Dying for Love

Chapter Five (#uc5c00047-3d3b-5274-93ca-9cae313f7794)

Chapter Six (#udef0cfcf-e9e9-5675-b629-e4bf32592984)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Angel Nicholas (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#uefeb9126-c91e-593a-8c3a-2a24a9c125f0)

April 19, 1986

Cassandra’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. A wild hare hopped across the rusty train tracks and a gentle breeze blew through the open windows, mixing freshly bloomed jasmine with the smell of poverty.

She turned. Sober gazes met hers over the worn bench seat, her children’s little faces pale in the unusual spring heat. Her sweet babies had learned early in life to be very, very quiet. If they managed to blend into the woodwork, Daddy might not notice them. Being noticed was never a good thing. Not in their home.

Sandra swallowed the sob threatening her tenuous calm and tore her gaze away.

Where was the train? Closing her eyes, she pictured the train schedule—and easy feat, thanks to her photographic memory—then glanced at the dusty clock set in the dashboard. Pointless, since it had stopped working two years ago on October 9. The night her youngest, Gracie, was born.

Hoss had flown into a rage when her water broke and soaked the car seat on the way home from a high-school football game. He insisted on going to every game even though their children weren’t old enough to play and they didn’t know anyone on the team. Reliving his long-gone glory days always put him in a foul mood.

“Don’t you have any self-control, you pathetic cow?”

Spittle flew from his mouth and his big fist slammed into the dashboard clock. She shrank against her door and wrapped her arms protectively around her swollen belly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I knew the baby was comin’. I just didn’t want to interrupt the game for you.”

Mollified, he swung the big boat of a car around. The county hospital was on the opposite side of the small, downtrodden town, a full thirty minutes from where their sagging trailer sat in the woods outside the town limits.

Hoss said they lived so far out because he liked his privacy, but Sandra knew better. He didn’t want anyone to know what went on in their home. Like it was any secret. She’d seen the way folks looked at her and her ever-increasing brood of children, curious gazes lingering on shabby clothes and the dark bruises peeking from long sleeves before sliding away.

She knew better than to expect any help. People she’d grown up with, known since she was a baby, turned their backs on the obvious signs of abuse and neglect. They still thought of the man she’d married as a hero. They saw him or heard his name and got that look in their eyes.

The quarterback who’d put their small town on the map. Took the team all the way to the state championship and brought home the big trophy. Even with the evidence right in front of them, they didn’t want to believe the good ol’ Sathers boy would beat his pretty little wife and sweet babies. Or worse.

“Momma, I have to pee.”

The soft whisper startled Sandra.

She stared down the tracks again, then sighed. “All right, Suzy.”

Putting her shoulder into it, she shoved open the car door and stood. Her five-year-old scrambled over the front seat and out of the car. It had to be urgent or Suzy wouldn’t have said a word.

“Hurry, baby.” She glanced down the tracks again.

Suzy rushed to the side of the road and slipped behind a bush to take care of business. She’d been going to pee a lot lately. Sandra rubbed her arms, worried there might be a problem.

Suffocating guilt rose. Guilt was her constant companion. What kind of mother couldn’t take care of her children? Take them to the doctor. Protect them. She tried to intervene. She always tried. Even if he beat her unconscious, it was worth it if he left her babies alone. She never succeeded, though.

The first time, their oldest was just two years old and on a crying jag from the pain of cutting a handful of teeth all at once. Sandra had seen the rage in his eyes and stepped in front of him when he reached for the baby. Hoss threw her across the room, bruising her entire backside black and blue and knocking her unconscious. But the worst had come after. When she’d opened her eyes again, hell had risen from the bowels of the earth and taken over her living room. The sight of him hurting their little girl was seared into her brain.

She wouldn’t have to worry about her babies much longer. She glanced again at the tracks. From a long way off, a piercing whistle blew. Her nerves trembled—almost broke.

Squaring her shoulders and firming her chin, she took a deep breath.

Panic crawled up her throat, so she took another breath. She smiled through the open window at her little ones, sitting so quiet in the backseat. Gracie, her precious blue-eyed girl, sat on the farthest side of the car in her high-backed infant seat. There weren’t enough seat belts, so as the littlest, she was the only one securely buckled in.

The train whistle blew again.