If only

by Cherise Sinclair

  Yelling came from upstairs as Somerfeld searched for the illusive woman. Screw you, bastard. She spotted a mallet in the pile of construction tools.

  Yes! She grabbed it and hit the post holding Vance as hard as she could. But it made so much—too much—noise.

  Hit again.

  The post moved.

  Before she could swing again, Vance kicked. With a crack, the screws tore loose.

  * * * *

  Galen slid into the room with a quick check of Vance and Sally. Alive and alive. Although the amount of blood wasn’t good. A hog-tied woman lay in the corner. Gagged. Alive.

  A woman’s crying and screaming sounded on the second floor—was that Gabi?—along with the thud of heavy boots.

  Galen moved behind and under the stairs. Crappy hiding place, but the room held no conveniently concealing furniture.

  Upstairs, Somerfeld yelled, “You fucking slut. Think you’d trick me? Huh?” From the worry on Sally’s face, the bastard had discovered he’d been searching for a recording.

  Boots pounded down the stairs. Once Somerfeld reached the bottom, Galen could jump him from behind.

  The man halted most of the way down. “You fucking cunt!”

  A trigger clicked. “Hell!” Galen stepped out from the stairs and threw his hammer. The tool struck Somerfeld’s shoulder and knocked him a step sideways. The pistol fired.

  Galen grabbed the railing and swung himself up and over, and hit Somerfeld in a half-assed tackle. The bastard lost his balance; Galen never found his.

  Tangled together, they rolled down the stairs.

  Galen’s back, leg, head banged against the steps with bursts of pain. He landed badly but rolled to hands and knees, Somerfeld beside him, groaning.

  Galen tried to stand. His leg gave out. His hip and shoulder hit the floor, knocking the air out of him.

  Growling, Somerfeld made a grab for the pistol he’d dropped.

  Twisting, Galen kicked the weapon toward Vance and rammed his knee into Somerfeld’s chin. Pain knifed through his leg with the impact.

  The bastard spat blood and managed to stand.

  GALEN WAS DOWN. Somerfeld up. Vance had yanked the chain free from under the splintered wood post and tried again—and again—to get to his feet. Succeeded.

  He tried to run and tripped on the two-foot chain between his shackled ankles. “Jesus, fuck!” Handicapped, he half hopped, half lunged across the room toward the fight.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Sally darting the other way, going for the pistol, which had skidded into a pile of bedding.

  “Somerfeld,” Vance yelled.

  The bastard didn’t hear him.

  Galen was on hands and knees, trying to stand. Somerfeld kicked him in the gut so violently that Galen was flipped sideways, retching and gasping for air.

  “You asshole!” Sally pointed the pistol at Somerfeld, the weapon shaking so hard she’d probably shoot Galen.

  Somerfeld involuntarily retreated, and into that moment of silence came the wailing of sirens. Approaching the house.

  The bastard’s eyes went wide, fearful, then furious. Insane. “Burn it. Burn it all.” He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked it with his thumbnail, and it lit.

  Jesus fuck, Vance thought, if Sally shoots him… Gasoline everywhere.

  Galen yelled, “Sally, hold!”

  But Somerfeld was crazy enough to burn the place with himself in it. No way to win.

  Fuck that. Vance dived at the bastard, rammed into him—chest to chest—knocking him back. Glass shattered as they slammed into the bay window—and out.

  Somerfeld hit the ground with a grunt of pain.

  Vance landed beside him, the impact yanking at his cuffed arms. The pain that ripped through his wounded leg took his breath away. Sent his brain spinning.

  He groaned, opened his eyes, and saw fire. His shirt. On fire.

  “Fuck!” Unable to use his hands, Vance rolled frantically, smothering the flame in the damp grass.

  Panting, hurting everywhere, he rolled back over, trying to sit up. And froze.

  Somerfeld’s gasoline-splattered clothing had also ignited. And burst into a conflagration. He shrieked, slapping at the fire before he ran, straight down the drive. Flaming.

  “Drop and roll, roll!” Vance shouted, trying to get to his feet. The chain clanked, reminding him he was hobbled. Could never catch the poor bastard in time.

  The sirens on the approaching emergency vehicles didn’t drown out the screaming. Somerfeld fell, finally fell, directly in front of the police car, the first vehicle down the lane.

  From the following fire engine, firefighters jumped out. They surrounded Somerfeld, spraying him down.

  More vehicles. Cops and FBI agents raced toward the house.

  A knife of pain ripped through Vance’s leg. Shit! He jerked around. “What the—”

  Galen was tying a makeshift bandage around his thigh. “Nice tackle, bro. Still got some skill there.”

  As Vance hauled in a breath, he started to shake. Too fucking close. “Nice battle plan given the short notice, bro,” he returned.

  Galen switched his attention to unlocking the handcuffs around Vance’s wrists, swearing under his breath at the torn skin.

  As Vance pulled his arms around to the front, his shoulder joints hurt almost as much as the returning circulation in his hands. “I’m too fucking old for this,” he muttered, wanting to scream like a little girl. Jesus, he hurt.

  “Tell me about it.” Galen turned.

  Vance followed his gaze. The paramedics were loading Somerfeld into the ambulance with an IV. He must still be alive.

  “Halt!” a cop shouted from the driveway.

  What now?

  Sally, halfway around the house, skidded to a sudden stop. She lifted her hands and obviously realized she still held the pistol. “Shit! Hey, I’m the good guy. Girl. Whatever,” she yelled. She carefully set the weapon on the sidewalk.

  As the cop approached her, one of the FBI agents trotted toward the front door.

  “There’s another woman inside,” Vance called. “And be careful. It’s set up to burn.” He nodded approval when a fireman yanked the FBI special agents back and went in first.

  Glancing at Galen, Vance asked, “How’d you get here before Sally?”

  “Came through the window.”

  Vance saw the streaks of blood where shattered glass had ripped clothing and the flesh beneath. If Somerfeld hadn’t gone out the window first, Vance would probably be as ripped up. “You must’ve missed the hole we left.”

  “Forgot to aim.”

  “Vance!”

  He looked up in time to be attacked by a hysterical whirlwind who plastered his face with kisses and “I love you; I love you; I love you” before she spun away to smother Galen with the same.

  When she slowed, Galen grabbed her and kissed her hard enough to silence her. Whatever he murmured in her ear made her tear up. Then he handed her back to Vance.

  Vance pulled her into his arms. Warm woman filled with love. Risked her life to save him. Kept her head. He ignored the pain in his leg as the paramedics tried to cut away his jeans. He held her, kissed her hair, cupped her chin, and knew exactly what his partner had said.

  “I love you, Sally.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We’re all alive. Sally stood in an emergency-room cubicle beside the stretcher cart where Galen lay. Galen is alive. She kept repeating the reassurances to herself. Vance is alive. Didn’t help. She still couldn’t stop shaking. She was so dreadfully cold.

  His shirt already off, Galen was talking to the skinny doctor setting out a suture kit. Beside Sally, a nurse in pink flowered scrubs pulled on sterile gloves.

  Vance was in another curtained-off room, but his ER doctor hadn’t let Sally stay with him.

  This doctor was nicer.

  With a gauze pad, the nurse started to wipe the blood away from the horrible rents in Galen’s skin. All over his beautiful
chest. The white gauze turned red. The nurse picked up another. So many long, gaping slashes.

  Black shimmered around the edges of Sally’s vision. Blood kept trickling down his side. Her mouth tasted like tin and—

  “Christ!” Galen’s voice danced through the mist. Someone cursed. Metal clanged as it hit the floor.

  Hard hands caught her as her legs went soft and black clouds filled her head.

  “Down you go, baby girl.” Somehow on his feet, Galen backed her up, sat her in a chair, and relentlessly pressed her head down until her forehead rested on her knees.

  She actually felt blood surge back into her brain. After a minute, she muttered, “Enough.” He released her and set a hand on her shoulder, helping her sit up. “I’m okay.” Aside from being really embarrassed.

  His dark eyes held amusement. “You’re far, far better than just okay, imp,” he said softly. “But I want you out of here. I’ll find you after I’m stitched up.” He turned to the nurse, and even shirtless with blood streaking his chest, he was a force to be reckoned with. “Please get her something to drink, miss. And help her to the waiting room.”

  “Of course.”

  A few minutes later, she was tucked into the corner of the ugly sitting area. Plastic chairs ringed the room. A television on the wall displayed a sitcom. A woman held a towel to a cut on her face. Children were coughing. Crying.

  Trying to not think about the past hours, Sally stewed about something less…traumatic. Like her future. Just look how she’d frozen up when Vance got shot. Because of the blood. She’d almost passed out seeing Galen bleed.

  And I want to work in law enforcement?

  Sally shook her head. Even if she concentrated on computers, she’d still come face-to-face with blood and death, whether in the hallways or picking up equipment.

  Did she really want a job like that? No. With a sigh of both regret and relief, she mentally crossed off law enforcement from her list of potential employers. She’d find job where she wouldn’t see dead people. Or blood.

  But…

  But what if Galen or Vance came home looking like they did today? Coldness took root in her belly, spreading outward. This was what they did. Day after day. How could she let them leave the house, knowing what they might face?

  More chills ran over her body as she saw again the splattering blood, the pained grunt Vance had made at the bullet’s impact. He’d been hurt, and she hadn’t been able to help him. What if she wasn’t even there next time? With a moan, she buried her head in her hands.

  “Sally.”

  Master Z’s smooth, deep voice pulled her from the dark places.

  Shaking herself back to reality, Sally inhaled the scent of cleaners overlying the foulness of excrement and infection. She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the tackiness of old blood on her hands. The television was blaring. But she was back in the present. She looked up.

  Master Z stood in the door of the waiting room, holding a brown paper grocery sack.

  She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dan called.” After putting his sack on a chair, he lifted Sally to her feet, holding her steady as her legs wobbled. “Galen has hospital paperwork to fill out before he can leave. But Vance has been admitted for the night. Shall we go see him?”

  “Please.” And as if she had the right, she burrowed into his arms. He tucked her in closer, holding her firmly—anchoring her—and she knew that no matter what would go wrong, she had a refuge. A place of safety her father had never given her.

  When she finally stepped back, her legs felt as if they belonged to her body again. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  His gray eyes softened. “You’re one of mine, little one. Don’t forget it again.”

  As tears pooled in her eyes, he touched her cheek gently, picked up his sack, and led her from the room.

  Endless corridors later, he opened a hospital door and guided her inside.

  Vance lay in the bed. Under his dark tan, his color was almost gray.

  Her feet froze in place on the ugly linoleum floor. But after an eternity, his chest rose and fell. He was sleeping. She clenched her hands as she fought the need to wake him, to know—know—that he was alive.

  “Sit there,” Master Z murmured and gently pushed her down in a chair by the bed. “Galen should be up in a minute.”

  “He’s coming.” Dan and Kari walked into the room. “He wouldn’t let them admit him,” Dan grumbled. “Wouldn’t even accept the loan of a wheelchair. Stubborn bastard.”

  Finally Galen came in, leaning heavily on an ugly metal cane, and Sally rushed to his side. She started to grab him, remembered the stitches, and—ever so carefully—put her arms around him.

  He snorted. “I’m not as fragile as all that, pet.” After leaning his cane against the foot of the bed, he pulled her into him. His arms were the same iron bars she remembered, his chest muscular, his body ever so solid. Z might be a refuge, but here was her home. “Sally?”

  She was unable to release him, unable to talk. Every word thickened in her throat and clogged it. Her shaking returned, starting in her belly and moving outward. He could have died.

  “Shhh.” His cheek rested on the top of her head.

  “Want to sit?” Dan asked him.

  Galen’s arms tightened. “No. I just need to hold her. Came too close to losing her. To losing them both.”

  Oh, she knew. She knew. He smelled of antiseptic, of sweat and blood, of danger and death and life, and she fully intended to relax her grip—in a year or two.

  “If you’re going to have a party in my room, I expect alcohol.” Vance’s voice sounded as if he’d dragged it over the gravel road to their house.

  “I believe I have that covered,” Z said. Everyone in the room looked at him. “Dan mentioned your aversion to pain meds, so I brought a different kind of a sedative. Although, I have to say, the pills are more effective.”

  Galen shrugged. “I’m not hurt that bad, and I have reports to fill out and imps to hold.”

  “Better be only one imp you’re hugging, Sir,” Sally muttered into his chest and heard his huff of a laugh.

  “I don’t like being blurry after action,” Vance said to Master Z, sounding so irritable that he might win the Master Grumpy Pants title from Galen. “They always give me too much.”

  Galen kissed her head. “Someone else needs a hug, pet,” he said under his breath.

  Just what she’d longed to do…if she could find an uninjured place on his body. “Only if you’ll sit down,” Sally answered and got a nod in return.

  She moved to the bed, put down the railing, and slid her hip next to Vance’s. Then she waited for permission.

  “God, yes,” he muttered and reached for her.

  His big hands closed on her shoulders, and he pulled her down onto his chest. When his arm wrapped around her as if he’d never let her go, she nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder and sighed in contentment.

  She could hear the almost inaudible sound of his matching sigh.

  Galen limped over to the chair, shoved it closer to the bed, and sank into it. “You all right, bro?” he asked Vance.

  “Hurts like a son of a bitch, but any gunfight you walk away from is a good one.”

  “Ayuh.”

  Sally wanted to smack them both. Her voice came out tight as she said, “How about you stay out of gunfights in the future, okay?”

  There was silence, not the instant agreement she was hoping for. Instead, Vance asked, “The woman Somerfeld had with him—she going to be all right?”

  “Eventually.”

  Sally lifted her head and saw Galen’s jaw tighten as he continued, “A long eventually. But her husband and parents are on their way here.”

  Sally remembered the woman’s blank stare and sent off a prayer. Please, help her heal.

  “Hand me that, please?” Master Z said to someone. A second later came the distinctive sound of a champagne cork. “Galen. Vance. Since your
doctors said you both refused pain meds, you can substitute this…if we can keep the nurses from finding out. Kitten, can you locate the glasses?”

  Jessica was here? Sally lifted her head and saw more Shadowlands people had entered. Dressed in pale green slacks and top that brought color to the ugly room, Jessica was handing Z something from a sack. Master Cullen occupied one wall, and Andrea leaned against him. Marcus and Gabi must have come from the tournament. Nolan had an arm slung around Beth, who pressed into his side. Kari stood in front of Dan with his arm crossing her chest, keeping her back against his chest.

  And they were all smiling and accepting drinks.

  When Z handed a glass to Vance, Sally sat up and accepted one from Jessica. “What’s the celebration?” she asked.

  Master Z held up his plastic stemmed glass. “To the end of the Harvest Association. Well done, gentlemen.”

  As the hearty chorus of agreement echoed around the room, Vance stared at them.

  Galen’s face held the same stunned look. “Yes.” His lips tilted up. “You’re right. That really was the last one.” He lifted his glass in the toast and took a sip. Blinked. “Now that’s champagne.” He took another sip and took the bottle from Z’s hand to examine the label. “Blanc des Millenaires? You do us proud.”

  “You’ve earned it.” Z took the bottle and refilled Galen’s glass. “Enjoy. You’re staying with Dan and Kari tonight—and Dan is driving.”

  “Got it all planned out, eh?” Galen gave Z a narrow look. “Thank you, Mama.”

  Into the stunned silence of the submissives, Z smiled and answered, “You’re welcome, my boy.”

  The room broke up with laughter, but Sally didn’t join in. “I want to go home,” she whispered. She wanted her own room, her bed, her…stuff.

  Vance had heard her. “Aside from being a crime scene, there’s blood and glass all over. And it needs to air out. You and Galen need to stay somewhere else tonight.”

  To lose the hope of going home felt like having a Band-Aid ripped off. With an unhappy sigh, she took a sip of her drink. Okay, it really was good champagne.

  Galen frowned. “We need to get the place cleaned up before—”