by Nancy Radke
COURAGE DARES
by NANCY RADKE
PRAISE FOR COURAGE DARES
“A rough and tumble ride. Feel battered and bruised at the end but well worth it.” A lover of romantic suspense
“Reminded me of Cliffhanger. It never let up on the suspense, and I had no inkling of how it might end.” Kindle addict
“A book I’ll share with everyone. I cried when Mary cried.” AddyM
“An unusual hero who had never really tasted defeat. Never read about one like him before, but he was very well portrayed.” Janice S.
Table of Contents
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38
OTHER WORKS BY NANCY RADKE
THE SISTERS OF SPIRIT SERIES
SHOW & TELL BIBLE SERIES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CONTACT INFORMATION
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
DEDICATION
1
“It’s dark out. Will you be okay, walking home by yourself?” The elderly shopkeeper handed up the last can of pineapple juice, his fingers trembling from the effort.
Mary teetered on the ladder, determined to finish what she’d started. She balanced the can on top of the new display, and stepped down. “I should be,” she said as he stored the ladder away.
Mary followed the Cambodian to the front of his North Seattle convenience store, now empty of customers. Although she’d stayed an hour longer than she’d planned, it’d been a relief to talk about her problems.
“You went through something similar, didn’t you?” she asked as she picked up her coat.
“Yes. The Pol Pot wiped out my village. I hid, and saw my family die. Guilt is a terrible burden.”
“Don’t I know.”
He picked up a six pack of mineral water and handed it to her. “Thank you kindly for helping an old man.”
“Glad to.” She put the water in with the rest of her groceries, then shrugged into her coat.
“This too.” From around his neck he took an ivory dragon, suspended on a chain. Carved in detail, the dragon looked old and valuable. A series of jagged scales ran down the delicate neck.
“Oh, no. I can’t.”
“You hold it tonight when your dragons come.” He dropped it over her head. “It helped me. Maybe you’ll find the peace you seek.”
“A good luck charm?” She didn’t want that.
“No. To remind you to have courage. You must face your dragons to beat them.”
She lifted her long hair to let the chain fall around her neck, then fingered the dragon, the size of a quarter. “Are you sure?”
“Uh huh. I need him no longer. Someday, neither will you.”
“Then thank you.” Gathering up her groceries, she left. He turned out the lights and locked up the store behind her.
Mary hesitated. It wouldn’t take long to walk the seven blocks back to her apartment, but with the heavy bottles, it’d be easier to take the short cut through the neighborhood park. She always took that route in daylight.
It wasn’t that late— only six P.M., yet the January twilight had shot past with rapid purpose, sweeping up the day in its path, darkening the sky minute by minute.
Stop being afraid. Face your dragons. In the park, up the road, the sole street light cast its amber halo. Mary marched toward it, silently praying for courage.
Leafless maples reached out bare arms, their gnarled fingers reminiscent of Sleepy Hollow, while overgrown shrubs encompassed the sidewalk. The moon shown white, but distant, creating pockets of shadow.
She jumped from a rustling sound and shook her head. Why hadn’t she taken the long way around? She must stay calm. Rustling bushes wouldn’t hurt her.
A car turned onto the street, coming up behind her. It slowed and Mary moved to the left. But it didn’t accelerate, and the driver ducked his head to look out at her.
She glanced sideways. His dark hair swung low over his forehead and his face appeared swollen and bruised. Nobody she knew. He pulled over and stopped. She dropped her grocery bags and ran.
She heard the solid thud of the car door being closed.
“Wait,” he called. “I just need to ask—”
Not her! Mary ran faster. Which way? Up the hill, or dash into the shrubbery like a rabbit?
"Mary? Mary Brown?" The footsteps gained and the stranger called out again— loudly, his voice urgent. "Stop. Please. You're in danger."
“Only if I’m stupid enough to let you catch me,” she muttered. Forcing her feet faster, she struggled against the steep grade of the hill. Not many cars used this side street. There were no people, no houses.
No one to hear her scream.
The metallic taste of fear entered her mouth. She remembered it well. The taste, the smell, the cold sweat. The dark horror resurrected itself— of days spent in terror.
Every instinct demanded she hide, just as she’d done years ago. It had saved her then. Hide and wait. However long it took.
Mary glanced back as they passed under the street light, seeing a rugged-looking man wearing jeans, boots and a coat—and a flash of metal in his hand.
He’s gaining. I’ll never make it.
Shrugging off her white coat, she plunged into the thick evergreens. Down a narrow path, left, then left again around a large cedar.
Putting the cedar’s bulk between them, Mary burrowed under the thick foliage of an eight-foot-tall rhododendron. Her black jeans and navy sweat shirt acted like camouflage. As she pulled herself into a tight ball, she heard her pursuer enter the shrubbery. He ran down it a few steps, then stopped and stood quietly— probably listening.
She held her breath.
Looking under the branches she could see down to the small lake in the middle of the park. The surface reflected the moonlight— beautiful and silent, pale in contrast to the nighttime shadows. The patterns of light and dark transformed familiar objects into ghostly shapes. An owl hooted, its lonely call emphasizing her isolation.
The stranger walked toward her. "I'm sorry I frightened you." His voice shattered the still night as he came nearer. She could almost feel the vibration of each step.
She trembled and flattened herself against the frozen earth. The ivory dragon swung free and she grabbed it, pressing the jagged edge into her palm. Courage!
"I'm Connor McLarren. I didn't mean to scare you— but, well, I have to warn you not to go home tonight."
Connor. A name to match the face. It might or might not be his real one. He stood just a few feet away. She shivered.
"You see, some thugs broke into my mom's house yesterday and stole her silver collection. A burglary, so we thought. But the crooks came back today, while she was home. Demanded an antique chest she’d bought at an auction two years ago.”
He moved away— but just as Mary started to breathe, he returned. “I’ve never seen it. My mom said it’s heavy. Quite valuable. She’d given it to your father."
He spun a strange story. Mary closed her eyes and prayed. Please, please, please help me. The scent of cedar wafted past her, mixed with the pungent odor of decayed vegetation.
As he drew closer, she felt the stranger through her skin. Even the small hairs on her body reacted to his presence, ultra-sensitive— like a radar field around her, warning.
"My mom kept quiet, resisting them, and they beat her, viciously." He spat out the last word.
Mary trembled as nausea flowed through her. Resistance meant death. She knew.
His foot brushed against her white tennis shoe.
2
The stranger whipped aside the branches and stared down at Mary. Then the owl hooted, its mourn
ful call invading their space.
Mary exploded into action. She shot out from under the far side of the rhododendron and ran blindly through the shrubs, tripping over the tangled roots, keeping her balance with her hands when necessary.
"Wait!"
The man crashed through the foliage behind her.
She burst out to the sidewalk. Two yards further, his hand brushed her fingers. She started to run into the street, but her toe caught the edge of the sidewalk, throwing her forward. As she fell, he grabbed her arm.
For the first time that night, Mary cried out, her voice a high screech of terror.
He pulled her upright and spun her about to face him. She stood five-seven, but he towered at least six-four, giving him the appearance of a mountain— not handsome or smooth like mica, but craggy, an enormous rock of rugged granite. She had to look up to see his face.
It appeared bruised— purple and swollen, his lips puffy, his right eye half-closed. His mouth and jaw were set, his neck as thick and strong as a tree.
The stranger's large hand encompassed her slender wrist like a fetter. His knuckles were scraped raw in several places. A very forceful man. One you didn't argue with.
"You’re Mary Brown, aren't you?" His voice came low and hoarse, sounding frustrated. "Relax. I won't hurt you."
The main phrase used by all molesters, it did absolutely nothing to calm her. She looked back into his eyes. His dark, intense gaze would frighten even the bravest person.
"What... what do you want?" she managed to gasp, fighting the blackness swirling around her. No. No. I must not pass out. Not now.
"I have to find Mary Brown. Is that you?"
"No. Now let me go. Please!" Her voice— her only weapon— wasn't working very well. Panic had stilled it to a whisper.
She’d urged others to talk their way out of dangerous situations, but when every instinct said to kick him where it counted and run like crazy, talk didn't seem a good idea.
"I'm sorry, but you look like her— at least her picture. What's your name?" The man calling himself Connor gave her a slight shake. "If you’re Mary, you can't go home. Those two thugs could already be at your apartment, waiting."
"Janet... Smith," she blurted out.
The stranger stared deep into her eyes. Seldom a good liar, she looked away, biting down on her lip, praying for all she was worth that he’d believe her.
"Smith, huh? Let’s see your purse."
So it was robbery after all.
She should have known. Or maybe the fact that they were on the edge of the street, in plain view, changed his plans. Well, she wouldn’t fight anyone over money. "There's not much cash in there.”
He held a set of keys in one hand which he thrust into his pocket. Keys— not a knife. The fact helped clear her mind. Knives brought back too many memories.
Without releasing her, he took her purse and dumped the contents on the ground, then rummaged through them, fishing out her wallet. Flipping it open, he searched until he spotted her Washington driver's license. Complete with name, photo, and address.
"Mary Brown. Good." He sounded relieved and loosened his grip as he dropped her wallet back into her purse.
She cleared her throat against a swelling dryness. "There are lots of Mary Browns. What makes you think I’m the one?"
"I'm sure. You have to hide out for a while. Somewhere safe. I'll take you to a hotel if you like— better yet you can call a cab with my cell phone. Just don't go home."
Mary glanced around. They were about a hundred yards from her apartment. "Why?"
"They'll come after you next."
"Who?"
"I told you." He sounded highly impatient. "The thieves."
Mary rubbed her hands together, trying to focus on what he’d told her so far. An image returned, of the thugs and his mother. Had he made all that up? A story to trick her? Would he even remember what he’d said? "Is your mother alive?"
He hesitated, then frowned. "Yes. They beat her up pretty badly. But she didn't tell them anything—"
"Then how’ll they know about me?"
"They took some letters your father wrote before he died."
"Oh." Her dad liked to write letters— not e-mails— and had friends all over the world. It was how she remembered him best, sitting at the kitchen table with his pile of letters, sharing a few paragraphs with her before sending out a reply.
"Who’s your mother?" she asked.
"Barbara McLarren. Did your dad ever talk of her?"
"No."
"You're mentioned, as well as the chest. Mom’d placed the clipping of his obituary in one of the envelopes. When they read that, they'll come after you."
Mary took a deep breath. If he was some sort of psychopath, she’d best not make him angry. As long as he thought he was actually protecting her, she might be able to calm him.
Keep him talking. Keep him placated. Just don't get him mad.
"You're talking in riddles. My father didn't own any antique chest. I sorted through his stuff."
"Yes, he did. It’s about three feet by two. Special enough to make two scum-bags willing to kill for it."
Connor stood stiff and straight in front of her, his one good eye glowing with an inner fire. His voice rang true, yet he must be crazy. Glancing down she saw the muscles bulge in his bronzed forearms. His huge hands felt hard as clamps and twice as strong.
Talk your way out of this one, Mary.
She shook her head to help her concentrate. Surprisingly, it worked. "Did you call the police?"
"After I took my mother to Harborview.”
Harborview. She mustn’t think of that dreadful time. She could still picture her father, dying in the critical care unit just over three months ago.
“They went to your place but you weren’t there,” he added.
"Why didn’t they stay 'til I got back?"
"They can't do personal body-guarding. People make threats all the time. So I came over to wait until you arrived—as long as it took."
"Well, thanks for the warning, but I have no antique chest. The crooks won't come after me."
His grip tightened and he looked like he wanted to force her to believe him. "Don't be foolish. Of course they will."
"But I'm the wrong person." She pitched her voice to make it sound friendly, concerned. "You'd better go and warn the right Mary Brown. We've never owned such a chest. Ever.” Another thought popped up, demanding an answer. “How’d you get my address anyway?"
"The Internet. If I can do it, they can."
Mary frowned as her doubts rose. "Is my present address in those letters?"
His eyebrows flicked up as if catching her change of focus.
"Well, is it?" she insisted.
He shrugged—a slight jerking movement that didn’t dispel the military-like stiffness of his stance. "I don't know."
"Hum." Mary had left her father’s home four months ago. It’d been her first step toward independence, conquering her fears enough to move into an apartment with her two friends, Robyn and Alison. Her father’d helped her celebrate.
Then earlier this winter, he’d been killed.
"These letters. If they were written by a man who was supposed to be my father, then what’s his name?"
He rubbed his forehead above his good eye, paused, and then shook his head. He looked worried. If he’d made this all up, he was an excellent actor. "I don't remember.”
"You'd better find out. If those men need more information, they might go after your mom again. Have you thought about that?"
He nodded. "Uh huh. I registered her under a false name at a hotel. She's safe. But you must hide until they’re caught. Whether or not you’re the right person—and I think you are—they'll come after you."
Mary considered his words. Were all delusions this complex? She tried a different tack. "I went through all my dad's things after he was shot. Maybe he sold them."
"Shot?" Connor released his grip. "What happened? Was it them?"
Mary rubbed her arms, elated to be free. Her strategy was working. Keep him talking.
"I shouldn't think so. Dad was shot during a jewelry store robbery. The thieves where killed during a high-speed chase afterward. Their car went out of control on the ice. It was just before Thanksgiving.”
“So it wouldn’t be them.”
She paused and gave Connor a stiff smile. The winter air did nothing to help the situation. She was cold without her coat.
"I'm not the one you're looking for," she repeated, emphasizing each word. "I don't have any chest, antique or otherwise."
"Maybe you’re right," he replied, kicking at the gnarled root where it had split the sidewalk. "Maybe your father sold it. But if those scumbags think you're the right person, they’ll kill you trying to get the information."
"I'll have to chance it—"
"No!" He paced out a small circle, then stopped. "You've got to hide until the police catch them. I promised I’d get you out of harm’s way."
She held up her hands. "Okay. Okay. I'll go right home and call—"
"You can't go there," he ground out, his voice projecting his impatience. "Not tonight. Don't you understand?” His voice became strained with urgency. “They're out there, searching for you. They’ll keep searching for you. The first place they’ll look is your home."
"They couldn't find me any sooner than you did."
Connor threw his hands up. “They've had plenty of time. It's been hours since my run-in with them.”
If she could get him relaxed, she’d make a move. She forced a smile, hoping it looked natural. "I see. Plenty long enough. By the looks of that eye, you weren't doing so hot."
"I took a Baretta away from one, but only after a fight. The police kept it as evidence." He scowled, evidently wanting the gun back. "When I arrived, they were beating my mother. I fought them but they got away.”
That accounted for his swollen face— and skinned knuckles. Maybe he had just found the wrong Mary Brown. Whatever the case, she must get to safety, then call the police.
