by Rachel Lee
She thought she had nothing to fear...
...until she returned to Wyoming.
The shock of seeing a peeping Tom at her window revives nurse Haley McKinsey’s worst nightmare: her childhood abduction. Did this voyeur kidnap her so long ago?
But only her childhood friend Roger McLeod believes her suspicion. After several harrowing attempts on her life, Haley accepts the cowboy’s protection. And as their bond begins to turn into something more, a shadow from her past tries to silence her for good.
“Haley? Are you feeling ill?”
In an instant her eyes lost the hollow look and began to spark blue fire. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m not sick. But some jerk woke me up last night and opened a box of memories I’d safely put away under lock and key for almost twenty-five years.”
Roger hesitated, waiting, giving her a chance to continue. Then, wondering if he was prying, he asked the question boldly. “Your kidnapping?”
“Yes.” She snapped the word.
“I never heard much about it,” he said. “I was too young, nobody said anything to me and I just picked up that it had happened. But it was over quickly, right?”
Something in her posture eased. Her face and tone quieted a bit. “That didn’t make it much better.”
“I don’t imagine it would. I can’t conceive of anything more terrifying no matter how long it lasted.”
“It wasn’t just the terror,” she said slowly. Then she seemed to shake herself. “It’s in the past,” she said, as if reminding herself.
“Maybe not far enough in the past,” he remarked.
* * *
Be sure to check out the rest of the Conard County: The Next Generation miniseries!
* * *
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Dear Reader,
Traumatic events from our childhood can affect us for a long time, possibly throughout the rest of our lives. They can affect our perceptions of events in the present and our emotional well-being. They should never be minimized. While therapy can help, it cannot erase, and many will be haunted forever.
A single event can trigger us. We may experience paranoia and fear that we might once again experience terrible things. A hurricane, a tornado and other severe traumas may sometimes not be recognized as such until much later when we find ourselves lost in a cold sweat and an unwilling trip down the rabbit hole of memory.
We can also try to dismiss our current reactions as out of proportion to what is actually happening. We may be right about that or we may be wrong. Regardless, we have had our brains imprinted with a terrible experience. It will not go away.
In this story, Haley McKinsey falls into that rabbit hole of her past abduction. She doubts her own fears, doubts her own interpretation, tries to tell herself she is overreacting. Roger McLeod doesn’t think she is and becomes her ally as she faces the moment when present and past combine to create terror.
Rachel Lee
STALKED IN
CONARD COUNTY
Rachel Lee
Rachel Lee was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.
Books by Rachel Lee
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Conard County: The Next Generation
Guardian in Disguise
The Widow’s Protector
Rancher’s Deadly Risk
What She Saw
Rocky Mountain Lawman
Killer’s Prey
Deadly Hunter
Snowstorm Confessions
Undercover Hunter
Playing with Fire
Conard County Witness
A Secret in Conard County
A Conard County Spy
Conard County Marine
Undercover in Conard County
Conard County Revenge
Conard County Watch
Stalked in Conard County
Harlequin Intrigue
Conard County: The Next Generation
Cornered in Conard County
Missing in Conard County
Murdered in Conard County
Visit the Author Profile page at
Harlequin.com for more titles.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Excerpt from Navy SEAL’s Deadly Secret by Cindy Dees
Chapter 1
The full moon glowed almost as bright as an icy sun. It poured through the window in Haley McKinsey’s bedroom, reaching through her eyelids and gently prompting her to wake.
As her eyes fluttered open, she stared with amazement at the brilliance of the silvery orb. A small smile curved her lips as she drank in the rare beauty. She’d never seen this from her apartment in Baltimore. Just another thing to make her think more seriously about moving to Wyoming. Inheriting her grandmother’s house in Conard City had initially seemed like a generous gift. She could sell it and use the money for a great many things. Nurses weren’t exactly overpaid.
But since arriving two days ago, she’d begun to remember the occasional summer visits here, and as the memories came back to her, the house began to feel like it might be her new home.
Seeing the moon now, enjoying the magic of being awakened by its silvery light, she found another reason to want to remain. There hadn’t been very many vacations here, but there had been enough to give her a stack of good memories.
Such a beautiful place!
Lying there in a drowsy, pleasant place, the worries of the world and the past seemed far away.
Until the face appeared at the lower ledge of her window. She couldn’t see it clearly because of the moon’s brightness behind it, but her heart slammed into high gear and she sat up immediately, trying to think of what she could use for a weapon.
Even as she had the thought, the face dropped from view. Had someone really been there? Had she imagined it in the hinterland between waking and sleeping?
With her heart in her throat, her mouth as dry as sand, she wondered if she should even move. Should she go out and look? Should she call the police?
A Peeping Tom. Maybe only a nuisance and not a threat.
It didn’t matter. She jumped up like a child scared of the monster under the bed or in the closet. The window was open a crack to let in the cool night air, and she slammed it and locked it. Then she pulled the heavy insulated curtains closed, shutting out the moonlight.
Resentment filled her. Hard on its heels came anger and fear. Resentment because she so much enjoyed sleeping in her grandmother’s room. As a child, when she’d visited, she had often shared the bed with her grandmother. It was a sacred place.
Anger because her privacy had been invaded. Lying in the moonlight, she must have been easily visible to the voyeur.
Fear because as a five-year-old child she had been kidnapped through her bedroom window by a faceless man who had just two days later deposited her on a deserted road outside Gi
llette, where she had eventually been discovered by a roughneck on the way to work.
She hurried through the house, checking every window and door to ensure it was locked. Even on the second floor, she drew the curtains against the moon’s beauty. Feeling chilled, she pulled on her red velour robe. Then she sat curled up on the living room sofa, trying to deal with the emotional storm that had been unleashed within her.
With her knees tucked under her chin, she practiced the breathing exercises her childhood therapist had taught her, at least as well as she could when curled up. Her mind bounced around between calling the sheriff, who wouldn’t be able to do anything because the guy was gone, an urgent but unsuccessful desire to believe it had been a trick of her sleepy mind, and waiting for morning to release her from her dark cave.
Because, suddenly, this beloved house felt like a cave and she felt trapped in it.
Don’t be silly, she argued with herself. Just because something bad happened to you over twenty years ago doesn’t mean it will happen again.
But memories she had buried long ago bubbled up like a hot tar pit, black and ugly. She’d been lucky, she reminded herself. Lucky that her kidnapper had released her unharmed after only two days. Lucky that she had grown up with a protective father and mother, and a grandmother who had given her magical experiences.
Reminded herself of how the therapist had insisted that she had done nothing wrong, that she had nothing to feel guilty about.
That she wasn’t a bad girl.
She thought she’d moved past that. Believed she had moved past that. Then in one split second some jerk had brought it all back.
She couldn’t allow this. But she still sat in the dark with all the curtains drawn, straining to hear any untoward sound. The prized clock, a genuine Regulator, kept ticking as normal from the dining room wall, a familiar sound from happy times. The scent of her grandmother’s beloved lavender sachets filled the house. No unfamiliar odors, no unusual sounds, crept through the darkened house. It was so quiet, in fact, that her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears.
She supposed someone else would have the nerve to go outside to see if the guy was still there. She couldn’t bring herself to do that. It wasn’t that she was a coward; it was that his appearance at her bedroom window had cast her back to her abduction as a child.
Somewhere inside her, that little girl still resided.
But as her fear began to ease, her ire began to rise. She’d been enjoying a beautiful gift from nature, the biggest, brightest full moon she’d ever seen. That invader had ruined it.
Hell, he’d ruined more than that, she thought grimly. Would she ever again feel comfortable with sleeping in this house when a window was cracked open as she had tonight? Would she feel she needed to keep the heavy curtains drawn all the time now? That she had to sell this house or live in a cave as long as she stayed?
Finding that her strength had returned, she rose from the sofa and made her way to the kitchen. Grandma had believed in insulated curtains to save on heat, and she certainly hadn’t shorted the kitchen windows. As Haley turned on the light, she looked at a line of navy-blue curtains that skimmed the top of the backsplash over the sink and completely sealed out the night. She put the battered whistling teakettle on the stove and began to heat water. The ginger jar, a delightful blue-and-white copy of some original, still held Grandma’s favorite green tea. A cup of that ought to return the night to normal familiarity.
She decided against calling the police before the day completely dawned because the guy was gone, and a bunch of strobing blue, white and red lights on the street might disturb her neighbors. Morning was soon enough.
She was safe. Of course she was safe. She’d just arrived in this town and there was no reason for anyone to want to disturb her in any way. So what if some guy had looked in her window, probably out of curiosity. If he was interested in something else, he was in for a surprise. The self-defense classes she’d been taking for years, to deal with the sense of helplessness her abduction had given her, were at the ready.
Next time, if there was a next time, she wouldn’t allow fear to overwhelm her before she could react. She’d be ready.
The teakettle shrieked its tuneless note as steam poured out the spout. She rose, spooned some tea leaves into a china cup and filled it with hot water. That brought back memories, too, of how her grandmother would finish a cup of tea and turn the cup upside down on the saucer, spinning it three times. Then Grandma would enchant her by “reading” the leaves that adhered inside the bottom of the teacup. As Haley grew older, she understood it was just a game, but one she’d always enjoyed.
She wondered if she could read the leaves for herself. That might distract her until the sun replaced the moon in the sky.
She was beginning to feel foolish for the strength of her reaction to the Peeping Tom. She was safe and snug in a house full of good memories, and she shouldn’t allow anyone to ruin that.
Determination mostly replaced her instinctive fear, and the soothing ritual of making tea helped considerably. The fragrance of the green tea filled her with warm memories. Memories of her grandma telling her how all tea came from one kind of plant in Southeast China. Of how the difference in flavors was made by how the tea was cured. Of course, Grandma had told her scrupulously, all teas started from the same plant but over centuries the transplanting of those plants had resulted in a few different varietals. But still, she said firmly, tea all goes back to the same plant.
When they went to the store to buy more tea, young Haley had stared in fascination at all the boxes announcing different names and tried to imagine the old times when tea had to cross perilous mountain routes to reach the rest of the world.
She could understand, even at a young age, why tea had been so important to so many. Like spices, she thought. The harder it was to get them, the more valued they became.
The tea tasted a bit on the old side, and she promised herself she’d get a fresh box in the morning. Grandma must not have been drinking it often toward the end. But then, she’d never let anyone in the family know she was failing until the day before she died.
The trip down memory lane was relaxing her, as was the comforting tea and thoughts of her grandmother. Then, rising from the mists of childhood, she remembered Roger McLeod. He’d been a few years older than her, but it hadn’t seemed to trouble him. He spent some of his free time with her, playing games or regaling her with local history. “Even grandmothers need a break,” he’d joked once.
She wondered if he still lived down the street. When she’d met him, he’d been his father’s apprentice, making custom saddles for the horse owners hereabouts. Once she’d been allowed into the workshop and had been amazed how many layers of leather were used, each one treated and stretched and cut to fit some part of the saddle precisely.
“It has to be comfortable,” he’d explained once. “People who spend long hours riding can’t afford to get sore because the saddle just doesn’t fit right. And there’s the horse, of course. It needs customization as much as the rider.”
She smiled now, remembering that day so long ago. She’d been what, thirteen? And he’d been graduating from high school. Hadn’t Grandma mentioned him occasionally in her letters?
He must still be around here. Maybe still in his father’s house two doors down. She smiled at last and decided she’d overreacted to a Peeping Tom. She’d tell the cops in the morning, and they’d check it out. That alone would probably be enough to keep the guy from coming near here again.
She glanced at the clock on the wall over the freestanding stove and saw that it was shortly past four. She should try to get some more sleep, if she could.
She climbed back into her grandmother’s bed, feeling its familiarity surround her like a hug. She didn’t crack the window, though, or open the curtains.
That creep might still be out there.
* * *
Haley was making a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast when she heard the knock at the door. It wasn’t that early, but eight o’clock still seemed like an early hour to be knocking. She made the person wait while she scraped the eggs onto a plate so they wouldn’t burn. Then, grabbing a kitchen towel, she wiped her hands as she went to answer the door.
For an instant, just an instant, she didn’t recognize Roger McLeod. He’d filled out and grown quite a powerful set of shoulders in the intervening years.
“Remember me? Roger McLeod? Sorry to bother you, Haley, but I got concerned when I saw all the curtains drawn. Your grandmother never did that.”
“I know she didn’t.” She stepped back, tacitly inviting him inside. “And I do remember you. How’s life treating you, Roger?”
He smiled, a warm expression that she remembered from years ago. She liked the way his smile reached his green eyes, crinkling them a bit in the corners. “It’s going well. I’m busy, which I guess is the thing. I’m really sorry about Flora, though. She never mentioned she was getting sick.”
“She never mentioned it to the family, either, until the day before she died. Come on, I just made fresh coffee if you’d like some.”
Again that smile that seemed to send warmth running all the way to her toes. Was she losing her mind? He hadn’t affected her that way years ago.
“I never say no to a morning cup of joe,” he answered. Once in the kitchen, he sat at the table as if he had a regular place there.
She poured his coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Straight, thanks. We haven’t seen much of you over the last few years.”
“No.” She brought her plate of eggs and toast to the table. “Want me to make you some?”
“I’m fine.” His eyes smiled at her over the rim of the cup.
“I feel bad that I couldn’t come visit more often, but I’m a nurse. Grandma must have mentioned it.”
“She did.” He nodded.
“Well, my hours stink and my vacations are short and scattered. Instead of me coming out here, she used to fly back East to visit.”
