Dropping the Hammer

by Joanna Wayne

  “Thank goodness you stopped in for coffee.”

  “Right. When I left the bakery, there were still several more hours of daylight, so I took the meandering scenic drive back to the interstate.”

  The interstate she’d never reached.

  “A few miles out of town, a cowboy pulled up beside me in his pickup truck and started motioning and hollering at me to pull over.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes. I lowered my window but couldn’t understand what he was saying. I considered pulling over, but something about the situation made me uncomfortable, especially since my car was running fine.”

  “Were there other cars around?”

  “No. I’d passed other cars since leaving Winding Creek, but there were no vehicles in sight then. No houses. Nothing but barbwire, pastures and cattle.”

  The pressure began to build inside her. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. She gritted her teeth and kept talking.

  “I decided to keep driving until I reached the highway and a service station where I could safely check things out. I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and drove as fast as I dared on the curving road.”

  “But he kept coming?”

  “Stayed right on my tail. I was afraid he was going to try to force me off the road. Then I heard what sounded like an explosion. I checked the rearview mirror and saw sparks and smoke.”

  “Gunshots?”

  “No.” Her voice was barely a whisper. Her insides quivered. She forced the words to keep coming. It was the first time since she’d given the police the information that she’d retold the events in such detail.

  “I assumed my gas tank had exploded. I panicked, pulled to the shoulder and jumped from the car.”

  “Which is exactly what the low-life son of a bitch was counting on.”

  “Yes. It was the same strategy he’d used with the others, though no one knew that at the time. When I looked up, Sales was running toward me.

  “I felt his fists hammer my face. That was the last thing I remembered until I woke up in a dark, dank room with my eyes swollen almost closed and my body covered in bruises.”

  Luke muttered a few curses. “Sorry, but it’s too damn bad you weren’t carrying a .45. That’s the only straight talking a bastard like that understands.”

  “I wouldn’t have known how to use it.”

  “It’s time you learn, though hopefully you’ll never encounter a psychopath like Sales again. I’m sorry for interrupting you,” Luke said. “Go on. I’ll keep quiet, but I am serious about your learning to shoot.”

  “The rest is a nightmare,” she said. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

  “I’m sure I can handle it. You’re the one being faced with the horrors again. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m good.” Not true, but she’d gotten this far. There was no reason not to get it all out now.

  “When I came to, I was lying on a thin pallet on a hard floor. I was in such pain I could barely move and had no clue where I was, only that there was a good chance the monster who’d attacked me was nearby.

  “The room was windowless and the only light came from a strip of illumination creeping in from beneath a closed door. I was sure the door would be locked, but I had to try it, so I scooted stomach-down across the floor.

  “All for nothing. The door was locked. I was the monster’s prisoner. I had never been so afraid in my life. I hope to never be again.”

  Luke stretched his arms across the table and reached for Rachel’s hands. She pulled away, stood and started to pace the kitchen. She had to get through this on her own. Leaning on his strength would steal the courage she needed.

  Her thoughts rambled, her fears mingling with her words as they spilled from her mouth without filter.

  Sales’s maniacal laughter. The cold, dead cruelty in his eyes. The periods of hunger and thirst and the knowledge that she’d lost all control. The unending fear and the paralysis that hit when she heard his footsteps outside the door.

  The constant prayers that Sydney would find her before it was too late.

  Rachel stopped pacing and stared out the window into the darkness as the blistering mental scars burst into malignant abscesses all over again.

  “I wasn’t the only one held captive in that hellhole,” she said. “There were three others, though I never saw them until the night we were rescued.

  “That was the night Roy realized his horrid abduction game was coming to an end. He set fire to the compound and attempted to burn all of us alive. I can’t smell smoke or see a fire without reliving that night. I’m not sure I ever will.”

  She finally got up the nerve to face Luke again. His lips were a thin line, his face jagged angles, his jaw protruded.

  “The Lone Star Snatcher.” Luke spit the infamous title like a curse. “That’s how the internet article referred to him.”

  “That’s what the FBI termed him,” Rachel explained. “I didn’t know any of that until after my rescue. I just thought of him as the monster.”

  “More fitting, if there were a word to describe a devil in the body of a man.”

  “He is evil incarnate,” Rachel said. “I’m sure he hasn’t changed. How could he after the beastly crimes he’s committed? He murdered a runaway teenage girl who’d been living on the streets of San Antonio. He killed Esther’s husband, Charlie, in cold blood—in his own barn. She found him with a bullet through his head.”

  “Charlie? He murdered Charlie Kavanaugh? I didn’t know.”

  “Only because you were halfway around the world in a news vacuum. That’s another long story, another unthinkable crime Sales committed with no remorse. Sydney could better fill you in on that information.”

  Rachel squeezed her eyes tight to hold back the salty tears that were pushing for release. “Two weeks in captivity have torn me apart. Charlie Kavanagh is dead and Esther will suffer from that grief every day for as long as she lives.”

  Rachel buried her face in her hands as tears began to rain down her cheeks. Reliving the horror hadn’t helped. How could she have believed it would?

  She heard the scrape of Luke’s chair and the slap of his bare feet on the kitchen floor as he walked over and stopped behind her. His hands clasped her shoulders and then pulled her around to face him.

  “You are one of the bravest people I’ve ever met, Rachel, and believe me, that’s saying a lot.” He dabbed at her tears with a tissue.

  “No. I’m not brave at all. I’m stuck in this nauseating time warp of nerves and fear. The horror of Roy Sales won’t let go.”

  “It will. It just takes time.” He reached for more tissues and put a wad of them to her nose. “Blow.”

  She did, then sniffled and tried to stop shaking.

  Luke pulled her into his arms and she let her head rest on his broad shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be. You can cry on my shoulder all night if that’s what it takes to make you feel safe. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

  “Thanks, Lu—”

  Her words were lost in the touch of his lips on hers. Her mind screamed this was the wrong time, the wrong place. Her body ignored the warnings.

  She needed his touch, needed his strength. Needed him.

  The kiss consumed her, taking her breath away. His fingers tangled in her hair as he pulled her closer.

  She splayed her hands across his back, loving the feel of his bare flesh and the strong cords of his muscles.

  He moaned her name.

  Her insides became molten.

  And then all on its own, the cotton loops worked free and the blanket dropped and pooled at her feet.

  Chapter Twelve

  Luke stared at Rachel, his body rock hard, his breath ragged.

  Her arms fell to her sides. She didn’t re
ach for the blanket but just stood there inches away from him. The same need that rocketed through him was mirrored in her beautiful, dusky eyes.

  The urge to take her right here and now was savage. On the table, on the floor, against the wall. He ached to touch her perfect breasts, to suck the nipples that stood at attention like bullets.

  He fisted his hands to keep from running them down the smooth flesh of her belly to find the sweet heat hidden beneath the triangle of dark hair.

  He’d never wanted a woman more.

  Yet his brain was yelling no. She’d just bared her soul to him. She was vulnerable. Making love might be fantastic for him, but she might wake up tomorrow with deep regrets.

  Somehow he found the strength to look away. He stooped, picked up the blanket and wrapped her in it again. “Why does this feel like I’m rewrapping the best gift I’ve ever received?”

  “Why are you?” she asked.

  The truth hit hard. It was because he didn’t want to be the guy who’d just happened to be there when she faced all her fears and weaknesses head-on. He didn’t want to be a one-night stand remembered with remorse. Not with Rachel.

  Her phone rang, saving him from having to put feelings he didn’t fully understand himself into words.

  She walked over to the table and picked up her phone. “It’s Sydney.”

  “Better take it,” he said. “She’s probably worried that you’re still scrubbing floors.”

  She took the call and he reluctantly went to get her clothes from the dryer.

  * * *

  “HI, SYDNEY.”

  “Hi, yourself, and where are you?”

  “At Luke Dalton’s place. I left you a message.”

  “Hours ago. Are you okay?”

  “I’m great.”

  “Did you have dinner?”

  “I did.” Canned soup while wearing a blanket. That would take a lot more explaining than Rachel cared to share.

  “At the risk of being the nosy younger sister, when are you coming home?”

  “That’s not nosy. I’ll be leaving here within the next half hour.”

  “I’ll see you then. Can’t wait to hear about your afternoon.”

  “Now you’re being nosy?”

  “Sister’s privilege.”

  They had always shared a lot with each other. This time Rachel would keep a few intimate details to herself. Like how wildly her heart had beat when she stood naked in front of Luke. Like how much she’d wanted him to claim her like some morally unencumbered Neanderthal.

  Only he wasn’t like that. He was a decent guy, a caring cowboy who’d turned away when she’d stood before him naked.

  Luke returned as she finished the call and broke the connection. Her clean and dry clothes were draped over his arm.

  “You’d best change into these,” he said. “If that blanket were to fall again, I make no promises of controlling my urges or my sanity.”

  “It’s getting a bit warm anyway,” she said, “and I need to be going.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” he said.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is,” he assured her. “No cowboy worth his spurs would let a beautiful woman drive herself home on these old ranch roads after dark.”

  “I’d only have to come back in the morning for my car.”

  “Not if you go with me to visit my dad in San Antonio. I’d pick you up whatever time you say.”

  “You don’t need me for that.”

  “Probably not, but I’d really enjoy your company. I would like your feedback on what the doctor says about Dad’s prognosis. And if the weather holds, we could follow the unpleasantness with a margarita and a stroll along the River Walk.”

  “Your invitation just gained a lot more appeal, Luke Dawkins.”

  “I can add more exciting options, if you’re interested,” he teased.

  She started to take her clothes back to the bedroom to change but stopped at the door. “Just tell me one thing, Luke. Why didn’t you make a move on me tonight when the sexual tension was going through the roof?”

  “For the record, not touching you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life, and that includes combat. But I know how difficult it was for you to open up about Roy Sales. I didn’t want to confuse the emotional lines between lover and confidant.”

  “So you were protecting me?”

  “Yes, but that wasn’t the whole of it. When we make love for the first time, and believe me, I’m counting on that happening, I want you to have nothing on your mind but me.”

  Any doubt of how hard she was falling for Luke vanished. “Then all you’re asking for is perfection?”

  “Damn straight.”

  * * *

  “HAVE A SEAT and Dr. Riche will see you in a few minutes.”

  Luke and Rachel did as the nurse instructed. Rachel sat on the end of a deep blue sofa. He moved a health magazine out of the way and sat down next to her.

  The drive from Winding Creek to the doctor’s office had been slightly awkward, his attempts at casual conversation falling flat. The sensual sizzle from last night was still there but lurking beneath the surface in the bright light of day.

  He still had no idea where he’d gotten the power to control his libido when that blanket hit the floor. It made him weak just thinking about it.

  The attraction was out in the open now, but did he dare act on it? She was struggling with fears he couldn’t fully understand. He suspected no one could unless they’d faced what she had.

  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

  And there was Alfred, a father who needed but clearly did not want Luke’s help. A father who was a stranger by choice. A man who had always lived life on his terms and who’d suddenly lost the ability to function without assistance.

  Even if everything was in their favor, Luke couldn’t imagine a lasting relationship developing between Rachel and him. She was a high-powered attorney in Houston. He was an ex-marine still trying to find where he fit in life as a civilian.

  “Are you sure you want me to go in to see the doctor with you?” she asked. “I can wait here if you’d like more privacy.”

  “You may as well hear the worst—or the best—from Dr. Riche. Otherwise I’ll have to repeat it all later when I beg for your input as to how I’m supposed to handle this.”

  “You do know my input is pretty much worthless. I know nothing about health care and my only legal expertise is dealing with alleged criminals. Even that is suspect now.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s a long and complicated story.”

  Everything with her seemed to be, which made her all the more intriguing. “As I said before, you are a very mysterious woman.”

  “More like a beleaguered woman. I’ll explain later. Alfred’s problems get top billing now.”

  As if on cue, a nurse opened a door on the far side of the room and called his name. “Ready or not, here we come,” he muttered to no one in particular.

  Rachel slipped her hand in his and squeezed. His spirits lifted. For what it was worth, it was nice having her on his side.

  They were ushered into a small office with almost a dozen framed diplomas and other honors and acknowledgments hanging behind a large, neat desk. The man behind the desk looked to be in his midfifties, thin, with a receding hairline.

  “I’m Dr. Riche,” he said, extending a hand.

  Luke shook it. “Luke Dawkins, and this is Rachel Maxwell.”

  The doctor shook Rachel’s hand, as well. “Are you a relative of Alfred’s, too?”

  “No.”

  “She’s a friend of mine,” Luke explained quickly, “and an attorney, so feel free to speak honestly in front of her. Hopefully she’ll guide me through any legal minefields we might run in
to in getting my dad the appropriate care.”

  “That could be useful before this is all over,” the doctor affirmed, “though I won’t be involved in that. My advice will strictly be medical except if you need medical information to support getting power of attorney. We have a lot to cover, so we might as well sit down and dive right in.”

  “That works for me,” Luke said. “Just don’t hit me with a lot of medical terms I won’t understand. I’m a basic fact kind of guy.”

  To his credit, the doctor did keep the professional terminology to a minimum, repeating what he’d told Luke on the phone the first time they talked about the type and possible causes of the stroke. He utilized an illustrated chart on his wall to further explain Alfred’s atrial fibrillation and the possibilities for treating it.

  “As I explained on the phone, your father’s stroke was relatively mild and he should improve with the proper therapy, though he may not regain everything he’s lost.”

  “What would that therapy entail?”

  “He’ll need to continue with the physical therapy to address the weakness on the left side of his body. In the meantime, he’ll require a walker or a cane to help with balance and will continue to need a wheelchair for longer distances and uneven surfaces.”

  “Is he using a wheelchair now? He wasn’t in one when I saw him Saturday.”

  “He refuses to use one most of the time, so someone must be with him anytime he walks more than a few feet. He is a very stubborn man.”

  “That I know. What else does he need in the way of therapy?”

  “An occupational therapist can help with using eating utensils, bathing, opening jars and bottles, making himself a sandwich and other daily living skills. And he’ll need a speech therapist, though some of his problems with finding the right word are closely related to his memory loss. We’ll have to wait and see if that improves.”

  “Sounds like he could be in rehab for months.”

  “That won’t be necessary. The social worker can help you set it up so that Alfred can get his therapy at home. But he will need someone with him. It could be months before he’s capable of functioning totally on his own.”