Threat Of Darkness. Valerie HansenЧитать онлайн книгу.

      TWO

      “We could run by Hickory Station for a cup of coffee. They’re open all night,” John suggested as they left the police station after filing the report.

       “It’s one o’clock in the morning. I don’t need coffee, I need rest.” Samantha blew a noisy sigh. “I just want to take my shoes off, put my feet up and veg out.”

       “Okay. Maybe some other time.” His hopes were dashed when he saw the determined expression on her face and the shake of her head.

       “I don’t think so. Thanks for your help tonight, though.”

       She offered her hand in parting and he shook it. Her skin was soft as ever although a bit chilly. That wasn’t surprising given the outdoor temperature and the incessant autumn wind.

       He covered their clasped hands with his free one. “If you ever need anything—anything—just call me. Promise?”

       “No. But it’s sweet of you to offer.” She pulled free, leaving him feeling strangely bereft.

       “Do you still live out at the old Prescott place?”

       “Yes. I inherited it.”

       “Good night, then.” John raised his arm and waved as she slammed her car door and prepared to drive away. He was going to follow, of course, just to make sure she arrived home safely. Beyond that, there was little he could do other than pray that nothing else happened to endanger her when he didn’t happen to be close by.

       He wasn’t surprised that she’d chosen to stay on at the Prescott farm. The late Elvina Prescott had provided a safe haven and Samantha had loved the elderly lady more than her own kin. When you grew up with a mother who was so emotionally unstable that she abandoned her family, and a father who spent most of his waking hours drunk, it was natural to seek solace elsewhere.

       Hanging back, John kept his eyes on the taillights of Samantha’s blue compact. As she turned south on Highway 62, he found himself wishing she lived inside the small, close-knit town rather than farther out in the country.

       Maybe he could talk her into… No. He was the last person Samantha would listen to no matter how much danger she might be in. That was what bothered him the most. Neither of them had recognized her assailant and he’d failed to spot a getaway car, so there was no way to figure out why Sam had been targeted.

       John wished he’d thought to ask her if she’d had any other recent run-ins with criminals in the course of her nursing job or as a CASA volunteer. The way she’d described her penchant for reporting possible child abuse she could have made more than one enemy. Matter of fact, she might be the target of multiple irate citizens.

       His mind considered various scenarios while he continued to shadow his old friend and marvel at her strong ethics. That was Samantha for you. She had an overblown sense of right and wrong that had gotten her into plenty of trouble as a kid—and apparently she hadn’t outgrown it. Like the time she’d stolen a puppy because she’d seen its master beating it.

       The memory made him smile. That black-and-brown pup was the ugliest cur he’d ever laid eyes on and maturity hadn’t made it any prettier—just a lot bigger. It had scars on its back and a jaw that didn’t line up, undoubtedly due to its previous abuse. One eyelid hung perpetually half shut and its odd expression made it look as if it would gladly tear a guy’s arm off. With Samantha, however, the dog had remained as friendly as a puppy and as gentle as a lamb.

       Wondering if old Brutus was still alive and kicking, he pictured her playing with the enormous pet while it tried to fit both ends of its gargantuan body onto her lap the way it used to when it was smaller. Sam and the dog had been a perfect match right from the beginning. Both had been unjustly punished and they’d come together to help each other heal.

       John pulled to a stop at the end of her long, dirt driveway and watched her car inching up the hill and approaching the farmhouse.

       Thankfully, a porch light illuminated most of the front yard. His jaw clenched when he saw her taillights disappear around back. “Come on, Sam. Why didn’t you stop in the front where there’s more light?”

       But she hadn’t. And there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He had no business following her in the first place. She’d be within her rights if she reported him for stalking, although he figured he’d be able to talk himself out of trouble due to the recent attack. He could always claim he’d just been passing by and…

       John squinted at the house, trying to see more. There was someone moving on the porch! He knew there was. He’d only caught a glimpse of the figure but had no doubts.

       Jamming the truck into gear he floored the gas. The rear wheels spun in the dirt and gravel, then caught. He shut off his headlights, willing to take a chance that the driveway to the old farmhouse was as wide and easy to navigate as he remembered from years ago.

       Sam was really going to be steamed when he showed up on her doorstep. He just hoped she’d be in good enough shape by the time he reached her to give him a proper dressing-down.

      * * *

       Unwilling to trust the dilapidated old barn to hold up in bad weather, Samantha had paid to have a simple carport built near her back door. It didn’t offer the same protection a garage would have, but it was cheap and its metal roof kept hail from denting her car or shattering the windows when bad storms moved through the area.

       Weary beyond words she pulled beneath the shelter and parked. By the time she’d opened the car door her canine companion was snuffling at her and wagging his stubby tail.

       She scratched behind his ears and patted his broad head. When she asked, “Hi, Brutus. Did you miss me?” she imagined an affirmation in his soft “Wuff.”

       “Yeah, I love you, too, you old coot,” she said, smiling and getting out of the car as best she could while he crowded against her, begging for more attention. “Move it, dog. Mama’s tired.”

       Brutus might as well have been on a short leash because he walked the whole way to the back door with his side rubbing against Samantha’s legs, then sat politely at her feet and looked up at her while she unlocked the door.

       “Yes, you can come in,” she cooed, giving his ears another ruffle. “We’ll both have a bedtime snack. How does that sound?”

       Still beside her, the dog suddenly turned his head and began to growl. The rumble in his throat was accompanied by a lip-quivering snarl that exposed canine teeth nearly an inch long.

       Samantha froze. Listened. Waited for her watchdog to signal what to do next. Her hand lay atop his head and she could feel his whole body trembling.

       “What is it, boy? What do you see?”

       The dog inched his way around so he was facing the yard and had his broad rump to the door.

       As far as Samantha was concerned that made this situation a no-brainer. She quickly stepped into the kitchen and reached for the switch on the wall, then stopped herself. If she flipped those lights on she’d be silhouetted in the open doorway.

       “Brutus, come,” she ordered. “Come. Now.”

       Instead of taking his eyes off the yard he literally backed into the house, his nails clicking on the vinyl floor. The minute he was in the clear, she slammed and locked the door.

       Although the dog still had his hackles up he seemed to be calming down. Samantha crouched next to him and put one arm around his neck. “I sure wish you could talk. What did you sense, huh? Was it a skunk or an armadillo?”

       Rabbits, though plentiful, seldom interested him but he hated skunks and ’dillos. Still, it took quite a bit of incentive to get the old dog going these days. For him to show such concentration and defensiveness meant he was positive something was amiss.

       “Okay, Brutus. You win. You can