by Lori Wilde
“Do you know where he went?” His gaze shifted to the door again.
“No. We put in requests to get the airport security cameras, but it’s going to take time.”
“Okay.” Clay raked a hand over his face. “And the bad news?”
“Now it’s going to be harder to catch him.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” Clay said, but the relief that Jennifer wasn’t in danger any longer far surpassed that.
“If you want, I can drive Jennifer’s car over there, and you can be free of her.”
He should say “Yes.” Freaking hell! “No. I mean, shouldn’t we stay the course, until after the trial? Just to be sure?”
“So that’s how it is, huh?” Jake chuckled.
Clay closed his eyes. “I prefer playing it safe.” But there was nothing safe about how he felt right now. Losing her scared him to death. The only thing that scared him more was loving her.
“Of course,” Jake said, his tone placating.
Hanging up, Clay took two deep breaths, then walked outside. She sat in the old chair, petting Devil.
She glanced up and only held his gaze a second before refocusing on Devil. “What did Jake want?”
“They found Bundy’s car at the airport.”
“So, he left town?”
“It looks like it, but until we get a peek at the airport security cameras, we won’t know for sure. So . . .”
She glanced at him. “So, I should stay here until the trial, huh?”
Or later. What’s the hurry in leaving? I kind of like having you here. The words sat on his tongue, but for some crazy, fucked-up reason, he couldn’t spit them out. He nodded. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Where’s Pete?” she asked.
“He went to take Ralph home from the hospital. He . . . he said he was going by the grocery store on the way home. That he was going to teach you to fry chicken.”
“Yeah.” A smile brushed her lips, but it seemed fake.
The silence hung on. Then she blurted out, “I want you to have the furniture.”
Still unsure if that was what had upset her, he cratered. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” She stood and rested one hand on his shoulder.
Now he was confused. Was she angry? Not angry? Damn it, he couldn’t read her. Or maybe he could. Sadness made her blue eyes bluer.
Lifting up on her tiptoes, she kissed him. It was soft, sweet, but too short. A knot of emotion climbed up his throat then fell back and landed with a thump in his chest.
“You know what I’d love to do again before I leave?” she said.
His heart got hung up the word leave. “What?”
“Go horseback riding. Can we do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“I’ll put on my jeans.” He watched her walk back into the house. I’m going to fix this. I am. Just as soon as he could chase off the cloud of doom his ex-wife’s call had brought on.
“Dad-blast it. I forgot the flour,” Pete moaned.
Jennifer, shelving the butter in the fridge, glanced back at him. “It’s okay,” she said. “I can just fix something else.”
“Nope,” Pete declared. “My mouth’s watering for fried chicken. I’ll go back.”
“I’ll go,”
Clay walked in carrying the last of the groceries. Just looking at him caused an ache to wiggle around in her chest.
They’d gone horseback riding and gotten home right when Pete pulled up. Clay had barely said two words on the ride. Obviously, he was upset. At first, she hadn’t known why, but then it became clear to her. For Clay Connors, accepting a gift from her was too much. A lot of people looked at gifts in a relationship as some kind of a commitment.
She’d planned on confronting him and getting to the bottom of things when they got back to the house, but Pete’s return had put that on hold. All Clay had to say was he wanted her to leave, and she’d be gone. Oh, it was going to hurt like the dickens, but she’d do it.
“You don’t mind going?” Pete asked.
“No,” Clay said. “Where’re the keys?”
Pete tossed them over.
Clay looked at her. “I think there’s one bag of groceries in the truck. Want to follow me out?”
“Sure.” She started for the door, knowing this wasn’t about groceries and praying it wasn’t about goodbye. Her heart started pounding, each thump against her breastbone hurt a little more.
Much to her surprise, he took her hand as soon as they stepped out on the porch and led her to the truck. When he got her behind it, he pulled her close and leaned his forehead against hers. He didn’t speak. He barely breathed.
His green eyes showed so much pain. “What’s going on, Clay?”
“I’m sorry. I’m acting like an idiot.”
She swallowed. “Do you . . . want me . . . to . . . go?” Each word came out more painfully than the last.
“No. But we started this thing living together, and I’m not sure . . . how we’re supposed to move forward. And I’m scared.”
His inhale was deep. “Of what?”
“I spoke to . . .” His pause sounded painful. “I don’t want to lose you, but I’m scared to . . .”
“To what?”
He scrubbed a hand down his face as if to wipe away his emotions. “There has to be a way to make it feel . . . less scary. Maybe we need to just slow it down a little bit.”
So, she’d been right. For Clay Connors, accepting her furniture translated to commitment. Yeah, there is a way to slow it down. I can leave.
“We’ll talk tonight, when Pete goes to bed. And I’m sorry, okay?”
Sorry for what? Not wanting her in his life?
He kissed her on the forehead. When he pulled back, he didn’t look at her.
Opening the truck door, he stood there as if thinking. Devil came running and jumped in. “I’m taking him,” Clay said.
She nodded and watched his truck drive down the dirt road, getting smaller, stirring up a cloud of dust. Stirring up heartbreak.
Bundy had started toward the south part of town late last night. But he spotted the sheriff’s car tucked away in the trees less than a mile from where the black truck had turned in. Was it coincidence, or was the sheriff expecting Bundy to come back?
Either way, he had left and waited until now to try again. The sheriff was nowhere to be seen.
He found the dirt road. Not wanting to just drive up to the house, he pulled off on a side road. It was only about a five-minute walk to the driveway.
Gun tucked inside his pants, he started walking. Revenge was sweet. And hopefully, he was about to get his.
It took a good five minutes before he spotted the old yellow farmhouse. There wasn’t a black truck to be seen, and since there wasn’t a garage, it meant he’d wasted his time.
But then he spotted the old man working on the fence out by the barn. It was him. The old man who’d been driving the black pickup.
Goddamn it. It was time he got some answers.
Clay, flour riding shotgun, was heading back from the grocery store when he saw another black Chevy truck, same make and model as his, turning into a driveway. Then he spotted the small cottage house.
This was the house that had been ransacked. Jacob Brown’s place. He recalled the name from the day the sheriff dropped by.
He pulled his foot off the gas. His mind raced. At the time, he had felt the whole Bundy attack and this one didn’t have a connection. Was it a coincidence that the man drove the same truck as Clay?
Could Bundy have gone into the house looking for him?
Maybe he was just looking for something to fret over other than making an idiot out of himself with Jennifer.
Then again, what would it hurt to just have a chat with the man? With no oncoming traffic, he did a sharp U-turn and headed back to the Brown place.
When he pulled into the driveway, Brown was exiting his truck. He turne
d and stared at Clay.
Appearing about Clay’s age, Brown was tall with short-cropped auburn hair. His firm shoulders and the way he carried himself had Clay guessing the man served his country in some form or the other.
“Hello,” Clay said, shutting his truck door.
The man nodded, but stood rock hard. Nothing in his stance told Clay he was welcome there.
Still, Clay moved up the driveway and offered his hand. “I’m Clay Connors. Our properties line up.”
Brown appeared to relax and accepted Clay’s hand. “I made an offer to purchase some of your acreage.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure I’m ready to let any of it go right now, but if I decide to, I’ll come to you first.”
“I’ll take that.” Brown’s gaze shifted toward the driveway. “Your truck?”
“Yeah,” Clay said. “That’s sort of why I stopped by. I heard your place was ransacked.”
Brown shook his head, hrumphed, and then kind of chuckled. “It makes sense now.”
Clay knew what made sense to him, but he wasn’t sure about Brown. “What do you mean?”
Brown hesitated, before saying, “You had some trouble at the junkyard.”
“Yeah,” Clay said.
“Well, his name is Ted Bundy. Has priors.”
Clay stared at the man. “How do you know. . . Bundy’s name hasn’t been released.”
“I have cameras. I was able to identify him. Have you caught the guy?”
“No. He . . . It looks like he left town. But I still don’t get how you . . .” Clay remembered his first inclination about the guy. “Navy Seal? CIA?”
Brown crossed his arms, a gesture that told Clay he wasn’t the sharing type. “So, Bundy slipped away?”
“Yeah. We found his black Chevy Cruise at the airport this morning.”
Brown lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t stop looking, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“He must have traded that car in for a new one. Last time I spotted him, he was driving a silver Honda.”
“What?” Clay said. “You’ve seen him?”
“That was before I had a good look at the tapes. And he’s driven past here a few times since. I let the sheriff know I’d seen the guy. I really thought he was just a petty thief.”
“Shit.” Clay realized he’d left Jennifer alone. “I should go make sure . . .” He started backing up.
“You need anything?” Brown asked.
“No, I think I got it. But thanks!”
Chapter 16
After Clay left, Jennifer had forced herself to sit with Pete and chat instead of heading back inside her bedroom to cry. After their talk, Pete had gone to work on the fence Clay had started on the other day.
With her heart still breaking, and in need of a soft pillow to cry on, she started to the bedroom. Then she remembered the breakfast dishes hadn’t been washed. Crying wasn’t going to fix shit. Stiffening her backbone, she went and commenced cleaning the kitchen.
Her heart ached, but she told herself she’d tried. She’d given him a chance, and it was wonderful—even if it had only lasted a few days. She was wiping out the skillet they’d fried bacon in when her phone rang.
Grabbing her phone, she spotted Savanna’s number. She answered quickly, thinking sooner or later it was going to be about the baby coming.
“Hey,” she said.
“Jennifer, it’s Mark.” Something about his terse, tight tone sent her stomach into a big knot.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re at the hospital. They just took Savanna back. She’s asking for you.”
“Is she okay?” Jennifer’s lips and jaw trembled.
“No, she’s bleeding. They mentioned something about the partial placenta thing. I don’t know what they’re talking about. She’s scared. And so am I. Can you get here to help me keep her calm? To keep me calm?”
Calm was the last thing she felt. Oh God, Savanna couldn’t lose this baby. And nothing could happen to her best friend. “I’ll be right there.”
She hung up and the phone beeped again. Thinking it was Bethany or Macy, she took the call. “I’m on my way.”
“What?” The male voice boomed.
It wasn’t her friend. “Clay?”
“Yeah. Look, I just found out--”
“I can’t talk,” she said. “I need to…” She heard the front door bang open. Certain it was Pete, she called out, “I need a ride to the hospital!”
Footsteps echoed in the living room, but it wasn’t Pete who appeared at the doorway. Instead the big, bald creep who wanted her dead stood there.
She screamed. Dropped the phone, and bolted back.
“Jennifer? What’s wrong? Shit!” Clay hung up, called 911 and gave his address, then tossed the phone down and told Devil to hang on. He drove like a bat out of hell with Satan nipping at his heels. Three minutes. That’s the time it would take to make it back to his house if he was driving like a sane person.
He wasn’t feeling sane.
Two and a half minutes if he didn’t stop at the lights and signs.
He wasn’t stopping.
Gas pedal to floorboard, he white-knuckled the steering wheel. Images of Jennifer flashed in his head. Images of Pete. But damn, when had Pete became so important to him?
Damn! Damn! Damn!
He passed the red light, drove through the stop sign. His heart felt swollen, as it thudded painfully against his chest bone.
Air felt stuck in his throat. He couldn’t lose her. He loved her. She made his life worthwhile. She made him happy. She made him a better man.
But holy shit, he’d been an idiot. How the hell could he have ever even questioned wanting her in his life?
Stomping his foot harder on the gas, he started praying.
“What . . . what do you want?” Jennifer gripped the counter behind her.
Bundy looked puzzled. “This must be my lucky day.”
And what did that say about her day? Fear had her mind racing, roaring.
“Look, you can just turn around and leave. Clay will be back here any second.”
“Clay, the junkyard guy?”
She nodded.
“Good,” Bundy said. “I have a score to settle with him.”
Fear curled up inside her and turned her skin ice cold.
“No,” she managed to say. “Just leave. They think you’ve left town, and if you leave now, no one will be looking for you.” She shook her head. A knot of emotion rolled around in her throat. “Look, I have a friend who is having a baby, and things aren’t going well. I need to be with her. So, you are just going to leave!”
Bundy laughed. Not the kind of laugh that eased one’s fears, but the kind that caused them. “You’re funny.”
She knew it had been a long shot, but she had to try. Now she just had to figure out what to try next. Because no way in hell was she not showing up for Savanna.
“Seriously, I won’t tell a soul you were here.”
“And how are you going to explain the old dead guy out by the barn?”
Dead guy. Pete? “No!” Her heart jolted. Emotion. Guilt. She had brought this down on Pete. He hadn’t done anything. Then that emotion blew up like a flash fire and burnt out. She hadn’t done this. Bundy had. Just like that drunk driver had killed her mom and sister.
She’d known it all these years, but never had it felt so true.
Still gripping the counter, she felt something cold and hard touching the top of her palms.
The skillet. The cast-iron skillet. A piece of cookware that doubled as a weapon. Her mom’s words swam through her head, and she got an idea of what to try next.
She inched her palms back, and at the same time saw a shovel swing behind Bundy and whack the man on his bald head.
“What old dead guy?” the voice boomed from behind the hit man.
Jennifer had never been so happy to hear Pete’s voice.
Bundy, only mildly dazed, went to swing around. Jennifer, s
killet already in her hand, swung, and gave the man a brain-jarring, lump-forming thump.
The bald guy dropped the gun, swayed on his feet, but then turned back to her. His blue eyes were pure evil. Her breath caught.
Pete’s shovel came down again and gave the man another hard wallop.
Bundy growled, looking more angry than hurt. She swung again hitting him right on the forehead. He collapsed against the doorframe.
Jennifer kicked the gun across the room.
Pete’s shovel landed on Bundy’s head again.
“It’s your turn,” Pete said.
But she’d seen the man’s eyes roll back in his head. He fell in a dead lump on the floor. Dead? Oh, lord, had they killed him?
“Get me the gun,” Pete said.
She ran to the other side of the kitchen, snatched it up and handed it to him. Her hands shook, but her panic took a back seat to concern when she saw, really saw, Pete for the first time. Blood flowed down his face, down his shirt. A lot of blood.
“Oh, God, are you okay?” The words scratched her throat coming out.
“Piece of shit shot me in the ear!” he bellowed.
Don’t ask her why, but she laughed. Laughed hard. Laughed with tears.
Then she heard Clay’s truck hauling ass down the driveway. Somehow before the engine stopped, footsteps pounded on the porch. He swung the door open and stormed in. His eyes were hot with fury, his brows pinched, his expression intense. His gun aimed. He looked more like a cop than she’d ever seen him.
The second he saw them, the ready-to-kill look vanished and he rushed in and hugged her. His warmth, his touch, had every muscle in her body going limp. Had her wanting to give in to the panic that begged to take her, but she fought it. For Savanna.
Then Clay jerked back. “Damn.” His gaze had shifted to Pete. “Are you shot?”
“Yup,” Pete said. The man still held the gun aimed at Bundy as blood continued to pour down the side of his face. “Asswipe shot off my ear.”
Jennifer swung around to the kitchen and got a clean dishtowel.
“Just the ear?” Clay took the gun away from Pete.
“Just? I liked my ear,” Pete bellowed.