ACCUSED OF MURDER

After four years in prison for crimes she didn’t commit, Catherine Miller just wants to lie low at her isolated farmhouse. But someone still thinks she’s guilty—and should pay the ultimate price. Someone angry enough to spray-paint murderer on her home and attack her in broad daylight. Her neighbor, former navy SEAL Darius Osborne, vows to hunt down her predator. The handsome security contractor has as harrowing a past as Catherine’s, and won’t let anyone get too close. Yet with a cold-blooded killer on her trail, they’ll get closer than either ever imagined.

Darius approached cautiously, his senses alert, his nerves alive with anticipation.

A red shoe print marred one whitewashed floorboard, and letters were painted across the width of the porch floor, covered with a thin layer of white paint.

Murderer.

Had the person who’d attacked Catherine vandalized the property first? He frowned, stepping into the foyer.

A small sound made the hair on his neck stand on end, and Darius paused, listening to footsteps on wood flooring. A floorboard on the stair creaked, and he eased back into the room.

A shadow moved across the open doorway, and he lunged, tackling the intruder. He slid his forearm across a soft throat, pressing just enough to stop his squirming, wiggling captive.

Red hair.

Pale face.

Dark blue eyes.

Catherine!

He backed away, panting hard, and offered a hand to pull her to her feet. “You’re supposed to be at my place,” he said. “Someone just tried to kill you.” He didn’t bother keeping exasperation from his voice.

Catherine frowned. “He’s gone,” she whispered.

“Maybe.”

SHIRLEE McCOY

has always loved making up stories. As a child, she daydreamed elaborate tales in which she was the heroine—gutsy, strong and invincible. Though she soon grew out of her superhero fantasies, her love for storytelling never diminished. She knew early that she wanted to write inspirational fiction, and she began writing her first novel when she was a teenager. Still, it wasn’t until her third son was born that she truly began pursuing her dream of being published. Three years later, she sold her first book. Now a busy mother of five, Shirlee is a homeschool mom by day and an inspirational author by night. She and her husband and children live in the Pacific Northwest and share their house with a dog, two cats and a bird. You can visit her website, www.shirleemccoy.com, or email her at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.

Navy SEAL Rescuer

Shirlee McCoy

MILLS & BOON

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Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue;

be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me.

—Psalms 31:2

To my children.

There is nothing I enjoy more than being your mother!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

ONE

MURDERER!

Red letters dripped like blood down the front of the freshly painted house.

Smaller letters marched across the newly whitewashed porch floor.

Murderer.

The painted words seemed to taunt Catherine Miller as she trudged to the back of the old farmhouse and grabbed two nearly empty paint cans from the dilapidated shed. Hopefully, she had enough to cover the vandalism. She snagged a couple of paint pans, tucked paint rollers under her arm and carried everything to the porch. Ten minutes, and she’d be done.

Good. Eileen would be finished with chemo in an hour, and Catherine didn’t want her grandmother waiting. She was too sick, too exhausted, too frail to be left sitting in a crowded hospital waiting room. At sixty-seven, Eileen’s clock was running down, and Catherine wished desperately that she could wind it back up again. She couldn’t, so she’d purposed to spend every moment she could making sure Eileen’s last weeks and months were comfortable and pleasant.

That meant getting rid of the vandalism before Eileen got home.

She touched a finger to the dry red paint. Not even tacky. Whoever had vandalized the house had done it soon after Catherine and Eileen had left for the hospital. Some punk kid. She was sure that was what the sheriff would say if she called.

She wouldn’t.

She’d put her grandmother through enough already. She wouldn’t bring her home to vandalism or to police poring over the property. She’d cover the paint and keep what had happened locked safely away with all the other things she couldn’t share.

The sun blazed from the blue summer sky, the breezeless air hot and arid. Sweat trickled down her temple and neck as she poured dove-gray paint into a pan. Whoosh. One letter gone. Swish. Another disappeared. She should have felt satisfaction, but she felt nothing. Not anger. Not irritation. Not dismay, disgust, horror.

Nothing.

She covered another letter and wiped sweat from her upper lip, surveying the fresh paint. Not even a shadow of red peeked out from under the gray. Perfect. Eileen would never know what had happened, and that was the only thing Catherine cared about. She dipped the roller in gray again, sweeping it over the E and R, the silence of the old farmstead only broken by the swishing of paint on wood. Nothing moved. Not the tall grass and weeds that pressed up against the perimeter of the yard. Not the leaves on the trees.

The stillness ate at Catherine as she worked, nudging at the back of her mind. Four years in the state prison had insulated her from the world, but not from people and life. There had been little silence in her cell block and even less time alone. Here, in the small town where she’d grown up, she seemed to always be alone and silent. Even when she was in a crowd. Even when Eileen was close by.

She grabbed a fresh roller, poured white paint into a clean pan and slicked it over the red letters on the porch. Almost done. There’d be plenty of time for the floor to dry before she picked Eileen up from chemotherapy.

Something rustled to her left, the tall weeds that edged the property swaying. No breeze to blow them, but they moved again, twitching to the left and right as she watched.

“Who’s there?” she asked, sure a bird would fly out of the overgrowth. Instead, soft laughter drifted from the weeds, the sound chilling her blood.

“I said, ‘who’s there?’”

“Murderer!” The taunt whispered out, and Catherine stiffened.

She’d been out of prison for two months, and in that time, vandals had broken a window, slashed her car tires and egged the house. The sheriff had been out three times, but he hadn’t been able to track down the perpetrators. Kids with too much time on their hands. That’s what he’d said, and Catherine had believed him, because she hadn’t wanted to believe an adult was trying to chase her out of town.

But, then, in Pine Bluff, just about anything seemed possible. Here, the guilty wandered free and the innocent rotted in jail.

Just once, her rational self said.

Just you.

The weeds rustled and a tall figure stepped out. Broad and muscular, he stood at the edge of the yard, a ski mask pulled over his face.

A kid?

Catherine didn’t think so, and she tensed, setting the paint roller in the pan without taking her eyes off the man. “Go home.”

“Go home,” he mocked, chuckling softly.

“I’m going to call the police,” she said, backing toward the front door.

“I don’t think so,” he responded and loped toward her.

She lunged for the door, yanking it open, terror squeezing the breath from her lungs as an arm wrapped around her waist, a hand slapped over her mouth.

“Let’s go inside.” He pressed her toward the yawning doorway, and she shoved back, raking her hand down his knit ski mask, slamming her elbow into his ribs. Prison hadn’t taught her much, but it had taught her how to fight.

He cursed, his grip loosening, and she broke free, lifting the paint roller, swinging at his face. Paint splattered across his ski mask, and he stumbled back.

She didn’t wait. Didn’t try to fight more. Just jumped off the porch and sprinted across the yard, heading for the dirt road that connected the homestead to its nearest neighbor.

Please, please.

Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in fast.

Please.

She turned left at the road. A quarter mile, and she’d be at the Morris place. Empty for years but finally sold to a man that Eileen said spent more time away than home.

Please, let him be home.

Her breath panted out, the old broken mailbox that marked the beginning of Morris property just ahead, the curve in the road that hid the house from view just beyond it.

Close.

She was so close.

God is smiling down on you, my sweet girl.

The voice echoed from a past so far away that Catherine wasn’t sure it had ever been hers.

And then she was yanked back with so much force she flew. Off balance, arms flailing, she beat at her attacker, jabbed at his eyes, tried to pull the mask from his face, screaming, screaming. As if someone might hear. As if rescue might be just a moment away.

His fist clipped her jaw, and she reeled, stars and darkness dancing at the edge of her vision.

Please, please, help me.

The prayer danced, too, slipping into her muddled thoughts, breaking her cardinal rule to never ask for help. She’d clung to her faith through rocky times, but the past few years had been stagnant and empty of hope, her faith shriveled and dry from lack of care.

If she could care again, would God save her?

Please!

Sun-scorched earth burned through her T-shirt.

On the ground, his hands around her neck, his breath fanning her cheek.

“How’s it feel to be on the other side, Dark Angel?” he whispered, his grip tightening, his knee pressing into her stomach.

She gagged, clawing at his wrists, trying to break his iron hold.

No air.

No breath.

Just hot dirt and hot sun and cold blue eyes staring into hers.

Please!

She let go of his wrists, dug her thumbs into his eyes, air filling her lungs as he shoved her hands away.

One more scream.

Another.

And his hands tightened on her throat again.

* * *

A scream broke the silence of Darius Osborne’s first day of vacation. Not an excited scream. Not an it’s-summer-and-we’re-letting-loose scream. A terror-filled, panicked, help-me scream, that made his hair stand on end.

Another scream followed the first, choked off at its zenith. He dropped the paint scraper, grabbed the hammer, racing around the side of the old farmhouse and onto the dirt road.

He stopped there. Waiting. Listening.

The hot summer day was silent again.

Not a breath, not a movement.

Nothing.

“Hello?” he called out, glancing up the road toward the distant highway, then down it toward the curve in the road and the dead fields of the neighboring farm.

“Help me!” A woman stumbled into view, burnished red hair gleaming in the sunlight, welts raised on the pale column of her throat. He knew her. Knew of her anyway. Everyone in Pine Bluff did.

Catherine Miller.

The Dark Angel of Good Samaritan.

Injured, terrified.

He ran toward her, scanning the area as he slid an arm around her waist.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Someone attacked me,” she rasped, her eyes hollow, her face expressionless.

“Where is he?”

“He ran when you called out.” She gestured to the curve in the road, the tall, brown grass and weeds. Anyone could be hiding there.

“Come on.” He urged her toward his house, her backbone prominent beneath his hand, every vertebra pressing up against her shirt. Too thin. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d seen her on the news.

Too thin, but beautiful.

Aloof.

The perfect neighbor because all she wanted was exactly what Darius did—to be left alone.

Only, she hadn’t been left alone.

The welts on her neck, the bruise on her jaw proved that.

“Who was it? Someone you know?” He opened his front door, ushering her inside.

“I’m not sure. He was wearing a ski mask.” She shivered, and he pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck.

She flinched, tugging the blanket close.

“What else was he wearing?”

“Dark pants. Long-sleeved dark shirt. He was tall. Maybe a couple of inches shorter than you.” Her teeth chattered, but she looked him straight in the eye, her gaze direct, her blue eyes dark and lifeless.

“I’m going to call for help, then I’ll see if I can find him.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911 as he took his Glock from the gun safe in the hall closet.

Catherine watched as he loaded it, her expression never changing. The media had said plenty about her incarceration and release. They’d said plenty about her, too. Interviews with supposed friends, with people she’d worked with and with the family of the people she’d been convicted of murdering. There’d never been an interview with her, though. Just photos and videos of her leaving prison, her expression as empty as it was now.

“Stay here, okay?” he asked.

“I’ll stay for as long as I can,” she responded, and he frowned, hot air sweeping in as he opened the door.

“You need to stay here as long as it takes for me to make sure you’re safe.”

“My grandmother is at the hospital getting chemotherapy. I need to be there to pick her up in less than an hour.”

“Someone tried to kill you. I think your grandmother will understand if you’re late.”

“My grandmother can’t know what happened.” She touched her neck, but it was the only indication she gave of her feelings or her fear.

“Unless she’s blind, she’s going to be asking a lot of questions. How are you going to explain this?” He touched the bruise on her jaw, and she tensed, her eyes flashing with life for the first time since he’d seen her on the road.

“I’ll tell her whatever I have to to keep her from worrying.”

“Your choice, Catherine, but remember, you won’t be able to tell her anything if you’re dead. Stay in the house. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stepped outside, listening to the noisy starlings fighting over rotten food near his overflowing trash bin, waiting for a sign that the perp had followed Catherine.

Nothing.

Not even a hint that things weren’t what they should be.

Darius ran down the porch stairs and across the yard, scanning the landscape and the sun-baked dirt road. A scuffed area just beyond the curve in the road gave the first hint of what had happened. He crouched over it, examining the heel digs ground into the dirt and the footprints that led into deep cover.

He followed them into the heavy overgrowth, head-high weeds and dried grass pressing in close, reminding him of far-off days and late-night treks through planted fields and desert scrub. Different place, different circumstances, but the adrenaline was the same, the skin-tightening feeling that he wasn’t alone was the same.

Sirens screamed, their warning swelling and then ending abruptly. Help had arrived. If the perp was close by, he wouldn’t be for long. Not with the police on-site. Darius slipped through the tangled vegetation, following a trail of broken branches and crushed grass, the Glock a comforting weight in his hand.

He’d spent four years as a Navy SEAL working in enemy territory in Afghanistan searching out top-ranking al Qaeda operatives, and he’d never gotten tired of the hunt. Even now, stateside and working as a security contractor, he loved this part of the job the most.

Cat and mouse.

Hide-and-seek.

Him against the enemy.

He followed the trail deeper into the field, then back through sparser growth and out into Catherine’s property. An old farmhouse jutted up from the middle of an overgrown yard, its front door swinging open.

Darius approached cautiously, his senses alert, his nerves alive with anticipation. Cans of paint sat on the porch, a gray paint roller abandoned beside them. A red shoe print marred one whitewashed floorboard, and letters were painted across the width of the porch floor. Someone had covered them with a thin layer of white paint, but they were still easy to read.

Murderer.

Had the person who’d attacked Catherine vandalized the property first? He frowned, stepping into the foyer, heat pressing in on every side. No breeze to cut the oppressive air. No open windows to clear the heavy scent of cigarette smoke.

Sweat trickled down his temples and rolled into his eyes. He ignored it, his attention on the creak and groan of the old house, the moan of settling wood. Life had a different sound, a different feel, and he walked through a small living room, knowing it was empty. The dining room was empty, too, a nicked wood table and an old china cabinet the only furniture. No chairs. No painting. No curtains on the windows. Everything spare and worn.

The floor creaked as he walked back through the foyer and into what might have once been a family room. The room held a fireplace on one wall, a hospital bed, a dresser and a chair. A small refrigerator sat on the floor, a half dozen medicine bottles sitting on top of it. Someone had installed a window air-conditioning unit, and it hummed softly as Darius checked the closet and a small bathroom.

Empty.

The kitchen was the same. Nearly gutted with nothing but an old oven and a chipped sink, it had seen better days. Tools lay on the floor and paint peeled off the windowsills. Someone had been working hard, but the house still felt tired and old as if the life had been sucked out of it. Lived in, but already abandoned.

The front door opened, the floorboards in the hallway creaking. Footsteps on stairs and someone walking above his head. Not the police. They’d follow protocol and announce their presence.

He eased up the stairs, slowly, quietly. Whoever was in the house wasn’t being quiet about it. Drawers opened. Something slid across the floor.

Searching for something?

He followed the sounds, lunging as a figure darted from the room at the far end of the hall. His bum leg screamed in protest, phantom pain spearing up from the place where his calf had been, but he didn’t hesitate, didn’t let the pain stall his momentum. He slammed the perp against the wall, his forearm pressed across a soft throat as he looked into a bruised face and dark blue eyes.

Catherine.

“You’re supposed to be at my place,” he said, biting back the harsh words that were on the tip of his tongue.

“I have to get to the hospital.” Her voice shook, but it was the only indication of her fear.

“Not at the risk of your life.”

“The person who attacked me would have to be crazy to hang around.”

“The police were okay with you walking off?” Because, he wasn’t.

“There are officers all over the road looking for evidence. I was safe enough,” she hedged.

“You didn’t get permission to leave, did you?”

“I was waiting to be interviewed. It was taking too long.”

“You can’t do your grandmother any good if you’re dead.”

“I’m not, so it’s a moot point,” she said, her cheeks heating, her eyes flashing.

“It doesn’t pay to take chances.” He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he followed her down the stairs.

“I need to get to the hospital.” She grabbed keys from a small table in the foyer and shoved them in her pocket, her hand shaking.

She put on a good show, but she was terrified.

“You’d better let the police know that you’re leaving.”

“They’re smart. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.” She walked outside, and he followed, ignoring her dark look. “Thank you for your help, Mr....?”

“Osborne. Darius.”

“Catherine Miller, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

“I’ve seen the news stories.”

“Who hasn’t?” She smiled, her eyes empty and quiet. “You saved my life, and I don’t take that lightly, but I’m fine now, and I need to get going.”

So did he. He’d planned every minute of his two-week vacation. Paint the house. Strip and refinish the hardwood floors. Fix the leaking kitchen sink. Get the house he’d bought three months ago in order so it seemed more like a home and less like a place to stay.

But the bruises on Catherine’s face, the welts on her neck, the quick beat of her pulse in the hollow of her throat made him hesitate. “How about you let me give you a ride to the hospital?”

“I have a car.”

“So do I.”

“What—”

“The police are here.” Darius cut her off as a police cruiser parked on the cracked and crumbled driveway. A tall dark-haired officer got out. Darius knew him. Deputy Sheriff Logan Randal. They’d run into each other on a couple of cases, and Darius had liked the guy.

“Catherine!” Randal called. “You were supposed to stay inside and wait for me.”

“I told you my grandmother needed to be picked up.”

“I can send an officer for her.”

“And scare her to death? I don’t think so.”

Randal sighed and took off his hat, running a hand down his jaw. “Osborne, you were there when everything went down?”

“I heard Catherine’s screams, but I didn’t see the perp. No sign of him here, either.”

“I need to leave.” Catherine sidled past, and Randal grabbed her arm.

“Whoa! Slow down, Catherine. I can’t let you walk away unescorted. We don’t know who attacked you, why he did it or where he is now.”

“Neither do I, and Eileen is waiting.”

Obviously, they knew each other.

Even more obviously, Catherine didn’t care about the connection or Logan’s authority as an officer of the law. She seemed bound and determined to leave.

“I’ll escort her to the hospital.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

“Yeah. You do.” Darius followed her down the porch steps and around the side of the house.

She ignored him, not glancing over her shoulder, not telling him to leave. Just walking, sunlight pouring over her bright red hair and casting shadows beneath her eyes.

He could go back to his renovation work, go back to his first day of vacation and let Logan deal with Catherine and the person who’d attacked her.

He could, but he followed Catherine to a rickety garage, anyway, because following her was a whole lot better than going home to his silent house. His boss and friend Ryder Malone had insisted that four years was too long to go without a vacation. He was probably right, but vacation without family didn’t feel like much of a vacation. All it did was remind him of what he didn’t have.

Catherine hefted the garage door, but he pulled her back before she could walk into the dank interior.

“Let me check things out, first.”

He expected her to argue, maybe tell him to go home, but she stepped aside, staring out over the golden-brown fields, silent, stiff and expressionless.

He had the impression of careful control and deep emotion.

That made him want to poke a little, see what kind of reaction he could get.

Surprising, because he didn’t believe in poking or prodding or searching for something deeper. He’d tried it before, found what he’d wanted to find instead of what was there. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, but he would check the garage and make sure danger wasn’t waiting in the dark corners and deep shadows.

He turned away from Catherine and walked into the musty garage.

TWO

Please, go.

That’s what Catherine needed to say to Darius.

Two words that she’d said to all the news reporters, old friends and strangers who’d come around trying to get the scoop on the Dark Angel of Good Samaritan over the past two months.

She couldn’t manage to get the words out, and she stood silently as Darius preceded her into the garage.

No one was there.

She was as sure of that as she was that the sun would shine in the morning, but she let him look, because she didn’t want to be alone. Not yet.

Her neck burned and throbbed, but she didn’t touch the bruised skin, tried not to remember the feeling of fingers on flesh or think about what might have happened if Darius hadn’t called out. Another minute, and she would have been out of breath. All the fighting skills she’d learned in prison had been useless against someone double her size and strength.

Would she have died on the dusty old road?

She shuddered, taking a step into the dim garage. It smelled of gasoline and oil, mildew and wet wood. She’d have to tear the place down eventually, but she had too many projects on her hands already, and not enough time to get to them.

“It’s clear. Come on in,” Darius called out, and she hurried to the 1965 Buick, grabbing her purse from under the front seat. She took out her cell phone, shoving it into her pocket. Leaving it in the car had been a mistake that she wouldn’t repeat. From now on, she’d carry it everywhere.

Just in case.

She gave in to temptation, touching the swollen place on her jaw, the hot flesh of her neck. Raw and dry, her throat tightened, her breath catching.

Stop!

The last thing she needed or wanted was a panic attack.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” Darius asked, his light green eyes glowing in a deeply tanned face. Dark hair fell across his forehead, silky and blue-black, but it didn’t make him look boyish or approachable. He looked hard and tough and capable, the gun she’d watched him take from his closet held loose in a broad hand.

Was he a cop? FBI? He had the look. All hard lean muscle and lithe movements.

“Catherine? Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” he asked again, his hand brushing her shoulder, his touch so light she barely felt it.

“No. I’m fine. Thanks for all your help. You can leave.” There. She’d said it. Easy as pie.

“I’ll wait until you get this beast out of the garage. Think it’ll start?” He patted the hood of her grandmother’s rusty old car.

“It should.” But just like everything else around the farm, the car had seen better days. She got in the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and heard nothing but a quiet click. She tried again and again with the same results.

Just once.

Just once, she wanted things to go her way.

She turned the key one more time, wrenching it hard.

“Sounds like you need a new battery or a new starter. Breaking the key in the ignition won’t change either of those things.” Darius reached in and pulled the key from the ignition.

“It started fine this morning,” she muttered, grabbing her purse and getting out of the car. Time was ticking, and Eileen was waiting. She couldn’t spend any more time fighting with the car.

“She’s an old car. She needs a little TLC.”

“Everything around this place does,” she responded, following him back out into the bright sunlight.

“My place is the same way, but I do have a truck that’s reliable. Come on. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.” He led the way back across the yard, a hitch to his stride that she hadn’t noticed before. Slight, but definitely there. Had he been hurt while he hunted the guy who’d attacked her?

She wanted to ask, but the words caught in her throat as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

It had been a long time since she’d made small talk.

She wasn’t sure if she still knew how to do it.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his eyes such a pure light green, she wondered if he wore contacts.

“You hurt your leg,” she said, finally managing to loosen her tongue and get the words out.

“Not recently.”

“You’re limping.”

“That happens when the lower part of a person’s leg is amputated.” He responded so casually, she almost missed what he was saying.

“You’re an amputee?”

“My leg was blown off by a booby-trapped weapon cache. That’s why I’m stateside instead of with my buddies in Afghanistan.” Darius offered the information, knowing it would distract Catherine, ease some of the tension from her face and shoulders.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m alive. Some of my buddies weren’t so fortunate.”

“Then, I guess I’m even more sorry,” she responded, surprising him. Most people who heard the story missed the part where he mentioned the bigger loss he’d suffered. Not his leg. His comrades. He’d give the other leg and both his arms to have any of them back.

“It was rough.”

“What happ—?”

“How about we save the question-and-answer session for another day?” He cut her off. Sharing some information to take her mind off what had happened was one thing. Talking in depth about his loss, that was something else.

“I thought you were heading to the hospital,” Logan called from the porch, and Catherine stiffened, her tension flooding back.

“The Buick wouldn’t start.”

“Not surprising. You need to trade that rust bucket in for something reliable.”

“The car is fine, Logan.” She sounded weary, and Darius had the urge to slide an arm around her waist, let her lean on him. He doubted she ever leaned on anyone, though, and he kept his distance, watching as she brushed dirt from her faded jeans and avoided Logan’s eyes.

“I noticed you had some vandalism on the porch. When did it happen?”

“Sometime after I left to bring Eileen to the hospital. The siding was vandalized, too, but I was able to cover that before...” She didn’t finish, and Darius imagined her out on the porch, covering paint with paint while danger stalked her.

“You didn’t report it,” Logan said, and Catherine shrugged.

“I reported the broken windows three weeks ago. I reported the slashed tire before that. I reported crank calls and people driving by the house at all hours of the night. It didn’t do me any good. I figured calling the sheriff about this was going to be just as useless.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way, Catherine. We’ve been working hard to identify the perpetrators of those crimes. It just takes time,” Logan responded with more gentleness than Darius had ever seen in him. Did he feel guilty for his part in Catherine’s conviction and incarceration? No doubt, he’d been with the sheriff’s department when she’d been accused of murdering eleven patients at the convalescent center where she’d worked.

“I know that, and I’m not blaming your office, Logan. It’s just...I don’t have time. Eileen is really sick, and I can’t have her stressed out and upset every other week. I figured I’d just clean things up before she got home and pretend nothing had happened.”

“Pretending won’t make trouble go away.”

“I know.” She touched the bruise on her jaw. “Look, I know you have a bunch of questions, and I’ll answer them. But I really have to get to the hospital. I don’t want Eileen waiting and wondering if something has happened to me.”

“Something did happen to you,” Darius cut in, and she frowned.

“Nothing permanent. We’ll talk when I get back, Logan,”

“We’ll be here. I called in a K-9 unit, and I’m hoping they’ll catch the perp’s trail. Want me to have an officer give you a ride to the hospital?”

“I don’t think I want to be seen in a police car, but thank you,” she responded, a hint of irony in her words.

“We can have an unmarked car—”

“I’m going to give her a ride, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t run into any more trouble on the way to or from the hospital.” Darius cut into the conversation again, and Catherine wanted to tell him that she’d be the one to make sure that she didn’t run into more trouble. That she’d take care of herself and her grandmother the same way she had for most of her life, but saying anything would take time and effort she didn’t want to waste.

“I guess having a bodyguard as a neighbor is going to pay off for you, today, Catherine,” Logan commented as he snapped several pictures of the porch and the red paint.

“Bodyguard?” Catherine shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d guessed Darius to be police or FBI. A bodyguard seemed an extension of those things. Somehow, she was surprised, though. She couldn’t imagine him escorting high-profile clients to high-profile events.

Or maybe she could.

Dress him in tux, slick back his hair and he’d easily pass for someone with money and looks to spare.

“Security contractor,” he corrected, and then turned to Logan. “You’ve got my cell phone number, Randal. Give me a call if the K-9 unit sniffs anything out.”

“I don’t recall you being part of this case, Osborne.”

“Catherine is my neighbor, so I’m making myself part of it,” Darius responded easily as a police K-9 unit pulled into the driveway.

“How about I decide who is going to be part of the case and who isn’t after Eileen is home?” Catherine tried to put some force into the words, but they sounded weak and shaky.

“You’re right. We’re wasting time. Call me, Randal.” Darius tossed the words over his shoulder as he hurried Catherine to the dirt road that she’d run along less than an hour before. Terror had fueled her then. Now, she felt nothing but tired. She’d known that returning to Pine Bluff after she’d been released from prison wouldn’t be easy, but she hadn’t expected it to be so difficult. She’d thought she could hide away in the farmhouse, tend to Eileen and ignore the people who whispered and pointed, but the townspeople didn’t seem willing to let her alone. Some of them simply wanted the story of her time in prison. Others were still convinced she was a murderer.

Apparently, one of them wanted her gone.

She touched her neck, then let her hand drop away. She didn’t want Darius to know how shaken she was. She didn’t want anyone to know it. Keep things close to the cuff. That’s what her grandmother had taught her, and it’s what she’d always done. There’d been a time in her life when she’d thought things might be different, that she could let down her guard, trust someone else with her emotions, but her arrest had proven just how foolish that had been. That was something else she kept close to the cuff...how much it had hurt to see her fiancé on local and national news programs saying he wasn’t surprised that Catherine had been arrested, that her compassion for the dying must have caused her to snap.

She shoved the memories away. For Eileen’s sake, she tried to live in the present and let the past go. That was easier on some days than on others.

Several officers stood near the curve in the road, crime scene tape marking off the area they were searching. They didn’t meet her eyes as she passed, but she hadn’t expected them to. The Spokane County sheriff’s department had issued an apology for the four years she’d spent in prison for crimes she hadn’t committed. She’d been paid a lump sum for the trauma and time the criminal justice system had cost her, but that couldn’t buy back her life or the time she might have spent with Eileen. They knew it.

Still, if anyone from the sheriff’s department had asked, she would have said that she didn’t place the blame with them. Didn’t really place blame with anyone.

“I tracked your attacker from the road, through the field and back to your place. He could have been waiting in the house when you got there, waiting anywhere along this road. The weeds and overgrowth are so dense you wouldn’t have seen him until he was on you. You realize that, right?” Darius said quietly, his hand resting on her elbow as he steered her onto his driveway.

“The police had already arrived. You were out with a gun looking for the guy who’d attacked me. Why would he stick around?”

“For the same reason he attacked you.”

“Because he’s a stupid kid who gets his kick out of scaring people? Kids have been coming around here since the day I got out of prison.”

“You think that’s what this was about?” He touched her throbbing jaw.

She flinched away, the movement as unconscious as breathing, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her face.

She kept her expression neutral, tried not to let him see her fear and anxiety. They were tools he might use against her one day, and she held them close, kept them hidden the way she had for years.

“I really need to get to the hospital,” she said, because she felt his gaze more than she should have, felt it settling deep, demanding more.

“Right.” He opened the door of an old Ford pickup. Repainted dark blue, everything shiny and new, it was probably as old as her grandmother’s car, but Catherine knew the engine would start and that it would probably purr like a kitten.

Darius seemed like the kind of guy who had all his ducks in a row, everything shipshape and in order.

He helped her into the truck’s cab, his hand on her back, then her shoulder, then her arm. Everything so easy and smooth, she barely realized it was happening. Gentling a colt. Only she wasn’t a colt, and she didn’t need to be gentled. She needed to be left alone.

She started to close the door, but he covered her hand, his gaze so intense she wanted to look away.

“Just so you know, we’re not done with our conversation. The person who did this meant business, and we need to find out exactly what that business was.”

He ran a finger across the welts on her neck, and she shivered.

“I told you, kids have been—”

“This wasn’t done by a kid who got carried away. He meant business, Cat.” His eyes had gone soft and gentle, his words quiet, and she felt herself falling into that gentleness. Allowing herself to believe that it was real.

“My name is Catherine,” she said, shoving everything else away and concentrating on that one thing.

No one called her Cat.

Not anymore.

“Yeah? I’ll keep that in mind.” He closed the door and rounded the truck, and she scooted to the very end of the leather bucket seat. The seat belt was an old-fashioned lap belt, and she buckled it as Darius got into the truck, trying to slow her heart rate and pull herself together.

She’d have to explain the bruises to Eileen, but Catherine wouldn’t let her see how terrified and shaken she was.

“Where are we headed?”

“Sacred Heart.”

“I know it. Downtown Spokane, right?”

“That’s right.” The hospital was twenty minutes away, a long time to sit in a truck with a man she didn’t know. She fidgeted in her seat, wishing she’d taken Logan up on his offer to have a police officer drive her to the hospital. So what if people saw her in a police cruiser and talked? They were already talking.

“Has your grandmother been ill for long?”

“I don’t know.” She felt his sideways glance, but didn’t offer more information.

“It must be tough on both of you.”

“It is.” Especially because Catherine felt responsible. If she hadn’t gone to prison, if she’d been around, maybe she would have noticed Eileen’s decline, forced her to go to the doctor sooner, given her a chance of surviving the cancer that was eating her liver.

“She’s pretty frail, your grandmother?” he asked casually, but Catherine doubted there was anything casual about Darius.

“Yes. Why?”

“You two live at the end of a dirt road, Catherine. The doors on your house are flimsy. The windows are single pane. It’s not safe.”

“It always has been before.”

“It wasn’t safe this morning.”

He had a point. With Eileen’s health failing and the juvenile pranks escalating, maybe security was something Catherine needed to look into.

“I’ll have a security company come out and install a system.”

“I can help you with that. I work for one of the largest security contractors in the country.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Tell you what. I’ll have someone go out and assess things. He’ll have an estimate for you when we get back. You don’t have to commit to anything.”

“Thanks, but—”

“Is there some reason why you don’t want my help?”

“I don’t want anyone’s help. My grandmother and I have been doing fine on our own for a long time, and we’re going to keep doing fine,” she said. It was the truth, but there was a deeper truth. She didn’t want help from a guy who looked tough as nails but who had gentleness in his eyes and his voice.

“We all need help sometimes.”

“I know, but I want to make sure that—” She couldn’t say what she was thinking. That she didn’t want help from someone like him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Good, because me making a phone call isn’t a big deal. It’s just a favor to a neighbor, okay?”

“Okay.” What else could she say? She needed a security system. Darius could get her one quickly. If the price was right, she couldn’t say no.

She had a feeling that she should, though, because she had a feeling that Darius would complicate her life if she let him.

“Great.” He patted her knee, the casual touch reminding her of the sweetness of being with someone who was comfortable and comforting and wonderfully familiar.

She’d had that a long time ago.

She’d lost it.

Her heart had finally healed, and she wasn’t in the market to have it broken again.

She shifted away from Darius, staring out the side window, watching the landscape speed by as he made his phone call.

THREE

Somehow, in the four hours since Catherine had dropped her grandmother off at the hospital, Eileen had faded, her bright orange hair muted, her skin sallow and yellowed. Head back against the waiting-room chair, eyes closed, mouth slack, she looked almost skeletal.

Catherine hurried across the room, touching her grandmother’s cool dry wrist, relieved to feel blood pulsing beneath the skin. “Eileen?”

“’Bout time you showed up.” Eileen’s eyes flew open, her sharp green gaze unchanged by her illness, her eyebrows and lashes sparse from chemotherapy. Looking into her face made Catherine sick with grief and fear. She didn’t let it show.

“I’m ten minutes early.”

“Then, why have I been waiting for a quarter of an hour?”

“You must have finished early.”

“Can’t see how that could have happened. I get the same amount of treatment every time. Unless they shorted me some this go-round. Maybe I need to track the nurse down and ask.”

“You know they wouldn’t do that,” Catherine said wearily.

“I suppose that I do, but chemo always makes me grumpy and waiting makes me grumpier. Let’s get out of here.” Eileen put a hand on both arms of the chair and pushed herself to standing. Upright, she looked even frailer, faded jeans hanging from narrow hips, her clavicle protruding from a sagging T-shirt. She started walking toward the exit, wobbling a little with every step, but Catherine didn’t bother to offer assistance. Eileen wouldn’t accept it.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Eileen,” she said, resisting the urge to put a hand on Eileen’s elbow and hold her steady.

“Yeah? So, spit it out.”

“I had some trouble with the car. I had to ask a neighbor for a ride.” She braced herself, knowing exactly what Eileen’s reaction would be.

“We don’t have a neighbor.”

“Sure we do. He bought the Morris property, remember?”

“Yeah. I remember, but I’ve never seen him, so I was wondering if he actually lived there. Is he cute?”

“Eileen, you are so predictable.”

“Well? Is he?”

“No.” He wasn’t cute. He was drop-dead gorgeous.

“Then why are your cheeks pink? And...what’s this?” Eileen touched the bruise on Catherine’s jaw, her eyes narrowing.

“We can talk about it at home. Darius is waiting at his truck, and I’m sure he has better things to do with his day than sit in a hospital parking lot.”

“I may be sick, but I’m not senile. You’re avoiding my question.”

“Just putting off the answer for a while.”

“Why?”

Because I don’t want you to worry.

Because I’m afraid stress will accelerate the course of your disease.

“Because this isn’t the place to discuss it. Half the people here know me, and I don’t want them going to the press.”

“They’re idiots, and all the press hounds are idiots, too.” Eileen scowled, shooting a hard glare at the guy who held the door open for them. A total stranger, but Eileen wasn’t picky about who she blamed for Catherine’s troubles.

The press.

The community.

The police.

The only people she didn’t blame were her church friends.

Blazing sun reflected off black asphalt as Catherine helped Eileen down the curb and into the parking lot. Darius stood a few yards away, leaning against his truck, a phone pressed to his ear. He smiled as they approached, shoving the phone into his pocket and offering Eileen his hand.

“You must be Eileen. I’m Darius Osborne.”

“Nice to meet you, Darius Osborne. I hear you gave my granddaughter some help this afternoon. Thank you for that.” Eileen clasped his hand and smiled sweetly.

Very un-Eileen like, but, then, Eileen had been on a matchmaking mission since Catherine’s release from prison.

“I was happy to help, Miz Eileen.” Darius opened the truck door, but Eileen held back.

“Doesn’t look like this truck has a backseat.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

“Then, Catherine can get in first. I’ll get carsick if I don’t have a window seat.”

“Since when do you get carsick?” Catherine asked.

“Since I started getting chemo. Now, how about we stop discussing it and get out of here. I’m getting tired and feeling sick.” She knew how to get her way. Catherine would give her that.

“Fine.” Catherine climbed into the truck, ignoring a fancy sports car that slowly rolled by. Gawkers. She dealt with them every time she came to town.

“Give me a hand, will you? I’m not as spry as I used to be.” Eileen reached out, and Catherine clasped her hand as the sports car U-turned and headed back toward them.

She wanted to yank Eileen into the car, but was afraid she’d break brittle bone or tear tight tendons.

“Let me help.” Darius lifted Eileen easily, helping her into the seat and closing the door, sealing them in as he turned to face the approaching vehicle.

“Strong guy,” Eileen said.

Catherine ignored her, watching as the car slowed and a blond teenager stuck his head out the window.

“Murderer!” he shouted, his buddy laughing in the seat beside him.

This was why she hated coming to town, the staring, the whispers, the constant reminder of what people had said about her in the weeks and months following her arrest. What people were still saying.

“Go back to prison, witch!” he called again, and Darius shifted, pulling back his jacket and revealing a shoulder holster and gun. The teen’s mouth dropped open, his eyes widening as he jerked back, closed his window.

“That’s one way to get rid of them,” Eileen commented gleefully, but Catherine hadn’t enjoyed the show.

She’d been taunted before, targeted before, but she’d never felt as afraid as she did now. If she let herself, she could still feel hands around her throat, squeezing and choking.

She shivered.

“Ready?” Darius asked as he got behind the wheel.

“Whenever you are, doll,” Eileen responded, and Darius smiled.

“You’re my kind of gal, Miz Eileen.”

“If only I were four decades younger.” She sighed, and his laughter filled the truck, rumbling through Catherine as she sat tense and stiff between the two.

She wanted to relax. She really did, but she was pressed leg to leg, arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder with a guy who carried a gun and looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Where are you from, Darius? You didn’t just suddenly appear in the old Morris place, I know that.” Eileen leaned past Catherine to study Darius more thoroughly. Probably sizing him up as grandson-in-law material.

“Born and raised in South Carolina, ma’am.”

“You’re far from home.”

“I did a stint in the navy. Came back stateside a few years ago. My job brought me here.”

“You with the police?”

“I’m a security contractor.”

“A bodyguard?”

“If you want.” He shrugged, his shoulder rubbing against Catherine’s. She wanted to lean away, but that would only call attention to her discomfort.

“What about your parents? They still in South Carolina?”

“My father has never been in the picture. My mother passed away eighteen years ago.”

“Sorry to hear that, son. It’s hard to lose a parent. Catherine knows all about that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Eileen elbowed her, but Catherine didn’t plan to offer details.

“Catherine was five when her parents passed. How about you, Darius?”

“I was fourteen.”

“That makes you what? Thirty-two or -three?”

“Eileen, stop.”

“He’s our neighbor. I’m trying to get to know him.”

“You’re giving him the third degree, and I want you to cut it out.”

“I don’t mind. Like your grandmother said, we’re neighbors,” Darius cut into the argument. Neither woman looked like she was up to a verbal dispute. Eileen’s sallow complexion and frailty tugged at his heart, reminding him of the way his mother had looked at the end of her illness, but Catherine worried him more. Pale skin, pale lips, dark circles beneath her eyes, she looked worn and overwhelmed.

“She still shouldn’t be giving you the third degree,” Catherine muttered, and Eileen huffed.

“I’ll do what I want to do. At my age, I’ve earned the right.”

“Fine. Do what you want. Just leave me out of your matchmaking schemes.”

Catherine’s bluntness made Darius smile. Melody had always been sweet and ingratiating, almost too eager to agree with other people. He frowned, not sure why he was thinking about his ex-fiancée. She was four years in the past, and he’d stopped mourning what they might have had a long time ago.

“You can’t blame your old gran for wanting to see you with someone before she dies.”

“Don’t talk like that, Eileen.” Catherine sighed, patting her grandmother’s knee.

“You don’t want to talk about that, then let’s talk about you and those bruises you have on your face and neck.”

“I told you—”

“We’d talk at home, but you know what’s going to happen when we get home. Same thing that happens every time I have chemo. I’m going to climb in bed, and I’m going to sleep for the rest of the day. You’re hoping by the time I wake up, I’ll have forgotten, and maybe I will have, so let’s talk about it now.”

“Eileen—”

“You know, don’t you, Darius Osborne?” Eileen turned her attention to Darius, and he felt like a kid in the principal’s office.

“It’s Catherine’s story to tell, Miz Eileen.”

“Well, she’s not telling, so you may as well.”

“I wasn’t telling because it’s not a big deal, but if you’re going to keep pushing, then I guess I don’t have a choice. Some kid came by the house, trying to scare me. He got a little carried away.” Catherine touched her neck, and Darius was sure she didn’t believe that any more than he did. A little carried away didn’t result in welts and bruises.

“Did you call the sheriff?”

“Of course.”

“And he’s looking for this kid?” Eileen asked.

“Yes, they even brought out a K-9 unit,” Catherine offered quickly.

“Hopefully, that will be enough, because I can tell you right now, Catherine Marie, I’m not happy about this. You’re out there at that old house by yourself way too much. What if he comes back and gets a lot carried away?”

“No worries. I work for a company that’s ready to install a security system. We just need to get the word from you and Catherine,” Darius cut in.

“You work for a security company?”

“Yes, and my boss is at your place now. By the time we get back, he should have a quote ready for you.”

“No quote necessary. You go ahead and tell your boss to get started,” Eileen said, and Catherine stiffened.

“We need to get a couple of quotes before we decide.”

“Why? So we can spend two or three weeks making a decision?”

“So that we can make an informed one.”

“Like we made about central air? We still don’t have that, by the way.”

“Eileen—”

“I’m dying, Catherine. I want to be comfortable in my home while I do it.”

“You’re not dying,” she responded, a catch in her voice.

“I’m dying, but maybe not for a while. I still want the air-conditioning, though.”

“Fine. We’ll get that, and we’ll put in a security system. Happy now?” Catherine sounded anything but happy, and Darius wanted to tell her that it was better to be safe than sorry, better to be overprepared than under. He figured she knew it though, and he kept silent.

“Very. Now, let me be. I’m exhausted.” Eileen settled back into her seat and into silence, and Catherine fell silent, too. Darius could feel her tension, though. It radiated out, swirling through the cab until the air was thick with it.

Sweat beaded her brow, her breathing was hitched and uneven, her fist white-knuckle tight.

“Are you okay?” he asked, but she didn’t respond, just stared straight ahead, her body so taut he thought she might break.

He pulled into the breakdown lane, letting the truck idle as he shifted, looked into her pale face. He recognized a panic attack when he saw one. He’d had plenty of them in the first year after he’d returned from the war. “Take a deep breath.”

“I’m fine.” But she inhaled deeply, her body shaking with the emotions she’d been holding in. As aloof as she seemed, she wasn’t unaffected. Not by her grandmother’s illness and not by the attack.

“Would it help if I let you drive?”

“I don’t know.” She inhaled again, and he got out of the truck, gestured for her to do the same.

“Let’s give it a try, okay?”

She nodded, sliding across the seat and nearly tumbling out onto the pavement. He caught her, his arms latching onto a slim, firm waist. Heat seeped into his palms, searing through him so unexpectedly he almost released his hold before she caught her balance.

“Thanks. I’m fine now.” She stepped away, and he climbed back into the truck, Eileen’s soft snores filling his ears as Catherine got behind the wheel and put the truck into Drive.

Seconds later, they were moving again, Eileen still snoring softly. He took off his jacket and tucked it around her frail body.

“Thanks for that,” Catherine said softly, her gaze straight ahead.

“You love her a lot.”

“She raised me. She’s as close to a mother as I remember having.”

“Then, you’ll do what’s best for her.”

“You’re talking about the security system again.”

“Yes. I noticed you said you’d have a security system installed. You didn’t say that you’d have it installed today.”

“You’re very persistent, Darius.”

“Only when I have to be.”

And right now, he had to be.

No matter what Catherine wanted to believe, no matter how she felt, she and Eileen needed security at the old farmhouse. He was going to make sure they got it, then he was going to go back to his vacation, back to his empty house that desperately needed renovation and back to being alone.

FOUR

New security system.

New windows.

New locks on the doors.

Everything secure thanks to Personal Securities Incorporated. The owner, Ryder Malone, had made sure of it. Catherine had met him while she was in prison and had been surprised to see him again, but he knew his job and he did it well, working with an efficient team.

And with Darius.

Darius.

She shoved the name and the man from her mind, refusing them the same way she refused the panic that edged up and threatened to spill out.

Locked in.

Locked up.

But all the locks and windows and security systems in the world couldn’t make Catherine feel safe. She paced her room, the heat of the day still thick in the battened-down house. Sweat trickled down her neck, and she pulled at her tank top, tugging damp cotton away from sticky skin, aching to go outside and sit on the front porch, let the evening air cool her, breathe in a little of the freedom she’d thought she’d never have again.

Now she had it, but fear held her prisoner.

She hated it.

Hated the weakness in her that had her pacing the room instead of walking down the stairs, punching the code into the security system and going outside. Her heart thumped and stuttered at the thought, and she walked to the window, looked out over the front yard.

The full moon bathed the yard in golden light and cast long shadows across the grass. The whitewashed picket fence stood stark against the gray-black landscape, the gate closed just the way it had been since the last security team member had walked through it. Dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, T-shirt clinging to broad shoulders and firm muscles, his limp barely noticeable as he closed the gate and walked away.

Darius.

There in her mind again.

She shoved him out again, because he was just a man who’d happened to be in the right place at the right time to save her. But he was still just a man, and men couldn’t be trusted.

She’d learned that the hard way.

She didn’t plan to repeat the mistake.

Her heart thumped again, her chest tight and aching.

She needed fresh air.

Now.

She opened the window, stuck her head out to take in great gulps of cool air. Late August in Pine Bluff and the scent of evergreen and grass hung heavy in the still night. She’d craved this during her years of incarceration, and she wouldn’t deny herself now. No matter the fear.

She closed the window, eased open the bedroom door and crept down the stairs, bypassing the two steps that creaked and walking softly across the foyer. The hiss of Eileen’s air conditioner would probably drown out any noise, but Catherine was careful anyway, punching in the security code to turn off the system and stepping out into the chilly night.

Freedom.

It tasted sweet and fresh and clean, and Catherine lifted her face to the moonlight, let it dance across her face. At moments like this, she knew that God was there, just a prayer away, and she was tempted to reach for Him, try to recapture the faith she’d had before she’d been accused of murder, before she’d been betrayed by the man she’d loved, before her life had come crashing down around her, all her dreams crashing with it.

“Please, don’t take Eileen from me. Not yet,” she whispered, her only answer the gentle breeze that rustled grass and leaves.

She leaned against the porch railing, silence settling around her as deep and thick as the darkness.

A car engine drifted on the breeze, the sound growing louder with every heart beat. Coming closer.

Headlights splashed on the dirt road, and Catherine jumped back, nearly falling into the open doorway in her haste.

Close the door!

Turn on the alarm!

Her hands shook, but she managed to do both, her heart pounding frantically as she ran up the stairs, looked out her bedroom window again.

A car idled in the driveway, lights off now, doors closed. No hint of light from the interior. No telling who the driver was.

She could imagine, though.

Could picture the same masked figure that had stood at the edge of the yard, chased her to the road and toward Darius’s house. Put his hands around her neck.

She shuddered, grabbing her cell phone and dialing 911 as the car door opened and a dark figure climbed out.

* * *

Darius eased around the side of Catherine’s house, approaching from the back rather than the front, hoping to catch the car’s driver by surprise. He could have brought his truck, but that would have warned the guy off before Darius got a good look at who he was dealing with.

The bushes near the corner of the house provided perfect cover, the full moon laying thick shadow against golden light. Darius hugged the edges of the porch, tensing as a door closed and an engine revved. Leaving?

Surprised, he stepped out from the shadows, let the driver see him standing in the moonlight, his gun held loose in his hand.

Black Toyota. Tinted windows. No way to see the driver, but the car pulled away so quickly, he was positive the driver saw him.

Good.

He wanted the guy to know that Catherine wasn’t alone with Eileen. She had a neighbor who was keeping his eye on things. He tucked the gun back in his shoulder holster, and jogged up the porch steps, phantom pain shooting up from his phantom calf. He’d moved too quickly too many times today and his thigh muscles ached, the stump beneath his knee throbbing.

The porch light went on, spilling onto the newly painted whitewashed wood. No hint of the bloodred words that had been there earlier. Darius had made sure of that.

He thought about ringing the doorbell, but Catherine and Eileen were probably asleep, and he didn’t want to wake them. Not yet. He surveyed the door and windows. Everything locked up tight just the way it should be. No hint that anything untoward had happened.

He retraced his steps, this time veering to the left and the driveway where the car had been parked. Packed earth left no evidence. No tire marks. No tread. Nothing that would help trace the car.

A lock clicked, the sound loud in the silence, and Darius frowned as the door opened and Catherine stepped outside.

“He was over near that old pine tree,” she said, not offering a greeting, not seeming at all surprised to see him there.

“You saw him?”

“Yes.” She walked toward him, her legs long and slender in cutoff jeans, her arms well muscled and too thin, her tank top clinging to slender curves and a flat abdomen. She looked like a dancer—long, lean lines and graceful, upright carriage, but her eyes were wide in a too-pale face, her breathing shaky.

“You okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Fine, but he had something in his hands when he got out of the car. It wasn’t there when he got back in. I think it’s under the tree.” She gestured to the edge of the yard and towering pine that stood there.

“Wait here. I’ll take a look.”

“You’ve done enough already, Darius. I’ll look.” She started walking as if she really expected him to fall in line with her plans.

He snagged the back of her shirt, his fingers skimming over warm flesh before slipping into the belt loop of her shorts. “I don’t think so, Cat.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Let’s not waste time dancing around the real issue.”

“Which is?” She raised an eyebrow, her hair tawny in the moon’s yellowish glow.

“You don’t want me involved in your life, and I’m not. I just happened to hear a car pass my house, and I happen to have the kind of training that makes me more suited to dealing with danger than you are, so I came over. It’s as simple as that.”

“I don’t think there’s anything simple about you, Darius,” she responded.

“That isn’t the point, either. Stay here. I’ll go take a look.”

“But—”

He walked away, ignoring her protest.

Sirens split the night as Darius crossed the yard. Good. The police were on the way. The more people moving around, the less likely the perp would return. Since he didn’t think Catherine was going to hide in the house while he looked around, he’d rather the guy stay far away.

The pine tree sat close to a whitewashed fence that nearly glowed in the moonlight. He surveyed the ground, searching for signs that someone had been there. Wilted grass, a thick layer of pine needles, a few pine cones. Nothing that looked out of place.

Darius eased closer, watching his steps, studying the ground carefully. One jerry-rigged explosive device had taken his lower left leg. He wasn’t in the market to lose the other one.

Pine needles rustled, and Darius caught a hint of soap and something indefinable and feminine. Not flowery. More like rain on a hot summer day. Fresh and clean with just a hint of sweetness.

Catherine.

He frowned, glancing over his shoulder. “Stop.”

He barked the command, and she froze, her eyes gleaming in the bright moonlight. “Do you see something?”

“No. But it’s not what I can see that I’m worried about.” He studied the ground near his feet, crouching low and tracking a line of tamped-down pine needles to the base of the tree. The trunk was thick and rough, the bark flaking off, and at first, he thought that was all he was seeing. Old flaking bark, slightly darker than the wood. He let his eyes adjust, sirens screaming in the driveway behind him. Doors closing. Someone calling out, and he just kept staring at the trunk, his brain seeing what his eyes couldn’t.

A too-regular shape a foot up from the base of the tree, nearly hidden by the lowest boughs. Sharp edges that didn’t occur in nature. Something that shouldn’t be there, but was.

What?

“See anything?” Logan Randal crouched beside him.

“Maybe. Do you have a light?” He took the flashlight Logan offered, shone it on the tree trunk, his pulse jumping as the strange shadow came into full focus.

Wires.

Explosives.

Set on a timer? A remote?

“Back off. Now!” he ordered, but Logan was already moving, jumping back from the bomb, words spilling out as he called into his radio.

“What is it?” Catherine moved forward, heading in exactly the direction she shouldn’t be. Darius snagged her waist, hauled her up and away, her body stiff and unyielding, her skin soft and pliant.

“Put me down!” She panted, fighting his hold as if he were a stranger taking her to certain doom rather than a neighbor trying to keep her from it.

“Gladly,” he responded as he crossed the threshold into the house, set her down in the foyer, his hands sliding along the smooth skin of her abdomen, heat spearing through him.

“Go get your grandmother. We need to get out of here.”

“What did you see? What was it?”

“Enough explosives to blow that tree down and take half this house down with it. Get Eileen, or I’ll do it.” He started down the dark hall, knowing the way to Eileen’s room, and ready to carry both women out the back door if necessary.

Catherine could fight him all she wanted, but he’d have his way in this.

They were going to his place until the police cleared the explosive.

Maybe for longer.

Obviously, a security system hadn’t deterred Catherine’s attacker.

“I’ll get her. If you walk in there, she’ll be mortified.” Catherine brushed by, her body sliding along his. He felt every touch, every sigh of breath, every trembling muscle.

And he knew he was in trouble. Knew he was being pulled deeper than he wanted to go.

He’d come to Pine Bluff to settle in and settle down, and that was all he wanted. Not a relationship. Certainly not a relationship with someone like Catherine. Someone who had trouble seeping from every pore.

She walked into Eileen’s room, her gentle whisper carrying through the silent house. Outside, men and women shouted warnings and directions, but here, in the dark old farmhouse, time seemed to stand still, the scent of illness and cigarette hanging in the hot air.

He’d give the women ten seconds, and then he was going in.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

“It’s not going to matter that your hair is a mess if you’re dead, Eileen.” Catherine’s words carried clearly this time, her exasperation obvious.

Six.

Five.

“We need to go. Now. Not in a minute.”

Four.

Three.

Bed sheets rustled. Footsteps padded across wood flooring.

Finally, the two women appeared, Eileen tottering a little, drowning in an oversize night dress, Catherine a step behind her.

“So, the hunky hero has returned to take us to safety, huh?” Eileen put a hand on his arm, her skin cool and dry, her fingers trembling.

“I’m not sure hero is an accurate description. I’m just a neighbor trying to help out,” he responded, moving as quickly as her frailty would allow them to. Down the hall, into the gutted kitchen and out onto the back deck.

It took too long to get her down the deck stairs. He wanted to pick her up and carry her, but she swatted his hands away. Finally, they were down, and she paused for breath, her narrow shoulders heaving as she shivered in the moonlight. He pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around her, expecting Catherine to be right beside them.

Or maybe he didn’t.

Because, he didn’t feel at all surprised when he looked and she wasn’t there.

“Is anyone else in the house, sir?” a uniformed officer called out as she rounded the side of the house.

“One person. I’ll get her.” He jogged back up the stairs, his leg nearly giving out, pain shooting from the stump to his hip.

It hurt, and that pissed him off.

Catherine pissed him off, because she didn’t seem to understand the kind of danger she was in.

Or didn’t want to understand.

Or, maybe just didn’t care.

He ran into the house, ignoring the officer’s command to wait. He’d find Catherine and drag her outside if he had to.

Because, as irritated as he was, he couldn’t leave her behind.

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