Troubled Waters. Rachelle McCallaЧитать онлайн книгу.

      “Down, get down!” he shouted, his voice lost amid the sound of rapid-fire gunshots and breaking glass.

      Tracie could feel the impact of the bullets as they hit him, knocking the air from his body. Yet in six strides, he had her across the yard and over the old stone wall. Heath shoved her against the far side of the wall, shielding her with his body. “Stay down,” he hissed, and she could hear him struggling to inhale.

      She knew he was wounded—he had to be—but she couldn’t see where, and the cold damp of the snow beneath her began to seep through her clothing while she waited.

      Silence. Even Heath’s labored breathing had eased, though his body was tense above her and he had his sidearm out, covering them, waiting. Tracie listened, not daring to move, wondering if the gunman would come after them, wondering who it could be. Her former partner’s killers? Or perhaps someone who didn’t want them to know the full extent of what Trevor had been involved in.

      RACHELLE MCCALLA

      is a mild-mannered housewife, and the toughest she ever has to get is when she’s trying to keep her four kids quiet in church. Though she often gets in over her head, as her characters do, and has to find a way out, her adventures have more to do with sorting out the carpool and providing food for the potluck. She’s never been arrested, or in a fistfight, or shot at. And she’d like to keep it that way! For recipes, fun background notes on the places and characters in this book and more information on forthcoming titles, visit www.rachellemccalla.com.

      Troubled Waters

      Rachelle McCalla

      And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

      —Romans 8:28

      To my parents, Brian and Kerry Richter, with love.

      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

      LETTER TO READER

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSSION

      ONE

      Something wasn’t right. Tracie Crandall eyed her new Coast Guard partner warily as they walked up the snowy path to her former partner Trevor Price’s house. She felt nervous, not just because of the flint-hard, steel-blue eyes of the man walking beside her, but because it was the first time she’d been near Trevor’s place since his death. Though she wasn’t sure how she’d react, the last thing she wanted was to show any sign of weakness with Heath Gerlach watching.

      “You’ve got the warrant?” Heath asked in a low voice.

      Tracie patted the breast pocket of her Coast Guard parka. “Right here.”

      He nodded, his eyes flickering from her pocket to her face, and then quickly to the house and the woods surrounding it. Tracie felt as though he’d taken in every possible detail in those fleeting glances, and perhaps seen right through her tough exterior to her nervousness as well.

      Heath’s features softened ever so slightly. “You’re all right coming here?”

      “Of course,” Tracie swallowed back her fear. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

      He tipped his head dismissively, his attention already back on the house. As he turned toward the curtained living room window, his nostrils flared, reminding Tracie of the way Gunnar, her German shepherd mix, reacted when he scented danger.

      With her hand raised toward the doorbell, she paused, her eyes narrowing. “Do you think—” she started to ask, but the words were ripped from her lips as Heath grabbed her, scooping her off the stoop as he leapt toward the woods.

      “Down, get down!” he shouted, his voice lost amid the sound of rapid-fire gunshots and breaking glass. She could feel the impact of the bullets as they hit him, knocking the air from his body. In six strides he had her across the yard and over the old stone wall that marked the property line between Trevor’s lot and the woods beyond it.

      Heath shoved her against the far side of the wall, shielding her with his body. “Stay down,” he hissed, and she could hear him struggling to inhale. “Are you hit?”

      Tracie ripped the radio from her belt. “I’m fine,” she said, before hurtling a call for backup and paramedics. After hastily relaying their location and the situation, she clicked off the radio and looked back at her partner. She knew he was wounded—he had to be—but she couldn’t see where, and the cold damp of the snow beneath her began to seep through her clothing while she waited.

      Silence. Even Heath’s labored breathing had eased, though his body was tense above her and he had his sidearm out, covering them, waiting. Tracie listened, not daring to move, wondering if the gunman would come after them, wondering who it could be. Trevor’s killers? Or perhaps someone who didn’t want them to know the full extent of what Trevor had been involved in.

      With over six feet of solid muscle blocking her body and blocking her view, Tracie couldn’t see much, but as she eased her head to the side, she saw the growing puddle of red in the snow.

      “You’re hit,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than a breath.

      “Shh,” Heath cautioned her. Even in near silence, she could hear the pain in his voice.

      She pinched her eyes shut, praying. The paramedics would come from the Bayfield volunteer fire association, which meant guys with beepers ditching whatever they were doing, calling in, and driving to the fire house for equipment before driving out to them. All those things took time. The roads were more or less passable after the latest snowfall, but still, she wondered if they’d be too late. She couldn’t stand the idea that she’d lose two partners in less than six weeks.

      “Do you need a tourniquet?” Her voice was barely audible.

      Heath’s head twitched slightly to one side. A quarter shake. Did he mean no, or was he fading already from the loss of blood? From the pattern of gunfire she’d heard, Tracie figured the gunman had been using some sort of assault rifle. Their standard-issue Coast Guard body armor wouldn’t stop a bullet like that. It would barely even slow it down. And Heath had to have been hit several times.

      An engine revved behind the house, and Heath eased up from above her. “He’s getting away,” he muttered, though his movements were still cautious, his voice quiet.

      “Do you want me to try to go after him?” Tracie offered as the sound of the vehicle began to fade.

      “No,” Heath shifted his body and looked down at her. His face was so close she could see the tips of dark hairs starting to sprout into a five-o’clock shadow. “Your body armor won’t stop what he’s shooting.”

      About to ask how he knew, Tracie realized Heath’s arm was wrapped around her torso, his hand beneath her, cradling her from the cold of the snow. “And what are you wearing?” she asked, shifting her body away from the close contact, more aware of him than she wanted to be. “Obviously not our standard-issue bulletproof