by Becky Flade
“You were behind that?” She asked.
“Yep. But you know what they say: If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.” Noah giggled and pushed her again. “I had to make sure you got yours, Maggie. Way past time you got yours.”
They marched single file, the meadow backlit by waning moonlight in the cloudless sky. The horizon glowed with the promise of morning, but Maggie estimated they’d be far inside the forest before it broke. She wondered if she’d be alive to see it and shivered in the cool air. She heard Noah snicker behind her and realized whomever he’d become bore no resemblance to the man she’d known. The thought equally comforted and terrified.
“Noah.” Maggie said. “I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You tricked me,” he snarled. “Little Miss Journalistic Integrity laying all those bread crumbs for me to follow; making me believe Gael was a werewolf. Which was obviously never true. You knew I’d bite. I lost everything. Everything!” He nearly screamed. “My father took the paper away. I’m a laughingstock. Even the whores I paid good money for have turned on me. It’s all your fault, all of it. And now you’re going to pay.”
They stepped into the thick brush and the forest swallowed them.
“You did all that to yourself.” She stepped carefully over a fallen log and pushed back a thick branch that was in her way. As Noah stepped over the same log, she let go of the branch and ran. She heard it hit him, heard his pained, surprised exclamation and the sound of what she hoped was him falling to the ground as she pumped her legs through the still, dark woods. She could feel branches, twigs, and bushes licking at her legs and arms, tugging at her hair as she tried to put some distance between herself and the gun. She went deeper into the forest, thankful for all the nights she walked with Gealach and the knowledge it had given her of the terrain, drawing him further from her family, hopefully getting him turned around enough that she could double back for home or head for the road. She guessed his plan was to rape and murder her before morning was full on them, giving him the chance to get away before she was missed. If she was really lucky, he wasn’t so insane as to stick around after a search was begun. She doubted it though.
Worry crept in. Worry that he’d get frustrated and head back to the house. Worry that he’d hurt Aidan or Tala in anger. He’d always been petty; she didn’t think the madness engulfing him now had changed that basic facet of his personality. He had never been one to readily accept or acknowledge personal accountability when he was sane, and that flaw was clearly still abundant. Her pace slowed so she could listen for him. Noah wasn’t outdoorsy. He should be thrashing through the thicket. The quiet was eerily deafening. Maggie couldn’t even make out the normal sounds of nature that should have surrounded her. All that came to her ears was the sound of her own ragged breathing as air huffed out of her lungs in frosty clouds.
She pivoted and began running back toward home, panic fueling her flight through the trees. She didn’t see Noah step out from his hiding spot until it was too late. Noah was prepared for the collision; Maggie was not. She hit his chest at a full run. It took her breath away and she bit thru her lip. She had only a second to register the pain before her back hit the forest floor and new pain spread throughout her body. The milk that her body was holding released on impact, soaking her dress. Her ears were ringing and blood flowed freely into her mouth, choking her. As she tried to breathe, Noah stood over her, laughing and obviously erect. Worry for her family faded and was replaced with anger; she felt a fleeting satisfaction that his face was bruised and bloodied. He must have seen the look cross her features and his lip furled.
“You always thought you were such a clever bitch, didn’t you, Maggie? Thought you were smarter than me. Now who’s clever? Now who’s smart? Now who’s down in the dirt like trash?” Maggie tried to push herself up, but Noah grasped her face in his hand and pushed her back into the dirt. She scooted a few feet away before attempting again to stand, but he ran to her and with both hands on her shoulders shoved her to her knees. He bent low until their noses were inches apart and raised the gun to her temple.
“I’m going to explain this to you real simple like, Anastasia.” He sneered her birth name at her like a curse and she remembered, briefly, how he had liked to use the moniker to needle her when they’d been a couple. She wondered if he’d wanted to hurt her even then. “You are going to die today regardless. How nice you are to me beforehand determines whether or not your family joins you in the ground.”
Maggie spit blood in his face and Noah screamed before swinging the butt of the gun at her head. She ducked, the flat of the gun narrowly missing her face, and quickly scooted to her feet. Noah roared in anger, but Maggie stood her ground. At the very least she was going to make it harder for him. The longer he was in the woods with her, the better the odds he’d get caught before leaving the area. The sun would be out soon. Aidan would be looking for her. And he’d have help. “Come on, you coward, put the gun away and do this like you’ve always wanted. With your hands.”
Noah smiled, or at least a semblance of one, and tucked the gun in his waistband. He stepped toward her slowly. Maggie waited, calculated. When he got within reach, she pulled back her right arm. Noah prepared to block the punch, but Maggie kicked up into his groin instead. Noah went to his knees, screaming, both hands cupping his damaged manhood. She grabbed the back of his head and shoved down while her knee came up again, this time shattering his nose. Noah fell onto the ground, choking on his own blood, just as Maggie had minutes before. She leaned over and mocked, “Now who’s in the dirt, bitch?”
She saw the gun in his hand a second before she felt the bullet’s punch as it violated her body. She staggered and then fell, pain blooming over her shoulder. Darkness flittered at the edges of her mind. Maggie knew she was going to pass out, and she knew, or suspected, what Noah would do to her when she did. He stumbled into a stance above her. His face was a bloody mess and she took pride in that as he aimed the gun at her head.
A haunting roar tore through the dawn and they both turned toward the sound as Aidan shot through the trees and tackled Noah. She watched Aidan bury his fist into Noah’s already battered face and heard whatever was left of the bones in his nose crumble. Noah cried and swung his arms in wide, uneven arcs. Aidan hit him again and again as Maggie fought to remain conscious. Finally Noah’s body surrendered and he fell to the ground, a large puff of dirt punctuating his defeat.
Immediately by her side, Aidan carefully, cautiously, helped Maggie sit. She wasn’t aware she was crying until she was upright and felt tears slide down her cheeks.
“How did you know where to find me?” She asked.
“Gealach.” Aidan said. “I’ll explain later. I’ve got to get you to a hospital.”
Over his shoulder, Maggie saw Noah, his face destroyed, rushing up behind Aidan with a large rock in his hand. She didn’t know, not consciously, that the gun was beside her, that Noah had lost it in his struggle with Aidan. But suddenly the pistol was in her hand and she was squeezing the trigger. Noah’s body fell to the ground and she watched with the pistol aimed at his head until the final spark of life and madness in his eyes flickered and died. Maggie dropped the gun and turned to Aidan.
“I totally could have taken that bear,” she told him and then slipped into blessed darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Maggie stood with her back to the house and her chin pointed up toward the night sky. She fought the urge to scratch at the stitches on her shoulder and reveled in the freedom the meadow represented. The hospital had felt like a trap she couldn’t escape; everybody poking and prodding and questioning her, over and over. All she had wanted was to come home to her family and to this sky. Now that she was, she felt peace.
They were just putting the baby down for the night when the phone rang. Aidan answered and from the sidelong glance he tossed her way as she was slipping out the back door, he was either talking to the sheriff or someone on the
East Coast. Much to the shock and surprise of everyone, and against Joel’s wishes, her mother had come out from Philadelphia after learning that Maggie had been shot. They had a lot of work ahead of them before they’d be on good terms, but it was a definite start. She’d been checking in daily since returning to her home, as did most of the McAllisters and the residents of Trappers’ Cove. Aidan had to convince two state’s worth of people and one Irishwoman into not coming to welcome Maggie home. She would be forever thankful he knew her so well.
She heard him behind her but didn’t turn. She felt the warmth of the jacket he draped over her shoulders and tucked around her before closing his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his front. They stood there quietly for a moment, just enjoying each other. Aidan broke the silence. “That was Teague on the phone.”
“What did he want?”
“To let us know they’re not pressing charges. You acted in defense of self and others.”
“So it’s over.” Maggie sighed and felt weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying lift from her shoulders.
“Yeah, rock star, it’s over.” Aidan pressed a kiss to her crown and rested his chin there. Maggie smiled and snuggled closer to her soul mate. “How’d you find me that morning, Aidan? You still haven’t told me.”
“Do you want to sit?” She nodded and he pulled her down so that she was sitting on his lap in the large wooden chair that not so long ago had sat within the forest’s edge. “I dreamed I was Gealach and I was searching for you, but knew I’d be too late. I woke just before dawn with Gealach urging me to hurry as though still in the dream. You were gone, but I could smell you like I could when I was the wolf. I could smell the lovemaking we’d shared and the coppery scent of fear and someone, something else, with a foul dead odor surrounding him. I hurried to the nursery. Tala lay there, wide awake and completely silent, staring at me with wide eyes and the wolf clutched in her tiny hands. I scooped her up and took off for the stable.
“I barely remember running with her. When I skidded into the barn the horses panicked. Even Jezebel reared up, her eyes rolling back. The ruckus brought Sly running down the stairs. I gave him Tala, told him you’d been taken, and bolted from the barn.” He shifted in the chair until they faced each other. “Next thing I knew I was in the forest, racing through the trees. I had Gealach’s speed, his sight, and his sense of smell. I knew I was getting close, but the fear was overwhelming and I paused, trying to get my bearings. Then I heard the gunshot. I turned and saw Hurley standing over you taking aim a second time. I leaped at him. The sun burst over the horizon just as Gealach roared in heartbreak and then the wolf was gone.”
“You roared, Aidan. I heard you. It wasn’t Gealach. That’s what distracted Noah from taking that final shot.” Maggie pressed a hand to his cheek. “You saved me.”
“No, Maggie.” Aidan tilted her head up and he leaned down, lightly pressing his lips against hers. “We saved each other.”
Acknowledgments
Without the following extraordinary people Fated Souls would still be collecting e-dust on my hard drive: Nicholas Page, Casey Flade, Morgen McGeehan, Kenny Flade, Jacqueline Packard, Dejà Perry, Christine Ouellette, and Stephanie Hampton. You know what you did and I’ll be forever grateful.
My heartfelt thanks to Jennifer Lawler, Julie Sturgeon, Jess Verdi, and everyone at Crimson Romance for turning my story into a beautiful book.
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
57 Littlefield Street
Avon, MA 02322
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Becky Flade
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6676-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6676-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6677-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6677-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; bigstockphoto.com
FATED HEARTS
Becky Flade
Avon, Massachusetts
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This one’s for Nicky,
my knight in slightly tarnished armor,
my best friend, my hero, my husband:
Yours is the heart fated for mine.
Chapter One
“Come on, baby. You can do it.” Henley Elliott petted the dash of her twenty-year-old Grand Prix and coaxed it over a hill. She loved the old green car, her first and only since getting her driver’s license her senior year of high school, but it was on its last leg and Henley knew it. As the car chugged over the peak, she took her foot off the gas and coasted down the other side. She enjoyed the speed and the view as the valley opened.
She didn’t blame the car for wanting to quit. She was tired too. She was exhausted from constantly running, always looking over her shoulder, jumping from town to town. She hoped she’d gone far enough to be safe. She had almost convinced herself she would be, that it would be okay to settle for a few weeks. She’d done preliminary research online at a public-access computer in the library a few miles back. Though a small and rural community, the next town appeared metropolitan enough to provide lodging and work for a while. She had too much dust on her shoes and needed to call somewhere home. Trappers’ Cove was as good a place as any.
As gravity pulled the limping car downhill, farms gave way to a residential area that must’ve bordered the town proper. The houses, small and large alike, were old but well maintained; they showed tradition, respect, and pride. Henley glanced at her dashboard clock—it was noon on a Wednesday in late April. Kids were in school, but she imagined later they would play in their yards and ride bikes in the street. Young women chatted over fences as they hung laundry on clotheslines. It resembled a scene out of a television show from her childhood or the Lifetime movie she’d caught in a motel last month. Henley smiled. It was charming. She loved it.
Her smile faded as the road leveled and her car slowed.
“No, no, no, baby, just a little bit farther,” she pled. She pulled the car off the side of the road in time for it to roll to a stop, shudder, cough, and die. She laid her forehead against the steering wheel and sighed. She didn’t have much money and feared the car needed massive repairs. It was a miracle her baby had made it this far. Trappers’ Cove would be home for the next little bit—once she got there. Her immediate problem was getting herself into the main part of town, followed closely by locating a mechanic who would tow the vehicle in with only the promise of payment. Then she’d worry about securing lodging and employment. Henley grabbed her purse and the backpack she kept filled with a couple days’ worth of necessities, locked the Pontiac loaded with the rest of her meager belongings, and began walking west.
Late April in Minnesota wasn’t exactly balmy, so she’d dressed that morning in jeans and a long-sleeved tee. Always practical, Henley had also wrapped a sweatshirt around her waist in case she needed it. But after a few mile
s of walking in the afternoon sun, she began to perspire. Her hair clung to the back of her neck, and her shirt grew clammy. With practiced skill, she pulled the long, brown locks into a sloppy bun and secured the knot with a scrunchie she kept on her wrist. She pushed the sleeves up to her elbows and nudged her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose.
She heard the truck approach. It came around the bend in the road and into view, its appearance as dilapidated as it sounded. She kept her gaze on the horizon, but the truck slowed to a stop parallel to her regardless. She expected to see a grizzled, old farmer behind the wheel, his teeth yellowed from tobacco, dressed in flannel and suspenders. She knew it was a snobby presumption, but she’d seen more than a few on her travels and they drove similar trucks. Instead, the man behind the wheel of the once-blue jalopy appeared to be close to forty, and he was pretty.
She doubted he’d appreciate the description; in her experience not many men would, but it was the first word that came to Henley’s mind. His dark brown hair needed a cut, the ends curling around his ears and nape. He had blue eyes framed in thick, black lashes, a day’s worth of stubble, though it wasn’t yet three o’clock, and a cleft chin. His full bottom lip curved seductively as he smiled at her in an amused but condescending fashion that suggested women tended to stare and he thought it funny. She realized her mouth hung open and snapped it shut. She tucked her hands in her back pockets. She wasn’t sure what else to do with them, but the move thrust her ample breasts forward and the pretty man’s smile widened exponentially.