Rancher's Hostage Rescue. Beth CornelisonЧитать онлайн книгу.
turned and met his glance. “What?”
“The McCalls told me when I broke my leg that I’d have a job waiting when I was ready to come back, but...they’ve hired a couple replacement hands already. One is a woman. A former rodeo champion.”
“Really? A woman?” she asked, clearly intrigued.
“You ever meet Zoe Taylor at the diner in town?”
She nodded. “Good food. Nice lady. I remember her.”
“It’s her daughter they hired. Back right after Christmas. Then earlier this spring they brought on another guy. I can’t see them taking me back and letting one of them go, so...”
“Maybe they’ll keep them and take you back,” she offered.
“Not unless they’ve recovered more from their financial setbacks than I’ve heard. Things were real tight last year.” He shook his head and squeezed the steering wheel. “I’m guessing I’ll have to look elsewhere for work.”
She hummed her acknowledgment then aimed a finger out the side window. “This is your turn.”
He faced her and lifted a corner of his mouth in a sad smile. “Yeah, I know.”
She twisted her mouth in a chagrined frown. “Oh, right. Sorry.”
An-n-nd...the awkward silence was back.
When they reached Helen’s house, Dave parked in the side drive and cut the engine. Even before he could unfasten his seat belt and hobble around the front end of his truck, Lilly was out and hurrying up the front steps. She walked to the end of the porch, where she lifted a flowerpot with a dead plant—some kind of Christmas plant that still had tinsel and tiny red balls on it—and extracted the spare key hidden there. Dave stared at the brown needles and wilted boughs of the tiny tree while Lilly unlocked the door. Helen would be crushed to know her plants had died. She’d had the golden touch with so many domestic things. Cooking, gardening, sewing. He’d teased her about it, calling her “Mary Homemaker.” Now he wished he could tell Helen how much he regretted teasing her. That, in truth, he admired her talents.
The familiar squeak of the screen door hinges snapped him from his deliberations. Lilly pushed open the front door, and he followed her inside.
“The box of stuff I’ve been collecting for you is in the back. Wait here while I get it.” Lilly waved a hand toward the sofa in the living room as she headed down the hall.
Dave didn’t want to sit. If Lilly was selling the house, this could be the last time he was here. He had a load of memories, both good and bad, invested in this house, and he wanted a last look around. Closure, he thought people called it.
He wandered into the kitchen, the heart of Helen’s home, and he pictured her at her stove cooking up one of her many drool-worthy dishes. She’d loved cooking, baking, creating new foods that were state-fair blue-ribbon quality. He scanned the counters, imagining the cookie jar and cake stand full of her latest indulgent dessert. He’d definitely eaten well while he’d dated Helen.
He spied a glass hummingbird figurine on the windowsill over her sink and went to pick it up. He’d given her the hummingbird for her birthday the first year they’d been dating. She’d fawned over it in a gift shop when they’d gone hiking at Rocky Mountain National Park, and he’d doubled back to the shop without her knowing to buy it. One of the few romantic gestures he’d ever done for her. His lungs tightened with grief when he thought of the bright smile she’d given him when she opened the gift. Why hadn’t he tried harder to make her that happy all the time?
He would keep the hummingbird, he decided, as evidence that he hadn’t been a complete heel and a reminder of one of their better days. As he reached for the figurine, he noticed odd stains in the sink. The spots looked like...blood. Frowning, he followed the trail of drips from the sink toward the hall. Another line of blood spots went from the sink toward the back door. And there, on the door frame, was a smear of red. What the...?
A prickling uneasiness skittered up his spine. He moved to the back door to get a closer look at the smudge and, through the decorative glass door, he noticed a familiar-looking car parked behind the house. A sedan that seemed to be held together by rust and prayers.
With his next breath, he connected the dots and remembered where he’d seen the battered sedan...
And horror constricted his lungs.
He spun to run to the bedroom, to get Lilly out of the house before—
A chilling scream ricocheted down the hall, and Dave knew.
Once again, he was too late.
Steeling himself, Dave slid one of Helen’s best knives from the butcher’s block. He sent up a silent prayer as he moved as quickly and quietly as he could down the hall toward the master bedroom. He pressed his back to the wall. Stopped outside the bedroom and leaned sideways to peer around the door frame.
“I know you’re out there, man,” a voice said from inside the room, along with Lilly’s muted whimpers of fear. “Get in here, before I blast a hole in this one’s pretty head.”
Dave hesitated. Did he dare? Was following the robber’s demands his best move, or was there some better course of action he couldn’t see?
He touched his pocket in search of his cell phone, and his heart sank as he remembered he’d left it his truck, charging. He mouthed a vile word. His thoughts were scattered, adrenaline hiking his pulse and blood thundering in his ears. He only had a knife. The cretin had a gun, one he’d been quick to use at the bank.
“Do it, man! I swear to you, I’ll shoot her!”
Dave believed him.
Sticking the knife in his jeans at the small of his back and covering it with his shirt, he raised his hands and crept into the bedroom. His eyes went first to Lilly, wanting to assure himself she was unharmed. She stood trembling, at the business end of the robber’s gun, and her terrified eyes pleaded with Dave for help. He gave her a small nod, trying to reassure her he’d do whatever he could.
He shifted his attention to the robber, sizing him up with a rapid up-and-down glance, then a closer scrutiny of the punk’s face. The robber from the bank had shed the black hoodie, his countenance now fully visible. He was younger than Dave had estimated when he talked to the cops after the robbery. Midtwenties maybe. Large ears. Extremely short brown hair. Rounded nose. Acne scars. A wan complexion. His expression was pinched, his face sweating despite the cool temperature in the house. His breathing was shallow, fast.
“Well, well,” the gunman said, curling his lip. “If it ain’t Mr. Hero from the bank.”
Remembering the blood he’d seen in the kitchen, Dave dropped his gaze briefly to the dark stain on the man’s side, just under his arm. Pain, then. That’d explain the guy’s pale appearance and rapid breathing. Dave had a brief moment of self-satisfaction, knowing one of his shots at the bank had hit the robber.
When the thief’s glare narrowed on him, any smugness vanished. The robber had the upper hand now, and Dave could only pray he wouldn’t be vengeful. And what were the odds of that mercy?
“Get in here!” The thug jerked his head toward the bathroom door. “Get the belt from that robe and bring it here. Hurry up!”
Dave glanced at the bathrobe in question, a light blue silky number. Lilly’s he’d wager, since he was certain he’d never seen it on Helen. Again he hesitated, hating to comply but seeing no option while the guy had a gun on Lilly.
Maybe before he’d hurt his leg he’d have felt more confident in his ability to overtake the robber, but his bum leg slowed him considerably. When he didn’t move for a couple seconds, the robber swung the gun toward him and