by LENA DIAZ,
Max whirled around and sprinted toward the cliff to find Bex. His stomach clenched with dread when he saw Marcia on her knees at the edge, a rope wrapped around her left hand. Just beyond her, Bex clutched the other end of the rope with one hand, while clawing at the dirt with her other hand, desperately seeking a handhold.
The sirens stopped somewhere down the hill, back toward the cabin. But Max couldn’t wait for backup. He slipped and slid on the muddy ground, using both his hands and his feet to make his way toward Marcia and Bex. Then moonlight reflected off what was lying on the ground beside Marcia.
A machete.
Shouts sounded from farther down the incline. Blue and red lights flashed. Deacon was coming after him. But Max couldn’t waste even a second to turn around.
He half ran, half slid the last few yards toward Bex, watching with horror as Marcia raised the machete.
“No!” Max dived forward in a rolling slide, grabbing Bex’s arms. He swung her up and over the cliff toward solid ground as the machete arced through the air.
Wind rushed beside Max and Bex as the wicked blade narrowly missed both of them. But without something to block her forward momentum, Marcia couldn’t stop herself. She screamed as she plummeted over the side of the cliff. Then her scream was abruptly cut off.
Bex cried out in horror. “No, Marcia!”
They both carefully looked over the edge. Bex cried out again and closed her eyes.
Max pulled her to him, rocking her against his chest. “There was nothing we could do.”
A guttural shout of rage sounded from down the hill. Max jerked his head around just as near the tree line Deacon brought up his rifle, swinging it toward them.
Max shoved Bex to the ground, covering her body with his as the rifle boomed.
Everything went silent.
Even the thunder had stopped, and the rain had slowed to a gentle mist.
Max slowly lifted his head.
Deacon Caldwell lay in the mud twenty feet away, his sightless eyes staring up at the moon overhead. And behind him, standing with the aid of a cane, was his father. Holding a pistol. He stared a long moment at Max and Bex. Then his shoulders slumped and he slowly lowered the gun. Without a word, he dropped it in the mud and started hobbling back down the slope.
Bex pushed herself up on her elbows, her eyes wide and frightened. “What just happened?”
“Deacon’s father saved our lives. I have no idea why.”
She blinked as if she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. And then she covered her face with her hands and collapsed against him, great gasping sobs making her entire body shake.
“Ah, honey.” Max scooped her up in his arms and rocked her against him.
The hillside erupted into chaos. Max’s SWAT team descended upon them, securing the scene. Thornton started barking out orders. And soon a team of EMTs was racing up the hill.
Max didn’t wait for them. He ran with his precious burden to a waiting ambulance.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two months later...
Bex stood at the wall of glass, watching the season’s first snowfall drift down onto Max’s deck. This was her first day back in Destiny since she’d nearly fallen to her death off a cliff and Max was almost killed by the one Caldwell who’d ever shown Bex a kernel of kindness. She was still trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. But it was going to take a while.
Strong, warm arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against a solid, familiar chest. She wrapped her arms over Max’s and sighed.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know. You don’t have to keep telling me that. I’m convinced.”
“And?”
“And I love you, too.” His voice was husky and deep with emotion.
She sighed again, happier than she’d ever thought she could be.
He kissed the side of her neck and gently swayed with her in his arms as they watched fall turn into winter right before their eyes.
“I never heard what happened to the cashier who helped that gang at the Piggly Wiggly,” she said. “Reggie, right?”
“Thornton argued for her to be sent to a minimum security facility instead of doing hard time. She’s finally getting the counseling she needs. Maybe without her ex-con father’s influence, she’ll turn her life around and not end up like him.”
“That was awfully nice of your boss.”
“He’s not the ogre you think he is.”
She shrugged, not quite ready to forgive. Although she was pretty sure she would one day soon.
“Is everything finally settled with Robert Caldwell Senior?” she asked.
“Mmm-hmm. He confessed to hiring the gunmen. He was convinced you’d killed his son. But after hearing the gunshot the night we were on the cliff, and driving out to his son’s house and seeing that recording, he couldn’t fool himself any longer. I guess we owe our lives to the fact that Deacon kept that recording. If his father hadn’t seen it before tracking us, he might not have chosen to shoot Deacon. He’d probably have shot us.”
She shivered, the memories of that night still capable of giving her nightmares. “What happens to Mr. Caldwell now?”
“Nothing. He’s under hospice care. He probably won’t live out the week. And I don’t know about you, but I think he’s suffered enough for his sins. Losing two sons, one by his own hand, has to be devastating.”
“You feel sorry for him?”
“I suppose I do.”
She squeezed his arms. “I’m not surprised. You’re a good man. You care about people, whether they deserve it or not.”
“If that’s yet another way of apologizing or saying you aren’t worthy of my love, knock it off.”
He knew her so well. She turned her head to the side and rubbed her cheek against his chest. He rested his head on top of hers and they stood there a long time, content just to hold each other.
Finally, he said, “How did your assistant, Allison, take the news that you’re taking an extended leave of absence from the antique shop to spend some time with me?”
She stiffened in his arms. “That’s not exactly what I told her.”
He stepped back and turned her around to face him. His brows were a dark slash of worry. “You’ve changed your mind?”
“I guess you could say that. I sold my store to her.”
He couldn’t have looked more surprised. “But I thought you loved restoring and selling antiques.”
“I do. But I can do that anywhere. Like, say, in Destiny.”
He grew very still, his eyes blazing at her with an intensity that had her whole body flushing hot.
“What are you saying, Bex?”
She slid her arms around his waist and tilted her head back to look at him. “I’m saying that with Bobby Caldwell’s case finally closed, and nothing else hanging over my head, it’s time that I rectified a terrible decision I made many years ago.”
His throat worked, but no sound came out.
She cleared her own throat, already getting tight with emotion. “Max, I love you so much. I was wondering...”
“Yes?” he rasped.
“I was wondering if I could wear one of your T-shirts.”
He blinked, then threw his head back and laughed, a great booming sound that filled her heart with joy. He grinned and scooped her up in his arms, then jogged through the house to his bedroom. He didn’t stop until he was in front of the chest of drawers. Then he settled her against him, holding her with one arm as he yanked the top drawer open.
“Any particular T-shirt you prefer, Bexley Kane?”
She dipped her hand into the drawer and pulled out the black velvet box. “This one will do nicely.”
He turned serious, cradling he
r against him as if he’d never let her go. His eyes darkened with more love than seemed possible for one person to hold in his heart for another. More love than Bex could ever hope to deserve. But she would happily spend the rest of her life trying, and loving him back even more.
“And I prefer to be called Mrs. Remington from this day forward, if you don’t mind.”
His mouth slowly lowered to hers, stopping inches away as he carried her toward the bed. “I don’t mind, Mrs. Remington. I don’t mind at all.” And then he kissed her.
* * * * *
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TENNESSEE SWAT, coming soon.
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No Darker Place
by Debra Webb
Detective Bobbie Gentry wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Despite the early hour she was melting right here on the sidewalk like a forgotten ice-cream cone. The weather forecast called for a high of 101 today—the same kind of record-breaking temps the capital city had been experiencing for fifteen grueling days in a row.
The line of thunderstorms that had swept through about the same time her phone rang that morning hadn’t helped one bit. Steam rose from the simmering asphalt, disappearing into the underbellies of the blue-and-white Montgomery PD cruisers lining the sidewalk. The meteorologist who’d insisted milder temps were on the way had seriously overestimated the cool front accompanying this morning’s storm. The rain had done nothing but ramp up the suffocating humidity.
She’d been a cop for ten years, a detective for seven of those, and she’d learned the hard way that relentless heat made people crazy. Like the father of four currently holed up in the modest ranch-style home across the street.
Carl Evans had no criminal record whatsoever—not even a parking ticket. According to his wife, the checkup he’d had three months ago showed him to be in good health. Their middle daughter had been diagnosed with a form of childhood leukemia a year ago, and they’d gone through a serious financial crisis a couple of months back, but both issues were under control now. The husband had no problems at work as far as his wife knew.
And yet he’d arrived home at two this morning with no explanation for where he’d been and with no desire to discuss his uncharacteristic behavior. At seven, he’d climbed out of bed, promptly corralled all four of his children into one bedroom and told his wife to call the police.
Bobbie’s radio crackled. “No go. I’m coming out” vibrated across the airwaves.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered as crisis negotiator Sergeant Paul York exited the house and double-timed it to her side of the police barrier. York was a small, wiry man of five-eight or so, the same height as her. His less intimidating size and kind, calming presence made him damned good at his job as a facilitator of nonviolent resolutions. Those same traits, however, belied his unquestionable ability to take charge of a situation and physically contain the threat when the need arose.
“What happened?” she demanded, bracing her hands on her hips. She was not going to have a hostage die on her watch. The fear she refused to allow to gain a foothold kept reminding her that these hostages were children.
This wouldn’t be the first time you allowed a child to die.
Not going to happen today.
“He won’t talk to me.” York tugged at his black tie, his gray shirt still crisp despite the rising humidity and immeasurable frustration. “His wife refuses to leave the house as long as the kids are in there.”
“Who can blame her?” Bobbie exhaled a blast of exasperation. Before York had arrived on the scene, she’d spoken to Mrs. Evans by phone. Anna Evans insisted she had no idea what had set off her husband. To her knowledge, he had never owned a weapon, much less used one. He was a CPA at Latimer, Latimer and Burton, for Christ’s sake. He’d worked there since he graduated from Vanderbilt two decades ago. His wife was completely stunned by his actions.
“Did he give you any idea what he wants?” Bobbie needed something here. Evans surely had a goal he hoped to attain or a statement to make. How the hell could a purportedly humble CPA cause this damned much trouble?
“He wouldn’t say a word.” York’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “Not a single word.”
SWAT Commander Zeke Miller held up his hands as if he’d experienced an epiphany. “We’re wasting time. He could kill those children while we’re standing out here with our thumbs up our asses. It’s time we went in.”
Bobbie rolled her eyes. What was he thinking? The polar opposite of York, Miller was a big, muscular guy with an ego to match. His reputation for playing hard and fast was well known, but this was her crime scene, and she wasn’t going the guns-blazing route. At least not yet.
“And get those kids killed for sure?” Bobbie argued, ignoring the fear gnawing at the edge of her bravado. “Evans has them standing around him in a huddle. Your guys can’t get a clear shot at him. A flash bang could freak him out and prompt a shooting spree. And you want to go charging in there?” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, daring him to challenge her assessment. “Is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with that scenario?”
Miller glowered at her, but neither he nor York had a ready response for her assessment. There was no easy way to do this, and everyone present understood that unfortunate fact.
“Where the hell is Newton?” Miller demanded. “We need a senior detective on the scene. Are you even cleared for a situation like this, Gentry?”
Despite the fury his words ignited, Bobbie smiled. This chauvinistic hothead was not going to get the better of her when four children’s lives depended on her staying calm and collected. “My partner’s daughter is getting married this weekend, so he’s not here. You’ve got me, and I’m as fit for duty as you, Miller. Deal with it.”
His arrogant sneer warned her he wasn’t going to let it go so easily.
“We got movement at the front door!” a uniform shouted.
Renewed adrenaline rushing through her veins, Bobbie turned toward the house as the front do
or slowly opened. Please let it be the children coming out. As much as she wanted everyone present to believe she was as strong as she once was and that she had everything under control...doubt nagged at her. What if she failed? What if someone died—again—because of her mistakes?
No looking back. Focus, Bobbie.
Barefoot and wearing a white terry-cloth robe, Anna Evans stepped cautiously onto the narrow porch, her hands raised high and her red hair tousled as if she hadn’t combed it since climbing out of bed. Her face was as white as the robe she wore. She was immediately surrounded by Montgomery PD uniforms and ushered across the street.
“One less potential victim,” Bobbie muttered. What the devil was this guy doing? He’d made no demands. He refused to interact with the negotiator. Any time a perp took a hostage and waved around a weapon, he wanted something.
The distant ache in her skull that had started the minute she’d received the call expanded into a dull throb. She resisted the urge to yank free the clasp holding her long brown hair off her shoulders so she could massage the pain away. No need to illustrate to all present that her headaches were still around. The whole department already watched her every move to see if she would crack under the stress. No matter that she had been back to work for four weeks without falling down on the job, she was still the detective who had shattered like delicate, handblown glass thrown against a wall seven months ago. The whole damned world knew that a couple of surgeons and shrinks, as well as a good half of the year, had been required to put her back together again.
Stay sharp, Bobbie. No letting the past intrude.
Once behind the police barricade, the uniforms released Anna Evans, and she almost collapsed on the pavement before they could catch hold of her again.
“We need a medic,” Bobbie shouted. She moved toward the woman. “Are you injured, Mrs. Evans?”
