by Rita Herron
A sea of red flashed in front of him. Blood...it soaked the sheets and led a trail into the bathroom.
His stomach revolted, but he forced himself to scan the corners of the room before slowly entering the bathroom. Blood streaked the floor and led toward the claw-foot tub.
A groan settled deep in his gut.
Marie. Her eyes stood wide-open in death. Blood dripped down her neck and bare chest. Her arms dangled lifelessly over the tub edge, one leg askew.
For a moment, he choked. Couldn’t make himself move. He’d seen dozens of dead bodies before but none so personal...none that he cared about.
Emotions crowded his throat and chest, and he gripped the wall to steady himself. He had to. Had to get control. Slide that wall back into place so he could do his job.
Every second counted.
Fighting nausea, he slowly walked toward her and felt for a pulse. Although he knew before he touched her that it was too late.
Dugan had done this. Had gotten his payback by killing his son’s mother.
That creaking sound suddenly echoed again. He froze, hand clenching his gun, then spun around.
Nothing. Except the evidence of Dugan’s brutal crime.
Where was Timmy?
For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes on a prayer. The sound echoed again...
The attic.
Heart hammering double-time, he headed toward Timmy’s room. The door to the space had been built inside his closet. Timmy had called it his secret room.
Had Dugan found it?
Hope warred with terror as he inched inside the closet and pushed at the door. It was closed, but he had insisted the lock be removed for fear Timmy might lock himself inside and be trapped.
Now he wished he’d left that damn lock on so his son could have locked Dugan out.
Darkness shrouded the cavernous space as he climbed the steps. He tried to move soundlessly, but the wood floor squeaked. As he reached the top step, a sliver of sunlight wormed its way through the small attic window, allowing him to sweep the interior.
It appeared empty, but he had heard something.
“Timmy,” he whispered. “Son, are you here?”
Praying he was safe, Miles examined the room. Timmy’s toy airplanes and horses, his train set...
Another squeak, and he jerked his head around. An antique wardrobe sat in the corner, one Marie had used to store old quilts. He held his breath as he approached it, then eased open the door.
Relief mingled with pain when he saw his little boy hunched inside, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He had buried his head against his legs, silent sobs racking his body.
“Timmy, it’s okay, it’s Dad.” Anguish clogged his throat as he gently lifted his son’s face. Blood dotted Timmy’s T-shirt and hands, and tears streaked his splotched skin, a streak of blood on his left cheek.
But it was the blank look in his eyes that sent a wave of cold terror through Miles.
Timmy might be alive, but he was in shock.
He stooped down to Timmy’s level and dragged him into his arms, but his son felt limp, as if the life had drained from him just as it had his mother.
Three weeks later
JORDAN KEYS WATCHED the busload of new campers arrive at the Bucking Bronc Lodge, her heart in her throat. The troubled kids ranged from ages five to sixteen.
Her brother had fit in that category. But he was gone now.
Because she hadn’t been able to help him.
She fisted her hands, silently vowing to do better here. She’d read about the BBL and how hard the cowboys and staff worked to turn these kids’ lives around, and she wanted to be a part of it.
If she saved just one kid, it might assuage some of her guilt over her brother’s death.
A chilly January wind swirled dried scrub brush across the dirt and echoed through the trees. She waved to Kim Woodstock, another one of the counselors and Brandon Woodstock’s wife, as she greeted the bus, then Jordan bypassed them and headed straight into the main lodge to meet with Miles McGregor and his five-year-old son, Timmy.
Apparently Miles also volunteered at the BBL, but this time he’d come because he needed solace and time to heal from a recent loss.
So did his little boy, who they believed had witnessed his mother’s murder.
A thread of anxiety knotted her shoulders as she let herself in the lodge. The empty spot where the Christmas tree had stood made the entryway seem dismal, but truth be told, she was glad it was gone. The holidays always resurrected memories of Christmases past, both good and bad memories that tormented her with what-ifs.
Shoving the thoughts to the back of her mind, she grabbed a cup of coffee and made her way back to the wing Brody Bloodworth had recently added to serve as a counseling and teen center.
The moment she stepped into the room, she sensed pain emanating through it. Like a living, breathing entity smothering the air.
Little Timmy, a dark-haired boy who looked scrawny and way too pale, sat in the corner against the wall, his knees drawn up, his arms locked tightly around them as if he might crumble if he released his grip. The poor child didn’t even look up as she entered, simply sat staring through glazed eyes at some spot on the floor as if he was lost.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. What if she failed this little guy, too? What if he needed more than she could give?
Inhaling to stifle her nerves, she pasted on a smile, then glanced at the cowboy standing by the window watching the horses gallop across the pasture. His back was to her, his wide shoulders rigid, his hands clenching the window edge so tightly she could see the veins bulging in his broad, tanned hands.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. McGregor?”
The subtle lift of his shoulders indicated he’d heard her, then he hissed something low and indiscernible between his teeth and slowly turned to face her. Dark brown hair like his son’s, except his was shaggy and unkempt, framed a face chiseled in stone. His jawbones were high, his face square, his eyes the color of a sunset, brown and orange and gold, rich with color, but...dead.
That was the only word to describe the emptiness she saw there.
He removed his Stetson, then walked toward her and held out a work-roughened hand that looked strong enough to break rocks. Everything about the man, from his muscular build, his towering height, his broad shoulders and those muscular thighs, screamed of masculinity.
And a raw sexuality that made her heart begin to flutter.
But anger also simmered beneath the surface of his calm, anger and something lethal, like a bloodthirsty need for revenge.
She didn’t know all the details about his relationship to Timmy’s mother, but she understood that anger. She also knew where it led...to nothing good.
“I’m Jordan Keys,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Nice to meet you.”
“There’s nothing nice right now,” he said in a gruff voice.
Jordan stiffened slightly. Obviously he was in pain, but did that mean he didn’t want her help? A lot of men thought counseling was bogus, for sissies...beneath them.
“Maybe not, but you’re here now, and I see you brought your little boy.” She gestured toward Timmy, who still remained oblivious to her appearance. “So let’s talk.”
He worked his mouth from side to side as if he wanted to say something, but he finally gave a nod. “Brody filled you in?”
“Briefly. But I’d like to hear the details from you.”
“Of course. We’ve seen doctors—”
“Not in front of Timmy,” Jordan said, cutting him off. “Let me talk to him for a minute, then we can step outside and discuss the situation.”
His mouth tightened into a grim line, but he nodded again. This man didn’t like to be ordered around, didn’t like to be out of control.
And he had no control right now.
Which was obviously killing him.
She understood that feeling as well.
She s
lowly walked over and knelt beside the child. “Timmy, my name is Miss Jordan. I’m glad you came to the BBL. We have horses here and other kids to play with and lots of fun things planned.”
His eye twitched, but he didn’t reply or look at her.
“Why don’t you sit at the table? There are markers and paper. Maybe you can draw about Christmas.”
Again, he didn’t move.
Miles touched his son’s shoulder. “Why don’t you draw the bike Santa brought you?”
Again, no response.
“Come on, sport.” Miles took his arm and led the boy to the table. Timmy slumped down in the chair, but he didn’t pick up the markers. He simply stared at the blank paper as if he was too weighted down to move.
“I need to talk to your daddy for a minute,” Jordan said, giving his arm a soft pat. “We’ll be outside that door if you need us, all right?”
His eyes twitched sideways toward her this time. Frightened.
She rubbed his shoulder gently. “I promise. We’re not going anywhere but right outside the room.” She gestured toward a glass partition. “See that glass? We’ll be in there so if you need us, just call or tap on the glass and we’ll come back.”
He didn’t respond, just tucked his knees up and began to rock back and forth. His bony little body was wound so tight that Jordan felt the tension thrumming through him.
“If you want to draw, that’s fine,” she said again, using a quiet voice. “If not, you can look out that window and watch the pretty horses running around.”
The fact that he didn’t turn to look at them worried her. But she simply smiled, then ushered his father into the hallway and into the other room.
When she closed the door, Miles immediately angled his head to watch his son through the partition. Jordan’s chest squeezed.
Miles McGregor was one of the biggest, toughest-looking men she’d ever met. He was not only a cowboy, but Brody had told her he was a cop who chased down the dregs of society.
Miles was also hurting inside and felt powerless to help his son. That made them kindred spirits.
“Tell me what happened,” Jordan said gently.
He slanted her a condescending look. “I thought you said Brody filled you in.”
Jordan simply folded her arms. “Yes, but I want to hear it from you. Everything from the day Timmy’s mother died to how and where you found Timmy to what the doctors said.”
A muscle jumped in his chiseled jaw. “You can read the police report.” He yanked an envelope from inside his denim jacket pocket. The movement revealed the weapon he had holstered to his side. “Here’s the doctor’s report, too.”
Jordan forced a calm into her voice. “I will read it, but it’s important I hear what you have to say.”
“Why? All I need for you to do is to get Timmy to look at this picture.” He yanked another envelope from his jacket, pulled out a photograph and slapped it on the table. “If he can identify this man as his mother’s killer, then I can put him back in jail where he belongs.”
Jordan gritted her teeth. “So Timmy witnessed the murder?”
Miles gave a clipped nod, the pain so intense in his eyes that it nearly robbed her breath. “I believe so, but he hasn’t spoken since that day. That’s why I need you to get him to talk.”
Jordan glanced through the window at Timmy, her heart aching for the boy. “I understand your impatience,” she said. “But Timmy has undergone a terrible shock. It may take him time to open up.”
Miles glared at her. “I don’t have time.”
Jordan’s anger rose. “Then you’d better damn well find it, because the important thing here is that your son heal.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes flaring with rage. “The important thing is keeping Timmy safe. This man Robert Dugan is a cold-blooded killer. He threatened me in court, he slit Timmy’s mother’s throat, and if he knows Timmy is a witness, he’ll probably come back to kill him.”
* * *
TIMMY ROCKED HIMSELF back and forth in the chair. He thought the lady said something to him. Something about horses. But he couldn’t make out her words. It was too noisy in his head. Voices...things crashing...the screaming.
And he couldn’t see any horses.
All he saw was the red.
Red blotches...black blotches...more red...more black...
Someone else was in the room with him, too. His daddy...at least he thought it was his daddy...
No, he was mad at him. He hadn’t come home...
His eyes blurred and then it was dark. So dark everything went black.
Like night all the time. Scary night.
Scary night when the monsters came...
He buried his head in his arms and rocked harder. Pushed at his ears to make the noises be quiet.
He didn’t want to see the monsters. They were bad. They were going to get him.
He had to run....
But he couldn’t run...he couldn’t move. Couldn’t do nothing to stop the noises and the dark from coming...
Or the red from splattering the walls...
Or his mommy’s cries...
Chapter Two
Miles had never wanted to be anything but a lawman. Not since he was young and Sheriff Silas Weatherby had saved his butt from jail and taken him in as his own.
Miles’s old man had used him to help carry out his own crimes. Cattle rustling—not murder like Robert Dugan—but it was illegal and every crime, no matter how small, hurt somebody.
Still, Silas had a code of ethics, which meant that he tried to save kids when even their own families had taught them to lie, cheat and steal.
Which was the main reason Miles had chosen to contribute to the BBL. He figured it was payback time.
Yes, Silas had taught Miles right from wrong and given him a chance to become a man and protect others.
Only that job had gotten Timmy’s mother killed.
He fisted his hands, sweat beading on his lip as he tried to control the rage burning through him. His son was drowning in a world of hurt because Miles had chosen to do the right thing.
Worse, he was hurting because he’d witnessed a crime that nobody, much less a five-year-old, should have to see.
Miles’s gut churned as he stared at the swirls of black and red Timmy had savagely drawn on the pad of paper. Not signs of a happy Christmas or the new bike Santa had brought.
No, dark swirls of colors that Timmy hadn’t even seemed to realize he was drawing.
Swirls of colors that it didn’t take a rocket scientist—or a shrink—to decipher because that sea of black and red represented the darkness and the blood that his son had seen.
Timmy’s mother’s blood.
Had he watched Dugan viciously slash her throat?
For just a moment, those images became his own, and Miles’s legs nearly buckled as guilt and pain suffused him. If only he’d gone to get Timmy that night and brought him back in the morning like Marie asked, he could have saved her.
Damn Dugan—just like the other murders, he’d left no evidence. And somehow he’d managed to fabricate an alibi for the time of Marie’s death.
It had to be a lie.
Even though Blackpaw had suggested that Marie might have had a lover or boyfriend who had killed her and copied Dugan’s M.O. to throw off the cops, he couldn’t believe it.
Dugan had promised payback and he’d gotten it.
“Mr. McGregor—Miles—” Jordan said. “I understand that you’re angry—”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Miles’s temper exploded, and he whirled on her, needing to vent his frustration, no matter who took the brunt. “Just look at my son. He’s traumatized and motherless yet his mother’s killer is walking around free. Hell, he’s probably bragging about it as he plans his next kill.”
Jordan released a low breath, then eased back a step as if she thought he might use his fists instead of just his words. But he was shaking too hard with rage to care that she was half his size and lo
oked as if the wind could blow her over. Her expression showed concern, but she was too damn beautiful with all that flowing golden hair, he couldn’t yell at her.
His friend and the cowboy who’d started the BBL, Brody, had said she was good at what she did because she’d had problems of her own.
Hell, he didn’t care about her problems. He hated everything about this counseling BS.
Talking did no damn good. Only action did. And finding solid evidence that would put Dugan away for good.
Evidence that he might have if the sadistic monster hadn’t totally traumatized his child.
His gut tightened as he watched Timmy cover his ears with his hands and rock himself back and forth. The poor little guy was not only motherless but lost in a silent hell, and he didn’t know how to help him.
Except track down the bastard who’d done this to him.
But worry gnawed at him, unsettling and cutting deeper than any physical pain ever could.
Even if he did lock up Dugan, would Timmy, the kid who liked to chase frogs, swim in the creek and play horseshoes, ever be the same again?
* * *
JORDAN BIT HER TONGUE to stifle a gasp at the raw emotions in Timmy’s drawing. A page reflecting the horror and violence he’d witnessed.
A page he’d drawn with his eyes closed.
He was desperately trying to shut out the terrible image of his mother’s death, but she had studied psychology enough to know that those images would remain with him forever. Maybe he’d forgotten exactly what had happened. Maybe he’d blocked out the trauma as a way to cope.
Maybe he’d even bury the details and memories for a while.
But they were still there, lurking beneath the surface, threatening his psyche, gnawing at his mind until one day they would destroy him.
If he didn’t purge them first.
But purging, healing, couldn’t be forced or it might make things worse.
“What did the doctors who examined Timmy say?”
Miles adjusted his Stetson. “Physically he’s okay. He wasn’t hurt, thank God, at least the man didn’t attack him, I mean.”
Jordan nodded. “That’s good. Not to downplay emotional trauma, but physical abuse would have complicated his recovery.”
