Protecting Her Own (Love Inspired Suspense)

by Margaret Daley

  When they entered the room, Mike turned off the stove and brought the pot of spaghetti to the sink to pour into the colander. “I was about to send out a search party. Dinner is almost ready. I’ve got to get something upstairs. Connor should be home by then and we can eat.”

  “I’ll go on and put everything on the table, then give him a call if he isn’t here by then.” While her father rolled to the table, Cara headed for the cabinet to get the dishes.

  “You know, Dad, it might be nice to have you come to Dallas for a while. Once the perpetrator is caught, a change of scenery might be just the thing you need. I hope you’ll think about that.” She set a glass on each place mat. “You hardly ever go on a vacation. We could go see some sights in Texas.” As she made the offer, a part of her was in full panic that her father would accept her invitation. What would they talk about? Would they argue the whole time?

  But when she saw his surprised expression, she realized it had been the right thing to do whether he accepted or not. Maybe it wasn’t too late for them. Maybe they could have some kind of a father-daughter relationship. He had faced death with his stroke. That could change a person.

  She sat in a chair that she turned to face her father, taking his hands in hers. “I know our past relationship has been rocky at best, but that doesn’t mean our future has to be. I hope you’ll slow down and take time to enjoy life. Work is important, but it isn’t everything.” She half expected her dad to tug his hands away but he didn’t.

  He stared at her for a long moment, tears slowly filling his eyes. “A—greeee.”

  Cara’s throat closed. “You could come while the house is being finished, and then I could bring you back when the renovations are completed. That’s if Doc okays it.”

  He nodded.

  There were a lot of things she wanted to talk to her father about, but once she’d let go of her anger toward him, especially concerning her mother, answers to questions she’d had for years weren’t that important anymore. She was discovering forgiving him was more for herself than anyone else. For the first time in a long while, she felt free of the past. Could she use that to make some kind of sense concerning her feelings for Connor?

  “Good. We’ll ask Doc when he comes to see you tomorrow.” She squeezed his hands, then lounged back in the chair, cherishing the link with her father.

  A faint smell wafted to her that quickly grew stronger. Something’s burning?

  She’d put rolls into the oven, but she’d thought she’d turned it off before going to look for her dad. Swiveling around, she peered at the stove but couldn’t tell from this angle so she decided to get up and check to make sure.

  Her father’s forehead crinkled as he drew in a deep breath.

  “The rolls must be burning,” Cara said as she hurried to the oven and pulled down its door. Lightly browned rolls greeted her inspection and no blast of heat rolled from the interior.

  She straightened and looked around. The scent of smoke invading the kitchen was coming at her from all sides now.

  THIRTEEN

  Tattoo man swerved his full attention toward Sean—only seconds—but long enough that Connor lunged toward him, grabbing for the hand that held the gun. A shot erupted from the barrel, blasting the air close to his ear. A ringing sound vibrated through his head as Connor threw all his weight into taking the thug down.

  Their bodies slammed into the pavement between his SUV and a police cruiser. Locked in a bear hug, the weapon between them, Connor wrestled for control of the gun. The fierce grimace on the gang member’s face mirrored how Connor felt.

  The sound of running footsteps nipped at the edge of his mind, but he dismissed it and totally focused on turning the barrel away from his head. Inch by inch it moved toward Tattoo man.

  “Police. Drop the gun.”

  Connor sensed Sean hovering over them, but he didn’t take his eyes off his assailant. The thug continued to grapple for the gun, but his hand shook. “Give it up. You can’t escape.”

  The man swung his gaze to Sean then back to Connor. Dark pinpoints penetrated through him. If they had been lethal, he would have been dead.

  Seconds evolved into a minute.

  Sean knelt and placed the barrel at the side of the man’s temple. “Don’t be stupid.”

  As his friend said those words, Tattoo man let up a fraction, giving Connor the chance to point the gun at the gang member, right under his chin.

  His attacker blinked and released his grasp on the weapon.

  “First smart move you’ve made today,” Sean said as Connor slowly rose with the gun in his hand.

  “On your stomach.” Sean stood, his gun on the gang member as he complied. Then Sean took his handcuffs and snapped them on the man’s wrists.

  Connor finally inhaled a steadying breath while he helped the suspect stand. “What were you going to tell me about Brandy?”

  “One of my deputies spotted her car at a cabin on the lake.” Sean directed the man toward the front of the sheriff’s station.

  “Was she there?”

  “No, but he’s checking the area out.”

  “I was heading out to organize a manhunt, or in this case a womanhunt.”

  “I can interview this guy if you need to go to the lake.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you would say. I’ll call you if anything turns up. Do you think he was Cara’s assailant?”

  As a deputy led the suspect inside to an interview room, Connor assessed him. “He’s the right height and weight to be Cara’s attacker. Once I talk with him, I might have Cara come down here to see if she can identify him.”

  “Guess you’re gonna miss your dinner, too.”

  “Yeah, Cara’s cooking spaghetti tonight.”

  “You sound downright domestic. What’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing.” And that was the problem. Cara was determined to go through life alone, and he needed to once and for all realize that and move on. He wanted a family. He wanted a commitment.

  After Sean left the station, Connor started toward the interview room but stopped halfway there. He’d better call Gramps and let him know he wouldn’t be home right away and to eat without him.

  On the fifth ring, when the voice mail came on, Connor said, “Call me back. There have been some developments in the case.” Not too concerned, he knew that his grandfather didn’t always move fast enough to pick up before the answering machine clicked on. He usually called right back. But wouldn’t Cara have heard the phone and got it?

  He waited a minute for Gramps to return the call, the seconds ticking by excruciatingly slow. When he didn’t, Connor tried Cara’s cell. He got her voice mail. His alarm spiked. The last call he made was to the state trooper guarding Gramps’s house. When he didn’t get an answer, he stuffed his cell into his pocket and strode toward the exit.

  “I’ll interview the suspect later,” Connor said to the deputy behind the counter.

  As he covered the distance to his SUV, he gave Cara another call. Still no answer. Only her voice mail. He gritted his teeth and wrenched open the driver’s side door. His gut roiled and all his instincts told him something was very wrong at the house.

  Smoky tentacles snaked into the kitchen from the dining room and hallway. Cara hurried to her father and commandeered his wheelchair, pointing it toward the back door. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Her dad peered back at her. “Mike?”

  “I’ll get you outside then come back for him.” She reached around him to open the door.

  It was locked. She searched the area for the key that unlocked the deadbolt. She couldn’t find it. Then she remembered Mike checking the door right after Connor left and putting the key in his pocket, as was his habit when he was home alone.

  The smell of smoke grew stronger. Her father coughed. She rushed to the sink and wet a cloth for herself and her dad. After shedding her sling so she could use both hands, she tied the dishrag around his face, covering his mouth and nose.
She knew where the key was kept for the front—in a bowl on the table near the exit.

  “We have to go out the front.” After fixing the cloth around her, her left arm protesting the strain, she guided the wheelchair toward the hallway that led to the foyer.

  A thick wall of smoke obscured her path.

  Then she saw them—flames consuming the front door and licking their way across the foyer and up the stairs.

  Mike! Lord, help him. Us.

  She maneuvered the wheelchair back into the kitchen and shut the door, then scanned the room for another way out. Her gaze lit upon the large window by the table. The other one was over the sink and smaller. She went to it and tugged on it. It didn’t budge—because Mike had nailed all the ones on the first floor shut to make it harder for someone to get into the house.

  Trapped by their security measures.

  She searched the kitchen for something to use to break the glass. She found the wooden hammer used to tenderize meat and took it. As she started for the window, her father coughed again, drawing her attention. His cloth had fallen down, circling his neck. She stopped and retied it around him. Her left arm screamed with pain from using it, but she didn’t have a choice. They had to get out of the house.

  The crackling sound of the fire grew louder as though it were proclaiming it was coming to get them. The thought prodded her to move even faster.

  Standing to the side, she struck the glass and it shattered. Knocking out the pieces that clung to the frame, she worked quickly, the stench of burning wood saturating the air. Then she went to the drawer where the towels and place mats were kept and grabbed an armful of them. After laying them along the bottom of the windowsill, she wheeled her father as close to the opening as she could.

  His face pale, his eyes half-closed, he struggled to breathe. He was hacking so hard, he bent forward.

  Smoke burned the back of her throat, stinging her eyes, but she ignored it. She had to get her father out.

  Putting her good arm around him, she tried to lift him from the chair. He rose slightly, started coughing again and slumped back into her. She staggered, gasping for her own breath—each one full of smoke clawing its way down her throat. Threatening her.

  The phone ringing sliced through the sounds of the fire growing closer.

  Connor twisted the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. He tried again. Dead. His engine didn’t even turn over. He pounded his palm into the steering wheel then thrust the door open.

  Urgency spurred his pace. He charged back into the station, aware of each second slipping away.

  “I need a car now. Mine is dead.”

  The deputy at the counter dug into his pocket and tossed him his keys. “The one closest to the sidewalk.”

  “Call the sheriff and let him know something is going down at Gramps’s.”

  Connor whirled around and raced out of the office. Time was his enemy. His heartbeat outpaced his step as he moved to the cruiser and hoped it ran.

  Cara wavered under the almost deadweight of her father. Every muscle trembled; her left arm refused to cooperate. Her cell phone rang in her pocket, but without letting her dad go, she couldn’t get to it.

  Help, Lord.

  Securing her hold on her dad with her right arm only, she steeled herself and heaved him up. She managed to get him to his feet in front of the window. She bent him over and guided him through the opening. Smoke even drenched the air stirring outside.

  “Dad, I’m pushing you through. Try to cushion yourself with your shoulders as you fall. I’ll be right behind you.” She stared at his face. His eyes red, he blinked several times.

  As she laid him over the towels and mats, she glimpsed the distance to the ground. Four feet. Please, Lord, protect him.

  Her dad helped some by throwing his weight forward, his body finally tumbling through the window. As soon as he disappeared through the opening, Cara followed suit, missing her father’s prone body on the grass by a foot. Thankfully, she landed on her right side.

  The wonderful sound of sirens—still several blocks away—competed with the noise of the fire. She looked toward the side of the house. Flames ate at the wood, especially around the base. Making its way toward them.

  “Dad, we’ve got to get away from here.” She crawled toward him to help him up.

  The sight of his eyes closed scared her. She reached out to shake him. That was when her gaze turned to the bloodied rock by her father’s head.

  She found his pulse at his neck. He’s alive. But he wasn’t moving. Out cold.

  Adrenaline and determination to keep them alive pumped energy into her exhausted body. Scrambling to her feet, using only her right arm, she began dragging him across the grass to safety.

  A boom, like a piece of timber crashing down, quivered through the air. She peered toward the window where Mike’s bedroom was. Once she got her father away from the house, she had to get Mike out, too.

  But the fire continued to engulf the wooden structure, mocking her intent.

  Her cell rang again. She fished for the phone, saw Connor’s number and answered it. “The house is on fire. Your grandfather is still inside.”

  “I’m almost there. Right behind the fire trucks. Where are you?”

  “I’m pulling Dad to safety in the backyard. He’s passed out. Then I can go back in and…”

  “No!” Connor’s shout blasted her. Then in a softer voice he said, “I’ll be there before you can do anything. Stay with your dad. Keep him safe.”

  “Okay.” There was a part of her that wanted to protest what Connor asked her to do, but she knew he was right, especially as she focused on the burning house. The flames were attacking the second story now, the bottom one had surrendered to the inferno.

  Slowly she hauled her father to a safe distance near the line of trees at the back of the fenced backyard. Her body aching, her throat burning like the house, she collapsed next to her father.

  Sucking in gulps of air not as saturated with smoke, she listened as the fire trucks grew closer and closer.

  With her eyes feeling like needles stabbed them, she closed them, coughs racking her with an intensity that doubled her over. Now that she was safe, it seemed like her body was shutting down—finally acknowledging what she’d been subjected to for the past ten minutes. Her coughs evolved into gasps as she drew in shallow breaths. Her lungs screamed for oxygen.

  Maybe she could get to Mike before Connor? Logic told her both the back and front door were inaccessible. How would she get inside?

  Still, she needed to try. She couldn’t let him die.

  She opened her eyes to the sound of movement to her left.

  Black jeans-clad legs came into view. She fumbled for her gun at her waist as she scanned up the petite frame.

  Her gaze collided with a weapon pointed at her.

  Connor slammed on the brakes in front of Gramps’s house, right behind the second fire truck. A second later, he raced across the grass toward the house on fire. Flames were shooting up toward the sky.

  No, Gramps! The words roared through his mind like the sound of the fire roaring through the wooden structure of his childhood home.

  From the side of the house, the state trooper staggered toward him. The guard held his head while he weaved as if he were avoiding some imaginary barriers.

  Before Connor could, a firefighter made it to the officer and grabbed him, guiding him toward the street.

  “What happened here?” Connor asked the state trooper as they passed while his gaze swept the area for his grandfather.

  “I don’t know.” The man swayed, his eyes dull, his speech slow. “I was hit—from behind.”

  Which meant the fire wasn’t an accident—even though he hadn’t thought it was—Connor had wished he’d been wrong. “Gramps? Have you seen him?” He spoke not only to the state trooper but to the firefighter.

  “No,” the officer mumbled then sank to the ground as his legs finally gave away.

  Connor headed
toward the house, scanning the top floor. The bottom was almost gone, and if his grandfather were alive, he would have to be up there—the east side where the damage wasn’t as bad.

  God, don’t take him. Please.

  He took his cell while he continued to search and placed a call to Cara to make sure she’d gotten far enough away from the house. It rang and rang and rang.

  In the heat from the fire a chill encased Connor. She was in trouble. The person who had set this fire—Brandy?—had her or Cara would have answered the phone.

  He pivoted toward the fire chief and shouted to him, “Gramps is still in the house.”

  “Connor,” his grandfather’s gravelly voice sounded above of the roar of the fire.

  He glanced toward the right. His grandfather limped toward him with a firefighter helping him to walk, his legs wobbly.

  “I’ve got to get to Cara.”

  Gramps nodded.

  Connor jogged toward the side of the house, ignoring the shouts of the firefighters telling him to stay back. He skirted the burning structure as much as possible, but the scorch of the fire seared into him. The smoke invaded his lungs.

  He didn’t care. He had to reach Cara as fast as possible.

  Looking down the barrel of a gun for the second time in a week, Cara went through a series of possible actions and came to the conclusion she was in the Lord’s hands. She couldn’t outrun a bullet.

  Her assailant grinned, pure malice behind Brandy’s— Sally’s—expression. “Your dad won’t get away this time.”

  She looked into the eyes of a killer and was glad her father was unconscious. He wouldn’t know what happened to him. She glanced back at his prone body behind her and to her side.

  Dad, I forgive you.

  The sound of a gunshot blasted the air. Cara tensed.

  Peering down at her chest, she saw blood on her white shirt, mingling with the dirt and grass smudges. Then she looked up.