Running Blind

by Linda Howard

  Kat stopped in the middle of the road, looked his way, turned, and attempted to run toward him. Spencer was out of the truck in a heartbeat, running to meet Kat as he slipped off his heavy coat. He’d take care of her, do what he could. Knowing Kat was in good hands, Zeke headed for the house. He was so angry he was seeing red, could barely think. Damn it, he had to do something, now. A sense of urgency gnawed at him.

  “Zeke, stop,” Kat said weakly as she and Spencer met in the road. Spencer pulled a knife from his pocket and quickly cut the duct tape that bound her hands. Then he wrapped his coat around her and offered her a shoulder to lean on—literally. Zeke stopped, getting a good look at her. Oh, God, Kat’s face, and the way she held her body, as if standing was a real effort. That son of a bitch had done a real number on her. But she said, “If you go barging in and surprise him, he’ll just shoot her.”

  “He’s got a gun,” Zeke said, to clarify.

  “Yeah.” Kat winced as she put her weight on her right foot. “But so does Carlin.” She looked at him, square on. She was hurt badly, but she still had her wits about her and she was no wimp, not even now. “She traded herself for me, even though she knows damn good and well Brad doesn’t intend for either of them to leave that house alive.” She turned gingerly and glanced back. “If he did, he never would’ve let me go.”

  She was right. She’d seen something Zeke hadn’t seen. Brad wasn’t taking Carlin anywhere, he intended to die there with her.

  Time was short, too short.

  Storming the house would get Carlin killed. Standing here and doing nothing would get Carlin killed.

  “I think the back door is unlocked. The kitchen door,” Kat said.

  “You think?”

  “I’d just taken out a sack of garbage when he knocked at the door, and … I just don’t remember. Sometimes I lock the door immediately when I come back in, out of habit, but sometimes I forget.”

  Women and their locked doors.

  It was his best shot. Zeke turned to Spencer. “Get her in the truck and warmed up, and call the sheriff’s department. Tell them to head this way, no lights and no sirens. Talk to Billy, if you can. He knows what’s going on.”

  With that, Zeke slanted across a neighbor’s yard with the intention of cutting along the back side of the houses until he got to Kat’s kitchen door. He could only pray that she wasn’t as paranoid about locking her doors as Carlin was.

  CARLIN STEPPED INTO the house, her head high. She’d be a fool to pretend she wasn’t afraid, but in the months she’d been running from Brad she’d changed. She wasn’t going to run, wasn’t going to hide, not ever again. Zeke was worth fighting for. No, her life was worth fighting for.

  “You didn’t have to rough Kat up,” she said, allowing her anger to show.

  “If she’s hurting it’s her own fault,” Brad explained in a calm voice. “She wouldn’t tell me where you were.”

  “Well, here I am.” She held her arms out to the sides, all but offering herself up to him.

  “Take off the coat.” He gestured with his gun. “I want to see you.”

  “You can see me just fine with the coat on.” She wondered if the bulge of the pistol showed through her sweater; it would, almost certainly. If he made her turn around after she removed the parka, if he suspected she was armed … she would never get the chance to fight back.

  Brad took a step closer. “Take the coat off. Now.”

  Carlin didn’t move back. She actually wished he’d move even closer. Zeke had taught her to defend herself, and though she’d never actually put the proper force into those moves, she knew she could if it came to that. If she went for her gun now he’d get his shot off before she had a chance to even aim in his direction. The object wasn’t just to disarm, capture, or kill Brad; it was to survive.

  She wanted to survive to see another day; she wanted to wake up in Zeke’s bed, again and again. She wanted to see spring and summer in Wyoming.

  She slipped her parka off and tossed it onto the closest chair. “Fine. No more coat.”

  She couldn’t outdraw him, not on a good day and definitely not with his gun already out and aimed in her direction. She couldn’t beat him in a fair fight. What she could do, what she needed to do, was catch him off guard—and fight dirty.

  “Do you love me?” She tilted her head, took a step toward him.

  “What?” He seemed surprised. Whether it was the question or her willingly coming closer to him, she didn’t know.

  “I can’t think of any other reason you’d come after me this way. After all this time, all the miles I tried to put between us … here you are. It must be love.” She almost choked on the word. She knew what love was, now, and it wasn’t this. It wasn’t anything like this.

  “Of course I …” Brad choked himself, unable to say the word. His eyes darkened. “You’re mine.”

  “Do you think you own me, is that it?” She moved another step closer, her heart thudding, the blood rushing in her ears.

  “Yes.” She’d manage to confuse Brad, at least. He’d expected terror or hysterical confrontation or both. Instead she spoke to him of love and moved gradually and steadily closer.

  His gun shifted slightly, no longer pointed directly at her. If he were to fire now a bullet might get her in the side, or the shoulder. His head cocked to the side. Carlin prayed no sirens—police or ambulance—broke the spell. Not yet. She needed one more minute, maybe two.

  “I don’t like running,” she said. “I don’t want to run anymore. Please, Brad, let me stop.”

  “Why did you leave?” he asked, and the gun lowered a few more inches.

  She reached out, touched his chest. She saw the surprise in his eyes, the sudden leap of sick lust, the insane smugness, as if he’d known all along that she really wanted him. She moved closer, put her other hand on his chest, too. Then she gripped his shirt hard in both fists and pulled him toward her. If she hadn’t already been moving his way he might’ve been alarmed by the move, but instead he opened his freakin’ mouth as if he intended to kiss her.

  She held him close and rammed her knee into his groin. His nuts she didn’t care about at all, so she gave it everything she had. Once, twice, pumping her knee back and forth like a jackhammer. The first blow took him so by surprise he didn’t react, and the second blow made him howl in pain. The gun swung toward her again, but without releasing his shirt she threw up her elbow and blocked his arm. The third knee to the nuts sent him to the floor; he dropped to his knees, cussing a blue streak. She released his shirt and kicked at his arm, hitting it hard enough to knock the gun out of his hand, sending it clattering across the floor.

  Swiftly she backed up and pulled the pistol from her waistband, held it firmly in both hands, and aimed at Brad’s head.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t pull the trigger. As she had suspected all along, she couldn’t shoot an unarmed man, not even Brad. She fought to keep him from reading it in her face. All she had to do was hold him here until Zeke and the guys and the sheriff arrived. A few minutes; surely no more than that. Kat had already had time to make phone calls. Was Zeke already on his way? Had whoever was watching the road away from the ranch realized she was the one headed to town?

  Gagging, cupping his balls, Brad struggled to his knees. Tears of pain filled his eyes, and his voice didn’t shake or quiver as he said, “Shoot me. Pull the trigger.”

  Carlin backed toward the front door. One step, then another. She didn’t want to be any closer to Brad than she had to be.

  “Maybe you think I won’t. Do you think I haven’t prepared for this? This is my pistol, and I’ve shot a hell of a lot of rounds through it, thinking about the day I’d be aiming it at you.” If he knew she didn’t intend to pull the trigger he might go for his own pistol again. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to shoot, period, but she especially didn’t want to be forced into trying to shoot a moving target. She knew her limitations.

  Of course, if he went for his gu
n, she’d have no choice but to shoot. Her squeamishness had its limits.

  “I’d rather be dead than go to prison. Do you know what it’s like for a cop in prison? Do you have any idea?” He sounded infuriated, as if he’d been unjustly accused of something.

  “I don’t care. I hope you rot in jail.” Carlin couldn’t find an ounce of pity in her. He’d stolen months of her life. He’d murdered Jina, a woman whose only crime had been to be a friend and borrow a raincoat—oh, yeah, for Jina she wanted Brad to suffer. The miserable son of a bitch, she wanted him to suffer and then die.

  Brad smiled. “That’s what I thought.” The smile changed to a smirk. “You’re not going to shoot me. If you were, you’d have done it by now.” He pushed himself forward and up, reaching for his gun. The son of a bitch was doing it!

  Carlin let out a curse word and aimed, praying wildly, bracing herself, hoping she at least hit him somewhere because he was moving and she’d never practiced that—

  And then she heard the back door open.

  Brad heard it, too. The door squealed and a floorboard creaked as someone took a step into the house. He dove the rest of the way for the gun, grabbed it, rolled, and aimed for the door between the living room and the kitchen.

  It could be anyone. Zeke, Kat, a deputy, a neighbor Kat had sent to help. She couldn’t let any of them be harmed.

  She dug deep inside herself, took aim, and fired. He grunted and fell back, blood blooming on his side. From his position on the floor he turned and looked at her, surprised, then sat up as he swung the gun toward her once more. “You bitch, you shot me!”

  The blood distracted her. There was a lot of it, and it was darker than she’d expected, and shooting a person wasn’t at all like shooting a target. Then Zeke came through the door, low and fast, weapon in his hand. Carlin barely had time to recognize him, but she saw Brad jerk his head around at this new threat, saw him settle and decide and bring his pistol back around toward her, his finger tightening on the trigger. Zeke fired, and the side of Brad’s head blew out in a red mist of blood and brain matter.

  Carlin stood frozen for a moment, completely incapable of doing anything. Somehow she held on to the pistol, didn’t let it drop; when she had some command of her body again she carefully, very carefully, put it on an end table and backed away. Zeke was right there, closing his arms around her, sheltering her head against his shoulder.

  She held on tight, because she could. Because she needed it.

  “It’s over,” he said gently. “It’s done.”

  She wanted to tell Zeke that she loved him, that he’d given her something worth fighting for. But not now, with the scent of blood in the air. Later, when they were alone and she’d washed the stench of Brad off of her, and off of Zeke. Later, when her heart wasn’t beating so hard that the drumming drowned out everything else.

  And for the first time in a long while, she knew without a doubt that they would have a later.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  IT HAD TAKEN some time for Zeke to convince Carlin that neither of them would face charges for shooting Brad; their actions had been clear-cut self-defense. Even if they hadn’t been able to document Brad’s violent behavior and finally tie him to the murder in Dallas, there was also Kat’s testimony, and her injuries. It turned out two of her ribs were cracked, so she was in for some painful days.

  The sheriff had known Kat—and Zeke—forever and a day, and he was a big fan of Kat’s cherry pie. No charges would be filed. Maybe “he needed killin’ ” wasn’t an acceptable excuse now, but add on son of a bitch, as in “the son of a bitch needed killin’,” and it came close. Regardless, there were no repercussions.

  It had been a few long damn days, but the worst was behind them. Kat was healing, Brad was gone for good, and Carlin was still here. She didn’t have to stay now; she didn’t have to squirrel away cash, watch every penny she spent, so that meant every day she was there was a day she wanted to be there. She’d called her brother and sister, on his house phone, at his insistence, and talked to them for hours. He didn’t give a damn what the final bill would be; her joy at actually talking to them, at being free, was worth every penny.

  He woke with her in his arms. Snow had been falling all night, and the temperature was predicted to drop well below zero for the next few days, and God only knew what the windchill would be. They’d have their hands full, protecting the animals and the machinery. Carlin would make chili or soup, or maybe even the Mexican shepherd’s pie if the guys wanted something really substantial, but at any rate it would be something hot to warm them all from the inside out, and at night she’d be here, in his bed. The only question that remained was: would she stay?

  After what she’d been through, he figured the best thing he could do was not push her, let her decide for herself what she wanted to do, where she wanted to be. He wanted her here, he wanted her to stay, but the best way to show her that he loved her was to be willing to let her go, if that’s what she wanted. But, damn, it wasn’t easy to back off when every instinct he had made him want to hold her close.

  She fit against his side as if she’d been born to be there. She snuggled in tight and warm. In a few minutes they had to get up and start the day, but for now … it was nice and warm, and felt as if this was the way the world was supposed to be.

  “I’m going to see Kat today,” she finally said around a yawn. “And I plan to take her a real get-well present—flowers, or a coffee mug filled with candy.”

  “WD-40 is a real get-well present when your back door squeals like a son of a bitch,” Zeke argued.

  She tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a smile. “Well, it did make her laugh,” she conceded.

  Even if laughing still hurt.

  He rubbed his hand over her bare shoulder. “Just a couple of months until spring,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “March will be here before you know it.”

  She shifted, the movement rubbing her body against his. “That’s true. Have you put out an ad for a grumpy old man to take my place?”

  “Not yet.” He tilted his head to look down at her. “Should I?”

  She was quiet for a long moment. Then she rose up, leaned over him so they were chest to chest and eye to eye. “I’ve been wondering what spring and summer would be like here. I’d like to watch everything turn green, and maybe see a calf born and learn how to ride a horse, and you know what you need, Zeke? You need a dog. Make that two or three dogs. I would kind of … like to have a dog.”

  “A dog,” he repeated. He’d had dogs before, would have them again, but he’d hardly expected that would be a reason Carlin might want to stay.

  “And besides,” she said, turning her head slightly so she was no longer looking him directly in the eye. “I think I love you, and I’d like to see where we go when there’s no crisis between us.”

  She’d said it before, without the qualifier, but this felt like the first time because before had been, well, before.

  “You think you love me.”

  She slanted a look up at him. “Fine, I love you. I didn’t face down Brad just to save Kat, though that was reason enough. I took him on so I’d be free to stay here, to see what we’re like—”

  He rolled her over and fitted himself between her legs. “What kind of dog do you want?”

  She wrapped her legs around him and laughed. “That’s all you have to say? I tell you I love you and you want to know what kind of dog I want?”

  “Well, I’ve already told you I love you. Isn’t once enough?” he asked, teasing her. Then he said, “Stay,” and interrupted her laughter. “I want you here. No one else, Carlin. You. Be my wife. Let’s have kids to go with those dogs.” So much for taking it slow.

  “Not wasting any time, are you?”

  “I’m tired of wasting time.”

  Her hands skimmed down his sides. “Boys or girls?”

  “Are we talking about the dogs or the kids?”

  She laughed, and he liked it. He loved it.
“The kids.”

  “Both, though I don’t think we get to actually place an order for gender.”

  “Married to a cowboy,” Carlin said, her voice dreamy. “I must really be a glutton for punishment. Kat warned me about cowboys, but did I listen? Oh, nooooo. I had to fall hard for one.”

  “I love you,” Zeke said. “Cautious, Carly, Carlin … whoever you are today, whoever you’re going to be tomorrow, I love you.”

  She heaved a big, contented sigh. “That’s perfectly wonderful. Now … how about a ride?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, and did as commanded.

  RECIPES

  Mexican Shepherd’s Pie

  1 pound ground beef

  1 onion, minced

  1 pack taco seasoning

  1 can Mexicorn, undrained

  1 can pinto beans

  1 pack instant potatoes, or a pack of hash browns with peppers and onions

  2 cups shredded cheddar cheese

  Salt to taste

  Preheat oven to 350°F.

  Brown the beef and onion together; drain, add the taco seasoning. Then mix with the corn and pinto beans, heat, and pour into a casserole dish. Make the instant potatoes, and spread over the top of the beef mixture, making sure entire surface is covered. Make extra potatoes if you have to. Bake for 30 minutes. Remove from oven, spread the shredded cheese over the entire surface, and return to oven for 5 minutes, just until the cheese is melted.

  Serve either as a stand-alone dish, or use it as a hearty dip, with tortilla chips.

  I made this often for the construction crew when we were building a house. I cooked for them a lot—scones, muffins, homemade ice cream, biscuits, and salmon patties, but I think the Mexican shepherd’s pie was their favorite. The guys told me that this was the only time they’d GAINED weight on a job. —Linda Howard