Colton's Ranch Refuge

by Beth Cornelison

  “You’re right.” She flipped a hand up. “I should have known. I should have. But I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust him.” Her voice cracked, and tears filled her eyes. “But he lied to me. About more than just the drugs it turns out.”

  Gunnar tensed, rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. He didn’t want to go down this emotional path with her. He was hardly the warm and fuzzy confidante type, and witnessing her tears was like having a rock in his boot. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

  She dried her cheek with her finger and shook her head. “No, I’m sorry for blubbering again. I guess my defenses are low today. I’m not usually so weepy.”

  Gunnar wanted to get out of there, like ten minutes ago, but knew he couldn’t leave now without looking like the cold bastard he probably was. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, didn’t want to comfort her. He’d love to help her if he could. But he didn’t know how.

  He didn’t know what to do with his own emotional baggage, so how the hell was he supposed to handle her pain?

  He plucked a tissue from a box of Kleenex and held it out to her.

  She took it and flashed a quick embarrassed grin. “What am I doing? You don’t want to hear my sordid tale of woe.”

  He swallowed hard. “If you need to get it off your chest, I’ll listen. But I don’t know how much help or advice I can give you.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, her fingers curling into the covers at her waist. After a moment of silence, she said quietly, “Do you know how much the tabloids offered to pay me for the inside scoop concerning Adam’s death, our marriage and his affair with the waitress in Denver?” She opened her eyes and sent him a sad smile. “And you think I’m going to spill it all to you for nothing?”

  He raised his eyebrows, startled. “I only meant—”

  Her smile brightened, though the sadness lingered in her doelike eyes. “I know. And I may take you up on your offer. Someday. But not tonight.”

  He tried not to let his relief show in his expression, but she was apparently too good at reading people for him to pull it off.

  She hummed her amusement. “Yeah, you dodged a bullet there, didn’t you, soldier?”

  “And on that note...” He rose to his feet again and moved his dirty dish onto her tray. Lifting the bed tray, he started for the door. “I think I’ll take my leave. You need to sleep.”

  She tugged the covers higher, nestling into the sheets with a weary nod of agreement. “You’ll wake me when Emma and Tate come by?”

  “Of course.” He caught the bottom of the door with his foot to pull it closed.

  “Gunnar?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You do know that wasn’t me, right?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “The sex scene you watched before dinner.”

  His gut jerked tight, and adrenaline pumped through him. “Uh...what?”

  “Why else would you suddenly be so nervous around me?” She sent him a smug grin. “Besides, even though you kept the volume low, I recognized the background music.”

  Gunnar opened his mouth but couldn’t speak, didn’t know what to say.

  “The T and A shots? They used a body double. Had to. It’s in all my contracts.”

  “I—” Gunnar felt an awkward heat sting his face.

  “I know.” She pulled a falsely crestfallen face. “Disappointing, right? But it gets worse. When we filmed that movie— and I know which scene it was, because I’ve only done one nude scene—I was two months’ pregnant with Mason and Hudson, and I was sick as a dog. We had to stop rolling three times just during the shower scene for me to barf. Mark and I had to stay in that tight clench the whole time so my baby bump didn’t show. Oh, and the guy in the scene, Mark Gilliard, had horrible halitosis, which didn’t help my nausea one bit.”

  Gunnar realized his mouth was open, so he snapped it shut. “Um...”

  What was he supposed to say to that?

  She gave a short laugh. “Real sexy, huh? Sorry to disillusion you.”

  He blew out a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Well...wow. So there it is.”

  She shrugged. “Sorry. Not real.”

  He nodded, squared his shoulders, and met her eyes with a hard, meaningful gaze. “Yeah, but the red carpet shot, you in the sexy blue number? That was real.” He flashed a smoldering grin. “And you were hot.”

  A lopsided smile lit her face, and her cheeks flushed pink.

  As he backed out the door, he gave her a wink. “Sleep well, Tinkerbell.”

  Chapter 6

  A light knock on the bedroom door woke Violet a couple hours later. She rubbed her eyes and glanced around the unfamiliar room, trying to orient herself. The dull throb in her leg and ache in her head brought the day’s events back to her in a painful rush.

  The attack. Mary’s cries...

  The door opened, and Dr. Colton peeked in. “Violet, you awake? I’d like to check your wound and vital signs.”

  “Yeah, come in.”

  A tall, sandy-haired man and auburn-tressed woman entered behind Dr. Colton. Though she’d been traumatized, weak from blood loss and doped up on painkillers, Violet recalled meeting Dr. Colton and Gunnar’s brother and sister at the medical clinic. She knew they were both in law enforcement, but still groggy from her nap, she couldn’t remember their names at the moment.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Colton asked as he set a medical bag on the end of the bed.

  “Honestly? Horrible. Sore all over. Bone-tired. But glad to be alive.” She gave him the best smile she could. “How are my boys?” She canted forward, eager for news about Hudson and Mason. “Did you bring them with you?”

  Derek smiled warmly and shook his head. “No, we didn’t bring them tonight. Last time I checked, they’d both had their baths, were in their pajamas and were playing peekaboo with Piper and a purple elephant.”

  Violet smiled, and a stab of longing squeezed her chest. Even after a couple of hours away from her twins, she missed their chubby faces and sweet hugs. “Did they eat well at dinner?”

  Dr. Colton nodded. “Did they ever. They had mac and cheese and fruit salad. Your boys are in good hands, mama.”

  She sank back in the pillows, satisfied her babies were safe, even if she ached to have them with her. “Thank you for taking care of them. And thank you again for all you did today to save my life.” She paused and bit her lip. “Do you think you could get word to the Amish gentlemen who helped me? I want them to know how much I appreciate what they did for me as well.”

  “Emma can deliver your message to Caleb Troyer,” Dr. Colton said and nodded toward his sister. “He’s her new boyfriend.”

  Emma scoffed. “Geez, Derek. You make it sound so...high school.” Then looking to Violet she added, “But I will let Caleb know you send your thanks. And I’ll deliver the message to Isaac Lapp, as well.” She tilted her head in query. “You feel up to answering some questions when Derek is through?”

  Violet nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Well, the good news is your stitches look fine. No signs of infection. And I can give you something to make you more comfortable.”

  Violet drew her eyebrows together and gave Derek a skeptical look. “You mean a narcotic.”

  “The best painkillers are narcotics. Is that a problem?” Derek turned up a palm. “That’s what I gave you at the office.”

  Violet sighed. “Four years ago, when my career really began to take off, my husband got caught up in the party scene in Hollywood. He was already a heavy drinker, and when alcohol no longer gave him the buzz he wanted, he experimented with both prescription and illegal drugs. They were everywhere around him, and he saw no reason not to partake with his new buddies. Apparently he missed the day in school when they talked about defying peer pressure and the dangers of drugs and alcohol. His alcohol addiction became a drug addiction. He lost interest in his family, in our marriage and ten months ago, an overdose killed him.” A movement at the door dr
ew her attention. Gunnar propped a shoulder in the doorway and watched her with soulful hazel eyes. The intensity of his gaze had a more powerful effect on her than any drug she knew, burrowing deep to her marrow and warming her from her core.

  “I heard about your husband’s death, Violet, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Dr. Colton’s voice redirected her attention.

  She nodded her acknowledgment of his condolences. “I don’t want narcotics or anything addictive, even if it means I’m going to hurt.”

  Dr. Colton raised his eyebrows. “If you’re sure...” He glanced to Gunnar. “You have any ibuprofen in the cabin?”

  Gunnar pushed away from the door frame. “I’ll check. If I don’t, the pharmacy on Main Street is open twenty-four hours.”

  When Gunnar disappeared from view, Violet experienced an odd sense of loss, a hollow pang a lot like loneliness, which was silly since she had three other Coltons crowded in the small bedroom with her. And since she’d only known Gunnar one day. And since most of that time they’d been happily exchanging barbed gibes and pushing each other’s buttons.

  That was real. And you were hot. The echo of Gunnar’s compliment sent a sweet shiver through her.

  “You cold?” Dr. Colton asked as he palpated her wrist for her pulse.

  Not according to your brother, she thought but said, “Maybe a little.”

  “Hey, mind if we get started? I’m supposed to meet with Caleb and the church elders in an hour,” Emma said.

  “You’re seriously going to convert and follow Amish law?” the sandy-haired Colton brother asked. “You do realize no electricity means more than just no lightbulbs. It means no hair dryer, no dishwasher, no air conditioning...”

  Emma gave her brother a classic sisterly sneer. “Yes, I know that, Tate.” A confident smile tugged her mouth. “But Caleb is worth it.” When she turned back to Violet, Emma tipped her head again in query. “So shall we start?”

  Dr. Colton finished listening to Violet’s heartbeat and stepped back, removing his stethoscope from his ears. “I’m done. You’re doing great. Keep taking your antibiotic and getting as much rest as you can. I’ll check in with you again tomorrow. Okay?”

  Emma took a seat in the kitchen chair that Gunnar had left in the room earlier. “Let’s go over your statement again from the beginning, okay? Have you remembered anything else about the attack...the vehicle the men were in, something they said?”

  “Tell us everything you remember, even if it seems trivial.” Tate took Dr. Colton’s place at the side of the bed. “Sometimes cases are solved based on the tiniest detail.”

  “Well...let me think.” Violet closed her eyes, dredged up the sights and sounds from earlier that morning. A dark, ominous sense of doom crawled through her, as it had when she’d realized what the men wanted and why she and Mary had been singled out. Hugging the bed covers more tightly around her shoulders to ward off the chill the memories brought, she tried to remember what she’d told Emma and Tate already. Even that was foggy, thanks to the addled state she’d been in, both physically and mentally, right after the attack.

  She heard male voices—Gunnar’s and Dr. Colton’s—drift in from the hall, followed by the front door opening and closing and the scuff of boots returning to the guest room door. Even if she hadn’t heard Gunnar’s return, she’d have sensed it. She knew well the feeling of being watched, yet in Gunnar’s case, having his gaze on her made her feel feminine, safe...alive.

  “They parked the car at an angle in front of us, blocking our path. Even before I saw their ski masks, I knew something was wrong. I sensed their evil intent.” She opened her eyes and glanced from Emma to Tate. “I know that sounds crazy—”

  “Not at all,” Tate assured her. “You’d be surprised how often we hear that. And how often people dismiss that sixth sense.”

  “I, for one, believe it is a natural born instinct, as real as fight or flight or a mother’s instinct to protect her young,” Emma added.

  “I relied on it many times in Afghanistan,” Gunnar said, folding his arms over his chest. “Entering a new village. Meeting an unescorted car on the road. Saved my life more than once.” He held her gaze for long second, until Emma cleared her throat.

  “You were saying they wore ski masks. What color ski masks?”

  “Black. They were some polyester knit. And they had dark coats, gloves and boots. One guy’s coat was black and a little puffy, like an insulated jacket. I couldn’t see his shirt. His jacket was zipped to the neck.”

  “You’re sure it was an insulated coat? Zipped, not buttoned?” Emma asked.

  Violet blinked. Thought about what she’d seen. “Yeah. Why?”

  “The Amish don’t use zippers or man-made fabrics.”

  Violet thought about that and shook her head. “No, they weren’t Amish, but I think they were familiar with Amish people and traditions. The guy who grabbed me mocked my use of a curse word, saying my Mamm and Datt wouldn’t like it.”

  Tate scribbled a note and nodded to her. “Go on.”

  “Well, the other guy’s coat was a scratchy fabric like wool and hung longer. Past his hips. And more blue than black.”

  She continued describing the silver car, the men’s voices, what they said, the weapons they had. She trembled remembering the shock of having her attacker’s blade sink into her thigh. She told them everything she could remember doing to defend herself, blow by blow. Recounted her angry words, her attacker’s taunts, her admission that she wasn’t Amish.

  Guilt plucked at her. If she hadn’t denied the identity they’d assumed from her dress, would she be with Mary now, able to protect and defend the young woman? Would they have taken her instead and let Mary go free?

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I should have let them believe I was Amish. Maybe if I had, Mary would—”

  “No,” Tate said firmly. “Don’t play that game with yourself. You did what you had to. You did the right thing. How long do you think it would have been before they recognized you from the movies? Or your short hair and mannerisms gave you away? Who knows what they’d have done then.”

  Trembling and nauseated, Violet sucked in a deep breath, considering the truths Tate presented. If they’d killed her, Hudson and Mason would have been orphans. And Mary would still have been alone with her kidnappers.

  “Tell me again what the man whose ski mask you pulled off looked like,” Emma said.

  “I only got a glimpse, but he had average features, brown hair, no facial hair.”

  Violet did her best to describe what she remembered, racking her brain for any detail that would help the FBI and police find Mary and bring her safely home. No, she didn’t get any license plate numbers. No, she didn’t think she’d managed to scratch her attacker or get his DNA on her. No, she didn’t still have her clothes from the attack. She’d left them at Dr. Colton’s office. After forty more minutes of exhausting questions, she sighed and turned up her hands. “That’s all I can think of.”

  “I’ll come by again tomorrow and let you work with the local police sketch artist. She’d have come with us today, but she was tied up with some other official business.” Emma glanced to Tate. “Shall we go? Caleb’s waiting for me.”

  Violet bid Gunnar’s brother and sister goodbye and listened to the fading murmur of voices as he walked them out. When the cabin fell quiet again, she heard his footsteps approach her door. She watched the opening, waiting for him to return, and when he appeared at the threshold, her breath hitched a little. Even as physically weak and emotionally wrung out as she was, the sight of his broad shoulders and rough-hewn face stirred something elementally female inside her.

  “I have that ibuprofen you wanted,” he said and rattled the bottle.

  “Please.”

  He brought the bottle of ibuprofen to her bedside, along with a glass of water, and shook two tablets into his palm. After she plucked the pills from his hand, he helped her lean up enough to sip the water and wash down the tablets.


  “Gunnar?” she said, wiping a dribble from her lips with the back of her hand. “You saw some pretty horrible stuff in Afghanistan, didn’t you?”

  His gaze darted to hers, and his body tensed. “Why do you ask?”

  “I guess I’m just wondering how you handled it. I’d imagine you saw people die, maybe even your fellow soldiers. Your friends.”

  His jaw tightened, and he jerked a quick nod.

  Flash images of Mary, their attackers and her own blood taunted Violet. She saw the graphic pictures every time she closed her eyes and heard Mary’s cries in her memory even when she was awake. “So how...how have you dealt with it?”

  Gunnar pinned a grave look on her that made her shiver. “Who said I have?”

  His answer startled her. “Do you still have nightmares about your tour of duty?”

  His brow furrowed, and he hesitated, studied her, as if deciding whether to trust her, whether he should open that can of worms. “Let’s just say,” he began, his tone pitched low, “I have a few things I’m still working through.”

  Without thinking about why or if she should, Violet reached for his hand and curled her fingers around his. The expression that passed over his face told her she’d startled him with the gesture, but she held tight to his hand, needing the connection, wanting the comfort she derived merely from his presence.

  “So...no tips on how to make the sights and sounds go away?”

  He sat down on the edge of the guest bed, and his hip nudged hers. “Wish I did. People keep telling me it takes time. Time to put some distance from what happened and put it behind me.” He shrugged. “I’ve been home for six months.”

  Her mouth felt dry, despite the water she’d just sipped. “And?”

  He twisted his mouth in thought. “Apparently six months isn’t long enough.” He met her gaze, and his expression softened. “Would you like me to stay until you fall asleep?”

  His kind offer burrowed deep inside her and tangled with all the dark, troubled feelings the day had brought. “Would you? I mean...I feel a little silly asking. I know I’m safe here, but...”