She blinked as if startled. “Really?”
He gave her face a final caress, dropped one last kiss on her lush mouth and straightened in his saddle. “Watch for my all clear.”
With that he tugged his reins hard to the left, turning his horse, and rode quickly toward the house.
* * *
Oh, Texas!
Jake had been thinking about, had been wanting to kiss her for the past two days? Somehow, that fact didn’t compute. Why would a gorgeous, world-traveling special ops soldier who could have any woman he desired want someone as humdrum and everyday as her? And yet she had the proof....
Chelsea touched her mouth, which still tingled from Jake’s tender assault, and stared after him as he rode into her parents’ backyard and tied his horse to the base of the clothesline pole. Next, he took out a pocketknife he’d borrowed from Darynda and sawed on the clothesline cord. After cutting the line, he unthreaded it from the poles and coiled it around his hand. Another tool in his mission to bring down Brady.
Chelsea squeezed her saddle horn, her body tense as she watched Jake move with pantherlike grace through the snow and into the carport. When she lost her visual of him, she drew a deep breath of icy air and whispered a prayer. “Keep him safe, God. Get us out of this mess in one piece. Please?”
Too restless to stay in her saddle, Chelsea climbed to the ground. Kicking the snow at her feet out of her way, she cleared a tiny patch of dead grass behind the stand of small trees where she could pace without being seen. When her horse snuffled and snorted impatiently, she stroked his nose and cooed softly to calm him, even though she was plenty jumpy herself.
Jake had kissed her. She gave her head a little sobering shake. She wasn’t dreaming. He had really kissed her. And not just a friendly wish-me-luck kiss. He’d given her a toe-curling, hot-damn, honest-to-God, now-I-can-die-happy kiss. A tingling warmth filled her chest and brought a sappy smile to her lips....
Until a gunshot inside her house shattered the quiet.
Chapter 11
Jake crept through the mudroom and peered carefully around the corner into the kitchen. Clear. Sidling along the inside wall, he made his way, one silent step at a time, toward the next room. He was almost to the kitchen door when a gunshot blasted through the house, followed by raucous laughter.
“Bull’s-eye!” a male voice chortled.
Jake heard the familiar click of a magazine being ejected and reinserted into a pistol. Probably his pistol, he thought, grinding his back teeth in fury. He inched farther forward and carefully peeked into the living room. Brady had his back to Jake, his attention fixed on the bookshelf across the room, the pistol aimed.
Jake scowled as Brady fired another shot, shattering a vase perched on one of the shelves. Brady’s callous disregard and wanton destruction of Chelsea’s family’s property gnawed his gut. Easing back a step into the kitchen, Jake fashioned the cord from the clothesline into a lasso and gave it a test twirl. Just like roping calves with Dad for branding.
He moved back to the living room doorway and peered into the next room. Brady had his head bent forward and his gaze down as he messed with the gun again. Jake didn’t like the idea of engaging Brady while the convict had the pistol in his hand, but he didn’t want to waste any time and risk Brady spotting him before he made his move. He surveyed his surroundings, quickly gauging his obstacles, potential weapons, and locating a sturdy place to secure Brady once he’d incapacitated him. His estimations made, Jake tightened his grip on the lasso and prepared to teach Brady a new appreciation for the term clotheslined.
Finished fiddling with the gun, Brady set the weapon on the coffee table in front of the sofa and shoved awkwardly to his feet with a grunt.
Time was up. Jake gave the lasso a preparatory spin, then whipped it toward Brady. The cord flew over Brady’s head and settled on his shoulders. The convict barely had time to tense in surprise before Jake jerked back on the rope, tightening the noose around Brady’s throat and yanking him backward off his feet.
Brady landed on the couch with an oof and growled, “What the h—”
The rest of his curse was choked off, as Jake pulled hard again, cinching the clothesline tighter until it strangled his prey.
Brady clawed at the rope, gasping for air.
Jake quickly lashed the cord to a spindle in the half wall between the living room and foyer, keeping Brady from reaching the gun on the coffee table.
When Brady twisted around and met Jake’s hard glare, Jake read recognition in his opponent’s eyes. “How did you...get out?” Brady rasped.
Jake pulled Darynda’s gun from under his coat and aimed it at the escaped con. “A little ingenuity, some luck and a whole lot of determination to see your ass fry for killing two cops and an innocent old man.” He motioned to the floor with the gun. “Now get on the floor with your hands and feet spread.”
Glaring his defiance, Brady spat toward Jake and climbed over the back of the sofa, favoring his left leg. The one Jake had shot last time they dueled. With a limping gait, Brady lunged.
Jake was ready, and he used Brady’s momentum against him, catching him in a low tackle and easily flipping him onto his back. “Now stay down!”
Brady continued tugging at the rope that cut into his throat, reducing his oxygen supply, but every time he loosened the lariat, Jake jerked it tight again.
“Sonofabitch!” Brady wheezed, scrambling to get up with his good leg.
Jake planted a foot in the man’s back and shoved him down again. When he pressed the muzzle of the .38 to the base of Brady’s skull, the convict froze. “Give me a reason to save the tax payers the cost of your incarceration. Please.”
When Brady had been still for several seconds, Jake stood and took a step back. “Your head is still in my crosshairs, pal.” He took another long step backward and untied the rope from the spindle post, keeping the noose tight. “If you so much as twitch, I’ll give you the same respect you showed old Mr. Noble.”
As he eased back toward Brady, winding the clothesline around his free hand, Jake saw the man’s muscles tense. That was all the forewarning he needed.
When Brady sprang up, Jake executed a sweeping roundhouse kick that caught Brady in the kidney.
His opponent doubled over at the waist, clutching his side and wobbling on his injured leg. With an angry growl, Brady glanced up, and his narrowed gaze shot daggers.
“Oh, good,” Jake said with a mocking grin. “I was hoping you’d resist.”
Brady lunged a second time, head down, shoulder first, and Jake braced his feet. He timed an upward arc of his gun hand so that the barrel smacked Brady in the chin, shoving his head back. Dropping the cord he’d wound on his hand, Jake swung again at Brady’s mug before the convict could regain his balance.
When Brady’s knees buckled, Jake hooked his leg around the other man’s and knocked Brady back onto the floor. Dropping to his knees, Jake straddled Brady and trapped the man’s arms at his sides. The cord around Brady’s throat had loosened as he fought, and the convict gulped in air, even as he struggled fruitlessly to free himself from Jake’s hold.
Brady glowered at him, and Jake couldn’t resist punching the smug convict in the jaw once more. “That’s for terrorizing Chelsea, you worm.”
After blinking and shaking off the blow, Brady grated, “Chelsea, huh? That the fat chick’s name?” Brady gave a derisive scoff. “You tapping that c—”
Jake slammed his fist into Brady’s mouth, rage pouring through him. “Shut your filthy mouth now.”
“Go to hell.”
Jake’s hand flexed as the urge to choke the life out of Brady or snap his sorry neck surged through him. He tamed the savage impulse, though, instead grasping Brady’s shoulders roughly and flipping him to his stomach. Jerking the convict’s hands behind him, Jake tightened the noose around the man’s neck again, then used the remaining length of cord to bind his hands and feet.
“I should have killed you and the bitch w
hen I had the chance,” Brady rasped.
Jake gritted his teeth, fighting to keep a level head. “I told you to shut up.”
“And I told you to go to—”
Grabbing a fistful of Brady’s hair, he pulled the escaped felon’s head off the floor, then smacked Brady in the jaw. When the criminal collapsed on the floor, his head hit the hardwood surface hard enough to knock the man unconscious. Brady’s body went limp, and Jake felt for a pulse. Reassured his quarry was alive, Jake loosened the noose so Brady could get just enough air to survive. He stashed Darynda’s .38 in the waist of his jeans again, then dragged Brady to the center of the living room. He left the convict hog-tied on the floor.
Spying the guns Brady had been using for target practice, he retrieved both his SIG-Sauer and the stolen police sidearm from the coffee table...just in case. He ejected the magazine of the police sidearm. Still empty. His pistol was down to two rounds. Just the same, he shoved the cop’s gun in his boot and his pistol in the big side pocket of his coat. At least if Brady woke up, he couldn’t wiggle across the floor and get a weapon.
Blowing out a cleansing breath, he picked up his cowboy hat, which had gotten knocked off in the scuffle, and headed back out through the kitchen to signal Chelsea. When Jake walked out of the carport, he looked to the far edge of the yard where he’d left Chelsea waiting behind the scrubby trees. Doffing his cowboy hat, he gave it quick wave.
She appeared from behind the snow-covered trees and waved back, then swung up on her horse and rode toward the house.
He paused for a moment, watching her, and his body hummed with the memory of her kiss. He’d love nothing more than a few days in bed with her to explore the magnetic attraction he felt between them. If they’d met under different circumstances, if he weren’t on the clock trying to reach his father’s hospital bed, if he hadn’t taken a known criminal into custody...
He exhaled harshly. So many damn ifs. Maybe the universe was telling him something. Maybe kissing Chelsea had been a mistake. He had no business giving her false hopes about where their attraction might lead. His life was about counterterrorism and the difference he was making flying missions for the black ops team. No matter how much her kiss fired him up, he had to walk away once Brady was in custody and Chelsea was safe. A pang of disappointment plucking at his chest, he crossed the yard to his truck and opened the driver’s door.
Two-day-old blood from Brady’s wounded leg covered the seat, spotted the floor mats and was smeared on the steering wheel, door and console. Jake scowled, understanding the sense of violation Chelsea had felt for having the convict in her house. Directing his attention away from the blood, Jake scanned the front seat.
On the passenger side, where he’d left it, sat his cell phone. Heaving a sigh of relief, Jake grabbed it up and checked the screen. Seven new texts and twelve missed calls. He read the texts first. One was a solicitation. One was from an unfamiliar number. Four were from his sister, growing more desperate and asking where he was and if he was all right. Replying to the last text from Michelle, he typed out, I’m fine. Delayed by snow. How’s Dad? I’ll call ASAP.
The most recent text was from his friend and former black ops teammate, Alec Kincaid. Ur sister called looking 4 U. Sit rep?
One of the missed calls, along with numerous calls from Michelle, was from another former teammate, Daniel LeCroix. Clearly his disappearance had set off more than a few warning bells for his friends and family. He needed to let someone in on what had transpired before Michelle had a stroke....
Chelsea trotted up, dismounted and tied the reins of the dappled gray to the clothesline pole next to the other horse. “What happened?” she asked breathlessly. “Is he restrained?”
Pocketing the phone for the time being, he jerked a nod. “And unconscious at the moment. He resisted, and I punched him in the piehole.” He gave her a smug grin. “Felt good, too.” He hitched his head toward the house. “Come on in. I want you to watch him, just in case, while I find something stronger to bind his hands and feet. We’ll keep him bound until the cops get out here.”
Chelsea sent him a concerned look. “What’s he tied with now?”
“Your clothesline. But it’s kinda old and weather-beaten. I don’t want to risk him figuring a way to loosen or saw through it and get free.”
She nodded. “We should have any number of things downstairs in my dad’s workbench. Duct tape, cords, wire...take your pick. The basement door is in the kitchen near the refrigerator.”
He settled a hand around her shoulders as they walked into the house. “All right. I’ll get something and be right back.” When Chelsea gave a nervous glance around the kitchen, he added, “Brady’s in the living room. I haven’t seen your phone yet, but mine was in my truck. I’ll call the cops as soon as I have Brady better secured.”
She rubbed her hands on her arms and gave him a weak smile. “Okay, I’ve got this.”
Jake stroked her hair, then nudging her closer, gave her forehead a quick kiss. “This mess is almost over, sweetheart. Hang in there.” He reached behind him and took Darynda’s .38 from the waist of his jeans. “Take this. If he so much as looks at you cross-eyed, shoot him. No second thoughts.”
With that, he turned toward the doorway next to the refrigerator and headed down the steps into the dark basement.
* * *
This mess is almost over. Chelsea’s heart twisted as she walked to the living room. How sick was it that she didn’t want this crazy, tragic, scary situation to be over? The end of the crisis with Brady would mean Jake would walk out of her life. Probably for good.
He had a lucrative, exciting career and could have any gorgeous woman he wanted, so he had plenty of reasons to want to put this pain-in-the-butt chapter of his life behind him and never look back. Sure, he’d been sweet to her the past couple days, but taking care of her and protecting her out of his sense of duty was not the same thing as building a relationship with her because he wanted to, because he felt something for her.
Guys like Jake Connelly didn’t fall for plain-Jane, small-town girls like her. Not when he could crook his finger and have some exotic, size-2 beauty in his bed any night of the week.
Chelsea cast a wary gaze to the man crumpled on her living room floor and crossed the room to sit on the edge of her parents’ couch. The gun Jake had handed her was equally unsettling, and she set it on the coffee table in front of her, within easy reach. She tried to avoid looking at Brady, who’d clearly helped himself to some of her father’s clothes. She gasped her dismay when she recognized the shirt Brady wore as one she’d given her father last Christmas. Gritting her teeth, she swept an encompassing look around the room to see what else Brady might have defiled.
Their case of DVDs had been rifled through, empty cans and cracker boxes littered the floor, and the two-hundred-dollar bottle of Cristal champagne her parents had been saving for their next anniversary lay on its side, empty. Fury roiled in her gut. How dare he touch—
A grunt and a twitch from Brady quickly brought her attention back to the man on the floor. Her heart tap-danced as she stared at him. Was he reviving?
She worked up enough spit in her mouth to swallow. Hurry, Jake! Please!
Brady made another noise, this one more of a gagging sound. Then his body jerked again. And again, an uncontrolled head-to-toe flinch.
Uneasy with the odd movements and noises, Chelsea rose from the sofa and moved to get a better view of Brady’s face, careful to keep her distance.
Brady’s eyes were open, but his eyes seemed frozen in a glazed, fixed stare at the ceiling. The clothesline Jake had used to catch Brady was looped around his neck, then wrapped around his hands and his feet. Each twitch of his body tightened the rope around Brady’s throat.
As she watched, Brady’s face grew red, and he gasped for air.
Chelsea frowned and called, “Jake?”
Suddenly Brady’s whole body began violently convulsing. Foamy spittle leaked out of his slack mouth.
His wheezy gasps for air grew hoarser and more desperate-sounding as his face darkened from red to nearly purple. The clothesline cut into the folds of his neck, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Jake!” Chelsea called, louder this time. “Something’s wrong! I think he’s dying!”
Panic beat a tattoo in her chest, and her own breath sawed harshly from her throat. She had to do something or Brady would die. Not that she care so much about saving his miserable hide, but neither could she, in good conscience, let him die without doing anything to help him. Wasn’t negligently withholding aid as bad as causing harm in the eyes of the law?
“Jake!” she screamed, dropping to her knees and fumbling to loosen the clothesline around Brady’s throat. “Help!”
Chapter 12
Jake squinted into the dark cellar, trying to make out the shapes that loomed before him. The small windows, high on the walls, let in pale beams of sunlight from what would be ground level outside. He scanned the unfinished basement. A washing machine, a workbench, cardboard boxes stacked in a corner, a water heater to one side, metal shelving with small appliances, a basket of fabric scraps and sewing supplies, and jars of homemade jelly. The musty smell of mildew filled the air and dust motes danced in the streams of light. The basement at the farmhouse he’d grown up in was much the same as this one. He could almost picture his father standing by the workbench, fiddling with a model airplane.
Nostalgia tugged at his chest. Hang on, Dad. I’m coming.
“Let’s see,” he muttered under his breath. “If I were a roll of duct tape, where would I be?” Pulling off the coat he’d borrowed from Mr. Noble’s closet, he strolled over to the workbench, laid the coat across one corner and checked the top drawers. A lot of clutter but no tape.
The phone in his shirt pocket buzzed, and he pulled it out to check the caller ID. Daniel LeCroix. With the press of a button, he answered the call. “Daniel, my man, how’s life in Louisiana?”
Cowboy's Texas Rescue Page 13
