Saved by the Rancher (2 page)

Sticky blood coated her right hand where it lay next to her leg. Like moving hundred-pound weights, she pressed herself up onto her hands, dragged her knees up under her, and sat back on her heels.

Well, I’m almost off the floor.

She waited a moment for the room to stop spinning and her stomach to settle. She grabbed the bedpost, hauled herself up to standing, her back and thigh screaming in agony. Deep breaths, the pain subsided in small increments. She’d learned to ignore it.

Get out. Get away. Hide.

Adrenaline pumping through her veins, the need to run, escape, overtook her and gave her the strength to do what needed to be done to flee to safety. The fear lay beneath all the pain, but she had to ignore it, too, and keep her head.

Jenna made it to the bathroom in time to puke her guts out. She rinsed her sour mouth and throat and refused to look at herself in the mirror above the sink. Pulling her hacked hair back, twisting it on top of her head, she knocked over the toothbrush holder with her shaking hands, and found a clip to hold her hair away from her bruised face. Hopefully, no one would notice her chopped locks. Hastily, she scrubbed the blood from her hands and face before moving back to the bedroom to dress.

She pulled clean clothes out of the closet he’d thankfully missed during his rampage. She stripped off her bloody running shorts and tank top. Bending over to pull off her shoes and socks proved to be a challenge with her back in such terrible condition. Her muscles tightened. She wiped away the majority of blood with a slashed T-shirt she grabbed from the floor. The thick cotton staunched the flow of blood from the cut on her leg. She tied another piece of T-shirt around her thigh to keep it from bleeding, until she tended it better. She finally pulled on a loose floral skirt and burgundy tunic and slid her feet into a pair of sandals.

Dressed, breathless, scared and shaking, she searched the wreckage for the phone and found it amid a broken crystal vase.

“Stop right there.” Gun drawn, the officer blocked the open bedroom doorway.

Jenna froze, eyes wide, a new surge of adrenaline pumped through her veins. Telephone in hand, she’d barely had time to dial nine. “This is my place,” she rasped out, her voice raw from screaming.

Gun still pointed at her, the officer asked, “What’s your name?”

“Jenna Caldwell.” She left off the Merrick. If she gave that name, the press would be here in ten minutes, the story splashed all over the papers.

Thank God she’d had time to clean herself up and toss the bloody clothes in the corner of the closet before the cops saw the real damage.

“Do you have ID?”

“In my purse on the table by the front door.” She scanned her surroundings. “At least that’s where I left it.”

He exchanged a look with his partner, who withdrew to the other room to find her purse. “Who were you calling?”

“You. The police. Why are you here?”

“We received a report about a break-in.” His gaze went from the smeared blood on the floor to her bruised and swollen face. “You okay?”

She ignored his question and focused on the problem. How to get out of here without being dragged to the police station, or God help her, the hospital. “A break-in. So that’s why he trashed the place.” Her gaze fell on the bloody candlestick. Bastard probably thought he killed her and needed to cover it up.

“What happened here?”

For the next twenty minutes she answered their grueling round of questions. She kept to the point without embellishing or adding any unnecessary details. The police found her uncooperative and attributed it to what happened with many women caught in this cycle. They called for help, then changed their mind and refused to press charges. She wanted to press charges, but knew she didn’t have the evidence needed to bring him down. Right now, she had one goal, escape. As quick and as soon as possible.

“So, nothing’s been taken and you never saw his face?”

“Like I said, he wore a mask.”

“How can you be sure it was your ex-husband?”

“I know.”

“Do you want to press charges for the assault?”

“Against who? The masked man? Even I know the charges would never stick. He’ll have ten people lined up to provide an alibi and a dozen lawyers to drive a truck through my testimony. Sorry, been there, done that.” If she sounded bitter, she’d earned it after years on this merry-go-round.

“At least let us call an ambulance to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”

“Just some cuts and bruises,” she lied. Not convincingly, judging by the officer’s frown. “Nothing major. I don’t need an ambulance. Just fill out your report and dump it in the this-will-go-nowhere file.” She pressed her fingers to her temples in a futile attempt to stop the pounding.

“Do you have someone who can stay with you tonight?”

“I’m not staying here.” To prove it, she turned her back on them and called a cab, using one of the many emergency numbers she’d memorized. On average, a cab arrived within seven minutes at the cottage. She’d timed them. She would head to the fitness club, grab her emergency supplies, and get lost.

Second, she called her lawyer, Ben Knight. When his secretary, Annie, answered, she said one thing, “Rabbit’s on the run,” hung up and got ready to bolt.

“What was that all about?” the officer asked, finally moving toward the door.

“Recurring nightmare.”

“You know, if you help us, we can help you.”

“No offense, but you can’t help me. The man who did this knows how to stay in the shady gray of the law.”

“Like wearing a mask and making this look like a botched robbery.”

“You’re catching on.”

“You should press charges,” he coaxed again.

“My word against his. I’ve filed for restraining orders multiple times and been denied. The anonymous notes could be from anyone, the phone calls all come from disposable phones, and there’s never a witness to any kind of abuse. No judge will side with me against him.”

“He goes to a lot of trouble to keep this thing just between the two of you.”

“It’s personal, and he’s got a lot to lose.”

“Say he did this, a judge will listen.”

“He’s a rich businessman who runs an international company. His face is splashed all over the society pages, the image of a corporate mover and shaker. I divorced him and took a big chunk of his assets with me, and he ruined me in the press, playing me off as the gold-digging whore. Who do you think a judge or jury would believe?”

“With your face looking like that? You.”

“Botched robbery, remember.”

“This is some twisted shit. Excuse the language,” he said, frustrated. She felt for him. He saw this day in and day out. She lived it.

“You have no idea.”

“We’ll follow-up, give him a call, see if we can rattle him into an admission.”

Jenna forced an indulgent smile. “It’s your time to waste.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. Tired to the bone, her feet scuffed along the hardwood.

The cab pulled up outside and she rushed into the back seat. “Bayfair Fitness, please. Quickly.”

The police pulled out of the drive and her adrenaline kicked in again. No protection. She turned and checked out each window, making sure he wasn’t coming after her. She couldn’t let her guard down. He might be out there, following her. She had to get away. Fast. Her mind screamed at her,
“Hurry! Run! Hurry!”

“Are you all right, lady? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine. Please, just hurry. I need to get out of here.” Her voice shook and rasped out after all the screaming.

“Looks like someone beat you good.”

Jenna held his gaze in the rearview mirror, unable to think of a single thing to say. She caught sight of her own face and winced. She looked like a wounded animal backed into a corner, shaking, her eyes wide and watchful.

“I hope the other guy looks worse than you do, missy.” She must have indicated she didn’t have the pleasure of beating the other guy bloody because he went on, “The cops’ll get him. You make that bastard pay.” He gave her a stern look.

Jenna wished she could make him pay. One day she would. Right now, she wanted to lie down and go to sleep. Impossible, at least for several more hours. Probably not a good idea anyway with the splitting headache, telling her she had a mild concussion.

Now, the long process of running and finding someplace safe to hide began. Ben, the only person she allowed herself to count on, would help her. That’s what she paid him to do. After all, this was the sixth, no seventh, time she had to run. With all her practice, they had come up with a system. And it worked this last time. Or so they thought.

She never accessed her bank accounts directly. She didn’t use any credit. She had several aliases set up. None of it mattered. Rich and spoiled, he would use all his influence and power to hunt her down for his own sport. No one ever said no to him. Until she stood up to him and dared to say no. The more times she refused him, the worse things got for her.

Those first few times he found her, he sent her pretty gifts and notes, showed up unexpectedly while she was out shopping or eating in a restaurant. The police couldn’t do anything to stop him. Stalking laws were specific—and often inadequate to protect victims. Each time he showed up, she left and found a new place to hide, never giving him an opportunity to truly stalk her. He never left enough damning evidence for the police to collect and arrest him.
If
they’d arrest him.

She simply couldn’t endure his unwanted attention. Then he got tired of playing contrite and demanded her return. With her resounding
no
came a shove, a push, a slap, a punch. Again, the police did nothing. He shielded himself behind his wealth, family name, and a battalion of lawyers, leaving him untouchable.

She’d waged a futile battle trying to get justice in a system not set up to protect against a powerful man’s obsession. Other stalked women suffered similar circumstances, oftentimes listening to the police say the same thing she’d heard too many times—until and unless he hurts you, we can’t do anything. Even then, they didn’t help her. Her ex had the ability to make people say what he wanted them to say and evidence disappeared at his convenience. Money can buy silence.

“Hey lady, we’re here.” Frowning and looking unsure, he said, “Maybe I should take you to the hospital and have them take a look at that cut on your head.”

She appreciated the thought, but couldn’t take the time to tend to herself. She had to get away. “I’ll be okay. What do I owe you?”

“Twenty-seven fifty-eight.”

She handed him a fifty. “Keep the change and forget you ever saw me.”

“No problem. I hope you’ll be okay.”

He smiled, but sadness filled his eyes. The sympathetic expression told her he wished he’d never seen her battered and bloody face. “I’ll be fine. I just need to find a new hole to hide in,” she added under her breath and exited the cab.

Slamming the door, she headed for the side entrance of the twenty-four-hour fitness club. The few people at this end of the club stared, but she kept her head down and walked directly to the locker room and her hidden emergency supplies. Relief swept through her when she palmed the orange plastic-handled key she found in her purse. The small suitcase and satchel, containing her camera bag, money, IDs, and a secure cell phone were still inside. Ben had friends in high places and guaranteed the cell phone was untraceable. Securing the bag on top of the suitcase, she rolled it behind her back out to the curb, hailed another taxi, and headed for the airport.

Next stop, the airport rental car counter. She used one of the credit cards and IDs under an assumed name to rent a car. She exited the terminal and found the waiting vehicle. Finally, safe behind the wheel, she drove out of the city and away from the terror. Constantly looking in the rearview mirror, she tried to rein in her emotions. Her head pounded, pain and exhaustion slowed her mind and body. On her way to parts unknown, after all these years, it didn’t matter where she ended up. So long as she escaped him, she would drive.

Two hours later she dug out the cell phone and called Ben. Annie answered.

“It’s Rabbit. I need Ben.” Annie put her through without a word.

“How bad is it, Rabbit?” Ben’s anguished voice came on the line.

“I’m okay. Is my identity still safe from your staff?”

“Yes. No one knows who you are, just what to do if they hear the password. Now, how bad?”

“Pretty bad.” Tears filled her eyes. She refused to cry. Not now. Not when running meant safety, meant her life. Later, when she was safe and able to take the time to fall apart. She blinked back tears. “I’ll send the pictures when I can. Promise you won’t open them. Just stick them in the book.”

“Rabbit, you know I can’t make that promise. Now, tell me how bad.”

His genuine concern prompted her confession. “I have a bad gash on my head, bruises from him slapping and punching me, a bad cut on my thigh, and welts on my back.”

Silent tears streamed down her face. Her voice so soft, detailing all the injuries. She sounded like a small child reciting her lessons. The weakness in her voice irritated her. She’d held it together with the cops, but with Ben she let down her guard.

Barely able to pull the car over to the side of some quiet suburban street, she parked.

“What do you mean welts on your back? Did he punch you in the back?”

“A belt,” she whispered, knowing he probably didn’t hear her.

“What did you say?”

She spit out the ugly truth. “I said, a belt.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God, Rabbit. Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No. No hospital. He’ll only get angrier if I do.” Her anxiety kicked in again and the adrenaline pumped through her veins and amped up her system. When it finally wore off she’d crash. Hard.

“I can’t explain away these kinds of injuries. They’ll have police and reporters there asking more questions. They’ll find out who I am. He doesn’t want the publicity. He’ll take me from the hospital and do worse to me.” He’d kill her if she went to the hospital. She knew it like she knew her name.