by Debra Webb
The asphalt steamed as she crossed to the store entrance. With only a handful of cars in the lot, she was hopeful that she wouldn’t run into anyone who remembered her. Eight years was a long time. If she were lucky most folks would have forgotten her by now.
Yeah, right. Like people forgot when a girl was charged with murdering her father.
She would never live that down—no matter that she was innocent.
Her fingers curled around the handle of the shopping cart and she started with the aisle closest to the entrance. The store looked different now. At some point over the years it had been remodeled and she had no clue where anything was anymore, but she would leave empty-handed before she asked for help and drew attention to herself.
Mostly she only needed the basics. Bread, milk, cheese, eggs. Maybe some peanut butter and crackers. The fruit department spread out before her and she decided fruit would be nice, as well. She grabbed apples, berries, oranges and bananas before stopping to think that she had no idea how much this stuff cost anymore. Since she only had a limited amount of credit, she had to be careful.
Keeping the apples and bananas, she put the berries and oranges back and moved on. Next time she would have those. When she reached the coffee aisle, she realized she could not live without a caffeine fix every morning. Since her grandmother had preferred hot tea and only bought instant coffee for guests, there was no coffee maker. Cece grabbed a jar of instant and moved on. Resisting the snack aisle, she strolled on to the dairy department. When she had mentally checked off the items on her list and deposited each one into her cart, she headed for the checkout counter.
Fortunately, the cashier was young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She wouldn’t know Cece.
When she had rung up the final item, she looked at Cece. “That’ll be sixty-two fifty-eight.”
Uncertainty seared through her. How did she explain the credit? “Is there a manager on duty?”
The girl stared at Cece, impatience written all over her face. “Sure.” She called for the manager over the loudspeaker.
Cece ignored the people who glanced at the register and her. What if the manager on duty had no idea about the credit? Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots. She should have called the attorney’s office before coming here.
“She has a question,” the cashier said, yanking Cece’s attention to the man who approached the checkout.
He was older, fifty or so, and looked vaguely familiar. Tension banded around her chest making a breath near impossible. When he frowned, her anxiety escalated.
“Cece?”
She nodded, the move jerky.
A smile propped up the corners of his mouth. “Make a note of the amount,” he said to the cashier. “The lady has a credit that will take care of the total.” To Cece he said, “Whenever you come in, just have them write the total and my name on the back of the receipt and tuck it into the till.”
Cece searched her memory banks but his name was lost to her.
“Thanks, Mr. Holland,” the cashier said, saving Cece from having to ask.
She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Holland sent her an answering nod and returned to whatever he had been doing before the cashier had summoned him to the front.
By the time the cashier had written Holland on the back of the receipt and deposited it into the till, a short line had formed behind Cece. She had her bags in her cart and was ready to run a good five seconds before the girl glanced at her and said the words that would allow her to feel comfortable making her exit, “Thanks. Come again.”
Cece was almost to the door when a female voice called out behind her, “Aren’t you that girl who killed her daddy?”
Cece did not look back, just kept going. Her focus narrowed to the old blue truck waiting for her in the parking lot. All she had to do was reach that truck, load her stuff into the passenger seat and drive away. When she had money of her own, she would go to Tullahoma or some other nearby town where people were less likely to know her. Then again, even if she had had money, the fear of her driving skills being too rusty would have kept her close to home today.
She remembered well how it was here—the way it was in most small towns—news of her return would rush along the gossip grapevine like a fire devouring dry leaves. Passenger-side door open, she placed her bags in the seat and floorboard. With the task complete, she ordered herself to breathe.
Slow, deep breath. She was okay. She would be in the truck and on her way in a minute. This first foray into public was nearly over.
For a second she considered leaving the shopping cart sitting in the middle of the lot, but the manager had been nice to her, and she shouldn’t repay him by leaving the cart where it might hit a parked vehicle or roll out onto the street and cause an accident. Besides, the cart corral was only a few steps away. The clash of metal as she slid the cart into the line of others already in there made her cringe. She wasn’t sure when the fear that someone would attack her would diminish. Learning to be on guard at all times was necessary to survival in prison. Many things had been necessary to survival—things she wanted to forget.
“Murderer!”
Cece turned around to face the woman who shouted at her...a different one from the voice that had called out to her in the store.
This woman wasn’t alone.
Cece’s heart stuttered. Three women and four—no, five—men spread out between Cece and her truck. She didn’t know any of them, but she recognized the clothes they wore. Plain, overly modest, drab in color. Salvation Survivalists. Members of her father’s following. She refused to call it a church. These people had nothing to do with God.
“We shall purge this evil from our midst!” one of the men shouted.
Cece stood perfectly still. If she ran they would only chase her. If she called out for help she would be wasting her time since there was no one to hear her.
The woman who had spoken first drew back her right arm and flung something at Cece. It struck her in the side, making her flinch at the sharp pain, before bouncing onto the asphalt.
Rock?
Memories of rocks being thrown at a helpless woman whispered through her mind.
Another rock flew at her. Hit her shoulder.
She backed up, bumped into the line of carts.
“Stone her for her grievous sin!” one of the men shouted.
Cece turned to run. She had no choice. Stones hit her back, her legs, her shoulder. When one hit her on the head, she bit her lip to prevent crying out.
Before she could take off running, a man blocked her path. Tall, dark hair...dark eyes.
She opened her mouth to scream.
He grabbed her and pulled her behind him.
“Back off,” he growled at the mob. “The police are on the way. Unless one or all of you wants to be arrested, you had better get the hell out of here.”
Cece dared to peek beyond one broad shoulder. The stones had stopped flying but the group still stood there lurking like something from a bad horror movie.
“We’re not finished,” the woman who had spoken first said, her hate-filled gaze on Cece.
The siren in the distance had the group dispersing.
Cece watched as they climbed into two SUVs and sped away. The woman—the one who appeared to be in charge—stared at Cece as they drove away.
The woman’s face didn’t trigger any memories, but she certainly knew Cece.
The idea that they had all come together suggested that the attack against her had been planned. Anger, hurt and frustration twisted inside her.
“You all right?”
Cece looked at the man who had come to her rescue and nodded. She wanted to ask his name. She wanted to ask why he had come to her aid. But she couldn’t seem to put the words together and force them beyond her lips.
The Winchester Police Departmen
t cruiser came to a rocking stop a few feet away and Cece was grateful the stranger took the initiative and explained the incident to the officer. By this time Mr. Holland had come out to the parking lot.
“Are you okay?” he asked Cece.
“Yes.” She relaxed the tiniest bit.
The police officer approached her then. “Miss Winters, would you like to come to the station and fill out a report?”
Cece shook her head. “I just want to go home, please.”
Holland turned to the officer. “I think that’s a good idea. She’s had enough excitement for today.”
The officer nodded. “I’ll let Chief Brannigan know you’re home, Miss Winters. He’ll check in on you. Be sure to let us know if you have any more trouble. The chief doesn’t tolerate nonsense like this.”
Cece found the wherewithal to thank him.
“I’ll follow her home. Make sure she gets unloaded without any trouble.”
She stared at the stranger. Why would a man she had never met go out of his way?
“Good idea, Ross,” the officer said. He turned to Cece. “Miss Winters, Mr. Ross lives just down the road from you. He bought the old Wilburn place.”
The Wilburns. She remembered them. “I’m sure I’ll be okay now, Mr. Ross.” She met the stranger’s gaze. “Thank you for your help.”
All she wanted to do was get into her truck and drive away. Before anyone could attempt to change her mind, she rushed to her truck and climbed in. She left without looking back. She made it all the way to the city limits before the tears defeated her. She swiped at her eyes, frustrated and angry...mostly at herself.
She was back, and by God she was not going to be run out of this damned town until she had the truth.
Chapter Two
Deacon Ross stood at the edge of the woods, watching the house. Cecelia Winters had carried in her supplies a couple of bags at a time. She had not purchased all that much. Her funds were limited. He suspected the attorney—Frasier—had made some sort of arrangements before his untimely death.
It seemed that no matter how guilty most folks in the town thought Cecelia was, there were a few who wanted to look out for her best interests. The attorney he could understand—that was his job and he had been an old friend of her grandmother’s. The chief of police and the county sheriff going out of their way to keep her safe infuriated Deacon, but, like the attorney, that was their job.
Chief of Police Brannigan and Sheriff Tanner had taken extraordinary measures to ensure no one learned the date she was coming home. If it had not been for Deacon putting the word out, she would have reappeared in Winchester with no fanfare at all.
He could not allow that to happen.
Fury fired through him. Made him flinch with its intensity.
The murder of her old man wasn’t the only crime Cecelia Winters had committed. Another man, a man who meant a great deal to Deacon, had disappeared around the time of that murder. It had taken years to narrow down the possibilities, but a year ago Deacon had discovered reason to believe Cece was involved. He had been digging into her past and her family since. If it was the last thing he accomplished in this life, he intended to find out what she knew about his friend’s disappearance. As the date for her release from prison neared he had reached an important conclusion: the only way to find the facts he needed was to get close to her.
Eight years, seven months and nineteen days had passed since her arrest and she had not once changed her story. She was innocent, she claimed. She had not killed her father. When her appeals were exhausted, she quietly served out her time. Due to the circumstances surrounding her childhood, the judge had been lenient in his sentencing. The crime that should have earned her twenty years had garnered her only eight.
But the disappearance—probable murder—of Deacon’s partner would be a different story. If she had played any role in his death, he intended to see that she was charged, found guilty and sentenced to the fullest extent allowed for that heartless crime. More of that fury ignited deep in his gut.
Jack Kemp had been a good man. A good man as well as Deacon’s mentor and partner. Deacon blamed himself in part for not being here to provide backup for Jack. But the Bureau had wanted one of them to stay on the case in Gallatin. The investigation there had been on the verge of busting wide open. In the end, half a dozen people had died in Gallatin—all part of the extreme survivalist cult known as Resurrection. Since he disappeared, Jack had not been able to prove it but he’d believed the survivalists in Gallatin were connected to the ones in the Winchester area. The church—more a cult than a church—the Salvation Survivalists, was somehow serving as a liaison between the two branches.
All those years ago, Jack’s investigation had been buried under a mountain of red tape. The powers that be hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that Resurrection’s reach was so wide and deep. The information had been suppressed for years. Deacon wondered if the truth would have ever come to light if he had not pushed so hard for so long. Jack’s family had a right to know what happened to him. Deacon intended to see that he or his body was found and the mystery surrounding his disappearance was solved.
The death of Mason Winters nearly nine years ago had caused the group to close ranks even tighter. In all this time, no one had gotten close to infiltrating the group and several had tried. Despite the Bureau’s attempt to conceal what went wrong with Jack and his investigation, they continued to tap any resource that could be found. Except, in Deacon’s opinion, they were looking in all the wrong places.
Now he had a loose thread at ground zero—Cecelia Winters. He would learn all her secrets as quickly as possible. Time was not on his side. If she knew things, as he suspected she did, someone would tie up that loose end. Soon.
She knew what had really happened. He was certain of it. She was a part of the family Jack had been investigating. She was the only one who had the proper motivation to tell the truth. Her family had turned on her, which gave her every reason to no longer have any loyalty to them. Deacon would find the truth before he was finished here, no matter how long it took and no matter what he had to do to make it happen.
Everything had been set in motion. All he had to do now was watch and take advantage of the opportunities to get close to her. The people in this community who despised her would take care of the rest. Cecelia Winters had no idea how much her father’s followers hated her. She had killed their messiah, their leader. Those who rose to power after his death were even more heinous—particularly her brother Marcus.
Before this was over she would wish a thousand times she had stayed in that hellhole of a prison. She would want to run—to get away from the past that haunted her. But she wasn’t going anywhere until Deacon had what he’d come for.
He turned away from her and walked back through the stretch of woods that separated the place he had bought from the one she had inherited. He’d set up a stand of trees near her house so that he could watch her. Anyone who stumbled upon it would believe it was a hunter’s blind. Hunting season was still a way off but hard-core hunters started prepping early.
When he reached the clearing in front of his house, he hesitated. A truck had pulled into his driveway. A moment or so later, the driver emerged. He crossed the yard and climbed the porch steps.
Sheriff Colt Tanner.
Deacon skirted the rear yard and headed for the back door. He had no idea why Tanner would visit him. Maybe to follow up on the incident in the Ollie’s parking lot. Deacon had given a statement. He didn’t see the need for additional questioning. But the sheriff had been somewhat skeptical of him since his move to the Winchester area. No surprise there. The man had good instincts.
Following the disappearance of his partner, Deacon had been ordered to stay away from the investigation. He had been forced to do his digging quietly and under the radar of his superiors. The decision made no sense to him. He should have been the
one ferreting out the facts about Jack. The Bureau had not seen it that way. Too personal, they had argued. Deacon was ordered to leave Winchester and to keep his nose out of the investigation. He had done as he was told—until one year ago. When the case had been closed, his partner legally declared dead.
Deacon had started his own off-the-record investigation. In Winchester, Logan Wilburn had gotten himself murdered and his property had gone on the market. Deacon had bought it sight unseen only because the closest neighbor was the mini farm Cecelia had inherited.
With those steps in place, Deacon had taken a leave of absence from the Bureau and moved here to set up his cover. He had learned who was who, burrowed into the community, and then he had waited. But Colt Tanner had kept a wary eye on him.
He imagined that was what this visit was about, more so than the nasty mob at Ollie’s.
As Deacon moved through the house, a firm knock echoed in the living room, most likely the second one since the sheriff’s arrival. Deacon tossed his hat onto the side table near the door, unlocked and opened it.
“Sheriff,” he said by way of a greeting.
“Ross,” Tanner replied. “You have a few minutes?”
“Sure. Come on in.” Deacon opened the door wide and waited for the other man to step inside.
Tanner paused in the center of the living room and removed his hat. “You’ve done a lot of work around this old place.”
Deacon closed the door and faced him. “Not so much.” He glanced around. “Paint mostly. Some maintenance that had gone by the wayside.”
