Terror sizzled through him as he thought about attack strategies to get to this cabin. The Elson boys, as he’d heard Sarah say, were expert hunters and trackers. What he didn’t know was how many brains they shared between them. They were known drug smugglers and addicts. Drugs ate away a person’s brain over time. How many brain cells did they have left? They were like animals, stripped of their humanity, ruthless, with no morals or values except the ones they lived by. Was one of them kinder or more benevolent than the others? Or were they all cold, hard killers? He didn’t know, and that bothered him greatly. Understanding he had a deep learning curve to catch up with, Dawson drew in a deep, ragged breath, trying to force himself to stop thinking.
Sympathy for David and Emily Carter drenched him. What must they be going through? Did fear for their remaining daughter eat them alive, keeping them awake at night, too? He couldn’t begin to know what they were going through, but he was very sure Lane’s murder was staring them in the eyes right now. And then, to know that the Elson boys would try to find Sarah, no matter how long it took? The Carter family lived in a special hell, gripped by terror for their only surviving daughter.
Life wasn’t fair, he thought bitterly. Not at all. Good people had bad things happen to them, just as it was happening right now to the Carters. The grannies were probably equally upset, having lived through Lane’s sudden loss. Sleep probably didn’t come easily to them either. He was glad Gertie had hired a security firm; that’s what it would take to be protected, because Lincoln County just didn’t have the funds or the manpower to deal with something like this.
But through it all? Sarah was carrying all of it and then some on her proud shoulders. If he wanted to know how tough a woman could be, all he had to do was look at the way Sarah was handling all this shit. She blamed herself for letting go of Lane; Dawson understood that far too easily. How did she do it? He’d never seen anyone in a combat situation that carried the past, the present and the future threat within them like Sarah did.
In the days and weeks to come, Dawson knew she would probably talk here and there about what had happened to Lane. He understood the need to unload the terrifying moments and events in one’s life. It was healing. And if nothing else, he’d be her touchstone; someone she could have near her who lent her an aura of healing and protection. A person who was a role model, someone she aspired to be like. Or someone who had a quality, such as his calmness amid calamity, she didn’t have, but that she saw it in him and therefore helped her remain calmer. Knowing he helped her emotionally in ways, that she was coming to rely on him more and more, meant the world to him.
Dawson liked thinking of himself as Sarah’s touchstone, but really, she was his touchstone. He wished with all his heart there would come a time when they’d have time to explore each other deeply. Instinctively, he knew it would bind them even more tightly together.
Chapter Sixteen
June 23
Sarah drowsily opened her eyes. Sunlight was bright and slanting around the edges of the curtains at the window, telling her it was well past her normal time to wake up. The covers were tucked in around her and she felt warm and cozy, a wonderful sense of peace flowing through her. Pulling her arm from beneath the blanket and sheet, she pushed a few strands of hair from her brow and eye. What time was it?
On the heels of that question, she suddenly remembered her nightmare. Was everything that followed a dream? Unsure, she slowly sat up, the bedclothes settling around her hips as she looked around the room. King wasn’t in the room either, and the door was shut. Glancing at the clock, she blinked, surprised. It was nine a.m. She never slept in that late!
Pulling the blankets aside, the lingering scent of Dawson surrounded her. Had she dreamed it? Or was it real? She was so groggy, her brain misfiring as she struggled to get back online, she pulled herself over to the edge of the bed. Her crutches were within easy reach. Instinctively, she inhaled his unique male scent again, realizing it hadn’t been a dream at all. That discovery stirred her body and her heart to life. Dawson had held her, slept with her. So many new signals raced through her, reminding her she was a woman with needs. Rubbing her hands across her face, her toes touching the braided rug, she remembered everything about their conversation. Her mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders like it was supposed to since she’d been shot. She knew from her PTSD that there were days after a firefight when she wasn’t completely together, her mind not working then either. Sarah had learned to respect the power of shock and how it snarled a person’s mind, emotions and reality for days, weeks, sometimes, for years after the incident.
Getting shot put a whole new layer on her mind and emotions she hadn’t anticipated. It was bringing lurid nightmares, of Brian Elson knocking the door open and her landing on her ass. He was a strong, bull-like male on drugs that had made him think he was superhuman. She sat there, allowing her hands to fall into her lap. When would she feel whole again? Would she ever? Was this what people struggled with when they’d been wounded? None of her friends in the military had spoken of such things; they probably thought it would make them seem weak if they revealed where they were in their healing process.
It was then, as she stared at the bed stand, that she spotted a handwritten note next to the clock. Why hadn’t she seen it right away? That scared her; in her life as sheriff, so much depended upon her ability to absorb myriad details at a crime scene or a standoff in one sweeping gaze. Reaching out, she picked it up.
Sarah, King and I are out doing some recon within a mile of the cabin. I left some scrambled eggs and fresh-baked biscuits for you in the kitchen. You can warm them up in the microwave. We’ll be gone at least two hours, so don’t worry about us. Dawson.
She saw the heart he’d drawn in front of his scrawled name at the bottom of the note. A heart. What did that mean? What did she want it to mean? He’d also put the time he’d left: 7:30 a.m. They’d return to the cabin in another half hour or so.
Muddled, her emotions in disarray, she set the note aside and used her crutches to stand up. Time for a shower and some clean clothes. She had her work cut out for her, hating that she was so damned helpless. And as she swung toward the door, her heart took off with yearning. Wanting Dawson. But it wasn’t about wanting safety. It was about her hormones, her heart confused since he’d lain beside her. There was no question he could be trusted. He’d never touched her inappropriately. He’d followed her instructions. Yes, he was a rare man among men nowadays, she acknowledged. Reaching for the doorknob, Sarah could hardly wait until he and King came back to the cabin.
* * *
Dawson turned off the alarm before opening the cabin door. He didn’t know what to expect as he entered. King’s paws clacked on the wooden floor, heading straight into the kitchen to the left of him.
“Hey,” he greeted Sarah, not wanting to scare her. He knew silence could jolt her in a bad way. She was standing at the counter, putting the finishing touches on the breakfast he’d made for her much earlier. She looked like a civilian, dressed in dark green slacks that outlined her tall, firm body, not a sheriff. He was happy to see the brace on her leg. The pink T-shirt she wore, with capped sleeves, complemented the shining ginger hair framing her face. He saw her lift her chin and cut a look in his direction, her hands stilling over the plate of food for a moment.
“You’re just in time, Dawson.” She gestured to the coffeepot on the counter. “I just made fresh coffee. Want a cup?”
He ambled over after settling his baseball cap on a wooden peg near the door. “Sure. Let me pour the coffee and I’ll take the mugs over to the table.”
“That would be nice; thanks.”
He watched her trying to decide what was the best way to take the plate over to the table, given she had two crutches. The consternation at her predicament was in her expression. This was a woman who didn’t like being hobbled in any way, shape or form. He couldn’t blame her. Moving to her side, he said, “I’ll take the plate over for you. Go sit down and g
et comfy.” She had just washed her hair, some of the strands golden, others crimson, all against a background of dark brunette. The lights above the sink made them stand out.
“Thanks. When do you think I can get off these crutches? I really detest them.”
“Not soon enough, obviously,” he teased, flashing her a grin. Sarah was getting better at turning around utilizing them. Practice made perfect. He noted the sour look on her face, knowing she was miserable.
At the table, he pulled the chair out for her and set the plate down. He took her crutches and leaned them against the wall after she sat down. “You’re looking good this morning. Have a good night’s sleep?” Then he brought over the creamer and sugar bowl to her and settled into the chair at her right elbow.
“I slept so deeply,” she admitted, sliding the white linen napkin across her lap and then picking up her spoon. Slanting him a grateful glance, she added, “Thanks to you.” The sugar and cream went into her coffee and she stirred it.
He sipped his steaming black brew, studying her over the top of his mug. Swallowing, he said, “I’m glad you asked me to stay with you, Sarah. That took guts. We haven’t known each other very long, and the time we’ve shared has been nothing but high-stress, life-and-death situations.”
“I know,” she said between bites of the fluffy scrambled eggs. Shrugging lightly, she said, “I guess I trusted you from the get-go.”
“Your intuition about people leading you to that conclusion?”
Nodding, she picked up one of the large biscuits and pulled it open, steam escaping. “I know that was a pretty bold request on my part. You didn’t even look shocked by it.”
“You’ve always spoken what’s on your mind. That’s one of the many things I like about you.” He saw her cheeks flush endearingly. The sheriff game face didn’t exist between them right now, and he was glad. “Look,” he said, his voice lowering, “I understood where you were at, Sarah. After you told me what happened to Lane, your request wasn’t out of the ordinary. People who are traumatized need a little comforting. I was glad I could be there for you.”
“I’ve never asked anyone to do something like that for me before, Dawson.”
“You were fragile. We all get that way when shit happens. I saw it a lot in Afghanistan, and I’m sure you did, too. Sometimes, I could help a friend, sometimes I couldn’t. Some people close up, bury their reactions to trauma. Others unload them, reach out and ask for help. That’s what you did, as far as I’m concerned. You can tell me I’m off on my assessment.”
She opened a jar of apricot jam and covered her knife with it, then slathered it across the biscuit. “No, you’re right on target. I’ve never opened up to anyone like I did to you last night. I think it’s because we’ve had a good connection ever since we met. I asked you because I trusted you. I knew you’d do the right thing for the right reasons. I didn’t have to explain myself because I knew how deeply intuitive you are. Plus, we share a common background in the military.”
He watched her take a small bite of the biscuit. “Our connection has been there from the time we met, and it’s gotten stronger with time. We’re a lot alike in many ways. More than you realize. You almost died a few days ago, and that’s what precipitated your finally telling someone what happened to your sister. No one knows the power of almost dying until it happens to them. And then skeletons from our closet come to the surface, whether we want them to or not.”
“You’re right,” she rasped, setting the biscuit on her plate. “I didn’t understand it. I mean, I’ve seen people killed. I saw my friends die or be wounded when I was in the military. But until it happened to me? I didn’t understand the full ramifications of how it would affect me. I really didn’t. And no one was telling me how they felt when they got hit over in Afghanistan. You know how closemouthed military people are. They’re afraid they’ll be seen as not being able to take it.”
“Yeah,” he groused. “And it wounds us all over again. We pay a double price for it.”
She pushed her fork around in the eggs. “I’m not sorry I asked you to stay with me last night.”
“Me neither.”
“I felt like glass inside. Like I was going to shatter into a million pieces and never be able to put myself back together again. I’ve never felt that way before, except for when Lane was kidnapped.”
“That’s exactly what it feels like, Sarah.”
“How do you know so much about it?” she demanded. “Sometimes I wonder if you read my mind. I really do. If it wasn’t you, if I didn’t trust you, Dawson, like I do? I’d run as far and fast away from you as I could get. “
He gave her a nod. “Yeah, well, it looks like we both carry some heavy family secrets, Sarah. I wasn’t intending on telling you, though. You’ve got enough to handle right now. You don’t need my sad story on top of it.”
Tilting her head, she whispered, “I need to know, Dawson.”
The burning look in her green eyes told him of the solemn request she’d just made. “I can tell you at any time. Aren’t you feeling a little fragile this morning?”
“No. I feel a lot stronger and more confident. I think in part because I finally vomited up all my feelings over losing Lane. How I blamed myself for it happening. Growing up afterward, I carried that heavy guilt around with me 24/7/365. I never talked about it to anyone. That grief takes all your energy, and you feel so crushed and weakened by what happened. When my parents didn’t blame me for losing the fight with Jethro, it drove my feelings even more deeply inside, so that I never, until just now, spoke to anyone about it. I was just so ashamed of myself. I couldn’t save Lane, as much as I wanted to. . . .”
“Yeah, shame is one of the most damaging emotions we own as human beings,” he agreed, grim. “Look, I’d like to table this talk with you until later. At a better time? Right now, I have a lot of things I need to discuss with you,” and he pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his chambray shirt.
“Sure, I’m up for it.”
“Try to finish your breakfast,” he urged, giving her a somewhat pleading look. Sarah was losing weight, which wasn’t abnormal in this kind of situation, but he felt it was up to him to cajole her into getting back on her feed. “It’ll give you more energy. Your brain will work better.” He saw a flash of frustration come and go in her green eyes, knowing he’d hit the right words when she picked up her fork and ate whether she was hungry or not. She was a fighter.
He got up and walked to his bedroom, returning with a white poster board. After she’d eaten, he cleared the table and placed it in front of her. Leaning over, his shoulder close to hers, he used a black marker to draw in the cabin with a huge circle around it, plus the only entrance/exit point dirt road leading to it. Capping the marker, he placed it back in his pocket.
“I did some serious recon work this morning,” and he ran his finger around the circle. “We both know one or more of the Elson boys will try to make good on their threat.”
“Yes, and if he or all of them do? They’ll kill me. I don’t fool myself about this situation.”
“Nor do I,” he said heavily, seeing the darkness come to her eyes. “That’s why King and I did out walk this morning. As soon as it got light, we took off.” He opened his small notebook. “I’ve made some notes, using my GPS, so I know where each area is. In recon work, you look at the geography and figure out where the enemy is most likely going to go. Every area has places that are hard to access: a hill, a lot of rocks or a cliff, for example. Even the enemy will look at the land and try to find the path of least resistance. What they’re thinking is that once they find and kill you, they want a swift, easy way out of the area. They want to be able to run back to their vehicle and escape without being detected.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sarah admitted, eyeing his notebook with appreciation.
“You weren’t a trained recon Marine,” he said, giving her a tight smile. “But we’re going to turn this land around the cabin into an advant
age for us, not the Elsons.”
“I don’t think all three of them will attack us, Dawson.”
“Why?”
“It’s Hiram, the oldest, who’ll probably take this revenge on himself. He’s the oldest in the family and he’ll take over where his father left off. He’s the leader of a drug gang. The other two boys, Kaen and Elisha, work pretty independently of each other and avoid Hiram. There’s some bad blood between him and the two younger boys. They got into continual fistfights as kids all the way through school. It looked like survival of the fittest, or maybe three junkyard dogs going at one another’s throats to challenge the leader of the pack. My gut tells me it will be Hiram who’ll try to find out where I am and then attack. He’s got a gang he can call on to do just that.”
“How many men?”
“Last count, which was last month? Ten men. All druggies. We’ve got criminal records on all of them.”
“And Hiram can order them to do something like that?”
She snorted. “Oh, for sure. He’s a monster, worse than his father, actually. Brian was more or less reining him in so he wouldn’t stir up any trouble in Lincoln County. Brian once told me, ‘A dog doesn’t shit in its own backyard.’ He thought about that, and made sure his sons, with the exception of Cree, didn’t stir up law enforcement here. Hiram spreads destruction everywhere he goes. He thinks nothing of punching his soldiers. He’s even more violent and unstable than Brian was. His favorite drug is cocaine, and he’s jacked up on it more often than not.”
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