by Robena Grant
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for the Desert Heat Series
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Desert Exposure
by
Robena Grant
Desert Heat, Book 3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Desert Exposure
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Robena Schaerf
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-874-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-875-2
Desert Heat, Book 3
Published in the United States of America
Praise for the Desert Heat Series
“In a world where many romantic suspense books start out with a bang and continue on from there at a whirlwind pace, I was pleasantly surprised to settle into the artful unfolding story of UNLOCK THE TRUTH.”
~Lynne Marshall, author of Too Close for Comfort (The Wild Rose Press)
THE BLUE DOLPHIN: “If you enjoy romantic suspense, then you don’t want to miss reading this fast-paced, fun, tension filled story! I loved Debbie and Jack. And from the moment their eyes met, I couldn’t turn the pages quick enough.”
~Robin Bielman, author
~*~
DESERT EXPOSURE:
Finalist, RWA Golden Heart, 2012
2nd Place, 2011 SOLA Contest
(The Southern Louisiana Chapter of RWA)
Dedication
To my mother, mother-in-law, siblings,
and extended family in Australia,
my children, Anna, David, and Marcus.
And to my new family at TWRP,
especially my amazing editor Dj Hendrickson
and my cover artist Debbie Taylor.
Chapter One
The Salton Sea, isolated and stinky, could be downright beautiful. The sun peeped over the horizon, casting shades of pink across the sky, and the gray water took on a delicate hue. A flock of Canada geese in perfect formation flew closer. Rachel lowered her binoculars, and turned, half-expecting Grandpa Henry to say something. It had been a dumb idea, keeping their pre-arranged appointment, as if by coming here Grandpa would magically reappear.
Grandpa went missing two weeks ago.
From her position on an outcropping of rocks, she looked behind her and across the road toward the distant bait shop. It had been their favorite haunt when she was a kid. It was now dilapidated, the windows boarded-up, and graffiti splashed across the unpainted boards. The Salton Sea, in Southern California’s desert, had once been grand. She pulled the digital camera from her pocket and took a few shots. Grandpa Henry still loved the dying town of Desert Scapes. But he should have moved to town, with her, like she’d begged. She angrily blinked back tears, shoved the camera into the pocket of her windbreaker, and grabbed her backpack.
“Ralph,” she yelled, and then whistled. Where the hell had the dog gone?
A fluffy white tail wagged. Ralph, her nine-pound Bichon, who thought he was a hunter and protector, continued to investigate behind a rock. She shoved the binoculars into the backpack, then slapped her thigh.
“Here boy…let’s go. We have to take photos of the birds.”
Later, she’d stop by Grandpa’s cabin and look for clues. The cabin was no longer under police surveillance. She didn’t expect to find anything, but she had to do something. She’d listened to the cops and hadn’t trusted her instincts and gotten involved sooner, and that made her madder than hell. She pressed her lips tight and tried to suppress her anger.
Ralph led the way through the rocks, his paws sinking into the soft, sandy path. She put her backpack on a rock at the edge of the path, and jumped the foot or two down onto the thin stretch of sand. Earlier, she’d set up the tripod and attached the old Leica camera. The geese circled and honked. She loved the part when their feet skimmed the water. The touchdown, Grandpa called it. She hurried to the camera and shot one full roll of film, but her heart wasn’t in it today. With a quick release on the tripod head, she put the Leica back into the worn, brown leather case that hung from her neck, and then folded and lifted the tripod.
“Let’s go home, boy,” she said softly, stepping onto the path. Forget the cabin. There’ll be nothing to find.
“Hey…you, hold it right there!”
Rachel jerked her head up and turned toward the sound of a rough male voice. The guy moved across the sand, his steps short and precise. A gun was leveled at her. She quickly looked for an escape route. There was none.
Ralph snarled. She grabbed Ralph and shoved him inside her windbreaker, pulling the zipper tight. Her heart pounded. Gripping the tripod, she felt its weight.
“Don’t move!” the man yelled.
“I don’t have much money.” She motioned toward a large rock a few feet away from her. “It’s in the backpack.”
“What?” He glanced up at her, then at the backpack, and finally back at her.
“Take the whole damn thing.” She tried to keep her voice disinterested, while inside a mini-volcano erupted, and her knees weakened so much she wanted to sit down.
He could be a drifter, or on drugs and looking for his next fix. Those guys shacked up in the abandoned buildings until the cops chased them out. Normally they were harmless. She swallowed hard. Now that he was closer she could see he was Latino, and well-dressed. Her thoughts scattered all over the place, but one kept hammering at her telling her that he was no drifter.
“Don’t…don’t hurt me—”
“The camera,” he said, and twitched his fingers. “Give it to me.”
She pressed her arm across the camera case, squashing Ralph in the process. Not the Leica. She took another step backward and her legs brushed against a boulder. She kept her gaze on his face, while a hum of fear reverberated through her veins.
“This is…it’s my livelihood.” It wasn’t entirely true. She owned a bar and restaurant, but the Leica was Grandpa’s. “Take my money. Take my credit cards.”
The man leaped up onto the path. He leaned forward, his face so close to hers she could see his beard stubble. She felt dizzy and blinked hard. He pressed the barrel of the gun to her forehead. She backed up until a large rock pressed into her backside. All she could see, all she could focus on, was his finger on the trigger of the gun.
He grabb
ed at the camera case strap.
The sudden sharp tug at the back of her neck pulled her head downward. Ralph snarled and Rachel pressed him closer to her chest. She blinked hard and stared at the man’s shoes, and then raised her head, trying to ignore the dizziness and the pain in her neck.
“Wait.” She waved one hand, catching her breath, and Ralph growled again. “Shush, Ralph.” Digging into the sandy path with her heels, she steadied herself. “I’ll…I’ll give it to you.” She opened the case with fumbling fingers.
The man eased back, relaxing his hold on the gun. She withdrew the camera and threw it high into the air with one hand, and grabbed the tripod tight with the other. Ralph almost slid out the bottom of her windbreaker. With her left arm underneath the dog, she lifted the tripod with her right hand. Surprise had flooded the guy’s face, and he’d raised his hands to catch the camera.
She whacked him across the side of his head with as much force as she could muster. He lost his footing on the sandy shoulder of the path. Everything blurred for a few seconds. Rachel blinked hard to refocus. His body seemed airborne, and then he teetered backward and collapsed onto the sand below. Blood oozed from his forehead and ran down his cheek.
Her heart pounded, and she winced at the pain in her shoulder from the impact of the hit. She could still hear the sound of metal hitting flesh and bone. Bile rose in the back of her throat and her breath came in short, harsh bursts. She took a quick look around. Where the hell is the camera?
The man rolled to one side and groaned. His hand that gripped the gun shook. The tripod had fallen at his side, the Leica next to it and out of her reach. For one second she thought about making a grab for the damn thing, but that would mean going down there. A sudden movement caught her attention. His other hand had moved upward, grasping for something. A flash of intuition warned her. With Ralph held tight to her chest, she fled along the path, and reaching out, swept up the backpack. Bullets ricocheted off rocks, but she sensed they were fired in the wrong direction. The empty camera case bounced against her chest, and Ralph continued to growl.
“Oh, dear God—”
She didn’t look back. If she was about to die, she didn’t want to see the bullet coming. Another burst of gunfire sounded. A bullet lodged in a tree trunk above her head. She squashed the backpack against her chest, keeping Ralph in place, and pumped her legs hard to get over the slight rise.
Once down the other side, she darted through a field of date palms and got to the old truck, which she’d parked off the main drag. Opening the truck door, she slid into the seat and shoved the key into the ignition. With a quick gasp for air she tossed the backpack onto the floor of the truck. Slick with sweat and trembling with fear, her fingers shook as she turned the key in Grandpa’s old truck.
“Please start. Please start.” It leaped into action. She yanked on the zipper of the windbreaker and let Ralph out onto the seat. He ran to the open window and barked.
“Shh, Ralph,” she whispered. “Good boy. Lie down.”
Rachel looked around. There was no sign, or sound, of movement. She pressed hard on the accelerator. The truck roared across the unsealed track and out from under the cover of tall date palms like a raging bull released from a rodeo pen. She headed for the highway and toward the safety of Grandpa’s cabin.
“Oh, hell, oh, hell…oh, hell,” she said, and tried to slow her panic.
The empty camera case still hung around her neck and it bumped against her chest.
Pulling the strap over her head with one hand, she gripped tight to the steering wheel with the other, and then shoved the case on top of the backpack.
I risked my life for a freakin’ camera?
She glanced in the rearview mirror. Nobody gave chase. In a few minutes, she’d slow down and dial 911.
“Such a big brave boy.” She glanced at Ralph. The dumb dog smiled happily thinking they were on some great adventure.
The truck spit rocks and gravel and dust behind her, and she wondered why the man had wanted the camera. Damn. She’d lost the tripod, too. She refocused and gripped the steering wheel even tighter. Those were things. Expensive things, but they could be replaced. She watched in her rearview mirror for any followers. Not that she expected the man would come after her. He was injured.
But he might have buddies.
Never take anything for granted, Grandpa always said.
Rachel heeded the warning, slowed, eased the truck off the highway, and parked behind an abandoned restaurant. She cut the engine, hoping the sand and dust would settle. In the sudden silence her heart pounded noisily, or could it be the old truck engine still ticking? Something was out of whack. She pulled in a few deep breaths, drank from her water bottle, and then dug her cell phone out of the backpack.
If anyone spotted the truck, she hoped it would look like a discarded wreck. She pulled the baseball cap down onto her forehead, tucked her ponytail up underneath it, turned up her collar, and lowered her body. Ralph rested his chin on her thigh, and his small eyes flashed like exotic black beads. He pinned them on her, like he awaited his next command. Her breath came easily now, and the shaking of her body had eased.
“We have to be quiet, Ralph. Good dog.” She pressed one hand firmly on his spine, and picked up her cell phone. About to punch in the numbers, she saw a mud-splattered, sand-colored Hummer—tricked out with silver hubcaps and embellishments—as it roared along the two lane highway heading in the direction of Grandpa’s cabin.
Do they know me? She shook her head. No, of course they don’t.
She put the phone down, grabbed the binoculars out of the backpack, and tried to spot the license plate. It could be a coincidence, the driver perhaps an owner of one of the nearby date farms. Nah, those farmers drive trucks. He might not be after her. She knew that. But still, he had been speeding.
She dialed 911.
“This is Rachel Copeland. I was attacked on the beach near Desert Scapes, and…and held at gunpoint…and I…”
“Slow down,” the woman’s voice said. “Are you in immediate danger?”
“I don’t know. I escaped. I’m in…I’m in a truck.”
“All right ma’am,” the woman’s kindly voice said. “Let me get some particulars.”
Rachel nodded, even though the woman couldn’t see her.
“I’m not sure if I’m being followed. There’s a—”
“Hold for one moment, please, ma’am.”
Rachel looked in every direction from the old restaurant. The roads were empty and she started to feel a bit stupid. Yet, something, she didn’t know for sure what, something still warned her to be careful. The dispatcher came back on the line, and she answered the woman’s questions about location, but her thoughts kept drifting.
If the Hummer was trying to catch up to her, the driver would soon reach a long straight stretch of highway heading toward Coachella—flat desert floor, where you could see for miles. He wouldn’t see her truck up ahead of him. She needed to get the hell out of here. He might come back this way to do a more thorough search. Maybe, but then, if he figured she’d gone to Grandpa’s place, he’d head down the side road leading back to the water, and the cabin.
“Think, Rachel, think,” she said out loud, and Ralph inched closer.
“What?” the woman asked.
Oh, hell. “Just send someone to check the location I gave you. I’ll head in to the police station to make a full report. I’m hanging up now, so I can drive”
The Sea was in a weird spot, with little police patrol of the area. Indio PD was north, about twenty miles, in the direction the Hummer had taken. It would take a while to dispatch a car and get anyone down here. No way in hell she’d sit around and wait for someone to arrive. She wanted to get home to Rancho Almagro. There was a lesser known back way; a turn off about a mile ahead. It would be a risk, calling her ex, but what the hell. She dialed Deputy Dave Stanton’s number, reversed the truck while the call went through, and took off with the cell phone press
ed tight to her ear. To hell with California cell phone laws. She could only pray some cop would pull her over.
“Hi, babe. You’re up early.”
“I was shot at. And I think I’m being chased. I’m in Grandpa’s truck, on highway eighty-six.”
“Hell, Rachel. What the hell kind of scrape you got yourself into now?”
“No time for discussion, Dave. Just help. Okay?”
“Hang in there. Coming from—?”
“Desert Scapes.”
“Heading for home?”
“Yes. I called 911. I’m taking the back route along Airport Boulevard, through Thermal, and then—”
“I’m on it.”
“Dave, it’s not your area. I don’t want you getting into trouble. Can you meet me when I get into—?”
His phone went dead, but not before she heard the squeal of the siren. She floored the truck and roared past another date farm. The huge acres of land were covered mostly by date palms, tall and regal, their fruit encased in white bags awaiting harvest. It made them look spooky in the early morning light, and she shivered.
There were no other vehicles in sight, but the Hummer could be hiding out down any of those dark, narrow, unsealed farm roads. She almost missed the sign for Airport Boulevard, and took the turn hard, the truck fishtailing on the soft, sandy shoulder.
“Shit.” She took her foot off the accelerator as Ralph’s body slid sideways. “Sorry, buddy.” She righted the truck back onto the thin stretch of asphalt, patted Ralph’s head, and headed for Almagro.
The truck shuddered and rattled as the speedometer hit eighty-five. Sweat beaded around her hairline, and she burned up inside the windbreaker, but she didn’t turn on the AC. She wouldn’t risk taxing the engine. And she wouldn’t roll the window down, either. Not with armed madmen about. Although bullets penetrated glass and—she wouldn’t think about that—not now.
