"I wouldn't do that," she told him, truthfully. "I told you, I'm leaving for Texas."
Eyeing Chase through a knothole in the boarded-up window, Will cracked his knuckles and thought.
The brisk knock came again.
"I'll get it," Les volunteered, materializing out of the shadows of the back room, gun in hand.
Will stopped him with a single word. "No." He turned his head and looked at Sara. "She's going to answer the door."
Sara's relief evaporated in the next instant when he added, "And if she doesn't persuade him to leave the guns on the porch, we'll shoot 'em both. Go on." He jerked his head.
Sara rose on legs that jittered. As the skinheads retreated into the shadows, she crossed to the door and opened it, coming face-to-face with Chase, who carried more than half a dozen rifles over one shoulder. He managed to look at her and past her all at the same time, his eyes translucent in the gloom.
"Hi," she said, getting his full attention with her overly bright tone. "Just put the guns down here, and we can go."
She could feel the adrenaline radiating out of him. He was more than braced for a confrontation; he was itching to thrash the enemy soundly, only she stood squarely between the opposing forces. "Put them down," she repeated, imbuing her words with deeper meaning, "and we walk away."
Alive,
she added mentally.
To her vast relief, he leaned over. The rifles clattered onto the wooden stoop. He straightened, grabbed her hand, and pulled her with him toward the car, keeping his body between hers and the house as he opened the passenger door to let her in. Rounding the car, he lifted his submachine gun off his seat and dove inside.
He was backing down the driveway before his door was even shut.
Over her galloping heart, Sara listened to the whine of his engine as they picked up speed. He found a place to spin them around, and they shot away from the farmhouse with efficiency that left her breathless.
Chase didn't slow down until they'd driven several miles. He pulled off the road, suddenly, yanked up the hand brake and reached for her, his hands hot on her upper arms. "Tell me the fuckers didn't hurt you," he demanded roughly.
"I'm fine," she reassured him, though every muscle in her body ached from all the tension. "Where's Kendal?"
"Staying with Mrs. Goodner, my neighbor. I'm going to take you there now."
She could feel the rage still shimmering in him. "You're not going back, Chase," she said, sensing that was exactly what he intended to do. "I met the leader of the group—Will. He's a former Army Ranger and a Vietnam vet," she told him quickly. "He's convinced that he's fighting a war. You can't go back. There are three of them and only one of you. Someone's going to get killed."
There was just enough daylight left for her to see Chase's jaw muscles jump as he released her and sat back.
"Call the police," she urged. "Forget about me; you have to call the authorities. Will has plans. Something about a... a lesson to teach the liberal duffers to look after their own kind." She shook her head in bafflement. "Whatever that means."
Chase tugged off the elastic that kept his hair in a ponytail. It fell to his shoulders in wavy locks, giving him a savage look. He went perfectly still, as if meditating on the hunt to come.
"Please, Chase," Sara begged. "I don't like violence. And I don't want you to get hurt." Tears sprang to her eyes.
He glanced at her and cursed. "You just want me to walk away?" he asked on a disbelieving note. "They killed my dog," he growled. "They broke into my house; they fucking terrorized you and Kendal, and you just want me to turn my back on that?"
The confirmation that Jesse was dead made her waver. "Don't tell me Kendal was the first to find him," she begged.
"Yes, he was," Chase bit back. "Does that change things for you?"
Sara wrestled with conflicting impulses. On one hand, imagining what her son had suffered today, she wanted nothing more, as a mother, than to teach the skinheads a lesson they would never forget. She was tempted to unleash Chase on them.
On the other hand, if he were hurt in the process, how much more awful would that be?
"Just call the police, Chase," Sara begged. "Please. Let them handle it."
A fierce frown settled on his forehead. Sara held her breath. It was a defining moment. She would see for herself what he was made of. He reached abruptly over her knees and snatched the cell phone out of the glove compartment. Watching him press the illuminated numbers, Sara released a silent sigh of relief.
"Nine-one-one, do you have an emergency?"
In a concise message, Chase relayed the whereabouts of the FOR Americans, with the added warning that they were armed. He refused to give his name, saying only that he preferred to remain anonymous. That, of course, was for her benefit. He didn't want the police swarming the ranch, asking questions.
"Let's go get Kendal," Chase said, when the call was done. His tone was calm, his scowl was gone. By all appearances, he was ready to put the experience behind him.
"Thank you," she whispered, collapsing weakly against her seat.
Sweat poured from Chase's body. His thighs burned from pumping underneath him as he tore up and down the half mile driveway in the dark, hoping to relieve his pent-up energy.
Jesse was dead. They'd buried him under the pecan tree just before the rain came pouring down.
Rainwater trickled down Chase's cheeks in lieu of the tears he was unable to cry. He wished he could, if only to relieve the pressure in his chest.
Kicking off his squishy running shoes, he pushed through the front door, moving quietly to keep from disturbing Sara and Kendal. But there was Sara, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, waiting up for him. He shut the door against the gentle murmur of the rain.
She was wearing the nightshirt she'd bought in Memphis. She didn't have a drop of makeup on her clean-scrubbed face, and her eyes looked puffy and red-rimmed in the lamp glow. For some reason, she was more appealing to him than ever.
"You okay?" he asked, his back still to the door.
"I wanted to talk to you," she explained.
With an excess of testosterone still in his bloodstream, it was not a good time. He wanted vengeance and sex, and he wasn't too picky as to which came first.
But Sara had been through hell because of him. The least he could do was put her mind at ease. "Let me shower," he stalled. Snatching fresh boxers and his sweatpants from his duffel bag, he headed for the bathroom.
A cold shower helped to settle some of his inner seething. He left his sodden clothes in the laundry closet and returned to the living room in his sweatpants. At the same time, Sara emerged form the kitchen bearing two steaming mugs.
"Chamomile tea," she said, her gaze skittering over his naked chest. "It's been in the cabinet for a while, but I don't think tea goes bad, does it?"
Her nervous question had him plucking a T-shirt from his duffel bag. He jammed his arms through the sleeves and tugged it down to accept the mug she passed him. He never drank tea, except in Asian restaurants. "Thanks."
He sat on the end of the couch, unnerved when Sara eased down next to him. She smelled like soap and sun-dried cotton. She sipped her tea, strangely quiet, considering she'd said she wanted to talk.
He took a swallow. "How's Ken doin'?" The boy had cried for hours, which was one of the reasons why Chase had left the house. It'd reminded him of his mother crying.
"I slipped him some Dramamine," she confessed, with a self-deprecating grimace. "I guess I'm a bad mother."
"You're not," Chase assured her. He emptied his mug, burning his throat to distract himself from her proximity.
She had no idea how tightly wound he was. "Is that what you wanted to talk about?" he asked. The faster they ended this discussion, the safer she'd be.
"Actually, I just wanted to thank you," she told him, unexpectedly
"What the hell for?" he growled. He blamed himself for the whole fiasco.
"For not going back. I know you wanted to." Her green-gray eyes shone with faith—faith he didn't deserve since he was still considering it. The night wasn't over yet.
"Tell me again what happened," he demanded, needing to make up his mind. She'd sketched an outline of the events for Linda Mae's benefit, but who knew what details she might have left out?
With a sigh, she relayed their reasons for returning to the ranch in the first place. She retold how they'd surprised the skinheads who were searching the house for the rifles. As she mentioned her distress at leaving Kendal behind, her eyes filled with tears.
Fuck, he wanted to comfort her, but then he'd have to touch her. "I want you to tell me if those bastards hurt you," he insisted, watching her closely. "Don't cover up for them."
"Les and Timmy jostled me around a little," she conceded, dashing the moisture from beneath her eyes, "but no harm done. And Will just talked to me. God, did he give me the creeps!"
It gave Chase the creeps to hear the skinheads' names on her lips. She should never have experienced what she'd gone through today. Kendal, either. It was Chase's fault that they'd wound up smack-dab in the middle of a racial conspiracy.
He threw himself off the sofa to prowl around the living room. "This is all my fault," he admitted, hating himself.
Her eyes flashed like a prelude to a summer storm. "Don't you dare blame yourself, Chase McCaffrey. We were leaving, remember? It's our fault that we came back."
"I should never have brought you here, to a place like this," he qualified.
"What do you mean a place like this? There's nothing wrong with this place."
"It's common," he retorted. "There's nothing here but work to be done and backwards-thinking people like Linc and his cronies."
"You're here," she countered. "And there's nothing backward about you."
That pulled him up short. "You gotta be kiddin' me." How could she say that when she knew what he did for a living? He was as backward as a treed possum.
"I'm not," she said, defending him vehemently. "You've made all the difference to me and my son. Tonight you could have started World War III, but you walked away. That's not backward, Chase. That's heroic."
Huh? He stood there wondering if he'd heard her right, but then his hearing was beyond perfect.
She jumped off the couch, and he backed up, terrified of being tested in the state that he was in. She stopped squarely in front of him with her hands clasped.
The smell of her made him light-headed.
"Thank you," she repeated gently. "That's all I really wanted to say. That, and I'm sorry about Jesse."
He flinched as she went up on her toes, pressing a warm, soft kiss on his cheek.
The reminder that his dog was dead kept him from taking advantage. If that happened, she'd find out just how unheroic he could be.
He watched her turn away. She collected both their mugs and took them to the kitchen. Passing him one last time, she cast him a sweet, sad smile. It did nothing to ease his lust.
Once she was safely out of range, Chase threw himself down on the couch and scowled.
He'd never been accused of heroism before. It had a way of humbling a man.
Reaching for the lamp, he snapped off the light. Surrounded by darkness, he instantly missed the loyal company of his dog. His chest hurt, but the tears refused to come.
Frances Yates cut through the wedge of cantaloupe with the side of her fork and lifted the morsel to her mouth. Since her daughter's disappearance, she'd lost weight she couldn't afford to lose. Her doctor had chided her just yesterday, but, honestly, how was she supposed to maintain an appetite when something awful had befallen Sara and her only grandson, Kendal?
Marvin, who sat across from her, his back to the golf course of their retirement community, seemed to be experiencing the same struggle.
When the doorbell rang, it came as a relief to have to get up from the table. "Another well-wisher," Frances shouted to Marvin, who was deaf. She rose painstakingly to her feet, careful to watch her equilibrium.
Marvin dabbed his chin with a napkin, getting up to follow her down the hall.
Frances opened the door, expecting to be greeted by a flower arrangement or a familiar face, projecting sympathy. Nearly everyone within their gated community had dropped by to offer encouragement and consolation. It took Frances a second to recognize her son-in-law, looking less than fastidious. His navy blue jacket was wrinkled, and his hair was windblown.
The only reason he would have come to Florida in person was to deliver terrible news. "Oh, heavens, no!" Frances cried, putting a hand to her chest and stumbling against her husband, who'd followed her to the door. "They were found," she guessed.
Bartholomew's dark eyes narrowed as he took in her dismay with strangely apathetic eyes. Those same eyes scrutinized Marvin, whose hand curled protectively around Frances's frail arm. "No," he said, looking past them, into the foyer.
"What's going on?" Marvin shouted.
"I don't know," said Frances, remarking Garret's peculiar behavior. "Please, come in." She gestured toward the living room, and Marvin stepped back so that his son-in-law could duck under the lintel and enter their dwelling.
Garret took a seat on Marvin's favorite reading chair, his posture rigid. His dark eyes darted here and there as if looking for something.
Marvin helped Frances lower herself onto the sofa and took the seat next to her. "Do you have news for us?" she pressed. He'd spoken to them via phone forty-eight hours after Sara and Kendal's disappearance, but not since then, though they'd left a number of messages.
"No," he said, in a flat voice. "None. The authorities are questioning whether it was an abduction, after all."
"What else would it be?" Frances asked in confusion. "Perhaps their abductor wasn't looking for money."
Perhaps he merely wanted to abuse them and kill them and dump their bodies elsewhere.
"Oh, dear," she moaned, suffering a dizzy spell that was made all the worse by her vertigo.
Bartholomew regarded her dispassionately. "I should be going," he announced, coming abruptly to his feet.