Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  Buildings and concrete haltingly gave up their hold on the land. There were more trees, the land open and rolling. Dark green cedar trees covered the otherwise fields of green. It was cold, but not frozen. Sort of balmy for all that. Other trees—he had no idea what kind—dotted the landscape. They drove into Cedar Hill and he heard her shudder out a breath.

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Pull over.”

  Lincoln pulled into a convenience store. He parked and waited. Other travelers pulled in, were filling up with petrol, grabbing a bite.

  “I can’t do this,” she muttered again. “It’s Christmas Eve. The whole damn family might be there.”

  “So?” he asked.

  He turned in his seat to watch her.

  She was pale, her knuckles white. She kept taking big breaths.

  “Are you about to be ill, then?”

  A frown creased her brow. “No. I just . . . I just . . . ” Those wickedly icy eyes rose to his.

  Blimey, what he wouldn’t give to take the pain and shadows away . . .

  But it wasn’t his place. He was simply to get her home, or some other safe place.

  “Morgan . . . ” he started, wanting to tell her there was no rush.

  “Damn it!” she hissed. “Just go. Go before I chicken out, break here when he never broke me there.”

  Lincoln waited another minute. His mobile chirped. He sighed, pulled it out and answered.

  “You make it?” Shadow asked.

  “Not yet. We’ve stopped for a bit, but we’re about to head that way.”

  “Just checking in.”

  Lincoln smiled and put the car in gear. “Worried about me, mate?”

  Shadow chuckled and hung up.

  Shaking his head, Lincoln pulled out, merging into the traffic again, wondering where to go.

  He didn’t say a bloody word, just waited.

  Morgan took another deep breath and watched the scenery. They were almost to the turnoff.

  She could do this. She would do this. The weight that had lodged on her chest seemed to get heavier.

  The city bustle had given way to small-town life. Cedars, pecan and cottonwood trees stretched to the cold gray sky.

  “Where did you say it was again?”

  She jumped at his voice, glancing down at the fists in her lap, not realizing she’d even made them. Looking back out the window, she said, “Willow Creek Ranch. About ten miles on this road. Fourth county road on your left outside the city limits. You’ll see the gates on your right several miles down it.”

  Linc reached out and flipped the stereo on. Christmas carols blared from the speakers. Morgan started to ask him to turn it off, but decided it was his Christmas Eve as well and he’d brought her all this way, driven her all the way out here. For a brief moment, she forgot her own worries and wondered if he had a family to go home to. He’d told her of his sister, but what of his parents? Was there anyone for him? A wife maybe? Probably not married with the type of life he led. If he had parents, would he go home to see them?

  And why did she care? She didn’t. She didn’t. Cars in the opposite lane whooshed by on the wet road. Her nerves strung tighter and tighter.

  She drummed her fingers on her knee. This was a mistake. Her heart slammed in her chest.

  Maybe no one would even be here. Please don’t let the whole family be there. How could she have forgotten Christmas Eve and how her aunts and cousins always gathered at the old family home?

  The car slowed and turned onto the county road.

  “Up here just a few miles,” she said again, swallowing past the nausea. “Stop!” she blurted out.

  He slammed on the brakes and they sat on the deserted road.

  Blood roared in her ears.

  He turned in the seat. “Morgan. You don’t have to do this. We can turn around right now and leave, and you won’t ever come back here again.”

  Ever come back here again . . . Ever come back here again . . .

  The words mixed with others from her memory.

  I just want to go home . . .

  “This is your home now, the only one you’ll have from now on, Dusk . . . ”

  She shoved the images away and focused on the slick dirt road in front of her. Shaking her head, she said, “No, it’s okay. Go ahead. God, I’m so damn weak.” Had he broken her more than she’d thought? Managed to chip away at her that much?

  Instead of continuing she felt his warm hand take hers again, squeeze until she looked at him. Those eyes, so dark, she’d swear they were black, narrowed on her. “Are you certain? You have to live with whichever choice you make.”

  Morgan closed her eyes. I’m home. I’m home. I’m home.

  Opening her eyes, she looked back at him. “For months, all I wanted to do was to go home. Before they took me, I wanted to go home, but Simon destroyed my identification so I couldn’t leave him. He only wanted my money, and I only wanted to go home. Then . . . ” Then everything changed. “Through it all, the thing I wanted most, Lincoln, was to be here. Here at home, far away from hell.” She sniffed and blinked the tears away. “And here I am and I want to turn around and run the other way. What’s wrong with me? I know they’ve been worried about me. How could I think of doing that to them?”

  The corners of his eyes creased on his smile as he gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You’ll do, Morgan Gaelord, you’ll do.”

  She frowned. What did that mean?

  He straightened, checked his mirror and put the car back in gear. The tires sucked at the mud as the car inched down the road.

  “Nothing is wrong with you and you’re not bloody weak,” he muttered.

  I’m home. I’m home. I’m home.

  Prickly pear cactus and cedars grew along old, cedar post, sagging, barbed-wire fences. Hereford cattle grazed in the pastures, mixed with a few gradient Brahmans, and black Brangus.

  Then the car was turning through the limestone and iron gate, the Bar-G insignia on both gateposts. The tires thumped over the cattle guard.

  Bare-limbed pecan trees lined the drive all the way up to the two-story turn-of-the-century home that her great-great-grandfather had built when he started the ranch well over a hundred years ago.

  The lighted windows of the house winked through the drizzle. Anxiety fluttered in her chest, a caged bird, its wings too short for flight, but wanting out just the same.

  * * *

  Gaelord Ranch; 6:02 p.m.

  Jackson Drake Gaelord—Jackson to associates and Jack or J.D. to family and friends—stood outside as water dripped off the eve to plop in the winter-barren flower bed. Native Texas grass grew under the pecan trees along the drive and in the pasture.

  The white fence, usually decked with garland and lights and what all not, was bare this year. He just hadn’t felt like messing with any of it. Then again, he’d hardly ever messed with it. That had been Morgan’s deal.

  On a sigh, he sat in the swing, the chains creaking. The big old house was eerily quiet. The soft sound of carols from inside, which he knew Suzy was playing in hopes things would miraculously get better, mixed with the faint sound of the drizzle, the horses nickering from the barn and the bellows of the grazing cattle.

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deep.

  He learned he hated the holidays. Hated them. Once upon a time he’d loved them. It had taken him years after Molly, his estranged wife, left to enjoy them again. And enjoyment had been found thanks to his sister, Morgan. Where Molly broke his heart, and he hers, his sister, with her impish pranks, had helped heal the pain of losing his father and then his wife. But as Morgan got older, he’d become more a parent and they didn’t always get along. Though, no matter what, they’d always enjoyed Christmas. Except for last year. After the blowup last year with Morgan and the bastard Simon Dixon, he’d hoped this year would be different. Hell, he hadn’t even met the sorry S.O.B. The investigator he’d hired showed Jackson all he’d needed to know. The bastard had been using Mo
rgan. But what of it all? Here it was another year. Unfortunately, not for the better.

  While he and Gideon had yelled and cursed last year at their sister, they at least knew where the hell she was.

  They hadn’t heard from her in six blasted months, or even before that. He’d only known she’d been in Prague over in the Czech Republic because he’d kept track of where money from her trust fund was being wired. That was before Gaelord lawyers finally gained some ground and he’d gotten control back, blocking the wire transactions. Not a word since, and they even reported her missing here in the U.S. and in the Czech Republic, for all the damn good that did. He still called the Interpol officer every week to see if they’d learned anything new. Nothing.

  That was one thing about raising a sibling from the age of twelve. You thought more like a parent than a sibling. Though if his father and stepmother had lived, he still would have been worried about Morg. At least J.D. Senior had been spared this.

  As it was, J.D. had slowly been going out of his freaking mind. All because he’d tried to show her what a bastard Simon Dixon had been.

  The chains creaked on the swing as he swung out and in.

  In a couple of hours, his aunts and cousins would descend. And where the hell was Gideon? If J.D. had to put up with the family, then by God, so did his brother.

  He hadn’t wanted to celebrate this year at all, but the aunts had rolled right over him. Being in charge of the family meant he was in charge of the family traditions, which was just a pain in the ass if you asked him.

  The north wind whipped around the edge of the house, sending a shiver down his spine. Maybe he’d just freeze to death out here and he’d be spared a night of entertaining his late father’s three sisters and their husbands and various children.

  Samson, the blue-eyed Catahoula hound, looked at him, his head resting on his paws.

  “I know,” J.D. told him. “You’d better hide later or Nate and Trina will try to ride you again.”

  Samson sniffed, as if saying he would not tolerate such indignities.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  When another breeze cut across the porch, he stood and turned to go in. Samson lumbered up, his tail wagging, and let out a series of barks.

  December days were short and the wet dirty weather darkened the days even more quickly.

  J.D. studied the dark blue sedan driving slowly up the gravel drive.

  Who in the hell? It wasn’t any family car that he remembered. The car pulled to a stop and he watched the driver turn in his seat and say something to the passenger.

  The passenger door opened and a woman got out. Hope tripped in his heart. Molly?

  He frowned and waited at the top porch step, resting his hand on the white Doric column.

  No, the woman wasn’t Molly, she was too tall.

  She tugged a camel-colored peacoat close and waited as the driver got out, pulled on a black coat and shut his door. The man was not one J.D. knew. J.D. looked back at the woman and his gut tightened. No, the hair color was all wrong. He stared, excitement tingling through him anyway at the way she stood, then shifted. Hope that he hadn’t felt in far too long.

  She waited until the man skirted around the hood and stood next to her. He said something, she shook her head, and the man brushed a hand down her arm.

  Was it her? She shook her head again and turned toward the house.

  J.D. stopped breathing. She stood for a moment, just staring at the house, then started to walk toward it, the man in step behind her.

  Samson’s bark echoed along the porch. “Hush,” he said.

  The dog stood beside him.

  He knew the moment she saw him. She halted in the middle of the cobbled walkway.

  Good God. Her face was pale and she was so thin her cheekbones stood out.

  “Morg?” he asked, taking one step down.

  She just stood there. He watched her shake her head, bow it, then shake it again before looking at him.

  “Morgan?” He stepped down the last three steps.

  She seemed lost. He glanced at the man behind her, saw a warning in those dark black eyes.

  J.D. ignored whoever the man was and focused on his sister. He opened his arms. “I don’t even get a hug?” he asked quietly. God, please let her be coming home. He’d kill her later, but right now . . .

  She stepped away from the man and flew at him.

  He stumbled back but held her tightly against him. Thank God. Thank you, God.

  Her shoulders shook. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—I—I’m s—s—sorry, Jack. I’m so, so sorry.”

  She felt brittle to him, so damn thin. He gentled his hug on her, felt a muscle jump in his jaw.

  He pulled her back, just a bit. “You’re home.”

  Her eyes, the color of his own, were shadowed with something he couldn’t pinpoint, but chilled his blood just the same. Whatever it was, it was more than hurt. Dark circles bruised the area around them.

  The smile on his face hurt. It had been so long since he’d smiled. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

  He’d meant to get a smile out of her. Panic fluttered in his chest when her eyes filled with tears and trickled silently over to trail down her cheeks.

  “Hey. Hey.” He pulled her close again, felt the tremors wracking her too-slight frame. What the hell? His eyes locked on the man who had turned his back on them. That man, whoever the hell he was, wasn’t Dixon. J.D. had seen a picture of that bastard. “You’re home now,” J.D. whispered into her hair. He pushed her back, ran his hands over her short, blondish-red hair. “You’re home. That’s all that matters.”

  She continued to stare at him in that way that had nausea greasing his stomach. So much pain and heartache in that stare. “What is it, Morg? What?”

  “I can stay?” she whispered.

  What? He squeezed her shoulders. “That’s a stupid question. This is your home. You don’t even need to ask. You know that.”

  Where the hell had she been? All this time?

  She shook her head, more tears falling. “I don’t know anything anymore, Jack. Not anything.”

  On a shuddering breath, she pushed away from him and rubbed her arms.

  The silence between them grew. J.D. reached for her, but she stepped back again. He raised a brow. Clearing his throat, he said, “You better get inside and tell Suzy you’re here. She’d like to know.”

  He glanced to the man who had turned back to them, but still stayed several steps behind.

  Morgan stood, as if rooted to that one spot. One more nod. “I will.” Half turning, she motioned with her hand. “Jackson, this is . . . ” Her voice trailed off before she cleared her throat. “This is Lincoln Blade.”

  And who was Lincoln Blade to J.D.’s sister? He’d find that out later.

  Morgan shivered and the man finally spoke. “You’re cold,” he said in a calm British voice.

  J.D. blinked.

  Mr. Blade took her elbow, looked straight into J.D.’s eyes and said, “Your sister doesn’t need to be out in the cold. Perhaps we could take this inside?”

  Who the hell was this guy? J.D. took a deep breath, raked his hand through his hair and nodded. “Yeah, sorry about the manners.”

  The man smiled, a quick flash that made him seem almost human. “No problem. I expect it’s a bit of a shock.”

  Morgan reached for J.D.’s hand, dislodging Mr. Blade’s hand on her arm. J.D. slung his arm around her shoulders. “God, Morg.” He kissed the top of her head, a dozen questions racing through his mind as they walked up the rock walkway to the porch.

  On a deep breath, she asked, “Is . . . Is everyone coming tonight?”

  He wished to hell they weren’t now. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  She licked her lips, then looked at him, and he caught his breath again at the pain in her eyes.

  “I—I can’t . . . ” She took another deep breath and stopped on the porch. “I’m sorry, Jack. I just can’t .
. . ”

  He guided her to the house. His sister acted as if given the chance, she’d bolt.

  She stepped away from him. “I know this will seem really rude. But I just can’t deal with all of them. Not now.”

  Irritation that she was the same old Morgan shifted through the excitement. He bit the words off, not wanting to fight with her.

  “They’ve missed you too. We’ve all missed you. God, Gideon and I were out of our minds.”

  Her hands trembled as she raked them through her hair. “I know I would have done this before just out of spite or selfishness or whatever.” Her haunted eyes rose to his. “But please, please Jack, please give me this night. I cannot deal with Aunt Maybell wanting every detail and Cousin Becky wanting to know about the . . . the . . . m-men. I just—I just can’t.”

  A shadow crept over him. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  “Let’s go inside and tell Suzy hi,” he said softly.

  She dropped her head and jerked the door open. Mr. Blade caught it and held it open for them.

  J.D. didn’t know what was going on, but he meant to find out.

  Chapter 15

  Morgan stood in the entryway, the warmth and fragrance of cinnamon mixing with sage from the stuffing and roasted turkey. She took one long shaky breath. Home wrapped its arms around her just as her brother had earlier.

  Calm down, she just needed to calm down.

  But the shaking wouldn’t quit. It was as if suddenly all the rage and terror and horror and longing were pulling her apart inside.

  She fisted her hands and tucked them under her crossed arms.

  Her boots clicked on the hardwood floors.

  Home. She was home.

  “Suzy! Suzy!” Jack yelled.

  She glanced at Lincoln standing in the entryway with that unreadable patient look on his face. Instead of worrying what he was thinking, she turned her attention back to Jack, who motioned her toward the dining room. Her brother was still handsome. Long and lean, muscled from early years on the ranch and more recently, if he hadn’t changed, a religious workout schedule. He smiled at her. That crooked half smile she’d missed so much and hadn’t even realized it until she saw it aimed at her. His eyes, the color of her own, questioned without words. There was a bit more gray at his temples in that thick brown hair than the last time she’d seen him. She reached a hand out and ran it over the starched white sleeve of his button-down, noted the man still used enough starch on his Wranglers they could stand alone in the corner.