Soft Target (28 page)

In the tiny bathroom across the hall, Gray stripped from his ruined clothes and stood in the narrow shower. Tilting his face into the spray, he tried to dissolve the memories. He failed. Giving in, he leaned his elbows against the fiberglass and let the water rush down his back until the steam turned to fog and the liquid to ice.

Clean and shivering in jeans and flannel, Gray returned to the room, keeping his attention on Maggie as he dropped back into the vacant chair.

Jeff squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll get coffee. Want a sandwich?”

Gray shook his head.

“Bringing you one anyway. She’ll kill me if you starve.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Maggie stood in the hallway, waist deep in flowers with her shoes squishing in the liquid underneath. As she neared the great room, the blooms subsided and her breaths came easier now that she was free of the perfume. But the blood was to her ankles, and she had to grab the wall to keep from falling.

The tide rose to her knees, and she trudged through it to the bar, holding its edge and surveying the room. The furniture was floating on red waves, bobbing around the body in the center of the room. As it pitched and rolled, Carl’s sightless eyes stared back at her.

She struggled toward him, grabbing his head and trying to stem the flow. He needed to quit bleeding or they’d both drown. But the blood wasn’t coming from him. Rivers of it poured from her palms, saturating her clothes and coating her hair, dripping in her ears. It was to her shoulders. She was killing them.

“Maggie?”

Graham. She shook her head, afraid to open her mouth. He couldn’t come in here. She had to save him. She turned toward the door, but now hands were rising from the floor, grabbing her and clinging, pulling her down. She wrestled them, panic giving her strength.

“Wake up, Badger.”

The glare seared her eyes, torturing her. She slammed her eyelids closed. She
hurt
. When she tried to curl around the achiest parts, her arms moved by centimeters and her legs wouldn’t move no matter how hard she twisted. In frustration she jerked her body. Pain slashed through her, robbing her of air and stealing her senses.

A warm, strong hand clasped hers, and the light went out. She knew that hand. Sucking in a deep breath, fighting her parched throat, she groaned as even
that
hurt. She focused on her warm fingers and waited for the comfort to spread to the rest of her body.

But Carl’s face filled the darkness—dancing at the auction, working in the bar, dragging flats of flowers from his truck, earnest in his confession and then sightless from the floor. The roar in her ears made her dizzy, and her whimpers grew to sobs.

“Open your eyes,” Graham murmured.

She blinked and the visions vanished. She might never close her eyes again.

Instead she focused on Graham. The thick stubble made him paler and his eyes a brighter blue in their shadowed sockets. His hair was wild, as if he’d run his hands through it or slept in the chair. His smile shook as his warm hand cradled her face. Her tears began again, choking her voice.

He rested his forehead against hers. “I know.”

The door opened and a haggard Rex Simon stalked in, leading a gaggle of medical personnel. Graham leaned back, and she clutched his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, tightening his grip.

People poked, prodded and asked her questions, exhausting her with the effort to follow the simplest commands. Finally, Rex smiled his approval and left the room.

“Thank God,” Graham whispered as he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“How long have I been asleep?” Her voice was unrecognizable, warbling like a garbled recording yet scratching her throat like she’d swallowed sandpaper.

“Three days.”

Carl. They needed to know. She needed to tell them. “He didn’t—”

“I know.”

“It was her, wasn’t it?” she croaked. “What’s her name?”

“Shelby Harris,” he said. “And yes, it was her.”

“You caught her?”

“Max did.”

Her lashes drooped under their own weight. “He’s okay?”

“He’s got a nasty gash on his head, and he’s beating himself up pretty good, but yeah.” He squeezed her fingers. “Rest, honey.”

Sagging against the pillow, she closed her eyes. When Carl was waiting on her, she dragged them open again, shaking her head as tears pooled in her ears.

Graham clasped her hand and leaned close, running his free hand over her hair again and again, petting her like she did Felix, easing her pain and making her warm.

“I know, Badger,” he murmured, and his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. “I’ll be right here. Sleep.”

The next time she woke, her room was dark. Graham was reclined in the bedside chair, still holding her hand.

“It’s the same day,” he said as he sat up and turned on a bedside lamp. “I remember waking and wondering how much time I’d lost. Are you in pain?”

He held a straw to her lips, and she sucked down a small gulp before sinking deeper into the pillow, relieved for the water but frustrated something so simple would exhaust her. She shook her head.

“Right.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll let you slide for a few minutes.” His smile faded as his gaze swept her face and then continued down her body. “When I think of her that close to you—that I let her get that close,” he muttered in a thick voice. “I am the world’s worst bodyguard.”

Maggie put her hand over his, stealing the warmth and strength she craved. “But you’re a pretty great husband. You have lousy taste in girlfriends, though.”

He lifted his gaze to hers, and his lips twitched. “I pick great wives.”

Happiness and hope bubbled in her chest, and then crushed her. She didn’t deserve it. Carl was dead because she—

“Don’t,” Graham whispered, as he pulled free and came close enough she could feel his breath on her cheeks. “This was not your fault.
She
made the decision, and he acted.” He wiped her tears away as fast as they came. “Because he loved you.”

“But I’d told him I loved you. He shouldn’t have—”

His thumbs stilled on her cheeks. “You what?”

Her words echoed back to her as she stared into his wide eyes. Wishing she was clean and well, she sniffed a loud, watery sniffle. “I love you, Graham.”

He looked at her like she was the answer to his personal fairy tale. “I love you, honey.”

His kiss was sweet, soft and full of promise, and his steady heart thudded under her hand. He was smiling when he lifted his head. “You should rest. You have a lot of people waiting to see you.” He looked up from under his brows. “My parents are here.”

She groaned. “This isn’t how I dreamt of meeting my in-laws. Wait, they know, right?”

“They do,” Graham said. “Mom has given me six kinds of hell for hiding you until now. So has Amanda. She and Bob will be here tomorrow.”

“Bob? Your boss?” His life was following him here, eager to reclaim him.

“Ex-boss.”

He’d quit? He couldn’t. “Graham, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Badger.” He traced her features until he was playing with her hair. “Nate promised me that once he was married, and you were safe, I could have some fun. That’s what I intend to do. Here. With you. For the rest of my life.”

Lifting a heavy hand, she stroked his jaw. His beard was long enough not to prick her fingers, but short enough not to be soft. Her tears flowed again—happy ones this time.

“It may be boring,” she warned. He was used to chasing the bad guy and now he’d exhausted Fiddler’s supply.

“I hope so, but I doubt it,” he said as he slipped her ring on her finger. “I’ve seen your Google calendar.” He pulled a table to the bed. The game board was unfolded on it, trays on opposite sides, and the velvet bag of tiles in the middle. “But if it gets too quiet, we can play Scrabble.”

* * * * *

To purchase and read more books by Mia Kay, please visit Mia’s website
here
or at
http://authormiakay.com/my-books/

Turn the page for an excerpt from
HARD SILENCE
by Mia Kay, available soon at all participating e-retailers.

Coming soon from Carina Press and Mia Kay

Never date a profiler when you have skeletons in your closet...

Read on for a sneak preview of HARD SILENCE, the next book in Mia Kay’s
AGENTS UNDERCOVER
series

Hard Silence

by Mia Kay

Chapter One

Body Found in Well

The Lewisville Clarion
headline was brief, and the story wasn’t much longer. Beau Archer’s remains had been found in an old well on his property in West Virginia. The man had gone missing twenty-eight years ago and, without family to keep it open, the investigation had gone cold.

Abby read the story three times, scrolling through the online version of the small-town paper in the hopes of finding more information. When she didn’t, she wavered between relief and regret.

Beau Archer had stumbled into her life when he’d married her mother in Atlantic City. He’d taught Abby to ride a bike. She could still hear his boots pounding on the hard-packed dirt of the country road in front of his house, his heavy breath in her ear. He’d whooped with laughter when she’d turned at the end of the lane and made her wobbly way back to him. Then he’d taken her for ice cream.

And, a month later, his
loving
wife had shoved his lifeless body down a well.

He deserved more than one paragraph in the newspaper, but at least now he’d get a headstone.

Toby—her third Toby in almost twenty years—whined through the screen door, reminding her of the time. She deleted the alert email, cleaned out her trash folder and cleared her browser history. It was time to get to work.

Walking out onto her front porch, Abby let the screen door slap closed behind her as she stood and enjoyed the brisk Idaho spring morning. Past the security light illuminating the yard, the still-early lavender met the dark hills on the horizon.

Stretching her muscles, she winced as pain lanced from her neck down her left side. Most days she could ignore it, but she’d pushed too hard yesterday. She’d felt the muscles cramp as she’d fixed fences and then stayed at the computer, perched in her chair squinting at code until late in the evening.

And the nightmares, and the news about Beau.

Already halfway to the stables, Toby looked over his shoulder to see if she was following. Abby swore the border collie was smiling. She could always count on her dog.

“Work. Yeah, I know,” she grumbled good-naturedly as she tramped down the steps and toward the paddock. At the outer edge of the light, she faced the darkness beyond and hesitated.

Seventeen years, sixty-two hundred mornings, and she still gritted her teeth and held her breath when she stepped into the shadows. But she did it.

She did it again when she swung the stable doors open. Reaching around the wall, she turned on the lights before she stepped inside.

On either side of the aisle, her horses poked their heads over the stall doors, blinking under the bright lights, chuffing and huffing hellos.

“Good morning, George,” Abby whispered as she put a calming hand on the palomino’s velvety nose. “I told you I’d be back this morning.” After a year of working to earn the animal’s trust, it was rewarding look into eyes no longer hazy with disappointment. Still, the minute the gate opened, George trotted into the misty dawn, as if afraid someone would slam the door and trap her inside.

The other horse remained quiet in his stall. “Good morning, Hemingway,” Abby whispered as she stroked the giant black gelding’s nose and danced her fingers through his forelock. He was becoming such an elegant animal. “How are you, handsome? Ready to work this morning?” He dropped his forehead to her waiting hand. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She forced her left arm up, ignoring the persistent pain, and slipped the halter over his head and scratched his ears until he quieted. “No saddle today, I promise. Let’s get used to this first.” She opened the door but let the lead rope dangle as she walked away and let him follow. He needed to know she wouldn’t tug and pull. His clopping tread reminded her of Beau and her wobbly bike ride.

Shaking the memory free, she stood in the stable doorway. The pasture was cloaked in fog, and dew silvered the grasses not already trampled. It was like looking through a soft-focus lens. In this moment, right before sunrise, the world was fuzzy, tinted green, blue and gray. The birds chirped quiet, sleepy greetings. Hemingway froze when she picked up the rope.

“I won’t hurt you.” Abby took one step, keeping the lead slack, and waited. When the animal moved forward, she took another step. They inched through the paddock and the gate, to the edge of the field.

“Good boy,” she murmured as she offered him a carrot and stroked his graceful neck. “See? No pain.”

Leaving him there, she went back into the stable and opened the kennels. Dot, Pablo and Edgar streaked free, none of them waiting for treats. Their barking grew to yipping and snapping as they rolled into a ball. An equine scream that ended canine yelps and snarls had Abby sprinting into the paddock in time to see the gate careening in Hemingway’s wake. All that remained of the horse were his thundering hooves and the waving grass.

Slumping her shoulders, Abby scowled at the pile of dogs at her feet. They wavered between shame and fear, but the longer she stood in silence the happier they got. Toby came to her side and sat with a tired sigh.

“Well, let’s go get him,” Abby muttered to her dog before glaring at the other three. “Stay. You’ve done enough.”

Hem’s trail was marked in the dew, and easy to follow. The tall grass swallowed Toby in a gulp, and Abby followed through the swaying fescue to the river, her bag of carrots and apples bouncing against her hip. Stepping carefully on the slick rocks, she hopped to the Simons’ pasture and continued up the hill.

Off to her left, a covey of quail clattered clumsily into the sky, scaring her as much as she’d startled them. Now away from his pack, and no longer determined to be a good example, Toby shot off to her left intent on catching the slowest prey. Abby trudged on alone.

The giant gelding was stopped at the fence, munching on Deb Simon’s newly budded shrubs. He watched her approach with one wild, dark eye.

“Shh.” She touched his neck and pursued him when he flinched away. When he quieted, she rubbed his sweaty coat and stared down at the ragged hydrangea. “I hope you haven’t killed that plant. I’ll never find a replacement.” At least the Simons were gone for the summer. It would be enough time to determine the damage and do some shopping, if necessary.

Comforting pats grew to long strokes as Abby ran her hands over the horse’s shoulder and then down his back. When she reached his ribs he stepped away and jerked his head. She kept a steady grip on the lead rope. “Shh. I need to see if you’ve reinjured yourself. It won’t hurt. I promise.” She hoped she was right.

She got farther the second time. “Good boy, Hem.” He moved away again, and she started over.

It took four tries before she could run a light hand over his bones and feel the spots that were once jagged pieces. The horse shook beneath her, but he stayed still. “Good boy. I know it’s scary to trust someone, but you’re a brave man.” She pulled an apple from her bag. “You’re going to be good as new.”

The horse ignored the treat and stared over her shoulder, his nostrils flaring at a new scent. They weren’t alone.

Abby’s instincts flared to life. If she faced the intruder, she risked chasing Hem again. She tensed and moved her weight to the balls of her feet and whistled for backup. Toby came at a run. The dog was too well trained to bark, but his eyes stayed glued on their observer. Abby kept her focus on her dog.

He didn’t growl, and his tail twitched. He’d seen whoever it was before. Convinced it was safe, Abby turned to face their audience.

“Hi, Abby.”

Jeff Crandall stood on the Simons’ porch, barefooted, in a wrinkled T-shirt and faded jeans. Lounging against a newel post, he was sipping a cup of steaming coffee, holding it with one hand while the other was shoved into the front pocket of his jeans.

Abby swept her gaze from him to the yard. She’d been so intent on the horse, she’d missed the car parked in front of the barn Hank used as a garage. The little silver roadster with Illinois plates was the sort of car she only saw in magazines, and it would have easily fit in her horse trailer.

Maggie Harper’s reminder now echoed through Abby’s scrambled brain. Jeff was renting the house for the summer, something about a project related to his job with the FBI.

He descended into the yard and started toward them with an easy gait, frowning slightly like he always did when she caught his eye. She’d seen that look for so many years, from so many people—teachers, doctors, ministers...stepfathers.

Abby slipped her hand under Hem’s mane and stole his warmth while she stared back. Disheveled in the early morning sun, Jeff looked less like an FBI agent than ever. His salt-and-pepper hair hung to his shoulders, but it stayed swept back out of his face. That was good—otherwise it would’ve been caught in his well-trimmed mustache and beard like Velcro.

For years, Abby had kept herself safe by reading facial cues, and the beard hid Jeff’s expressions, which was another cause for worry. Then he’d get close enough she could see the mischievous twinkle in his green eyes, and she’d leave abject fright behind for a frisson of nerves. Like now.

“Hi. Jeff.” She stroked Hemingway’s proud neck, letting his presence soothe her while she crafted one syllable at a time.

“How have you been?” His smile was now so big his coffee cup couldn’t hide it, and her nervousness faded to curiosity. What could be so funny this early in the morning?

Hemingway nudged her hand for the apple he’d ignored earlier, pushing at her baggy shirt. When she shifted, wet denim slapped her calves. Her. She was the early morning comic relief.

“Fine. Thanks. You?” She’d spent her adult life practicing pleasantries, learning both how to make polite conversation and when to stop. Everyone in town had become accustomed to her limits.

Jeff wasn’t from here, though. He took the deep breath that always signaled a long conversation, and she panicked.
Not now. It’s always more difficult in the morning, like my tongue forgets it shouldn’t move. And with the headline—

Hemingway snorted and tossed his head, slinging the lead until it snapped against the brim of her cap.

“I got in late last night,” Jeff said as he caught the rope.

“Don’t jerk it,” she snapped.

“I know better,” he said before he shifted his attention to the horse. “Quiet, boy,” he murmured, his words complementing his firm grip on the rope and his careful removal of the halter. “No one’s going to hurt you. What’s his name?” Jeff asked, not moving with the tack dangling from his fingers.

Hemingway, because he was so beat up he reminded me of a war horse. You should have seen him. His coat was dull and brittle, and his ribs were broken. He screamed every time I touched him. It took him weeks to look at me.
“Hem.”

“Him?”

The horse had abandoned the shrubbery for fescue, munching on the correct side of the fence, and Toby had bounded off in search of feathered quarry. It left her with nothing warm, and her voice faltered in the cool air. “H-Hem-ingway.”

Jeff’s bright, teasing smile softened to one she’d never seen before. “Nice name. It fits him.”

“I thought so.” Abby stared after the animals who were now making their way home. “I should—”

“Coffee?” Jeff asked, lifting his cup.

The smell on the breeze made her mouth water, and her fingers twitched in vain for something warm to hold. She hadn’t had time for a cup this morning, but she shouldn’t stay. “We should—”

“It’s the least you can do since he woke me.”

Embarrassment heated her skin. Not a great start to neighborly relationships. “He did? I’m sorry.”

“I made too much anyway,” Jeff said. “It takes a while to get accustomed to making it for one person again.”

Abby reached for Hemingway’s harness, hesitating as her shoulder froze. Gritting her teeth, she forced her arm up. But Jeff had already slid the leather straps over the horse’s ears and let the bridle fall into his hands. She swore she heard the horse sigh in relief.

Slinging the tack over his shoulder, Jeff stepped on the lower course of barbed wire and lifted the upper one, making a hole for her to crouch through. “Stay for a minute. Let him calm down.”

It would’ve been rude to leave him standing there holding the fence, and to refuse an offer...and to waste coffee. Abby bent double, slipped through the fence and straightened in time to see Jeff’s smile fade.

They walked in silence to the back door, which he held open. He had a habit of doing that, whenever he visited and wherever they were, and it always made her feel both dainty and terrified. She stared and the pristine kitchen floor and then pointedly at her muck-and grass-covered boots.

“I’ll bring it out,” he offered. Tilting his head, he stared down at her, frowning again. “Cream and sugar, right? I think I saw powdered creamer in the pantry. Will that work?”

She nodded, and sat in the nearest chair while he went inside. When she saw her shadow stretch across the porch, she snapped straight and whipped the cap from her head. Then she ripped the rubber band from her ponytail, hissing as strands tore free. Blinking the tears from her eyes, she raked her hands through her hair—only to realize they were filthy. Scurrying to Deb’s garden sink, Abby scrubbed her nails and then squinted into the window to check her reflection. Jeff poked his head in the window, ruining her view. She jerked away, and his snicker drifted through the thin pane separating them.

He backed out onto the porch, a coffee cup in both hands, and let the door swing closed behind him. “What was that about?”

I hate things popping out at me.
Abby wrapped her fingers around the hot cup he gave her. “Cleaning. Up.”

“You look fine. Relax.” Stretching his legs in front of him, he sipped his coffee. “What have I missed?”

They found my stepdad’s remains in a Virginia well.
“Not. Much.” Despite the breeze chilling her skin and the forbidden words building in her throat, she needed to talk to him. He’d remembered how she took her coffee, for pity’s sake. “What have. You been. Doing?”