RETURN TO ME

by Christy Reece

  He’d heard about all his brother’s adventures. Michael Stoddard had a reputation to be envied. Not that Mitchell would ever admit that. Having his brother think he had any kind of admiration for him went against every cell in Mitch’s body.

  A mean smirk of a smile twisted at Michael’s lips. “Heard you were back in town. Thought I’d see what you’ve been up to.”

  Mitch jerked upright at that news. He didn’t need anybody knowing anything about him. “Who’s been talking?”

  Michael lifted a careless shoulder. “Stinky Brighton told Pete. Pete told me.”

  “Where’d you see Pete?”

  “He was just coming out of the Farm when I was going in.”

  “Pete’s dead.”

  A slow grin spread across his brother’s face. “Yeah, fortunately I talked to him before that.”

  Mitch guffawed. “Yeah, he probably wouldn’t have much to say after that. What were you in the Farm for this time?”

  “Some stupid shit … only stayed a few months. I’m running low on funds. Figured I’d check and see if you had anything going.”

  Mitch stood back, allowing his brother entrance. “Come on in. I might have something for you.”

  He turned around when he heard Michael stumble behind him and jerk to a stop. “What’s wrong?”

  His brother nodded toward the bitch lumped in the corner. “She get sleepy?”

  Mitch chuckled. “Naw, gave her a little knock when I heard you were coming. She’ll wake up eventually.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “No problem. She’s not really my type anyway … too skinny.” He pulled a couple of beers out of a cooler and handed one to Michael. “So tell me, bro, what’ve you been up to?”

  Michael sat at the table, leaned back, and propped his feet on the table as if he owned the damned place. Mitch felt the familiar fury. How he hated this bastard. Almost from birth, he’d been taking what should have been all his.

  Eyeing his brother with feigned interest, Mitch took a swig of beer and halfheartedly listened as Michael bragged about his last few years. Like he should give a shit? The only reason he’d never killed the fucker was because his daddy wouldn’t let him.

  Daddy wasn’t around anymore though … was he?

  Michael had started his fourth story when Mitch just couldn’t take it anymore. Standing, he stretched and yawned, making no effort to hide his boredom. “There’s an empty cabin three doors down. You can stay there. It’s cleaner than most of the others … even got running water and clean sheets on the bed.” Tucking his shirt into his pants, he headed toward the door. “I gotta go do a few things. When I get back, we’ll sit down and talk. I got a proposition for you.”

  Michael stood and rubbed his crotch. “Got anything around here to take care of an ache?”

  “Not right now. I’ll try to find one for you on the way back.”

  “What’s wrong with the one in the corner?”

  “I’m still trying to break her in. She’s got something I need.”

  “She’s got something I need, too. Come on, man. Let me give her a try.”

  “No, I—”

  “You owe me, bro.”

  Michael’s voice was about as hard and mean as he’d ever heard it. Shit, he was still pissed about that prison thing. Better give in to him now, just in case he’d come here for retribution. If he asked for too much, he’d do what he’d wanted to do for years, only sooner. He’d whack his brother’s ass and bury him where even buzzards couldn’t find him.

  Mitch pretended an exasperated sigh. “Okay, but see if you can get any information from her. Specifically on a man named McCall. We’ve been at her for two days and she won’t give us shit.”

  Ignoring the smug smile Michael flashed him for getting his way, Mitch stomped out the door. Twenty to thirty minutes was about the longest he’d ever been able to stomach his brother’s presence.

  And if Michael got something out of the bitch? What the hell, it saved him the trouble.

  With monumental effort, Noah maintained his sleazy smile as he crossed over to Samara, every ounce of his control almost depleted. Having to sit and brag about his corrupt life while Samara lay on the floor, unconscious and helpless, had him teetering at the edge. He stooped down and only when he heard the door open and close, indicating his brother had left, did he whisper her name.

  Moving her hair from her neck, Noah quickly checked her pulse and blew out a long sigh at its strong beat. “Mara … sweetheart. Can you hear me?” That control cracked further when he saw the thick welts on her legs. Holding her shoulders gently, he slowly turned her over. Face bruised, bloody and so damned pale, if he hadn’t felt her heartbeat, he’d have assumed she was dead.

  The shirt she half wore was torn, covered in blood and other matter he could only speculate on. He drew a long, shaky breath. The best thing he could do was get to a place where he could care for her.

  Noah scooped her up into his arms and stalked out the door.

  Locating the empty cabin, he kicked the door open, slammed it shut with his foot, and lowered her to the cot. Her eyelids flickered but remained closed.

  “Mara, can you hear me?”

  Still no answer. Going to the adjoining bathroom, Noah ran the water till it was clean. Pulling a T-shirt from his duffel, he wet it and returned to the main room. He stopped abruptly at the door. The bed was empty.

  “Shit.” Noah ran to the door. Samara had managed to get to the bottom of the steps but had collapsed on the ground. Pulling in a shuddering breath, he scooped her back up and returned to the cabin.

  Laying her down again, Noah began the heartbreaking task of washing her body and registering and examining her injuries. Thick red welts stood out against the paleness of her skin. She’d been beaten with something … most likely a belt. He remembered the distinct markings from the days his father used his belt. He also remembered they hurt like hell.

  He pulled her shirt off and wiped her torso. Two large bruises on her right breast and a wicked-looking red welt on the left one. He washed the rest of her body, noting and grimacing at each cut, scratch, and bruise. Had she been raped? He smelled … saw no semen, no bruising or redness on the inside of her thighs. That didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t been sexually violated. He would wait until she woke, then deal with the truth.

  He rinsed the T-shirt of blood and returned, relieved to see she’d stayed put this time. He didn’t know if she was unconscious or awake but in such shock she couldn’t speak. As he continued to clean her wounds, Noah talked. It was mostly nonsense and soothing, inarticulate sounds and words, but for some reason she seemed to rest easier. He refused to ask himself if he was just imagining this to ease his conscience. Noah knew full well she’d never forgive him for his betrayal, nor would he ever forgive himself for what she’d been through.

  Returning to his duffel, he dumped his clothes on the bed and pulled away the fake bottom. It was filled with various medical supplies and other things he would need. Mitchell’s men had searched the bag but thankfully were too lazy to look at it closely. Grabbing medicated ointment and bandages, Noah turned back to Samara. Teeth clenched against pure fury, he covered her body in ointment and bandaged the oozing cuts.

  When he got to her feet, vile curses flew from his mouth. They were almost black. Blood crusted over several deep gouges and cuts. Samara had most likely tried to escape in her bare feet. Noah returned to the bathroom and wet another T-shirt down. As he cleaned her feet, his mind returned to last week when he walked into the living room and found a laughing, happy Samara talking on the phone as she painted her toenails a scarlet red. He gently wiped at her toes, where only a small amount of polish remained.

  Knowing his torturous thoughts would lead him nowhere, Noah forced his mind back to his task. Continuing his litany of soothing, nonsensical words, he hoped that something was getting through to her traumatized mind.

  Peace. She floated in it. Why? Had she died? No, if she wer
e dead, she wouldn’t be hurting. Waves of pain ebbed and flowed through her like a never-ending tide. Something was different, though. What?

  Should she open her eyes? No, might be a dream. If she woke and the nightmare continued, she didn’t want to know. Staying in this semiconscious state of not knowing was much more pleasant.

  A gravelly, masculine voice, so much like Noah’s, penetrated her numbed mind. Yes, must be a dream. How many times had Noah come to her in her dreams? Soothing her, reassuring her. With Noah, she was safe. Nothing and no one could hurt her.

  “Mara, sweetheart, please wake up and flash those pretty eyes at me.”

  No one but Noah had ever called her Mara. She smiled at the memory.

  A wet cloth moistened her mouth, tracing the smile. “That’s my girl. Now open those beautiful eyes.”

  Blinking lids heavy with exhaustion, she barely squinted, so afraid that this really was a dream and she’d wake up from it. Noah sat beside her, his black eyes blazing with more emotion than she’d ever seen in him. A soft sob hitched in her chest. “I thought you might be dead.”

  “And here I was thinking the same thing about you.”

  Tears fell from her eyes, stinging the cuts on her face. “Was so afraid.”

  A warm, wet cloth dabbed at her tears. “I know, baby. … God, I’m so sorry. I never meant any of this to happen.”

  Samara tried to swallow, but her tongue was too swollen and dry for moisture. “Can I have something to drink?”

  Noah surged to his feet and returned with a soda can. “This is the only thing I could find. I rinsed it out. … The water should be okay.”

  Samara tried to raise her head and found herself too weak. Noah lifted her head and gently pressed the can to her mouth. She sipped slowly, knowing too much at one time would make her feel worse.

  She swallowed gratefully as her eyes took in her new location. “Where’s Mitchell?”

  “Said he had business to take care of.”

  She took another sip of water and dropped her head back to the pillow. “He’s after two of the girls, Ashley and Courtney. … They escaped this morning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I helped them. They got away. But he caught me and brought me back here.”

  Samara closed her eyes. The events after that would remain forever in her mind. The grizzly killing of Richard and then her beating and near rape. Water surged back up her throat. She tried to raise her head.

  “Stay still. You’re too weak to move.”

  She pressed her hand over her mouth. “Need to throw up.”

  Noah shot up from the bed, grabbed a small trash can from a corner, and placed it on the floor, beside the bed. While he held her hair back, she heaved until all the water she’d swallowed was gone.

  Gasping and feeling even more ill, she lay back down.

  Regret, anger, and guilt were etched like granite in his face. “I’m going to get you out, Mara. I promise you.”

  Her eyes felt heavy in her head, while the rest of her body felt as if it were floating above her. She mumbled, “Sleep,” then unconsciousness claimed her.

  More than a decade had passed since Noah felt consumed with a killing rage. He’d learned to harness his anger, focus the energy and pain where it would do the most good. Self-discipline and control kept him sane and alive for years. All of that was gone. Mitchell would pay. For what he’d done to Samara. The young girls he’d abducted. For Rebecca. And countless other women over the years.

  When Noah had started on this mission, his plans had been very specific. First, he would rescue the victims, and second, he would bring his brother to justice. Justice had meant prison. Lawful, just and right.

  Now, despite the knowledge that taking his brother’s life might well destroy his remaining humanity, Noah could no longer deny the very real possibility that Mitchell Stoddard would finally meet his maker and that his brother, Michael, would be the perpetrator of that act.

  As Samara slept, Noah sat beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed and thanking God that she could. He’d known she was gutsy and strong, but what she’d been through and surviving it with her sanity intact spoke volumes about the steeliness of her backbone. The term steel magnolia was a fitting description for this beautiful, gutsy woman.

  Though he hated to leave her, he needed to find Mitchell and get more information. The man Justin Kelly, who’d joined Mitchell’s band of thugs to find his sister, had told them the truckload of teen girls would arrive here and then be transported for shipping somewhere along the coast.

  His people wouldn’t move until the truck arrived. If the bastards bringing the girls suspected a problem, there was no telling what they’d do to their victims. Until then, he would play the sleazy, lowlife, perverted man Mitchell expected.

  Refusing to acknowledge his exhaustion, Noah pushed himself to his feet. He needed to get going before his brother showed up at this cabin. The last thing he wanted was Mitch to see his hostage sleeping peacefully or that her physical injuries had been treated. He was supposed to be in here raping her, not helping her.

  With one last look at Samara, Noah walked out the door. On the porch, he jerked to a halt. Mitchell was just getting out of a truck. Two young girls, bruised, handcuffed, and barely dressed, were lifted from the backseat. Ashley Mason and Courtney Nixon. Damn!

  eleven

  Disgust knotting his stomach, Noah swaggered down the steps and headed toward the group. “Whatcha got there?”

  Noah clenched his fist to keep from knocking the sly, evil grin off Mitch’s face.

  “This here’s my new business.” He turned toward the two men holding the terrified young girls. “Take ’em inside. Give ’em some water and something to eat. Let ’em clean up a bit, too. We don’t want Mr. Bennett to think we’ve been mistreating his property.”

  After giving them an expected leering once-over, Noah ignored the girls. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do for them right now. Soon, but not yet. He smirked at Mitchell. “Looks like you definitely got something going, man. You going to cut me in?”

  “Maybe.” Mitchell headed toward his cabin, assuming Noah would follow. Halfway there, he stopped and turned. “How’s that little treat I gave you doing?”

  Noah snorted with disgust. “I barely got started when she passed out again. When’s the last time you fed her.”

  “I wasn’t planning on keeping her around that long. Didn’t see the need to waste good food.”

  “Well, I like them to be at least halfway conscious.”

  Mitch chuckled and started walking to his cabin again. “You sound like Daddy. Come on in and let’s have dinner. Maybe I’ll even find something for your new play pretty.”

  Noah had to force his legs to move. Good thing Mitch’s back was turned or he would have seen his brother’s face and known the truth. To be compared to his father in any way, shape, or form was an anathema.

  The cabin wreaked with the stench of old fish, stale sweat, blood, and greasy barbecue. Noah’s stomach took another revolting tumble.

  Opening a sack, Mitch pulled out a tinfoil-covered pan. “Remember these? Joe Pa’s ribs? Member how Daddy would bring them home sometimes on Saturday?”

  Noah nodded but didn’t bother to mention that the ribs had always been purchased the night before and that dear old Dad would sling the half gnawed-on ribs onto the breakfast table before he staggered to the bedroom to sleep off another drunken night. Mitch always tore into them as if eating cold half-eaten barbecue ribs for breakfast was the ultimate dining experience.

  While Mitch devoured his meal, Noah sat at the table, his eyes searching for something he could take back to Samara. Spying some packaged peanut butter and crackers, along with a couple of bottles of apple juice and water, he got up and grabbed them. Mitch was too involved in his feast to notice.

  Knowing he’d be questioned if he didn’t at least eat something, he pulled a couple of ribs from the rack. Spooning o
ut some potato salad and beans onto his plate, he sat down and forced the food into his mouth.

  “Good stuff, huh?”

  Noah grunted and ate.

  “Bet you’re dying to know about those girls.”

  Lifting a shoulder in a careless shrug, Noah took a swallow of his warm beer. “Only if it involves money.”

  Mitch stopped in the middle of licking sauce from his fingers and flashed a greasy grin. “It always involves money, bro.”

  Unable to swallow anything else, Noah shoved his plate away. “So, tell me about this venture.”

  Wiping his face and hands on a paper towel, Mitch took a long gulp of beer and belched. “It was actually my idea. … That’s why I got to be in charge. Those two girls you saw, we lured them from the Internet. Told ’em we were jocks from another school. Used real names and everything. We arranged a meeting place and then, whammo, they’re ours.”

  “Damn.” Knowing it was expected, his voice revealed his deep esteem and admiration for such a novel idea. “So what are you going to do with them?”

  “That’s the beauty. We got fourteen girls already. … I’m waiting for number fifteen to come in any day now.” He winked. “You know fifteen was always my lucky number.”

  Blood seeped from the hand Noah pressed into the edge of the table. He could feel it dripping from him and didn’t bother to stop it. No one would notice another puddle of blood on the floor. Mitch’s sly teasing that Rebecca had been fifteen when Mitch raped her was a taunting reminder to Noah. His brother felt no remorse for the act or for the fact that Noah had gone to prison for the crime.

  To discuss Mitch’s remark would only invite a discussion that would solve nothing other than the possibility of Noah revealing his real feelings. Just to show that the taunt hadn’t gone unnoticed, Noah managed a mocking nod and waited for Mitch to continue.

  Though he looked slightly disappointed that Noah hadn’t taken the bait, he continued to describe his operation of abducting teen girls. “Anyway, we’ll bring ’em all here and load ’em all on one truck. Then we’ll take them to a warehouse in Biloxi. My boss, Mr. Bennett, examines the merchandise. If he’s pleased—and I plan to make sure he is—we get paid.”