Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  So I’m seeing another shrink, a woman, thank God. I can’t tell her too much without compromising my identity and I don’t want to lose this, but it’s a rock and fucking hard place, ya know?

  But enough of me. I’ve got two weeks left and then graduation. I wish you could come. I really wish you could, but I know you can’t. One day, but not this soon. Then I’ll be off to wherever they assign me—70-day field training. Basically they observe us and make sure we’ll actually do the job and not screw up.

  So how are you? Any more nightmares? I still have them all too damn much. Have you seen or thought you’ve seen them again? I know the last time you didn’t tell anyone because you don’t want them to think you’re losing it. No one does, Morgan. You should get out of the house. Go running, jogging, walking. Hell, skip down to that creek you’re always telling me about. You should take a self-defense class. I bet if you ask around, you could hire a female officer to come out or to meet you to teach you. You need this. I won’t quit harping on it. It helps. Makes you feel like if anyone ever tried anything, you’d have a chance. Ya know? OK, OK, I’ll stop. But think about it.

  Wish me luck, these next two weeks are going to suck. Love you and take care.

  ~Amy

  Sighing, she quickly typed back a reply and hit send. She envied Amy. A police officer. Of course someone could still kill her, hurt her, but Amy was learning to take care of herself. One day, she would too. Perhaps they could find someone to come out here and teach her self-defense. Surely private tutors could be hired, a cop wanting to make some money on the side?

  She checked the clock and saw it was almost time to leave. Movement from outside the window drew her attention—Gideon’s silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway.

  Hurrying, she grabbed her purse off the bed and headed out. It was warm enough this time of year she didn’t need a jacket. Gideon was on his phone. She merely hurried down the steps and slid into the passenger’s seat, buckling the belt.

  Breathing out, she didn’t say a word. She’d done this several times now. Nothing to it. Just ride in the car, get out, talk to the doctor, get back in the car, drive home. No. Big. Deal.

  The chills still prickled her arms and she fought the tightness in her chest.

  Gideon said into the phone, “I don’t have time for this. Call the server company and find out what’s going on. I won’t be back in the office for another—” He paused, his gaze raking her white button-down and jeans, the same thing she always wore to the appointment. “I won’t be back for at least three hours.”

  What the hell? Instead of asking the question, she concentrated on relaxing. Why she was so scared to leave the house was beyond her. It was unreasonable, but she couldn’t get rid of it. The ranch was safe. Inside no one could see her, and she was safe.

  Yet she, better than anyone, knew that safety was merely an illusion.

  The green grass along the road was dotted with clouds of bluebonnets and red Indian paintbrushes. They’d started blooming several weeks ago. She studied the different flowers as Gideon wove in and out of traffic, the green giving way to more concrete and asphalt.

  Dallas made her nervous. She felt like some asylum escapee when she came here. Sounds were magnified, everyone seemed shady and sinister. Why, she had no idea.

  Paranoia was a very unhealthy thing.

  But then most people with paranoia didn’t actually have someone who would enjoy killing them either.

  “ . . . to get you some decent clothes.” Gideon’s rough voice jerked her back to the here-and-now.

  “What?” she asked him.

  He glanced at her as he took their exit. “Clothing. You lounge around the house in old pajama bottoms and T-shirts. And when you go out you wear those same jeans and either that white shirt or the blue one. When it was colder, you wore a turtleneck.”

  She tensed and waited.

  “You’ve an entire closet full of clothes by the top designers most could never even afford, why don’t you wear them?” he asked.

  She shook her head, feeling the longer tresses that had grown out. “I don’t like them.”

  “Why?” He took another turn.

  “They’re whore’s clothes,” she said simply, looking out the window, taking a deep breath.

  Gideon didn’t say a word. Instead he pulled into the parking lot of the three-story brick counseling center. Slowly he cut the ignition. Finally, he looked at her. “Why do you call them that?”

  She shrugged, and for lack of anything better to do, flipped the visor down and opened the mirror. Her roots—two inches at least—were dark against the still light reddish brown of the dye used back in Prague. “Tight, skimpy clothes that were the rage. Like you never thought it, Gid. You and Jack, for that matter, said it more than once and—”

  He laid his hand on her arm. “But we didn’t mean—”

  “And you were right,” she interrupted.

  He cleared his throat. “Whore’s clothes. Well, I guess some might see it that way. What’s with the sudden change of mind?”

  She quickly looked away. “Can we just go in?”

  His eyes bore into hers, the edges of his mouth lined. “Well, at least you make my argument easier.”

  “What argument?” she asked.

  He raised a brown brow. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “No.” She flipped the visor back up. It wasn’t like she needed to check her makeup since she wasn’t wearing any.

  He sighed. “I’m taking you shopping. I told J.D. you needed some clothes, but if he took you, you’d get jeans, boots, and shirts with little pearl buttons on them or something from Sheplers for God’s sake.”

  She smiled at his grimace. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m taking you shopping. End of discussion. And maybe we can run by a salon and get your roots either done or dye your hair back dark.”

  Morgan frowned. “I just want to go home, Gid.”

  “Too bad, we don’t always get what we want.” With that he got out, and she sat in the car looking at him. Climbing out, she slammed the door. “I’m not going shopping.”

  He opened the building door for her and asked, “You going to find your own ride home then?”

  Why the hell couldn’t Jack have taken her today? Gideon was normally the quiet one, and though Jack pushed her, he also knew when to stop.

  “I don’t need new clothes. I’m fine.” She glared at him.

  He glared back. “Well, I’m not. I’m going to buy you some clothes so get used to it. And we may just stop off at the salon for your hair. Deal with it.”

  She stopped in front of him. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  His brows rose and he leaned close. “Your brother. Now get your ass upstairs so you’re not late. Late is an inconvenience.”

  Pissed that he couldn’t possibly understand, she walked in to the foyer, cool air-conditioned air soothing over her. She took the stairs up to the second floor. “I don’t want to go shopping, Gideon. I don’t want to go to the Galleria. And I don’t care about getting my hair done.”

  She all but ripped the suite’s door open and caught herself before she snapped at the receptionist. As she stepped through the reception area’s door back into Dr. Stewart’s office, she caught Gideon’s smile. Morgan glared at him and shut Dr. Stewart’s door, still mad at her interfering brother.

  Dr. Stewart, in her mid-forties with red short-cropped hair and an affinity for tunic-style clothing, always reminded Morgan of an elf. It was the short hairstyle, the triangular face with sharp angles and wide, tilted eyes. Separately, the eyes, the straight nose, and pouting mouth wouldn’t require a second glance, but as a whole Dr. Stewart was a striking woman. And as a former model, Morgan should know.

  Dr. Stewart tilted her head. “Something wrong, Morgan?”

  Morgan huffed into the chair she always occupied. It was a wide, overstuffed blue armchair. The whole office was done in varying shades of blue. Dr.
Stewart liked the ocean.

  “My brother,” Morgan admitted, dropping her purse.

  Dr. Stewart sat in a chair opposite with her notepad. “You seem upset, want to talk about it?”

  “Isn’t that what I’m here for?”

  Dr. Stewart’s perfectly arched brow rose.

  Morgan took a deep breath. “He said he was taking me shopping and to get my hair done whether I wanted to or not.”

  Dr. Stewart waited. “And this upset you?”

  Morgan stared at her. “He wants to go to the mall, for God’s sake. And I can’t talk to Gideon when he gets an idea in his head. He’s not like Jack. Jack I could have explained that the crowds make me nervous and he would have said okay.”

  “Like the bed frame issue?” Dr. Stewart asked.

  Morgan frowned. She’d only been home a month and one morning Jack said they were going shopping for a new bed for her. When she refused to go, she’d been forced to explain why she wouldn’t sleep in hers. The bed frame squeaked and she couldn’t stand it. If he wanted to go shopping for a bed, fine. Just make certain the head- and footboard were solid wood. She wanted no slats or four-posters. Jack had simply taken hers apart. The next day he showed up with some sort of wooden platform that her box springs and mattress sat on. It gave her room—or at least the bed—a minimalist, Eastern look, but she didn’t care. He was happy she wasn’t sleeping on the floor, or that her mattress wasn’t on the floor, and she was happy with no squeaky, slatted frame that brought on panic attacks.

  She grinned. “Yeah, like the bed frame issue.”

  “Did you have your usual worries on the way into the building?” Dr. Stewart asked.

  Usual worries meaning darted looks over her shoulder, worried someone would jump out at her from behind the tree. She hated the little attached parking garage to the point that she and Jack had once walked two blocks to get to the office when the small lot in front of the building had been full. She’d rather worry walking than stress about who or what lurked in the shadows of the parking garage. And she wasn’t about to walk alone. So Jack had parked down the street and they’d walked. That was three weeks ago.

  But today . . . Morgan sighed. “No. No, I didn’t. I was too busy being pissed at Gideon and thinking how he couldn’t possibly understand.”

  Dr. Stewart smiled. “Do you think he’ll really make you go to the mall? And would shopping be so bad? I’d like to see you in something with more color than a white or blue shirt.”

  Morgan picked at the blue material of the chair. “You like blue and white.”

  The doctor smiled. “Yes, but do you?”

  Morgan closed her eyes and wondered how quickly this session would pass.

  * * *

  Morgan tilted her head down, her chin almost touching her chest as the stylist clipped the back of her hair.

  I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’m in Dallas. In the mall. At a goddamn salon. Not in Prague or Cheb.

  Thoughts swirled endlessly in her brain.

  Her hands gripped the chair arms beneath the salon cover. She was certain there were finger indentations in the vinyl.

  “Bend it down just a bit more,” the stylist said, one hand on the back of her skull, gently pushing. Clip, clip, the shears snipped hair away, and it fell, tickling her neck. But his hand remained on the back of her head.

  The grave yawned in front of her.

  Clip. Clip.

  She heard the sound of a gun leaving its holster. The hiss of steel on leather. He leaned down and whispered, his breath hot in her ear, “Would you like to join Ebony?”

  Her hands fisted in her lap, the knuckles marred and dirty. Trembles wracked her body.

  The cold hard barrel of the gun bit into the base of her skull.

  Clip. Clip.

  She flinched and her trembles increased. A sob threatened up her throat.

  Help me, she silently screamed. And knew no one would answer. The image of her parents, of her brothers, of Suzy flashed through her brain. She closed her eyes and focused. Tried to see the ranch, her room, the bright sunny days heating her skin. Let me be there. Let me be there. Let me be there.

  But the fear kept her here. Here beside a grave.

  “Would you like to join Ebony, Dusk?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

  Still she couldn’t move, only trembled, her head bowed.

  The press of the gun against her head focused her to here. To now.

  Clip. Clip.

  “P-p-pl-please,” she whispered.

  “What was that? I didn’t quiet catch it. Did you say something?”

  Clip. Clip. “What was that?”

  She blinked, trembled, nausea knifing through her stomach.

  “Please, please stop.” She jerked her head up. “Stop now. I—don’t want . . . I don’t.” Shaking, sick, she ripped the cover off, shoved it onto the counter. Bottles, brushes and combs clattered to the floor.

  “But—But I’m not finished yet and . . . ”

  Morgan darted a look around the room. Eyes stared back at her. She had to get out of here. Had to . . .

  “Morgan.”

  She jerked at the touch on her arm.

  Two hands grabbed her. “Morgan!”

  She couldn’t breathe, bands tightened around her chest. People streamed by in a kaleidoscope. She had to leave . . .

  She jerked free of the hold, all but running out of the salon. At the door she turned and walked quickly to the department store they’d recently come out of. She shoved several people out of the way. She had to get out. Had to get away.

  “No one escapes me, Dusk. No one. You won’t ever try, will you?”

  “No . . . ”

  No . . .

  “Morgan.”

  “No!” she yelled, whirling.

  Gideon panted beside her, bags in his hands, concern and worry in his eyes.

  Gideon.

  Morgan blinked. Took a deep breath, blinked again and looked around. They stood in the fragrance and cosmetics department.

  Chills spiraled down her back, pricking between her shoulder blades. People had stopped and looked at them. Several walked around them. Gideon’s hand on her arm guided her out of the center of the aisle to the side. “Morgan?”

  “Can I help you?” a lady dressed in a smart black dress asked.

  Morgan could only stand there, blinking. God, she’d flipped. Totally flipped. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Vaguely she heard Gideon say something, felt his hand and let him guide her out of the store, across the lot to the car.

  Neither said a word as they drove out of Dallas. Morgan curled in the passenger’s seat and stared out the window.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  Morgan didn’t answer him. She felt hollow. Embarrassed, ashamed and lost . . .

  “Want to talk about it?” he tried.

  Morgan licked her lips. “No.”

  She realized they were turning onto the county road of the ranch.

  “Damn it,” he gritted out, his hand thumping the wheel. “Damn it, Morg. Why won’t you talk to us?”

  Her stomach fluttered. She had angered him and hadn’t meant to. “Just forget it, please, Gideon.” She turned and stared at him. “Please?”

  “Them. They. You wake me up screaming like someone is killing you.” His face was a contorted mask of rage, confusion and hurt. “You’re fucking scared to leave the house, you freak out at the salon, going white as a damn sheet, and you want me to forget it?” He turned through the gateposts and muttered, “Forget it?”

  She realized it was still light, thanks to the time change, though it was well after six. Jack’s Range Rover sat in the garage.

  She licked her lips. “For me, Gideon. Please. If I can’t forget it, it’ll kill me.” It was the first time she’d uttered the words, but the truth blinded her in them.

  If she couldn’t forget and move on . . . or at least deal with it and move on, because she knew she’d never be lucky enough to for
get.

  She might not be in a whorehouse anymore, but she never felt far from it. It was always there in the back of her mind. He was always there, just waiting, waiting until she was too tired to fight him, too weary to hide, too exhausted to barricade against the horrors and memories that slithered through her.

  He narrowed his gaze at her. “Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”

  Gideon all but threw his door open, cursing his way around the hood. Morgan unclipped her belt and climbed out, surprised at how shaky she was.

  She reached up, cupped his face and whispered, “I’m sorry, Gideon. I’m sorry for disappointing you.”

  His brows formed a V. “Oh, Morg. I’m not disappointed. I just wanted to let you see there was nothing to fear. Wanted to take you shopping.” His eyes searched hers. “I’d hoped to see you smile, maybe, just maybe hear you laugh.” A muscle ticked in his jaw as he ran his hand over her head. “We’ve missed your laugh. And Jack and I both would do anything, try anything to take away whatever haunts you.”

  The tears she kept on hold slid down her cheeks.

  “We’re your brothers. We’re supposed to take care of you.”

  She swallowed and grinned. “I’m almost twenty-six, Gid.”

  “And we’re still your big brothers.” His eyes searched hers. “Let us help you, Morg.”

  She smiled, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You have.”

  He snorted and slung his arm around her. “Yeah, right.”

  She stopped on the walkway, realized that Jack was in the porch swing. “You have. Both of you, more than you could ever, ever know.” She frowned and thought of how to phrase her words. Walking silently up the steps, she halted at the door and glanced from one to the other.

  Taking a deep breath she said, “For a very, very long time, I couldn’t even think of this place, or I’d have gone insane. Then it was all I could think of, all I wanted, and somehow, by some miracle, no matter what they did, I never uttered a word about the ranch. Or either of you, or even really of me.” That much was the truth. “There were days I begged them to just kill me and be done with it.” Her hands shook and she licked her lips, wiping her cheeks, and realized neither of them so much as moved. “You want to know who, and what and where and why. You’re my brothers,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “and I love you too much to burden you with that, because there are some things that are simply too dark to live with.” She started to pull the screen door open, but stopped. “I know you don’t understand. I know you want to fix it all, but I’m telling you both now. I’m not leaving the ranch again.” She looked up and speared Gideon with a look. “I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. You saw that today. Please don’t ask that of me. Not yet. I can do what I need to do here and if Dr. Stewart won’t come out here, then I’ll find another doctor that will.”