by Kate Douglas
“Could be. The wind’s really picked up.”
His voice always comforted her, the rich sound of it so smooth and powerful. “Be careful, Seamus. I’d hate for you to get whacked on the head by a branch.”
He patted her hand. “Thanks. It’s so nice to know you care.”
She heard him chuckle as he turned away, then a soft thunk and a curse.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’d be better if I could remember to either leave the door open or closed...then maybe I wouldn’t walk into it all the time.”
Kat smiled as she heard him digging through the cupboard in the dark kitchen, obviously hunting for the flashlight. The narrow beam sliced along the hallway then disappeared as Seamus headed out through the back door. It slammed loudly behind him, caught in a heavy gust of wind.
Michael jerked and cried out at the sudden noise, then rooted hungrily at her breast. Kat sighed and settled into what was quickly becoming her favorite position, propped up with fluffy pillows, her son tugging hungrily at her nipple.
She ran one finger along the downy black silk that covered his head. She’d never seen newborn babies with so much hair, never held a baby as perfect as her son. His tiny fists kneaded the taut skin of her breast, his forehead puckered with a deep frown of concentration as he went about the most important business of filling his tummy. Kat couldn’t help but think of Seamus and Riley as newborns, their mother probably overwhelmed by the responsibility of two tiny lives totally dependent upon her for everything.
A shiver crawled along her spine, the same shiver Kat felt whenever she allowed herself to think of the enormity of what she’d done by bringing a new life into the world. She hadn’t merely needed Seamus for protection when Tim Anderson was still at large. She realized now she needed him for all the years to come, for the toddler years, the teen years, the years when Michael would finally be grown enough to leave and go out into the world on his own.
It wasn’t merely the vulnerability that came with the task of raising a child, of keeping him safe. It was the sense that without Seamus, Kat was less than whole. Without Michael she was incomplete as well.
Kat Malone goes it alone.
She’d been so proud of her independence, of her ability to fight the world on her own terms.
Not any more. Not if she was going to give Michael the best of all possible lives. Not if she was ever going to find happiness for herself.
Now all she had to do was convince Seamus.
Kat patted a burp out of the baby, then switched him to her other breast and settled back against the pillows. Convincing Seamus wasn’t going to be easy, but at least she had something he wanted.
Kat smiled, aware she could think of Seamus wanting the baby without anger or fear. She trusted him. If she’d learned nothing else about Seamus O’Rourke over the long weeks of living with him, she’d learned her earlier impression of him had been right—he was a man of honor. He would never forcefully try to take her child. That sort of thing would definitely go against his personal code of honor.
Too much honor, as far as Kat was concerned. There’d been times during her pregnancy, even when her belly swelled out in front of her and she’d moved about the house like the Queen Mary , when she’d fantasized crawling into his bed and doing her damnedest to seduce him.
She shifted her position in the bed, easing the pressure on her sore crotch. Seducing Seamus right now was the last thing on her mind.
That didn’t mean she couldn’t think about it as a future endeavor. Smiling, Kat snuggled down into the pillows, dozing lightly while Michael nursed.
The familiar crack of gunfire split the night just outside her window.
Kat shook her head in mute denial. She couldn’t possibly have heard a gunshot here at the top of the mountain, miles from another residence.
Seamus hadn’t come inside. The power was still out. A thought flitted through her mind. Maybe he’d fired her gun to frighten off a wild animal. Reason took hold. That wasn’t the sound of her Ruger. It sounded more like the heavy concussion from a larger caliber weapon.
Cold sweat beaded Kat’s forehead as she carefully slipped the sleeping baby from her breast. She carried Michael to the dresser drawer lying on the floor, its interior padded with a folded towel, and laid the baby carefully inside. Almost by instinct, she slid the drawer holding the sleeping baby across the soft carpet. With her hands she found the edge of the closet opening, shoved the door aside and pushed the drawer holding Michael into the tiny space.
She closed the door and prayed he would continue to sleep.
Her robe was thrown across the end of the bed and Kat carefully wrapped the navy blue garment around her nightgown. It would offer more cover in darkness than the light colored gown she wore.
She halted at the open bedroom door and listened. The wind continued its ungodly howl, branches lashed at the windows and walls. She wanted to call out to Seamus, but hesitated giving away her position.
Who fired the gun? Where is Seamus? Lord, please keep him safe.
He’d said the Ruger was in the kitchen drawer. Only a darkened hallway and a few steps across the tiled kitchen and at least she’d be armed with a familiar weapon.
She took a deep breath, well aware of her shaking hands and trembling legs. Childbirth had taken its toll. The body she’d always trusted in any situation was no longer the same, the strength she’d relied on only a faint memory.
She thought of Michael sleeping peacefully unaware in the wooden drawer, tucked away in the dark closet. No harm would come to him. No harm unless her own life were forfeit.
Which meant whatever action she took, whatever choices she made, required she survive to protect her son.
Kat stayed close against the wall and slipped quietly into the kitchen. The wind outside shifted and rain beat against the window over the sink. Lightning illuminated the clean tile counters, glinted off the faucet, pointed the way to the silverware drawer where Seamus had stashed the Ruger.
Thunder rumbled directly overhead.
Seamus, where are you? A sob caught in her throat, a sound borne of fear and love. A gun had been fired. Seamus hadn’t come running in to check on her and Michael. Ergo, Seamus was hurt. He was hurt, or he was dead.
I can’t think of that. I have to protect Michael .
Lightning flashed again and her fingers found the handle to the drawer. The Ruger was just inside. Seamus said he’d left it here. Silently, so slowly, Kat eased the drawer open.
Thunder growled and lightning flashed again, glinting duly against the dark blue surface of the automatic pistol. She reached into the drawer.
Strong fingers clasped about her wrist, jerked it behind her back, high, between her shoulder blades. A thick forearm snaked across her chest.
The scent. The feel. The essence of the man who had followed her for months. The same man who had held her captive in San Francisco.
Now. Here in the protected kitchen of Seamus O’Rourke.
It hadn’t been Tim Anderson after all. No, this man was the one. Whoever he was, this was the man who had stalked her, attacked her, had threatened to murder her child.
The pressure eased across Kat’s chest. Before she could react the cold blade of a knife pressed into her throat, held her immobile.
She gasped, drew in a quick breath of air.
His chest heaved against her back.
Oh God, he’s laughing .
His foul breath gagged her. She held perfectly still. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she prayed that Seamus lived, that Michael wouldn’t wake.
Prayed for the strength to survive.
Thunder rumbled through the room. Once more the lightning flashed. Rain tattooed against the window.
Where was Seamus?
Kat gasped for air. The blade of the knife pressed even closer. Hot blood seeped into her gown.
Her captor didn’t speak. Kat’s harsh breathing echoed in her own ears. The wind eased, rai
n no longer pounded the cabin.
Michael’s thin cry pierced the silent darkness.
Chapter Eleven
THUNDER...SO CLOSE AND the flash of lightning right on top of it. One Mississippi, two Mississippi... What did Riley say? Something about counting the seconds between the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning...but what if they happen at the same time? Riley? Hey, bro...how’s that go again?
Hurry, Seamus, there’s not much time. I hate to tell ya, but you’re the only chance they’ve got. C’mon, big brother...get up! Kat needs you. Our son needs you!
“Quit bugging me, Riley. My head hurts.”
Seamus rolled over onto his hands and knees in the soggy patch of bracken. Two beams from his flashlight spiraled into the darkness. By concentrating on the light he managed to focus his vision on a single beam. It took all the energy he had to reach out and grab the cold metal handle.
Lord, but his head hurt. Seamus sat back on his heels and reached up to touch his right temple. His fingers came away sticky with a mixture of blood and rainwater. He stared at his reddened fingers as memories flooded his mind.
Walking out into the storm to start the generator, a sense of movement in the shadows, the sweep of the beam from my flashlight catching the image of a man, the glint of something metallic in his hand...the crack of thunder, the flash of lightning...
“Good Lord, that son-of-a-bitch shot me!” Stumbling to his feet, Seamus quickly switched off the flashlight. He swayed a moment, gained his bearings and stared at the dark silhouette of the house.
Kat was in there. Kat and the baby.
And a killer.
A sliver of moonlight peeking between dark clouds barely lighted the walkway leading to the back door. Swaying, fighting nausea, Seamus worked his unsteady way into the deep shadows surrounding the deck. He pressed against the damp redwood, disoriented by strange lights flashing behind his eyes, the blood pounding painfully in his ears.
How long had he been unconscious? His clothes were wet, but not soaked through. He reached up to touch the side of his head. The blood seeping from the wound on his temple had not yet coagulated.
The house stood silent. He had no doubt the killer was inside.
If only his head would clear! He closed his eyes tightly, once again reliving the moments by the shed.
Seamus had caught only the briefest glimpse of his assailant when he’d swept the beam of his flashlight through the darkness and pouring rain. There was a man, but no one familiar. Long stringy hair, unkempt appearance, a fanatical gleam in his eyes.
One thing Seamus knew for certain.
It was not Tim Anderson.
Then who the hell is it?
What did it matter? Whoever it was, he was after Kathleen.
Kathleen and Michael!
Adrenaline surged through Seamus, driving the fog from his thoughts and clearing his vision. He quietly climbed up over the edge of the deck, forgoing the easier route up the stairs in case anyone watched.
The back door stood ajar. Trusting his instincts, Seamus slipped through the opening into the dark kitchen.
The room was empty. The kitchen drawer stood open. In the faint gleam of pale moonlight, Seamus caught the dull glint of the Ruger. Quickly he snatched it up, realized the safety was on and tried to release it.
How in the hell did she do that? For the life of him, for Kat and Michael’s lives, he couldn’t recall Kat’s simple instructions.
The weapon mocked him.
Michael’s thin cry echoed through the darkness.
“No, damn you.” It was Kat’s voice, angry and frightened. The baby cried louder. Impotent frustration galvanized him. Seamus stuck the useless weapon in his coat pocket and grabbed the cast iron skillet off the stove.
He raced across the hallway between the kitchen and Kat’s room. A loud grunt, Kat’s furious scream, and a harsh cry filled with rage and anger drew him in.
Seamus reached the doorway just as Kat twisted free of her captor and shoved him away. A shadow stumbled in the darkness, directly toward Seamus.
Before the man could catch his balance, Seamus smacked him soundly with the frying pan.
The intruder crumbled in a heap on the bedroom floor.
Seamus reached for Kathleen but she turned from him in a fluid motion that took her directly to the closet and the wailing cries of her baby. She shoved the door aside and snatched Michael out of the wooden drawer. Soothing the infant with nonsensical words and kisses, she held him close to her breast.
Seamus stood over the unconscious man, drawing in great draughts of air. His fingers remained clenched tightly about the handle of the heavy frying pan.
“Are you okay?” He barely saw Kat in the dim light from the moon, but he could tell by the sound of her movements when she carried the baby to the rocker and sat down.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” He heard the catch of fear in her throat and his gut tightened. Thank God, for once he’d made it in time.
“Get him out of here, Seamus. Please? Do you have anything to tie him with?”
Kat’s voice was barely above a whisper. Frowning, Seamus stared through the darkness but saw only her shadow. “There’s some twine in the laundry room.” He reached down to grab the man by his ankles and the room spun. Seamus held the position a moment, got his bearings, and dragged the man’s inert body out of the bedroom, across the hall and into the kitchen.
He grabbed the roll of twine off the laundry room shelf and carefully tied the unconscious man’s hands behind his back, then bound his ankles tightly together. He looped another piece of rope between ankles and wrists and tested the taut rope.
The man grunted, but didn’t struggle. Seamus didn’t think he’d fully regained consciousness yet, but he checked the knots once again to make certain they were secure.
Seamus glanced toward the window and noticed a dark wall of clouds moving to cover the moon. He grabbed an extra flashlight and headed back to Kat’s room.
That’s when he noticed the blood seeping through her gown and robe, covering her chest with a rapidly spreading crimson stain.
“My God. Kathleen!”
He raced to her side. Her head had fallen to one side, the long blond hair covering a gash that twisted from just under her ear and down, across her collarbone, ending just above her heart. She still held Michael tightly in her arms, a mother’s instinct more powerful than her wounds.
“Kat! Sweetheart...” Seamus pressed his fingers against the uninjured side of her neck and felt the pulse there.
Kat turned her head towards him and licked her lips. “I don’t know how badly he cut me, Seamus. It hurts...”
Seamus raced into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. He pressed the soft fabric against the gaping wound, noting that the blood flow seemed to have slowed. No major arteries had been cut, thank God, but she’d still lost a lot of blood.
“We’re going to the hospital. Now. Let me have Michael. Do you think you can make it to the car?” Seamus carefully took the child from her grasp, snuggled him securely in the crook of his left arm and leaned over to help Kat to her feet.
She leaned forward and he put his arm about her waist and helped her stand. She swayed against him, then seemed to draw strength from some unknown well. “I can make it.”
“You hold the flashlight, I’ll hold you.”
She turned and smiled. He felt her spine stiffen, but she fell into a slow step beside him. Michael snuffled and rooted against Seamus’s chest. “Sorry, little guy. I’m not mama,” he whispered.
They crossed the hallway. Seamus hated to have to pass so closely beside her assailant’s body in the kitchen, but he’d left the bound man blocking the closest path to the car.
The beam from the flashlight wavered in Kat’s grasp, then stopped.
Where Seamus had left his captive, only a pile of tangled twine remained.
“Oh, shit.” He glanced at Kathleen, at the look of horror on her face.
“Hurry. Let’s get
the hell out of here.”
Kathleen flicked off the flashlight. “We don’t need to give him a target.”
Her voice sounded stronger. Seamus took it as a sign to move faster. He opened the back door and helped Kat down the steps and into the back seat of the Jag. “Buckle yourself in and I’ll hand Michael to you.” He glanced over his shoulder at a rustle in the shrubbery.
“Okay. I’m in.”
Seamus slipped Michael into Kat’s outstretched arms, slammed the door shut and raced around to the driver’s side. He grabbed the keys from under the mat, turned on the engine and immediately hit the automatic door locks.
The moon disappeared behind a heavy curtain of dark cloud as Seamus threw the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway. He made a quick turn at the bottom of the drive and glanced over his shoulder.
Kathleen’s frightened gaze met his. “Hurry, please?”
Her quiet plea galvanized him. Seamus swung the wheel around and hit the accelerator. The Jag bounced over the small bridge at the end of the drive and spun into the first turn on the gravel road.
A man jumped out as if to grab for the door handle. Seamus caught an impression of blond hair flying, wild eyes flickering in the glare from the headlights and then they were past him, racing through the darkness for the highway beyond.
“Who the hell is he?” Seamus gritted his teeth in impotent frustration. “It’s not Anderson, Kat. Who is he and why does he want to kill you?”
“I think...but it can’t be. He was so meticulous, so uptight and clipped and trimmed...” Her voice wavered with confusion.
“Take a guess, Kat. Give me something to call in to Sandy Wilson. Who do you think it is?”
“You don’t need to shout, Seamus!”
Michael started to cry.
The car spun, almost out of control. Seamus let up on the accelerator. “I’m sorry. It’s just... God, Kat. I’m so damned sorry. I promised I’d keep you safe. I told you I’d keep Michael safe. I screwed up again... I don’t mean to yell at you...”
He stared straight ahead, following the twists and turns along the gravel ribbon.
