by Diana Palmer
Another squeak, and he jerked his head around. An antique wardrobe sat in the corner, one Marie had used to store old quilts. He held his breath as he approached it, then eased open the door.
Relief mingled with pain when he saw his little boy hunched inside, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He had buried his head against his legs, silent sobs racking his body.
“Timmy, it’s okay, it’s Dad.” Anguish clogged his throat as he gently lifted his son’s face. Blood dotted Timmy’s T-shirt and hands, and tears streaked his splotched skin, a streak of blood on his left cheek.
But it was the blank look in his eyes that sent a wave of cold terror through Miles.
Timmy might be alive, but he was in shock.
He stooped down to Timmy’s level and dragged him into his arms, but his son felt limp, as if the life had drained from him just as it had his mother.
Three weeks later
JORDAN KEYS WATCHED the busload of new campers arrive at the Bucking Bronc Lodge, her heart in her throat. The troubled kids ranged from ages five to sixteen.
Her brother had fit in that category. But he was gone now.
Because she hadn’t been able to help him.
She fisted her hands, silently vowing to do better here. She’d read about the BBL and how hard the cowboys and staff worked to turn these kids’ lives around, and she wanted to be a part of it.
If she saved just one kid, it might assuage some of her guilt over her brother’s death.
A chilly January wind swirled dried scrub brush across the dirt and echoed through the trees. She waved to Kim Woodstock, another one of the counselors and Brandon Woodstock’s wife, as she greeted the bus, then Jordan bypassed them and headed straight into the main lodge to meet with Miles McGregor and his five-year-old son, Timmy.
Apparently Miles also volunteered at the BBL, but this time he’d come because he needed solace and time to heal from a recent loss.
So did his little boy, who they believed had witnessed his mother’s murder.
A thread of anxiety knotted her shoulders as she let herself in the lodge. The empty spot where the Christmas tree had stood made the entryway seem dismal, but truth be told, she was glad it was gone. The holidays always resurrected memories of Christmases past, both good and bad memories that tormented her with what-ifs.
Shoving the thoughts to the back of her mind, she grabbed a cup of coffee and made her way back to the wing Brody Bloodworth had recently added to serve as a counseling and teen center.
The moment she stepped into the room, she sensed pain emanating through it. Like a living, breathing entity smothering the air.
Little Timmy, a dark-haired boy who looked scrawny and way too pale, sat in the corner against the wall, his knees drawn up, his arms locked tightly around them as if he might crumble if he released his grip. The poor child didn’t even look up as she entered, simply sat staring through glazed eyes at some spot on the floor as if he was lost.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. What if she failed this little guy, too? What if he needed more than she could give?
Inhaling to stifle her nerves, she pasted on a smile, then glanced at the cowboy standing by the window watching the horses gallop across the pasture. His back was to her, his wide shoulders rigid, his hands clenching the window edge so tightly she could see the veins bulging in his broad, tanned hands.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. McGregor?”
The subtle lift of his shoulders indicated he’d heard her, then he hissed something low and indiscernible between his teeth and slowly turned to face her. Dark brown hair like his son’s, except his was shaggy and unkempt, framed a face chiseled in stone. His jawbones were high, his face square, his eyes the color of a sunset, brown and orange and gold, rich with color, but…dead.
That was the only word to describe the emptiness she saw there.
He removed his Stetson, then walked toward her and held out a work-roughened hand that looked strong enough to break rocks. Everything about the man, from his muscular build, his towering height, his broad shoulders and those muscular thighs, screamed of masculinity.
And a raw sexuality that made her heart begin to flutter.
But anger also simmered beneath the surface of his calm, anger and something lethal, like a bloodthirsty need for revenge.
She didn’t know all the details about his relationship to Timmy’s mother, but she understood that anger. She also knew where it led…to nothing good.
“I’m Jordan Keys,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Nice to meet you.”
“There’s nothing nice right now,” he said in a gruff voice.
Jordan stiffened slightly. Obviously he was in pain, but did that mean he didn’t want her help? A lot of men thought counseling was bogus, for sissies…beneath them.
“Maybe not, but you’re here now, and I see you brought your little boy.” She gestured toward Timmy, who still remained oblivious to her appearance. “So let’s talk.”
He worked his mouth from side to side as if he wanted to say something, but he finally gave a nod. “Brody filled you in?”
“Briefly. But I’d like to hear the details from you.”
“Of course. We’ve seen doctors—”
“Not in front of Timmy,” Jordan said, cutting him off. “Let me talk to him for a minute, then we can step outside and discuss the situation.”
His mouth tightened into a grim line, but he nodded again. This man didn’t like to be ordered around, didn’t like to be out of control.
And he had no control right now.
Which was obviously killing him.
She understood that feeling as well.
She slowly walked over and knelt beside the child. “Timmy, my name is Miss Jordan. I’m glad you came to the BBL. We have horses here and other kids to play with and lots of fun things planned.”
His eye twitched, but he didn’t reply or look at her.
“Why don’t you sit at the table? There are markers and paper. Maybe you can draw about Christmas.”
Again, he didn’t move.
Miles touched his son’s shoulder. “Why don’t you draw the bike Santa brought you?”
Again, no response.
“Come on, sport.” Miles took his arm and led the boy to the table. Timmy slumped down in the chair, but he didn’t pick up the markers. He simply stared at the blank paper as if he was too weighted down to move.
“I need to talk to your daddy for a minute,” Jordan said, giving his arm a soft pat. “We’ll be outside that door if you need us, all right?”
His eyes twitched sideways toward her this time. Frightened.
She rubbed his shoulder gently. “I promise. We’re not going anywhere but right outside the room.” She gestured toward a glass partition. “See that glass? We’ll be in there so if you need us, just call or tap on the glass and we’ll come back.”
He didn’t respond, just tucked his knees up and began to rock back and forth. His bony little body was wound so tight that Jordan felt the tension thrumming through him.
“If you want to draw, that’s fine,” she said again, using a quiet voice. “If not, you can look out that window and watch the pretty horses running around.”
The fact that he didn’t turn to look at them worried her. But she simply smiled, then ushered his father into the hallway and into the other room.
When she closed the door, Miles immediately angled his head to watch his son through the partition. Jordan’s chest squeezed.
Miles McGregor was one of the biggest, toughest-looking men she’d ever met. He was not only a cowboy, but Brody had told her he was a
cop who chased down the dregs of society.
Miles was also hurting inside and felt powerless to help his son. That made them kindred spirits.
“Tell me what happened,” Jordan said gently.
He slanted her a condescending look. “I thought you said Brody filled you in.”
Jordan simply folded her arms. “Yes, but I want to hear it from you. Everything from the day Timmy’s mother died to how and where you found Timmy to what the doctors said.”
A muscle jumped in his chiseled jaw. “You can read the police report.” He yanked an envelope from inside his denim jacket pocket. The movement revealed the weapon he had holstered to his side. “Here’s the doctor’s report, too.”
Jordan forced a calm into her voice. “I will read it, but it’s important I hear what you have to say.”
“Why? All I need for you to do is to get Timmy to look at this picture.” He yanked another envelope from his jacket, pulled out a photograph and slapped it on the table. “If he can identify this man as his mother’s killer, then I can put him back in jail where he belongs.”
Jordan gritted her teeth. “So Timmy witnessed the murder?”
Miles gave a clipped nod, the pain so intense in his eyes that it nearly robbed her breath. “I believe so, but he hasn’t spoken since that day. That’s why I need you to get him to talk.”
Jordan glanced through the window at Timmy, her heart aching for the boy. “I understand your impatience,” she said. “But Timmy has undergone a terrible shock. It may take him time to open up.”
Miles glared at her. “I don’t have time.”
Jordan’s anger rose. “Then you’d better damn well find it, because the important thing here is that your son heal.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes flaring with rage. “The important thing is keeping Timmy safe. This man Robert Dugan is a cold-blooded killer. He threatened me in court, he slit Timmy’s mother’s throat, and if he knows Timmy is a witness, he’ll probably come back to kill him.”
*
TIMMY ROCKED HIMSELF back and forth in the chair. He thought the lady said something to him. Something about horses. But he couldn’t make out her words. It was too noisy in his head. Voices…things crashing…the screaming.
And he couldn’t see any horses.
All he saw was the red.
Red blotches…black blotches…more red…more black…
Someone else was in the room with him, too. His daddy…at least he thought it was his daddy…
No, he was mad at him. He hadn’t come home…
His eyes blurred and then it was dark. So dark everything went black.
Like night all the time. Scary night.
Scary night when the monsters came…
He buried his head in his arms and rocked harder. Pushed at his ears to make the noises be quiet.
He didn’t want to see the monsters. They were bad. They were going to get him.
He had to run….
But he couldn’t run…he couldn’t move. Couldn’t do nothing to stop the noises and the dark from coming…
Or the red from splattering the walls…
Or his mommy’s cries…
ISBN: 9781460303986
Copyright © 2013 by Rita B. Herron
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SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM
After masked men storm her classroom, kidnap her students and leave her unconscious and blind, a terrified teacher turns to an FBI agent for help and 24/7 protection.
Read on for a sneak preview of
SAFE AT HAWK’S LANDING by Rita Herron,
The second book in her miniseries
Badge of Justice
available now from Harlequin Intrigue
CHAPTER ONE
Charlotte Reacher knew what it was like to be alone. Without a home or family.
Unwanted. Unloved.
That loneliness had inspired her to start her art program for teenage girls in Tumbleweed, Texas. This particular group of four were all foster kids and needed reassurance and love.
She strolled through the studio smiling at the girls perched behind canvases that had once been blank slates, but now were being transformed. When they’d first organized the group six weeks ago, most of them had painted drab colorless pictures, all grays and blacks, depicting the despair in their lives.
Not every girl had a bikini body, liked makeup and glamour magazines or cheerleading.
And not every girl had parents with the money to fix her flaws.
The confident ones knew how to socialize, make friends and express themselves, while others wilted on the inside, withdrew and suffered from low self-esteem. Cruel classmates complicated the situation with teasing and bullying and caused the girls to die a little with every mean word said.
It had been the same for her, growing up in the system. Her port-wine birthmark had drawn cruel remarks and stares, killing her own confidence.
She brushed her fingers over her cheek. Thanks to a gifted and generous plastic surgeon, who’d offered her services to needy kids when Charlotte was eleven, the skin was smooth now, the birthmark gone.
Still, the internal scars remained. These girls had scars, too. Both physical and emotional.
But here, in her studio, Expressions, everyone was free to paint or draw whatever they wanted with no judgment.
She just hoped the small town of Tumbleweed embraced the teens. So far, the locals had been nice to her. She’d made friends with Honey Granger Hawk, the developer who’d built the small house she lived in. Honey appreciated her cause and had thrown in the studio renovation for next to nothing.
Now Charlotte had a home, a friend and a business. And hopefully a family in this town and her students…
She adjusted the volume of the music playing in the background. Early on, she’d discovered that music relaxed her and the students. Now she allowed the girls to select the CDs they wanted to listen to during their sessions. Today Evie had chosen an upbeat country song.
“Ms. Charlotte, what do you think?” Fifteen-year-old Mae Lynn looked up at her with a mixture of apprehension and hope. She was shy and the most fragile of all of them, but she’d begun to warm up.
“I like the way you’ve used the colors,” Charlotte said. It was obvious the sea of blues and grays represented her changing mood swings. Who could blame her, though? The poor kid had been in and out of more than ten homes in five years.
Two girls who were horse lovers, sixteen-year-old Agnes and her fourteen-year-old sister, Adrian, chatted softly about their portrayals of a big ranch, where they hoped to live one day, while thirteen-year-old Evie splashed pinks and blues and purples in a whimsical pattern. Despite the fact that she’d ended up in a group home, Evie had a perpetually positive attitude.
Hopefully her attitude would rub off on the others.<
br />
Suddenly the front door to the studio opened, and Charlotte glanced up, hoping to see Sally, another foster child she’d invited to the class, but instead four tall masked men dressed in black stormed in, guns raised and aimed at the girls.
Charlotte froze, mentally assessing the situation. She had to protect her students no matter what. Pulse hammering, she stepped forward, placing herself between the men and girls.
The biggest man turned the gun on her. “Don’t move.”
She stared at the snake tattoo, then noticed a bolt of lightning tattooed on his neck.
Behind her, the girls screamed. Charlotte raised her hands in a submissive gesture. “Please don’t hurt them,” she said in a choked voice. “I don’t keep much money here, but you can take it all.”
“We don’t want your money,” the shortest guy shouted. “Get on the ground.”
A sob echoed behind her, then another scream.
“I said get down!” the one who seemed to be in charge barked.
Charlotte dropped to the floor, her gaze scanning the room for something to use as a weapon, but her art supplies and brushes wouldn’t do any good against these guns. Semiautomatics. They weren’t playing around.
Her phone was inside her purse in her office, too. She didn’t have a weapon or an alarm.
Boots clicked on the wood floor as the heaviest man strode to her. With one quick grunt, he slammed the butt of the gun against her head. Stars swam in front of her eyes as the world spun. More screams rent the air, shrill and piercing.
Panic shot through Charlotte. She had to do something. If the men didn’t want money, what did they want?
“Leave us alone!” Adrian cried.
“Don’t shoot!” Agnes said shakily.
A bullet pinged off the ceiling, silencing them all.
Evie ducked behind an easel while the sisters hunched together beneath a table. Mae Lynn pushed her easel over, paint splattering, and ran for the door, but one of the men grabbed her as if she weighed nothing.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Mae Lynn cried.
Charlotte pushed to her hands and knees, desperate. “Let her go. Take me if you want, but leave these kids alone.”
