Not because he was up to no good. She sensed that he was on guard now, especially after the man had been outside her cabin last night.
She shivered just thinking about it.
Tonight, the windows were closed, but John had brought over a box fan for her room and Connor’s. She was grateful for the relief from the heat, but the volume of the fan would easily mask any telltale signs that someone was trying to get in.
It didn’t matter how tired she was; she couldn’t sleep. She had too much on her mind. Instead, she got up, quietly crossed the room and peeked in on Connor. He was sleeping soundly in his bed. She smiled as she watched his chest rise and fall.
He was the one who’d gotten the short end of the stick throughout all of this. He deserved better. But until she could figure out how to make that better happen, this life would have to do.
She stepped back into the hallway, and headed toward the kitchen to grab some water.
That’s when movement caught her eye.
She froze.
It was dark out here, far darker than what she’d experienced in other places. Right now, the black inkiness stared at her, concealing any signs of trouble.
She searched for the source of her tension, probing the shadows for a signal that something was wrong.
Had she been seeing things?
Was the movement simply the breeze creeping in through the cracks of the window and causing the curtains to sway? Or could it be Rusty poking around on the porch?
Her gut told her no.
Her gaze shot to the kitchen counter. Was there a knife in here? A baseball bat? Anything?
Before she could take action, a figure stepped from behind the couch.
She gasped.
She had seen something.
Even worse, someone!
The man wore all black, including a mask across his face. She could only see the gleam of light hitting his exposed eyes. He was looking right at her, and his gaze wasn’t friendly. It looked downright menacing.
The man didn’t say a word. But in two seconds flat, he’d crossed the small cabin and lunged at her.
She ducked, desperate to get away. She took off for the front door, hoping to lure the man out of the house and away from Connor.
But the man grabbed her arm and swung her around. Her head hit the door frame and stars swam in front of her eyes.
She reached for something—anything—so she could keep her balance. She had to think clearly; she had to protect her son.
The man’s fist collided with her cheek. The force of the impact left her sprawled on the floor. She tried to pull herself back up, but the man kicked her. Pain surged through her rib cage.
Who was this man? Why wasn’t he saying anything? Was he going to kill her, right here and right now?
Against her will, a whimper escaped.
She rose to her knees, tried to crawl away.
The man grabbed her hair and yanked her up.
When she saw his eyes, she knew she was going to die.
She lifted up a prayer for Connor.
Lord, please keep him safe. Please!
SEVEN
John lay in bed. He couldn’t sleep. Instead, he reviewed all he knew about Samantha. Was the FBI agent right? Had troubled followed her here? He just couldn’t pinpoint what kind of trouble someone like Samantha might be mixed up in. As much as he told himself it wasn’t his business, he thought about it anyway.
A noise in the distance caught his ear. It was a crash, and not from an ocean wave breaking on shore.
He sat up in bed, his heart quickening. Had the intruder come back again tonight?
He threw on his clothes and dashed from his cabin.
Another crash shattered the usual serenity of the beach. It sounded as though it was coming from...inside Samantha’s cabin?
His jog turned into a sprint.
He didn’t bother with niceties when he arrived; he threw the door open.
Outrage filled him when he saw a man holding Samantha by the throat.
Before he could reach them, the man dropped Samantha. She crumpled to the floor like a rag doll. Then the intruder took off toward the back of the cabin.
John rushed toward Samantha, bending down beside her. Blood trickled from her forehead and lips. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, but he saw the tears rushing down her cheeks. Recognized the pain flashing in her eyes. Felt the fear in her trembling bones.
She pointed in the direction the man came. “Go,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine.”
He prayed Samantha was well enough to be right about this. Then he took off after the man. He’d gone out the window in Samantha’s bedroom.
John climbed out after him. His feet hit the sand with a thud. He searched the landscape around him, looking for an indication as to where the man had gone. A moment later, he spotted him on his pier.
He sprinted after him, but the man was so far ahead, there was little hope John could catch him. That wouldn’t stop him from trying, though.
The intruder jumped into a boat. Five seconds later, he had the engine cranked and sped away.
John stopped at the end of the wooden planks. His gaze was fastened on the boat, trying to remember any detail. But it was so dark outside he barely made out the make or model. Two men were on board, though, and both were wearing black.
Finally, when the boat disappeared, he jogged back inside to check on Samantha and Connor.
Speaking of which...where was Rusty? Why hadn’t his dog alerted him that something was wrong? That in itself sent up a red flag. Rusty was an excellent guard.
He’d check on the dog later.
He stepped into Samantha’s cabin. She’d pulled herself up to sitting and rested against the refrigerator. Blood trickled from her temple and her lips. Her eye was already bruised and swollen. The way her arms wrapped around her midsection, she was in pain.
“Where’s Connor?” he asked again.
The fact that the boy wasn’t out here alarmed him. He’d only seen one person fleeing the cabin, though.
Samantha rubbed the skin between her eyes. “He can sleep through anything. He’s in his bed still.”
Relief flooded him. He squatted beside her, trying to figure out the best approach. He knew she was a strong woman. Would she reject his help? He had to try. “You’re pretty banged up. I should call the doctor, maybe even take you back to the mainland to the E.R.”
She closed her eyes. “No. I’m fine. Really. Just a little sore.”
“Are you sure you don’t have any broken bones?”
She pulled her eyes open. They looked dull and defeated. “Pretty sure.”
He desperately wanted to do something. “How about I help you to the couch?”
She nodded again. He took her elbow and gently prodded her to her feet. From the way her face scrunched with pain, the man had done some damage. Anger rushed through his veins, but he pushed the emotion down. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call the doctor?”
“I’ll be fine. I just need some pain reliever and maybe some ice. A bandage or two. It’s nothing that won’t heal.” Her face told a different story. It showed just how beat up she was.
He wanted to wrap an arm around her waist, but he feared hurting her ribs. Based on the way her arm was slung across her midsection, she’d probably been kicked there.
He really wished she’d see a doctor, but he couldn’t force her to. In fact, he had a feeling that pushing would only cause more resistance.
Finally, he lowered Samantha onto the couch. Her head drooped against the back, and she shut her eyes. “Will you check on Connor for me? Just to be sure he’s okay?”
“Of course.” John crept down the hall, nudged the boy’s door ope
n, and heard the peaceful sound of his heavy breathing.
Samantha was right—the boy could obviously sleep through anything. The thought was both comforting and disconcerting.
He closed the door again—not all the way, but enough that any more noise would be blocked. He had to talk to Samantha and find out what was going on.
He only hoped she’d actually share more information with him.
John lowered himself beside Samantha on the couch.
“Connor’s fine,” he started.
“Thank goodness.”
He knew he had to tread carefully. He barely knew the woman, yet his concern for her made her seem familiar. The adrenaline that charged through the room heightened everything, complicating an already complicated situation. “Do you have any Tylenol or a first-aid kit?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I don’t suppose the store’s open at this hour, is it?” She attempted to laugh but it fell short.
“I can run get mine. You going to be okay here by yourself for a minute?”
She nodded, but her whole body seemed to tense at the prospect. He hated to leave her. But she needed to be cleaned up.
“I’ll be right back.” His mind raced as he hurried back to his cabin. Who would do something like this? Why would someone attack an innocent person?
He wasn’t naive. He’d seen his share of atrocities while in the coast guard. He knew evil existed. But seeing Samantha hurt like this sparked a new kind of outrage in him.
She was a single mother. Alone in a new place. She had no possessions to steal. She hadn’t been here long enough to make anyone mad. So why?
He’d have to figure it out later. He quickly grabbed his first-aid kit and hurried back to her. When he walked in, he saw that she was still curled up on the couch. Her eyes were open now—probably watching for a sign that the man had returned. Her gaze softened when she spotted John.
“He left. On a boat. We’re okay right now.” He sat down beside her and pulled out the ointment. He squirted some on a piece of gauze and patted the cut on her temple. “Any idea who that man was?”
“Not a clue,” she whispered.
“Did he say anything?”
She flinched when the ointment hit her skin near her lips. “No. That was the strange thing. He didn’t say a single word.”
He paused and stared at Samantha a moment. She really was beautiful. Her face had such clean, smooth lines. Her skin was unblemished, her hair glossy, styled neatly even now. “Samantha, I really think we need to call the sheriff.”
“No!” She paused and shook her head. “I mean, I’m okay. It’s no big deal.” Her voice sounded softer, but rough edges still crept from her tone.
He tried not to sound pushy, but he needed to make his point. “He needs to know what happened, Samantha.”
She squeezed her lips together and moisture filled her eyes. “What will it matter? The man is long gone.”
“He might have killed you if I hadn’t gotten here when I did.” He hated to remind her of the horrid facts, but he had to get through to her.
She visibly shuddered. “But he didn’t. Now he knows I’m here. He won’t come back. I was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He studied her face. She tried to hold her chin up, tried to look certain. But her voice trembled. Her eyes looked too downcast. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
She said nothing.
He put a hand on her knee, trying to ground her. “What’s going on, Samantha? Maybe I can help.”
“No one can help,” she whispered. “Especially not the police. Please don’t mention this. Please!”
* * *
As soon as John left, Samantha sprang to her feet—at least, she sprang as much as her ribs would allow her. She had to get out of here. She should have known better. Should have gone someplace bigger. Someplace where it was easier to disappear.
There was no time to reflect on that now. Now, she had to get her things together. She’d sneak away before John knew she was leaving. After all, the less people who knew anything, the better. If she told John, he might ask questions. It was better if she simply vanished.
Her only regret in all of this was Connor. She hated to do this to him, to uproot him again. But his physical safety was the most important thing. She could deal with the emotional fallout later. She dreaded it, but she had no other choice.
She threw all of her clothes into her suitcase and glanced at her watch.
It was four-thirty. The ferry didn’t leave until nine. She had to leave now, though. Maybe she could charter a boat.
Only that would take up most of her money. She really needed to conserve her cash.
Despite all of this craziness, she had to give Connor the best life possible. She didn’t want to end up living in a car or, even worse, on the streets. She had to make sure her son had food to eat and sufficient clothing and a general sense of safety.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she sank to the floor. She rested her pounding head against the wall.
She didn’t want to admit it, but she was tired and scared.
She was so tired of running.
So tired of always being afraid.
Of always looking over her shoulder.
Of always fearing the worst.
This was no way to live. Yet what other choice did she have?
She couldn’t just go to the police. They would arrest her. Then what would happen to Connor?
Lord, I’m at my wit’s end. I just don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to make things better. I don’t know how to protect Connor. I just don’t know anything.
It wasn’t only her body that ached; it was her soul, as well. How much more could she take before she broke? Before the damage became irreparable?
Finally, she wiped away her tears. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself. That would only make her weak; she had to be strong if she wanted to survive.
She’d finish packing up her things, wake Connor, and they’d wait at the docks. Maybe a nice local would volunteer to take them across the water. There were other options, not just the ferry. She just had to be smart.
Samantha glanced around the cabin. It was too bad things here hadn’t worked out. If circumstances were different, this island might have proven to be lovely. She’d always dreamed of living in a place that had a slower pace of life. She dragged herself into the bathroom and flinched at her reflection in the mirror. She definitely had to clean herself up before anyone saw her. One look at her cuts and bruises and they’d run far away.
To the best of her ability, she used her makeup to hide her battle wounds. She pulled on a hat, hoping the bill would shadow her bruises. Then she got dressed. Her ribs ached, but she pushed past the pain. Finally, she went into Connor’s room and shook him awake.
His sleepy eyes looked up at her. “What’s wrong?”
She wiped his hair from his face and put on a brave face. “We need to get going.”
He jetted upright, his gaze darting to the window. “Going where? It’s still dark outside.”
“We need to leave.” She grimaced, hating the fact that she had to do this.
“Again? I don’t want to leave again.” Stubborn determination crossed his face.
She swallowed, her throat achy. “We have to, baby.”
“But I like it here!”
Her heart squeezed. “I do, too. But it’s not safe here anymore.”
“But—”
“No arguing, okay? Let’s get you dressed and get your things packed.”
He pouted, showing his unhappiness. Samantha didn’t approve of his pouting, but she couldn’t fuss at him, either. She didn’t want to leave, so she knew exactly how he was feeling.
She glanced at
her watch again. It was already five-thirty. Soon, the sun would be rising. She had to hurry.
* * *
John couldn’t get Samantha out of his mind. He wished he was only thinking about her smile. Instead, he was thinking about her bruises, about her cuts, about her secrets.
He leaned against his porch, staring at the reflection of the moon over the water. The crashing of the waves usually comforted his heart when little else could. But not right now.
Rusty lay panting at his feet. He’d found the dog locked in one of the cabins and, based on the remainder of a bone, someone had given him a steak laced with something to knock him out.
That meant that whoever had come tonight had planned their visit. They’d known about Rusty. They’d known where Samantha was. He’d probably been the same person who’d come the night before.
Even more disturbing was the fact that Samantha had panicked at the possibility of involving anyone else in this, including doctors or the police. Just what was going on?
She hadn’t asked him for help, so John should keep his distance. Yet, he knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t take a backseat in this, not when the woman seemed to have no one else.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost five-thirty. He knew his friend Nate always rose at four-thirty to get things ready at the restaurant. He’d be awake.
On a whim, he dialed his friend’s cell phone. Before the first ring completed, Nate answered. “John?”
“Did I wake you?” Guilt pinged through him. Nate had one small child and another one on the way. Sleep was a commodity hard to come by. He hoped he hadn’t called him on the one morning he was sleeping in.
“No, I’m prepping the kitchen. What’s going on?”
“I have a question for you. It’s about Samantha. Did the police ever come back? Did they figure out who broke in?”
“No, they didn’t. The FBI agent came back, though. Asked if we’d heard from Samantha yet.”
“And you said...?”
“I told him the truth. We haven’t heard from her.”
Some of the strain across John’s back disappeared. “She’s here, Nate. I offered her a job helping me restore these cabins.”
Desperate Measures Page 7
