Though it was pitch-black, Nat’s eyesight was sharp and well-adjusted. He knew every inch of ground, every stone, fence, and broken-down piece of machinery on his land. Picking out shades of gray, he moved towards the car. Flicked off the rifle’s safety and peered in through the frosted-up glass. It was like trying to see to the bottom of a riverbed in the middle of winter. He couldn’t make out a damned thing.
With one finger, he lifted the handle of the driver’s side door. It clicked open, but no interior light came on. Nat took a step back and peered inside, made out a bundled up figure in the back seat, curled up, unmoving.
Gripping his rifle he felt the tension crackle like static on a dry day. The fine hairs at his nape sprang up, tensile and erect.
“Drop the rifle, mister.” The voice was softly feminine.
“Now why would I want to do that?” he asked.
She was silent. He could feel her apprehension; almost see her weighing her choices in the concealment of the Jeep.
His teeth locked together. “I don’t think so, ma’am.” He might have been raised to be polite to women, but he wasn’t dumb. “Not ‘til you tell me why the hell you’re sneaking onto my property in the middle of the night.”
She shifted slightly. He heard the rustle as she pushed aside the blankets.
“What’s your name?” she asked. There was a lilt, some sort of accent in her voice that sounded both warm and aggressive at the same time. It undid some of his irritation and sparked a glimmer of curiosity.
“Well, ma’am.” Pitched low, Nat’s voice was steely with courteousness. “A better question would be what the hell’s yours?”
Praise for Toni Anderson and Her Sanctuary…
“Toni’s voice is strong, fresh, evocative and her writing deeply atmospheric. You heard it here first. Watch this lady!”
~Loreth Anne White (author)
HER SANCTUARY
5 ANGELS “Suspenseful, riveting and explosive, this reader absolutely loved this story.”
~FAR
4.5 BLUE RIBBONS “Ms. Anderson presents us with one fantastic story that has me wanting more.”
~Romance Junkies
“For a fast paced, enjoyable read filled with secrets and surprises, HER SANCTUARY will fill all your expectations.”
~Romance Reviews Today
“Don’t miss out on Eliza and Nat’s tale. They are just waiting for you to join them in the modern wild west of Montana.”
~Loves Romances Reviews
Her Sanctuary
by
Toni Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Her Sanctuary
COPYRIGHT Ó 2008 by Toni Anderson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2008
Print ISBN 1-60154-418-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To John Mepham, my grandad, a true romantic.
Chapter One
New York City, March 31st
Elizabeth Ward eased back the blinds and peered into the quiet street that ran alongside her apartment building. Her hands shook and she steadied them by gripping the coffee cup tighter, only to spill hot liquid over the edge.
“Shit.” She sucked at the angry red patch marring the back of her hand, her mouth cool against the sting.
Rain streaked the windowpanes, drops running together and fracturing in the orange glow of the streetlights. A dark-colored Lincoln crouched like a shadow next to a squat, black and silver hydrant. Her former colleagues from the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit sat in that car. Watching. Waiting. Her so-called protection.
Betrayal burned the edges of her mind like battery acid.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five times, making her jump.
Five a.m.
Nearly time.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the window frame. Night’s gloom clung to the red brick of the Victorian tenements opposite—its weak edges and cold breath eating into what should have been springtime.
A drunk wove his shopping cart down the back alley, searching for a safe spot out of the killer wind. Even Midtown’s exclusive neighborhoods were scattered with down-and-outs, hunched behind dumpsters, curled up between parked cars. A community of desperate souls, listless, gaunt, and stinking like the dead.
She envied them. She wanted to be that invisible.
Swallowing past the wedge in her throat, she counted to ten and slowly inhaled a lungful of air and moved away from the window. She’d done her job, and done it well, but it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.
She sat at her computer in the darkened room dialing into an anonymous email account. Wrote two messages.
The first one read, Terms of contract agreed. Proceed.
There was more than one way to skin a cat.
Her teeth chattered, but not from cold. A rolling shake began in her fingertips and moved up through her wrists. It might have been rage or fear that made her tremble, she didn’t know which, didn’t care to think about it. She clenched her hands together into a hard fist, massaged the knuckles with her interlocked fingers, grateful for the unyielding gold of her signet ring that bit into her flesh.
Pain was a good reminder.
She pulled her shoulders back, typed carefully, Beware the fury of a patient man.
Baiting the tiger, or the devil himself. Bastard.
A tear slipped down her cheek, cold and wet. She let it fall, blanked the searing memories from her mind. Elizabeth logged off. Reformatted her hard-drive, erasing every command she’d ever received, every report she’d ever sent. Letting the computer run, she headed into the stylish black and white tiled bathroom and got ready for the final act of her New York life. She leaned close to the mirror and put in a colored contact lens.
One eye stared back, frosted with iced-blue, the other looked eerily exposed, its pale green depths shining with fear. She jerked back from her reflection.
Looked like living hell.
With shaky fingers she put in the second lens and made up her face. Heavy foundation hid the dark circles under her eyes and translucent powder covered her rampant freckles. Blood-red lipstick and thick black eyeliner dominated her face, making her look harder, bolder.
“Hello, Juliette.”
She smiled at the reflection. She knew the old fraud better than she knew herself.
Blush emphasized cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and mascara elongated her thick lashes.
She was ready to die now.
Her heart hammered like a jackrabbit on speed. She pinned her hair back into a neat bun, tight to the nape of her neck. Touching up her lipstick she stood back and pulled on a wig that was similar to her own dyed, red hair, but cut shorter, into a bob that swung just beneath her chin.
Her lips curved upward. Her cheeks moved, her eyes crinkled, but there was not an ounce of happy to buoy it up. The façade held, despite the escalating internal pressure.
FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Ward had sat quietly when the Assistant DA had informed her that
mobster Andrew DeLattio was being allowed to turn state’s evidence. Then she’d excused herself and thrown up in the restroom.
Lines of strain etched her eyes and mouth, her right hand unconsciously gripped her throat, Vermillion nails gleaming cruelly against pale skin. Her pulse fluttered and she felt its echo beneath her thumb.
Truth was she didn’t mind dying. But she wasn’t going to stand on the sidewalk with a bulls-eye tattooed to her ass. Juliette Morgan was a target for every organized-crime family in the US and Elizabeth intended to make her disappear.
Permanently.
She walked through to the main bedroom, pulled out a scarlet Versace pantsuit and a tangerine silk blouse and walked back into the bedroom.
Could she really do this?
Yes! The answer screamed inside her head. How else could she reclaim her life? And if she died trying...
So be it.
She got dressed. The red and orange clashing violently in an eye-catching display of high fashion—exactly the effect she was going for.
Satisfied, Elizabeth walked through to the lounge and took one last look at her stylish Manhattan apartment. She was done with it, burned out, wasted, with no future to speak of and a past full of regrets. Time hadn’t diminished her fury; if anything it burned brighter and stronger every day. DeLattio owed her and Witness Protection or not, she was going to get her revenge.
Forcing herself to move she stopped before she’d gone two paces. Her eyes caught and held an old sepia photograph staring down at her from the wall. A young couple grinned at her from their perch, affectionately hugging two tiny figures between them.
It knocked her sideways, the lifetime of grief locked up in that treasured photograph. She swallowed three times before she could catch her breath.
Ah, God.
Elizabeth blinked to kill the tears and reached up to unhook the picture from its small brass hanger. She slid the photograph into her purse, next to her Glock. Hiding behind dark sunglasses, she picked up her keys and left without a backward glance.
****
Triple H Ranch, Montana, April 3rd
In the open doorway of the ranch house with his old dog pressed against his side, Nat Sullivan gazed up into the inky depths of the night sky. No moon shone tonight, though stars glittered like tiny diamonds against the blackest coal.
It was two a.m. and his eyes hurt.
A thin layer of fresh snow covered the ground, gleaming like exposed bone. The storm had been a quick blast of fury, totally unpredicted, but not unexpected, not this high in the mountains. Trees popped like firecrackers deep in the heart of the forest.
A dull throbbing poked at his skull, like a hangover. He rubbed his forehead as if to wipe the ache away. Not that he’d had the time or luxury to get drunk. The headache was the lingering effect of a difference of opinion he’d had with a couple of repo men that afternoon. They thought they had the right to come to the ranch and steal his property. He figured they’d be better off dead.
Stroking the silky fur that covered the old dog’s skull, tension seeped from his stiff neck as his muscles gradually relaxed. He let out a breath and his stance tempered, shoulders lowered as the tightness slowly eased.
Peace, finally, after a day of almighty hell.
Ironically, the Sullivans were saved, at least for a little while. His mother’s heart attack had halted the repossession orders—a kind of a life-and-death version of a silver-lined cloud.
Nat tried to force a smile, found the effort too great, his jaw too damn sore to do it justice. Last time he’d seen his mother she’d been pasty gray, her hair standing on end, flat on her back in a hospital bed.
Still giving out orders.
Old. Weak. Cantankerous. His mother would go to her grave fighting for this land. He could do no less.
Absently, he played with the silky fur of Blue’s ears. The Triple H was nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, a lush valley butted up close to the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Settled by his great, great grandparents, it was as much a part of his heritage as his DNA. A few hundred acres of prime grazing land, carved over millennia by the friction of ice over rock.
Nat had had his adventures, traveled the world, seen more than his fair share of beautiful country, but now he was back to stay. Montana was in his bones, the backdrop to every thought and the oxygen of every breath. He leaned against the doorframe, looked out at the mountains and welcomed the fresh clean air pressed close against his cheeks.
It was sacrilege to think the ranch could be taken from them.
A shooting star plunged across the night sky, falling to its death in a brilliant display. Nat drew in a sharp breath at the flash of beauty. The dog stiffened beneath his palm, a low growl vibrating from its belly all the way to its teeth. Nat cocked his head, ears tuned in, attention focused. A low humming sound grew louder, like the buzz of a honeybee getting closer.
A car.
Heading this way.
“Quiet, Blue. Go lie down.” He didn’t want the dog making a racket and waking his niece. Pulling the baby monitor from his pocket, he checked it against his ear to make sure it was still working, and turned back to the open door.
Could be nothing.
Could be Ryan driving home drunk even though he knew better. But Ryan didn’t always show good judgment after a bad day. Didn’t sound like Ryan’s truck though. Nat flicked off the baby monitor.
Hidden Hollow Hideaway was remote and secluded, with mountains surrounding and enclosing the ranch on all four sides. Miles off the beaten track it was hard to find even in daylight. At night it was damn near impossible. People did not just pass by and they weren’t expecting any paying guests for at least another week. Troy Strange was their only neighbor for miles and he was more likely to visit smallpox victims.
Trouble was coming—Nat smelled it, almost tasted it at the back of his throat.
Cursing, he grabbed his rifle and ammo off the gun-rack above the kitchen door and loaded it, chambering a round. He moved quickly outside to stand in the deep shadows besides the big Dutch barn. Cattle lowed behind him and a wolf’s howl echoed through the hills to the east.
Prickles crept up Nat’s spine. Were the repo men coming back for another shot at his horses? Despite all his attorney’s fine words?
The car was cresting the rise a hundred yards from the main house. It sure as hell wasn’t Ryan’s truck. Nat’s heart thumped hard against his ribcage and adrenaline banished tiredness. He hugged the side of the barn as headlights cut deep into shadow. The rig, a Jeep Cherokee, pulled into the yard in front of the main house, cut the lights, cut the engine.
Silence resonated around the granite peaks like a boom in his ears. Nat breathed in and out. He smelled the exhaust fumes tainting the pure mountain air, listened as silence combed the darkness, as if nothing existed except the colorless wasteland of night. Just time and universe, cold and rock.
Anticipation sharpened every sense as he waited, balanced on the balls of his feet. Nobody moved. Nobody crept out of the Jeep. Nobody sneaked into his stable to steal his prize-winning Arabian horses.
Nat’s breathing leveled off, his heart rate slowed. He relaxed his stance and adjusted his grip. Waited.
The repo men had brought a truck this morning.
Nat waited another minute, then another. His eyes grew gritty with fatigue and he fought back a yawn. This wasn’t the repo men. He blew out a gentle breath. He didn’t know who the hell it was, but it wasn’t them. Cold seeped into his hands from the frigid metal of the gun; his trigger finger was freezing up.
“Damn it all to hell.”
He wasn’t about to leave some stranger hanging around his property in the middle of the night.
Though it was pitch-black, Nat’s eyesight was sharp and well-adjusted. He knew every inch of ground, every stone, fence, and broken-down piece of machinery on his land. Picking out shades of gray, he moved towards the car. Flicked off the rifle’s safety and peered in through the frosted
-up glass. It was like trying to see to the bottom of a riverbed in the middle of winter. He couldn’t make out a damned thing.
With one finger, he lifted the handle of the driver’s side door. It clicked open, but no interior light came on. Nat took a step back and peered inside, made out a bundled up figure in the back seat, curled up, unmoving.
Gripping his rifle he felt the tension crackle like static on a dry day. The fine hairs at his nape sprang up, tensile and erect.
“Drop the rifle, mister.” The voice was softly feminine.
“Now why would I want to do that?” he asked.
She was silent. He could feel her apprehension; almost see her weighing her choices in the concealment of the Jeep.
His teeth locked together. “I don’t think so, ma’am.” He might have been raised to be polite to women, but he wasn’t dumb. “Not ‘til you tell me why the hell you’re sneaking onto my property in the middle of the night.”
She shifted slightly. He heard the rustle as she pushed aside the blankets.
“What’s your name?” she asked. There was a lilt, some sort of accent in her voice that sounded both warm and aggressive at the same time. It undid some of his irritation and sparked a glimmer of curiosity.
“Well, ma’am.” Pitched low, Nat’s voice was steely with courteousness. “A better question would be what the hell’s yours?”
****
It was a good question. It was a great question. But Elizabeth had been running for so long now she’d begun to wonder herself.
She’d followed the directions she’d been given by the woman over the phone, gone wrong a dozen times before God had decided she needed an even greater challenge and had given her a flat tire. All in all, she’d been driving for three days with limited stops and hadn’t eaten in eighteen hours. Fear and exhaustion had turned her into an amateur.
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