Kitabı oxu: «Missing In The Mountains»

Chapter One

Emma Hart couldn’t shake the unsettling notion that something was wrong. The sensation had pestered her all day, needling away at her calm. Though she hadn’t said so, her sister and housemate, Sara, seemed to feel it too. Sara had hunched over her cell phone and a notebook most of the day, barely speaking or touching her dinner. It wasn’t like Sara to be inside short of a blizzard, yet there she was. All day.

Emma had thrown herself into the tedium of housework and the exhaustion of new-mommy duties, hoping to keep her mind off the inexplicable feeling that trouble was afoot. Nothing had worked. The prickle over her skin that had raised the hair on her arms and itched in her mind since dawn refused to let up, even now as the gorgeous setting sun nestled low on the horizon between distant mountains. If there was a silver lining, it was that the peculiar day was finally nearing its end, and tomorrow was always better.

She crossed her ankles on the old back-porch swing and shifted her attention to the beautiful gold and apricot hues spilling over everything in sight, including her perfect baby boy, Henry. Emma hoisted him off her lap and wiggled him in the air until a wide toothless grin emerged. There was the thing she lived for. A smile spread over her lips as she brought him down to her chest. “Someday I’m going to teach you to rope and ride, the way your granddaddy taught Sara and me.” It would have been nice if Henry’s father was around to teach him those things the way her father had taught her, but it didn’t do to dwell on what wasn’t, not when the things that were tended to be so fleeting.

Henry’s daddy was a soldier on leave when they’d met, but he’d been raised a cowboy. Brought up on a ranch like hers, not too far from there, but he’d been deployed before she’d known she was pregnant, and despite the voice message she’d left asking him to call her, he never had. Of course, that wasn’t a surprise since the next time she’d tried to call him the number was no longer in service. The local news hadn’t announced his death the way they often did when a local soldier was lost, so she could only assume he’d survived that “eight week” mission he’d gone on nearly a year ago and had simply chosen to avoid her after his return. Whenever she thought of how his selfishness would force Henry to grow up without a father, Emma was glad he hadn’t died on that mission. This way, if she ever saw him again, she could kill him herself.

Emma forced down the bitter knot rising in her throat and worked a pleasant smile over her lips. “You will always be enough for me,” she promised Henry, “and I will be enough for you. Whatever that means on any given day. Always.” She nuzzled his sun-kissed cheek, then stretched onto her feet as the last orange fingers of the sunlight slid out of view, replaced with the tranquil blues of twilight. “What do you say about a warm bath and fuzzy jammies before your nighttime bottle?” she asked. Now she needed a distraction from the icky feeling that had followed her all day and from the frustration of a man who’d probably forgotten her name.

Emma jumped as the back door flew open, her knuckles colliding sharply with the handle. “What on earth!”

Sara stood on the threshold, one palm on the door, skin pale as the rising moon. “You need to come inside. Now,” she gasped. “Hurry.”

Emma obeyed, and Sara locked the door behind them, then checked the window locks and pulled the curtains. Without speaking again, she moved to the next room and did the same.

“What’s going on?” Emma followed on her sister’s heels, fear riding high in her gut. “Why are you doing that?” They only battened down the hatches if the news predicted heavy winds or rain. “It’s a beautiful night. There’s no storm coming.”

“You’re wrong about that,” Sara mumbled.

Emma hurried around her sister, forcing herself into Sara’s path. “Hey. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sara shot her a remorseful look, letting her gaze slide briefly to Henry, then back to her work. “I need you to listen to me and do as I say. We have to be quiet.” Her hands trembled as she reached for the nearest light switch and flipped it off. Her face whipped back in Emma’s direction a moment later. “Is your truck in the garage? Or the driveway?”

“Garage.”

“Good.” She nodded, her eyes frantic.

“Hey.” Emma set her hand on Sara’s. “Stop.” Her sister never behaved this way. She was naturally calm to the extreme, cool in a crisis and found the positive in everything. Whatever had her so worked up was enough to make Emma want to pack a bag and move. “You’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Fat tears welled in Sara’s eyes. “I can’t.”

“Sara,” Emma demanded, using her most pointed tone without upsetting Henry, “you can tell me anything. You know that. I don’t understand what’s happened. You were fine at dinner.”

Sara snorted, a derisive, ugly sound. “Was I?”

“Weren’t you?” Emma grabbed hold of her sister’s wrist, a lifelong stubborn streak piercing her forced calm.

Before she could answer, a set of headlights flashed over the front window, and Sara froze. “Don’t make any noise,” she said, looking half-ill. “We’re not home.”

Suddenly Sara’s erratic behavior began making sense. “Is this the reason you’re locking us up like Fort Knox?” Emma asked. “You knew someone was coming?” Someone who obviously terrified her. “Who?”

Sara jerked her arm free and went to peek through the living room curtain. “Hide,” she seethed. “You’re in danger. Henry’s in danger. We all are. Now, go! Keep him quiet. Find his pacifier.” Her rasping whisper cut through Emma’s heart, and she pressed her back to the nearest wall, away from the front window.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Emma shot back in a harsh whisper.

Heavy footfalls rumbled across the porch, and someone rapped against the door in loud, demanding strikes until Emma was sure the door would fall down.

“I’m calling the police,” Emma said. “If you won’t tell me what’s going on, then you can tell them.”

Henry started in her arms. He released a small whimper as the pounding continued.

Sara turned to them. Her eyes were wide, her face the perfect mask of horror and resolve. “Hide first. Call the police after.” She rubbed her palms against her jeans and stepped forward, toward the rattling door.

“Where are you going?”

Sara gave Emma a pleading look, then swallowed hard. “I’m going to answer the door before he breaks it down. If you hide, he’ll assume I’m alone, and you’ll be safe, but I won’t give him what he wants.”

Emma’s stomach twisted and coiled with nausea. “What does he want?”

Sara took another step.

“I won’t leave you.”

Sara shot one determined glance over her shoulder. “Your job is to protect Henry. Mine is to protect you. Now, hide.”

Terror gripped Emma, and she snagged the cordless phone handset from the wall, immediately dialing the local police department. She ducked around the edge of the living room wall, hiding just out of sight in the long hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Come on,” she urged, impatient for the ringing call to connect.

The dead bolt snicked back in the next room. The door swung open on squeaky hinges.

“I’ve already called the police,” Sara said coldly in lieu of a proper greeting.

A choking gasp cracked through the silence a moment later.

Emma sucked air. Horrific images of what could have caused such a sound raced through her head. There were no more words in the silent home. Just the low gurgling of someone desperate for air. Emma prayed the sound wasn’t coming from Sara.

A tinny voice broke through the phone speaker at her ear. “Knox Ridge Police Department.”

Emma inched toward the end of the hall, ignoring the woman on the line. Desperate to know her sister was okay, she counted silently to three, then peeked her head around the corner, chest tight with fear.

A man in head-to-toe black, a ski mask and leather gloves had one giant hand wrapped around Sara’s throat while she clawed uselessly at his fingers. Her eyes were wild, bulging, her mouth gaping for air. The man raised a pistol in his free hand.

Hot tears rushed over Emma’s eyes. She had the police on the phone, but couldn’t speak. If the man heard her, he might use his gun on Sara. Or on Henry.

Hide. Sara’s desperate voice echoed in Emma’s addled mind. Protect Henry.

“Knox Ridge Police Department,” the woman on the phone repeated. Her small voice suddenly sounded like a booming gong.

Henry bunched his face and opened his quivering lips, a scream poised to break.

Emma took one last too-risky look into the living room, needing assurance her sister hadn’t been choked to death while she’d stood helplessly by and deliberated over what to do next.

The man tossed Sara onto the couch like a rag doll and climbed on top of her in a flash. He lowered his face to hers and growled through the mask. “Who did you tell?” He pinned her hands overhead and pressed them hard into the cushions until they vanished from sight.

“No one.” Sara choked out the words, still coughing and gasping for air. “No one. I have no one to tell. I swear it.”

Henry released a warning cry, and the man’s face snapped in Emma’s direction.

Emma rocked back on socked feet and took off like a bullet down the hallway. Henry bounced and jostled in her arms as she pressed him to her chest and gripped the phone between one ear and shoulder. She slid and scooted as adrenaline forced her legs faster than her feet could find purchase on the hard, slick floors.

“What was that?” the man asked, footsteps already falling through the living room, nearing the hall at a clip.

“Cat!” Sara yelped. “It was only the cat.”

Emma snatched their mean old barn cat off the hallway windowsill on her way to the master bedroom, and she threw him into the space behind her. He’d surely bite her the next time he saw her, but she’d gladly choose to face off with him rather than whoever was attempting to murder Sara.

The cat screeched and hissed, claws skidding over the wide wooden planks as he slid in the direction of Sara and the masked lunatic.

The footfalls stopped.

Emma barreled into her closet and pulled the door shut behind her. Her heart hammered and her chest ached. She climbed through the clothes racks, over boxes and blankets and shoes, then curled herself around her son and shushed him out of a fast-approaching fit.

Several wild heartbeats later, the footfalls retreated back toward her sister, who she hoped had had the good sense to run.

“Who did you tell?” the man’s voice came again, impossibly angrier.

Emma’s heart fell. Sara hadn’t run.

“Ma’am?” the voice asked through the phone. “Miss Hart? Caller ID shows this as the Hart residence?”

What was happening? Why was it happening?

“Miss Hart,” the woman persisted.

“Yes,” she whispered, finally finding her voice. She cringed with each terrorizing demand of the intruder in the next room. Who did you tell?

Sara screamed.

Her gut-wrenching wail ripped through the rafters, the drywall and Emma’s soul. “Someone is hurting my sister,” she whispered. “Please, hurry.”

Emma’s gaze darted through the dark space. If only she hadn’t moved her daddy’s rifles into a gun safe after Henry was born. If only Henry was sleeping in his crib, and she could trust him not to scream. If only she could help Sara.

A deafening crack stopped her ragged thoughts. The sound of skin on skin. A brain-jarring slap. Or jaw-breaking punch. Every sound was amplified in the impossibly still home. Emma heard the muted thud of a collapsing body.

Then no more screaming. No more demanding growls. Just silence.

Outside, the rumble of an engine drew hope to Emma’s heart. The psychopath was leaving. Whatever condition Sara was in, at least she hadn’t been shot, and the police were on the way. Sara would be okay, and she would tell them everything so the son of a gun who did this to her would pay.

Emma crept from her hiding spot and raced to her bedroom window, confirming the empty driveway before racing back down the hallway, heart in her throat and preparing to provide triage while they awaited the first responders.

On a deep intake of air, she shored her nerve at the end of the hallway, tucked Henry tight to her chest and dared a peek into her living room.

But all that remained of her sister was a thick smear of blood on the polished wooden floor.

Chapter Two

Sawyer Lance, former Army Ranger and cofounder of Fortress Security, reached reluctantly for the ringing phone. It was late and he was tired. Protecting civilians was harder than he’d predicted when opening the private sector security firm. Far more challenging than similar work overseas where he could at least shoot the bad guys. He tossed another pair of aspirin into his mouth before blindly raising the phone from his desk.

What would it be this time? Another punk ex-husband or boyfriend bullying the woman he claimed to love? An unhinged stranger stalking a woman who didn’t know he existed beyond the fact he harassed her anonymously with creepy unwanted gifts and the occasional break-in? “Fortress,” he answered, his voice little better than a bark. “This is Sawyer Lance.”

The long pause that followed was nearly cause for him to hang up. Instead, he rubbed his forehead, knowing sometimes frightened folks needed time to gather their thoughts.

“Fortress,” he repeated, becoming alert at the sound of soft breaths through the line. His muscles tensed. “If this is an emergency, you need to call 911 and get yourself to safety. Call me after. Police first.”

He waited.

The quiet breathing continued.

“I can contact your local authorities if you’re unable.” Sawyer pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the caller ID. “Can you tell me your...” Two little words graced the screen and nearly ripped a hole through his chest. Emma. Hart. Sawyer’s heart seized, and his lungs seemed to stop midexhale. “Emma?”

Emma Hart had been the only woman Sawyer ever imagined a future with, and a set of monsters overseas had stolen that from him. He’d been forced to say goodbye to her for the sake of a simple eight-week mission. That mission should have brought him right up to his last day in the service. Instead, it had gotten him captured and tortured. His team had gotten worse.

“You’re alive,” she said, a snare of accusation in her voice.

“Yeah.” If she wanted to call it that. He’d fought six long months to get away from his captors and back to the secluded US military base. Another two months before he was debriefed and returned stateside. More weeks before the long-overdue discharge.

“Yet, you never called,” she said.

Emma’s message had been the last one left on his cell phone before the service was disconnected. The cell contract had ended while he was overseas, trapped for months past the contract’s renewal date. He’d planned to get a new phone after the mission, after he’d returned stateside and been discharged. He’d even told himself Emma’s number would be the first one he’d call. It was one of many plans his captivity had ruined.

“No,” he answered finally, sadly.

He hadn’t returned her call for multiple reasons. Part of him knew he wasn’t ready to do normal things again, like date, or pretend he didn’t wake up in cold sweats most nights. The rest of him doubted Emma was in the market for a 180-pound sack of misplaced anger, jangled nerves and general distrust. He couldn’t make her happy anymore. She’d sounded so darn happy on that voice mail. Unlike now, he realized.

Instinct stiffened Sawyer’s spine. “What’s wrong?” Something in her voice set him on edge. She might’ve been mad at him, but there was something else there too.

“Sara’s gone,” she said, her voice breaking on the second word.

“Gone?” he repeated. His mind scrambled to make sense of the word. “How? When?”

“Tonight,” she said. “He just came in here and took her.”

Sawyer was already on his feet, gathering his things, shoving a fresh magazine into his sidearm. “Who?”

“I don’t know. She told me to hide.”

He slowed, pressing a folding knife and wallet into his pocket. “So, Sara’s alive? Just missing?”

“I don’t know if she’s alive,” Emma snapped, “but she’s not just missing. She was choked, overpowered, hit and dragged away. There’s nothing just about it.”

“Of course.” Sawyer shook his head hard, moving faster toward the exit. “I meant no disrespect. I’m only gathering facts.” He stooped to grab his go-bag and a duffel of supplies from the closet floor. “What did the police say?”

“They’re looking into it.”

Sawyer blew out a humorless half laugh. So, the police were chasing their tails and waiting for Sara to appear on their laps. “I’m glad you called. I can keep you safe.” He swung his laptop bag over one shoulder on his way out the door.

“You always talked about your plans to open Fortress Security with Wyatt,” Emma said. “I figured he’d answer the call. I hoped he’d remember me and be willing to help. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” he assured her.

“I know the last thing you probably want to do is see me—” her voice was strangled and tight “—but I’m scared, and I need help.”

“I’m already on the way,” Sawyer said, tossing his bags into his pickup, then climbing behind the wheel. “Are you home?”

“Yeah.”

He gunned the engine to life and jammed the shifter into Drive. “I’m heading your way from the office. I won’t be an hour.”

“Okay.”

He listened keenly to a few more rattling breaths.

“Sawyer?”

The quaver in her voice was a punch through his gut. “Yeah.”

“You should have called.”

EMMA’S WORDS HAUNTED him as he made the trip to her family ranch at a record pace, nearly doubling the posted speed limits whenever possible. The desolate country roads were poorly lit but easily navigated. At times, long stretches between darkened fields made visibility clear for miles, and Sawyer took full advantage. The hillier, curvier portions got a good cussing.

He hit the gravel under the carved Hart Ranch sign with a deep crunch and grind. Stones pinged and bounced against the undercarriage of his pickup, flying out in a cloud of dust behind him.

A small silhouette paced the porch. Long hair drifting in the wind around her face, exactly like the ghost from his past that she was. She went still when he started his walk across the lawn.

Sawyer pulled the cowboy hat off his head and pressed it to his aching chest. “Emma.” His lungs seemed to fill fully for the first time since answering her call.

She gave a small nod, running the pads of both thumbs beneath red puffy eyes and brushing shaky palms over flushed cheeks. “Hello, Sawyer.”

He took a step closer, and she wrapped her arms around a new, curvier figure. Sawyer tried not to stare, but the change looked damn good on her. So did the spark of ferocity in her eyes. He didn’t know what had sparked the fire, but whatever it was, the change suited her. And it would help her get through the tough days ahead. Unfortunately, civilian abductions weren’t known for their happy endings.

She appraised him as he climbed the steps. Her smart blue eyes scrutinized the visible scars along his neck and forearms, pausing briefly at the angry, puckered skin above his left eye. Then swiftly moving on to the lines of black ink circling his biceps beneath one shirtsleeve. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

Behind her, the small sound of a crying baby drifted through the open door.

Emma’s chin ticked up. She turned immediately. “Come in. I’ve been through all of Sara’s things, and I have something I want you to look at.”

Sawyer followed. His heart clenched as the baby’s cries grew more fervent. “Sara had a baby?” He tried to imagine it and failed. The willowy blonde had more interest in horses than men when he’d briefly known her.

“No.” Emma grabbed the flashing baby monitor and shut it off as she passed through the dimly lit family room. “You can have a seat. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Are you babysitting?” he asked, ignoring her order and following her down the hall toward the bedrooms, unwilling to let her out of his sight and drawn by a strange tether to the infant’s cry. “Was the baby here when Sara was taken?”

Emma opened her bedroom door and strode inside. A crib stood against the wall across from her bed. “No,” she said, “and yes.”

Sawyer paused at the end of the crib, puzzling over her unnecessary coyness. “You aren’t babysitting?” he asked dumbly, watching as she raised the kicking blue bundle into her arms and slid a pacifier into the baby’s mouth with practiced skill.

“No,” she whispered, rocking the infant gently into sedation. “This is Henry.” She turned a pride-filled smile in Sawyer’s direction. “I named him after my father.”

Sawyer’s gut rolled against his spine. His jaw locked, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. This was what had changed her. The carefree woman he’d known had been made into her own kind of soldier in his absence. Emma was a mother. “He’s yours,” Sawyer said, repeating the fact, trying to make it real for him. The words were bittersweet on his tongue. Any joy he might’ve felt for her was tainted selfishly with feelings of loss for himself. With regret. And thoughts of things that might have been. “You have a son.”

“I do,” she answered as Henry worked the pacifier in his tiny mouth. “And so do you.”

EMMA HELD HER tongue as she waited for a response. She could practically see the wheels turning in Sawyer’s head, adding up time, weeks, months. She ground her teeth against the need for an explanation. She hadn’t been with anyone else since Sawyer. He’d barely left the States before she knew she was pregnant. If Henry’s perfect olive skin and pale blue eyes weren’t enough proof, then maybe Sawyer should look in a mirror.

“Mine?” His gaze jumped continually between her face and Henry’s.

“Yes.” She moved past him toward the hallway. “I need to sit down. You probably should too.”

She led Sawyer back into the living room, giving a wide berth to the freshly bleached floorboards where Sara’s blood had been spilled. She took a seat on the chair farthest from the couch where the monster had pinned her sister. It took effort to force the still-raw images from her mind.

Sawyer squatted on the floor in front of her chair, jeans pulled tight against his strong thighs, big hands dangling between his knees as he balanced, a look of shock and confusion etched on his brow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Emma pursed her lips, culling the desire to scream. “I tried.” She made each word stand on its own, tempted to recite all the one-sided arguments she’d practiced to perfection in the shower all these months since his “eight week” mission ended.

“I got a message from you,” he said. “Did you know you were pregnant when you left the voice mail?”

The accusation in his tone ignited a fire in her belly. “That was why I called. I’d just confirmed with my doctor, and I was happy,” she snapped.

“Then why didn’t you tell me? Why would you keep something like this from me? I’m a father, Emma. A father and I had no idea.”

“You could have returned my call,” she said.

“You could’ve told me in the voice mail.”

“I didn’t want to tell you something this important in a voice mail. I wanted to tell you in person, and you were supposed to be home in two more weeks, and I spent every one of those last fourteen days deciding how I’d deliver the surprise. Maybe with some cutesy sign or a little custom-made onesie.” She shook her head. “I can see it was stupid of me now, but I was thrilled to be having your baby, and you had your phone number changed.”

“I didn’t have my number changed.” Sawyer ground the words through clenched teeth.

“Disconnected then,” she conceded, “without the courtesy of letting me know first. You made it clear you didn’t want to hear from me again, and you didn’t want to call me either, or you would have.”

“That isn’t what happened.”

Emma squinted her eyes, wishing she could scream and yell and lose control, but she refused to frighten Henry or give Sawyer the satisfaction of seeing her so rattled. Instead, she said, “I called your number every month after my prenatal appointment, and I listened to the notification that your number had been disconnected. I forced myself to remember you were done with me, even if my heart wasn’t done with you, and you have no idea what that was like for me.”