Skin Deep

by Pamela Clare

  “You don’t so much as mention a woman for two years. Then you save this young lady’s life, drive her wallet to her house so you can deliver it in person, and invite her to bring her child to the ranch. Sounds like something’s going on.”

  “Get your hearing checked.”

  Irritated, Nate got up, walked to the fireplace, and jabbed at the embers, tossing a few more big pieces of hardwood on the blaze. There was nothing going on between him and Megan Hunter. Yes, there was something special about her, something that had caught his eye, something that had made him look forward to seeing her at the shelter. What he’d seen tonight—her love for her daughter, her concern for him—had deepened his attraction. But he hadn’t rushed in to help her because he wanted to get involved with her. He’d have done the same thing if she’d been a blue-haired old lady. Besides, inviting her to bring her four-year-old to the ranch to look at horses wasn’t exactly asking her out on a date.

  And what about the part where she touched you through sterile gloves and you turned into mush? Remember that part?

  So he had some pent-up testosterone. So what? Any man who’d spent almost four years fucking nothing but his own fist would.

  He walked back to the couch, sank into the leather cushions, and reached for his scotch, taking a deep drink.

  “Sooner or later, son, you’re going to have to put Rachel behind you and take a chance again. You’re a young man, and you’re going to want more in your life than this ranch and horses—a wife, a couple of kids.”

  “Dad, stop. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You never want to talk about it.”

  “Mom has been gone for five years now.” She’d died suddenly of an aneurysm while Nate had been downrange in Afghanistan. He’d gotten a call from his father in the middle of the night and had managed to get emergency leave to return to Colorado for her funeral. His father had seemed to age a decade that day. “Would you like to talk about why you’re not out meeting women?”

  The old man glared at him. “That’s different. Your mother and I were married for the better part of forty years. We had a life together. We had the ranch. We had you. Rachel was just your fiancée. You never even lived together.”

  “This doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Rachel.”

  That same eyebrow arched. “Doesn’t it?”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Stubbornness was a quality they both had—in spades.

  “What did you say her brother’s name was?”

  “Marc Hunter. Marc with a ‘c.’ He’s with Denver SWAT.”

  “Marc Hunter.” The old man frowned. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

  Nate shrugged. “No clue.”

  His father drained the last of his scotch, then got to his feet. “I’m putting these old bones to bed. Morning comes early. We’ll be doing body condition scoring on bred cows from the north herd tomorrow, and we’ve got a shipment of hay coming in.”

  “I’ll handle the hay.” It would give Nate a chance to work his arm, shoulder, and chest muscles again.

  If his father had any reservations about giving the more physical chore to Nate, he didn’t show it. He gave a nod. “You better hit the sack, too.”

  But it was a long time before Nate was able to sleep, his mind on a woman with auburn hair and shadows in her wide, green eyes.

  CHAPTER 4

  Megan unfastened the safety strap on Emily’s car seat and lifted her daughter out of the car, grabbing the lunch she’d packed for her. “Hold my hand, sweet pea.”

  She crossed the parking lot as quickly as Emily’s little legs would allow, her gaze searching among the cars in the parking lot, along the street, and among the trees near the little Montessori center’s entrance for any sign of the Lincoln Continental, for men she didn't know, for Donny. An unmarked police car had followed her all the way from home, but Megan still had a hard time trusting cops, apart from her brother and Julian.

  Almost a week had gone by since Donny had ambushed her, and the police had found no sign of him. They hadn’t found the Lincoln Continental either. Although Megan was under surveillance all day, she couldn’t shake the sense that something terrible was going to happen.

  Inside the preschool it was warm—and noisy.

  Christa, the head teacher, greeted them at the door and took Emily’s lunch. “Good morning, Emily! Are you ready to have a fun day?”

  Emily nodded, a shy smile on her face, her little ponytail bobbing.

  Megan signed her daughter in, helped her out of her coat, and went to hang the coat in Emily’s cubby. There was a manila envelope sitting on the shelf where the teachers put Emily’s drawings, paperwork, and the school’s monthly newsletter. She grabbed it, tucked it under her arm, and knelt down to kiss Emily good-bye.

  “Have a good day, sweet pea.” She hugged Emily close, finding it hard to let her go. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Can you be a good girl for Christa?”

  Emily nodded, smiled again.

  “She’s always a good girl, aren’t you, Emily?” Christa guided Emily through the baby gate toward the play area, turning back toward Megan. “How are you holding up?”

  Christa had been the one to take the call from the police that night. She’d locked the center down until Marc had arrived to claim Emily. Megan would always be grateful for her caution and quick action.

  Megan willed herself to smile. “I’m doing alright, I guess. It scares me to be away from her all day.”

  Christa rested her hand on Megan’s arm and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I promise I won’t let her out of my sight.”

  “Thank you.” Megan glanced over at Emily, who was already lost in play with a group of girls who were setting up a little tea party for a handful of very lucky stuffed animals.

  She loved the easy way Emily blended in with the other children—something Megan had never been able to do, before she’d been adopted out or after.

  She turned to go, reaching into her coat pocket for her keys. The manila envelope that she’d tucked under her arm and forgotten fell on the floor. She reached down to get it and froze, her heart thudding.

  On the front there was no postage, no date stamp, no address, just a number written with black marker: 143280.

  Her inmate number.

  Megan stared at it, children’s voices fading around her, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Very few people had had access to that number—Marc, his wife, Sophie, her parole officer and Donny. She picked the envelope up, her hands shaking as she opened it.

  Inside was a hand-written note—and photographs. The photos, taken this week, showed her outside the daycare center taking Emily home for the night, at the grocery store, walking into her own home, gassing up the car.

  Adrenaline punched through her, making her mouth go dry.

  If they could take photos of her with Emily outside her own home and sneak them into the preschool with cops parked nearby…

  She glanced at the note—instructions on where to put a hundred thousand dollars and threats to harm both her and Emily if she didn’t.

  Megan turned to Christa, interrupting her conversation with another mother. “Someone brought this inside and left it in Emily’s cubby. Who was it? When?”

  She handed the note to Christa, whose face paled as she read it. “You found this here?”

  “It was in Emily’s cubby. Someone delivered it in person. Look—no stamps.” Megan showed Christa the envelope, amazed that she sounded so calm when inside she wanted to scream. “Come, Emily, sweet pea. We need to go.”

  She hurried Emily to the car and drove straight to the police station.

  # # #

  Nate piled slices of leftover roast beef on a hard roll, added mayonnaise, mustard, a slice of cheddar cheese, sliced tomato, avocado, lettuce, and a chopped jalapeño pepper, then took his sandwich and a bottle of Fat Tire to the table. He’d gotten the hay off the semi, storing some of it in the barn and loading some of it onto a
truck so that it could be driven out to pasture. It had been hard work, making his arm, chest, and shoulder ache, but it had been satisfying, too. He’d worked up a sweat—and an appetite.

  He reached for the paper only to find his father had already cut it to pieces. The old man was a pack rat who clipped and saved news stories he found interesting. That was all fine and good, but it made it damned hard to read the paper unless Nate got to it first. At least the sports section was still intact.

  Nate read while he ate, wishing it was still baseball season. He was reading predictions for the Mile High Showdown—the annual contest between the CU Buffs and the CSU Rams—when the old man walked up to the table with a thick manila folder and dropped it on the table in front of Nate. “This is why the name Marc Hunter sounded familiar to me.”

  “Are you still going on about that?” It had been almost a week, but the old man still refused to let it go.

  His dad sat, a mug of coffee in his hand. “I think you need to see it.”

  Nate took a bite of his sandwich, opened the folder—and almost choked.

  There on top of a pile of newspaper clippings sat a wanted poster with an image of Marc Hunter. His hair was down to his shoulders, and he was sporting a beard and mustache, but the man was unmistakably Megan’s brother. If visual proof hadn’t been enough, the name “Marc Hunter” was prominent on the poster—not far from the words “armed and dangerous.”

  Megan’s brother was an ex-con?

  Some part of Nate wanted to laugh.

  “This story broke about four years go. I followed it pretty closely because Hunter took that woman reporter hostage and fled into the mountains. They launched the biggest manhunt in the state’s history to try to bring him in and rescue her. The men and I checked outbuildings and campsites on our land regularly for a month, but found no sign of him. Turns out there was a lot more to the story than anyone knew. It seems Hunter and his sister have had a pretty tough time of it. It’s all there.”

  But Nate was already reading.

  He didn’t notice when his father stood and walked away.

  # # #

  Megan cut Emily’s bean burrito into bite-size pieces, put the carrot sticks on the plate beside it, and set the plate on the coffee table in Marc’s office, together with a plastic fork and napkin. “Thanks, Sophie. This is so much healthier than a hamburger from down the street. Can you thank Aunt Sophie for bringing us lunch, Emily?”

  “Thank you, Auntie Sophie,” Emily said in a small voice, smiling up at Sophie.

  Sophie bent down, planted a kiss on Emily’s head. “You’re welcome, baby doll.”

  Megan had so many reasons to be grateful to Sophie. Before Sophie had become Megan’s sister-in-law, she’d launched an investigation into the lives of pregnant women in prison. Her work had changed their lives—Marc’s and Emily’s as much as Megan’s.

  Megan had spent the morning sitting in Marc’s office at police headquarters answering questions, while a team of detectives was dispatched to Emily’s preschool. So far they’d found nothing—no sign of forced entry, no one at the daycare who noticed Donny or any other unauthorized people entering or leaving the daycare facility. Nor did they have any leads on the photographs—who had taken them or how someone had managed follow her while she was under police surveillance without the cops noticing anything.

  But Megan thought she knew the answer—or a least part of it.

  Although Marc had reassured her that the men Chief Irving had assigned to watch over her could be trusted, Megan didn’t believe it. She knew more than most people how easy it was for villains to masquerade as heroes, disguising the evil inside them with a uniform.

  Sophie gave her a sympathetic look. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?”

  Megan shook her head. “Not much.”

  “I know you don’t want the newspaper to do a story on this, but I think—”

  The office door opened and Marc walked in, shutting the door behind him. “Hey, honey. This is a nice surprise.”

  He leaned down and kissed Sophie, who grabbed the front of his shirt and held him down, drawing out the kiss, eliciting a deep “mmm” from her husband.

  Their happiness and love for one another had always touched Megan. After everything he’d been through, her brother deserved someone wonderful in his life. They seemed made for each other.

  And if Megan wished she knew what that kind of love was like…

  She had so much for which she was grateful. She shouldn’t waste time wishing for things that just couldn’t happen.

  Sophie smiled up at Marc. “The judge called for a recess in the trial I’m covering, so I brought Megan and Emily lunch.”

  “That was sweet of you.” Marc turned to Megan. “We have a lead. It turns out the janitor put the envelope in the box. He was wearing cleaning gloves so he didn’t leave prints. He said a man came up to the door early in the morning, said he had something to give you, and drew out a wad of cash, threatening to shoot—”

  Megan shook her head, gave a nod toward Emily.

  “Threatening to S-H-O-O-T the janitor if he mentioned anything about it. I’ve got to give Darcangelo credit. He’s the one who got the man to talk.”

  “So Donny paid the janitor to put it in the cubby?”

  “Not Donny.” Marc leaned back against the wall. “The janitor described the man as heavy-set with dark hair and gold teeth. We’ve got him looking at mug shots now. I’m guessing this guy drives a Lincoln Continental or knows someone who does.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Sophie said, giving Marc’s hand a squeeze.

  “What do I do?” Megan fought to keep the panic out of her voice. “They want a hundred thousand dollars by ten tonight. You saw the note. You know what they’ll try to do if they don’t get it. I guess I need to go to the bank.”

  “Like hell you will.” Marc crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to go home with a police escort. You’re going to pack suitcases for yourself and Emily, and I’m going to pick you up after work and take you to my place. You and Emily are going to stay with us until these guys are in custody. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  Megan shook her head. “I have to go to work. It took me so long to find this job. They’re depending on me. If I can’t come in for two weeks or a month, they’ll fire me. He’s going to destroy my life, Marc. Donny is going to destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build.”

  Marc knelt down in front of her, took her hands, and looked straight into her eyes. “That’s not going to happen, Megan. You call your boss, tell her what’s going on. I’ll give her the damned police report if she wants it. As for the rest of it, we’ve got this. Trust me, okay?”

  Megan drew a deep breath, nodded. “Okay.”

  # # #

  Megan pulled into her driveway, Emily asleep in the back seat. An unmarked police car followed behind her, while another was already parked a few houses down. She recognized Detective Wu—one of Julian’s most trusted men—in the front seat. She pushed the button to open her garage, pulled slowly inside, and closed the garage again.

  And for a moment she simply sat there.

  Her brother wanted her to trust the police, but Megan couldn’t. If even one of them was corrupt, her brother wouldn’t be able to protect her. Besides, having them follow her everywhere felt like being on parole or in prison again.

  She carried Emily inside, laid her down on her bed, then began to pack. She’d called her boss, who’d been surprisingly understanding and told her to take the day as a paid personal day. Megan had been so grateful.

  Marc was coming by at about seven tonight to pick her up and take her to his place. He hadn’t told her the details, but she knew they had plans to catch Donny and the others tonight using a woman police detective in an auburn wig to make the money drop in her place. If it worked, Donny and the others would be in custody by morning, and this nightmare would be behind her. All she had to do was sit tight—and hope the men in the
cars outside weren’t working for the men who’d threatened her.

  She finished packing her suitcase, packed one for Emily, and carried them both to the living room, catching sight of the squad car outside. She drew the blinds and sank onto the couch, feeling trapped.

  And there on the coffee table she saw Nate’s business card.

  # # #

  Nate showered off the hay dust and shaved, unable to shake the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—or his rage. He’d heard of some pretty sick shit happening to women when he’d been deployed, and what had happened to Megan ranked right up there with the worst of it. But what had been done to Megan had happened right here in his country, in his home state, not in Afghanistan.

  That poor girl has been through enough, I mean to tell you.

  It all made sense now—the reverend’s words, the shadows in her eyes, her fear of guns, why her brother was so damned protective. He still couldn’t believe what Marc Hunter had done for his sister. It had been wrong—no question about that—but Nate could understand why he’d done it. He’d paid one hell of a high price for it in the end.

  There’d been photos of Megan, part of a series of stories about pregnant women in prison that had run in the Denver Independent. She’d been Megan Rawlings back then, and she’d looked like a different person—haunted, fragile, unhealthy. Among them had been a series of shots that had put an ache in his chest.

  Megan in labor while shackled to a hospital bed by her ankle, in pain and chained like an animal. Megan, still shackled by her ankle, looking down at newborn Emily, looking exhausted but happy. Megan in tears as her baby was taken away, despair on her face.

  Nate didn’t know what it was like to be a woman, or to bring a child into the world, or to have that child taken away. He’d never been arrested, had never spent a day in prison. He’d never been addicted to anything, not even the painkillers they’d pumped into his system when he’d been in the burn center. But he did know that it had taken a lot of guts for Megan to get from where she’d been in those photographs to where she was today.