Forsaken

FRANK KNEW HE should call for backup, but the last time he’d caught someone going through his things it had turned out to be his daughter.

He moved cautiously up onto the porch. The front door was ajar. He hadn’t noticed when he’d driven up because he’d been grieving for the loss of his crows.

But now he was paying attention. He glanced back over his shoulder. Where had the intruder parked? Not by the barn or he would have seen the vehicle when he drove in. Whoever it was must have used the back road, parked behind the house and sneaked around to the front to get inside.

That meant the person knew about the back way into the property. It was no leap to assume whoever was inside his house knew him and knew he never locked the front door.

Standing to one side, Frank eased the door all the way open. The living room was dark, but a light was on down the hall. It cast a faint yellow glow that weakened as it reached the living room. But it was enough light to see that the place had been ransacked.

A thief would have gone straight for the guns in his den or the television and stereo, even the old laptop he kept on the small desk in the spare room. A thief wouldn’t have bothered tearing up the living room, which was only sparsely furnished and clearly had nothing of any real value.

As Frank stepped in, he was pretty sure he wasn’t dealing with a thief—but a vandal with a grudge. He’d made enemies as sheriff, but not that many in his career. Avoiding the floorboards that creaked, he moved through the house toward the sound of the racket going on in his bedroom. He could hear his vandal destroying everything within reach.

Frank had never gotten very attached to things, so he had little regard for the furnishings in his home. All were replaceable. Maybe his intruder didn’t know that about him. Or care. It sounded as if the person was working out some anger issues on his house. As he moved closer to the open door to his bedroom, he was anxious to know just who it was.

Nearer the open door, he stopped. He listened to things breaking for a moment. Then cautiously, he peered around the doorframe.

Frank almost dropped the gun in his hand. As it was, he hadn’t been able to hold back the shocked sound that escaped his lips.

His intruder turned. In the single light glowing overhead in the room, a woman stood holding a baseball bat. He felt his knees go weak as he stared in shock at his ex-wife.

He hadn’t seen Pamela Chandler in almost twenty years. Nor had he given any thought to her—until February when he’d found out they had possibly conceived a daughter she hadn’t mentioned. Since then, whenever he did think of Pam, it was only with one desire: to kill her.

He stared at her as if seeing an apparition. When they’d married, she’d been fifteen years younger. She’d been too young for him, too young period. He felt he’d since grown into his age. He couldn’t say the same for Pam.

The past two decades hadn’t been kind to her. She looked stringy thin, her pale skin stretched over her facial bones. Her hair had grayed without her putting up a fight with a dye job. But the eyes were the same—a fiercely bright brittle blue—much like her daughter’s.

She stood with the baseball bat in both hands, caught in a backswing after smashing his bedside lamp to smithereens. She didn’t look surprised to see him. Hell, she was even smiling. It was that smile he’d thought of most recently and how he would wipe it off her face once he had his hands clamped around her throat.

“Hello, Frank.” She said it as if she’d merely seen him in passing on the street and not standing in the middle of his bedroom surrounded by the destruction she’d caused. She said it as if they were old friends—not like a woman who’d poisoned her own child with her lies and bitterness.

When he finally spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his own. “What the hell, Pam?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

He shook his head, shaken by how surreal this felt. He’d dreamed of finding Pam, of catching her off guard and cornering her somewhere, stopping her from terrorizing Tiffany. Of making sure she never hurt anyone again.

Late at night, he would plan her murder, her disappearance. He’d been in law enforcement long enough that he knew how to get rid of her for good. No one would ever know what had happened to her. She would just be...gone.

Four strides. That was all it would take to reach her and take that baseball bat away from her and—

“What’s the matter, Frank? Can’t pull the trigger?”

He’d forgotten he was holding his gun. It hung at his side, his hand having dropped with his shock at seeing his ex-wife vandalizing his house.

Still smiling, Pam took a step toward him. She clutched the baseball bat in her hands, evil intent glowing in those blue eyes as hot as the hell she brought with her. Her smile dared him to lift the gun and shoot her.

In his fantasy of murder, Pam was always afraid. Maybe even a little sorry. Not like the woman now moving toward him.

Frank felt his hand slowly rise until the barrel of his weapon was pointed at her heart. She kept coming, the baseball bat cocked back, ready to swing.

He saw himself emptying the gun into her. But even as he envisioned it, he wondered if it wouldn’t take a wooden stake to put this woman down.

“Well, Frank?”

He realized he was shaking his head. “Don’t,” he heard himself say as she kept moving toward him. He felt his finger on the trigger. Another step and—

The blow caught him in the back of the head. Until that moment, he’d been too surprised to think clearly. But in that instant, he realized his mistake. If he’d been acting like a sheriff, he would have figured out that Pam wouldn’t have come here alone. Pam was too calculating—and knew him too well.

He felt his body go slack from the brain-numbing blow. His legs buckled, his thoughts scattering like dried fall leaves blown across his yard.

As he dropped to his knees, his gaze met hers. He’d never seen so much hatred, so much anger, so much evil—and absolutely no fear.

“You really didn’t think I was done with you, did you?” she said and swung the baseball bat.

CHAPTER SIX

MADDIE WOKE TO the sound of fire crackling in the pit next to her, the smell of bacon and daylight. She rolled over quickly, shoving the bag down as she attempted to climb out. She was surprised she’d slept so soundly. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep last night, her thoughts and the deputy keeping her up. She’d finally drifted off long after the campfire had burned out.

She blinked at the day’s brightness, momentarily confused as to where she was. But the moment she spotted Jamison, it all came back to her.

Deputy Jamison stood next to the creek, his broad naked back to her. He’d stripped down to nothing but his jeans and boots and now washed himself in the icy cold stream. The sun shone on the water on his back, making it glisten.

A ripple of need shot through her so sharp and shocking that it hurt. She hadn’t felt anything close to it in years. Maybe never. Its fierce intensity made her weak with a wanting she’d thought she’d put behind her. Until that moment, she realized, she hadn’t thought of herself as a woman for a very long time.

She quickly turned away, shaken and upset by the alien feelings. She told herself that her reaction was normal given that all she’d seen in Deputy Jamison before that moment was a lawman butting into her life and her livelihood. It didn’t matter that he had a badge.

Now she saw the man and had to grudgingly admit he was nice looking if you liked that type. Still, he was nothing like the men she’d known all her life, although he was smart, that went without saying, and not as much of a greenhorn as she’d feared.

When she turned back around, she found herself staring at his bare chest as he walked back toward the fire. It was broad and muscled like his back. Light brown hair formed a V that continued past the top button of his jeans.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully and pulled on his shirt. “I didn’t realize you were up.”

She nodded and turned to roll up her sleeping bag. A groan rose in her throat. She’d seen half-naked men before. So why was she acting like a schoolgirl? It was enough to make her furious with herself.

“I thought we should have breakfast before we head out,” he said behind her. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the food down from the tree. It will only take me a moment to finish cooking it.”

The last thing she wanted was breakfast—let alone for the deputy to cook it for her.

“I don’t really want—”

“I’m not all that hungry, either, but I figured we might need it before the day is over,” he said, cutting off her protest.

She hated what she’d heard in those words. It bespoke his fear of what they were going to find up ahead of them. With a start, though, she realized that wasn’t why he’d cooked.

He’d made breakfast for her because he suspected she was the one who would need all the strength she could muster today. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had done something so thoughtful just for her. She didn’t want to be touched by his kindness. But she was.

He also expected the worst and, with a sinking heart, she feared he might be right. To think yesterday she’d been ready to face whatever had happened on this mountain by herself. Right now, she was actually glad he’d come with her.