by Rita Herron
Tonight had been too emotional. Nellie’s death. The clinic had been broken into.
And she’d finally been forced to tell the father of her child about their baby.
Fatigue clawed at her, but she gathered the last remnants of her pride and strength and walked up the porch steps. She had to make sure Mason knew she wasn’t trying to trap him into playing father.
Or husband to her.
That she would and could stand on her own.
The sound of Mason’s car door slamming echoed behind her, then his boots crunched gravel and pounded the wood boards as he climbed the steps. She felt his big body behind her, and his ominous presence tempted her to lean into him.
She was so tired tonight, so shaken by all that had happened, so drawn to him just as she had been when she’d first met him, that she wanted to fall into his arms and have him hold her and assure her everything would be all right.
But that was a fantasy, not reality, and she lived in the real world. Not only did she have to protect herself, she had to protect her son.
The keys jangled in her hand as she fumbled to unlock the door. Mason took them, then unlocked it for her.
“Thanks.” Cara turned to him, determined he leave before he stepped inside her space. Having him in her cabin, leaving his scent, his image in the rooms where she found solace, would only make her miss him more when he left.
“Cara, I was thinking,” Mason said. “If Nellie was coming to see you, her killer might know where you live.”
Cara sighed, too weary to contemplate his comment. “It’s been two days since he killed her, Mason. If he was coming after me, he would have done so by now.”
Mason’s face constricted. “We can’t be sure of that, Cara. He might have come to the clinic looking for you, got angry when you weren’t there and trashed the place in his rage.”
She shivered at the thought. “Thanks for following me home, Mason, but I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”
A tense heartbeat passed between them, riddled with what she’d said. Her mind strayed to images of him following her, climbing into bed with her, holding her all night.
A second later, reality hit her with the force of another Braxton Hicks contraction. For goodness’ sakes, she was nine months pregnant, not exactly sexy. No man wanted to crawl in bed with a woman when she looked like a whale.
Besides, they had too much to discuss to even think about getting close and personal again.
Mason put a hand on the door to keep her from closing it. “Let me at least check out the cabin.”
Cara knew Mason well enough not to bother arguing. He hadn’t wanted a commitment with her, but he was totally committed to his job and took protecting others seriously.
She gestured for him to go in. “Fine, suit yourself.”
His gaze met hers as he brushed past her, the heat simmering between them igniting fantasies of smoldering kisses and wanton touches.
She banished them immediately. Those thoughts had gotten her pregnant in the first place.
She had no room for them in her life now.
* * *
MASON FELT CARA’S BELLY brush his stomach as he inched past her, and his pulse jumped. Normally a pregnant woman’s body wasn’t a turn on, but this was Cara and she was round with his child.
The realization that his little boy was growing inside her made him pause, and he was tempted to lay his hand on her belly. To feel his son move inside her.
But Cara sucked in a breath and took a step back, a warning in her eyes.
Dammit. She didn’t want him in her life. That was obvious.
And she didn’t particularly want him in their baby’s life, either. If she had, she would have let him know about the pregnancy. That story about not wanting to trap him was just a cover to mask the fact that she was independent and hadn’t cared when he’d left before.
After all, she hadn’t exactly begged him to stay or declared her love.
He forced himself past her; he had to focus on the job and that meant making sure the demented man who’d butchered Nellie hadn’t come here for Cara.
Senses honed, he reached for his weapon, held it at the ready, then flipped on a light and scanned the living room. Most of the cabins on the ranch were built in a similar design with a spacious living room/kitchen combination, bed and bath. Rustic logs comprised the walls and floors, which were decorated with hand-woven Native American blankets, and baskets as well as photographs of the Texas landscape. There were both one bedroom and two bedroom units, depending on the employee’s needs.
The living room and kitchen were empty, a blanket folded neatly over the camel colored sofa, a few medical magazines stacked on the rustic coffee table along with mothering, baby and parenting ones.
He paused to listen, but the cabin was quiet. A good sign.
He moved to the right and noted the master bedroom. Cara’s was a four-poster pine Shaker style with a crocheted canopy. He inched into the room, noted it was also empty and so was the adjoining bath.
Satisfied there wasn’t an intruder in her bedroom, he checked the second bedroom. His heart sputtered at the sight of the crib. Cara had painted the room a soft blue and had added touches of Native American artwork on the walls. A handwoven basket that looked as if it had come from the reservation held baby blankets, another one held diapers and baby supplies, and a rug with horses woven into it covered the center of the floor.
He immediately pictured Cara in the rocking chair in the corner, cradling their son in her arms as she nursed him and sang lullabies.
The room was just waiting for her to bring the baby home.
Yet she’d planned to give birth and raise the child without ever telling him.
Anger pummeled him, and he fisted his hands. He wanted to shake her and demand to know how she could make that decision for him.
What would she have told his son about him? That he hadn’t cared? That he hadn’t wanted him?
The sound of her footsteps made him jerk his gaze toward her. The soft light from the living room spilled across her face, and their gazes locked. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
He was so angry with her that he had to grit his teeth to keep from lashing out.
Yet, she looked so damn radiant standing in the dim light with her rounded frame that he wanted to sweep her into his arms and make love to her.
“The house is clear, Mason,” Cara said, her voice tight. “Please leave now so I can rest.”
Dammit, he wanted to push her for answers, make her admit that she did need him. Make her see that even if he hadn’t wanted marriage, that he would do right by their son.
But fatigue lined her face, and he realized the day had worn on her. He couldn’t make things worse by pressuring her.
“Fine. I’ll look at those letters tonight then send them to forensics.” Forcing himself not to touch her as he passed, he headed to the door. She followed him to lock up, and he turned back once he was on the porch.
“Call me if you need anything.”
She gave a clipped nod, but stubbornness had settled back in her eyes. So he left without another word.
Still, he waited in his car until he saw her lock up, then he drove to his cabin. He gathered the envelope of letters Cara had given him, then hurried inside his own cabin.
His stomach growled, so he heated a pizza from the freezer, popped open a beer and sat down to study the hate mail.
Several letters looked as if they had come from the same source. Antiabortion activists, a church group, then a few individuals urging single mothers to keep their unborn children. The common thread—they accused Cara of encouraging mothers to abandon their children instead of taking responsibility for their babies.
His suspicions mounted as the warnings became more sinister. One specifically caught his eye. The words had been cut from newspapers and magazines.
“Close the clinic or you’ll be sorry.”
Had the man who’d murdered Nellie sent it bec
ause Cara hadn’t listened?
* * *
CARA STEEPED A CUP OF TEA and made toast, then decided she should feed her baby something substantial so she heated some soup.
By the time she finished, her back was throbbing so she ran a bath, carried a second cup of tea with her into the bathroom, shut the door and climbed in the tub. The warm water felt heavenly, and she leaned back and closed her eyes, struggling with her emotions.
When she’d seen Mason standing at the edge of the baby’s room, she’d wondered what he’d thought.
He had looked so huge and gruff next to those tiny baby things.
Yet oddly, she imagined him holding their little boy and it seemed...right.
A sound from the other room jarred her eyes open, and she sat up with a frown. Had Mason returned?
She listened for a second longer, her nerves prickling. Today she’d seen Nellie’s brutalized body in the ground. Although the image haunted her, she willed it away. Still, she couldn’t forget that Nellie had been murdered, and that the killer was at large.
Shivering, she stood, grabbed a towel and dried off. She slipped on her warm flannel gown, then hung up her towel and stepped into the hallway.
The moment she did, the wind whistled through the house, rattling the windows.
A cold chill enveloped her, and she froze, instantly scanning the living area from her vantage point. Then she realized the chill was coming from her bedroom.
A tremble started deep inside her, and she grabbed a can of hairspray from the bathroom as a weapon, holding it in front of her as she turned the corner and flipped on the light.
Someone had been in her room.
The window stood open, the curtain flapping in the breeze. Then her gaze fell to her bed and she gasped.
A small box lay on top of the coverlet, a note placed on top.
She scanned the room again as she inched close enough to read the message.
“Bad mothers are sinners. Sinners must die.”
Her stomach revolted at the meaning, then bile rose to her throat.
The note had been written in blood.
Chapter Eight
Cara struggled for a breath. Dear God, was that human blood?
The note hadn’t been there when Mason had checked earlier, meaning someone had been inside her cabin.
Only moments ago while she was in the bath.
They could still be nearby watching her.
Her hand shook as she raced to her purse and grabbed her phone. She called Mason’s number, then hurried to shut the window. The cool air sent another chill through her, and she peered through the window, searching for the intruder while the phone rang.
A shadow moved at the edge of the woods, headlights flickering in the distance. The phone rang again, then a click and Mason answered.
“Cara?”
“Someone was in my cabin while I was in the bath.”
His breath rushed out. “What?”
“He’s gone now but he left a note.”
“I’m on my way.” The phone went dead and Cara quickly pulled on a robe, then went to the front door to watch for Mason.
* * *
MASON’S HEART POUNDED as he grabbed his gun and raced to his car. Dammit, he’d checked Cara’s cabin earlier and it had been clean.
But the intruder must have been watching. Waiting on him to leave Cara alone.
He floored the gas and sped across the terrain, lights beaming across grass and gravel. He scanned the property as he drove, looking for anything suspicious, a car or truck driving too fast, escaping.
The ranch seemed quiet though, the sound of a lone coyote howling in the distance. Brody had had trouble on the ranch before, and had hired extra security then. Mason made a mental note to make sure he still had that security in place.
Better yet, he’d stay with Cara. No way he’d leave her alone and vulnerable.
He slowed, easing near her cabin, eyes darting around the edges of the property to all the places a killer could hide. Something moved near the right corner, and he tensed. But a second later, he realized it was a stray dog.
He threw the car into Park, jumped out and stalked up the steps. Cara must have been watching for him because she swung the door open. She looked pale and shaken, and dammit, she was about to burst with his child.
He couldn’t resist. He pulled her up against him. The fact that she didn’t push him away indicated just how upset she was. “Are you okay?”
She nodded against him, her breathing unsteady.
Her fear twisted his insides, and he held her for a moment, soothing her with soft whispers. Finally she relaxed, her breathing steadying.
But he sensed the moment she realized she’d allowed herself to lean on him, and she pulled away.
“What happened?” he asked, missing the contact.
“I locked up after you left, then ate a bite. While I was in the bath, I thought I heard something.” She knotted the belt around her robe. “When I came out, the bedroom window was open. Then I saw the note.”
“Note?”
“Yes,” Cara said, fear flickering in her eyes. “He left a note and a box.”
“What’s inside the box?”
‘I haven’t opened it yet,” Cara said with a shiver. “But the note...it’s disturbing.”
Mason strode to the bedroom, then halted by the bed. Dammit. Now he understood what had upset Cara so badly—the words had been written in blood.
“Do you think it’s human blood?” Cara asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll send it to forensics and find out.” He leaned closer to inspect it, his stomach churning as his mind raced to a dark place.
If the blood was human, did it belong to Nellie Thompson?
“Did you touch it?” Mason asked.
“No, God no,” Cara whispered.
“Good. Let me get a kit from the car. I don’t want to contaminate the evidence.”
Cara nodded, and he rushed outside then returned a moment later with his crime kit. He pulled on latex gloves, then bagged the note. Had it been left by the same person who’d sent that threatening note to the clinic?
Anger immediately hit him as he opened the wooden box.
Cara peered over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“A deerskin pouch,” Mason said.
“I don’t understand,” Cara said with a frown.
Unfortunately he did. “It’s called a navel fetish. It’s actually a birth amulet.”
“Like a gift the mother receives when she delivers?”
“Not exactly. It’s used by Native Americans for holding an umbilical cord. In the Plains tradition, the mother places the pouch on the cradleboard above the baby’s head. At a later age, the child wears it around his neck or attached to clothing. The amulet brings the baby good luck and keeps the umbilical cord preserved, and the mother-child connection alive.”
Cara clasped her hands together. “Is anything inside it?”
Mason clenched his jaw and peeked inside. “No, it’s empty.”
He glanced at Cara and saw the significance of its meaning sink in. “He left it to me because he believes I’m breaking that mother-child connection.”
Mason wanted to deny her comment, but he couldn’t.
Coupled with the Thompson woman’s murder, the threatening notes Cara had received at the clinic, and the fact that someone had broken in and left this pouch, he had to conclude that they were all connected.
Which meant that Cara and his baby were definitely in danger.
* * *
“YOU THINK THE PERSON who left this is the same one who killed Nellie?” Cara asked.
“Yes.” Mason’s gaze met hers. “It also makes me think that he may come after you, Cara.”
Cara fiddled with the belt to her robe, averting her eyes. “We don’t know that, Mason. In fact, the killer could have randomly chosen Nellie.”
Mason grunted. “You don’t believe that and neither do I.”
Cara sank onto the edge of the bed, her stomach churning. “Dear Lord, I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I, but I examined those letters you received, and there are a couple that sound threatening.”
She massaged her lower back. “I can’t believe this is happening. All I wanted to do was to help the women around here.”
“And you are helping them,” Mason said. “It’s not your fault some sicko targeted you.”
Cara wanted to believe him, but guilt nagged at her. “But he blames me. He thinks I’m destroying families.”
“He’s a sick man,” Mason said in a low voice. “He was probably abandoned as a child or his mother gave him up, so now he’s generalized his rage to all mothers who choose adoption.”
Her gaze swung to his, and a sliver of anger flashed in her eyes. “I don’t tell the women what to do, I only provide counseling to help them cope with their situations.”
“What about our baby?” Mason asked in a deep voice. “You’re not planning to give our son to someone else to raise, are you?”
Cara stood, her own temper rising. “No, Mason, I fully intend to raise this child on my own.”
Mason stepped closer, so close his breath bathed her face.
“The hell you are. That baby is my son. I don’t intend for him to think that I ran out on him like my old man did.”
An electric charge simmered between them, taut with tension and memories.
And the heat that had drawn her to him in the first place.
She was too exhausted, too frightened, too upset about Nellie to deal with this. “Mason, I can’t talk about it right now. I... All I can think about is Nellie and catching this maniac before he hurts someone else.”
Mason’s gaze remained on her for a heartbeat, then fell to her belly. The baby chose that moment to kick again, hard enough for her to wince, and Mason laid his hand on her stomach.
Cara sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, her heart squeezing at the emotions playing across his face as he felt their son move.
The first time she’d felt that tiny little flutter, she’d been humbled and awed by the realization that a tiny life was growing inside her. She’d imagined a little boy, one with big dark eyes and dark hair like his father.