Protecting Her Own (Love Inspired Suspense)

by Margaret Daley

  Even her love for her daughter hadn’t been enough to keep her from killing herself. Maybe if she hadn’t gone to college, her mother would still be alive. I could have prevented Mom from taking the sleeping pills. The words plastered the guilt that was really bothering her across her thoughts. Stopping her dead in her tracks.

  For a few minutes the room faded from her awareness and she was thrust back in her mind to her mother’s funeral. For the first time she remembered her father slipping his arm around her shoulder, trying to comfort her in her grief. A look of sadness in his eyes captured her and appealed to her for a few moments until she remembered her mother’s sobs the nights he was gone. She’d rejected his embrace and what fragile relationship they had was altered that day.

  What do You want of me, Lord?

  “Cara, are you all right?” Connor took hold of her hand.

  His touch brought her back to the present—to the room where her father was lying in bed, a shell of the powerful person she’d grown up with. Blinking the past away, she moved forward. “Dad, I’m here to break you out of this joint. Are you ready to leave?” She forced a lightness into her voice although her heart felt heavy.

  He nodded, mumbling a few words. The last one, time, was the only one she understood.

  She started to tell him that it was the middle of the afternoon in case he was asking about the time but decided if she was wrong that would just frustrate him. She came up with a different strategy. “Have I got a surprise for you when we get back to Clear Branch! We didn’t get to have a proper birthday party the other day, so we’re going to have a small one this evening. We can’t pass up your sixtieth birthday. It’s a milestone.”

  Frowning, her dad grumbled something under his breath.

  “Wait till you taste the German chocolate cake I made you. From scratch. Like Mom used to.”

  The scowl evolved into a neutral expression.

  “I also got your favorite ice cream, chocolate chip cookie dough.”

  Her dad’s expression transformed into a half smile.

  “Thanks for coming, Kathy. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness and help with my father at Sunny Meadows.” Cara stepped to the side to let her friend into Mike’s house that evening. “Seeing someone he knew was so much easier for Dad at the center.”

  Kathy blushed. “He’s the big celebrity in town so I’ve got bragging rights that I took care of him. Except—” concern inched into her expression “—someone poisoned him on my watch. Have y’all figured out anything? Who would do such a thing?”

  “You saw the photo of John Smith. Did you recognize him at all?”

  Shaking her head, Kathy frowned. “You think he’s the one who poisoned your father?”

  Frustration churned in Cara’s stomach. “I don’t know. Maybe. I know that Connor wants to question him.” So do I. She wanted to look in the man’s eyes and see if she recognized the eyes of her assailant.

  “Speaking of Connor, what’s going on with you two?” Kathy waggled her eyebrows.

  “Nothing,” Cara answered so fast Kathy laughed.

  “Sure. I’ve seen how y’all look at each other. I remember how it was in high school and afterward, before…”

  “Yeah, before I left town. That’s the key. I left him high and dry. He’d asked me to marry him and I ran.”

  “But that was ages ago.” Kathy moved closer. “So how do you feel now? If I wasn’t married, I’d sure be interested in him. He’s grown up mighty fine.”

  “Where is that husband of yours?” Cara hoped to divert the conversation away from her and Connor.

  “Home with the kids.”

  When the doorbell chimed again, Kathy waved Cara toward it while she made her way into the living room. Cara checked the peephole then drew the door open with a huge smile. “Glad you could come, Sean. Are those the photos from your friend?” she asked when she saw the folder he carried.

  “Yep, and I don’t recognize anyone from them.”

  “You don’t? Let me see.” She took the folder from the sheriff and began going through the computer-generated pictures of John Smith in different disguises. When she spied one of them with his eye color changed from green to brown, she paused, staring at the photo altered to show a man wearing a black ski mask. Her gaze trailed down to the man’s mouth then back up to his gaze. She shuddered. “I couldn’t swear in court that he was the man who attacked me, but with that different eye color coupled with the ski mask…” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Her throat clogged with sensations from the night she was assaulted in the hotel room. Fear nibbled at her resolve not to let the man get to her. But something else also quickly followed in its wake—a sense she was missing something.

  “I thought I heard you out here,” Connor said as he crossed the foyer. He took one look at her and slipped the photos from her hand to examine the top one. “Is this the guy?”

  “I think so. When I just see those brown eyes and the mouth, it seems like that’s him.”

  “Good. Now if your father can ID any of these photos, that will help us maybe figure out how he was poisoned and confirm it’s John Smith.”

  “I keep thinking we’re missing something here.” Cara glanced from Sean to Connor. Her concern grew. In her head a faint throbbing still persisted, competing with the more pressing ache in her shoulder.

  He furrowed his brow. “What?”

  Cara smoothed her short hair behind her ears, trying to grab hold of what was bothering her, especially after she went through the photo array of the center’s personnel. “What if this John Smith used someone else to give my dad the poison like he did for delivering the package? He might not be the one at Sunny Meadows who did the deed. Just the one behind it.”

  Sean scratched his head. “So it could be a woman who put the poison in something your dad drank or ate?”

  “Could be. That would change who you all are looking into. Most of the kitchen staff are women. Cleaning people, too.” Excitement, much like she’d experienced when she’d been following a promising lead in a story, pulsed through her veins.

  “That opens up the list we’re checking.” Connor handed the photos back to Sean. “The only staff members we had down who were male and hired within the past month were two orderlies, Mark and Paul. Sally saw Mark at Sunny Meadows at the time you were kidnapped and Paul hadn’t been on duty that day. We’re still checking into Paul’s alibi.”

  “John Smith could have a man planted inside just as well as a woman. Smith had money and emptied his bank account before going fishing.” Sean stared down at the photo of the man in a ski mask.

  “I don’t know about you all, but I feel like celebrating. This may be what we needed to break this case.” With the events of the past week, she desperately wanted something to take her mind off what was happening, even if it was only for a few hours. “Let’s go sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and cut the cake.”

  “I’ll show your dad these photos before I leave. But I think for now, you’re right. All work and no play makes for a nervous breakdown.” Sean started for the living room.

  Cara took a step to follow the sheriff, but Connor’s hand on her uninjured arm halted her progress. His touch seared through her shirt as though he’d branded her—and now she realized he had thirteen years ago. He had her love, but she wasn’t for him. He deserved someone who could give him one hundred percent. She’d left part of herself back in Nzadi. Perhaps she’d never been whole from the beginning. After all, she couldn’t shake the memories of her mother. She had tried to be there for her, but when she’d gone away to George Washington University, Cara had been relieved.

  “Cara, what’s going on?” Connor’s whispered words tickled her neck.

  “Tired. My shoulder is bothering me.” She glanced down at the sling she still wore to keep herself from trying to use that arm.

  “We haven’t talked since we brought your dad home. I know you told him about coming here. Gramps and I didn’t think he would be t
oo happy about that.”

  When they had pulled up to Mike’s house, her father had exploded in anger. “I’m sorry about Dad’s behavior earlier. He’d kept insisting at the hospital he wanted to go home. I didn’t realize how much.”

  “Do you blame the man? I don’t know too many people who are so independent and proud as your dad. Now he has to have help doing a lot of things. He has trouble communicating. This from a man who was known for his ability to get his point across in his stories.”

  She twisted around. “You’re defending him?”

  “I’m trying to put myself into his shoes. See this from his point of view.”

  “You don’t think I can?”

  “It can be hard when you’re too close to a situation. You two have a history.”

  “And you and Dad don’t?” Memories of her father’s icy treatment of Connor played across her mind.

  Connor’s eyes softened. “Yes, but not like you and your father. I suspect the emotional impact of his stroke is harder for C.J. than the physical.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending his angry behavior.” Cara whirled around and marched into the living room. Her father had acted inexcusably earlier when she wouldn’t take him to his house. He wouldn’t listen to her about how damaged it still was. That it would take a while to get it habitable for him to live in.

  Inside the room she came to a stop, fixing her gaze on her father sitting across the room in a wheelchair, Mike next to him. He wouldn’t even be in here if Mike hadn’t insisted and just let him rant and rave as Mike steered the wheelchair into the living room after dinner. One stubborn man colliding with another one.

  She hated this seesawing back and forth in her feelings about her father. One minute upset with him as before, the next understanding and worry pushing everything out of the way. He was her only close family.

  Suddenly she found herself imagining what it would be like in a wheelchair for a man who had always been on the go before the stroke. As she watched him listening to the people around him, his expression set in a glower, she tried to put herself in her father’s place—a man who had been articulate, who had made speeches before massive audiences, who had appeared on television, not being able to communicate his thoughts well enough for most people to understand. The worst, though, was having no control over his life—a man who thrived on order, everything a certain way—his way.

  Lord, what do You want from me? To forgive my father’s behavior toward the ones who are trying to help him? To forgive him for all those years of rejection? To forgive him for how he treated Mom? That’s too much to ask.

  Forcing a smile, Cara walked to the dining room table. One candle shaped as the number sixty adorned the top of the cake. She started to try picking up the platter one-handed when Connor reached around her and took it. He brought the dessert to her father and presented it to him. After she lit the candle, she began singing “Happy Birthday.” Everyone joined in.

  When they finished the song, Cara said, “Do you want to blow out the candle?”

  Her father drilled his gaze through her and made no move except to firm his mouth in a thin line. In the past her father had always cherished birthday celebrations and hadn’t even minded he was turning sixty. That was until the stroke.

  Cara blew the candle out, then Connor placed the platter on the coffee table while Mike brought the knife and plates for the cake. The fact that it was hard for her to manage certain things only using one arm hammered home even more what her father was going through.

  “How many want a piece?” Cara looked around the room at Connor, Mike, Sean, Doc and Kathy. They all nodded.

  When her gaze returned to her father, he said, “Yes,” as clear as before the stroke.

  This isn’t easy for him, flittered through her mind. She sent her dad a genuine smile that came from her heart.

  The stern expression on his face eased, especially when he peered at the first slice of the cake she took from Mike to give to her dad. “Th—anks.”

  That one word swelled her throat. She swallowed over and over, determined not to cry. But her vision blurred as Mike presented her with the next piece of the German chocolate cake.

  The next morning, after taking her father back to his room on the first floor to rest, Cara reseated herself at the kitchen table with Mike and Connor. “So other than Sally and a lady in the kitchen, there were no other new female employees at Sunny Meadows in the past two months.”

  Mike began typing on the computer. “Yep. I’m looking up the kitchen worker then I’ll check into Sally’s background. I should have something for you today.” An excitement softened the age lines of Connor’s grandfather’s face.

  “Thanks, Gramps. I can use all the help I can get.”

  She knew that Connor was also having the CID delve into the lives of the employees, but Mike came at it from the social media angle while the police were looking more into any criminal background and job references. “So, unless we’re forgetting something, there were only four new employees total recently. I was hoping for more since Sunny Meadows enlarged its facility a few months back to include the rehabilitation wing. That doesn’t leave us much to go on.” With her elbow on the table, Cara rested her chin in her palm and released a long breath.

  Connor gave her a reassuring smile. “Sean is still checking into who else besides Sally saw Mark at work when you were kidnapped. Also, Paul’s alibi.”

  Connor’s expression threatened her resolve to move on as quickly as she could. She didn’t like the feelings taking hold since she’d returned home. Her life was too messed up to pursue her love for him—not with so much unfinished business. “Is there another way to look at this? Are you tracking John Smith from his last known location? Talking to his neighbors, friends, family?”

  “Yes, I’ve got someone on that in Arlington. So far they have confirmed a connection between Beau and Lucy Samuels. When he went missing, Lucy moved to Silver Creek and took the job at King Construction.”

  “Do you think she took the pipe and blasting powder, made the bomb and sent it to my dad?”

  “There’s nothing in her past that indicates she knows how to make a bomb. Lucy said John Smith had her send a package.” Connor rose and went to the stove to pour another cup of coffee.

  “She could be lying.” Mike grunted. “With the internet just about anyone can figure it out, so I think it’s possible.”

  Connor turned toward his grandfather. “Then what about the man who attacked Cara?”

  “She’s working with someone, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t the one who stole the supplies and put the pipe bomb together. Don’t you agree, Cara, that she could have?”

  “Yes.” Cara hated to think that the young woman, no more than twenty-two with her whole life ahead of her, would be capable of that act, but Cara had lived in the real world for a long time. From her first assignment as an investigative reporter to the last job as a bodyguard, she’d seen a lot of evil. How did Connor manage to hang on to his faith? His job exposed him to the same kind of evil.

  Sitting again, Connor sipped his drink. “The police in Silver Creek are trying to get her to talk, but their hands are tied. So far she has resisted any deal they have offered her.”

  A noise like a thud sounded from the front porch. Connor shot to his feet, drawing his gun. As he headed toward the door, Cara followed.

  “Stay back,” he said in a tight voice.

  Cara moved into the hallway leading to the two bedrooms downstairs, glancing around as though she expected someone to jump out at her. When she noticed her dad’s door open, she frowned. She remembered closing it. Heartbeat galloping, she inched toward the entrance into her father’s bedroom and peeked inside. Empty!

  She took several steps into it, scanning the room for her dad. She rushed into the hallway and toward the foyer. The wide-open front door revealed her father on the porch floor, his left arm around a railing, his electric wheelchair behind him, a wicker table lying on
its side. Connor knelt next to her dad, who knocked his offered hand away.

  “I—can,” her father said.

  Connor rose and motioned away the state trooper coming around the side of the house. Connor moved back to give her dad space.

  Pulse still racing, she planted herself next to Connor. “Dad, what are you doing out here?”

  As he struggled to his good leg, gripping the railing, her father muttered, “Ho—me.”

  “You can’t go home.” Exasperation accented every syllable she uttered.

  His scowl bore into her. “Home!”

  “We can’t. The house has to be repaired. Let’s get you back inside.” Cara laid her hand on his left arm to assist him into the wheelchair.

  Although he didn’t pull away, he didn’t budge, either. “Now—please,” he said with less force.

  Cara stared into his blue eyes so like hers. The shiny sheen ripped her resolve in half. Stepping closer, she enclosed him in an embrace and murmured, “We’ll go this afternoon. I promise. You need to see what the house looks like.”

  “This isn’t a good idea, Cara.” Connor got the wheelchair out of the back of his Jeep and brought it around for C.J.

  Before she opened the back door to help her father out, she leaned close and whispered, “I promised him. I can’t go back on that. This is important to him. Knowing my dad, he’d keep trying to get to the house to see it.”

  Connor surveyed the yard. “Yeah, I know. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “We won’t stay long. Give him a quick tour then back out to the car. We’ve both come prepared.” She patted her weapon in her holster at her waist. “And we didn’t tell anyone about this unexpected outing.”

  “What if your assailant is watching Gramps’s house?”

  “You didn’t see anyone on the way over here, and it’s not like Clear Branch has so much traffic a car can blend into the mass of them on the road.”