Who could it be?
A neighbor from the more populated end of Barefoot Bay coming to warn her to leave? Was it that lady and her teenaged daughter who lived in that beat up old house on the beach being a Good Samaritan in a storm? Or maybe the Mimosa Key sheriff had to alert every resident to evacuate.
Or maybe…Frank had found her.
“I bet it’s the sheriff,” she said softly, more to reassure herself than her terrified dog. Still, she reached under the bed for the last item she’d been planning to take, even if it would spend the night under the front seat of her truck because they’d never let her bring it in the shelter.
The Winchester Model 12 might be over a hundred years old and therefore a bona fide antique, but the rifle could shoot, and it had been locked and loaded since the day Billie had moved into this tin box.
A car door slammed. Nutmeg jumped up and barked sharply.
“Shhh, quiet.” Chill bumps crawled up her arms, despite the sickening summer heat in the trailer. Nutmeg obeyed the order, but dipped her head to launch a low, slow growl that could easily escalate into a loud bark.
Holding the rifle, Billie stayed down and inched to the window to sneak a peek at a compact car. The door opened with the headlights still on, blinding her to whoever got out of the driver’s side. But as the figure emerged into the light and walked toward the door of the trailer, she hissed a breath of horror.
“Son of a bitch. He sent someone to kill me.”
Someone who obviously could do the job. The man must have been six two and damn near two hundred pounds of rock solid muscle covered in a rain-soaked T-shirt and worn camos. His hair was shorn to highlight sharp features, an angular jaw, and a mean slash of black brow.
But it was his hands that stole her breath. Hands the size of a small country, with long fingers and wide palms. Hands designed to do two things: make a woman scream in pleasure or squeeze the life out of another human.
Billie had no doubt which one this beast had come to do.
Nutmeg’s growl grew louder and Billie shook her head furiously. “Hush, Nutsie, please!”
As if she understood her owner’s fear, Nutmeg obliged, sinking back into the pillow. But it wouldn’t last; the second Conan the Barbarian reached the door—the only door in or out of this damn place—nothing could keep that dog quiet.
Think, Billie Jo, think. Just as she turned to grab the dog, the man pounded on the metal door, the sound reverberating back to the bedroom where Billie stayed.
“Anybody home?”
As expected, Nutmeg vaulted from the bed, staccato barks echoing as she ran into the trailer’s only other room.
A hit man who knocked?
Still, Billie directed the barrel of her rifle toward the door that led to the living room, while she considered her options. If Frank had hired him, this man wouldn’t leave with her alive. She’d have to escape somehow. There was only one way out—through the front door that she couldn’t even see from where she stood in the bedroom. If he got in here, she’d have to somehow get past him to the door.
Without Nutmeg? It was unthinkable.
But, then, so was dying. So she’d shoot the guy. The callousness of that thought made her swallow. Okay, maybe not a mortal wound but enough to immobilize him, say a shot in both legs. Then he’d be stuck here and maybe the hurricane would…do what hurricanes do.
Would that be murder? Not…technically. All she needed to do was escape.
She snapped her fingers three times, usually enough to get Nutmeg to come, but the dog didn’t hear or respond, and Billie didn’t want to give herself away by calling out.
“Hey!” the man called again, a bellowing baritone louder than the wind and rain and far more terrifying. “Is anybody in there?”
Would a trained killer ask to come in first? Maybe this was a concerned neighbor or—
He rattled the door, shaking hard enough that the whole trailer moved.
A looter? Some creep looking to make a quick buck in places evacuated for the storm? On instinct, she scooped up the bag and threw it into the bathroom. Maybe she wouldn’t have to shoot him if she convinced him she had nothing of value. Maybe she could—
The shatter of wood splintering and metal tearing echoed from the living room, drawing a tiny shriek of shock from her lips. He’d kicked the door open! A heavy footstep landed in the living room and she braced her legs, ready to fire, lowering her rifle so she’d hit his legs and not his heart.
“Hey, pooch, you get left behind?”
She blinked in surprise at the sudden change in the intruder’s voice. Who was he? Whoever, he knew how to subdue dogs, because Nutmeg instantly quieted to a breathy pant.
“What the hell kind of dickhead evacuates and leaves their dog behind?”
Oh, a looter with opinions. Resentment sparked through her and she had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from responding. Nutmeg whined, the happy sound she made when someone picked her up. Damn it. I really should have gotten a Rottweiler.
Another footstep, bringing him that much closer to the only other room in the trailer. Billie squared her shoulders, curled her finger around the trigger, and took a deep, calming breath just as her bedroom doorway filled with the silhouette of a man holding her dog.
When he stepped into the light, their gazes locked instantly. Surprise widened his steely blue eyes and unlocked a square, whisker-shaded jaw. And disgust rolled off him as he angled broad shoulders and tightened his hold on Nutmeg.
“Don’t shoot the dog.”
She almost choked. “Get the hell out of my trailer or I’ll kill you,” she said through gritted teeth, hoping she sounded tougher than she suddenly felt.
“I’m not leaving till I get what I want, ma’am.” The threat was quick and easy, scary and sure, accompanied by a few steps and punctuated by a sputter of lights as the electricity flickered, failed, and died, leaving them in total darkness.
Nutmeg barked.
Billie gasped.
And the man’s footsteps kept coming toward her.
She tightened on the trigger, squeezed her eyes shut, and—the whole rifle went flying out of her hand, the force of the blow making her teeth crack together. Before it hit the floor, a shot echoed through the trailer, making Nutmeg yowl as the man cornered Billie against the wall.
He peered down at her, still holding her dog, close enough that even in the darkness she could see the ice in his eyes. They were shockingly blue, fringed with black lashes, somehow threatening and inviting at the same time.
“Look, lady, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt this cute little dog. I don’t even want to be here. But someone named William Josephs, who rents this hellhole of a house, has a Laco B-Uhr Type Two pilot watch. I’m not leaving until it’s in my hands. Is that clear?”
Holy hell. He wanted the watch.
* * *
The tiniest glimmer of recognition flickered in the hazel eyes that peered up at Rick, wiped away so fast that a lesser trained man would never have noticed. But Lieutenant Rick Stone was trained by the U.S. Navy, and SEALs didn’t miss a tell. Annie Oakley in her double-wide with an old-school rifle had just given herself away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her jaw still tight in a mix of fear and fury.
“The watch that was delivered to a PO Box owned by William Josephs, who rents this fine piece of property. Know him?”
“No.”
Squeezed between them, the ratty little terrier whimpered softly. It probably knew she was lying, too.
“Is he your husband?”
“If you hurt my dog, I’ll kill you.”
He’d already disarmed her with one fairly light touch, so he doubted she could manage to carry off that threat. Still, he knew she had the watch and he had no reason to piss her off even more.
Very slowly, he inched back and eased the dog to the floor. A noisy gust of wind rattled the whole place, hard enough to make the cheap, raised floor rock
underneath them and terrify the dog, who took off to the front of the trailer, barking insanely.
“Nutmeg!” the woman called, jerking away, but Rick slammed his hands on narrow shoulders to hold her in place.
“The watch.”
She looked up at him, searching his face, her expression well guarded. Her hair was wild, fried by a bad home bleach job, and she didn’t wear a speck of makeup. Still, for trailer trash, she wasn’t bad looking. Pretty, even, but for the raw terror on her face. Maybe thirty, with wide-set eyes and Southern belle skin. She looked like Hollywood had miscast a starlet for the role of a redneck.
“What’s it worth to you?” she demanded.
Everything. “Double whatever you’re asking.”
Another flicker of response. “How do you know I have it?”
“I know.”
This time there was definite interest in her look. Interest in money, not him.
“Are you seriously offering…” Suddenly, she frowned, jerking away, her attention shifting. “Where’s Nutmeg?”
The dog had stopped barking.
She pushed him with far more force than he expected, wresting out of his grip and running into the darkness of the trailer. “She got out!”
He followed, jolted by the unexpected crack in her voice, and reached the other room in four long strides, his night vision already making the layout of the place visible. Not that it was that complicated.
He found her at the front door he’d bashed open, the rain falling hard and steady, silhouetted by the headlights he’d left on to help navigate his way.
“Nutmeg!” she screamed into the storm, then turned to him, fire in her eyes. “God damn you, she’s all I have in the whole world! She’ll never survive this!”
Something inside him squeezed tight in his chest. The same pressure he’d felt when he’d gotten the word that Granddad had passed. A punch of helpless guilt, a kick of loss. And he’d been ten thousand miles away from home on a trawler taking down Somalian pirates and couldn’t do a damn thing except kill pirates. Which he did, a lot.
She took a bold step into the downpour to call for the dog again, just as a furious gust ripped a branch off a tree twenty feet away, the wood splintering, the branch blowing inches from her face.
“She can’t be far,” he said, putting two hands on her shoulders, not as a threat this time, but to ease her back into the shelter of the trailer. “I’ll get her. What’s her name? Nutcase?”
She almost smiled, but tears filled her eyes. “Nutmeg. Please. Please find her.”
So blondie could disappear with his watch?
No, scratch that. He’d just offered to double the price, and he’d go four times higher than that if he had to.
She gripped his arms in a death squeeze, her fingers strong, warm, desperate. “Oh my God, I’ll die without her.” Wind buffeted the trailer, making her momentarily lose her balance and tumble into him, the pressure of her body surprisingly pleasant before she jerked away as if he’d burned her.
“Where does she usually walk?” he asked.
“She doesn’t. I mean, she never goes outside without a leash, and I just take her out back a couple times a day. She doesn’t know her way around here. She’ll be lost in minutes.”
“Get back inside.” He nudged her further out of the rain and stepped down into the mud. “I’ll find her.”
“I should go with you. She might come if she hears my voice.”
“Then stand here and call.” He took a few steps away, peering into the downpour and wind. The outer bands of this hurricane had made landfall and another tree branch could snap at any time. “I have a flashlight. Just wait here and stay under the roof. If it gets too bad, get in the bathroom, away from any windows.”
Without waiting for her response, he jogged to the car, opened the passenger side, and dug into the bag he’d brought for his brief mission. Which, except for a dumb dog, could be accomplished now.
“Nutmeg!” The woman had come back outside, the rain flattening that mess of her hair and soaking the thin T-shirt she wore. The headlights beamed right on her wet body, pulling his attention to feminine curves that, like the pretty face, seemed completely out of place in this trailer hiding in the woods.
Or maybe the trailer wasn’t hiding…maybe she was.
“Go back in,” he hollered over the wind. “I’ll find her.”
But would he get what he came for, or would this little enigma keep pretending she didn’t have it? “And you’ll give me my grandfather’s watch when I come back,” he added, as insurance.
Her eyes flashed wide open and she swiped water out of her eyes. “If you find my dog.”
He flipped on the flashlight to scan the scrub and brush. Nutmeg. Damn it, he’d find her if it killed him.
“Wait!” she called out, making him turn to look at her soaked silhouette again. “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Richard M. Stone, United States Navy SEAL, ma’am.”
She practically buckled with something that could only be called relief. “Oh. That’s…good.”
Usually, it was. “And you?”
“I’m…Billie Jo.”
Billie Jo. As in William Josephs, owner of the PO Box where Rick’s watch had just been shipped. “I’ll be back, Billie Jo,” he promised. “And I’ll have your dog.”
She disappeared in the house, hopefully to retrieve his watch. He couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t make any promises, though.
* * *
Inside, Billie took just one minute to catch her breath and count her blessings. He wasn’t hired by Frank, that would be her first blessing. He wanted that watch badly enough to pay good money, and that was another blessing because she could leave right away without waiting for a sale online. And if Nutmeg had to run away in a storm, who better to rescue her than a big, burly, Navy SEAL? The third blessing was the most intriguing, no doubt about it.
She headed back into the bedroom, her eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to avoid slippery pools of muddy water left by her soaking wet clothes and the pounding rain that blew in the open door. Another gust made the cheap aluminum roof scream as it fought to stay on, reminding her that nothing was safe in this trailer, but she couldn’t leave now. She couldn’t leave Nutmeg or the Navy SEAL who was risking his life to save her dog.
Slipping into the bathroom, she dug through the duffel bag and pulled out the watch. The piece was in its original box, too, which added to the value. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she snapped the box open and took the watch off soft satin casing, turning it.
I am what you will be. I was what you are. R.M.S.
His voice echoed in her heart.
Richard M. Stone, United States Navy SEAL, ma’am.
An inexplicable thrill danced through her, making her crackle like a live wire had touched her wet skin. Of course, she needed the money, but what she wanted most was to see Richard M. Stone’s raw-boned face soften, because she just knew it would.
RMS…this belonged to him.
Footsteps pounded hard enough to wobble the whole trailer. She jumped, and the box fell off her lap, but she ran toward the front, stuffing the watch into her pocket because the minute he handed her Nutmeg, she’d hand him his treasure. Not for money, but because…he owned this.
And because he was a good man. A Navy SEAL, a hero, no doubt related to the original RMS. He was a man unlike—
“I knew you were too stupid to evacuate during a hurricane.”
Frank Perlow.
She didn’t even think, she just launched herself right past him, so fast she was practically airborne on her way out the door. He spun, but she heard him thud to the floor and swear, sliding in the puddles on the linoleum floor.
Billie didn’t bother to look back, she just tore off as fast as she could go, directly into the storm, directly into the brush that scraped and tore at her skin and clothes. Nothing mattered but to run as far and as fast as she could. It was the only way to stay alive.<
br />
* * *
Nutmeg was a squirmy thing, but Rick held tight to his captive and muscled his way through the blinding rain toward the little trailer. It hadn’t taken that long to find the freaked out little pup, hidden under a thicket of mangroves, crying like a banshee. But in the time he’d searched, the next, more serious band of the storm had moved in. The flying leaves and small branches were blinding and dangerous.
He’d have to get both Billie and Nutmeg out of there, and fast, before the next gust took the place apart.
He powered on, waiting to get closer so she’d hear his victorious hoot. She’d be happy. Why that mattered to him, he had no clue. All he wanted was the watch that had been on his father’s wrist when he died.
Well, not all he wanted, he admitted to himself. In the last half hour, he’d wanted something else, too. He wanted to get to know Nutmeg’s owner a little better. Something about her intrigued him. What was she doing in the middle of nowhere, hiding in a rusty trailer?
“Let’s go see your pretty mistress, Nutcase. She’s got something I want.” As he came around the last grouping of thick scrub and oak, he slowed his step, frowning at the door he’d kicked open. Why was it open again?
Shaking off as much water as he could, he stepped inside. “Billie Jo?”
Nutmeg practically launched out of his hands with excitement, but there was no other response.
“Billie?” He closed the front door before putting the dog down and heading to the back. She must be hiding in the bathroom, maybe in the tub with a mattress over her head, which would be smart.
The wind was screaming now, loud as a freight train, and compounded by the noisy drumbeat of the downpour on the roof. This place wouldn’t last another hour, that was for sure.
“Billie!” he called one more time as he walked into the bedroom. Nutmeg barked loud and furious, so she must have known he’d rescued the dog. So where…
His gaze landed on the box on the floor next to the bed. Reaching down, he picked up the familiar case, the leather as soft and worn as he remembered, the inside still creamy satin. And empty.
Barefoot Dreams Page 8
