by Janie Crouch
This time the man was definitely dead.
Bree was staring at him like she couldn’t quite take it all in. Tanner didn’t blame her.
But they were going to have to process later when the building wasn’t burning around them. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the front door, now being opened by firefighters. Whitaker was staggering that way too.
They made it outside, squinting against the sunlight so bright after the darkness, sucking in gulps of fresh air. Firefighters led them to the side so they were out of the way.
Tanner and Bree just clung to one another. Too many times today they’d both been sure they’d never see each other again.
“He’s really gone?” she finally said against his chest.
“Yes. Forever. You never have to look over your shoulder for him again.”
And she would’ve, Tanner realized. Even if Jeter had gone to prison, she still would’ve spent the rest of her life always wondering if the shadow behind her was Jeter.
She clutched him tighter. “This is it. Now we’re finally able to move forward. No more past to keep us trapped.”
Tanner dropped to his knee right there surrounded by firefighters, paramedics and cops. The building was burning, they were both bleeding and smelling like smoke.
He pulled out the ring anyway.
“This should have been on your finger before today, but for whatever happened in there when you threw it at Jeter and he lost all focus, I’m thankful it wasn’t.”
She looked down at him, her green eyes even more huge in her face smudged by soot.
“I love you, freckles. I know we have things we need to work out, but marry me. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”
Her hands stayed clinched at her side. “I know Jeter is gone, but that doesn’t change who I am. The things he did to me... The way I had to live to survive... I’m never going to be like normal women with normal expressions of emotions.”
“Thank God. You are everything to me, Bree Daniels. Everything I never even knew I wanted. Now say you’ll be my wife so poor Whitaker over here can stop pretending like he’s not about to cough up a lung.”
She cupped his face with her hands. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”
The smile that split her face was breathtaking. “Then yes. I’m yours, forever.”
* * *
Look for the final book in USA TODAY bestselling author Janie Crouch’s The Risk Series:
A Bree and Tanner Thriller miniseries,
Risk Everything, available next month.
And don’t miss the previous titles in the series:
Calculated Risk
Security Risk
Available now from Harlequin Intrigue!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Wanted by the Marshal by Ryshia Kennie.
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Wanted by the Marshal
by Ryshia Kennie
Chapter One
Cheyenne, Wyoming
Late spring
Kiera Connell grabbed her bag and headed with a smile to the exit of the Prairie Seniors’ Care Home. Few things made her happier than her work here. In fact, she often came in for extra hours beyond those they paid. She supposed it was because of her own lack of family that made being here so special, made her feel so included. She’d lost her mother when she was a toddler and the aunt who had raised her had died seven years ago. The seniors and the other caregivers were, to her, like family. Today, she’d filled in on an earlier shift before working her scheduled evening shift. It was late, and her car was in for repairs. It was a nice night and only a twenty-minute walk home. She planned not to waste any time getting out the door.
Her hand was on the knob when a quavering voice stopped her.
“Kiera? Do you have a minute?”
She turned around without hesitation. “Sure, Ann,” she said. She guessed that the elderly woman had hurried down the hall after her as fast as her walker would take her. Kiera must have been caught up in her own thoughts, for she hadn’t heard the shuffle of Ann’s feet as she had struggled to follow.
“What’s up?”
“I wondered if you could pick up a magazine for me tomorrow.”
“I will,” Kiera said as she put a reassuring hand on her arm. She’d promised she’d run the errand for her only an hour ago. She’d also promised an hour before that. But Ann, like many of the other residents, had dementia. “I’ll get one with racy pictures.”
Ann smiled. “You’re a tease,” she replied. “But thank you.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Kiera promised. “Now get some sleep.”
After watching Ann turn slowly around and make her way painfully down the hallway, she headed for the exit. But she glanced back and saw Ann take a wrong turn to get to her room. It was a simple setup, a small facility, but for someone with memory loss, nothing was simple.
Kiera dropped her bag and hurried down the hall. She could leave Ann to find her way to her room on her own. She knew that she would eventually get there. For one corridor only met another and circled back to the starting point. She could wait and let the plan of the hallways take Ann the long route back to where she wanted to go. But she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in her nature. She slowed her step as she walked beside the woman. She chatted to Ann about her day, her plans for tomorrow and the promised magazine. It was a conversation she’d had three other times since supper. Once, when she’d brought Ann’s medication. Once, when she made sure that she was ready for bed and again when she checked on her later in the evening. She’d completed the same ritual for half a dozen other people as well, but Ann was one of her favorites. While some of the work was repetitive, it was the people that made this job one of the best she’d ever had. As a nurse-practitioner, it was her that the staff turned to when health issues cropped up. She loved the challenge of keeping this community of seniors healthy. She loved it every bit as much as she loved being part of their support structure.
“Kiera,” her supervisor, Beth, called as she left Ann in her room and headed back down the corridor. “What are you still doing here?”
“I was delayed.”
“Ann again?” Beth shook her head and smiled. There was no danger of Ann overhearing their almost maternal hovering; she’d disappeared into her room. And, like many of the residents, she was hearing impaired. “I could have given her a hand.”
�
�I know,” Kiera replied. “But I was here so...” The words trailed off as she shrugged. She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take a cab home?” Beth asked. “It’s late.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s a warm night and a short walk.”
“Be careful,” Beth warned with a wave.
She gave a wave back and headed out the door. It was a beautiful late spring night. She was walking down well-lit streets in an area of the city where she’d always felt safe. The air seemed to caress her skin. She walked by one of the city’s eight-foot-tall, artist-painted, decorative cowboy boots. A streetlight splashed light on the gold-and-brass spur and revealed a cloud-studded, bright blue Wyoming sky above a mountain range. The beautiful scene was painted on the body of the boot. The boots were all unique and were displayed randomly throughout the city. They were one of the many things that made Cheyenne special to her. Tonight, this one marked the halfway point, ten minutes from home.
She began to hum a little tune. And, as she walked by a local coffee shop, she noticed a man sitting slouched on an outside bench. It wasn’t unusual to see the occasional homeless person in the area, especially during the warmer weather. She thought nothing of it and instead considered jogging the rest of the way home.
“Miss.”
The soft male voice came out of nowhere and startled her. But there was no threat in the voice, only a kind of lost hopelessness. She’d heard that tone before. The streetlight pushed the shadows away as another man in a ragged T-shirt and baggy jeans rose from the sidewalk where he’d been sitting cross-legged with cup and a sign asking for help.
He approached her slowly, with a slight limp.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a soft voice. “Could you spare some change?”
“Of course,” she said and reached into her pocket and pulled out some coins. She dropped them into the cup. He looked thin and grubby. She guessed he might be in his late twenties but not much older. It wasn’t a sight that she was unfamiliar with. Occasionally, she volunteered at a nearby soup kitchen. There, she often saw people like him who were homeless or just down on their luck. She sometimes wondered what had brought them to such a desperate state. Whatever the reasons, she couldn’t turn down someone in need.
“Have a coffee on me.”
He nodded. But it was as if his interest was elsewhere. She turned in the direction that seemed to have caught his attention. And as she turned, she saw the hooded figure approaching. They were alone; the man on the bench had disappeared as if sensing trouble. There was no time to run. There was no time to scream. It was over before she knew that it had happened.
When she opened her eyes again, her arms and shoulders ached. The breeze that had lifted her hair earlier, and which she’d taken joy in walking in, was gone. She was no longer on the street but in what seemed to be a house. Everything was dimly lit, and she could see the shadowy shape of the room: large, empty and rather rank smelling. Her wrists and ankles were tied with rope that was so tight it cut into her skin.
Escape.
And yet, as much as she knew that she needed to get away, she couldn’t. Even without the ropes that restrained her, her body was weak and didn’t seem to want to respond. Her head spun. She guessed that she might have a concussion. The smell of must and disuse closed around her. Her heart pounded so hard that her chest hurt.
Stay calm, she told herself as she took deep breaths. That’s the only way you’re going to figure a way out of this. But her head reeled, and she passed out. When she came to, everything was dark. She lay still, trying to figure out where she was, who had done this to her and what they wanted. She had to clear her mind. She had to still her fear so that she could think straight. She was focusing like she’d never done before. Hours of yoga, of meditation, were being used in a way she had never thought possible. As soon as she cleared her mind, she realized that, again, she wasn’t alone. She could smell rank body odor. She cringed and waited for what might come next.
“I’m going to enjoy every minute with you.”
The voice came out of nowhere, sliding through the darkness like a stream of venom.
Kiera thought she might throw up. She held back a shudder.
She knew that voice. It was the homeless man who had asked her for money. That seemed both forever and only minutes ago. Time was lost to her. Her head spun as he whispered a long litany of sexual pleasures he would demand from her. She could smell something rancid on his breath that made her stomach twist and bile rise in her throat. His finger ran along her arm and she held back a shudder. Instinct told her that fear would entice him. Show no fear was second only to escape.
“And then,” he said, drawing his words out as if he were about to offer her a unique treasure. “When I am through with you, you will die.”
She’d never been more terrified. He didn’t need ropes or restraints of any sort—she couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. It was as if she were part of a TV program. It was as if everything that happened was part of that program, part of that fantasy. She’d wake up soon and it would all be over. A silent shiver crawled through her. This was real life. A nightmare.
“Not until I have my turn.”
Kiera didn’t know who or what they were, or if the voice was male or female. She only knew that the second voice made her skin crawl.
They moved away from her. Now their voices were low, too low to hear. She passed out again after that. When she awoke, she sensed that she was alone. Time passed. It was broken only by changes in her consciousness. There were moments that she fought with her restraints. There were moments where she drifted back into unconsciousness. In the moments she was conscious, she lived in a state of panic where she feared she would die.
The next time consciousness returned she was aware of a painful ache in her hands. The pain came from lack of circulation, for not only were her wrists tied, but she’d been partially lying on her hands. She shifted, taking the weight of her body off her hands. Something smelled different, a scent that was heavier, like pine and mold strung together. And there was the sense that she’d been moved. She pushed her hands against what felt like a wooden wall and moved them up as high as she could reach. Then, she rolled away from the wall and pain shot through her legs as her fingers touched another wall. Wherever she was, she was in a place much different from the cavernous room she’d first been in. She guessed the size by feel, determining that she had about a foot of space in either direction. As she rolled over again, she could feel wood against her lower back and against her legs. It felt like it was touching her skin, but she’d been wearing pants and a tunic. The only bare skin was her arms, at least that was the way it had been. Kiera felt with her fingers along her leg and felt skin rather than cloth. Further exploration told her that there were large tears in her pants and in her tunic.
Her clothes were torn but still there. She felt in the darkness as surprise ran through her. Considering what had happened, what she’d heard, this wasn’t what she’d anticipated. Something had changed, and she didn’t know what. She remembered the threats. She knew where this was going. They were frightening her, dragging things out. It was clear in the things they’d said. They wanted her terrified and they’d accomplished that. That they wanted to rape her wasn’t in doubt. Their words only confirmed that, but for some reason that hadn’t happened. Not yet. She didn’t know why but for now she’d been lucky. But she sensed that time was running out.
There was only one option: she had to get out of here, get away from them before the worst happened. She didn’t want to contemplate, again, what that might be. But the possibilities of worst were engraved in her tortured mind. Rape, as they’d promised, or worse—she took a deep, almost panicked breath—death.
The taste of dust and disuse was in her mouth as she began to chew at the rope that bound her wrists. Minutes passed. It could have been hours.
Time blended into itself and had no meaning. All she had was hope and she needed to cling to that. Desperate, she tried to pull her wrists apart. Something seemed to give but the rope didn’t break.
Kiera rolled over and something sharp bit into her skin. She felt for it awkwardly, twisting her body to get more reach. Something pierced her finger and she bit back a cry of pain but continued her exploration and discovered a nail jutting about a half inch out of the wood. Excitement raced through her. Finally, a tool to free herself. She shimmied closer and began to rub the rope that was binding her wrists against it. Minutes passed and then, the rope snapped. The force of it had her falling backward, missing the nail that had freed her and hitting her head against the wall. She lay like that for seconds as she caught her breath. Then she began to shake her wrists, trying to return circulation to her numb hands. But as blood began to flow, the pain overwhelmed her. She cradled her hands and had to bite her lip to stop from crying out.
Silence and darkness crowded around her. As she lay waiting for the pain to dissipate, a thin stream of light flicked across the room and then disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Her heart leaped. Was it possible that the light came from outside? Where else would it come from? Was it the headlights of a car? Was she near a street or was it just her captors turning a light on and off in another room? The light had appeared to move before it disappeared. Its very presence suggested a possibility. Her heart pounded at the first sign of hope before she struggled to her feet. She felt in the darkness a little over four feet above the floor where the light had seemed to come from. The wall felt different. The wood wasn’t as solid and seemed out of line with the rest of the wall. It was a subtle difference, but enough to hint that it might cover something. Her heart raced at what this might mean. She began to pick at the wood. She scratched and clawed with her fingernails and was surprised when a piece broke off easily as if it was not only thin but rotted. Determined, she dug harder. In places the wood was almost like butter while in others it was hard and resistant. Splinters dug into her skin, embedding under her nails. The pain made her eyes water. She didn’t stop. Her gut screamed one thing. This was her chance to live.
