Sawyer

by Delores Fossen

  This time, however, it was the surgeon.

  Cassidy and he both got to their feet and went to the doorway. Sawyer didn’t know the doc, and his poker face gave away nothing.

  “Your brother made it through surgery,” he finally said. “He’ll recover, but he’ll be in the hospital for a week or more.”

  Cassidy’s breath rushed out. Obviously relieved. So was Sawyer. Cassidy loved Bennie, and he didn’t want her to go through the pain of losing him.

  “Can we see him?” Cassidy asked.

  “Not for a while, but before he was sedated, he gave me a message to give to you.” The doctor looked down at the baby. “Your brother said he wants you to have custody of her, that he’ll do the paperwork as soon as he’s able.”

  Sawyer’s lungs started to burn like crazy, and that’s when he realized he’d been holding his breath. Good. Bennie had wised up and done the right thing by handing over his baby girl to Cassidy. It was the best thing for all of them.

  Well, except for him.

  Where the heck did that leave him? Cassidy had the money and resources to raise a baby. The desire was there, too. He could see the love for Emma all over her face. So, why the heck didn’t that make him feel like jumping for joy?

  Because he loved Emma, too.

  Ah, heck. When had his life gotten so complicated?

  He was the Ryland who was immune to babies and fatherhood. His own miserable childhood had prepared him for that. But then Sawyer glanced around the room. Nearly everyone there had had a lousy childhood, and they’d all gotten past it and had become parents.

  The surgeon stepped away, and Sawyer saw the newest father walking straight toward them. Not alone, either. He was pushing a clear hospital bassinette with the baby inside. Mason wasn’t much for smiling, but Sawyer definitely detected a smile as Mason pulled back the blanket and showed them the latest Ryland.

  The baby looked like a little boxer with his hands balled into fists, and he was flailing them around and making choppy crying sounds as if testing his voice.

  “Are you supposed to be out here with the baby?” Sawyer asked Mason.

  “The doc said I could for just a second and if nobody touches him. Or breathes on him. There’re too many of you to cram into the nursery to see him.”

  That was the advantage of a small-town hospital where everyone knew the Rylands. Besides, there really were too many of them for that small nursery.

  “His name is Max Quinn Ryland,” Mason said. Not just a smile. The man was beaming now.

  “He’s beautiful,” Cassidy declared, but Sawyer couldn’t quite see it. Well, mostly he couldn’t. The kid had a mop of the dark Ryland hair, but he could also pick out some of Abbie’s features there, too.

  “Max is here!” Nate’s daughter, Kimmie, squealed. Despite the fact she’d been sound asleep just moments earlier, she bolted from her mother’s lap and hurried to Mason so he could scoop her up for a better look.

  Soon, Max was surrounded by oohing and aahing aunts, uncles and cousins, and it must have been his night for revelations because Sawyer thought of something else. That little baby with the squished red face and swinging fists would always be loved. Always have family. Would always have a home.

  “Cassidy, I don’t want you to raise Emma alone,” Sawyer heard himself say.

  Good grief. He hadn’t intended to blurt it out like that, and he sure hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. Loud enough for everyone to stop, look and listen as if waiting to see which foot he’d put in his mouth next. Rather than let them in on that, Sawyer led Cassidy to the other side of the room while the oohing and aahing continued.

  She shook her head, probably because she hadn’t understood what the heck he meant. “Are you saying you’ll help?”

  “I don’t want to help, either.” Heck, he was making a mess of this. “What I mean is, I want to do more than help. I want to make sure Emma has a home.”

  She nodded, but he could tell she still didn’t have any idea what he meant.

  “I’m in love with you,” she said out of the blue.

  Okay, so maybe she did have an idea where he was going with this. I’m in love with you was a good start.

  Very good.

  Sawyer pulled her to him, and despite Emmaʼs being between them, he kissed Cassidy. A little longer than he’d planned. When he finally pulled back, they were both smiling.

  Except Cassidy’s smile quickly faded. “If you don’t love me, then I’ll feel like an idiot for saying it.”

  “Don’t feel like an idiot.” And he couldn’t say it fast enough. “Because I do love you. It makes me crazy. Makes me burn. But I love you.”

  Now the smile returned. The kiss, too. Cassidy initiated that one and slipped her free hand around the back of his neck. Emma decided it was a good time to get their attention by cooing.

  Which made the moment perfect.

  “I think she approves,” Sawyer said. And he brushed a kiss on the baby’s cheek. “Will you approve if I ask your new mom to marry me?”

  There was no way Emma could have understood that, but it sure seemed as if she did because she cooed again. It was so loud that it startled her and she jumped a little. Sawyer laughed, waited, but what he didn’t hear was a yes coming from Cassidy’s mouth.

  He lifted his gaze, slowly, and met hers. “I just asked you to marry me.” And his stomach knotted. His breath thinned. He even felt a little queasy at the thought of her saying anything but yes.

  “I heard you,” Cassidy said on a rise of breath. “I just didn’t think you would ask.”

  Oh. All right. Plan B, though it wasn’t the plan he wanted. “Then, we’ll wait a month or two, we can spend more time together, and I’ll repeat the proposal.” Though he couldn’t imagine having to go that long without an answer.

  “No need to wait.” Cassidy caught on to the front of his shirt and hauled him back for another mind-blowing kiss. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  By the time she made it to the third yes, she was practically shouting. Emma didn’t cry, but she did look up at them as if they’d lost their minds. They hadn’t. They’d finally found them.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Sawyer joked.

  Obviously, going to the corner for this conversation didn’t mean it was private. His cousins broke into applause when he pulled Cassidy back to him for a kiss that would seal the deal.

  Forever.

  His wife. His daughter. His family.

  * * * * *

  Look for a brand-new miniseries from USA TODAY bestselling author Delores Fossen later in 2014.

  You’ll find it wherever Harlequin Books are sold!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE DISTRICT by Carol Ericson.

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  Chapter One

  Nine times out of ten a dead body will win a staring contest.

 
; Christina blinked and looked away from the lifeless eyes of the twentysomething vic, a gruesome slash across her throat, a tarot card shoved between her stiff fingers.

  Tarot cards—Christina knew a thing or two about them. She would’ve expected death on his white horse in this case, but the killer had left the maiden and the lion, an indicator of strength.

  Her gaze shifted away from the body and skimmed the trees, their leaves rustling with impatience. “Has anyone checked the surrounding area yet?”

  Lieutenant Fitch with the San Francisco P.D. waved his pale hand. “You go right ahead, Agent Sandoval.”

  She ground her back teeth together, adjusted her shoulder holster and tromped toward the tree line. If not for that tarot card, she wouldn’t even be here.

  The dense nature preserve enveloped her in a cool embrace, muting the voices of the crime scene investigators in the trail behind her. The weak San Francisco sun, still shrugging off the fog, penetrated the foliage in wisps and strands, throwing a beam of light here and dappled shadows there.

  She inhaled the scent of eucalyptus, which cleared her senses and ramped up her adrenaline. The murder victim had been jogging on the trail either early this morning or sometime last night. The predator had surprised her, flying at her like an animal on the prowl—lying in wait.

  Her nostrils flared and she scanned the underbrush. Lying in wait. He must’ve been watching, waiting for his prey.

  Hunching forward, she crept farther into the darkness, her footfalls silenced by nature’s carpet beneath her, the strands of a willow brushing her face. She veered to the right, aligning herself with the body on the trail.

  She cranked her head over her shoulder and detected flashes of color and movement from the cops and techs milling around the vic. He could’ve seen her coming from here, but would’ve had no time to prepare his attack.

  She looked up. A live oak tree towered a few feet in front of her. She approached it, studying the ground around the base of the trunk. Something had disturbed the leaves layered on the dirt, but plenty of creatures roamed this area—not just the two-legged, deadly kind.

  She reached out, running her hand down the rough bark that scratched her fingers. Here and there she traced smooth areas of the trunk where pieces of bark had broken away from the old tree.

  Stretching her arms out, she wedged her palms against the tree trunk and hung her head between her arms. She closed her eyes.

  The subtle sounds of nature came to life—the rustle of a bird’s wings, the creak of a branch, the scurrying of an insect across a log.

  And then it slammed into her chest. The evil. She felt it like a palpable curtain dropping around her, smothering her. He’d been here.

  She jerked her head up, her eyes narrowing. She shed her jacket and secured her weapon in her holster. The bark of the tree chaffed her palms as she grabbed the first branch with both hands. She hoisted herself up and planted the rubber soles of her practical shoes against the trunk. Walking up the tree trunk, she lunged for the next branch and then swung her legs over the side of it.

  Straddling the branch, she could just see over the top of the lower bushes and trees that bordered the jogging trail. She pulled herself into a crouch and reached for the next branch that curved against the trunk—a natural seat, a window on the world.

  She nestled her back against the trunk, her legs hanging over the side of the branch. Lieutenant Fitch came into view, pointing and gesturing with his hands—which she’d noticed before were sprinkled with red hair—basically running the show.

  Farther down the trail a clutch of people crowded against the yellow police tape, all leaning toward the crime scene like magnets drawn to some irresistible force.

  She got it. The same morbid curiosity had propelled her into a job with a special serial killer unit within the FBI. She’d been fascinated with these crimes ever since she’d followed the Phone Book Killer case at the tender age of twelve.

  She shivered—that fascination, along with an uncanny ability to empathize with both the killers and their victims, drove her to this work. She didn’t really empathize with the killers, but for some reason she could tune in to their thought processes. Not that she’d ever told anyone that before—anyone but Eric.

  And that had been a colossal mistake.

  She sat up straighter on the branch and peered at the trail beyond the spectators. He would’ve seen her coming from this vantage point. Would’ve been able to jump from his lookout post and intercept her on the trail, introducing her to the sharp edge of his knife.

  She took a deep breath. Was that artificial smell among the natural elements cologne? Tobacco?

  She reached for the branch above her to lean forward and scope out the ground. Her fingers collided with the smooth edge of a card. She snatched her hand away, curled one leg beneath her and slowly rose from her seated position.

  Someone had shoved another tarot card in the crack of some mottled bark. She pulled a tissue from her pocket. Pinching the card between two tissue-covered fingers, she plucked it from its hiding place. She turned the card over.

  The fool.

  Her nerve endings buzzed with curiosity and excitement. Again, she would’ve expected the death card. Instead, he’d left the card for strength and the fool.

  Had this tarot card been at the two other crime scenes and they’d missed it? What was he trying to tell them?

  She huffed out a breath. If her mother had allowed her to continue down the path her father wanted to carve for her, she’d probably understand this killer’s message.

  Christina pulled an evidence baggie from her pocket and dropped the card inside. She scanned her perch for anything else the killer may have left behind—threads, hair, more tarot cards.

  Nothing jumped out at her, not even those vague feelings that sometimes insinuated themselves into her psyche. Once she’d found the killer’s perch, she’d readied herself for a rush of feelings, feelings that often made her nauseous. This time she’d only experienced the taste of evil at the base of the tree.

  She brushed away the trickle of sweat at her hairline and lowered herself back to the ground. She swept her jacket up from the carpet of mulch and froze.

  A twig cracked again.

  She jerked her head in the direction of the sound. Her gaze darted between the branches and leaves of the dense foliage. She held her breath. The entire park held its breath, too, waiting for someone to make a move.

  “Agent Sandoval?”

  The interloper crashing through the trees behind her set the forest in motion. Birds took flight, scattering leaves in their haste. A squirrel scurried up the tree trunk, pausing to blink at her with its bright, challenging eyes. The trees took up their groaning and creaking once more.

  Christina turned, holding out her hands, palms up. “Careful there, cowboy. I’ve probably already done enough damage here.”

  “Ma’am?” The officer cocked his head, looking all of twelve.

  “Call me Christina.” She pinched the evidence baggie between two fingers and wiggled it in front of her. “Another tarot card. I think our killer scoped out the victim from this tree.”

  The cop’s mouth dropped open as he took a step back. “I’ll get the lieutenant and have him send the CSI guys out here. Did you find anything else?”

  “Nope, just the card.” And one helluva creepy feeling. Somehow she knew Lieutenant Fitch would dismiss any and all creepy feelings, so she’d keep them to herself. She always did.

  She followed the broad blue-clad back through the trees, back to the running trail. The young cop was already hopping from foot to foot in front of Lieutenant Fitch and gesturing with his hands.

  Fitch gazed over his officer’s shoulder and narrowed his eyes as Christina emerged into the clearing. Did he think she’d planted the evidence? As FBI, she’d worked
with resentful detectives before, and Fitch seemed to be taking his place among them.

  If she hadn’t already been here due to the previous tarot card murder, Fitch probably wouldn’t have bothered contacting the FBI about this one.

  She plastered on her sweetest smile and waved the plastic bag. “How about that, Lieutenant? Looks like our boy stationed himself in one tall tree, staking out his next victim.”

  “Let me see that.” He snapped his fingers and held out his hand.

  She dropped the evidence baggie into his palm. “Another tarot card—the fool this time. Those cards mean something to him. He’s leaving us a message.”

  The cop swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin neck. “Maybe he’s a fortune-teller?”

  Fitch practically growled at him. “Go get some more yellow tape and tell CSI the crime scene’s just been extended.”

  Christina called after the hunched shoulders. “You might be on to something, Officer.”

  The lieutenant snapped his reddish brows together. “Don’t encourage him. He’s just a rookie on patrol. I can assure you, Agent Sandoval, you’re not dealing with some hick department.”

  “This is San Francisco. I never thought I was, Lieutenant.” She turned her head and covered her mouth with her hand. Inferiority complex much? “Can you tell me anything more about the murder?”

  “Without an autopsy, it’s what we suspected at first—severe head trauma followed by the slitting of the throat.”

  “Blunt object?”

  “Yep.”

  “He must be incapacitating them with the blow to the head, which then allows him to cut their throats.”

  “Victim lost a lot of blood.”

  “Just like Liz Fielding and the one up in Portland.”

  “At least he’s consistent.”

  “Except for this.” She flicked the bag he still held in his hand. “Unless we missed something at those other crime scenes.”