by Dana Mentink
Ella’s throat constricted, but there were no more tears left. The other woman sharing her cell had not spoken a word, only turned her face to the wall and pulled the thin blanket up to cover her head.
“I don’t belong here,” she wanted to tell her cellmate. They’d taken a blood sample, but it might be too late to prove that she had not been drinking. Could it show that there was a drug in her system? If she could just find the thermos maybe there would be fingerprints on it.
The door clanged and she jumped. An officer stood there, beckoning. “Your bail’s been posted.”
“By whom?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Just come with me please, ma’am.”
Her heart leapt. “So... I don’t have to stay here?”
His eyebrows drew together. “You’re out until you go to trial, or do something to violate your bail.”
She heard the hardness in his tone. “Until they prove me guilty of murder, you mean?”
He shrugged, but she could tell that was exactly what he’d meant.
Enjoy the time before you’re behind bars forever.
She padded after him and collected her meager belongings, though the police insisted on keeping her clothing and shoes. She was surprised to find a pair of worn jeans, her patched sweatshirt and her sneakers with the holes in them. Meekly, she pulled them on.
“Exit’s that way, ma’am,” the officer said, ushering her toward a door.
“But who posted my bail?”
“Guy named Owen Thorn,” was the answer from the duty clerk.
Her stomach shrank into an aching knot. Humiliation complete, she was ushered through the exit door.
* * *
Owen saw her emerge, small and hunched as if she was expecting a blow. It twanged something inside him. He figured her release would be sometime that day so he’d camped out, waiting, asking his mom to go through Ella’s house to find her some clean clothes, since he didn’t feel it was right for him to go through her personal things. He rolled down the truck window, shoved back his cowboy hat with a thumb, and called to her.
She jerked, hesitating, and he thought she might ignore him, but then she walked over, head down, eyes on the ground.
“Let me give you a ride home.”
She considered, still not looking at him.
“Come on,” he prompted, getting out and opening the passenger door for her.
Finally she climbed in, hands twisted together in her lap.
He was not sure what to say. What were the right words after someone had been accused of murder and arrested? Words were not his strong suit at the best of times. “Betsy’s okay,” he said. “She’s been staying at the ranch. Mom’s happy to have her around. I think they’re making pies today.” Dumb, adding that pie thing, but he couldn’t make his mouth say anything better.
Ella nodded.
“Uh, do you, er, need anything?”
“Could you give Betsy a ride home? I...they kept my van.”
“No problem.” He straightened, happy to have something concrete to do. “I’ll drop you off and let you settle in while I go get her.”
“Thank you, and thank you for posting my bond. I’ll pay you back, every penny.” The ferocity crept into her tone, and he was glad to hear it. Jail had not broken her spirit. Stay angry, he wanted to tell her. Anger is a far better thing than despair.
As the miles wound by she stared intensely out the window. She was searching, he realized.
“Stop, Owen, stop here. I think this is near the place where I got out of my van. If I can find my thermos, I can prove I was drugged.”
He pulled to the side and prepared to get out with her. She turned tortured eyes on him. “Just drop me. I’ll look and walk home. It’s only a couple of miles. I don’t need your help.”
“Well, you’re getting it anyway. I promised Ray...”
Her eyes rounded in horror. “You told him what happened?”
Now he’d done it. “He got wind of it somehow, maybe from his ex-wife. He called me and I could not lie to him.”
“So now he knows I was arrested for murder and that the whole town thinks I killed Luke Baker in a drunken rage.”
“No,” Owen said firmly. “He thinks you were framed, just like I do, probably by Bruce Reed, and he’s going crazy that he can’t be here to help, but I told him I would get you out of this mess.”
Her lips tightened in a grim line. “I don’t need you to fix it. I will, and I’ll show you all that I am telling the truth.”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t. You just don’t want Ray’s little sister to be in prison.”
“That’s unfair.”
“I don’t care.” Her mouth trembled, eyes feverish. “Nothing about this has been fair. I’m going to take care of myself and Betsy like I’ve always done. We don’t need you and Ray to do anything.” She got out and slammed the door.
He did the same, pulse ticking higher. If she was going to be a “firecracker,” a word his twin Jack used for the most hot-blooded horses they worked with on the Gold Bar Ranch, then so be it. He wasn’t about to turn away, no matter what she tossed at him.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He folded his arms and stared at her. “Protecting you from yourself. Now tell me where to start looking or I’ll start a meter-by-meter perimeter search and we’ll be here all day. Gonna get cold, you know. Forecast says we’re in for a freeze, so the longer you dillydally...”
She glared at him, chin tipped to look up at him. Under any other circumstances he would have smiled.
“I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?”
“Not unless you think you can outwrestle me and I’ve got a hundred pounds and a foot and a half on you, so deal, Ella Jo.”
She whirled away and he followed her, muttering something about him under her breath and peering into the piles of pine needles in a much less orderly fashion than he would have attempted.
“It’s metal, painted green,” she snapped, “with a twist-on top.”
His head shot up as his senses detected the danger before his brain could react.
“Incoming,” he shouted, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her to the side as a motorcycle hurtled off the road and straight for them.
FOUR
Ella could not process at first what was happening as the motorcycle bore down on them. Owen propelled her behind the nearest tree, which saved her from the impact of the churning tire. The driver’s face was invisible behind the shaded visor of his helmet as he roared past, but his or her intent was clear. The motorcycle engine whined as he spun the bike into a 180-degree turn and came at them again.
By the time Ella scrambled to her feet, Owen had grabbed a fallen branch and planted himself in the path of the oncoming vehicle like a baseball player, ready to swing for the bleachers.
“Owen,” she screamed. “What...?”
There was no time to finish the sentence as the motorcycle careened toward him. With a savagery in Owen’s eyes she had never seen before, he swung the thick branch at the rider. The wood broke, ricocheting off the attacker’s chest, shaking but not unseating him. The front wheel struck Owen’s leg and he grunted in pain, hitting the ground hard.
The motorcycle spun again and Ella could see that this time the driver meant not to miss his quarry. She dashed out, grabbed a rock and threw it as hard as she could at his helmet. Thanks to her days of pitching endless baseballs for Ray and Owen, her throw hit home with a crack as it struck the assailant’s visor. It was not enough to stop him. Owen was trying to get to his feet, face tight with pain.
She found another rock and aimed to throw it when the sound of another vehicle cut the chilly air. She thought the motorcycle was going to come after them again regardless, but the driver wheeled away, disappearing down the road.<
br />
Jack Thorn leaped out of his truck and ran to his fallen brother. His blond hair and blue eyes marked them as twins, though not identical, his build more slender than Owen’s, face narrower. He went to his knees next to Owen, gripping his arm.
“How bad?”
Owen breathed through his nose. “I’m okay,” he grunted, teeth gritted.
Jack looked as though he did not believe his twin. His hand remained locked on his brother’s arm, as if he could tell by the feel of the tensed muscles whether Owen was telling the truth or not.
Ella knelt next to them. “Whoever that was on the motorcycle came after us. Owen tried to do some nutty Babe Ruth thing and knock him off the bike.”
“Hank Aaron,” Owen rasped, sucking in another breath, “not Babe Ruth, and I would have had him if the branch hadn’t busted.”
That seemed to be all the reassurance Jack needed. He leaned back on his heels, letting go of his brother but keeping a wary eye on him.
“Woman or man?” Jack asked.
Ella ripped her gaze from Owen. “What?”
“Was the driver a woman or a man?” Jack repeated patiently.
“A...” She wanted to say “man” but she had not seen enough to be sure. “I couldn’t say for sure.”
“Man,” Owen said. “Too aggressive to be a woman.”
Ella smiled at Owen’s bit of ridiculous romanticism, or was it sexism? “I’m not going to dignify that statement with a comment.” She shivered as the perspiration on her brow cooled in the winter temperatures. “Could have been either. Whoever it was must have been here first and didn’t want me to find my thermos.”
Owen waved away her offered hand and got to his feet, mouth tight, as Jack handed him his cowboy hat. “Bruce Reed. Has to be.”
Her gut told her he was correct. “No way to prove it.”
“We’ll tell the cops,” Jack said. “They can see if Reed has a motorcycle registered to him. I’ll call right now.” He took out his phone and dialed.
Ella looked over the churned leaves and the mud rutted from their attacker’s wheels. Nerves tightened in her stomach as she processed what had just happened. If Bruce Reed, or whoever that had been, was looking for the thermos, then she was right. It contained proof that she’d been abducted, proof that would force people to believe she was not a killer.
“It’s here somewhere,” she mumbled. “It has to be.”
Owen began walking slowly through the detritus. She could tell he was trying hard not to limp, but his shoulders were still hunched with pain.
“You don’t have to...” she started. His body tensed. Instinctively she knew it would wound him further just then to bring any more attention to his leg. A memory of Owen as a high school senior filled her mind, his anger at being sidelined during football season for a sprained ankle.
“I can play,” he’d snapped at her. “Team relies on me.”
“They can rely on someone else for a couple of games,” she’d told him. She still remembered the look he’d given her then, eyes steely blue, glinting with passion.
“That’s worse than the messed-up ankle.”
Owen was a man who needed to be needed, a born protector. And what happened to the protector when he couldn’t do the job anymore? She’d never asked Owen about the severity of his injury, but it had been a year since his return from Afghanistan and his limp was still detectable. Could he expect a full recovery? She wondered what would happen to Owen if the answer was no.
Forcing away the gloomy thought, she hurried on with her search, allowing him some time to collect himself, but she kept him in her peripheral vision nonetheless.
If he required medical attention, she would see to it that he got it whether he agreed or not.
* * *
After an irritating rehashing of the whole incident to Larraby and his promise to patrol the area for the motorcycle, Owen endured the search, though his leg felt like it was on fire. He purposely kept back a few steps so Ella would not hear him groan every time he bent over to probe a pile of leaves. His body craved relief so badly he could taste it.
There is no way around the pain, he told himself savagely. No more pills, so get through it. He managed to scrape along for another hour until Ella slapped a hand onto her thigh in frustration.
“It’s just not here anywhere. It couldn’t have sprouted legs and wandered off by itself. The police didn’t find it, so what could have happened to it?”
“There’s a river right down the slope past the trees. Could have rolled there and washed away.”
She groaned.
“We have to call it a day. The temperature is dropping and we’re losing the light. Mom just texted insisting I bring you to the ranch for some corn chowder.”
She looked at her feet. “Um, I should just go home and...”
“Ella,” he said firmly, waiting until she finally looked at him. “My family has known you since you were seven years old. They don’t think for one minute that you’re a killer.”
Her cheeks went petal pink. “But they know, I mean, they heard that I did some drinking in the past. Maybe...”
“Maybe nothing. We were all different people four years ago. You made your peace with the Lord. You’re forgiven.”
She sighed. “I know that in my brain, but in my heart...”
He understood. Reaching out, he touched her cheek with his fingertip, her skin as satiny as a new leaf. “I get it. Hearts take a lot longer to learn than heads, don’t they?”
She swallowed hard and he decided not to give her an opportunity to refuse, so he strode as best he could to the passenger-side door and opened it. She walked over. Just before she climbed in, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, startling him by the pleasure it sparked. Her lips were warm and soft, like the downy feathers of the new chicks his mom fussed over in the spring.
“I’m sorry, Owen. I’m sorry Bruce Reed hurt you, if that even was him.”
Not as bad as I’m gonna hurt him for putting you through this. His thoughts surprised him. Not the protectiveness—he had always been ferociously protective of friends and family—but the tenderness that was twined around it.
Ray’s sister, he reminded himself. You owe it to him to take care of her. Period.
Ray would never condone anything further between Owen and Ella. Combat vets make lousy life partners, was Ray’s mantra. Ray was a good example, having endured a divorce after only two years of marriage. Owen still held out hope that Ray and Pam would reconcile one day, for the sake of them both and their daughter, Sarah, but Ray was an adrenaline junkie, never satisfied at home, always hankering for the next mission, too battle hardened to adjust to civilian life.
Owen felt the restlessness too, sometimes, the loss of his marine career and the pain of his injury had fueled his need for pills to dull the pain. The drugs had not healed his leg, nor had they assuaged the emptiness he felt from a military career cut short. He’d only shared some of these feelings with Jack and their church pastor, a former veteran himself, who’d counseled him when he’d hit the rock bottom of his life and fueled his determination to heal and reenlist.
At least he’d thought it was rock bottom. What if this was it? Trapped in a broken body, unable to rescue Ella from a life in prison? Imagining her in that harsh world, hurt him much more than the pain in his thigh.
Not gonna happen, Thorn, make sure of that. He made up his mind to return with a metal detector at first light and find the thermos if it took him all day.
The heater in the truck eased the muscle spasms in his leg and by the time they arrived at the Gold Bar Ranch, the agony had diminished. Ella hopped out of the truck before he could open the door for her and stopped a moment at the whitewashed fence to stroke Glory’s silky muzzle. At fifteen hands high, the bay towered over her, lowering her head to accept the gentle caress.
�
�How’s she doing?”
Owen was training Glory to be a cutting horse for ranch owner Macy Gregory’s husband, Drake. “Good. She responds well to rein and leg pressure. Gaining some savvy with the steers and cows over at Macy’s ranch.” Macy’s outfit was in neighboring Mountain Top where she kept a couple hundred head of cattle. It was more a hobby for the woman, as her real passion was competing in show jumping while her husband tended to the workings on their ranch. He’d heard Macy had curtailed her competing due to financial problems. “Haven’t introduced Glory to any bulls yet.” It was common misconception that horses and cows were naturally at ease around each other. It was possible to train any horse to work cows, but some horses just never got cow savvy. He had good hopes for the young filly.
“Pretty,” Ella said.
Yes, Owen thought. Why had he never noticed how very pretty Ella was? The late sunlight tinted her hair with the rusty hues of fall. Her hands were delicate and strong as they traced over Glory’s coat. More than pretty.
Shaking himself from his odd reverie, he led her into the house.
Ella went immediately to Betsy, who sat on a worn recliner, folding napkins on a tray table set in front of her. Ella kissed her and Owen left them to a moment of privacy. His mother was in the kitchen with his sister-in-law Shelby, looking at pieces of granite.
“For their new fireplace mantel,” Shelby explained to him. His mother chuckled. “Betsy already pointed to her favorite. Want to weigh in?”
“All look like rocks to me,” Owen said.
Shelby peered at the samples. “This one has more feldspar, which gives it a pinker hue.”
“Leave it to an assayer to say something like that,” his mother said with a smile.
Owen was glad to see his mother looking happier than she had in a very long time. Their grief at losing Bree, Barrett’s first wife, would never completely disappear, but the whole ranch seemed somehow more cheerful now that Shelby had found a home there with his oldest brother.
He’d never worried much about finding a life partner when he was an active duty marine. He wasn’t concerned about it in the slightest now either, because he intended to return to the marines as soon as humanly possible. So why was he suddenly hyperaware of Ella, sitting in the next room, laughing that belly laugh that had made him smile since she was a kid trailing after him?