Vic found himself watching the boy sleep. He looked so peaceful. All the worries of losing his mother, moving in with his father—a complete stranger—were out of his mind. The pig, Sheila, slept nearby in a dog bed. Vic realized he could stand there for hours, just watching his son breathe. With a sigh, he bent over, kissed Zach’s forehead, and went out to check the locks.
He checked the front door first, and then the back door, off the kitchen. Both locked. His shoulders notched down in relief. All this talk of mythical vampires was making him paranoid. Everything was fine.
Outside the window above the sink, the dark, gray thunderheads had scattered, letting the twinkle of stars shine through. There was a biting chill in the air, brought on by the receding storm. The roofline of his barn was highlighted by the moon. A classic red barn, exactly what he’d always wanted. He’d grown up in town, but he’d never fit in there, and even as a kid had always been drawn to the ranchlands. Most of his summers had been spent shoveling hay and mucking stalls for local ranchers instead of hanging out at the community pool like the rest of the kids had. Years later, after returning to San Julio, he’d worked for old man Dougal until he’d earned enough money to buy the ranch when Dougal retired and then took his wife to live in Austin near their grandkids.
This was his land now. His ranch. He was living his dream. He frowned. Only in his dream he wanted a wife to go along with his child. He straightened his arms against the counter, dropping his head down between them. Single fatherhood had never been in the picture. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to break down the wall around his son, and that depressing fact, staring him in the face every day, made the ranch and all the rest of what he’d worked so hard for worthless by comparison. He’d trade it all for his son to look up at him the way his niece Eva looked at Ray, with love, contentment, and trust.
Be patient, he told himself. And go to bed. Things would look better in the morning.
He was just turning around when a gray shadow stretched across the ground outside, cast by the moonlight. He froze, peering into the night. Searching for the source. There. Movement by the huge doors of the barn.
Chupacabra…
Vic grabbed his rifle from the wall, snatched a handful of bullets from where he’d hidden a stash in the breadbox, and was out the door in two seconds flat. No coat. No shoes. The cold air wrapped itself around him, dampness soaking his bare feet within seconds.
His pulse surged but he deliberately slowed his movements. Rested the rifle butt against his shoulder, holding it steady as he neared the barn.
The massive sliding barn door was cracked open several feet. He approached with his back against the rough outer wall, the rifle barrel extended into the open air of the doorway. The sounds around him magnified—the rustling of the tree branches behind him, the quiet bleating of a sheep, an owl hooting from some distant perch.
And somebody moving around in his barn.
Holding his breath, adrenaline surging through his body, he moved until he could see inside.
His palms grew clammy on the wood and metal of his gun. His eyes adjusted to the dark interior, recognizing shapes. The silhouette of a figure, back to him, stood facing a bale of hay.
Chupacabra, my ass.
Fire burned behind his eyes as his mind pictured the mutilated goats and sheep. Hefting the rifle up over his head like an axe, the butt becoming the weapon, he charged into the barn.
The seconds blurred. The figure turned. He heard a scream as his gun swung downward. Something clicked in his brain. Recognition.
He lurched backward. He shifted his grip, sliding his rifle to the right, but he couldn’t stop the momentum. The butt came down like a hammer, toward the white T-shirt he’d tasted just hours ago, and the vibrant copper-tinted hair.
Delaney.
Chapter Thirteen
Vic?
Light and color blasted into Delaney’s brain like the blade of a red-hot sword. Excruciating pain radiated down her arm. She blinked, fighting the scream rising in her. Fighting the disorientation. The fatigue. The remnants of the awful nightmare sitting on the fringe of her memory. She’d been sleepwalking again, of that she was certain.
But where was she?
Her mind reeled, and in a split second, her vision cleared. She was in a barn. She recognized the interior. This was Old Man Dougal’s barn—no, Vic’s barn, now. Vic moved in slow motion toward her, dropping a rifle on the ground between them. She pressed her hand to her heavy head and tried to move her arm. Her shoulder was blazing with fire. Her legs and hands were sticky.
She looked at her arm. At her hand. At the blood.
All the blood.
And the scream finally let loose.
Images barreled into her mind. The cabin and the ropes and Vic. Going back to her parents’ house. Chupacabra. Sleepwalking. Waking up outside, wet, and with something dead lying next to her. Running. Running to Vic.
She pressed her hand to cover her mouth, muffling the scream. Vic froze, his expression inscrutable.
What had she done?
Oh, God. Had her nightmares become reality? Was she a part of what was happening? Had she—
Panic surged through her, overpowering the nausea that swirled in her stomach. She broke Vic’s gaze. He moved toward her, slowly, but she backed up, away from him. No. Surely, she didn’t—no, couldn’t—have anything to do with the deaths of the livestock. Was that why old Esperanza had warned her? James McDuff had said the killings had started two weeks ago. That was when she’d returned to San Julio. The nights she knew she’d sleepwalked…her mind shuffled through the dates, recognition dawning. Each time an animal had been slaughtered, she’d been out at night, sound asleep, unaware of what she’d done.
Could she be…was she the chupacabra?
She couldn’t bear to look in Vic’s eyes and see disdain.
Or worse, suspicion.
What would he think about why she was covered in blood? She couldn’t stand the idea of him turning his back on her, not when…not when her heart had begun to open up to the idea of him again.
Adrenaline clouded her mind, driving away logic. She had to get away! Cradling her injured arm, she propelled herself into motion and charged out of the barn, shoving at Vic on her way outside. Everything around her seemed to skip into fast forward.
Vic shouted at her, his booming voice right behind her. “Laney! Stop!”
He’d demand answers. But she had none to give. Once again her mind was a blank.
And this time, she was grateful.
…
Vic couldn’t let go of the array of emotions he’d seen on Delaney’s face. Fear, surprise, hope, and finally despair. But most of all, he couldn’t clear his mind of how she was covered in blood. Jesus, was she hurt?
“Laney!” he bellowed.
She kept running, the blotchy white of her T-shirt flashing like a beacon. Vic let out a curse. Enough of this. He sprinted after her, and in seconds had caught her wrist with his hand.
“Let go!” she screamed.
But he held tight, and she tripped. Her feet flew and he went down with her, twisting his body at the last second so he landed beneath her. His back hit the ground hard. Her weight crushed him, his elbow jammed into her stomach.
She let out an oomph.
“Shit!”
He released her wrist and jerked his elbow away. She flailed her arms, struggling to draw air into her lungs. He rolled her off him onto the grass, grabbed both wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head, trying to see if she’d been wounded. “Shush. Try to relax.”
Oh, Christ. Blood. Everywhere.
Panic seized him. He quickly ran his hand under her shirt, over her torso and down her sides, searching for the wound that had seeped blood all over her shirt and her arms. Nothing. He scanned h
er legs, but again, no wound that he could see. Thank God.
But she was frantic, gasping for breath until she started to hyperventilate.
He let go of her wrists and cupped her face with his hands. Her skin was icy. Her back arched against the wet ground, her neck straining as she sucked in air but couldn’t seem to get it to her lungs.
Working to keep his voice steady, to guide her into calm breathing again, he urged, “Relax, Laney.” He locked his gaze with hers, willing his calmness into her, but her eyes were wide, panicked.
He slid his hand from her cheek to her throat, then to her chest, feeling her heart beating frenetically underneath the dark stain of her shirt. “Slow down, sweetheart,” he said softly, ignoring the swell of her breast beneath his palm. “Take it easy. You’ll be okay.”
Her breathing steadied, but he kept his hand in place, his fingers splayed on her chest. Stared down at the stark evidence that something had happened between the time he’d left her and now. Something bad.
As her body gradually relaxed, he felt her chest begin to rise and fall evenly. He lifted his hand and eased her up, first to a sitting position, and then, cradling his arm around her waist, to standing. “You’re not going to run if I let go, are you?”
She shook her head, but he could see her mind working feverishly behind her brown eyes.
His doubts about her started to resurface. They weren’t even close to recapturing any sense of trust in their shaky relationship. The blissfully powerful bond of their lovemaking was gone. The sharp sense of loss took him by surprise.
He didn’t know if she’d stay put, but he couldn’t force her. He dropped his arm from her waist and stepped back. Held his breath.
She didn’t budge, and he counted that as success. He looked her up and down—at the blood marking her.
She wasn’t wounded, so there was only one reasonable explanation. There must be another animal out there. Where had Laney been? And what had she been doing, exactly, to get herself covered in blood?
Christ—had he been wrong about her?
But no. This was Delaney. He berated himself for the direction of his thoughts. She might sleepwalk, but she wasn’t crazy. And she didn’t mutilate animals. Delaney was not the chupacabra.
But why was she covered with blood?
Whatever she’d done before sneaking into his barn, he had to help get her out of it. He was the one who’d started this funnel cloud she seemed to be stuck in, when he’d stood her up that night they were supposed to elope. His good intentions that night had backfired, and instead of them being together, his actions had for some mysterious reason sent her slipping into a downward spiral.
He had to get her indoors and find out the truth.
“Come on.” He directed her back to the barn and retrieved his rifle, finally guiding her back to his house and in through the kitchen door.
Once inside, she turned uncertainly to face him, and he looked her up and down. Dark spots spattered the bottom of her thin pajama pants. The mud, mingled with blood smeared across her white shirt, looked far worse in the stark light of the kitchen.
Chupacabra. The word whispered through his mind as surely as if the curandera was standing there right next to him.
He ran his hand down his face, sweeping the moisture away. Snatched a jacket off a hook by the door and slid it over her shoulders. He urged her into a chair, pulled another one up in front of her, turned it around, and straddled it. Folding his arms across the back, he leveled his gaze at her, forcing his voice to go light. “You missed me so much you came back for more?”
A slight grimace danced across her face, but it was gone the next second. She didn’t say anything. Like a brick wall.
Resigned, he nodded. They were definitely back to square one. “Okay, then. Let’s start at the beginning, Laney. You want to tell me what happened after I left you at your folks’?”
And why the hell you’re covered in blood? But he couldn’t go there yet. Didn’t want to scare her.
She stared back at him, her eyes icy. Impenetrable. As if he had become her mortal enemy between the time they’d made love a few hours ago and now. Her body tensed all over again. She slowly crossed her legs and then folded her arms over her chest. And she clamped her mouth shut like a defiant child.
He almost laughed. Hell, he was becoming an expert at dealing with defiant children. Living with Zach had taught him a few tricks; mainly, to not engage in a battle of wills.
He didn’t want to play games. This was Delaney West, the girl he’d dreamed about since he was eighteen years old. The girl who’d as good as left him at the altar. The woman who’d just tonight shown him what he’d been waiting for all these years.
“Were you sleepwalking again?” he asked. It seemed the logical explanation, given where he’d found her.
She angled her face, narrowing her eyes and looking like there wasn’t a chance in hell she was going to let him break down her defenses.
He’d never wanted to annihilate someone’s defenses as much as he wanted to Delaney’s at this very moment. Whatever was going on, he only wanted to help her, but to help her, he had to get through to her.
He wanted to get rid of the blood and mud caked over her, pluck the damn leaves from her hair, take her in his arms, and tell her that whatever her secrets were, she would be okay.
More than that, he had an urge to take her to his bed and make love to her until she was his completely. Until she trusted him not only with the truth but with her life.
But the detachment in her eyes and the blood spilled across her body stopped his thoughts cold. He couldn’t avoid it any longer. “What’s the blood from?” he asked gruffly. “It’s not yours. I checked.”
She stared at him blankly, as if he’d asked her to calculate the density of five hundred bales of hay, then she startled, almost violently. The frozen expression on her face melted into something else, laden with fear. She seemed to strain with the effort of keeping her eyes on him. “What?” she asked, then her gaze dropped to focus on the blood all over her.
Her breath hitched in and out as panic built in her expression. She plucked the front of her shirt out to look at it, horror clouding her gaze. “I…I don’t know where it’s from,” she whispered. “Oh, God.” Her voice rose shrilly and she jumped up. Began clawing at her shirt. “Get it off me! Get it off!”
Shit. This was exactly what Vic had been expecting. Dreading. She was losing it—going into shock. He rushed over to her, tearing off the jacket, then the bloody, dirty T-shirt. Streaks of crimson were smeared on her skin. Her body went fluid with goose bumps, and he quickly wrapped her up in his jacket again.
When he tossed the shirt aside, she seemed to calm, resting her head against his chest.
“You’d been sleepwalking,” he said. “And now you’re in shock.”
She looked up at him, the deep pools of brown filled with waves of uncertainty. She nodded, not breaking their eye contact. “Yes… I…I sleepwalked, but—” Her face paled and her hands gripped his sides. “But the nightmare…”
She stopped, and he could see that she felt lost. Powerless. Like everything was falling apart.
“What about the nightmare?” Vic asked.
For a moment, she didn’t say anything, then she said quietly, “I have to turn myself in. I should be locked up. In jail, where I can’t escape.”
Vic stared at her. “Over my dead body—”
“Or mine.”
He gripped her shoulders, demanding answers. “Don’t even—”
“Vic, I saw something when I came to. Something dead—” She gagged, swallowed hard, then squared her shoulders. He recognized that look. She was willing herself to be strong. “Esperanza was right about there being something dangerous. But it’s not a chupacabra. It’s me.”
He wanted to s
hake her. “No, Laney. You’re wrong.”
“You can’t be sure—”
“But I am. I know it. I know you.” He tightened his arms around her, sitting her back onto the chair. “Tell me about the nightmare. Maybe the answer is there.”
She let out a shaky breath. Hesitated so long he didn’t think she’d answer. Then said haltingly, “It’s always been the same dream. Little differences, but it always starts the same and it always ends the same.” Her body trembled under his jacket. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But n-not this time.”
He fought the urge to tell her everything would be all right, but didn’t know if he’d be speaking the truth. He stroked her matted hair, trying to offer comfort with touch, if not words. “How was it different this time?”
She swallowed, even her lips now devoid of color. As she spoke, her voice rang hollow, becoming distant. Haunted. “H-he’s on top of me and I can’t move. I can feel him”—she shuddered violently and closed her eyes, but kept talking—“I can feel him t-touch me, but it’s like I’m outside of myself. And then—” Her voice broke and she shook her head, covering her face with her hands.
Vic stared in horror, his blood running cold. Rape? This was her nightmare. The thing that haunted her. That burdened her beyond her control.
But why?
“Suddenly I can move and I’m running.” The words tumbled out faster. With urgency. “He’s chasing me, and I’m running for the Chain Tree. And I know you’ll be there and I’ll be safe.”
He froze, his heartbeat literally stopping as he watched her neck strain. Her cheeks flush. Her eyes skitter under her eyelids.
The Chain Tree. The night he and Delaney had planned to elope.
Oh, Christ. This wasn’t a nightmare.
This had actually happened.
His heart lurched, felt as if it had been punctured. No, not Delaney.
Not his Delaney.
He felt sick. Anguished to the bone.
If he’d been there… If he hadn’t tried to go all honorable and decide to get her parents’ permission to marry first, would this have happened? Had he shown at the Chain Tree and she’d not been there, he probably would have gone looking for her. Could have found her in time.
Sacrifice of Passion (Deadly Legends) Page 13
