by Brant, Kylie
“I knew it.” Satisfaction laced her words. “You’re goin’ to have him trippin’ over his tongue. Serve him right, too. That man is entirely too sure of himself when it comes to women. Don’t know one personally he can’t wrap ’round his finger, with the exception of his mama. But that woman’s got glaciers in her veins, so she doesn’t count.”
She shouldn’t ask. Ramsey definitely didn’t want to get any further entwined in Devlin Stryker’s life. But her tongue worked at odds with her brain.
“He and his mother aren’t close?”
Leanne tilted her head, with its dark cap of hair, and sent Ramsey a sly look. “If I tell you, will you tell me who you shot and why?”
“No.”
The other woman made a moue of disappointment. “Well, it’s more ancient history than gossip, but it’s no secret in these parts that Celia Ann Stryker couldn’t wait to put road between her and Buffalo Springs after Dev’s daddy was accused of murder. Got rid of his last name mighty quick, too. Guess I can see how hard it would have been on her,” she allowed, as she trailed behind Ramsey to the counter. Laying the jewelry on top of the clothes, she continued, “From all accounts, Lucas Rollins was a lot like Dev. Easy to get along with and not much for gettin’ liquored up and carousin’. Which seems sorta ironic. Woman like that would drive most men to drink.”
Ramsey listened with half an ear while contemplating the jewelry—which was definitely chunky, and the same jade green as the top. It was unlike anything she’d choose, but she’d be the first to admit that her taste tended toward the functional.
“Listen to me rattle on.” Leanne’s rueful tone had Ramsey’s attention jerking back to the woman. “You’re goin’ to think I’m a terrible tongue wagger. I’m biased, I’ll admit it. I just think there’s a special place in hell for a woman who puts her second husband before the welfare her own child, don’t you?”
“Some women weren’t meant to be mothers,” Ramsey agreed as she handed the clerk her charge card. Although as mothers went, she figured her own would make Celia Ann look like Mother of the Year.
But she’d survived Hilda Hawkins. Had, in fact, survived her childhood, and Cripolo, Mississippi. No one passed through life completely unscathed. She was honest enough to admit snippets from her past still had the power to haunt her.
Ramsey couldn’t help wondering just how much his past haunted Dev.
Behindthe gag, her breath came in sharp muffled gasps. Her bound wrists were slick with blood. But Kathleen Sebern continued to rub them against the sharp edge of stone her naked body was propped against, terror fueling her desperation.
The pain from her wrists paled in comparison to what she’d already been subjected to. What awaited her still, if she didn’t find a way to escape.
Had she been here one day? Two? Time had ceased to exist. There had only been the hours before, when he had been here. And the hours since, shrouded in darkness. Praying that somehow she could get away before he came back.
A shudder racked her body and her efforts redoubled. Were the binds loosening? She worked her wrists more furiously, uncaring of the searing pain as stone tore at flesh.
In the next moment she was free.
Disoriented, she clawed at the tape over her mouth first. The need for air, to fill her lungs and scream her fear and anguish, rose up inside her in a powerful surge. Her fingers were numb, though. Clumsy. The seconds ticked by interminably before she could tear the tape from her mouth, from lips already cracked and swollen.
The first inhalation of air was sweet, a greedy swallow. With the second came a small sound. Everything inside her stilled.
She heard the footstep first. Boot scraping against stone. Panic sprinted up her spine, fueled by desperation. She tried to rise, but her bound feet were numb, and she stumbled forward only a few steps before falling to her knees. Then she crawled. Blindly. Into the shadows, uncaring of obstacles she hit in her path. She had to get away. Had to. Had to. Had to . . .
A sliver of light stabbed through the shadows, and the wail of despair welled up in her and burst out, a wild piercing note of desolation.
“Well, well. You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”
That voice. That hated voice. Kathleen scrabbled farther, not even trying to rise, heading for the darkest corners. No longer even thinking of escape. Her instinct was to hide.
“Do you read the Bible, Kathleen?” The light shone around the dark cavelike area, catching her in its gleam like a spotlight.
She crawled rapidly out of its beam, struck her head on something solid with enough force to have stars dancing before her eyes. A moment later he was there, above her, his hand in her hair, yanking her head back.
“Of course you don’t. That’s why you’re here. ‘And if ye will not yet for all this hearken unto me, then I will punish you seven times more for your sins.’ Leviticus chapter twenty-six, verse eighteen.”
She tried to swing at him, but he was crouched behind her now, one hand forcing her head nearly to the ground. He slipped some sort of thin noose over her head. Tightened it around her throat.
“You’ve more penance to do. And you’re in the perfect position already.”
Her scream was strangled as he rammed himself into her from behind, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls. Shrieking through her brain. The agony knifed through her, pain and fear colliding, engulfing her. The noose tightened, and spots danced before her eyes as her lungs heaved for oxygen. Then it loosened, allowed her a short gasping breath. Then tightened again. Over and over.
But through it all there was still his voice. In her ear. In her head. Ragged and panting as he thrust.
“Atonement is your path to salvation, Kathleen. Because the wages of sin are death.”
Chapter 14
It was ten minutes to six when Ramsey checked the caller ID on her ringing cell phone. A moment later, she considered not responding. A Mississippi area code. She almost always let calls from home go right to voice mail. Then tortured herself for hours or days afterward until she worked up the fortitude to return the call.
But this number, though originating in Cripolo, was unfamiliar.
Even knowing she’d regret it, she hit connect and answered with a short, “Ramsey Clark.”
There was a moment of silence. Then tentatively, “Ms. Clark?”
“Who is this?” She could see Dev pulling in to one of the slots outside her cabin. Of course he’d be early. No surprise there.
“Ms. Clark, this is Curtis Feckler, of Feckler Realty in Cripolo, Mississippi.” A nervous laugh. “I admit, I wasn’t ’spectin’ you to answer. You must be feelin’ a whole lot better. Congratulations on your recovery.”
She went to the door and opened it, waving Dev inside. “I think you’ve been misinformed,” she told the Realtor. “I haven’t had any health issues. What’s the purpose of your call?”
Another hesitation, during which her attention was diverted by Dev’s low wolf whistle. Ridiculous to feel a flush of pleasure by the admiration in his expression as he gave her a long once over. So she was wearing different clothes. Clothes were clothes, weren’t they? And these gave her nowhere to hide her weapon. She felt naked without it.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what’s goin’ on here.” Feckler’s voice was confused. “Your brother brought me a notarized statement that you were at death’s door. He said you needed to sell your house in Cripolo to pay the medical costs, and I’ve found a buyer. Your number was on the copy of the deed he showed me, but this contact was mostly a formality. We’re required to follow up on things like this. I’m afraid I don’t understand. Your brother assured me . . .”
A familiar sense of fatality filled her. “I’m sure he did. Unfortunately my brother is an ex-con precisely because he’s a conscienceless liar and thief. The house isn’t his to sell, Mr. Feckler, and since I’m not interested in unloading it, you’ve narrowly avoided landing yourself in a lawsuit. Next time, you’d best get a better idea of who you’re
dealing with before you take them on as a client.”
The man began to sputter. “Well . . . I’ve never seen such a thing. I assure you, Ms. Clark, I’m an honest businessman. I just moved to Cripolo a few months ago to open a new branch of my realty company. Granted, I don’t know the townspeople well yet, but . . .”
She gave a humorless laugh. “That explains it then. When you do, you won’t make a mistake like that again. Good-bye, Mr. Feckler.” She disconnected the call, dropped the phone into her purse. “Ready to go?”
Dev surveyed her carefully as she walked by him. “Trouble at home?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” For the first time that day, she was glad she had plans this evening. When it came to diversions, Devlin Stryker excelled. And she welcomed any distraction that gave her an excuse to delay dealing with her brother.
She heard the door close behind her as she headed to his car. No way to know for sure if Luverne had been acting alone or if their mother had put him up to it. Eventually she’d have to call home, immerse herself in the genetic jungle that was her family.
But for now . . . she looked up, startled to find Dev leaning in to open the car door. She slid into the passenger seat and he shut the door after her.
For now, she’d spend a few hours engaged in what passed as normal for most people. And forget for a while that her life had never shared more than a passing acquaintance with “normal.”
“Given our plans for later this evenin’, there wasn’t time to drive out of town for dinner.” Dev caught the quick suspicious glance Ramsey slanted his way, and amusement filled him. “On account of your wantin’ to go by Rose Thornton’s tonight.”
“Right.”
He was careful to hide his grin when she passed him to enter the Half Moon restaurant. It wouldn’t do to let her see that he’d accurately guessed her first interpretation of his words. He figured he ought to be grateful her mind was running along the same lines as his. Damned if persistently carnal thoughts involving her hadn’t about worn a path through his brain.
He caught Molly Fenton’s eye, and the waitress whisked off to find them a table. The interior of the restaurant was already crowded but not nearly as packed as it would be in another few hours when it filled with more drinkers than diners.
“I suppose you know everybody in here,” Ramsey muttered.
He scanned the interior, saw nothing but familiar faces. “All the locals, anyway. And I’m noddin’ acquaintance with most of the others.” He sent a friendly wave to Donnelle and Steve sitting in the corner. Felt a flash of annoyance when he saw Banty Whipple and a couple of his equally thick-headed buddies turn around to survey him from their stance at the bar.
“We’re not going to be surrounded by more of your adoring fan club while we eat, are we?”
He thought, he was almost sure, that Ramsey was joking. When Molly gestured toward them, he placed a hand at the base of Ramsey’s narrow back and nudged her forward. “Fact is, not everyone in these parts is a fan.”
Her quick look this time held uncertainty. “Because of your father?”
“There’s that. And others who just don’t find my winnin’ personality irresistible.”
There was a definite smirk on her lips as she sat in the chair held out for her. “Go figure.”
That curve of her lips held him transfixed for a moment. He’d never seen them glossed with lipstick before had he? As a matter of fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Ramsey wear makeup at all. But she was wearing some now, though he’d been too interested in the curves and uncovered skin she was revealing to have noticed it earlier.
He took his seat across the table and studied her as she looked around at the other occupants. He gave high marks to the manufacturer of that slinky green top she had on. It left her arms bare and dipped low enough in front to hint at cleavage. He’d already noted that the long shorts she wore were trim enough to show off her very fine ass.
She turned back to him, caught him staring. One eyebrow winged up in question.
He grinned, unabashed. “Just admirin’ the scenery.”
To his delight, she looked discomfited. He wondered how much time Ramsey Clark set aside for a social life. Not much, he figured, giving a nod to Digger Lawton, who had shouted his name from his stance at the juke box. She struck him as someone whose life revolved around her work.
She struck him as someone who had reasons to keep it that way.
“What’ll ya have?” Molly skidded to a stop beside them, flipping open her order pad.
“Lemonade,” Ramsey said without hesitation.
“Bring me a Bud Lite,” Dev told the woman, who nodded as she scribbled the order even as she moved on to the next table.
“Who’s the sawed off little shrimp at the bar glaring daggers our way?”
Surprised, he looked over her shoulder, saw Banty giving him the evil eye. “You’ve had your back to him since we walked in. How’d you notice Banty Whipple?”
“I notice everybody.”
He looked at her with renewed respect. He’d just bet she did. Probably took stock of the place and everyone in it upon the first few seconds of entering. Sometimes it still took him aback, those qualities of hers that must be embedded from years doing her job.
“Well, he’s not the president of my fan club. Although he’s probably contemplatin’ bringin’ a club if he ever drops by my place again.”
Molly came by and dropped off their drinks then, and he paused to take a pull of the beer while returning a long level stare back at the man. It satisfied Dev to see the mark on Banty’s jaw. He hoped like hell it was one he’d put there.
Setting down his bottle, he continued, “Mostly we just can’t abide each other. It so happens his son was one of the kids who found the body.”
A cell rang then, the muffled sound loud enough to have him automatically checking his pocket even as he realized the ring was unfamiliar. In the next instant he looked at her purse, sitting on the chair between them. “Is that your phone?”
Ramsey took a long drink of lemonade, avoiding his gaze until the ringing stopped. Only then did she reach into her purse to check the caller ID. Nothing flickered in her expression when she slipped it back inside. “It can wait until later.”
Which meant it didn’t concern the case she was investigating. She was too much of a professional to ignore it if it did.
Recalling the conversation she’d been having when he’d gone to pick her up he guessed, “Your brother?” And by her arrested expression, knew he was correct.
She toyed with the straw in her glass, the gesture strangely diffident. “He’ll be put out that his latest get-rich-quick scheme has been thwarted. It’s best to wait until he’s a bit more rational before verbally kicking his ass.”
He didn’t smile at the words. Couldn’t, not when they were accompanied by that flash of pain in her eyes. He hadn’t grown up with siblings himself, but knew enough of family to recognize the emotion they engendered wasn’t always positive. Not by a long shot. “If he’s tryin’ to steal your house, the ass kickin’ might need to be more than just verbal.”
“I know how to handle Luverne.” Then, catching his gaze on her, she blew out a breath. “I bought the house long ago for my mother to live in.” One bare shoulder lifted in a shrug. “She never did move out of that tin can of a trailer we were raised in. Saw an opportunity to get some extra cash monthly by renting it out instead. I let that go, but it was only a matter of time until one of them came up with this idea.” Her smile was little more than a grimace. “We’re not close.”
He had a feeling that was an understatement. One he could fully appreciate. His occasional calls home were fueled more by duty than familial devotion. He could mourn the lack of emotion even while realizing there was no other way. It was hard saying who had been more relieved when Dev had stopped making infrequent trips home. His mama, his stepdaddy, or him.
“Looks like Doc Thiesen has some company tonight.”
> Dev recognized the change of topic for what it was, and followed the direction of Ramsey’s nod to a corner of the room. Although the older man had his back to them, there was no mistaking his identity. Especially when he saw the man’s dining companion.
Dev lifted a hand in greeting in response to the woman’s wave and turned back to Ramsey. “That’s his daughter, Martha Jane. She lives in Knoxville but gets back here regular to see her dad. She and Doc have always been tight. He raised her alone after his wife left them years ago. He never remarried.”
Which was a far cry from his mama, who’d had someone new lined up less than a year after his daddy’s death. Dev reached for his beer again, tipping it back for a swallow. He wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he thought there should be a happy medium between pining for decades and a too-quick plunge back into the matrimony pool.