STALKED!

After losing her family, and then nearly her life when she was held hostage in Africa, grieving widow Raina Lowery only wants to put the past behind her. Instead, she’s finding her son’s toys in the woods and dodging a gunman’s bullets. Raina is trapped in a real-life nightmare—until Jackson Miller reappears. Months ago, saving Raina was Jackson’s job as a member of HEART, a private rescue team. But now it’s personal. The hardened protector wants to give Raina—and himself—a second chance at love. But first he has to save her…again.

Mission: Rescue—No job is too dangerous for these fearless heroes

Her heart jumped as she met Jackson Miller’s eyes.

Even in the midst of her terror, half-frozen and desperate, she recognized him. She’d dreamed about him dozens of times.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m fine.” She met his eyes, her pulse jumping again. He was as handsome as she’d remembered. “But you...” She touched a bruise that was forming on his cheekbone.

“Must have happened when I jumped out of the way of the Jeep that was trying to run me down.” He watched her steadily as he spoke. “You know anyone with a blue Jeep?”

“No.”

“You’re sure, because someone was in the woods with you.”

Fear clogged her throat. She’d been trying to convince herself that she’d imagined the man and his whispered threat. That everything that had happened since she’d woken to a child’s cries had been part of some bizarre dream.

It wasn’t, though. It was real. And someone wanted to hurt her.

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 homeschooling 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.

Protective Instincts

Shirlee McCoy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

—Jeremiah 29:11

To Glenda Winters, because she knows how to hold on and how to let go. Blessings to you, my friend. And prayers that God will give you comfort and courage and peace.

Contents

PROLOGUE

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

Dear Reader,

Extract

PROLOGUE

Sudan

Six months ago

Dying felt like summer heat and dusty earth. It sounded like flies and buzzards, humming and flapping in Raina Lowery’s ears as she lay on the hot, hard ground of the African savanna.

Please, God, just let it end soon. The prayer flitted through her mind. There and gone so quickly she couldn’t quite grab hold of it.

Close by, someone groaned, the sound drifting on waves of scorching heat. Twenty days traveling rugged terrain with little water, five days lying in cages in the blazing sun. They’d all die soon. Some of them already had.

Of the ten-member missionary team, seven had survived the initial attack against the small village where they’d been staying. Only five of the remaining had completed the forced journey to the rebel encampment.

Raina didn’t know how many more had died since they’d arrived. If any of them lived, it would be a miracle, and she’d given up believing in those years ago.

A fraud trying to live a faith that she’d professed when she was a child; that’s what she’d felt like when she’d agreed to travel with the medical mission. She’d die a fraud, because she hadn’t found what she’d been looking for when she’d left Pine Bluff, Washington, and flown to Africa.

Dear God, please...

Something rustled beside her, and she opened her eyes, squinting against the late-afternoon sun. A gun strapped to his shoulder, his eyes hollow and old, a boy soldier peered through the cage bars. Young. Six or seven. A year or two younger than Joseph would have been. His close-cropped hair was coated with dirt, his cheeks covered with grime. He wore a baggy shirt and faded red shorts. His feet were bare.

Raina thought that he’d spit on her the way others had, but he pulled an old water bottle from beneath his baggy black T-shirt and slid it through the bars.

“Drink,” he whispered, his English thick and heavily accented.

She wanted to thank him, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t get the words out. She lifted the murky water and drank greedily, gulping it down so quickly she almost choked.

She passed the bottle back through the bars, desperate for more. But the boy shoved it back under his shirt and ran off.

Alone again, she curled into a fetal position, the hot earth burning her cheek, the water roiling in her stomach. The buzzards flapped their wings, the droning sounds of the flies growing so loud they were almost deafening.

The air hung still and heavy, the heat so thick she could taste it on the back of her tongue, feel it in the sluggish pulse of her blood. It dragged at her, pulling her down into a darkness she wasn’t sure she’d ever escape.

Someone shouted and gunfire blasted through the encampment, the explosive power of machine-gun rounds vibrating through the hard ground. Raina pushed to her knees, couldn’t make it to her feet. Fire blazed from the roof of one of the rebel’s huts, the shimmering heat dancing against the afternoon sky. A black helicopter hovered above, blowing the smoke and flames into a frenzy of motion. Men ran toward the tall savanna grasses, weapons slapping against narrow backs, boots thudding on drought-dry earth.

A small figure darted through the chaos, running straight toward Raina’s prison. Black T-shirt and old red shorts, skinny legs pumping hard. No gun this time. Just wild fear in his ancient eyes.

He crouched near the cage door, his hand shaking as he shoved a key into the padlock.

“You have to run and hide!” Raina tried to shout, but her voice caught in her parched throat, and all that came out was a croak.

The door swung open, and the boy held out his hand. “You are free.”

Their gazes locked, and she reached for him, her fingers brushing the warm, dry tips of his.

Another explosion, and his eyes went wide as he fell into the cage.

“No!” Raina rasped, not caring about the open door that he’d fallen through, the war raging behind him. A rebel soldier lay a dozen yards away, blood pooling beneath him, the gun he’d used to bring down the boy lying near his outstretched hand. All Raina cared about was the boy. She touched his neck, felt his thready rapid pulse.

Her training kicked in then. All the years of being an emergency room nurse drove her to action. Blood spurted from the boy’s leg. The injury to his thigh was so severe, she didn’t think the limb could be saved. She ripped off a piece of her shirt, tied it around the top of his leg to cut off blood flow. It was that or watch him die.

He couldn’t have weighed more than fifty pounds, but Raina struggled to lift him and stagger out of the cage. Dizzy, disoriented, she aimed for the tall grass, stumbling past the rebel’s body. Heat blazed from the raging fire and the endless sun. Her arms and legs trembled, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t put the boy down.

Please, God...

Please...

Her legs gave out, and she tumbled backward, her arms still wrapped around the boy. He groaned, his dark eyes staring into hers, blank but still lit with life and hope.

Please.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re going to get you home,” a man said, crouching beside her, his tan pants and long-sleeved shirt crisp and clean, his accent the deep drawl of a true Southerner. Deep blue eyes and an unyielding face. Hard edges and sharp angles and a scar that split one dark eyebrow.

Who are you? she thought, the words trapped in her head, unable to escape the fiery heat in her throat, the dryness of her mouth.

“Let’s get out of here.” He tried to pull her from the boy, but she tightened her grip.

“No.”

“We can’t bring him with us. There’s no room on the chopper.” His voice was as gentle as sunrise, and Raina wanted to close her eyes, release her grip, let herself fall into the care he seemed to be offering.

She couldn’t leave the boy, though.

Wouldn’t.

“Take him, then.” She thrust the boy into his arms, her muscles trembling, blackness edging at the corner of her mind. Maybe this was where she was meant to die. Maybe four years of searching for the faith she’d lost had led her straight into God’s arms.

She swayed, so ready to give in that her knees buckled.

“Don’t give up now,” he growled, his free arm snaking around her waist. He pulled her upright, and she had no choice but to run beside him. It was that or drag all three of them down.

“Jackson! Hurry it up. We’ve got heat coming in from the west.” A woman raced toward them, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, a gun strapped to her chest. She wore the same uniform as the man. A blue heart was stitched on one shoulder.

“Everyone is accounted for?”

“If this is Raina, then yes.” The woman offered Raina a kind smile that didn’t quite fit the hard angles and edges of her face. Her gaze dropped to the boy, and she frowned. “We can’t take him. You know that, right?”

“Rules are meant to be broken, Stella. Isn’t that your philosophy of life?”

“True.” She took the boy from his arms. “Let’s get out of here.”

She ran toward a waiting helicopter, dust and debris swirling, her blond ponytail flying. Raina wanted to run, too, but she couldn’t feel her feet, her legs, her body. Didn’t know if she was standing or lying down. Hazy sky and yellow sun and midnight-blue eyes. The endless flap of buzzard wings.

“You’re going to be okay, Raina,” someone whispered as she slid into darkness.

ONE

Help me, Mommy. Please! Help me!

The cries drifted into Raina’s consciousness, weaving their way through vivid dreams: Africa. A young boy who wasn’t Joseph, but who could have been. Hot sun. Desperate thirst. Fear.

And that cry!

Help me, Mommy! Please! Help me!

She jerked awake, her heart thundering so loudly, she thought she was still hearing the cries.

She was still hearing the cries.

Wasn’t she?

She scrambled out of bed, the sheets and blanket dropping onto the floor, her flannel pajamas tangled around her waist and legs. Wind rattled the windows, the darkness beyond the single-pane glass complete. She cocked her head to the side, heard the house creaking, ice pattering on the roof. Other than that, there was nothing. Her hand shook as she brushed bangs from her forehead and tried to take a few deep breaths. Tried, but her lungs wouldn’t fill.

“Calm down!” she muttered. “It was just a dream, and you’re still waking up from it.”

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had the dream many times in the six months since she’d returned from the mission trip, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t learned how to deal with it.

She paced to the window then back to the bed, inhaling, exhaling, forcing herself to relax.

She’d spent the past thirty hours wondering how the young boy who’d given her a drink of water and unlocked her cage was faring. Was it any wonder that she’d had such a vivid nightmare? After fighting red tape and bureaucracy, petitioning, begging, pleading and pulling every string she could think of, Raina had finally managed to get him to the United States on a medical visa. He’d stepped onto U.S. soil the previous morning. The flight from L.A. to Atlanta had gone off without a hitch, but the flight from Atlanta to D.C. had been canceled.

Good thing Raina had hired an escort to bring Samuel to the United States. One she trusted implicitly. Stella Silverstone worked for HEART, the hostage rescue team that had risked everything to save her and the rest of the mission team. Stella had been brusque and to the point when she’d called to tell Raina about the delay. They were stuck in Atlanta, their flight canceled because of the storms. Samuel was fine. Stella would call again when they got a flight out.

That had been more than twelve hours ago.

Raina hadn’t heard a word since. She was worried about Samuel. His leg had been amputated above the knee, and he’d suffered reoccurring infections in the stump. He’d been hospitalized for a few weeks before his trip to the United States, and the doctors hadn’t been hopeful for his recovery. No wonder Raina was having nightmares.

“But now you’re awake, so do something productive instead of standing around panicking.” Her words echoed in the room she’d once shared with Matt. Like everything else since the accident that had taken her husband and son, the room seemed to be nothing more than a shadow of its former self. Wedding pictures hung crooked on the wall. Family photos lined the dresser, their frames covered with dust. The pretty yellow bedspread that had been a wedding gift was faded to a muted ivory.

Destiny had tried to get her to redecorate, but Raina hadn’t seen the point, so she’d ignored her best friend’s suggestions. Now that Matt was gone, the room was just a place to sleep. Half the time, she lay on the couch, watching TV until she finally drifted off.

Matt wasn’t around to gently shake her shoulder and laugh while she grumbled about not wanting to get up. He wasn’t there to usher her into their room and nuzzle her neck while she pulled down the covers.

It had been years, and she should be used to that, but she wasn’t.

She left the room that suddenly seemed too full of memories, and walked down the short hall into the great room. That had been Matt’s name for it. It was really nothing more than an oversize living room that had been created when the former owner had combined a formal living and dining area. Matt had lots of big ideas, lots of beautiful ways of looking at the ordinary. She missed his optimistic perspective, but she’d been trying to move on, to create something for herself that didn’t include all the dreams that had died when Matt and Joseph had been taken away from her.

She pulled back the curtains and stared out into the tiny front yard. The property butted up against a dirt road that dead-ended a half mile to the west. A century ago, the area had been dotted with farms and orchards, the nearby town of Middletown, Maryland, a bustling community of businessmen and farmers. The Great Depression had hit it hard, but it had rebounded in the 1980s when yuppies willing to take on a long commute had moved there from the Baltimore and Washington suburbs. Farther west, though, where farms had once been the livelihood of the town, abandoned properties and fallow acreage had proven a deterrent to the area’s revitalization. Matt had seen it as a blessing, but that was the way he’d always been. Focused on the positive. Willing to work hard to make dreams a reality. He’d seen the old farmhouse and twenty acres of overgrown orchards as an answer to prayer.

Raina had gone along for the ride. Just as she always had, because she’d loved Matt, and she’d wanted what he’d wanted. Now, of course, she was stuck on twenty acres in the middle of nowhere. No close neighbors to visit on the weekends or children playing basketball or hockey on the street. Just Larry, and he stuck close to his house and his property.

Something moved in the early-morning darkness, and she leaned closer to the glass. Probably just a deer. This far out, she saw plenty of them. There were coyotes, too. An occasional bear that wandered in from the deep woodland and hill country. The thing crossed the yard, heading toward Larry’s property. No streetlights illuminated the shape, but she was sure it was a biped. Too small to be a bear. A man?

She flicked on the outside light. The shadow darted across the street, disappearing into heavy shrub.

Larry?

She hoped not. Two days ago, he’d been outside barefoot, walking up the road. She’d spotted him on her way home from work at the medical clinic. He’d said he’d been heading to his mailbox at the head of their road, but that hadn’t explained the bare feet in fifty-degree weather.

She grabbed the phone and dialed his number, knowing that he wouldn’t answer. He never did. That was the thing about Larry. He wanted to be left alone, but if he was outside, he could freeze to death before anyone ever realized he was in trouble.

She yanked on jeans, pulled a coat over her flannel nightie and shoved her feet into boots.

The flashlight was still where Matt had always left it—tucked on the top shelf of the closet with a first-aid kit, a box of candles and matches and a stack of blankets. If Matt had been an outdoorsman, she might have a shotgun to take, too, but he’d been more of an academic, country living more a dream than a reality he’d been prepared to deal with.

She’d been the practical one in their relationship, the one who thought of things like bears and bobcats, who’d built the chicken coop that now stood empty. She’d taught Matt how to camp, fish and even hunt. Not that they’d ever been successful at any of those things. Matt’s idea of camping was staying in a hotel near hiking trails, and his vision of hunting had never included actually shooting anything.

She smiled at the memories, touching the bear spray she kept in her coat pocket. Better safe than sorry. It was cold for early November, the temperature well below freezing, ice coating the grass and trees. It took five long strides to cross the front yard, the wind snatching her breath and chilling her cheeks. Across the street, Larry McDermott’s house stood shadowy and dark. Shrouded by overgrown trees and a hedge that had probably been planted in the 1950s, it was a Gothic monstrosity that looked as worn and mean as its seventy-year-old owner.

Not mean, she could almost hear Matt whisper. Lonely.

Maybe. In the years since Matt’s and Joseph’s deaths, Raina had tried to be kind to her neighbor. For Matt’s sake, she’d baked him bread, invited him for Thanksgiving and Christmas. She’d shoveled his driveway after snowstorms and checked in on him when she hadn’t seen him for a few days. No matter what she did, he never seemed to warm up to her.

She walked to the edge of his property and made her way along his driveway. Her flashlight beam bounced over cracks in the pavement and illuminated the three stairs that led to Larry’s front door. She jiggled the doorknob, knocked twice, wondering if Larry would hear if he were asleep. Her fingers were freezing, but she wanted to check the back door, too. She swept the flashlight across the front yard, her pulse jumping as it passed over what looked like footprints in the icy grass. Instead of thick ice, a thin layer of slush coated the grass there. She scanned the area, found another set of prints near the edge of the house.

“Larry!” she screamed, her voice carried away by the wind. “Larry! Are you out here?” She rounded the side of the house, following the footprints to a gate that banged against the fence with every gust of wind.

“Larry!” She tried one last time, her flashlight tracking footprints to the edge of the woods that separated Larry’s yard from the church his grandfather had pastored. The church Matt had pastored for five years before his death. Their home away from home. The only church Joseph had ever known. She knew the path that cut through the woods so well she wouldn’t have needed her flashlight to follow it. She used it anyway, making sure that the footprints didn’t veer off into the woods.

Larry couldn’t be too far ahead.

If it was Larry.

She glanced back, could see nothing but white-crusted trees.

She walked another half mile. She’d reach the church parking lot soon, and then what would she do? The place was closed for the night. She was already near frozen. She’d be all the way frozen by the time she walked to the church.

This was a stupid idea. A colossally stupid one. She needed to go back to the house and call the police. If Larry was out in the cold, they’d find him. The problem was, she couldn’t stand the thought of her crotchety old neighbor freezing to death while she cowered in her house. She couldn’t stomach the idea of one more person dying because she hadn’t been able to offer the help he needed.

“Larry!” she shrieked, her words seeming to echo through the woods. The trees grew sparser as she neared the church, and she flashed her lights toward the end of the trail, hoping to catch sight of the older man. Suddenly, a figure stepped out from behind a tree. Not stooped and old like Larry. Tall and lean. Her light flashed on thick ski pants. It glanced off a heavy black parka, landed straight on a black ski mask and glittering eyes that could have been any color.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice wobbling. “What are you doing out here?”

“Go home!” he hissed, pulling something from his pocket.

No. Not something. A handgun. He lifted it, pointed it straight at her head.

“Go!” he repeated, shifting the barrel a fraction of an inch and pulling the trigger.

The night exploded, a bullet whizzing past her head and slamming into a tree. She dodged to the left, dashing into trees as another bullet slammed into the ground behind her.

She tumbled down a small hill, pushed through a thicket. Behind her, branches cracked and feet slapped against frozen earth. He was following her!

She didn’t know where she was, where she was heading. She knew only that she had to run. If she didn’t, the death she’d avoided in Africa was going to find her.

* * *

“This wasn’t one of your better ideas, Stel,” Jackson Miller muttered as he maneuvered the SUV along an icy dirt road that led to Raina Lowery’s house.

“Shh!” Stella responded. “You’re going to wake the kid.”

“Avoiding the comment doesn’t negate it,” he replied without lowering his voice. “Besides, Samuel slept through your rendition of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads.’ I think he can probably sleep through anything.”

“You could be right. My mom once told me that my voice could wake the dead.”

“Did she also tell you that driving down icy country roads in the middle of the night could turn you into one of the dead?”

Stella laughed. “My mother was all about the thrill. She would have loved this, and you would have loved her. She was crazier than I am.”

He doubted it. Stella had a reputation at HEART—hard-core, tough, determined and absolutely fearless. A former army nurse, she handled stress well, and in the four years he’d known her, she’d never caved under pressure. “Most of the time, I like your kind of crazy, Stella, but the next time you want to go for a country ride in the middle of an ice storm, call my brother.”

The silence that ensued told Jackson everything he needed to know. Stella and Chance hadn’t worked things out.

He hadn’t expected them to. They were both as stubborn as mules. The fact that they’d dated at all still surprised him. The fact that his brother, a consummate bachelor, had bought an engagement ring had shocked him. Stella and Chance’s breakup four weeks ago? Not surprising at all.

“I didn’t call you,” Stella finally said. “I stopped by your place. I wouldn’t have done that if Samuel hadn’t had to use the bathroom.”

“Sure. Go ahead and blame it on the kid who’s asleep in the backseat,” he responded, and Stella laughed again.

“Okay. So I didn’t want to come all the way out to Podunk Town alone. Country roads are creepy.”

“You’ve been to some of the most dangerous cities in the world, and you think this is creepy?”

“Every ghost story I’ve ever heard has taken place on a country r—”

Someone darted out of the woods, and Jackson slammed on the brakes. The tires lost traction, and the SUV spun. Jackson managed to turn into the spin, get the vehicle back under control. It coasted to a stop an inch from a giant oak tree.

“What was that?” Stella yelled into the sudden stillness.

“A person.” He unbuckled his seat belt, praying for all he was worth that he hadn’t hit whoever it was.

“Where’d he go?”

“I don’t—”

A woman appeared beside the car. Hair cropped short and plastered to her head, black coat hanging open to reveal what looked like a flannel pajama top. Jeans. Plastic rain boots. A face that was so familiar his breath caught.

Raina.

It had been over six months since he’d seen her, but her image had been carved into his memories so deeply that it seemed like yesterday. He’d been on dozens of rescues, brought plenty of people to safety. He hadn’t forgotten any of them, but Raina had been different. He hadn’t just remembered her; he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.

“Help me!” she begged, glancing over her shoulder, her eyes wild with fear. “There’s someone chasing me.”

He opened the door, scanning the woods behind her. “Who?”

“I don’t know. He had a gun. He tried to shoot me.” Her teeth were chattering, and he dropped his coat around her shoulders and bundled her into the car.

She grabbed his wrist before he could turn away, her hands cold against his skin. “We need to call the police.”

“Okay,” he responded, meeting Stella’s eyes. Raina didn’t seem to know who either of them was. Her lips were pale from cold, rivulets of water streaming down her cheeks and neck. She’d been outside for a while, and she seemed to be suffering the effects of it. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I told you. Someone was chasing me through the woods.” She glanced at the trees, her eyes widening. “There, look!”

He whirled in the direction she’d indicated, his hand resting on the gun strapped to his chest. All he saw were trees and deep shadows. “I don’t...”

His voice trailed off. Something did seem to be moving through the forest. Stella must have seen it, too. She leaned toward him. “You want to check it out, or you want me to?”

“I’ll go.” He grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and headed toward the trees, moving quickly and quietly, the patter of icy rain enveloping him as he entered the woods. It had been years since he’d been hunting, but he knew what to look for. Tracks in the ice, broken branches. He could clearly see the path Raina had taken, the slippery progress she’d made. She’d run haphazardly, zigzagging through foliage.

He moved deeper into the trees, the stillness of the woods broken only by the murmur of leaves and the soft whistling of the wind. The storm seemed to be dying down, the ice turning to a gentle rain. He pushed through a thicket and found himself on a dirt path that ran east and west. West led to the road and the SUV, so he headed east, his light illuminating the slushy path. He could make out footprints, all of them indistinct. Other than that, the dirt yielded nothing.

The path opened into a parking lot, a small church at the far end of it glowing grayish-white in the gloom. A Jeep sat near the tree line a hundred yards away. Dark-colored, the windows tinted, it had a thin layer of ice covering the roof and so much dirt on the license plate it couldn’t be read.

He moved toward it, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He knew the feeling of impending danger. What six years as a U.S. marine hadn’t taught him about it, five years working for HEART had.

Someone was in the car.

He was as sure of it as he was of his own name.

He kept his firearm loose in his right hand, tucked the flashlight into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell. He snapped two pictures of the Jeep and was getting ready to take a third when the engine coughed. Black exhaust poured from the muffler, but instead of speeding out of the parking lot, the driver backed up and pointed the Jeep straight at Jackson.

He dove for cover, tree branches snagging his coat and ripping into his face as the Jeep slammed into the trees behind him. Leaves and water rained down on his head, blurring his vision as he dropped the cell phone, pivoted and fired his Glock.

TWO

If the perp escapes, Chance isn’t going to let me live this down. I’m not going to let myself live it down.

Those were Jackson’s first thoughts as he fired a second shot at the tires of the fleeing vehicle. The tire blew, the Jeep swerving and righting itself as the driver stepped on the gas and raced away.

He wouldn’t get far.

Not in the Jeep.

He might get somewhere on foot. Jackson didn’t know the area well, and he wasn’t sure how far they were from a main thoroughfare. He ran out into the street, watching as the Jeep’s taillights dipped and swerved along the country road. No streetlights to speak of, but Jackson could see a small town in the distance.

If the Jeep was heading in that direction, it should be easy enough to track down. Jackson jogged back to the tree line, flashing his light on the giant oak the Jeep had hit. Bits of bark had sheared off and specks of dark blue paint stuck to the wood. Evidence for the police to collect. Jackson left it alone, careful not to step on tread marks deeply engraved in the muck at the edge of the blacktop. The last thing he needed was to get in deep with the local P.D. The fact that he’d fired his Glock was going to cause problems enough.

Problems that Jackson wanted to handle without any help from Chance.

Not that he didn’t appreciate his older brother’s input and advice, but Chance got a little too involved sometimes. He worried a little too much. Since they’d lost Charity, everyone in the family did.

His cell phone rang, the sound muffled. He followed it to a pile of ice and leaves, dug through the dirty mess and pulled out the phone.

“Hello?”

“Where are you, Jackson?” Chance’s shout cut through the quiet.

“In a church parking lot just outside of a little town called—”

“River Valley,” Chance cut him off. “Where’s the church? Stella said—”

“You two are finally on speaking terms again?” He tried to change the subject, because he wasn’t in the mood for one of his brother’s lectures, and because a police car was pulling into the parking lot. Sirens off, lights on, it moved toward him slowly.

“We’re always on speaking terms when it comes to work. Delivering Samuel Niag to Raina is work. Chasing people through the woods in unfamiliar territory is not.”

“Maybe not,” Jackson responded lightly. No sense in getting into it with Chance. Not when he was pretty certain he was about to get into it with River Valley law enforcement.

The officer got out of the car, face shrouded by the rim of his uniform hat. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he growled.

Jackson obliged, lifting both hands in the air, his brother’s voice still audible.

“You have any weapons on you?” The officer asked, his gaze on Jackson’s shoulder holster and the gun that was visible in it.

“Just my Glock,” he responded.

“You have a permit?”

“In my SUV.”

“Which is where?” The officer stayed neutral, but he was moving in closer, and Jackson could sense the tension in his shoulders and back, the nervous energy that wafted through the darkness.

Jackson rattled off Raina’s address, and the officer nodded. “I’m going to have to take your firearm until your permit can be verified.”

Apparently the officer also had to handcuff Jackson and stick him in the back of the police cruiser while he looked around, because that’s exactly where Jackson found himself. Sitting on a cold leather seat, the smell of urine and vomit filling his nose. He’d been in worse situations, been in a lot more danger, but he still didn’t like it. Not when the guy who’d tried to run him down was making his escape.

He would have been happy to tell the police officer that, but the guy was a few feet away from the cruiser, speaking into his radio as he scanned the parking lot.

An SUV pulled in. Not just any SUV. The brand-new one Jackson had purchased to replace his old Chevy truck. Chance must have called Stella. She got out of the vehicle and stalked to the police officer’s side, her close-cropped hair barely moving in the wind. Used to be, she’d had shoulder-length hair. That was before she and Chance had called it quits. Seconds later, Raina exited the SUV and opened the back door. Samuel slid out, an old wooden crutch under one arm, a giant coat wrapped around his shoulders.

He was tiny for ten, his cheeks gaunt from illness, his jeans hanging loosely, one pant leg rolled up and pinned beneath his stump. Seeing him after so many months had only made Jackson regret leaving him in Kenya more than he had the day he’d flown home. He’d left hundreds of dollars for the young boy’s care, and he’d planned on keeping tabs on Samuel, making sure that he got what he needed to survive and thrive.

Raina had stepped in first, making phone calls from her hospital room, transferring money, doing everything a mother might do for a child stuck in a foreign land. Jackson had heard all about it, had followed the news stories about Raina’s fight to get a medical visa for Samuel, about the offers from medical experts in D.C. who’d promised surgery and state-of-the-art prostheses for the child if he could be brought to the United States.

Raina put a hand under Samuel’s elbow, but the boy shrugged away, determined, it seemed, to make his way across the still-slick parking lot himself. The police officer moved toward them, said a few words that Jackson was really desperate to hear.

Raina nodded, then gestured to the church.

Seconds later, she and Samuel were moving toward the building. She opened the church door, allowed Samuel to walk in front of her. The door closed, and they were gone, lights spilling out from tall windows and splashing across the parking lot.

Jackson wanted to follow. It was impossible to know if the church was empty. If it was always left unlocked, anyone could be inside, sleeping in the sanctuary on a pew, hiding in a restroom until dawn. Lying in wait for a victim.

The cruiser door opened, and Stella peered in, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I see you’ve found your way into trouble again.”

“I didn’t find it. It found me.” He glanced at the officer standing behind her. The guy seemed more focused on the notebook he was writing in than on the crime scene.

“That’s always your story, Jack.” Stella sighed, grabbing his arm and tugging him from the car. “Hear you lost your Glock.”

“I had it confiscated, and I wouldn’t mind having it back.”

“I wouldn’t mind knowing exactly why you decided to fire it,” the officer responded without looking up. “I found two bullet casings. You forgot to mention that you’d fired shots.”

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

“You’ve got one now.” He finally met Jackson’s eyes. “Want to explain what happened?”

“Someone tried to run me down. I tried to stop him.”

“By putting a bullet in him?”

“By putting a bullet in his tire. Which I managed to do. You should find a late model Jeep with a blown tire somewhere nearby. There’s a photo of it on my cell phone.”

The officer nodded, but didn’t look as though he was any closer to letting Jackson out of handcuffs.

“I don’t suppose that it occurred to you to do what the pastor of this church did when he heard gunfire—call for help?”

“It occurred to me, but I was occupied with trying to keep myself from being crushed by a Jeep.”

That got a smile out of the guy. “Fair enough. I’ll call in an APB on the Jeep, see if we can find it and our guy. Want to show me that photo?”

“Want to get me out of these cuffs?”

“Sure, but don’t get the idea you’re going anywhere. I have some more questions for you.” Jackson nodded his agreement and stood still while the handcuffs were being removed. What he really wanted to do was go into the church and make sure Raina and Samuel were okay.

As he handed the officer his cell phone, he glanced at the building. Its pretty white siding and colorful stained glass gleamed in the darkness. A beautiful little building that had probably been standing for generations, but that didn’t mean it was safe. One thing Jackson had learned in his time in the military and with HEART—the places that should be safest were often the most dangerous of all.

* * *

It had been nearly four years since Raina had last stepped foot in River Valley Community Church. She hadn’t stopped attending because her faith had been shaken after Matt and Joseph died. She hadn’t stopped because her best friend had invited her to a new church in town. One that had lots of young people and plenty of upbeat music and was designed to make people feel good about their lives and their faith.

She’d stopped attending because it had been too hard to keep going.

Too hard to sit in a pew and listen while Pastor William Myer preached. Too hard to listen to his wife play the piano Raina had once played. Too hard to be there and not remember the years she and Matt had served together.

Too hard, and she’d been too weak, too sad, too destroyed by what had happened. Too overwhelmed by her guilt and her inability to forgive God and herself.

She touched the vestibule wall, remembering the way she and Matt had laughed as they’d painted sunny yellow over the mud-brown that had been there since the 1960s. They’d wanted to see the old church shine again, and they had. Matt would say that was a blessing. To Raina it was just another memory that she’d rather forget.

Water ran in the sink, the door to the church’s only bathroom still firmly closed. She wanted to knock and make sure that Samuel was okay, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate it. He hadn’t seemed to want her help, hadn’t wanted to talk. He’d been traveling for thirty-six hours, and he was tired and ill. Stella had said he’d been running a 103-degree fever, and that the wound on his stump was seeping and infected. All those things needed to be dealt with, but first Raina had to get him home.

That’s where she’d wanted to go.

Straight back to the house. But Stella had had to make a call, then she’d asked if there was anything on the other side of the woods. The next thing Raina had known, they’d been heading for the old church.

She touched the wall again, a million memories flooding her mind and her eyes. It had been a while since she’d cried over what she’d lost, and she didn’t plan to cry now, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the dream that had woken her. The hot African sun and the little boy crying for help.

The vestibule door opened, cold fall air drifting in and carrying the scent of wood fires and wet leaves. Her favorite time of year, but it seemed as if she’d missed every moment of every fall for the past four years. As if she’d just drifted through the seasons without even noticing the leaves changing color, the snow dusting the ground, the first tulips of spring.

She turned, letting the cold moist air kiss her cheeks and ruffle her hair. She expected Stella to walk through the open door, but the figure that moved into the vestibule was tall and masculine. Her heart jumped as she met Jackson Miller’s eyes. Even in the midst of her terror, even half-frozen and desperate, she’d known who he was. She’d recognized the sharp angles of his face, the scar that sliced through his eyebrow, the broadness of his shoulders. She’d dreamed about him dozens of times, relived her captivity and her rescue every day for months.

Yes. She’d have known Jackson anywhere, anytime, in any situation.

“Everything okay in here?” he asked, his Southern drawl as warm as sunlight on a summer morning. It had been months since she’d heard it, but she hadn’t forgotten the thick twang, or the way it reminded her of home and safety and freedom.

“Yes.” She looked away from his searching gaze. “I’m just waiting for Samuel.”

“You’ve been waiting a long time.”

“He’s sick and exhausted. Everything takes longer under those circumstances.”

“I guess so.” He knocked on the door. “Hey, Sammy! You about done in there?”

“He doesn’t—” She was going to say speak much English, but Samuel poked his head out of the bathroom, his face and hair wet.

“I am finished.”

“What’d you do, kid? Take a bath?” Jackson stepped into the bathroom and came back out with a handful of paper towels. He dabbed at Samuel’s head and his face, swiped water off the back of his neck, pausing for just a moment at a ridge of scars just below Samuel’s hairline. When the young boy tensed, Jackson moved on, finishing the job with quick, efficient movements that Raina envied.

She could have been the one helping. She probably should have been the one. After all, she’d be Samuel’s caregiver for the next year. She felt awkward, though. As if losing Joseph had caused her to lose every bit of maternal instinct she had.

“Good enough!” Jackson proclaimed with a smile that eased the hardness from his face. “We have to stay here a few more minutes while the police officer collects some evidence. You want to sit down?”

He didn’t wait for Samuel to reply, just scooped him up with his crutch and placed him on a pew at the front of the sanctuary. The young boy looked surprised, but didn’t protest. Maybe he was more used to men than women. Or maybe he just sensed the difference between Jackson and Raina—one was relaxed and open, the other tense and closed in and scared.

She had to get over it.

No one had twisted her arm or begged her to help Samuel. She’d come up with the idea all on her own, because she owed him her life. She hadn’t been able to forget that, hadn’t wanted to. The problem was, she didn’t know how to care for a young boy. Not anymore. She knew it, and Samuel seemed to know it.

That was a shame, because she’d really wanted to hit it off with him, to make him feel comfortable and at home.

What she hadn’t wanted was to think about Joseph every time she looked into Samuel’s face, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. They looked nothing alike, but when she looked into Samuel’s eyes, she was reminded of Joseph. When she touched his arm, she thought of her son.

“You should probably sit down, too,” Jackson said quietly. “You’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m fine.” She met his eyes, felt something in her heart spring to attention. He was as handsome as she’d remembered. As tall. As muscular. He was exactly what she’d have imagined if someone had told her there was a team of people who’d devoted their lives to rescuing the kidnapped, the lost, the wounded from dangerous situations.

“Fine doesn’t mean you’re not going to fall over faster than Grandma Ruth during a summer revival meeting.”

“Your grandmother faints during revival meetings?” she asked, plopping down next to Samuel because her legs were feeling a little weak. She wanted to blame it on fear and stress, but it had more to do with that little ping in her heart when she’d met Jackson’s gaze.

“Only when it’s hot and she hasn’t had enough water.”

“You’re making that up,” she accused, and he smiled, dropping onto the pew beside her.

“Not even a little. The fact is Grandma Ruth has fainted once or twice during revival meetings, and we have to take care to keep her hydrated. The other fact is you look pale as paper, and you really did need to sit down.”

“At least I’m not beaten up and bruised,” she responded, touching a bump that had formed on his cheekbone. His skin felt warm and just a little rough, and she had the absurd urge to linger there.

She let her hand drop away, and he touched the bruise. “Guess I ran into something while I was avoiding the Jeep that tried to run me down.”

“What Jeep?”

“Parked in the church lot.” He watched her steadily as he spoke, his eyes dark blue with thick, long lashes surrounding them. Women would pay to have lashes like that, and they’d probably swoon to see them on Jackson. “You know anyone with a blue Jeep?” he prodded.

“No.”

“That was a quick, decisive response.”

“Because I don’t know anyone who owns a Jeep.”

“Have you ever known anyone who did?”

“Probably, but I can’t think...” Actually, she could think of someone with a blue Jeep. She and Destiny had gone to D.C. for a girls’ weekend, and Destiny had borrowed her boyfriend’s Jeep. “Lucas Raymond has one, but he lives in D.C.”

“Lucas Raymond,” he repeated. “Who’s that?”

“My friend’s boyfriend. I’ve only seen the vehicle once. I think it’s newer.”

“Do you have any reason to believe this guy would—”

“Raymond is a great guy. A psychiatrist. He’s gotten awards for his work at the hospital and in the community.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an ax to grind with you.” He stood and stretched, his T-shirt riding up along a firm abdomen.

She looked away, because she felt guilty noticing.

“Say we rule out Raymond,” Jackson continued. “Who would want to hurt you, Raina?”

“No one,” she replied, her mind working frantically, going through faces and names and situations.

“And yet, someone chased you through the woods and fired a shot at you. That same person nearly ran me down. Doesn’t sound like someone who feels all warm and fuzzy when he thinks of you.”

“Maybe he was a vagrant, and I scared him.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound as if he believed it, and she wasn’t sure she did, either.

She’d heard something that had woken her from the nightmare.

A child crying? Larry wandering around? An intruder trying to get in the house?

The last made her shudder, and she pulled her coat a little closer. “I think I’d know it if someone had a bone to pick with me.”

“That’s usually the case, but not always. Could be you upset a coworker or said no to a guy who wanted you to say yes.”

She snorted at that, and Jackson frowned. “You’ve been a widow for four years, it’s not that far-fetched an idea.”

“If you got a good look at my social life, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

Samuel yawned loudly and slid down on the pew, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyelids drooping. He looked cold and tired, and she wanted to get him home, tuck him into bed, spend a little time trying to decide how best to proceed with him.

She couldn’t keep being as uncomfortable as she was, couldn’t continue with her stiff and stilted approach.

“Samuel needs some medicine, and he needs some sleep,” she said, taking off her coat and draping it over him.

He opened his eyes, but didn’t smile.

He had the solemn look of someone much older than ten and the scars of a soldier who’d fought too many wars.

“I’ll go talk to Officer Wallace,” Jackson responded. “See if he’s ready to let us leave.”

“He’s going to have to be. Samuel—”

A door slammed, the sound so startling Raina jumped.

Samuel scrambled to his feet, clutching her coat in one hand and the crutch in the other. She grabbed his shoulder, pulled him into the shelter of her arms.

“Is someone else in the church?” Jackson demanded, his gaze on the door that led from the sanctuary into the office wing.

“There shouldn’t be.”

“Which means whoever slammed that door doesn’t belong here. Stay put. I’m going to check things out.”

He strode away, and she wanted to call out and tell him to be careful. The church was cut off from the rest of River Valley, the land a couple of miles outside of town. There’d been a few break-ins during the years Matt had been pastor and several more since then.

She pressed her lips together, held in the words she knew she didn’t need to say. Jackson could take care of himself. She’d seen him in action, knew just how smart and careful he was.”

“I will go, too,” Samuel asserted, pulling away and hopping after Jackson.

She grabbed his arm. “No, Samuel. It’s not safe.”

“There is nothing that is safe,” he responded, and her throat burned with the reality of what he’d survived.

“You have to stay here. Let Jackson and the police take care of this. Here in the U.S., kids don’t take care of adult problems.” It sounded lame, but it was all she could think of.

She thought he might yank away and keep walking, but he handed her the coat. “We will go outside, then.”

“It’s too cold.”

“But in here it is dangerous for you. Outside, it is safe.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

At this point, she didn’t know, and all she could do was stay where she was and hope Jackson or Officer Andrew Wallace would figure out who was in the church or outside of it, who had been in the Jeep.

“It’s safe here, Samuel. Let’s just sit and wait.”

He nodded but perched on the edge of the pew as if he were sure that at any moment, they’d have to run.

She waited beside him, tense, anxious, wanting to pray but unable to find the words that would spiral from her soul to God’s ears.

Her faith, like so many other things in her life, was a shadow of what it had once been.

Her own fault.

After Matt and Joseph died, she’d stopped reading her Bible, stopped praying, stopped believing that God really cared. Somehow, though, He’d still rescued her from almost certain death in Africa.

There had to be a reason for that.

She’d thought it was so that she could help Samuel, but Samuel seemed perfectly capable of helping himself. Sick as he was, hurt as he was, he was ready to face the world and whatever trouble it brought him.

She wished she could say the same for herself, but the best thing she could say, the only thing that she could say, was that she was there, ready to do what God wanted.

If only she knew what that was.

THREE

This wasn’t a good time to be without a weapon, but since Officer Wallace hadn’t seen fit to return Jackson’s Glock, that was the situation he found himself in. He eased through the dark hall, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Straight ahead, an exit sign hung above a door. Two other doors led off the short hallway. He turned the handle of the closest one and walked into a spacious office, running his hand along the wall until he found a light switch.

A large desk took up one corner of the room, a high-back rolling chair behind it. Two other chairs stood near a wall lined with shelves and books. Another wall was blank, but for several portrait photos that must have been of former pastors and their families.

His heart did a little pause and jerk when he recognized Raina’s blond hair and violet eyes. Her face had been fuller then, her cheekbones not as sharp, the area beneath less gaunt. She sat beside a dark-haired man whose smile looked genuine, and she held a little boy who looked just like his father.

Her family.

He filed the information away, turned off the light and left the room.

The next door opened just as easily, and he walked into a large choir room. Piano in one corner, racks of long blue choir robes in another. Chairs were arranged in a semicircle in front of a music stand. He stood still, listening to silence that seemed too thick and heavy to be natural.

Someone was there.

“You may as well show yourself,” he said, moving toward the choir robes. “I know you’re here.”

Nothing, but he thought he saw a robe sway. Not much. Just a hint of movement. Enough to get his heart pumping and adrenaline coursing through him.

“I said—”

Someone lunged from the robes, darting out so quickly Jackson barely had time to respond. He dove toward the scurrying figuring, bringing the person down to the ground in a hail of fists and kicking feet. The music stand fell, clanging onto the ground with enough noise to wake the dead.

Jackson grabbed a skinny arm, tried to grab another, a man’s hoarse cries filling his ears.

“Cool it!” he said as he finally managed to snag the guy’s flailing hand. He looked down into a grizzled face and hot black eyes.

“Let me go, worthless VC!” the guy shouted.

“You’re not in Vietnam, man,” Jackson tried to assure him, still holding his arms in a tight grip. “You’re in the States. In Maryland. In a church.”

He was rewarded with spit in the face.

He didn’t bother wiping it off.

He’d experienced worse, heard worse than the stream of curses coming from the man’s mouth.

“Tell you what, buddy,” he suggested, hauling the guy to his feet. “How about you put a sock in it?”

“Give me a sock and I’ll—”

“What’s going on?” Raina peered in the open door, her face pale. She looked like a dim reflection of the happy young woman in the photo he’d seen, and he felt exactly the way he had when he’d seen her in Africa. Worried. Determined. Willing to do whatever it took to get her home safely.

Only they weren’t in Africa. They weren’t even in danger. Unless a hundred-pound sixty-something-year-old man who smelled like the inside of a beer keg could be considered a threat.

“I found this guy hiding in the choir robes,” he responded, turning his attention back to his prisoner, because he didn’t want to look in Raina’s face. He didn’t want to see the loss written so clearly there, didn’t want to know that her pain was the same pain he felt when he remembered Charity. Because there was nothing that could be done about that kind of pain. No magic pill that could be taken, no barrier that could be put up. Nothing but time could ease it, and even that only dulled the sharp edge of grief.

“I wasn’t hiding!”

“Butch,” Raina said. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here without permission.”

She stepped farther into the room. “Did you ask Pastor Myer if you could sleep here?”

“It’s God’s house. I asked Him,” Butch said with a sly smile.

“How about you show a little respect for the lady, Butch?” Jackson asked, giving the guy a little shake. Not too hard, though. He didn’t want to rattle fragile bones.

Raina ignored his comment.

So did Butch.

As a matter of fact, Jackson thought they’d done this whole thing before—many times—and that they were just letting things play out the way they always had before.

“You’ve been drinking again.” Raina walked to the choir robes and dug through them, pulling out an empty bottle of beer.

“Nah. I’m just collecting old bottles for the money,” Butch replied. “Gotta make a living somehow.”

“You could try getting a job,” Jackson muttered, releasing the guy’s arms.

“Who’s going to hire me? I got PTSD, a bum back, wrecked knees. Got no hearing in one ear and barely any in the other. Thank you, Uncle Sam, for taking care of your veterans.” Butch grabbed a backpack from behind the clothes, not nearly as drunk as Jackson thought.

“If you need work, I have some jobs around the house that I can’t do myself,” Raina said casually.

Jackson doubted there was anything casual about the offer.

As a matter of fact, tension lines were etched across her forehead, her skin pulled taut along her cheekbones.

He also doubted it was a good idea to have a guy like Butch hanging around her place. He’d steal her blind and not feel a bit of guilt about it.

“What kind of jobs? ’Cause I already told you, my back is bad and my knees are gone.”

“The fence needs whitewashing, and the lawn needs one more mowing before winter.”

“You still got that riding lawn mower? The one Matt loved so much?”

At his question, Raina tensed, her hands fisting. “Yes.”

“I’ll come by day after tomorrow and get that done for you. The fence might be a little harder. Probably will take me a week or more. Gotta take lots of breaks.”

Raina nodded, but didn’t speak.

Jackson wasn’t sure if it was the mention of her husband that had thrown her or if it was the fact that Butch had taken her up on her offer of work.

“See you then, Raina.” Butch waved and would have walked out into the hall, but Jackson wasn’t done with the guy.

“How long were you in here, Butch?” he asked, and the old vet paused on the threshold, his gray hair falling in a ratty braid down the middle of his back.

“Awhile,” he finally muttered.

“You must have heard the gunshots earlier.”

“Could be that I did.” Butch turned slowly, his black eyes blazing in his gnarled face. He looked older than he probably was. Seventy or more when Jackson suspected he was in his early sixties. Life hadn’t been kind to him, but then, Jackson doubted the guy had been very kind to life.

“Did you hear anything before that?” Jackson pressed.

“Who wants to know?”

“Me. Probably the police. Raina.”

“Here’s the deal, soldier,” Butch responded. “I don’t deal with the police, and I don’t like you. For Raina’s sake, I’ll tell you this—I heard a car pull into the parking lot a couple of hours ago. You tell the police that, and I’ll tell them you’re lying.”

“Butch—” Raina started to say, but the guy raised a hand, cutting her off.

“You’ve always been good to me, but I’m not getting pulled into trouble. Been there too many times to count, and I’m starting to realize I’m getting too old for it.”

“You didn’t just hide in the choir robes and let whoever was in the parking lot do what he wanted to the church, Butch,” Jackson said. “You went and looked out a window, right? This is your space. You were ready to protect it. You looked out the window, and you saw something. It wouldn’t hurt to tell the police what that was.”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t help. I’m an old, drunk vet who’s been wandering around these parts sleeping in churches and abandoned railroad cars and under overpasses for more years than either of you have been alive. I’ve got a rap sheet a mile long. You think the police would listen to a word I said? Even if they did, my word is worth squat.”

“It’s worth something to me,” Raina cut in, and Butch frowned.

“Could be I looked. Could be I saw an old Jeep. Could even be that I saw someone get out of that Jeep and walk into the woods, but even if all those things are really what happened, ain’t one person around here who’s going to believe me.”

“You need to tell the police what you saw,” Raina suggested, and Butch scowled.

“I owe you, Raina, and I owe your husband. I even owe your little boy, but I’m not talking to the police.” He hitched the pack onto his back and walked out into the hall.

Jackson could have stopped him, could have forced him outside and brought him to Officer Wallace. He didn’t. Butch was obviously a well-known figure in the community. If Wallace wanted to interview him, he could track him down easily enough.

He followed Butch into the hall, watching as the guy limped to the exit, opened the door and disappeared outside. Cold air wafted in, the scent of rain and wet leaves hanging in the hallway after the door closed.

“Poor Butch,” Raina murmured, her arm brushing his as she stepped past. She smelled like flowers, the scent feminine and alluring. She’d chopped her hair short, the thick strands just reaching her nape. On some women, the style would have been harsh, but on Raina it worked.

Everything about her worked.

The faded jeans and flannel nightgown. The unadorned fingernails and scuffed boots. She looked natural, and he found that beautiful, but he didn’t think she saw Butch for who he was—a guy who’d take what he could, use who he could and never feel a bit of guilt over it.

“He’s made his choices,” Jackson responded. “Those choices brought him to the place he is.”

“Maybe if he’d had a family who cared about him, he would have made different choices.” She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I’d better get back to Samuel. I really do want to get him home.”

“Let’s go, then.” He cupped her elbow, as ready as she was to leave the church and get on with things. “We need to talk to Officer Wallace. Let him know what Butch saw.”

“Unfortunately, he didn’t see much.”

“Not much that he’s telling us, but he may be more open to providing details when the police bring him in for questioning.”

“I really hope Andrew doesn’t do that to him. He’ll probably resist and end up being arrested for it.”

“Andrew?”

“Officer Wallace.”

He nodded, leading her back down the hall into the sanctuary and telling himself that it wasn’t his business that Raina was on a first name basis with Wallace.

* * *

Pull away! Raina’s brain shouted as she and Jackson stepped into the quiet sanctuary, but her body refused to obey.

There was something...nice about having his hand cupped around her elbow, his fingers curved along her inner arm.

She let herself be ushered to the pew where Samuel still sat. She’d given him a pen and an old church bulletin that she’d found, and she’d told him to stay put.

He’d listened.

Thank the Lord.

She didn’t think she could take any more drama. After six months of living quietly, of going to work and returning home, of going to church and returning home, of quiet dinners with friends and quiet evenings trying to forget just how alone she was, she’d stepped into a world of chaos.

All she wanted to do was step out of it again.

And not with Jackson’s hand around her arm, his fingers a warm reminder of what she’d lost when Matt and Joseph had been taken away from her.

“Ready to get out of here, buddy?” Jackson asked, releasing her elbow as he took Samuel’s hand and helped him to his feet.

Samuel nodded, but he seemed too tired to speak, his eyes glassy from fever.

“We’ll go to the house, get some medicine in you. Maybe a little something to eat,” Raina told him, her voice tighter than she wanted it to be.

“I’m not hungry,” he protested weakly, but she still planned to make him some soup, maybe a piece of toast.

“You’ll be hungry once that fever goes down,” Jackson commented, holding the door open so they could walk outside. “You’ll probably eat half the house.”

“I can’t eat a house,” Samuel sounded more confused than amused, but he edged away from Raina and moved closer to Jackson.

She felt like a third wheel as the two discussed how much a healthy kid could eat. She tried not to let it bother her.

Rays of sunlight streamed over distant mountains and gleamed on the hood of Andrew’s squad car. He waved, motioning them over. “I’m about done here. Anything else you want to add to what you told me?”

He eyed Jackson, looking as if he thought there might be more information to be had. That was the way Andrew had been for as long as Raina had known him—driven, serious and devoted to the law.

“Actually,” Jackson replied, “there was someone in the church who might have seen the Jeep and its driver.”

He explained briefly while Raina and Stella helped Samuel back into the SUV. Raina was about to slide in beside him when Andrew touched her shoulder.

“Hold on a second, Rain,” he said quietly, and she paused, her hand on the hood of the vehicle, her back to Andrew. “I found something in the woods. I think you need to see it.”

A crisp breeze blew dead leaves across the pavement. She watched as they skittered toward the SUV, refusing to turn, because she was afraid of what she’d see in Andrew’s eyes.

“Rain?” he said again, and she knew she couldn’t avoid it.

She turned, cold air bathing cheeks that suddenly felt too hot and too tight. “What is it?”

He hesitated. A sure sign that whatever he had to show her was as horrible as she’d thought it would be. She knew Andrew well, knew him enough to know that hesitation meant worry and worry meant things were bad.

Destiny’s brother had spent most of the time Raina was growing up teasing her. After she’d married Matt, he’d stayed close, forming as strong a bond with him as he had with Raina. He’d responded to the accident that killed Matt and Joseph, and he’d been the one to tell Raina that Matt had died at the scene. He’d been at her side when the doctors declared Joseph brain-dead. He knew what she’d been through, and he’d never have wanted to add to it.

She had a feeling he was going to.

“Whatever it is, just show me,” she demanded, her voice hoarse with fear.

She hated that, hated that Stella was standing on the other side of the SUV, watching with curiosity. Hated that Jackson’s eyes were filled with pity.

“I left it where it was until I could bring in an evidence team, but I have a picture. I want to get your take on it.” He was all business, his tone brusque just the way it usually was when he was working.

But he watched her with that steady gaze, that sorrowful look that she’d only ever seen one other time.

She didn’t want to see the picture.

She didn’t want to know what he’d found.

Because she was afraid that whatever it was would change everything, that it would turn her life upside down, make her question everything she believed, make her want to turn the hands of time back.

Just like four years ago.

Just like the day she’d lost everything.

Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a camera. He scrolled through a couple of photos and frowned. “Here it is.”

She took the camera, her hands steady despite the fact that her entire body seemed to be shaking. The image on the screen was clear. Wet ground, bright-colored leaves strewn around. That wasn’t the focus of the picture, though. A stuffed dog was. Fluffy and blue. About twelve inches high. Muddy and wet, but obviously well loved by a child, its ears ratty, its fur threadbare in a few places. She knew that if she could lift the dog out of the camera and study it closely, she’d be able to see that one eye was missing and that its tail had almost no fur. She thought that if she could hold it close to her nose, she’d still be able to smell baby powder and shampoo on it.

Her eyes burned, her chest so tight and heavy she didn’t think she’d ever breathe again.

“It looks like the dog I gave Joseph that day we all went to the county fair together. Remember?” Andrew prodded.

Remember?

She couldn’t forget. Not any second of any minute of the short time she’d had with her son. If she let herself, she’d lie in bed at night, remembering his laughter, his chubby toddler belly and happy blue eyes.

She never let herself.

And she didn’t want this...reminder.

She thrust the camera back into Andrew’s hands and turned on her heels, walking away from him and from Jackson. Walking past the SUV and Stella, leaving Samuel right where he was. Walking faster and faster until her feet were flying and her breath was heaving, and she was running so fast her legs ached and her lungs hurt, and the tears were streaming down her face.

And still, she couldn’t outrun her sorrow.

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