by Elle James
She listened to Tristan’s soft, even breaths and felt the supple firmness of his arm embracing her. He was sleeping soundly. From the shadows beneath his eyes, she knew it had been a long time since he’d slept well, so she didn’t want to disturb him.
She dozed for another hour before her own restlessness forced her to slide quietly out of bed, doing her best not to wake him.
As she poured a glass of juice, she glanced at the calendar. It was still on April. She took it off the wall and turned it to June. She’d spent almost two months in a grief-stricken haze, staying with her mother-in-law. Then last week she’d decided to come home. She’d gotten here Sunday. Her finger slid across the calendar page. And today was Friday.
Her mind reeled, thinking about all that had happened in just five days.
She hung the calendar back up and made a pot of hobo coffee on the gas stove, then wiped stray grounds off the counter.
Five days and she’d gone from widow back to wife—abandoned wife.
Throughout their entire lives, through good times and bad, she’d always believed she could count on Tristan’s love to overcome any and all obstacles. His love had always been so steady, always there as a foundation that their relationship rested on, no matter what.
But now he’d done the one thing that just might crumble their marriage. From the time they were nine years old, he’d been by her side.
Then, within a heartbeat, he was gone.
The hilarious irony was that he hadn’t died after all—he’d abandoned her. He’d left her alone and carrying his child. She folded the dishrag and laid it on the edge of the sink, then she rubbed her baby bump.
“I don’t know if we can survive this, little bean.” She blinked away tears and took a deep breath, ordering herself not to cry. “We’ll try, I know. For your sake. And more than anything, I want to protect you. Because if your daddy could let me think he was dead, how can I risk that he might do something similar to you?”
The idea of her little boy looking for their father and finding him gone ate a hole the size of a shark bite into Sandy’s heart. She could not—she would not—allow that to happen to her child. Not even if she had to give up love.
At that instant something large and heavy crashed into the French doors, sending Sandy stumbling backward in an instinctive fight-or-flight response.
The doors hadn’t broken as she’d instantly thought, but all she could see was a bizarrely flattened face and hands pressed against the door. She half screamed. Her chest contracted and her scalp burned with fear. She took another step backward and another, until her back hit the refrigerator.
“Tris—” she started, but her voice fell flat. There wasn’t enough air from her paralyzed lungs to make a sound. She struggled just to breathe. Her arms and legs were limp.
Forcing herself to reach for one of the knives in the block on the counter, she tried to wrap her fingers around its handle, but they weren’t working right, which was probably just as well. What she thought she would do with the knife if she could grab it, she had no idea.
She sucked in air again, this time managing to get a full breath. “Tristan,” she cried, dismayed at her tentative, breathy tone.
She was still staring at the misshapen face when suddenly it jerked backward and she could make out features. She almost fainted in surprise and fear. It was Murray Cho.
“No!” she cried. “Tristan!” She felt behind her as she sidled toward the edge of the refrigerator so she could make a beeline for the hall.
To her surprise, Murray didn’t move. He didn’t try to break down the doors or run. He appeared to be paralyzed, or frozen with fear himself. His dark, almond-shaped eyes pleaded with her, for what, she didn’t know.
He looked as scared, if not more, than she felt. Then within a heartbeat, he flew backward as if pulled by a bungee cord and his expression changed to surprise, then pure terror.
Before she could wonder what had happened, she saw something behind him move. Her brain was still having trouble reconciling what she saw with reality, because the reality was that Murray looked as if he were being jerked around by a puppet master.
She kept inching toward the door.
“Tristan!” she yelled, and this time her voice worked. She was just about to duck around the door facing into the hall and shove it closed when she caught a glimpse of another face, this one dark and familiar. It was Boudreau. His dark gaze met hers.
“Tris-tan!” she shrieked.
He burst into the kitchen as Boudreau reached for the door handle.
“San? Are you all right?” he cried, stopping cold when he saw Boudreau.
“Hold it!” Tristan called out and backtracked into the hall to turn off the alarm. Then he opened the French doors. “Boudreau,” Tristan greeted the older man.
“Tristan,” Boudreau replied.
“What have you got here?” Tristan said as if he were looking at a gift bag in Boudreau’s hand, rather than a man at the end of his gun barrel.
“Me, I’m thinking I caught me a poacher, yeah,” Boudreau said. “Found him wandering around here early this morning. I spent some time talking to him, but he don’t want to talk to me. So me, I brought him to you.”
Sandy gasped and looked at Murray. She’d always thought he was a nice, quiet man, even after the incident at her bedroom window.
But Boudreau had seen him leaving her house with her laptop, and Tristan had seen him spying on them with binoculars.
Right now, he looked terrified. She frowned, trying to reconcile the pleasant fisherman with a man who was essentially stalking her.
Boudreau described exactly how he’d gotten the drop on Murray. “Was he armed?” Tristan asked.
“Oui, in a manner of speaking,” Boudreau said. He pulled a smartphone and a small pair of binoculars out of his pocket. “Not dangerous weapons, unless they get into the wrong hands.”
“What’s going on here, Murray? I saw you the other night, sneaking around the side of my garage with those binoculars. I know you took my wife’s laptop.”
“Mr. DuChaud, please,” Murray Cho said. “Can I talk to you? I try to explain to Mr. Boudreau, but he won’t listen.”
Sandy noticed that Murray’s English was deteriorating. Could fear do that? Because he was obviously afraid. He was sweating profusely and looked as if he were being led to the hangman’s noose. His eyes were sunken, as were his cheeks.
“Please, Mr. DuChaud,” he begged.
“Tristan?” Sandy called, wanting to tell him to not be too hard on him. But Tristan waved a hand at her dismissively.
That made her angry. She walked closer to the doors, her arms crossed, intent on hearing every scrap of conversation. Tristan glanced toward her, frowning, but she ignored him.
“Where was he?” he asked Boudreau.
“Right back there,” Boudreau said, pointing to the other side of the garage. “He looked like he was waiting to sneak up to the house and grab some pictures.”
“Murray,” Sandy said quickly. “What’s going on? Why were you spying on us?”
Murray turned his gaze to her, hope flaring like a tiny candle flame in a storm.
“Sandy,” Tristan said warningly.
“He’s terrified,” she shot back at him. “Can’t you see that?”
“He oughtta be. I got my double-barrel pointed right at his heart,” Boudreau responded.
“You don’t think this is more than just fear of being caught?” She stepped closer. “Murray? I know the day of the funeral you were just trying to stop Patrick from looking in my window. I understand that. Your son is what—barely eighteen? But you’re afraid of more than that, aren’t you? What is it, Murray? You can tell us.”
“Damn it, Sandy,” Tristan snapped, taking her arm and pulling her back. “Don’t get s
o close to him. We don’t know what he might do.”
Murray’s head started going back and forth, back and forth in a negative response. “No, no, no. I won’t hurt you, Mrs. DuChaud. Not you. I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
“Murray, calm down,” Sandy continued. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.”
She felt Tristan’s glare. “Stop it, San. He’s not a hurt dog or an abandoned kitten. Go back into the bedroom and let us handle this.”
Who was this man who had come back to her? It wasn’t her Tristan. Tristan had never treated her as anything less than equal in their lives. She propped her fists on her hips.
“I will not be sent off to the bedroom like a child. And you could at least untie him,” Sandy pushed back at him. “He may not be a puppy or a kitten, but he’s not a wild boar, either. But that’s how Boudreau has him trussed, as if he’s ready for the spit.”
Boudreau spoke up. “I watched for him and got him, like you wanted me to, Tristan. But me, I ain’t no bounty hunter, and anyhow, this man got no bounty on him. So what you want me to do with him?”
“Murray?” Tristan sighed and turned back to Cho. “Will you talk to me? Tell me what’s going on here? And not try anything?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Murray said. “Sure. Sure, I talk.”
Tristan nodded to Boudreau, who opened his shotgun and emptied the shells from the barrels, then closed it again, leaving it ready to be cocked if necessary. He set it against the door facing and, with a single snap of his wrist, untied Murray’s hands.
In a flash, Murray shoved Boudreau aside and took off as fast as he could, considering Boudreau had hobbled him with rope.
Tristan started after him immediately, but he knew he was doomed to failure. Even hobbled, the fisherman had a distinct advantage over Tristan with his bad leg. Still, Tristan did his best, feeling the excruciating pain in his right leg with every step.
But while Murray was faster, his short legs weren’t made for the irregular terrain. He tripped on a mound of dirt that covered a mole tunnel and went down. Tristan stopped, gulping in lungfuls of air, straining for oxygen. Boudreau walked past him and yanked Murray up by the collar. “You try that again, you, and I’ll treat you to a butt full of bird shot, n’est-ce pas?”
Murray nodded furiously.
Tristan straightened, but he was still gasping for breath. “Take him back to...the house, Boudreau, and tie his hands again,” he said haltingly.
“You got no business running, you,” Boudreau said to Tristan. “You’ll undo all the good we done.”
Tristan didn’t answer. He just glared at Boudreau for saying that in front of Murray Cho, because he was now absolutely sure that Murray worked for his enemy.
“Let’s go,” Boudreau said, jerking Murray in the direction of the house. “March.”
Tristan followed at a healthy distance, favoring his leg until he finally caught his breath. He’d never been in such rotten condition in his entire life. Not even the summer he suffered a collapsed lung in a touch football game that turned into a brawl. He was furious with his weakness and terrified that this was the best he was ever going to be.
No! He stopped those thoughts. He would get back his strength and agility. He’d do whatever he had to do to be the man he’d been before. But until then, he had to face the truth. He had no way to protect Sandy and their baby except by using his brain, and against enemies with lethal—probably automatic—weapons, his brain, as good as it was, would not be enough.
Chapter Eight
When Tristan limped back into the kitchen, Murray was seated at the table and Boudreau was standing near the French doors with his shotgun pointed at the fisherman. Sandy had just set a glass of cold water in front of Murray and was talking to Boudreau.
“Could you please put the shotgun down?” she asked.
Boudreau shook his head. “No, ma’am, Miss Sandy. And no,” he said when she opened her mouth again, “I don’t want any water. Ain’t changed my mind from ten seconds ago,” Boudreau grumbled.
Sandy shot the Cajun an irritated look, then turned the same look on Tristan. When she met his gaze, she frowned.
“I could use some cold water,” he said.
“I’m sure you could,” she snapped. “Why would you take off running like that? After everything you’ve been through, and with that leg not even healed yet? What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?”
Tristan felt a hot rage building up inside him, fueled by pain, exhaustion and humiliation. He clenched his jaw, trying to keep from firing a nasty response back at her. He told himself she was worried about him, but he had the sinking feeling this was how it was going to be from now on. Him fighting a losing battle to regain her respect and prove to her that he was not less of a man because of his injury, and her treating him like a fragile invalid.
It occurred to him that he’d stayed with Boudreau longer than absolutely necessary in an effort to hide from this reality, this truth that he would never be the man he’d been before.
Sandy’s expression softened. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Tristan’s face felt hot. Stop. You’re making it worse. Aloud he said, “Never mind that. Can you get me some water?” he asked again.
He knew by her expression that even though she apologized, this was not the end of it. He was going to get an earful once they were alone. He rubbed his forehead and considered trading places with Boudreau. He’d guard Murray and let Boudreau deal with Sandy. But even as the thought entered his head he almost had to smile. Boudreau had more sense than to fall for a deal like that.
And he was wasting time, He needed to find out everything Murray Cho knew and he needed to do it now. He sat down opposite Murray. “Sit if you want, Boudreau.”
The Cajun shook his head. “What I want is to get back to the house and check on that pig roast I put on this morning, but I can’t do that till you decide what you going to do about this.” He angled his head in the general direction of Murray Cho.
“Murray, you know me, right?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. DuChaud. Yes, sir.” Murray’s command of English was almost back to normal now that he’d calmed down. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“I let you use the DuChaud dock sometimes, right?”
“All the time, Mr. DuChaud. I appreciate it.”
“So why were you sneaking around on my land spying on my wife?”
The Vietnamese fisherman’s face turned a sickly pale yellow color. “I can’t say, Mr. DuChaud. I can’t. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of me or Boudreau. Just tell us why you’re lurking around and who put you up to it and we’ll leave you completely alone.”
“No, no, no. That will not work. I can’t tell you. It will be awful. No, please no. Just let me go. Please.”
Sandy was right. The man was terrified of someone, but it wasn’t Boudreau and it sure wasn’t him.
“And let you get close enough to my wife to hurt her or kill her? Hell no.”
Murray shook his head, looking disappointed in Tristan. “Mrs. DuChaud should go away. Take her away for a long time. Then she be safe.”
Tristan vaulted up and slapped his palms down on the table. “That’s it. That’s it! I’m not waiting any longer for answers, Murray. I’ll put you in the car and we’ll go to the sheriff’s office right now and you’ll be locked up until you decide to tell me what I want to know.”
He’d banked on Murray not wanting to go to jail, on him being so scared that he’d blurt out the information he needed, but there was someone who frightened Murray more than Tristan.
“More than me,” he said, then realized he’d spoken aloud. “You’re scared to death, aren’t you?” he asked Murray.
Murray shook his head rapidly, side to side. “No, no,” he said.
“No.”
“You’re lying, Murray. I can see it in your face. You’re trying to feed me a bald-faced lie. Well, it’s not going to work. You’re terrified of somebody.” Tristan got up to pace, but when he put his weight on his right leg, the horrific pain in his calf changed his mind for him. He sat back down as if he’d just thought of more questions.
“You’re Catholic, aren’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer because he already knew that Murray went faithfully to mass several times a week as well as to Sunday services. “Do you believe in God?”
Murray frowned, but he nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m Catholic most of my life,” he said, pulling a rosary out of his pocket and kissing the small crucifix that dangled from the chain. “Of course I believe.”
Tristan eyed him. That meant he didn’t fear dying. So that wasn’t the threat that had him terrified. There was only one other explanation. “Then it’s got to be your son.”
Murray’s eyes went wide as saucers and his sallow complexion turned greenish white. “What? No, no, no, no, no. Where’d you get that? No.” But he hurriedly stuck the rosary back in his pocket and wiped his hands on his pants. “No.”
“Yes,” Tristan said triumphantly. He’d pocketed the rosary because he didn’t want to be holding it while he lied. “That’s it. They’re threatening to harm your son. Where is Patrick now?”
Suddenly, the fisherman was no longer a threat to Tristan or Sandy or Boudreau. He’d turned into a worried father. Tears streamed from his eyes as he shook his head, back and forth. Back and forth. “They have him. I don’t know where. They kill him if I don’t do what they say. I can’t... I can’t do it.”
Tristan sighed. Kidnappers had Murray’s son and were using him to force Murray to spy on Sandy—and for what? He was sure he knew the answer to that question, too.
“Why, Murray? Why did they want you spying on my wife?” he asked, deadly quiet, but when Murray didn’t answer right away, Tristan lost the careful control he’d been holding on to with all his strength. He leaped to his feet and slammed his fists down on the table. “Why?”
