighters.
No one was taking anything else from her. She wouldn’t let them hurt Mitch, or Will, and not her horses or her dogs or her ranch either. Chris Goodsman had already taken so much from her.
“No, Chris,” she said, her hands finally steadying. “What it comes down to is who has the biggest set of balls. And that, you arrogant asshole, would be me.”
She fired—click, click, click.
Nothing happened. No bullets came speeding out to wipe the smirk off his face. Blood didn’t bloom on his chest. Or his stomach. Or anywhere else.
Not because she had poor aim.
Someone removed the bullets from my gun.
Bewildered, she pulled the trigger again.
Click.
Emma’s heart clenched, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears.
Linda Brown sauntered in from the hall, sidling up to Chris. She was dressed in typical Resistance gear: brown pants tucked into boots, a brown jacket over a black T-shirt with a picture of
Tom Monahan on the front. Her wild hair was in a messy ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. Strapped around one thigh was a knife holder complete with a hunting knife. She held up one hand, fingers closed in a fist.
Neither Linda nor Chris showed signs of having been in the rain. Neither was dirty or appeared to have been roughing it. They both looked clean, well-fed, and enjoying themselves, like cats toying with a mouse.
A light shone in Linda’s eyes, one Emma was bone-chillingly familiar with. With a sly smile, the woman tipped her fist sideways and slowly, one finger at a time, opened it.
Bullets fell to the floor, plunk, plunk, plunk, spinning in all directions as they hit.
Chris smirked at Emma’s shock. “Bad day, Dr. Collins?”
Somehow, Linda, the bitch, had snuck into the bathroom and removed the bullets from Emma’s gun while she’d been in the closet. It was the only explanation.
Linda laughed, a brittle sound that scratched against the thrumming in Emma’s ears. “It’s about to get worse,” she croaked and then she launched herself at Emma.
The swing Emma took with the gun was a lucky one—either that, or her primal survival instincts kicked in and came to her rescue. The gun connected with Linda’s temple, drawing a sharp grunt from the woman as her body weight smacked Emma down hard onto the tile floor.
Emma also grunted, the breath knocked out of her, but she managed to hold tight to the gun. Linda rolled her to the right, banging both of them into the sink. Emma forced them to roll to the left.
Linda smacked her across the face and somehow managed to knee her in the stomach. Pain exploded in both places.
With the pain came a memory. Christmas lights bobbing on a tree as she wrestled with an attacker. The smell of pine in her nose. A carol playing softly in the background as she struggled for her life.
Beyond fear, beyond pain, rose an anger she had long buried. It erupted with a loud growl from her mouth, the sensations rolling through her veins like boiling lava.
Instinct took hold again and Emma raised her hand and brought the metal down on the back of Linda’s head.
And then again.