Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (22 page)

But if Bren were looking to pin the recent unexplained horse deaths on Burns, who'd turned government witness over thirty years ago, it would be a tough sell—a copycat killer made more sense.

Scrolling down, she hit on his method of murder—electrocution. There it was in full detail, a handmade device. He'd sliced an extension cord down the middle, leaving two strands of wire, attached a pair of alligator clips to the end of each, and when it came time to cash in, he'd attach the clips to the horse's ear and rectum and plug it into a standard wall socket.

Bren eased off the pen she held in a death grip. It was the most disgusting thing she'd ever heard of. The bastard would just step back and watch the horse drop. It was profoundly ingenious, no singe marks, and nothing to pick up in a toxicology report.

Toward the end of the page was a photo of the device. She sketched it out on the pad of paper and tore it off. Studying it, she tapped the pen to her lips and reached for her phone. She could see Kevin's eyes rolling on the other end and let the phone drop into the covers.

The FBI would know about this. They'd investigated it. Bren Ryan wouldn't be telling them anything they weren't already aware of. Lost in thought, she jumped when her phone rang. The word "Dad" lit the screen, and she took the call.

"Hey, you guys having a good time?"

"They're in brushing their teeth." His voice dropped. "You'll not believe what your youngest one did today. Shot a baby squirrel from its perch. It dropped from the tree and landed next to his feet."

"Did he cry?"

"Like a babe."

"He's his mother's child." She understood the need to hunt. But she didn't have to like it. "You guys didn't give him a hard time?"

"No. Of course not. But I'm not one for waste. We gave it to another hunter for his dinner, and we ended up with Uno's pizza."

Her father's laughter mingled with the boys' voices chattering in the background. "Here they come." His voice faded before he whispered, "It's your mother."

Finn's voice came on the line. "Mom, Granddaddy's taking us hiking tomorrow to see the falls."

"That's great, Finn. So you're having a good time?"

"The best. Here's Aiden. He wants to talk to you."

"Hey. Everything okay at home?" Aiden's voice had an unusual edge of concern.

"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

His voice lowered. "I heard you talking to Kevin outside the other day."

Bren grimaced. Aiden would make for a fine CIA operative. He missed nothing where she was concerned. Still, the self-absorbed teenager had hotfooted it out of Dodge, and
now
he was worried?

"I'm fine, Aiden. Enjoy your time at the lake."

"So what have you been up to?" She didn't miss his sarcasm.

"I rode Smiley today, helped the volunteers, and now I'm ready for bed." She snapped the computer shut.

"That's it?" His voice was wary.

Her hands tightened on the paper she'd torn off.

"That's it." She crumpled the paper in her hand and dropped it on the floor.

He remained silent, except for his steady breathing.

"Aiden, listen, sweetheart. If you heard Kevin's and my conversation, then you know he's keeping an eye on me." It appeared he hadn't shared his intelligence-gathering. "Did you tell Granddad?"

"No."

"I'd suggest keeping it that way. Otherwise your time will be cut short."

Again silence.

"Aiden? Are you listening?"

"Yeah."

"So we have a deal? I'll see you tomorrow sometime."

"I guess." His voice took on a sullen tone. "If I was concerned for my safety, I'd tell Granddad."

"Okay. Deal."

Bren relaxed. "Good. Let me say goodnight to Finn and Granddad."

Her father came on, and she wrapped up the phone conversation and then cleared off the bed to sleep.

She turned off the light and settled under her covers. Staring at the darkened ceiling, she gave one last thought to The Sandman and punched her pillow. Bren's eyes fluttered shut, her body floating toward sleep.

A shrill noise woke her.
My cell phone.
Her heart regained its normal rhythm, and she grabbed her phone from the nightstand.

"Hey, what did you forget to tell me?"

The raspy breath shot cold panic through her veins. She struggled to sit up, pulling the covers with her. She didn't need to guess the name on her phone but glanced at it anyway. Tom's name glowed back at her, and she gripped the phone tighter, placing it back to her ear. "Go to hell."

No reply. Bren started to pull the phone away and hesitated.
Damn him.
"Come get me, asshole." She struggled to free herself from the blankets, her bare feet cold against the hardwood. "What's the matter? I'm giving you an open invitation." She continued toward the closet, searching for the key to Tom's gun locker bolted to the closet wall. "It's just you and me. I'm alone. Isn't that what you wanted?" Her fingers slid along the top shelf until she touched cold metal. She opened the locker. Seizing the Browning double-barreled shotgun and the box of shells, she headed back to the bed. "You're nothing but a coward."

His breathing deepened.

"Did I hurt your feelings?"

He grunted into the phone, and Bren smiled. She grabbed the box of shells and dumped them on the bed. Her fingers fumbled as she dropped them inside the barrel, slamming it shut. "I knew you were nothing but a sissy. You're not going to hurt me. You're too afraid of what I'll do to you."

He growled. Bren closed her eyes and pulled the phone away for a second then brought it back. "If you're a man, then show me what you've got." Something crashed in the background, and the phone went silent.

Shit!
Sitting in the dark, the reality of what she'd asked for, and quite possibly would get, made her shiver. Dressed in cotton pajamas, she was grossly unprepared for this visitor, other than the shotgun. Bren hopped off the bed, lugging the shotgun, and headed to the closet. She grabbed jeans and a sweater, and kicked her boots with her feet toward the bed. Dropping the clothes and setting the gun down, she pulled her pajama pants down.

A loud creak made her stand stock still.
Shit!
She pulled her pants back up and grabbed the gun and sat down on the edge of the bed, pointing the gun toward the door.

Pajamas are good.
She nodded to herself and slipped her bare feet inside her boots.

Almost ten minutes crept by. With the gun raised, she had a crick in her neck, and her muscles ached. She moved toward the headboard. Now supported, she leaned back and raised her legs, resting the barrel on the top of her knees. She took a deep breath and tried to relax her shoulders.

As plans went, it had been born of impulse. One of those impulsive acts that tended to backfire. Weary and not fully recovered from her all-nighter on Friday, she wanted to close her eyes. Needing support for her elbow, she adjusted her pillows and propped up her arm. She caught herself nodding off and tried to stay awake.

Bren awoke with a start. Her hand flew up to her face, the sensation of an icy finger against her cheek still radiated cold. Then she remembered the gun, no longer tucked under her arm. She scrambled to her knees, frantically searching the covers until she clasped onto the hard barrel.

He hadn't seen the shotgun.

She sat up and leveled the gun, but the darkness made it impossible to see. Her door creaked shut, and she bolted to her feet. He was here—in her house—
in her room.
Cold air drifted past her, and she trembled. Something moved to the left, and she gasped. The window... She headed toward it. Left open, the screen, slashed and blowing, scraped against the window frame.

Heavy footsteps stomped down the steps, and she tightened her grip on the shotgun. Chasing him through the house in the dark didn't make for good odds. He could be hiding, waiting to spring. She eyed the window. Her bedroom looked over the back porch. She could clear the window and shimmy down the trellis and head him off in the front. Keeping the gun pointed ahead of her, she climbed out the window and fell on her ass with a thud when her boot slipped on a slick coating of frost. She cursed under her breath and tried to scoot forward. The roof chafed her butt until she could push off with one elbow to squat with the gun, drawing a bead on the shadows below.

She could sit here. She could freeze her ass off in the process, too. Or she could suck it up and put her foot over the edge and hope the trellis would bear her weight. She hunkered down and slid her butt across the roof, trying to ignore her skin scraped raw through her pajama bottoms. As she peered over the edge, her stomach pitched, and she pulled back. She'd climbed out her bedroom window plenty of times as a teen. Age certainly had made
her
a sissy.

Maneuvering with the gun, she turned herself around and dangled her foot over, searching for a foothold. She found it. Trying her weight, the trellis gave a little, and she grimaced. She was wasting time. If he hadn't chosen to wait her out in the house, he was making tracks away from Grace.

Ignoring the dip in her stomach, she pressed the gun between the trellis and her body, her feet searching for a firm slat, and continued her descent.

By her calculations, she had maybe a couple feet to go. She gripped the gun, leaped back, and prayed she didn't crumple to the ground. Her boots hit the mulch bed, and she stumbled backward, slamming into something rigid.

"Ugh!"

The sound came from behind her, and Bren tried to gain her footing and her escape.

Strong arms came around her and pulled her backward to the ground.

Oh God!

The fall, a hard punch to her back, sent the air from her lungs. Arms tightened, and she thrashed side to side—nothing. His face, rough and scratchy, pressed up against her cheek, his breathing labored. "What part of lie low do you not understand?"

"Rafe?"

She stopped fighting. He sat up with her, and Bren turned around, her legs straddling him. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "God—I'm so glad to see you!" Her legs and arms shook with sudden relief, and she pulled back with avid curiosity. "Why
are
you here?"

Though it was dark, the moon cast a glimmer of light in the shadows, making it possible to see him. He grinned at her. "In case you haven't figured it out, darlin', I'm crazy about you," he said in that lazy Texas drawl that did weird things to her insides. His strong arms went around her. Those long-fingered hands, callused from working his ranch, pressing so intimately into her bare skin above the waistband of her pajamas, made her go hot and tingly. When he angled his head and brought it close to hers, everything seemed to fade away, except for his lips so very close to hers. He moaned then and cursed under his breath and kissed her hard on her mouth before pulling away, making her body smolder for...

"What the hell are you doing climbing on the roof in your..." He glanced down. "Those horses on your pajamas?"

Bren's cheeks warmed, and she ignored the laughter in his voice. "Get off me, Rafe. He's in the house."

"Who?"

"Shh. Wes. He came after me," she whispered back.

He stiffened, his hands falling to rest on her knees positioned on either side of him. Bren's fingers pressed into his chest, the corded muscles resilient beneath her fingertips. To the left of him lay her shotgun. She made a move to get off him, her left hand on top of the cold barrel. The ground rose and fell swiftly, the gun sliding from her grasp.

What the hell?

Rafe was next to her, setting her on her feet, the shotgun firm in his hand. Bren reached for the shotgun and Rafe pulled it away. "No way in hell, Bren." He eyed her and then the gun. "Where'd you get it?"

"It's Tom's." She reached for it again, and he removed it from her.

"What the hell is going on? Why's Wes out of jail?"

"I'll explain later." She tried to take off, her target the front of the house, and came up short when Rafe tugged her back.

"Explain now." Rafe craned his head toward the front of the house and frowned. "Where's Daniel and the boys?"

She didn't have time for explanations. Rafe was here, and that was good. Having him close gave her courage. She didn't need the gun. She had him.

She yanked free. "He's going to get away." This time she did escape and ran toward the front porch.

But those damn cowboy boots clomped behind her, narrowing the distance, and his long fingers slid inside the waistband of her pajamas. "I'll rip 'em."

Bren stopped and flung around. "You're a jerk."

"And I bet you have a pretty little ass. So be my guest." A smile lurked around the corners of his mouth.

Nice he could find humor when she couldn't stop shaking with posttraumatic fright and maybe a little anger. "You're a grade-A ass."

"I missed you, too." He tugged her by her pants, rolling her into his arms. "Relax, Red." His eyes lingered on her face. "He's long gone by now if he's not holed up in the house."

"Then we search it."

"We're
not doing anything." His voice carried an authoritative tone that made her spine stiffen.

She folded her arms and glared up at him. "You're not the boss of me, Rafe Langston. I'm coming." Manly of him to take her only weapon and tell her to step aside while he searched the house, except he'd forgotten one thing. "What if he doubles back, cowboy?"

For being so tough, Bren held fast to Rafe's belt, her bony knuckles digging into his side. Judging by the open front door swinging in the wind, the culprit was long gone. Rafe hit the light switch as they came in. They cleared the hall, checked the powder room and hall closet—both empty. The kitchen turned up the same, and he double checked the back door. It was locked. He moved through the family room, with Bren pressed up against his side. He focused on the steps and crept upstairs with Bren in tow. He flipped on the light to the hall, then the boys' and Daniel's bedrooms. They were orderly with beds made, which answered his earlier question—they weren't there. He checked the hall bathroom and entered the last bedroom... Bren's bedroom. Awkward at the prospect of crossing the threshold where Tom had made love to his wife, he hesitated.