The Romeo Arrangement: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  Crap. My blood runs warmer and I wipe the sudden sweat building on my brow. The fluorescent lights overhead feel like twin suns, though I know it’s just my imagination.

  “Is there any way to know for sure?”

  “X-rays and a full exam. Accept no substitutes,” she says, ringing up my purchases. “Our clinic is small, but it’s good, and so are the doctors. I can put you in touch with Dr. Elroy or Dr. Abrams later today, if you’d like.”

  I’d like that a lot but...besides the impossible task of talking Dad into it, the sanest thing to do is keep a low profile while we’re here.

  I’m already taking a small risk coming into town like this. What if Jackknife didn’t blow town?

  “Thanks, it’s just...” I pull out my credit card, shaking my head. “My father’s so stubborn. You know how older guys are.”

  “Oh, yes.” Her brown eyes glow with understanding. “Mine’s the same way. I don’t know why some men let their egos get in the way of their health. It’s easier with dogs. There are times when I wish I could just put my dad in a kennel and call the vet.”

  “It’d make a lot of things easier.” Despite my anxiety over Dad, I laugh.

  Milly smiles back. “Right? I’ve threatened it with my father and my husband both, but fortunately I haven’t had to follow through. These lunks call up the vet every time one of their cows sneezes, but for themselves? They think peroxide, gauze pads, and duct tape work miracles.”

  “So true,” I say, shaking my head again. “That’s my dad and I wish it wasn’t.”

  “Well, don’t give up,” she says, handing me back my credit card and the receipt. “Call the number on the receipt if he gets worse. Maybe I can convince him to go in. I’m very good at putting on my doctor’s voice and scaring a little sense into the folks who aren’t used to it.”

  She winks.

  “I appreciate it,” I say, putting the card and receipt in my purse.

  “No problem.” She hands me the bag of over-the-counter meds. “Oh, and don’t forget the chicken noodle soup! There’s more research coming out every day that it’s more than an old wives’ tale.”

  I take the bag and smile.

  “I have a friend working on that right this instant.”

  She nods, then points to a door past a display of reading glasses. “Use that exit. It leads into the alley between us and the grocery store. There’s a walkway between Filmore’s and the hardware store that we keep shoveled out so we can run over to the deli on our lunch break.”

  I twist enough to see over the aisle shelves and out the front windows.

  The space where Ridge dropped me off is empty, so he’s probably still at the grocery store.

  “Thanks.” I hold up the bag. “And thanks again for all your help.”

  “Good luck!” the pharmacist chirps, giving me one more friendly wave.

  I hook the bag over my arm and walk to the door. It’s heavy metal, and I’m half expecting an alarm to start blaring as I twist the knob. Luckily, that doesn’t happen.

  I step outside into Jack Frost’s den. The alley is cleared out like she promised.

  Piles of snow are pushed up against the buildings on both sides. I see the shoveled walkway on the other side, just a short distance up the alley, and follow the path.

  Surely fifty dollars’ worth of cough and cold medicines will give Dad some relief.

  Pneumonia scares me.

  Seriously freaks me out.

  If we get to a point where he needs to be hospitalized, I’m not sure what we’ll do.

  God, for all I know, he’s already there.

  But every day we’re not moving, putting a little more distance between us and the monsters in Milwaukee, is another day we might be found. And this time, with no escape.

  I have to get him to a doctor, I decide. Who knows how I’ll pay for it, but that’s the least of our problems right now.

  This schtick is getting old.

  We can’t be sick, broke, and on the run forever.

  My spine ices up as that thought crosses my mind. Then I glance up and have a better reason for my insides to freeze.

  A black SUV has pulled into the alley and it’s rolling to a stop.

  Two men jump out with black stocking caps.

  Even without his bald head shining, I recognize one of them by the mean, stocky build and chaotic tattoo running up one side of his face.

  Holy Jackknife Pete!

  For a split second, everything just stops. I momentarily tense, then the fight-or-flight adrenaline kicks in, and I make a mad dash for the shoveled walkway.

  I’m fast, but they’re no sloths.

  The heavy thud, thud, thud of thick boots closes in at an alarming speed.

  I question if I should’ve made a run for the drugstore door instead, glancing behind me.

  Too bad it’s not any closer. Crap!

  They’re going to catch me. Take me. Drag me away some place where I’ll never be able to help Dad again.

  Move! I tell myself, throwing everything I’ve got into my knees, my hips, my ankles.

  For the longest ten seconds of my life, it works. I’m actually breaking ahead of them, leaping over scattered smears of snow, almost to the semi-safety of the streets when—

  A thick hand claps over my mouth.

  I fight, I kick, I try to get away. Swinging my arms, my feet, my head, I bite down on a meaty part of the hand against my mouth, but it’s not helping.

  The thug has a glove on that a rabid dog couldn’t chew through.

  The surprise weakens his grip at first, though, but as soon as I break one hold, the other guy catches up, grabbing at my belly with both arms.

  Jesus, I can’t fight both of them!

  I’m losing ground fast.

  They’re dragging my body like a rag doll, flinging me around, shoving me toward the yawning hell of that SUV.

  My entire world comes apart in a blurred mess fueled by every sour emotion in the known universe.

  Panic.

  Fear.

  Tears.

  So freaking many tears.

  My heart echoes in my ears like this sinister drum, pounding so hard I swear I’m about to pass out.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I just keep thinking it can’t end like this.

  It can’t!

  Their thick gloved hands cover my screams, pushing them back down my throat. Jackknife shoves me forward, harder, even as I’m fighting, kicking, twisting, trying to break their grip.

  It’s not working.

  But I’m not going with them.

  If they want me so bad, it’s going to be with blood and bruises and hopefully a few ruptured testicles.

  Calling up my last reserve of strength, I throw myself backward in a messy, off-balance cannonball, breaking their holds.

  Turns out, a lucky patch of ice helps, sending the other man spinning off his feet. He hits the pavement and yells, struggling to get up.

  Holy hell.

  Now for the bad news: he isn’t the only one whirling out of control.

  I hit the ground so hard it rattles my bones.

  A fierce stinging sensation darts up my tailbone. I’m in the snow, lungs heaving, piled up against the building in a hot mess of raw, confused adrenaline.

  Running didn’t work, so I scoot backward, up against the wall, and bury my butt in the snow. I fold at my knees, wrapping my arms around my shins, and tuck my head down, curling into the tightest ball humanly possible, so they don’t have anything to grab.

  Oh, but they try.

  Muffled curses spill out behind their masks. Four angry hands yank at my coat, my hood, my hair.

  They try forcing their hands under my arms to lift me up, grabbing at my ankles and forearms.

  My muscles burn as I fight to keep my arms locked around my knees, head down, hoping something gives.

  They’re digging their hands under me, trying to pick me up. I wriggle my butt deeper in the snow, hurting my
back, desperately wishing for a lucky break.

  Wishing, yeah.

  I said it.

  That should tell me how desperate I am, but a second later there’s more to worry about as everything just...stops.

  Their hands quit trying to grab me.

  It sounds like they’re moving away. There’s a dull roar in my ears past my pounding heart.

  A shout.

  Footsteps slapping the ground so hard it echoes.

  I’m officially scared to hope that someone heard me or saw the commotion. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes.

  It could just be a trick, or the savages running back to their truck for something to knock me out for good. All the cannonball-girl skills in the world can’t beat a gun, a knife, or the rag soaked with chloroform that shows up in every bad suspense movie.

  I’m not falling for it.

  I won’t be taken.

  Dad needs me too much, and so do Rosie and Stern.

  An engine revs again, louder than before.

  Crud. I can’t stay blinded like this so...

  So, keeping my arms locked around my knees and my head down, I open my eyes and crane my face up.

  Dirty grey snow uncovered from the plowing is all I can see at first, even when I look out the corners of my eyes. But I hear a vehicle moving, its tires rolling, engine rumbling like summer thunder.

  Someone grabs my arm.

  I scream, stuffing myself back into a ball so hard I think I sprain something in my belly.

  Make that several somethings—ow.

  “Hey, it’s me, snap out of it, Grace! It’s Ridge. Let me help you up.”

  Ridge?

  Oh my God.

  “Ridge!” I belt out his name, launching myself at him.

  “The one and only. Can you walk, or do you need me to carry you?”

  I don’t even know.

  I try to get up, holding on to his arm, but he doesn’t waste more than a second before those huge arms of his envelop me. Then I’m just gliding on air, my hands locked tight around his strong neck.

  He lifts me off the ground and carries me like I’m lighter than a goose feather.

  I’ve never been so relieved or wanted to cry so badly in my life.

  Holding back the tears, I relax in his arms and let him carry me to the sidewalk where his truck waits. It’s extra reassuring when I breathe in deep, cold breaths mingled with his scent.

  If Ridge had his smell bottled up, I think they’d call it glory.

  The only word that captures his rough, manly perfection, the faint overtone of cinnamon and citrus melded into something more primal.

  If only I had time to enjoy it.

  Muscles I didn’t know I had scream from being so tense and awkwardly bent. My legs are trembling.

  Heck, I’m trembling all over like a deer that just skittered away from a cougar’s jaws.

  When he sets me down on even ground and I finally turn toward him, I can’t stop my arms from wrapping around him tighter, just holding on.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Those fucks shook you up, but they’re gone now. I already called Sheriff Wallace to go looking for them.”

  Huh? When did that happen?

  “I think I zoned out, Ridge,” I say in a weak voice that’s just as shaky as my body.

  My senses are returning, thoughts coming back through the haze of panic that hadn’t let me think beyond not letting them take me.

  “It was Jackknife.” I don’t know why I bother stating the obvious. Maybe because my heart keeps pounding so hard I’m gasping for air, and I need something to ground me again.

  “I know. There’s no mistaking a shit-stack that high,” he grumbles, giving me a solid hug and then running those long languid fingers down my back. “Don’t worry, they’re not going to hurt you. You’re not leaving my sight.”

  He holds me while the soft breeze blusters around us.

  Thankfully, it’s almost as warm as yesterday. It’s the touch of spring I need to pull myself together again.

  At least I can finally breathe, pushing out a few solid breaths before nodding, releasing my hold on him.

  Ridge isn’t ready to let go. His hands run up my arms, gently testing me with a cautious touch every few inches.

  “You hurt anywhere?” He cups my face, blue-eyed worry bleeding into mine.

  It’s so raw, so real, I almost burst out crying.

  “Grace,” he says my name again when I don’t answer.

  “I’m fine...I think. I just hurt everywhere, but I’m not really injured. I’ll survive if you’ve got an ice pack or heated blanket or something.”

  “All that, darlin’.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”

  I take a step, then remember why I’m here. “Oh, crap. I need my purse! The bag of medicine for Dad...”

  “It’s up here. Already fetched it while you were catching your breath.”

  God, I don’t remember that either.

  It’s amazing how a nasty shock can just totally fry the system.

  Seeing my purse and the bag on the ground a few steps away, as well as his pickup, I let out a long, harsh hiss of relief.

  “I didn’t see them. They were just...there all of a sudden. Thanks, Ridge. The pharmacist, Milly, told me I could walk to the grocery store, that the path back here was shoveled, and—” I bite my lips together to stop my rambling. “I’m sorry, Ridge. I never in a million years expected them to—”

  “I didn’t, either,” he rumbles, stopping to pick up my purse and the bag of cold meds. “But I really fucking should have. No excuses.”

  He carries my stuff to the passenger side of his truck and helps me climb in, then passes it over before closing the door.

  My heart sinks.

  He can’t really think it’s his fault?

  In any sane world, Jackknife and his men should’ve been long gone. Yet he’d stuck around. Watching, waiting, something I wanted to believe wasn’t a real worry since Ridge humiliated him and took the trackers off our truck.

  When Ridge climbs in his side, he’s on his phone.

  “Yeah. Yep. Please do. Already told Wallace. That’s right, Ridge...Dane...Barnet. Do what you have to. No, I don’t give a fuck about making it official...I read you loud and clear, Drake. Thanks.”

  I can’t hear anything besides his clipped, but calm and clear answers.

  My stomach churns, knowing he’s called the police.

  “Thanks again, man. I owe you.” He clicks off his phone and sets it on the console. Flashing me a grin that doesn’t quite match the storm in his eyes, he asks, “Still doing okay? Do you need a doctor?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Dad’s the one who should see somebody.” I tighten my hold on the bag from the drugstore. “And I need to get this to Dad. Pronto.”

  “On it.” He puts the truck in drive and slowly guides us to the end of the alley where the black SUV had been.

  There, he stops, checks for traffic, and then pulls out onto the street.

  “So you called the police?” I can’t hold my silence any longer, rubbing my head, where I find a new bruise waiting to bloom.

  “I called in their plate number ASAP.” He huffs out a false laugh. “The sheriff and my buddy, Drake, both have it out to the whole police force several towns over. That’s the silver lining about dicking around in Hollywood as long as I did. Years of memorizing scripts helps a man remember everything.”

  Finally, some good news.

  As soon as the ambush ended, I expected aches and pains and a whole lot of nightmares.

  One thing I never expected?

  To smile again this soon.

  8

  No Kept Secrets (Ridge)

  I hit the end call button on my phone and stare at the screen, hardly surprised by the news.

  Stolen plates.

  Of course they were. Right off a Ford registered to a dead gal in Michigan.

  Mother-fuckers.

  No repor
ts of a black SUV by any patrol officers, either. Considering Dallas has a minuscule roster of cops, it’s a miracle old Rodney Wallace can even spare my neighbor, Drake Larkin, to go looking for Dickless Pete and his minions.

  Thankfully, Drake’s a veteran soldier when it comes to trouble in this town. He took down an evil company muscling into town and a serial killer, no less.

  If there’s anyone in Dallas truly qualified to hunt down mobsters, it’s him. And if Drake corners that sneering boar of a man with the ugly ink etched on his face, what I did that night at the Bobcat will look like a nice sunny day at the zoo.

  Shit.

  Yanking open a desk drawer, I scrounge around for the notepad where I’d jotted down the intel that Faulkner reported last night.

  There wasn’t much—what else is new?

  Mundane crap about Sellers’ Pumpkins, a nine-year-old business with a still-active listing in the state of Wisconsin.

  One owner: Nelson Sellers.

  Former occupation: retired railroad worker. Yard Supervisor.

  A daughter: Grace Imogene Sellers.

  Wife’s cause of death: cancer.

  A perfectly boring record without a hint of a troubled man with hardened thugs on his tail.

  Faulk said he hadn’t heard back from a few sources yet, and he’d email a full report once his old FBI hounds checked in.

  Fine.

  I hope to Hades they turn up something.

  My computer is on, email open. Nothing shows up in my inbox, other than an email asking me to rate my latest purchase—a history book on the Boer War I’d ordered for Tobin’s birthday last month.

  I’ll never know how he has the time or energy to devour as many books as he does. The man lives, breathes, eats, sleeps, and shits books of all genres. I think he could go toe-to-toe with most PhDs.

  Glancing at my phone again, I drop it on the desk with a sigh.

  There’s no use in bothering Faulk again. Not this soon.

  He’ll call when he’s got something worth my attention. He’s a bloodhound when it comes to these cases, unearthing every bone.

  Honestly, I think he’s happy to go hunting, too. He’s been bored ever since some trouble made him leave the Feds and go private.

  I just wish I had his ice-cold patience.

  Standing up, I rub my forehead. All the disappointments from earlier come racing back.