Her Sanctuary

by Toni Anderson

  Part of her wanted to cheer. Part of her wanted to raise her arms into the air and chant a Halleluiah chorus, but then the pain hit, white-hot spikes of pain, driven deep into her body, laced with mercury, acid and poison.

  DeLattio’s blasted features blistered through her mind. She did not want to meet him in hell.

  Where was Nat? Was he hit? Where was he?

  Then she saw him, the man who meant everything to her. The man who’d made her feel whole, after a lifetime of being broken. The man who’d given her a chance at happiness, even though she was condemned to misery.

  “I love you.” She hoped the words came out. Hoped he could hear her even though her ears were still ringing and pain blocked her senses. She tried to lift her hand and stroke the rough line of his jaw, wanted to erase the anguish that sparked in the depths of his eyes, but she couldn’t get her hands to work properly.

  She wanted to thank Nat for loving her. He hadn’t said the words, but she knew. No one had ever loved her like that before. Regret tugged at her as he was pushed aside and Marsh tried to stem the flow of blood. It was too late. She tried to move her lips into a smile, into a phrase of solace that would let them forgive themselves—and maybe her. Then the darkness came. She fought the sensation until her eyes couldn’t fight it anymore. Peace and a hazy contentment had her drifting away where pain couldn’t reach her anymore.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Eliza!” Nat shouted so loud his chest hurt. “Eliza!”

  Blood soaked the front of her thigh, darkened her jeans to black. He sat useless, gripping her shoulders as Marshall Hayes ripped off his belt and used it to tourniquet the top of Eliza’s leg.

  “Got a knife on you?”

  Nat fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the tool he kept there. He’d been too late, too slow to save Eliza.

  Marsh passed him the end of the belt. “Pull tight.”

  Numbly, Nat pulled, watched the other man lean down to put an extra hole in the strap. He tried not to stare at the flesh that gaped, or the sheen of shattered bone that worked its way through the pooling crimson. The hard edge of leather bit into his hand and the bleeding slowed. There was blood everywhere.

  Everywhere. Hands, face, legs, arms, ground. Spread like syrup across the Kevlar vest that she wore for protection.

  Wordlessly, he took the tool back from Marsh’s hand and slipped it in his pocket, released his grip on the belt. Nat said a quick prayer as he watched the shallow rise and fall of Eliza’s chest, a reflexive jerk as her lungs demanded oxygen.

  She was breathing—just.

  Please, God, let her live.

  Her face was pale, so pale he thought she was fading away. Christ. He touched her cheek, licked his thumb and wiped away a fleck of dirt, her flesh was warm, soft. His fingers shook as he cupped her cheek. He’d never told her he loved her. Not once had he said the words. Fear had held them back, kept them locked up, he’d been too goddamned scared to tell her.

  “I love you, Eliza.” He brushed the hair off her forehead and kissed her. “Don’t you die on me. I love you.”

  Cal stood behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder in support. The blonde woman rushed over—fell crying to her knees in the mud. Nat wanted to scream that this was all her fault, but he knew better. He glanced over to the corpse of the man who’d terrorized Eliza and wished to God he’d been the one to take the shot.

  Marsh pulled out a cell phone, turned it on and swore.

  “How long does it take an EMT to get here?” He shoved the useless phone back into his pocket. Stared at the blonde who wept in the dirt.

  “Too goddamn long.”

  Why the hell had he sent Sarah away? Shaking his head, he bent to pick up Eliza.

  “No!” Marsh seized his arm, ignored his flat-eyed stare. “Don’t move her. We need to splint her leg before we move her.”

  Nat slumped back on his heels. He closed his eyes and squeezed away the tears. “Can take an hour sometimes.” He rubbed his eyes, wished like hell for a miracle.

  “Shit.” Marsh looked around. He grabbed a couple of planks that rested against the side of the house. “I need rope or some tape. Then get some blankets and your truck...” Marsh had focused his attention on Cal, as if he’d already figured out Nat was incapable of action.

  Eliza was dying. Nat just wanted to be touching her when she did.

  ****

  County General Hospital, April 17th

  Nat couldn’t sit or stand still. Dread kept him moving. When he stopped even for a second, his sanity started to burst. When he closed his eyes, all he could see were his hands trying to stem the flow of Eliza’s blood and despite his efforts, it pumped out of her irretrievably.

  Bracing his arms against the wall, he said, “What the hell is happening in there?”

  The nurses ignored him. Doctors went on their way, treating patients and saving lives. He pushed away from the wall, slumped down in a brown box-like chair, rested his hands on his knees and leaned back. Stood up. Unable to keep still. Unable to bear the sight of his blood-stained jeans. Tunneling a hand through his hair, he loosened the dirt that caked it, brushed it onto the gray linoleum floor.

  “Shit.” Frustration and fear mixed within him, a cocktail of despair. He clenched his fists, his jaw. Stared up at the ceiling as if the gray tiles could give him the answers.

  Sarah was observing in the OR. They were trying to stop the bleeding and pin Eliza’s shattered femur back together. He’d given blood. Shit, he always gave blood, but it never seemed to save the ones he loved.

  Nat glanced down at his clothes. He was filthy and raw. Hell, he must’ve looked like a lunatic, but the only thing he cared about was Eliza fighting for her life on the operating table. Cal rose from his seat, laid a hand on his arm that was meant to comfort. Nat shrugged it away, unable to bear the thought of solace in such a desolate place. Cal moved away to the window, his mouth tugged down by worry.

  Was this how Ryan felt? Nat wondered, massaging his thumb across the palm of his other hand. Was this why he lost himself in alcohol and sex? Ezra was there too, waiting for news like the rest of them. Nat didn’t know when Eliza had stopped being a guest and had become part of the family, but Ezra’s crinkled old face was in his hands as he slumped in the chair.

  The Feds were gone, filling out reports and helping the locals process the crime scene. Abandoning Eliza in her hour of need. Again. He twisted a magazine in his hands.

  Josephine Maxwell had gone with them. Nat didn’t know if she went willingly or not, but he was glad she wasn’t waiting here with him. He hated the fact it was Eliza and not her in the OR; it didn’t make him proud, but he’d deal with it later. Right now he’d bargain with the devil himself to keep Eliza alive. His heart felt like a blade of ice, his head a volcano about to explode, and all he could feel was a premonition of death.

  If only he had been quicker this would never have happened. If only…

  A flurry of activity started around the nurse’s station as the night-shift buzzed around in organized chaos. A nurse approached him, someone he’d never seen before. A large African-American woman with big brown eyes and hair cut close to her skull. Kind eyes. So why did he want to run away from her? She was going to tell him Eliza was dead. That was why.

  “Come this way, Mr. Sullivan.”

  He followed her like a small obedient child.

  She led him through the double-doors at the end of the hall and down a gleaming corridor lined with glass windows. Nat hated hospitals, the smell, the lights, the concrete walls. She took his hand, wrapped large warm fingers around his. Nat closed his eyes not wanting to look through the window.

  “She’s alive, Mr. Sullivan, but barely.”

  Surprise blasted his eyes wide open and he gazed through the glass. Eliza lay swathed in bandages, a cast. Her skin was pale against the crisp white sheets. Drips and tubes flowed into her body and monitors beeped and buzzed with a frail life force.

  She looked waxen and fragi
le, but she was alive.

  “It was a clean break. The bullet passed straight through the bone, but the artery needed work. She’s lost a lot of blood and is in very serious condition. If she lasts the night...”

  Nat stared, didn’t realize he’d slumped against the glass until the nurse patted him gently on the back.

  “We gave her a transfusion and she’s stabilized, but we’ll have to monitor her constantly until she’s out of danger—”

  “Can I sit with her?” Nat cut in. Embers of hope stirred in his chest and he needed to touch her.

  The nurse wrinkled her nose and narrowed her gaze over his dirty clothes. “Well, normally it’s relatives only...”

  “Please.” Nat would beg on his hands and knees if he had to.

  “As you’re Dr Sullivan’s brother I suppose so.” She eyed him up and down, chewing a ruby lip as she considered his destiny. No one was keeping him out of that room; he jutted out his jaw and stood tall.

  The nurse seemed to sense his determination. “Look, she’s still unconscious from the anesthetic and will be for the next little while, and she’s going to be weak.” The nurse pursed her lips and made a decision. “Come with me,” she ordered.

  Nat glanced back at the pale figure, with her dark hair fanned out on the pillow behind her. Reluctantly, he followed the nurse to a shower room in the doctors’ quarters, and she gave him a clean set of scrubs.

  Ten minutes later, fresh and scrubbed, he followed the nurse back down the spotless corridor. He ignored the antiseptic smell, the dull whisper of the nurse’s soft-soled shoes. Hope was beginning to trickle into him and he didn’t intend to let it go.

  Entering the double-doors of the ICU, he looked at Eliza. Swallowing hard, he went and stood on the left-hand side of the bed and looked down at her face. She was so very pale, her skin almost transparent in the subdued lighting of the ward. Her heartbeat thumped steadily on the monitor and she had tubes running into her nose and arms. She wore a hospital gown, the sheet pulled up high across her thigh. A glistening white cast encased her leg. Nat reached out a finger, stroked her hair and tucked a stray curl behind a perfect ear. He pulled her limp, cool hand into his and sat down next to the bed.

  “Don’t you die on me, Eliza.” His voice was gruff. He ran the tips of his fingers lightly across her temple. And suddenly it didn’t matter he had nothing to offer her. It didn’t matter she’d been going to leave him. Now he knew why, and he wished to God he’d let her go.

  “I love you, Eliza. Please don’t die.”

  ****

  Marsh stood over the remains of Andrew DeLattio as they zipped up the body bag. The bullet had entered his left temple, exited through the right and obliterated everything in between. Marsh felt no grief or remorse, just a cold sense of justice that the bastard was finally off the streets.

  Andrew DeLattio couldn’t hurt anyone else.

  Charlie Corelli had been killed by that first shot through the windshield, and his body carted away to the morgue. Marsh let out a sigh, stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. Sun was rising on a new day. Thin streaks of red, amber and gold blooded the sky in ribbons of melting color.

  Eliza was out of surgery and the doctors were optimistic for a complete recovery. And it was all his fault she got shot in the first place.

  The chill found his skin beneath his shirt and jacket, made the hairs on his chest contract. He rubbed his arms to ward off the cold, stared up at Eliza’s cabin at the edge of the trees and across towards the horse barn. Wherever the shooter had been it had been a damned fine shot. Peter Uri. Had to be. No one else could have pulled it off.

  Elizabeth hadn’t been the assassin’s target. DeLattio had.

  Marsh hadn’t even twigged there was another shooter until after they’d got to the hospital. By then Uri would have been long gone, and Elizabeth was still fighting for her life. Marsh held his emotions in check, betraying no outward sign of distress. Josephine had screwed with his brain.

  Uri had fulfilled his contract only yards from a bunch of law enforcement personnel and no one had even noticed. Marsh flexed his fists. His breath curled up in a cloud of vapor and floated away like a wraith. Uri was famed for his ingenuity, discretion, and high prices; a regular high-flyer on America’s Most Wanted list. But the FBI couldn’t catch him and Marsh had to wonder if there was a reason behind that. Did the FBI use Uri for their own purposes? Uri had known where DeLattio was going to be before DeLattio had even known. How the hell had that happened? Leak? But by whom? Or insider information?

  Marsh had a horrible suspicion he knew.

  Sidling away from the sheriff and the deputies who stood talking loudly as if to cover their unease, Marsh ambled toward the pasture where a couple of chestnut horses grazed. Just a man taking some time to recoup after a long night. He lit a cigarette, tilted his head back and expelled the first lungful of smoke up into the air. Like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  But his mind was racing. He climbed the fence and slowly began scanning the siding of the big orange barn. His feet sank into the grass, morning dew soaking his pant legs and seeping into his expensive shoes. His toes curled against the sensation of wet sock.

  One of the horses trotted over—head held high, white nose outstretched. Marsh stroked the soft velvet whiskers as his other hand rubbed across the wood of the barn, brushed away some flakes of paint and moved on. The horse followed, curious and affable, seemingly eager for human companionship.

  The local sheriff was running the show and Marsh had no desire to take over the investigation.

  Cut and dried, wasn’t it? We shot the bastard. Didn’t we?

  Sheriff Talbot had never heard of Peter Uri and Marsh hadn’t enlightened him. Marsh walked along the side of the barn, the horse following him two paces behind. Half buried in the dirt a soft glint of copper caught his eye, reflecting the oblique rays of sunshine. The bullet that had traversed DeLattio’s brain.

  Marsh lived by the book, lived his life following every nuance of the law. Chain of evidence was a major part of that process. Stooping to tie his lace, he surreptitiously bagged the bullet and placed it in his pocket. Maybe the mob had hired Uri. Maybe their source inside the FBI had gotten the address in Stone Creek faster than he and Dancer had, but then again maybe not.

  Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned to see Josephine padding across the field toward him, tracking a second line through the sodden grass. Silently he cursed. He didn’t need this. Inside his jacket pockets his hands curled into fists and the muscles around his mouth tightened.

  Last night, when Elizabeth had told him over the phone that DeLattio had kidnapped Josephine, he’d gagged. It had been Marsh’s fault Josephine had been taken. His fault. His stomach had twisted until it was dry.

  And when DeLattio had been lying defeated in the mud and muck, the sheer relief of knowing Josephine was safe had blurred his instincts and given DeLattio the split second he’d needed to pull the second gun. Everything had happened in slow motion and Eliza had nearly lost her life because of his incompetence.

  Narrowing his eyes he fought his reaction to the woman who’d caused him more grief than a thousand Mona Lisa’s. Josephine sure as hell hadn’t turned to him afterward the shooting. She’d given him a look that could sour milk and retreated behind her ice-princess façade.

  He smiled at her grimly, but his eyes felt empty.

  “I bet you think you’re pretty damned clever.” Dressed in black leggings and a red sweater that rose to her chin, her fingers gripped each other in an intricate web.

  “Sure, I wake up every morning thinking just that.” He put a glint in his eye to suggest one morning in particular.

  She swerved away, avoided his gaze like a car avoiding a head-on collision and he provoked her some more, a defense mechanism as old as apples. “You should have told me you were a virgin, Josephine. I would have taken it easier on you.”

  Her gaze swung back to his, embarrassment
and indignation on full beam. “What do you mean easier on me?”

  “Do you think it counts as date rape?” Marsh mused, taking a step towards her. He couldn’t explain the pleasure of seeing her jaw drop or her cheeks pale, but he got a weird kind of satisfaction from pissing her off. Better that than indifference, or pity.

  She gritted her teeth. “You were like a dog after a bitch.”

  “Oh yeah I remember that vaguely—the bitch part anyway.”

  He grinned as she boiled, her fury bubbling to the surface and exploding.

  “I hate you! I hate everything you stand for!” Her voice rang out in the clear morning, made the sheriff and his deputies glance over. Marsh flinched, masked his expression before she spotted his weakness.

  “So, are you going to arrest me?” She was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling in short sharp jerks. She held her wrists together, veins upward, in front of her and he was sorely tempted to cuff her. He took a stride toward her, but she backed off a couple of steps.

  Not as confident as she appeared then...or maybe she really did hate him.

  “Mr. By-the-Book.” She snorted then caught herself. Her pale blue eyes glittered in an expression of disgust. “That’s why Elizabeth didn’t turn to you after the rape. You’d have never...” She clamped her lips shut, seemed to realize she’d said too much.

  “Yeah?” The question was lazy, like honey in a jar. “Never what?”

  He walked up to her until he was so close he could have touched her. He leaned down so his lips hovered near her ear. She stood her ground, but her pupils dilated in alarm.

  Keeping his voice low he said, “Never realized that Elizabeth hired an assassin to kill DeLattio? Never figure out that she lured DeLattio here to his death?”

  “She didn’t lure that bastard here.” Josephine’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “She didn’t know where it would happen.”

  He laughed, a harsh bitter sound that had her mouth opening and shutting like a stressed fish. Her surprise didn’t last long. The expression on her face turned stubborn, the way it had before she’d given him the silent treatment for twenty-four hours straight. “You can’t prove anything anyway.”