Her Sanctuary

by Toni Anderson

  Branches snapped and scratched her face and the bare skin of her arms. Hearing a noise, she pivoted, shadows shifting, and realized he was straight ahead of her. Cold dread pierced her heart and she froze, unable to look away from his glowing eyes. Fear clawed like bile in her throat as she wheeled to run away again.

  Run. Run. Run.

  She was crying, sobbing and sucking in deep breaths, desperate for oxygen, desperate to escape.

  A quiet murmur rolled over her, the soft sound of gentle love. Light glowed and banished the darkness. Her mother’s sweet face as she held Sean in her arms, a baby still, gorgeous with big round cheeks and eyes that sparkled.

  Tears flowed down her cheeks, the wet warmth seeping into her marrow. She snuggled closer to the source and smiled. Her mother was here. Nothing could harm her now.

  ****

  Nat woke to bright sunshine and the insistent call of a Stellar’s Jay. His arm was wrapped tightly around Eliza Reed’s waist, pinning her back against his chest. Her head rested on his other forearm, her dark hair curling softly against his skin. She smelled of lavender and antiseptic.

  She’d scared the hell out of him last night and not just with the gun. The sound of her sobs had woken him from a deep sleep and he’d rushed through to see what was wrong.

  He’d found her thrashing around, frantically clawing the air and gasping for breath. The torment that drove her, even in sleep, made him want to break something. Instead he’d held her until the dream had faded and then, when she’d clung to him with desperate fingers he’d lain down on the bed next to her and drifted off to sleep. He hadn’t meant to stay.

  But now a certain part of his body insisted it wasn’t sleep time anymore.

  Hell no.

  He shifted backward, trying to escape without waking her. Somehow he knew the last thing she needed was to wake up with a horny male clutching her soft, relaxed body against a very obvious woody.

  Shit.

  He climbed out of bed and went to get his shirt and pants from the next room. The Glock sat on the floor next to the couch. He picked it up, measured the weight of the deadly-looking pistol against his palm. It was light, almost like a toy. He preferred a rifle, but the Glock in his hand was a pretty sophisticated weapon. Something a woman in law enforcement might carry.

  He ground his teeth and tried not to think about why Eliza might sleep with a loaded gun beneath her pillow. Bad guys threatened bad things.

  Or maybe she was just crazy. He’d seen her take care of herself in a hostile crowd. Knew she wouldn’t threaten easily, but maybe she was just paranoid.

  And maybe not.

  Carrying the pistol through to the kitchen, he put it down on the worn countertop. Eliza had said she’d been in law enforcement, but that covered a lot of bases. Cops to Feds to spooks, even the military had their own law enforcement personnel.

  She was running from something.

  Too weary to think straight, he set about making coffee to wake up his brain. He’d been gone for three days, checking the snow loads in the summer pastures and taking the latest wolf-pack photographs he’d been commissioned to shoot. The work had gone like a dream, the thaw and warm weather bringing the wolves out of the den to loll in the sunshine.

  He’d photographed the pack often over the last ten years, had named them all. Pups were due any day now, the alpha female fat and awkward with her bulging belly. Once he got those shots, he was toying with the idea of putting together a coffee-table book. It wasn’t much, but it might keep the creditors at bay for a little while longer.

  Out the small kitchen window, he could see Ryan heading to the barn. With Cal out of action, Nat had to get to work. He had four pregnant mares to check and wanted to see how Red was shaping up. He was also thinking about selling the Cayuse ponies to the Wild Horse Research Center in Porterville. Either that or try to get access to some semen from a different stallion. One of the mares was due to come into season soon.

  Wiping a tired hand over his face, he poured the coffee, swept the Glock off the counter, and slipped it into the back of his waistband. He picked up two steaming mugs and walked through into the bedroom.

  “Hey, sleepy head, rise and shine,” he yelled.

  Eliza sat up slowly. She looked tired and groggy, her green eyes blurry and her hair a mess. He’d half hoped the sight of her first thing in the morning would kill off his desire, but he was doomed to disappointment. She looked shockingly beautiful, fragile and stark without her defenses to hide behind.

  Putting down the coffee on the bedside table, he took the gun out of his waistband, laid it next to the mug.

  She watched him anxiously, eyeing the gun from beneath dark brows.

  There was a photo next to the bed. A man and woman, each holding a small child. He picked it up.

  “Who’s this?”

  The small muscles of her face froze beneath her skin, turning her expression harsh and brittle.

  “My parents and little brother.” Her voice was quiet, loaded with pain.

  “They still around?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. People didn’t mourn the living.

  She shook her head and he didn’t think she was going to tell him anything more, but the words trickled out.

  “They were killed at a border crossing during the troubles in Northern Ireland.” She picked at a thread on the bedspread. “Sean wasn’t even two years old.”

  He looked at the photograph and recognized the little girl clinging to her daddy’s knee. She looked seven or eight. Looking at the little boy he realized her parents must have died not long after it was taken. Hell. He couldn’t imagine growing up without a family.

  “I’m sorry,” Nat said. She nodded, obviously not comfortable with the emotions, even after all this time. He set the picture down. Changed the subject.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “Sore,” she admitted, looking grateful to talk about something else.

  “Sore where?” He took a big sip of coffee.

  “Head, neck, arms, legs, back,” Eliza told him, tentatively touching each body part. “Pretty much everywhere.”

  Nat went to the bathroom, rummaged through the medicine cabinet for Tylenol. Shaking out two little red tablets, he thrust them into her hands along with the coffee, leaned closer and examined her head wound for signs of fresh bleeding, keeping his perusal strictly professional. He was damned proud of himself for not sneaking a peek down her nightshirt and trying to get a visual on the body he’d held.

  There was a thin red welt on her hairline, not too serious. Sarah would check her out later and, if he knew his sister, would have both patients down in the ER before they could blink.

  “It’s starting to heal over,” he said. His eyes drifted down to her breasts, nipples outlined by thin cotton.

  Hell.

  Nat took a step back from the bed and tried not to think about how soft she’d felt in his arms, how feminine. Softness wasn’t something he’d associate with women like Eliza Reed.

  She stretched her arms over her head, unaware of his thoughts. A Blue Jay’s T-shirt fell almost to her knees. The blankets slid lower, and the T-shirt hitched higher, and try as he might, Nat could not tear his eyes away.

  His mouth went dry while his heart beat painfully in his chest.

  “I, uh, I.” He couldn’t get the words out.

  Eliza shoved her hair out of her face with one hand, and almost inhaled the coffee. She seemed unaware of her bare legs...her full breasts...him.

  He should have marked it down as progress, but he couldn’t quite muster straight line thoughts.

  “Gotta go,” he mumbled and turned away to leave.

  “Nat?”

  He forced himself to stop. Forced himself to look into her green eyes without revealing a hint of the desire that stretched his nerves to breaking point.

  “Thanks,” she said and smiled.

  Chapter Ten

  Brooklyn, New York, April 12th

 
; Marsh hammered on the door of the Brooklyn apartment. The paint on the pale blue door was cracked and peeling with age. The buzzer was broken, but written on the label in faded black ink was the name ‘Maxwell’.

  Could Josephine Maxwell’s father really still be alive?

  He glanced down the littered corridor, tried to ignore the smell of filth and urine that rammed his senses. Marsh hammered on the door again and was rewarded by a muffled shout from within.

  He held his breath, body tensed in anticipation as adrenaline rushed in. Josephine Maxwell could be inside. Marsh stood back as he heard a lock turn and the bolt slide. The door opened a crack and a single eye peered through the gap. The eye was bloodshot, the tiny capillaries fractured and burst. The lone iris was an almost transparent blue with yellow-tinged whites that suggested liver damage. The face was heavily wrinkled and filthy, dirt ground into it like an old doormat.

  The apartment loomed dark and empty behind the man, like a warlock’s cave.

  The old man’s open mouth revealed yellow, rotten teeth and ruddy gums. Marsh stopped himself recoiling from the smell of hard liquor and decay that came from the rank orifice. He smiled and tried not to gag.

  “Mr. Maxwell?”

  The eye turned from ornery to suspicious in a flicker.

  “Who wants to know?” The voice was weak, almost hoarse.

  “My name’s Hayes. I’m with the FBI.”

  The pupil dilated. “I ain’t done nothin’,” the old man declared loudly.

  “No sir,” Marsh said, “I just want to talk to you for a moment.” Marsh pushed his ID through the crack, willing the man to open the door for him and cooperate. They could do this the easy way, or they could do it hard. But the hard way was bureaucratically noisy and he wanted to keep his visit here as unofficial as possible.

  “I got nothin’ to say to you. Leave me alone.” Maxwell thrust Marsh’s ID back at him and tried to close the door.

  Marsh wedged his Italian brogues into the gap and tried a different approach. Pulling a half-bottle of whiskey out of his overcoat pocket, he waved it enticingly in front of the old man. Maxwell’s eyes locked onto the bottle like a ground-to-air missile.

  “I just need a couple of minutes of your time, Sir. There’s no problem, just some routine inquiries.”

  Marsh jiggled the bottle, his stomach turning as he watched the old man lick dry lips and unchain the door.

  “I won’t cause you any trouble, Sir. Just a few questions and a quiet drink.”

  Maxwell made a lunge for the bottle, but Marsh tucked it safely back into his pocket and edged past him into the apartment. The squalor hit him immediately, nothing he hadn’t seen before, but rank and filthy nonetheless. He walked down a small dingy hall before he entered the lounge. It was dark, except for the flickering of the TV. Marsh snapped on the main lights and immediately wished he hadn’t. The couch dominated the room. Old, brown velour, covered with a rancid looking sleeping bag.

  The ancient TV sat perched in the corner, switched to one of those talk shows that set people up so they could watch them being knocked back down again. Seemed to Marsh that people watched talk shows because it was easier than dealing with their own problems. Escapism. Frankly, looking around this place, escapism didn’t look like such a bad idea.

  The coffee table in front of the couch was littered with food and empty liquor bottles, as was the carpet. Old cartons of half-eaten takeouts lay around in haphazard heaps. Marsh almost heard the roaches licking their mandibles in succulent delectation. He tried to imagine a little girl growing up in this environment, but he couldn’t. There was no way he’d leave a child here; it curdled his stomach to even think about it.

  What had made Josephine Maxwell leave Social Services when all she had to return to was this?

  Maxwell eyed the liquor in Marsh’s pocket, one arm outstretched like a supplicant. Marsh hesitated, but decided that his small half-bottle couldn’t do any more damage. The man should have been dead years ago.

  “I need to ask you a few questions about your daughter,” Marsh said.

  Maxwell’s eyes widened.

  Marsh watched the old man’s expression shift from wary to crafty in less than a heartbeat.

  “What daughter?”

  Marsh couldn’t decide if this was parental loyalty or if Maxwell was just trying to find out how much the information was worth. Marsh bet on the latter and decided to try the direct approach. “I need to find Josephine. Do you know where she is?”

  “Maybe I do.” The old man shrugged and began wheezing. “Haven’t seen the ungrateful slut in years.”

  Good. That made it easier to do what Marsh had to. A lot easier. The man would sell his daughter for a drink and now they both knew it.

  Marsh put the amber bottle of Bushmills on the coffee table and stepped back. He watched Maxwell approach it, cautiously, as if expecting a trap. His hand reached out hesitantly towards the neck of the bottle.

  “Do you know where she is?” Marsh asked.

  Maxwell jumped, but grabbed the bottle as he retreated to stand behind the couch like a two-year old who’d been caught doing something naughty. He unscrewed the cap with a couple of flicks of his knobby wrist and took a swig. Slowly, he wiped his mouth, shook his head, smiled as if in pain.

  Marsh pulled a couple of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and wondered why he was so irritated that this man would give up his daughter for money. He was the one paying him. Maxwell eyed the cash.

  “I need to find her,” Marsh repeated.

  “In trouble is she?” Maxwell looked speculatively at Marsh’s smart suit and expensive shoes, “Always was. Ungrateful bitch.”

  The old man paused; bitterness twisted his features. The pale eyes sharpened and focused on the greenbacks.

  “She phones but never visits her old man.” He laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Visits the old biddy across the hall, but she thinks she’s too good for me. Forgotten where she came from.” He wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth with his filthy shirt.

  Marsh didn’t blame her, but he needed a lot more information than what the old man had given him. Maybe he’d try the woman across the hall.

  The old man had a crafty look in his eyes, vicious and sly. “Phoned me the other day, out of the blue.” Maxwell put his hand to his chin, as if he struggled to remember something. “I pressed that last caller button, you know, the one that gives you the number of the last person who phoned?” He went on scratching his head, but the gleam in his eye was anything but confused.

  “Wrote it down somewhere.” He glanced around the filthy, cluttered apartment. “Don’t know if I could find it.”

  Marsh placed two-hundred dollars on the table. “I’d be really grateful if you’d take a look for me, Mr. Maxwell.” He pulled another hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket, flicked it with his fingers. “Really grateful.”

  Maxwell took a quick swig of whiskey and headed toward the kitchen, taking the bottle with him. Marsh walked over to the old sideboard and looked through the stack of bills that were strewn across it. He’d bet a hundred-to-one that Walter Maxwell didn’t have the wherewithal to pay any of them.

  The old man was muttering in the kitchen. Marsh could hear the tip and swallow and tinkle of liquor as Walter Maxwell drank up the nectar that had controlled his life.

  A key wriggled in the apartment door, and somebody pushed it open. It bounced against the chain and held. Marsh caught his breath, his hand going to his holster, loosening the straps and preparing to draw his SIG Sauer.

  “How many times have I told you not to chain this door first thing in the morning?” A woman spoke heatedly from the hall.

  Marsh relaxed slightly and watched as Maxwell went to the door. Instead of opening it up, he stuck his hand through the crack and said, “Give me the damn mail, woman. I don’t ask for your help and I don’t need it.” Walter Maxwell slammed the door in the Good Samaritan’s face as if he didn’t want anyone to know he had a visitor.


  That suited Marsh fine.

  Walter Maxwell clutched his meager pile of mail and swaggered back to the lounge. “Nosy old bitch lives across the hall.”

  “She’s the one whom Josephine visits?”

  The old man shrugged his bony shoulders. “Yeah.”

  Marsh filed the information away, along with the fact that the ‘nosy old bitch’ had access to the old man’s mail.

  Walter Maxwell shuffled forward with a scrap of paper in his hands, handed it over, his gaze switching all the time between the $100 bills on the table and the one that remained in Marsh’s hand. Marsh handed him the money and looked at the phone number. There was nothing he could do if it was a dead-end, but at least he had a couple of leads to follow up.

  Marsh figured he was just one step ahead of the mob in finding both Elizabeth and Josephine and if the mob found them first they were dead.

  A cockroach crawled out of a Chinese takeaway carton, negotiated cheap disposable chopsticks and scuttled across the floor. Maxwell didn’t even blink. Marsh’s stomach clenched. It was time to go.

  ****

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and took a deep breath of fresh mountain air. It felt frigid in her lungs as it expanded to fill the spaces within her chest.

  The light was fantastic with gold shimmers that dappled the deep shadows of the forest floor, shifting and sighing with the gentle movements of lodgepole pine and western larch.

  Nat rode beside her on the gray stallion, looking handsome in ubiquitous Wranglers, a denim shirt and a faded blue sheepskin-lined jacket. His boots were old and worn, a pale-colored cowboy hat was pulled low over his eyes, making him a prime candidate for Marlborough man of the month. Elizabeth found herself watching him—the broad outline of his shoulders, the twitching of those serious lips.

  They’d gone on a trail ride. Like she was a real tourist.

  He hadn’t mentioned last night. Not the fight, not the gun, nor her slip that she’d been in law enforcement. She would have been brimming with questions and curiosity, but he was letting it slide. For now.