by Lora Leigh
“What’s the name of this street?” she asked.
She’d meant to assuage that bit of curiosity months ago, but had forgotten.
“Callahan.” A world of mockery filled his tone. “They took the sign down when our parents died.”
“None of this makes sense.” She shook her head. “Weren’t the families all close once?”
“The four founding fathers of the county were raised together from birth. John Corbin the first, Jason Rafferty, Andrew Roberts and James Randal ‘Jr’ Callahan the first. They were the same as brothers. They had saved each other’s lives, killed for each other. The story goes that the bond between them was unshakable. They should have been running the country.” The low grunt of laughter was amused and yet bitter. “If only their sons, grandsons, and so forth could have known that bond. Or at least the decency the four of them showed.”
“So all of this began six generations ago?” she probed.
“Pretty much.” He nodded. “They transferred their families, their ranches, and in a matter of months Sweetrock and Corbin County were begun. Very quietly, but very quickly.”
“They had a dream then?”
“Yeah, I guess they did.” Another alley, another yard, then he and Skye cut over until they were walking along the mountain’s base behind Rafferty Lane and using the trees for cover. “That dream sustained them. Our fathers told us stories that their father told them, that his father told him. Callahans were horse breeders, but the need for quarter horses faded away, leaving the farm. By the fourth generation Callahans were on the verge of losing it all. Eileen and James Randal’s boys were in the Army, unable to help them. That was when Eileen made a decision that changed all their lives. She and friends of hers created an elaborate plot to allow them to buy her blond-haired blue-eyed son for an exorbitant amount. It was enough to save the ranch from being taken and to pay the hospital bills for her husband. Then they set about ensuring they could rub the noses of the other families in the fact that they were unable to destroy them. They’d refused to help, even while her husband was dying because she couldn’t afford the medical costs. She hated them, and once they were forced to lose their newborn, her husband hated his side with the same ferocity.”
“Then they died.”
“Yeah, then they died,” he sighed.
His and Skye’s homes came into view. Porch lights blazing, looking serene in the darkness, and safe.
Just as Corbin County itself seemed serene and safe. Unless one was a Callahan.
“These trees at the edge of the yard were planted by my father,” Logan told her as he led her to the line of pines that stretched from the base of the mountain to the far edge of his home. “He wanted cover. After the boys returned from the war, Rafer’s uncle, Clyde said they were just different. Paranoid at times, and certain they were being watched.”
“Perhaps they were,” she said as they entered the shadows of those trees.
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “Perhaps it’s hereditary. Crowe, Logan, and I have installed heat conductors all along the lower edge of the mountain beginning about a block above where we came in and then along the side of the house. Anyone using the thermal image scanners or cameras is going to have a hell of a hard time seeing us.”
She frowned at the knowledge. “I haven’t seen that on my cameras.”
“Because it wasn’t turned on until I left tonight,” he told her. “I want to catch the fucker, Skye. But I also wanted to be certain we could get back to the house and get to the vehicles in the garage as well if we needed them.”
Yeah, maybe the paranoia was hereditary, she thought, but from what she’d seen herself, she was doubting it. And there was truth to the old saying. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get you,” she murmured.
“Pretty much.” The rueful acknowledgment in his tone made her feel slightly better until he continued. “We’ll go through my house; then you can reach yours through the side yard.”
So much for that arousal that had been inside her for most of the evening.
She wasn’t begging, she told herself. She simply wasn’t doing it.
Following him into the house, Skye moved through the house behind him until he unlocked the patio door, opened it, and stood back.
Without a word she moved quickly past him as she pulled her keys from the pocket of her jeans, at once thankful that she’d had each door keyed to the same key.
“Good night, Skye,” he called as she reached her door.
“Yeah. Night, Logan.” Unlocking it, she stepped inside the house, closed the door, then growled, “Asshole tease, fucking prick.”
She hated a man who teased. Not that she or any of her friends over the years had had that problem. Hell no, the men they’d dated were right there, ready to go, condom equipped and fully prepared to finish the night in their beds whether it was the first date or the second month.
She had to pick a man with frickin’ morals when it came to her life, though, and one who had decided, for her, that he wasn’t risking her life by sleeping with her.
As though that would change anything if the Slasher decided to come after her.
Locking the door behind her, she stared around the dimly lit living room and breathed out in regret before pulling the small automatic handgun from her purse and checking each room carefully.
Starting upstairs, she went through each bedroom, each closet, and looked under each bed.
Nothing was there, and nothing had been disturbed. And if anyone had tried to get into the house, then the vibration alarm on her watch would have warned her, just as it had warned her when Logan had slipped in.
Laying the gun on the kitchen counter, she was pouring a glass of water when the unexpected, the unthinkable happened.
She’d never imagined anyone but Logan could get past her security, and he’d only managed it because when he’d slipped into the house, the security system hadn’t been able to connect with the cell phone reception it used to warn her of an intrusion.
That had been a fluke.
This wasn’t.
She hadn’t turned the lights on. She couldn’t see the shadow that had hidden in the corner of the cabinets at the darkest place. She rarely did when coming in late. She had the alarm tied to her watch. She would know if there were intruders.
Tonight, someone had slipped past.
A foul-smelling, choking, damp cloth suddenly clamped over her face as a hard arm trapped hers at her side. The other hand, clamped over her mouth with the cloth beneath it, held her head brutally to a hard chest.
After that first, shocked intake of air and the scalding sensation of the fumes eating at her lungs, Skye fought to hold her breath.
The fumes from the cloth burned her eyes, causing them to tear as she rammed the heel of her boot down sharp and hard on the toe of her attacker’s.
He only laughed.
Steel toe.
God, she had to move.
She had to break his hold before she was forced to breathe in or lose consciousness.
Her hands and arms were immobilized.
High, steel-toed boots protected his feet and lower legs.
He still had balls though.
Jerking forcefully, obviously catching him just a little off guard, she was able to get one hand to his thighs, and before he could stop her, her fingers were digging into the sensitive sack.
A grunt, then a sharp cry, and the hold against her head loosened.
Lunging forward, Skye came back with enough force that the back of her head cracked into his teeth and nose, gaining her immediate release.
The alarm on the watch began vibrating against her wrist as she found herself flying. She was thrown away from her attacker, catapulted over the bar where her shoulder hit the edge with enough force to cause her to cry out.
A roar of pure male rage seemed to fill the night before the sharp sound of her back door slamming into the wall assured her the bastard was getting aw
ay.
“No!” She struggled to get to her feet.
Her gun was on the counter.
“Skye! Ah God. Skye. Baby!”
Logan was there.
She couldn’t see clearly.
Her vision was blurred, and the thick, foul taste of the cloth that had been clamped over her face seemed to permeate every inch of air she tried to suck into her starved lungs.
“Go,” she wheezed, certain she could breathe in just a moment. “He’s getting away. Go.”
“Like hell.”
She found herself suddenly jerked into his arms, picked up from the floor as the world seemed to spin around her in dizzying circles.
Logan was yelling something. Or was he screaming? She could hear his voice, but she couldn’t make out the words. They just didn’t seem to make enough sense as she felt herself floating.
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare fucking pass out on me,” he was definitely screaming at her. “Pass out on me, Skye, and I swear I’m going to spank your ass.”
Well. Hell.
She might like it.
That hazy, distant thought was followed by a wave of weakness causing her head to slump back on his shoulder.
“The fuck you’ll pass out on me.” He didn’t sound right.
There was something harsh, scratched about his voice.
“Breathe, damn you!”
Hell, he was screaming at her again, and the darkness was so—
Piercing, agonizing, air rushed into her lungs so hard that she almost threw up. Quickly, Logan gathered her in his arms.
Skye managed to tear herself away, only to find her knees collapsing as she fought to stand up. She was pitching to the floor when strong, warm hands suddenly caught her and one moved quickly to press her head to his chest again.
“No more,” she wheezed, tears pouring from her eyes as they burned painfully. “Please—” another choking fit and Logan was rubbing her back firmly with one hand and massaging her diaphragm with the other.
But she could breathe again.
She was able to draw in air without choking. She was no longer drifting in that place where there was no oxygen, no strength, nothing to hold her rooted in reality. But God, she could smell that scent. The one that had saturated the cloth her attacker had clamped over her mouth and nose.
“God! Oh God. Skye.”
Logan was rocking her?
She couldn’t open her eyes, not yet. She might be able to breathe now but she was still so incredibly weak.
“I don’t give a fuck what he’s doing!”
Logan was screaming again.
Why was he screaming?
“Put me through to Tobias, or the next time I see you I swear to God above I’ll tear your fucking head off your shoulders, rip your guts through your neck, and shit down it, Caine!”
If she had the strength, Skye would have winced at the deadly promise in Logan’s overly loud voice. “Now patch me through to him now, goddammit.”
She would have to have words with him over that particular vulgarity.
Damn, what was wrong with her?
She felt as though she were drifting in clouds, just a little thick, heavy, light-on-the-oxygen clouds.
But at least that beast with the sharp claws wasn’t ripping at her lungs anymore. Nope, his cousin, the body gremlin, was wracking her with smaller ones.
But it wasn’t as bad.
She could stand it.
The agency had been very proud of the fact that she had a high tolerance for pain.
The air became thicker, slowly. At first, she tried to fight to breathe, but something was so weak inside her that drawing that breath—
There was the beast again.
Ah hell, she was going to puke if this didn’t stop.
Fighting to breathe, suddenly sobbing with the pain tearing at her lungs and eyes, Skye tried to claw at her chest, certain something there was the reason for her lack of oxygen.
She had to get her flesh peeled away.
If she could just open her lungs.
That sharp, pain-heralding scent hit her senses again as Skye found the strength to fight.
Pitching, trying to roll, jerking against his hold, and sobbing out in agony, she fought to get free of the arms that locked her in place.
“Chest,” she gasped. “Get it—off.”
She really couldn’t breathe.
The only breaths she could take were those of what she was distantly aware were accompanied by the first-aid astringent used to force consciousness back.
Logan was jerking her shirt off, though, that was all that mattered.
He was cursing. He was using four-letter words she was certain even she hadn’t ever heard before.
A second later warmth suffused the cold flesh of her chest and washed over her breasts.
Was he washing her?
A slick, soap-slickened cloth was scrubbing at her flesh as she was suddenly lifted again.
“Come on, baby. Please. Skye, baby, please.” The pleas were so harsh, so desperate, she had to heed them.
She could hear the terror clawing at Logan’s voice. What had him so frightened?
Something was wrong. Was he in danger? Did he need her?
She had sworn to herself she would be there when he needed her.
Where she found the strength to force air into her lungs she wasn’t certain.
“Hurts,” she finally managed to gasp as she felt him laying her to the floor. “Please—”
Then his hands were beneath her breasts, pressing firmly, at first sending dull-toothed demons to rip at her lungs before they slowly, so very slowly, eased away.
Each gentle manipulation of her chest helped. Finally, her lungs began to work on their own.
It still hurt. It still hurt incredibly badly, but it was getting easier.
As the ability to breathe returned, she became aware of more sounds, more shouts and orders, demands and furious male accusations flying back and forth.
“Please.” She reached out for Logan, fighting to open her eyes.
The noise was piercing her skull.
“Logan, please.” Even the sound of her own voice was ripping at her brain.
“Easy. No more.” It was a whisper, soft despite the roughness of his tone. “Everyone’s quiet, baby.”
His head touched the side of hers and Skye could have sworn she felt his body shaking against hers. “Everyone’s quiet.”
Breathing in slow and easy, she just wanted to sleep now.
She could feel Logan’s hands still massaging her diaphragm, hear his whispers against her hair.
Then her face was being covered and oxygen began to simply infuse her being.
Precious, life-giving, sweet, pure oxygen.
Logan gently eased one of his big shirts over Skye’s arm, and with Archer’s help they lifted her gently and eased it behind her back before pushing the other arm through.
After buttoning the shirt, he lifted his arm and used the back of it to wipe the perspiration from his face.
At least he told himself it was perspiration that soaked his face.
“Here, Logan, let me get those buttons.” Looking down to see the trembling of his hands as he tried to button the shirt over her lacy bra, Logan eased back.
Quickly, efficiently, Archer slid the buttons into their holes, but Logan noticed even his hands weren’t quite steady.
The EMTs were trying to work around them.
A blood pressure cuff was tightening on her arm as Zach Kilgore glanced at Logan warily.
Zach was a third cousin. One of the decent ones, Logan had always thought. At the least, he spoke instead of pretending his Callahan cousins didn’t exist.
“Logan, we really need you and the sheriff to move,” Zach told him again. “We can’t help her if you don’t let us.”
Logan looked down.
Her breasts were rising and falling rhythmically. She wasn’t gasping any longer and her lips were losing their blu
ish tint.
“Come on, Logan.” Archer nudged his shoulder with his own as he crouched next to Logan. “You know you can trust Zach.”
Immediately Logan shook his head. He couldn’t trust anyone with her life.
No one.
“Trust me, Logan?” Archer asked then. “Do you think that together, we can’t stop anyone from hurting her?”
He lifted his eyes from the proof she was breathing before dragging in a harsh breath.
Nodding abruptly, he unstraddled her, watching the EMTs without an ounce of trust as they quickly moved into place.
Reaching behind him, he dragged the cloth that must have fallen just inside her shirt earlier from his back pocket.
The killer had finally a mistake. A mistake that Logan intended to use to ensure he tracked him down. And when he did?
He glanced at Archer, eyes narrowed as the sheriff stood watching, his hands braced on his hips as he glared down at Skye in worry.
“I’m going to kill him, Archer,” Logan said then.
The entire room seemed to still. Even the walls seemed to have a sense of waiting.
“Shut the fuck up, Logan,” the other man snapped, his expression forbidding. “You’re not thinking clearly right now. But you go any further and you’ll force me to do something I damned sure don’t want to do.”
Logan turned and stared at Skye once again.
She was still pale, but comfortable.
Every few minutes her lashes would struggle to lift, then drift closed again as she continued to gather her strength.
Lifting his hand, he stared at the cloth in his hand and knew what it was. The drug used to incapacitate each of the victims of the Sweetrock Slasher from now to twelve years before.
“What is it?” Archer asked as Logan rose slowly to his feet.
He could finally feel his heart beating again, feel the sense of unreality receding.
God help him, he’d almost lost her.
The EMTs had her stabilized and were talking to the doctors at the clinic. An IV had been pushed into her arm, a bag of fluids suspended from a metal stand beside her.
As Archer spoke, he’d grabbed an evidence bag and opened it quickly. Logan dropped the rag into it.
“It was trapped beneath her blouse after the bastard escaped,” he said, his voice still so rough he wondered if he could continue to hold back his screams of pure rage.
