BATON ROUGE

by Carla Cassidy - Scene of the Crime 09 - BATON ROUGE

  She could tell he was holding his breath, hoping that she answered the way he wanted her to. “I probably need some therapy,” she said tentatively.

  He nodded. “We can do that. We can do anything together, Georgina. We belong together.”

  She gazed at him, falling into the love that shone from his eyes, believing in the love that was in her heart for him. She wanted to be the one he turned to in the night when demons chased him in his dreams. And she wanted him to be the one to hold her when her own darkness tried to claim her.

  “I’m good enough,” she said.

  “Damn straight you are. You deserve to be happy, Georgina, and I promise you that I will spend every day for the rest of my life working to keep you happy.”

  “Alex, I was a fool to walk out on you...on us. I didn’t believe I deserved to be happy, but after hearing what Tanner said about his past and seeing what hanging on to that pain created in him, I know I’m better than that. I need to let go of my past to have my future and I want that future to be with you.”

  He leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss. “I want to grab you and hug you tight right now, but I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  “That is definitely a bad idea,” a man who was obviously a doctor said as he walked into the room.

  He nodded at Alex and then walked to the side of Georgina’s bed. “Georgina, I’m Dr. Mac Evans.” He placed a gentle hand on her wrist and checked her pulse, then stood back and smiled. “You gave us all quite a scare for a little while, but it looks like you’re going to be just fine.”

  “Great, when can I get out of here?” she asked.

  “We need to keep you for a couple of days, and then, depending on how fast you’re healing, we should be able to cut you loose,” Dr. Evans replied.

  “I’m a very quick healer,” she replied and her gaze went to Alex. “Especially when I have something to heal for.”

  His eyes burned with the fiery light of desire, with the sweet promise of love, and Georgina knew in her heart that their do-over would last forever.

  Epilogue

  It was utter chaos. Sam Connelly and Jackson Revannaugh stood over the barbecue grill on Alex and Georgina’s back deck, arguing over what kind of barbecue rub was best for ribs.

  Macy wore a princess crown and plastic high heels, clomping on the wooden deck like a wind-up toy learning to tap dance. Daniella, Amberly and Marjorie were setting the picnic table in the yard with colorful plasticware. Amberly’s son Max was throwing a ball up in the air and catching it with a new catcher’s mitt that Cole had bought for him.

  Georgina mixed the dressing for a salad and watched out the window, reveling in the life that was happening among the people who had been captive for so long.

  It had been six weeks since she’d left the hospital, eight weeks since they had all been released and Jacob Tanner had met his death.

  This was the first time they had all joined together for a November picnic to celebrate the friendships that had formed through those long days and nights.

  She finished with the dressing and moved on to slicing tomatoes. As she worked, her head filled with thoughts of the past six weeks.

  Magical. That was the only way she could describe her do-over with Alex. She’d started going to therapy immediately after getting out of the hospital, and each week with her therapist, she continued to exorcise her demons.

  She had finally realized that she could trust Alex with her good and her bad, with her dreams and her heartaches, and in that trust they had found a new intimacy that Georgina had never thought possible, one that she had never experienced before.

  The office snitch had been discovered to be a female cop who had leaked information both to the press and to Jacob Tanner. She was now facing charges of her own.

  Georgina smiled as strong arms wrapped around her and she felt the solid presence of Alex just behind her. “Why aren’t you out there playing with fire with Jackson and Sam?”

  “Because I’m in here hugging you,” he replied, his breath warm against her ear. He kissed her, nipping her earlobe playfully.

  “Hmm, I think you might be playing with fire after all,” she said. She pointed the knife she’d been using to slice tomatoes out the window. “I think we need one of those.”

  He stilled behind her, his arms tightening their embrace. “You mean, a tap-dancing princess?”

  “Or a stick horse–riding cowboy.” She set the knife down and turned in his arms.

  His eyes glowed the impossible blue that always shot a wave of heat through her. “Really, Georgina?”

  “Really.”

  “We have one little issue to take care of first,” he said.

  “Just tell me when and where, and instead of do-over I’ll say I do.”

  He grabbed her close and took her mouth in a fiery heat of possession. Tears of happiness misted her eyes as she tasted the complete and unconditional love in his kiss.

  He finally broke the kiss and gazed at her with a tenderness she felt in her heart. “As soon as possible,” he replied. “I want you as my wife again.”

  “And I want to be your wife again, but first we have a picnic to enjoy with new friends.”

  “And maybe later tonight we’ll start on that little princess or cowboy,” he said, and once again he captured her lips in a kiss that told her that this was the man of her heart, the man who would be at her side till the end of time.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from CHRISTMAS AT THUNDER HORSE RANCH by Elle James.

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  Chapter One

  Big sky...check. Flat plains...check. Storm clouds rolling in...check.

  Like ticking off his preflight checklist, Dante Thunder Horse reviewed what was in front of him, a typical early winter day in North Dakota before the first real snowstorm of the season. It had been a strange December. Usually it snowed by Thanksgiving and the snow remained until well into April.

  This year, the snow had come by Halloween and melted and still the ground hadn’t yet grown solid with permafrost.

  Based on the low temperature and the clouds rolling in, that first real snow was about to hit their area. The kids of Grand Forks would be excited. With the holidays just around the corner, they’d have their white Christmas after all.

  A hundred miles away from base, flying the U.S.-Canadian border as an air interdiction agent, or pilot, for the Customs and Border Protection, Dante was on a mission to check out a possible illegal border crossing called in by a concerned citizen. A farmer had seen a man on a snowmobile coming across the Canadian border.

  He figured it was someone out joyriding who didn’t realize he’d done anything wrong. Still, Dante had to check. He didn’t expect anything wild or dangerously crazy to happen. The Canadian border didn’t have near the illegal crossings as the southern borders of the United States. Most of his sorties were spent enjoying the scenery and observing the occasional elk, moose or bear sighting.

  Chris Biacowski, scheduled to fly copilot this sortie, had come down with the flu and called in sick.

  Dante was okay with flying solo. He usually liked having the q
uiet time. Unless he started thinking about his past and what his future might have been had things worked out differently.

  Three years prior, he’d been fighting Taliban in Afghanistan. He’d been engaged to Captain Samantha Olson, a personnel officer who’d been deployed at Bagram Airfield. Every chance he got he flew over to see her. They’d been planning their wedding and talking about what they’d put on their dream sheet for their next assignments.

  After flying a particularly dangerous mission where his door gunner had taken a hit, Dante came back to base shaken and worried about his crew member. He stayed with the gunner until he was out of surgery. The gunner had survived.

  But Dante’s life would be forever changed. When he had left on his mission, his fiancée had decided to go with a few others to visit a local orphanage.

  On the way back, her vehicle hit an improvised explosive device. Three of the four people on board the military vehicle had died instantly. Samantha had survived long enough to get a call through to the base. By the time medics arrived, she’d lost too much blood.

  Dante had constructed images in his mind of Samantha lying on the ground, the uniform she’d been so proud to wear torn, a pool of her own blood soaking into the desert sand.

  He’d thought through the chain of events over and over, wondering if he’d gone straight from his mission to Bagram, would Samantha have stayed inside the wire instead of venturing out? Had their talk about the babies they wanted spurred her to visit the children no one wanted? Those whose parents had been collateral damage or killed by the Taliban as warning or retribution?

  Today was the third anniversary of her death. When Chris had called in sick, Dante couldn’t cancel the flight, and he sure as hell couldn’t stay at home with his memories haunting him.

  For three years, he’d pored over the events of that day, wishing he could go back and change things so that Samantha was still there. How was he expected to get on with his life when her memory haunted him?

  The only place he felt any peace whatsoever was soaring above the earth. Sometimes he felt closer to Samantha, as if he was skimming the underbelly of heaven.

  As he neared the general area of the farm in the report, movement brought his mind back to earth. A dark shape exploded out of a copse of trees, moving swiftly into the open. It appeared to be a man on a snowmobile. The vehicle came to a halt in the middle of a wide-open field and the man dismounted.

  Dante dropped lower and circled, trying to figure out what he was up to. About the time he keyed his mic to radio back to headquarters, he saw the man unstrap what appeared to be a long pipe from the back of his snowmobile and fit something into one end of it.

  Recognition hit, and Dante’s blood ran cold. He jerked the aircraft up as quickly as he could. But he was too late.

  The man on the ground fired a rocket-propelled grenade.

  Dante dodged left, but the grenade hit the tail and exploded. The helicopter lurched and shuddered. He tried to keep it steady, but the craft went into a rapid spin. Realizing his tail rudder had probably been destroyed, Dante had to land and if he didn’t land level, the blades could hit first, break off and maybe even end his life.

  The chopper spun, the centrifugal force making it difficult for Dante to think and move. He reached up and switched the engines off, but not soon enough. The aircraft plummeted to the ground, a blade hit first, broke off and slammed into the next blade. The skids slammed against the ground and Dante was thrown against the straps of his harness. He flung an arm over his face as fragments of the blades acted like flying shrapnel, piercing the chopper’s body and windows. The helicopter rolled onto its side and stopped.

  Suspended by his harness, Dante tried to key the mic on his radio to report his aircraft down. The usual static was absent, the aircraft lying as silent as death.

  Dante dragged his headset off his head. Frigid wind blew through the shattered windows and the scent of fuel stung his nostrils.

  The sound of an engine revving caught Dante’s attention. The engine noise grew closer, moving toward his downed aircraft. Had the predator come to finish off his prey?

  He scrambled for the harness releases, finally finding and pulling on the quick-release buckles. He dropped on his left side, pain knifing through his arm. Gritting his teeth, he scrambled to his knees on the door beneath him and attempted to reach up to push against the passenger door. Burning pain stabbed his left arm again and he dropped the arm and worked with his good arm to fling the passenger-side door open. It bounced on its hinges and smashed closed again, nearly crushing his fingers with the force.

  He hunched his shoulder and nudged the door with it, pushing it open with a little less force. This time, the door remained open and he stood, his head rising above the body of the craft. As he took stock of the situation, a bullet pinged against the craft’s fuselage.

  Dante ducked. A snowmobile had come to a stop a hundred yards away, the rider bent over the handlebars, pointing a high-powered rifle in his direction. With nothing but the body of the helicopter between him and the bullets, Dante was a sitting duck.

  He sniffed the acrid scent of aviation fuel growing more potent as the time passed and more bullets riddled the exterior of the craft. If he stayed inside the helicopter, he stood a chance of the craft bursting into flames and being burned alive. If the bullets sparked a fire, the fuel would burn. If the flames reached the tanks, it would create a tremendous explosion.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bright orange flicker of a flame. In seconds, the ground surrounding his helicopter was a wall of fire.

  Amid the roar of flames, the snowmobile revved and swooped closer.

  Debating how long he should wait before throwing himself out on the ground, Dante could feel the heat of the flames against his cheeks. If he didn’t leave soon, there wouldn’t be anything left for the attacker to shoot.

  The engine noise faded, drowned out by the roar of the fire.

  With fire burning all around him, Dante pulled himself out of the fuselage one-armed and dropped to the ground. His shoulder hit a puddle of the flaming fuel and his jumpsuit ignited.

  Rolling through the wall of flames, Dante couldn’t get the flame to die out. His skin heated, the fuel was thoroughly soaked into the fabric. He rolled away from the flame, onto his back, unzipped the flight suit and shimmied out of it before the burning fabric melted and stuck to his skin.

  Another bullet thunked into the earth beside Dante. Wearing nothing but thermal underwear, Dante rolled over in the snow, hugging the ground, giving his attacker very little target to aim at.

  Covered in snow, with nothing to defend himself, Dante awaited his fate.

  * * *

  EMMA JENNINGS HAD spent the morning bundled in her thermal underwear, snow pants, winter jacket, earmuffs and gloves, one of them fingerless. Yes, it was getting colder by the minute. Yes, she should have given up two days ago, but she felt like she was so close, and the longer she waited, the harder the ground got as permafrost transformed it from soft dirt to hard concrete.

  The dig had been abandoned by everyone else months ago when school had started up again at the University of North Dakota. Emma came out on weekends hoping to get a little farther along. Fall had been unseasonably warm with only one snowfall in late October that had melted immediately. Six inches of snow had fallen three days ago and seemed in no hurry to melt, though the ground hadn’t hardened yet. The next snowfall expected for that evening would be the clincher, with the predicted two feet of snow.

  If she hadn’t set up a tent around the dig site months ago, she never would have come. As it was, school was out and she’d come with her tiny trailer in tow, with the excuse that she needed to pull down the tent and stow it for the winter. If not for the steep roof, the tent would easily collapse under the twenty-four inches of white powder. Not to mention the relentless wi
nds across the prairie would destroy the tent if it was left standing throughout the wicked North Dakota winter.

  Each weekend since fall semester began had proved to be fair and Emma had gone out to dig until this weekend. Some had doubted there’d be snow for Christmas. Not Emma. She’d lived in North Dakota all her life, and never once in her twenty-six years had the snow missed North Dakota at Christmas.

  So far, the dig had produced the lower jawbone of a Tyrannosaurus rex. Emma was certain if she kept digging, she’d find the skull of the animal nearby. The team of paleontologists and students who’d been on the dig all summer had unearthed neck bones, and near the end of the summer, the jawbone. The skull had to be close. She just needed a little more time.

  There to tear down the tent before it was buried in knee-deep drifts, she’d ducked inside to find the ground smooth and dry and the dirt just as she’d left it the weekend before. She squatted to scratch away at the surface with a tool she’d left behind. Before she knew it, she’d succumbed to the lure of the dig. That had been two days ago.

  Knowing she had to leave before the storm hit, she’d given herself half of the last day to dig. Immersed in her work, the sound of a helicopter cut through her intense concentration and she glanced at her watch. With a gasp, she realized just how long she’d been there and that it was nearing sunset of her last day on the site.

  She still needed to get the tent down and stowed before dark. With a regretful glance at the ground, she pushed the flap back and ducked through. High clouds blocked out any chance for warmth or glare from the sun.

  The thumping sound of blades churning the air drew her attention and she glanced at the sky. About a mile away, a green-and-white helicopter hovered low over the prairie.

  From where she stood, she couldn’t see what it was hovering over. The ground had a gentle rise and dip, making the chopper appear to be almost on the ground. Emma recognized the craft as one belonging to the Customs and Border Protection.