by Linda Conrad
Hanging up, Jose eased out a breath and nodded to himself. Yes, an excellent plan. But the child was his—his son. And he intended to stay extremely close.
He tapped on the glass between front and back seats and captured the attention of his driver and bodyguard.
When the glass was opened he said, “I wish to cross into the United States at the Texas border. Change course and head for our compound at Ciudad Acuña.”
The bodyguard blinked and his lips tightened. “But, jefe, you are a wanted man in the United States of America and the border has become muy dangerous. Perhaps…”
“It’s your job to keep me away from the authorities and out of the line of fire.” Jose did not need this imbecile telling him about danger. “Do your job or I will find someone who can.”
Most of the danger on the Texas border came from his own men and their increasing drug and weapons smuggling in the rural areas. Finding a way across the border there would be easier than trying it in a more populated and patrolled city.
Jose thought again of the prize for taking this much risk. His son. He had never been allowed to see his own son. The thought of such injustice set his teeth on edge.
The only reason he knew about the baby was from those first few days in court in Los Angeles. Grace. His beautiful little Bella now made over into Grace—the traitor—had been there to testify against him. And it had been abundantly clear that she was with child. His child. The timing told the story.
After that Jose had been more ardent in his attempts to escape. He’d had to pay a king’s ransom to his contact in the U.S. in order to escape during an emergency dental trip. But he had been determined. And everyone knew you could not stop Jose Serrano once his mind was decided.
Just as he had now decided to enter the U.S. again to pick up his son and bring him home.
Nothing. No one. Would stand in his way.
Chapter 11
It turned out Grace was good with guns. At least she’d had little trouble with the Remington Model 870 Express pump action shotgun that Sam insisted she use for practice.
For two straight days she’d read every manual in his collection. Next she broke down the shotgun into its subparts, cleaned it and put it all back together. By now she knew every minute detail: the three-inch chamber, the twenty-one-inch vent rib barrel, the choke, the pull and every gleaming inch of the hardwood stock. The shotgun had been Sam’s as a boy. And as she’d stroked and polished the wood she thought of him—and began to hunger.
This afternoon while his aunt June was watching Mikey and Jenna over at Travis’s house, Grace and Sam were on their way to practice shooting down by the river behind the house. For their entire tramp through the fields she’d been arguing with herself and trying not to notice the scent of his shaving cream or the way his jeans rode on his hips.
A few days of working together and living in the same house, and Sam had not made one move to repeat the kiss of the other day.
Grace had been so engrossed with her learning, and watching as Sam read and played with the baby, that she hadn’t given much thought to why she needed all this information and practice in the first place.
But as the sun began to wane in the sky and the two of them walked closer to the river where no cattle were being kept over the winter, she felt depressed. The more she learned, the better able she was to care for herself and her son, and the sooner she could take off and let Sam escape back into his real world. His real job.
The man had saved her son and offered her safety. Little by little she’d begun making a subconscious place for him in her heart. But she couldn’t allow that to continue. Yes, she longed to really know how the two of them would be together, both intimately and over the long haul. He was a superb specimen of a man. Tall and lanky, hard and tender. What woman wouldn’t want to know that strength and gentleness for a lifetime?
But she didn’t deserve such a prize. She’d given away her virtue—her very soul—to a bastard who had no merit. Jose Serrano wasn’t worthy of licking the boots of a man like Sam Chance.
Yes, sometimes it was tough to keep from either flirting with him or begging for him to kiss her. But it was clear Sam wouldn’t want to be saddled with a woman and a child. His life was on the move for the Marshals, away from family and home. Over the past day or so she’d become increasingly aware that the man was itching to leave Chance and go back to his job. Something about his old home and his family was causing Sam to want to run—just like she had done.
Whereas now, she was starting to feel a little too comfortable. Sam’s brother, Jenna and June were all so open and loving with her and Mikey. She could easily imagine making a place for her and her son here. But there was no way. Eventually Jose would find them. And when he did, it would not be pretty for those nearby.
She had to stay on the move. It was the only way to keep Mikey safe and at the same time protect those people who had taken them in and had been so kind.
She’d already been the cause of one huge screwup in her lifetime. A screwup so horrific she couldn’t bear to think about it. People she’d loved had died. And she didn’t deserve a second chance.
But none of it had ever been Mikey’s fault. Or Sam’s.
“You’re being particularly quiet,” Sam said as he slowed his pace to walk beside her. “Are you going over in your head the parts of the gun and the sequence for taking a shot?” He spoke for the first time in ten minutes and she was particularly glad to hear his voice.
Earlier today he’d set up a target down by the river. Now she carried the shotgun, in the prescribed method for walking, and he carried the box of shells.
“No, not really. I’m not worried about the target practice. I’ve been concentrating on the reason for the lesson.”
“Serrano? Don’t…”
Shaking her head, she smiled. “No, not Jose. Mikey.”
“He’s okay with June and Jenna.”
“Oh, I know that. He’s thriving. I’ve never seen him so happy for such a prolonged period. He really seems to love the ranch.”
“He knows he’s safe here.” Sam put his hand on her shoulder. “Children pick up on the vibes of their parents. He can tell when you are anxious or afraid. You’ve been more relaxed over the past few days.”
“Have I?” The warmth of his hand went right through her thin jacket and straight to her belly. She suddenly didn’t feel one bit relaxed.
Even Sam seemed to notice the spark between them. He removed his hand and stared at it for a second—as though he’d gotten a static shock.
Rubbing his palm over his jeans, he picked up the pace and took off toward the target. “Let’s get a move on before we lose the light.”
* * *
Something was going on inside that beautiful head, Sam decided. Something besides the lust. He’d seen the look of longing apparent on Grace’s face again today, and felt that accidental touch of hands. He was experiencing the exact same thing. It had been all he could do to keep from making an overt move toward her that might lead Grace to believe they had any chance of acting on their instincts.
He let out a deep breath. So, the lust was a given. Grinding his teeth, he kept walking. But something else was also happening inside her mind. He’d seen an unusual look in her eyes now and then. A sadness. An expression of defeat.
Over the past couple of days as she’d been reading his father’s gun manuals, he’d stayed close. But he’d been studying his mother’s old psychology texts. He was looking for something useful to help Grace.
He’d come to the conclusion that she was suffering from PTSD and she’d probably also had a bad case of Stockholm syndrome while being held by Serrano. While he was no psychiatrist, all the symptoms and causes seemed clear enough.
She needed professional help, and he wondered if he dared to broach the subject with her. He cared about Grace and Mikey. More than he had any right to. And while he couldn’t think in terms of forever with them, he wanted to do everything in his power to help.
; The books had said Stockholm syndrome sufferers needed love and support from family. But all Grace seemed to have was Mikey.
They reached the spot where he’d set up the target and he paced off thirty feet. “Okay. This is the distance. Any closer and the bad guys could overpower you. Any farther and you won’t have as good a chance of hitting your target.”
“It would be hard to miss from here.”
He chuckled at her bravado. “Have you ever shot any kind of weapon before?”
“Never.”
“Well, then, let’s see how you do before you get too cocky.”
She raised the shotgun and held out her hand. “Twenty-gauge, please.”
Opening the box, he cautioned, “You remember your lesson on loading? It can be a little tricky.”
She gave him a look that could’ve frozen a tropical ocean. “I remember.”
Going through all the right moves to load and pump the shotgun, she seemed smooth and professional. Sam was vacillating between proud and worried.
“Don’t forget about the noise. And the kick.”
He couldn’t stand the thought of the Remington either biting into her shoulder or putting her on her butt. This target practice had been a terrible idea.
“Maybe we should’ve started with a BB gun,” he offered.
Grace gave him another icy look, but then her eyes softened. “Can you show me the best way to hold the gun in order to fire? Now that we’re out here, everything feels different.”
That was bull. She was perfectly capable of firing a ladies-size shotgun without a second’s thought, and he knew it. But it would make him feel a little better if he stood behind her to shield her from any potential kick.
Just until she got the hang of it, mind you.
He moved in close to her back and put his hands on her shoulders. “All right. Like we practiced inside. Plant your feet.”
She did as he asked and he braced her legs with his own. They were close enough now that he could feel her heat, rising up through her coat and jeans. He smelled her shampoo, and the scent nearly made him lightheaded.
“Er… Okay. Now raise the shotgun and sight the target. Prepare to fire.”
“That’ll be easy,” she whispered. “I’m pretending it’s Jose’s face on that target. I won’t miss.”
Her words stopped him for a second. Was that typical of Stockholm syndrome victims? To want to kill their captors? Vengeance was never a good reason to fire a gun.
It was too late to stop their lesson so Sam ran his hands down her arms to show her the proper hold on the shotgun. She was just the right size for him to reach around and help. Truthfully she was just about the right everything. He was getting hard standing this close and touching her, and it was all he could do to concentrate on the weapon in her arms. Man, this lesson had to be over soon.
“Now, place your finger on the trigger.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes blurring. “Nice and easy does it.”
“Uh…Sam?” She suddenly sounded so tentative that he nearly ripped the danged gun out of her hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re standing too close. I can hardly breathe.”
“Just pull the frigging trigger.”
The shot came slow and easy. Just like they’d practiced. And the kick was a lightweight, hardly worth mentioning. He felt like an idiot for worrying.
Stepping back, he cleared his throat. “Nice work. You hit the target dead-on. You’re a natural shot.”
“Like I said, all I have to do is visualize Jose. Can I practice some more?”
“Uh, sure. Go ahead.”
He let her go through the entire process alone the next time. And the next. Load. Aim. Fire.
She was a deadeye with the target. But if she was faced with the reality of a man instead of a target, would she freeze?
He remembered the first time he’d ever fired on a real man, the enemy, in the service. It had been all he could do to pull the trigger. In his very first platoon there had been many a young kid who couldn’t fire their weapon when it came right down to a firefight with the enemy. A few of those same fine American youths were now lying in their graves.
When Sam had moved on to the MPs, the idea of firing on one of his own soldiers had turned his stomach. In reality he’d never had to actually do it. A couple of good raps on the head and a few nights spent in the stockade had been all it took to straighten out soldiers who were acting out being scared and missing home.
Looking over at Grace, he wondered what he could possibly do to help her straighten out. She was scared and didn’t have a home to go to. A situation not much different from new recruits.
She fired again. And once again she hit the target dead center. Well, at least she was a much better shot than most young army recruits.
“You had enough yet? You’ve massacred Serrano at least a dozen times.”
“I don’t feel ready.” She turned to speak and Sam could see the determination mixed liberally with fear on her face.
This whole idea had not been very bright. He was sorry now he’d ever agreed to it.
“What if whoever comes after me is running toward me? How can I be sure I can hit a moving target?”
“They probably will be running toward you. If they’re running away, save the shells.”
“Not funny, Sam. I mean it. I’m more scared now than I was before we started.”
“Scared is good. It means you’ll be careful.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I’m tired of being scared. I can’t keep running my whole life. I want to be able to take a stand.”
From a strictly psychological standpoint, her attitude was probably good. From the standpoint of facing a drug lord and his gang, however, her attitude would probably get her killed.
And Grace dead was not a concept he could accept. Not now. Not ever.
How could he help her? Maybe she needed more practice. Or maybe a semiautomatic handgun where she could shoot at a moving target multiple times.
“I’m done.” Her voice was so low he could barely hear her words. “Let’s go to the house.”
He helped her police the area and they started back. Yeah, maybe what she needed was a different weapon. But she also needed something else. Some nebulous something he was at a loss to provide. She seemed so down and that was not like the Grace he’d come to admire.
As they tramped over the fields, she kept slipping and sliding due to her work shoes. He took charge of the shotgun and grabbed her elbow to help her walk upright.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “I’m such a disaster. I don’t know why you even bother with me.”
“You’re no such thing. All you need is a good pair of boots. That’s an easy fix.”
Just as they were about to enter the yard surrounding his old home, Grace managed to traipse through a cow cake. Ancient as it was, the sticky bits still did a number on her shoes.
“Look at this mess.” She looked about ready to cry. “I’m a total screwup.”
“No you’re not.” But Sam knew his words weren’t going to make much of an impression on her in this state.
He needed an idea for a jolt that would shake her out of the mood. She was a beautiful, talented woman who made one of the best mothers he’d ever met. Yet somehow she didn’t have a clue.
A nightstick over the head wasn’t going to make the kind of impression he wanted this time. Not like with the young recruits. So what…?
They’d reached the house. “Why don’t you sit on the porch step and kick off your shoes. We can rinse them off later.”
She did as he suggested. Meanwhile he stashed the unloaded shotgun right inside the back door. She could clean and store that later, too.
Standing, Grace hobbled toward the door in her stocking feet. “Don’t watch me. I must look like an invalid.”
He reached down and swung her up in his arms. “Quiet. You’re a beautiful woman. And I intend to prove it to you—right now.”
Chapter 12
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Grace nearly swallowed her tongue as Sam hoisted her in his arms and kicked the door open. “Wait. I can walk.”
“Quiet. I’ll do the walking. And the talking.”
She bit her lip and waited for him to deposit her on the family room sofa. But he didn’t stop. He hefted her against his broad chest and practically raced up the stairs. Then without even breathing heavy, he barged right into the master bedroom she’d been using and swung her around like she was a lightweight.
She was no lightweight. Hadn’t been since Mikey was born.
Gently, he bent to lay her on the huge bed. The minute he straightened, she started to scramble off.
His wide palm came down on her stomach. “Stay put.”
He reached for her socks, pulled them free in two quick moves. Then he reached for her waistband, undid the button and zipper and had her jeans in a pile on the floor before she could blink.
“Uh…”
“Shush.” He took one of her legs between his big hands and began languidly stoking the flesh on her calf. “These legs don’t look like they belong to an invalid to me. They’re sexy as hell.”
“Uh…” Lying before him in nothing but her T-shirt and panties was making her hot. And the gleam in his eyes wasn’t helping to cool things down.
Sam let go of her leg and reached up to grab the edge of her T-shirt, pulling it over her head in one swift move. She shifted to help him peel it off, then lay back down and looked up at him through eyelids blurred by the intense heat he’d stirred.
He sat beside her on the bed and began messaging one arm. Wrist to shoulder. “And this arm is definitely not a disaster.”
After a few minutes of tantalizing her nearly beyond endurance, he helped her to sit up. But he quickly slid in behind her and wouldn’t let her turn to see his face. If Jose had made such a move, she would’ve been frightened by what was coming next. But this wasn’t Jose. Not even close.
Sam began massaging her shoulders. “Tight. But I’m not feeling any screwup under my hands. In fact, I can’t find any part of you that is anything but beautiful and strong.”
