by Sylvie Kurtz
He shook his head and mumbled, “You’d go stark raving mad inside a week.”
He had a loving wife, a job that fulfilled him and friends who accepted him as he was. What more could a guy ask for? He and Taryn had even talked of making a baby—which would be the icing on an already sweet cake.
She was the blue sky in his life, and his greatest fear was that one day, without quite knowing how, he’d mess up, that the needs of others would take him from Taryn one time too many, that he would lose her and his life all over again.
“Sheriff One.” RoAnn’s voice squawked over the radio. “Chance, are you there?”
As good as RoAnn was at coordinating calls, he could never get her to use the proper radio lingo. Chance keyed the mike. “Sheriff One. Go ahead.”
“Sam Wentworth just buzzed me. He’s out by Gator Park and thinks he’s found the safe that was heisted from Leggett’s Antiques yesterday.”
“Tad can check it out when he’s done with Ruby.”
“You really ought to yank her license. Ruby’s a menace on the road. But does anyone ever listen to me? No. Look, Gator Park’s on your way to the Brett ranch, Chance, and Tad’s way out on the other side of town. Won’t take but a minute of your time. Oh, and since you’ll be going that way, might as well stop by Nancy Howell’s on your way home and pick up that blackberry jam she’s got for Taryn.”
Taryn would want the jam to sell at her little Bread and Butter bakery. Might as well give her another reason to smile at him when he finally made his way home again. “All right. Show me en route to Gator Park.”
“Don’t forget the jam.”
“I won’t.”
Gator Park, the Brett ranch, the Howell farm—then home. He couldn’t wait to watch Taryn’s face light up at the sight of him, to run his fingers through her soft brown hair, to get his arms around her once more.
Heading north, beyond the Gabenburg town-limit sign, land rolled into gentle hills and patches of pine forests. To the south, the terrain leveled out into grassy marshlands and drifted into the Gulf of Mexico. Ahead in a field, cattle and egrets clustered around a water tank. Here and there an oil derrick pumped. A flock of geese passed over low and honked as they crossed the highway.
The cruiser’s air-conditioning was on the fritz again, so Chance drove with the windows rolled down. The air was sticky and heavy with the odor of pine, cow dung and flood-swollen river. He took it all in and smiled. These sights and smells and sounds were all precious to him. Fifteen years ago, he’d been given a second chance at life and he wasn’t going to waste a moment of it regretting a past he couldn’t remember.
For a while he’d wondered at the blankness of his memory, at his missing childhood. Then, ten years ago when he’d joined the sheriff’s office, he’d run a set of his prints through the system. Nothing had matched. He’d felt a measure of comfort in that.
Chance signaled his exit off the highway. The Red Thunder River ran fast and hard in the spring, calmed enough to harvest tourist dollars in the summer, and turned uninviting again in the fall. Sam Wentworth claimed he was born on the river and spent most of his time on the water. If the suspects had dumped the safe in the river, it didn’t surprise Chance in the least that Sam would be the one to uncover the fact.
As Chance crested the hill off the ramp, the river appeared. The recent rains had swollen it to the top of its banks and it roared like an awakening giant, churning silt as it rushed to the Gulf. The sun glittered off the racing water, bleeding it red like an open vein. He was halfway down the hill, letting gravity pull the cruiser down, when a flash zapped through his brain.
A picture bolted through his mind. Clear, vivid, horrid.
The sounds, the smells, the sights assaulted him in one overwhelming blow, ripping him from this world and pitching him into another.
Inside this strange realm, everything is tinged red.
Panic surges through him. He’s fighting with everything he has, but something bigger, stronger has hold of him and is intent on destroying him.
The smell of death hangs heavy in the sticky air. The taste of muddy water fills his mouth, makes him gag and sputter. The river surrounds him. He’s tugged and tossed and tumbled like debris. He tries to swim, but the current is too strong. “Hang on!” His voice? Someone else’s? Something catches his foot, drags him under. Black, nothing but black. Hands grab at him. His head is above water once more.
Breath, where is his breath? He’s not moving, hanging on to something hard and slippery. A branch. Something bumps into him. He turns. He screams.
A body floats on the water. Bump, bump, bump against his side. Long blond hair writhes on the waves. From a gash on the side of her head pours blood.
Then hands again, tugging, yanking. Pulling? Pushing? Dizzy. Nothing makes sense.
He looks up. Through the water’s silver-red surface, he sees his own shimmering face.
Terror engulfs him. He fights with all his might, but the hands only get stronger around his neck. Blond hair flails around him.
He’s dying.
He’s dead.
THE CHILI WAS HOT. The beer was cold. The green beans were fresh from Ruby Kramer’s garden. Taryn had traded for them that afternoon with a loaf of sourdough bread. A cherry pie waited on the counter—a sweet ending to a meal meant to win a man’s heart.
All that was missing was Chance.
Taryn flopped into a kitchen chair and straightened a linen napkin. She’d planned everything to the last second.
Then Chance had come home and knocked her best intentions haywire. She couldn’t resist him; never had been able to.
The attraction wasn’t just that his distinctive cheekbones made him look at once savage and sexy. It wasn’t just that his bottomless dark eyes seemed to take her in and hold her safe. It was also because the bone-deep goodness in him made her believe in the possibility of enduring happiness.
She hated herself for making Chance feel bad about doing his job. His loyalty and his genuine care were two qualities she admired in him.
She’d wanted everything to be perfect, everything to feel right. Determined, she stood up. “It still can be.”
The evening was young. Chance could handle Billy Ray Brett in no time. He’d done it often enough. She hurried toward the bathroom and started the shower. This was going to be a special night. One she hoped Chance would never forget. She wasn’t going to ruin it with a fit of resentment.
She would feed him. She would seduce him. Then she would tell him their world was about to be turned upside down. As steam started to fill the small room, she stood before the mirror and cleared her throat.
“Chance, I have something to tell you,” she said out loud, testing the words she’d practiced all day in her head as she’d mixed and kneaded and baked. Why was her heart beating so fast? Why did her tongue feel so stiff and clumsy? Why did her eyes look so wild with apprehension? She swallowed hard and tried again. “Chance, remember when you said—” She growled at her disappearing image in the mirror. “Chance, I’m…we’re…”
A gulp of fear brought one hand to her belly, the other to her throat. What if…? No, she wasn’t going to worry. Chance would be pleased. Hadn’t he said so a dozen times already?
She undressed and stepped into the shower. There she lathered in a shower gel of Chance’s favorite summer-rain scent and lingered for a long time under the hot spray of water until the fear and resentment flowed down the drain along with the soapy water. After drying herself, she slathered on a body lotion of the same summer-rain scent. Hair wound in a turban of towel, she headed for the bedroom.
Out of the closet, she took the tiny red dress she’d been hiding for a week—until the time was right. She planned to meet her husband at the door wearing nothing but that scrap of cloth. It left little to the imagination. And this time, she would make him wait before she allowed him to render her mindless in his arms.
A small smile of satisfaction curled her lips as she imagined Chance�
��s appreciation of the dress. She loved the way his gaze seemed to eat her alive when he was aroused, the way his dark eyes glittered with desire. And she loved that little groan deep in his throat as he reached for her. That seductive sound was part warrior’s claim, part helplessness—as if he couldn’t resist her even if he tried. That made her feel safe and secure and wanted.
Just as she tossed her towel onto the neatly made bed, she heard a car turn into the driveway.
“No, I’m not ready!” She rushed to the window, snapped the curtain open and peeked out. Not Chance’s cruiser, but Tad Pruitt’s truck. She groaned. Tad was having girlfriend problems and she’d made the mistake of telling him to drop by anytime he needed to talk. He’d taken her up on her offer three times this week already. And what was he doing coming to bother her while he was on duty and Chance was torn from her bed to answer a call?
She’d get rid of Tad quick, she decided as she donned a T-shirt and shorts and stuffed her feet into sandals. Maybe she ought to send him to her grandmother. She shook her head and laughed. Nola Barnes was opinionated enough for three. She’d set Tad straight in no time.
Taryn opened the door. Heat slapped her face, making her suck in a breath. Where was Tad? She couldn’t hear his footsteps on the gravel walkway. Frowning, she stepped onto the deck. She lifted a hand against the setting sun and saw Tad sitting in the truck, both hands on the steering wheel. This wasn’t good. He’d need reassurance and calming words and all she wanted to do was get ready for Chance.
“Tad? Are you all right?” But something about the way he stared at her wasn’t right. An arrow of fear sliced through her heart and razored all the way to her stomach.
The truck door creaked. Tad exited, keeping his gaze toward the ground. In the place of cocky arrogance, he wore a pained expression. His usually straight and tall posture was bowed. His tan uniform shirt sported dark splotches. He fiddled with his hat. Round and round it went. His brown pants were ripped at the knee. His boots were muddy.
“Tad?” Her heart knocked hard. Her limbs felt leaden. She slinked forward, using the railing as a crutch. “Tad?”
“Taryn,” he croaked. He took two steps forward, then stopped. His eyes looked desperate. He braced himself as if for a blow. She knew then that her world was about to come apart.
“Chance?”
Tad nodded. “He’s had an accident.”
Taryn’s ears rang. Her heart stopped beating, then made up the lapse in double time. Her legs shook. Despite the heat that slicked her skin, a cold shiver racked her body. She held on to the deck railing with all of her strength. “No, God, no. What happened? Where is he? How is he?”
“He’s alive,” Tad said in a rush. He climbed the three steps to the deck, started to reach for her, then drew back. “He drove into the river.”
“The river?” She frowned, not understanding. No, no, no. Not the river. Chance was a cautious driver, an expert diver. No river, not even Red Thunder, could get the best of him. Tad had made a mistake. Chance was too strong, too good to be taken by the river. Then why couldn’t she stop shaking? “What happened?”
“We’re not sure. They took him to Beaumont.” Tad put his hand on Taryn’s trembling shoulder. “I’ll drive you.”
She nodded and let him lead her to his truck.
This was not happening. This could not be happening.
He’s mine, she told the river. You can’t have him.
As Tad drove, her world unraveled until Taryn’s mind became nothing more than a snarl of worries.
She could not lose Chance. Not now. Not with a baby on the way.
“HELLO, darlin’.” Garth Ramsey drawled the endearment because he’d learned the ladies liked the sound of his voice deep and gravelly. The performance wasn’t so much for the body on the bed as for the staff tending to it. Image, he’d learned the hard way, bought you more than truth.
He handed a plate of oatmeal cookies to Jessie Ross, the night nurse. “I brought a treat for my wife.” He smiled and whipped his other hand from behind his back. “And for you wonderful Florence Nightingales, a box of chocolates.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest man?” Jessie gushed. She placed the plate of cookies on the nightstand beside the bed and the box of chocolates on the dresser by the upholstered glider she was using. A canvas sack with knitting lay beside the chair. Pale blue wool ran from the bag to a set of knitting needles that held what looked like a sleeve for a baby sweater.
“Now you make sure you leave some for the day staff or I’ll never hear the end of it,” he teased.
“This box is big enough to entertain an army.” She smiled at him and he knew he could have her if he wanted. All he’d have to do is ask and she’d fall into his arms. But his taste didn’t run to short, skinny brunettes with no figure, even when the room’s low light gave her pretty-enough features a soft golden glow. Besides, as part of his image of devoted husband, he’d decided it was best not to fool around with the staff at the Pine Creek Home. Finding a willing partner was never a problem.
“How’s she been doing this week?” he asked. He sat on the teal leather chair by the bed and stroked his wife’s silky blond hair. They’d wanted to cut it to make it easier to tend, but he’d insisted they leave it long and loose.
“No change really,” Jessie said, and popped a chocolate in her mouth. “She’s been a little more active during the day.”
“How so?”
“She likes to sit outside and puts up a fuss when we take her in.”
“Ah, yes, she was always one for the great outdoors.”
“She’s been more fussy about food, too. We practically have to force-feed her. She’s come up a touch anemic on her tests, but don’t worry, the doctor’s got her on iron. She’ll appreciate those cookies. They’re her favorite.”
“Well, in her case, it’s the little things that make a difference.”
“You’re so good to her. I’ll leave you alone and take my break now,” Jessie said.
“That would be great. Take your time. My wife and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Smiling and all but batting her eyelashes, Jessie tiptoed out of the room.
They all thought his twice-weekly visits were husbandly devotion. In truth, they were an inspection of his investment. As long as his darling wife was nothing more than a body going through the motions of life, he was free to live as he pleased. Her vacant mind bought him immunity.
He scooted the chair closer to the bed, held her hand in case someone should happen by and peek through the glass window on the door, and whispered in her ear, “Remember, darlin’, when you thought you could manipulate me as easily as you did your sweetheart? You learned your lesson, didn’t you? I always win.”
She turned her head at the sound of his voice and opened her eyes. There beneath the dull veneer in her gray-green eyes was a spark of something that needed to be nipped before it got out of control.
“I’ve noticed more light in your eyes lately and this longing for the outdoors isn’t good. I’ve got just the thing. My friend says that one extra dose should keep you right where you are.”
With his back carefully hiding his activity, he swabbed the crook of her elbow with an alcohol pad and injected a small dose of an experimental drug. The needle was so tiny it left no mark on her delicate skin. She mewled like a kitten in pain, tried to twist away, but she was too weak and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
“That’s it, darlin’, take it in. Let me take care of you. Let me shelter you from the real world. You were always too good for them.”
He returned the syringe and the used alcohol pad to a sunglasses case in his blazer pocket.
As long as Ellen’s brain misfired, there was no one to deny any of his claims, there was nothing to stop him. He was on top of the world and climbing higher every day.
“Sleep well, darlin’.”
Chapter Two
The gash on Chance’s head worried Taryn. The swollen blue and pu
rple mark curved from temple to temple. Five stitches pinched the skin above his left eyebrow.
Watching him so still and white beneath the hospital sheets made her soul wither by inches. The emergency-room doctor had told her Chance had regained consciousness for a while before he’d slipped into a coma and that he might also be suffering from traumatic amnesia. He’d told her not to worry, that Chance’s injuries probably weren’t life-threatening. But how could she not worry? The man she’d thought invincible was lying in a hospital bed unconscious.
“The chili will keep,” she told him, trying to keep up a one-sided conversation to fill the silence that was otherwise too heavy to bear. “Probably taste even better tomorrow. So will the pie. And I’m sure Ruby will have another basketful of beans to sell before the week’s out.”
Not a muscle moved, not an eyelash twitched. She could be watching a corpse, except that the machinery beside him with its beeps and moving lines told her he was alive.
“Maud came by the bakery this afternoon. Right when I was closing, too. Have you ever noticed she seems to time her every action in a way that will irritate somebody?” Taryn gave a weak laugh. “She was complaining about the heat as she bought every last buttermilk biscuit I had. Plus a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. Plus half a dozen sweet rolls. And you know those didn’t last until she got home.”
Taryn held Chance’s hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb. The skin was rough and familiar beneath her finger, but cold. She hiked the blanket over his chest and wrapped both her hands around his to warm him. Her lips trembled and she pressed them tight to hold back a sob.
“Hey,” she said, trying hard to inject some lightness into her voice. “Maybe now you’ll take the vacation you’ve been meaning to take—for what?—seven years now. We could go away for a week. Or ask Liz and Jake to join us, and you and Jake could go diving while Liz and I go antiquing.”
