by Terri Reed
*The McClains
*The McClains
*The McClains
*The McClains
The way Leah looked at him with such hope and trust made his gut clench.
“Don’t be thinking I’m some kind of hero,” Roman told her. “I’m not. I’m just a guy doing his job.”
One side of Leah’s mouth curled. “If you say so.”
“I do. Good night,” he said and retreated as quickly as he could.
He had no illusions. He hadn’t been able to save his mother all those years ago. He couldn’t save anyone. He could find the truth, he was good at that. But that’s as far as he’d go here.
When the truth was revealed, he would have to walk away from Leah. He couldn’t get caught up in her just because he liked her spunk and found her attractive.
He’d be a fool to allow himself to form any kind of attachment. Because odds were she was guilty of murder.
WITHOUT A TRACE: Will a young mother’s disappearance bring a bayou town together…or tear it apart?
What Sarah Saw—Margaret Daley, January 2009
Framed!—Robin Caroll, February 2009
Cold Case Murder—Shirlee McCoy, March 2009
A Cloud of Suspicion—Patricia Davids, April 2009
Deadly Competition—Roxanne Rustand, May 2009
Her Last Chance—Terri Reed, June 2009
Books by Terri Reed
Love Inspired Suspense
Strictly Confidential
*Double Deception
Beloved Enemy
Her Christmas Protector
*Double Jeopardy
*Double Cross
*Double Threat Christmas
Her Last Chance
Love Inspired
Love Comes Home
A Sheltering Love
A Sheltering Heart
A Time of Hope
Giving Thanks for Baby
TERRI REED
At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA® Award finalist and a 2005 National Reader’s Choice Award finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place for the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.
You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280, or visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com or leave comments on her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/.
HER LAST CHANCE
TERRI REED
Special thanks and acknowledgement to Terri Reed for her contribution to the Without a Trace miniseries.
For I know the plans that I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for calamity, to give you a future and a hope.
—Jeremiah 29:11
I want to say a big thank you to my cohorts in writing this series: Margaret Daley, Robin Caroll, Shirlee McCoy, Patricia Davids and Roxanne Rustand. It was fun working with you as we explored all the possibilities of the series.
To Leah and Lissa, as always,
I’d be lost without you.
To Kelly and Maddie, thanks for your friendship.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
PROLOGUE
Pain. So much pain.
Her head, her limbs, fingers and toes. There didn’t seem to be a spot on her limp body without pain.
Water splashed onto her face from above. Cold. Freezing. Rain? No, sleet. Stinging her flesh even through her sweater and jeans. An insect buzzed in her ear. Something crawled across her ankle. She twitched. More pain.
She was outside. But where?
Opening her eyelids, she cried out as the glow from the full moon overhead seared her eyes, sending flashes of brightness crashing through her brain in agonizing waves. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut again, she waited for the tiny pinpricks of white dots to subside and the throbbing to abate.
She strained, listening. A rustling off to her left, the distant squawk of a bird, the serenade of a frog closer and the chorus of mosquitoes evidently hoping to feed on her skin. But no human noise. Where was she?
More important, who was she?
She searched her mind but found no sense of self, no identity, no history, no memory. She fought back the panic that threatened to overtake her. Why couldn’t she remember anything?
So cold. A shiver racked her body, causing a cascade of horrific aches to wash over her system.
Survival instinct kicked in. If she didn’t move soon, she’d die here. Wherever here was. She tried to focus, to remember.
But beyond the moment of her awakening, there was no recall, only blank spaces of nothingness. She didn’t know her name, where she lived or why she was here. Fear slithered through her.
She had to move, had to get out of here. She shifted and a scream escaped, the sound deafening to her ears. She hurt so badly.
Slowly, she opened one eye, letting the sharp white lunar light seep in, allowing her vision to adjust. When at last she had both eyes open, she dared not stare at the round ball shining through the cloudy night sky. Instead, she took note of the treetops, the shadows of branches bowing to the sharp wind that kicked up and blew across her face.
Closer still, she saw that she was wedged against packed mud filled with sharp, pointed rocks. She lifted her arm and pain exploded, reverberating through her system. She had to fight it, had to get up. She had to find help.
She had to find out who she was. She hoped, prayed her memory would return. Dizzying panic rose, choking her. Stay calm.
Sucking in a deep breath—even her lungs hurt—she moved. The burst of frenzied pain caused another scream to burst forth. Working against gravity and her own body, she managed to crawl out of the ditch and onto flat ground.
She paused a moment to let the currents of agony recede before she took stock of her surroundings again. A wall of trees, dense and dark, on one side of her, and on the other, a road that stretched for miles.
She staggered to her feet. Her limbs heavy, weighty with numbness. Her jeans and cotton sweater were soaked through, the wet material clinging to her skin. One foot was without a shoe, and the exposed toes were bone-numbingly cold. She glanced around, but the match to the ballerina-style shoe on the other foot wasn’t anywhere in sight.
She stumbled to the road, despair gripping her. No lights in either direction. Only the illumination of the winter moon showing a land of shadows. And danger. That much she knew.
Wooziness threatened, and she forced her mind to stay focused. She had to stay conscious or she’d die. She didn’t want to die. Deep inside, something whispered there was a reason to live, but her mind refused to reveal anything.
She didn’t know which direction to travel. Right or left. Did it even matter? With heavy steps, she walked with the moon at her back, letting the light illuminate her way.
She struggled along for what seemed like hours, as the temperature dropped. Her breath puffed out in wispy clouds. If only she could ma
ke a smoke signal with her breath, but who would she signal?
No names of friends or family came to mind. Just…blankness.
She came to a bend in the road. Hope leaped to life as a lighted structure came into view. A thick stream of smoke rose from the chimney.
Please, God in heaven, please let me find help.
She didn’t question the faith in God that sprang so easily to her lips. It was just there, a part of her.
She made it to the ramshackle house and up the rickety porch steps. Rapping her knuckles against the weathered, peeling paint on the door, she didn’t feel the contact of wood against her numb flesh.
There was movement inside of the house. A shuffling. Muttering.
The door opened to reveal a hunched old woman, her gnarled hands gripping a metal walker. Her cloudy gray eyes, surrounded by wrinkles and age spots, narrowed for a moment, then widened. “Land’s sakes, child. Get in here before you freeze to death.”
Shock rolled through her. Had I been trying to escape from this house? “You know me?”
The old woman waved her in. “’Course I know you. You’re my grandbaby, Abigail. I’ve waited so long for you to finally come to your senses and come back home. You’ve been gone for a coon’s age. When you didn’t show up for Christmas two weeks ago, I about gave up hope. Now, come on in here and get warmed up.”
“Where am I?”
“Why, child, you’re home in St. Tammany Parish, Louisiana.”
The old woman gave her a stare as if she’d lost her marbles. In a sense she had. At least her memory. She hesitated before entering.
Abigail.
The name didn’t resonate anywhere in the black abyss of her memory. “Abigail,” she said, trying on the name.
It would do as well as any other.
“What in the Sam Hill? You’re bleeding!” the old woman exclaimed, pulling her forward by the arm. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t know.” She entered the warmth of the house, desperately needing shelter. “Thank you, Grandmother,” Abigail murmured, and closed out the dark.
ONE
He’d found her.
Roman Black stared at the woman pinning flowered sheets to the clothesline in the yard of a run-down single-level house. The June Louisiana afternoon sun kissed the woman’s short dark hair as she bent and stretched to do her work. The red tank top covered her skin but couldn’t hide the bony structure of her ribs and shoulder blades.
A skirt, hanging to her ankles, appeared to be gathered at her hip with some sort of clip that made a fabric ponytail stick out. Obviously the skirt was too big.
She turned slightly, giving Roman a better view of her face.
He glanced at the photo in his hand. Yep. Had to be the same woman. Satisfaction spread through him, making him smile. You can run, but you can’t hide.
The bounty hunter got out of his late-model SUV, leaving the truck parked crosswise in the dirt drive, just in case she planned on a speedy getaway. He stalked up the drive, his heavy black boots making little noise on the packed dirt and sparse gravel. As he drew closer he heard the woman’s soft melodic humming. A tune familiar, yet he couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.
“Leah,” he said.
The woman spun around with a gasp. Her big brown eyes widened. The fight-or-flight response warred in her frightened expression.
“Leah Farley,” he repeated, watching closely to see how she’d play this.
“I…I’m sorry. There’s no one here by that name. How did you…?” She looked past him down the drive. “I didn’t hear you drive in.”
So this is the way it was going to go down. “Look, I’m taking you in, Leah Farley.”
Without hesitation she turned and fled through the swaying sheets, artfully dodging and weaving.
Roman went after her, not as artfully. After fighting back the damp bedding that clung to him, he burst through to the other side into the backyard that was nothing but a patchy lawn on the edge of a dry field.
A door to his left banged shut. The loud click of a bolt sliding home rang in his ears. He ran up the porch stairs and pounded on the door. “Open up!”
From the other side of the wooden door, he heard shuffling and frantic, whispered chatter.
He pounded his fist on the door again. “Leah Farley, open this door on the count of three or I’ll bust it down.”
No answer.
Roman ran a hand through his hair. Man, he hadn’t counted on her being so difficult, but then again, she was a murderess.
One, two, three. Using all two hundred twenty pounds of his weight, he rammed his shoulder into the door. The lock popped. The door flew wide-open.
He stumbled inside and quickly regained his balance in a ready-to-fight stance. And found himself staring down the business end of a rifle.
He held up his hands, palms out. “Whoa. Take it easy, now.”
His gaze traversed the rusted and ancient-looking double-barrel to the equally ancient-looking woman holding the weapon. Though clouded with age, eyes the color of a stormy sky stared at him from a wrinkled face that the passage of time hadn’t been kind to. Even her floral, shapeless housedress looked faded, as if she’d washed and worn it a million times.
Just beyond the old woman’s shoulder stood Leah, bracing the rifle-toting granny as if the older woman might topple over.
Roman had two options that he could see. Talk the woman holding the gun into putting it down or take a chance that she wouldn’t be quick enough to pull the trigger before he disarmed her.
Forcibly disarming an elderly woman didn’t appeal. “Put the gun down and let’s talk this out.”
“You’ve got no right to come busting in here like this. Who do you think you are? If you’re a police officer, I want to see your badge,” the old woman demanded.
“I’m not with the police, ma’am. Name’s Roman Black, and I’m here to take Leah Farley back to Loomis to face the consequences of her actions.”
“We don’t know any Leah Farley. This here is my grandbaby, Abigail.”
Granddaughter? No way. He was certain the young woman standing before him was Leah Farley.
She might look a tad different; her long, curly hair had been shorn to a spiky ’do that made her look more like a teen than a woman in her midtwenties. She’d lost weight, which only accentuated her high cheekbones and straight nose.
She looked too much like Clint, Leah’s brother, for the woman not to be Leah. He shrugged and pulled out the picture tucked away in the pocket of his T-shirt and held it up for inspection. “Ma’am, your Abigail is a dead ringer for the Leah Farley in this photo. And she looks a lot like her brother, my friend Clint.”
The elderly woman glanced at the photo. Doubt entered her cloudy gaze. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“If I have, then the authorities can straighten it out. My job is to bring this woman into custody. If she’s really your granddaughter, she’ll be set free. But you don’t want to be charged with aiding and abetting a known fugitive, do you?”
More doubt crossed the older woman’s features, and the barrel of the gun dipped toward the floor.
Pressing the issue, Roman said, “You wouldn’t like prison, ma’am. It’s very nasty.” He stepped forward and slowly, gently, so as not to startle her into firing, wrapped his hand around the barrel.
“She’s my granddaughter,” the old woman insisted as she relinquished her hold.
“Then everything will be just fine.” Roman checked the rifle. No shells. “An unloaded gun isn’t much protection,” he muttered as he stood the weapon on its butt against the doorjamb. He moved past the grandmother and secured Leah by the arm.
She winced and drew back. “Please, my name is Abigail Lang and this is my grandmother, Colleen. She needs me. You can’t take me away.”
“I’m sure there are social services that can help her. You are my only concern.”
He pulled her toward the door.
She dug in her h
eels. “How come? How come you are doing this? You said you weren’t a cop. So how come?”
“You can’t just take her,” Colleen said, her hunched shoulders shaking and her breathing coming fast as she kept pace with them while he propelled Leah forward.
“You should go take a rest, Ms. Lang,” Roman suggested, worried that with so much exertion the woman would collapse and then he’d have to take her with him. “I’ve got a job to do. I’m sure if I’m wrong, she’ll be back in no time.”
“Let me at least make her comfortable,” Leah cried.
“Sorry, no can do. I’m not going to risk losing you again. The authorities have been searching for you since January.”
“You didn’t answer me. How come?” she pressed, and made a grab for the door frame.
Blocking her access, he stated, “I’m a bounty hunter hired by Dennis Farley to find his brother, Earl Farley’s, murderer. That would be you. The late Earl Farley’s widow.”
Shaking her head, she said, “No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Look, lady, I don’t care if you’re guilty or innocent. That’s for the courts to decide.” He propelled her down the porch stairs even as she reached out for the railing. “Don’t make me handcuff you.”
She stopped struggling, but the fire of determination didn’t leave her eyes. “I still don’t understand why you have to do this.”
“I’m repaying my client a debt owed and will get a nice bounty out of the deal, as well. It’s just too bad you turned out to be my friend Clint’s little sister.”
“I don’t know a Clint. I don’t have a brother.”
“How come you killed him?” he asked, curious why Clint’s baby sister resorted to murder.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name’s Abigail Lang. I live here. I care for my disabled grandmother. You’ve made a mistake.”
She actually sounded like she believed what she was saying. Whatever. He’d been hired to find her, not determine her mental status. He led her through the drying sheets and out to the front drive.
