Dangerous Melody (21 page)

“And I didn’t want to forgive myself. But that’s changed now.” He traced his fingers over her face, keeping her gaze riveted to his.

“I brought Bittman into our lives, and
your father...” Tears slipped down her cheeks.

He hugged her closer and traced the curve of her cheekbone with his lips. “We made mistakes. Both of us. I feel like I got a second chance to start over, and I want to spend the rest of my life celebrating that with you.”

Her skin prickled as she leaned against him, his hand on the small of her back. “Tate, there’s too much...”

“No,”
he whispered in her ear. “There’s just enough. Just enough love to keep us together in this crazy life, to keep us strong for each other.”

Just enough love? Did she have enough love and strength left to turn her back on their dark past? “Tate, I...”

She broke off, lost in a rush of emotion that sounded over her like the sweetest note of a haunting song. All she had to do was give the
past to God and take hold of the future with which God had blessed them both.

“I love you, Tate,” she whispered, turning her face to his.

“I’ve sure waited a long time to hear that,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She was almost sure, as his mouth found hers, that she could hear an exquisite melody that was theirs alone.

* * * * *

Look for Dana Mentink’s next
TREASURE SEEKERS
novel,
FINAL RESORT, available in February
from Love Inspired Suspense.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt of
Navy SEAL Rescuer
by Shirlee McCoy!

Dear Reader,

This week we watched a wonderful baby dedication at our church. The youth group led the little preschoolers in a song that brought down the house, so to speak. I know my eyes were certainly damp! We all cooed over the adorable children, God’s precious treasures. It struck me that as we change and grow, like that innocent baby into adulthood, sometimes we lose our way
and forget that we are treasures in God’s eyes. Swept up in circumstances and world-weary, we drift far away from that understanding, don’t we? The good news is, no matter how far we drift, no matter how broken we become, God will find us because we are His treasures, priceless in His eyes
. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.
Luke 19:10.

Thank you for joining me in
this second book in the Treasure Seekers series. The next book will focus on Luca Gage as he embarks on a wild hunt to find a “pearl of great price” inadvertently acquired by a missing man in the purchase of an abandoned storage unit. Dangerous times are ahead for the Gage family as this series wraps up.

I welcome comments from my readers. You can reach me via my webpage at
www.danamentink.com
, and my physical address is there also for those who prefer corresponding by mail.

Thank you sincerely for spending some precious time with me!

Fondly,

Dana Mentink

Questions for Discussion

1. Stephanie Gage is thrown into a deadly situation because of bad decisions made earlier in her life. How do past mistakes intrude upon our present lives? What are some biblical examples of how to handle such situations?
   

2. Joshua Bittman is a man obsessed with having his own way. Have you had experience with people who share this trait? How do they
   deal with defeat?
   

3. The Treasure Seekers pursue a priceless violin made by Guarneri del Gesu. What other prizes do modern-day treasure hunters seek? Can you recall any treasures that have recently made the news?
   

4. Tate shut Stephanie and Maria out of his life when he succumbed to addiction. Was it right to keep them away from the situation? Why or why not?
   

5. Stephanie and Tate are
   very different, but also share some strong similarities. What character traits do they have in common? Are these helpful traits or hindrances?
   

6. How can we be mindful of our past failures, and still move forward to live the life God intends for us?
   

7. Do you think it’s a good idea for Tate to continually carry around a reminder of his addiction? Why or why not?
   

8. Ex-cop Tuney makes
   an appearance in this story. What would be a happy ending for him? Do you suppose such an ending would be possible for a man of his character?
   

9. If you could embark on your own treasure hunt, what prize would you search for? Explain.
   

10. Tate will have to fight his addiction all his life, but he has chosen to look forward to his future. Is there an area of your life where you are making
    the same choice? What is the benefit to making that decision? The cost?
    

11. Stephanie’s plan to free Tate from the burning jail is extreme. Would you have done the same? Why or why not?
    

12. Luca will take the lead in the final installment of the Treasure Seekers series. What treasure do you imagine he will be looking for? What roadblocks will he face on his way to finding a soul mate?
    

ONE

M
URDERER!

Red letters dripped like blood down the front of the freshly
painted house.

Smaller letters marched across the newly whitewashed porch
floor.

Murderer.

The painted words seemed to taunt Catherine Miller as she
trudged to the back of the old farmhouse and grabbed two nearly empty paint cans
from the dilapidated shed. Hopefully,
she had enough to cover the vandalism. She
snagged a couple of paint pans, tucked paint rollers under her arm and carried
everything to the porch. Ten minutes, and she’d be done.

Good. Eileen would be finished with chemo in an hour, and
Catherine didn’t want her grandmother waiting. She was too sick, too exhausted,
too frail to be left sitting in a crowded hospital waiting
room. At sixty-seven,
Eileen’s clock was running down, and Catherine wished desperately that she could
wind it back up again. She couldn’t, so she’d purposed to spend every moment she
could making sure Eileen’s last weeks and months were comfortable and
pleasant.

That meant getting rid of the vandalism before Eileen got
home.

She touched a finger to the dry red
paint. Not even tacky.
Whoever had vandalized the house had done it soon after Catherine and Eileen had
left for the hospital. Some punk kid. She was sure that was what the sheriff
would say if she called.

She wouldn’t.

She’d put her grandmother through enough already. She wouldn’t
bring her home to vandalism or to police poring over the property. She’d cover
the paint and keep what had happened locked safely away with all the other
things she couldn’t share.

The sun blazed from the blue summer sky, the breezeless air hot
and arid. Sweat trickled down her temple and neck as she poured dove-gray paint
into a pan.
Whoosh.
One letter gone.
Swish.
Another disappeared. She should have felt
satisfaction, but she felt nothing. Not
anger. Not irritation. Not dismay,
disgust, horror.

Nothing.

She covered another letter and wiped sweat from her upper lip,
surveying the fresh paint. Not even a shadow of red peeked out from under the
gray. Perfect. Eileen would never know what had happened, and that was the only
thing Catherine cared about. She dipped the roller in gray again, sweeping it
over
the
E
and
R,
the
silence of the old farmstead only broken by the swishing of paint on wood.
Nothing moved. Not the tall grass and weeds that pressed up against the
perimeter of the yard. Not the leaves on the trees.

The stillness ate at Catherine as she worked, nudging at the
back of her mind. Four years in the state prison had insulated her from the
world, but not
from people and life. There had been little silence in her cell
block and even less time alone. Here, in the small town where she’d grown up,
she seemed to always be alone and silent. Even when she was in a crowd. Even
when Eileen was close by.

She grabbed a fresh roller, poured white paint into a clean pan
and slicked it over the red letters on the porch. Almost done.
There’d be plenty
of time for the floor to dry before she picked Eileen up from chemotherapy.

Something rustled to her left, the tall weeds that edged the
property swaying. No breeze to blow them, but they moved again, twitching to the
left and right as she watched.

“Who’s there?” she asked, sure a bird would fly out of the
overgrowth. Instead, soft laughter drifted
from the weeds, the sound chilling
her blood.

“I said, ‘who’s there?’”

“Murderer!” The taunt whispered out, and Catherine
stiffened.

She’d been out of prison for two months, and in that time,
vandals had broken a window, slashed her car tires and egged the house. The
sheriff had been out three times, but he hadn’t been able to track down the
perpetrators.
Kids with too much time on their hands. That’s what he’d said, and
Catherine had believed him, because she hadn’t wanted to believe an adult was
trying to chase her out of town.

But, then, in Pine Bluff, just about anything seemed possible.
Here, the guilty wandered free and the innocent rotted in jail.

Just once,
her rational self
said.

Just you.

The weeds
rustled and a tall figure stepped out. Broad and
muscular, he stood at the edge of the yard, a ski mask pulled over his face.

A kid?

Catherine didn’t think so, and she tensed, setting the paint
roller in the pan without taking her eyes off the man. “Go home.”

“Go home,”
he mocked, chuckling
softly.

“I’m going to call the police,” she said, backing toward the
front door.

“I don’t think so,” he responded and loped toward her.

She lunged for the door, yanking it open, terror squeezing the
breath from her lungs as an arm wrapped around her waist, a hand slapped over
her mouth.

“Let’s go inside.” He pressed her toward the yawning doorway,
and she shoved back, raking her hand down his knit ski mask, slamming her elbow
into his ribs. Prison hadn’t taught her much, but it
had
taught her how to fight.

He cursed, his grip loosening, and she broke free, lifting the
paint roller, swinging at his face. Paint splattered across his ski mask, and he
stumbled back.

She didn’t wait. Didn’t try to fight more. Just jumped off the
porch and sprinted across the yard, heading for the dirt road
that connected the
homestead to its nearest neighbor.

Please, please.

Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in fast.

Please.

She turned left at the road. A quarter mile, and she’d be at
the Morris place. Empty for years but finally sold to a man that Eileen said
spent more time away than home.

Please, let him be home.

Her breath panted out, the old
broken mailbox that marked the
beginning of Morris property just ahead, the curve in the road that hid the
house from view just beyond it.

Close.

She was so close.

God is smiling down on you, my sweet
girl.

The voice echoed from a past so far away that Catherine wasn’t
sure it had ever been hers.

And then she was yanked back with so much force she
flew. Off
balance, arms flailing, she beat at her attacker, jabbed at his eyes, tried to
pull the mask from his face, screaming, screaming. As if someone might hear. As
if rescue might be just a moment away.

His fist clipped her jaw, and she reeled, stars and darkness
dancing at the edge of her vision.

Please, please, help me.

The prayer danced, too, slipping
into her muddled thoughts,
breaking her cardinal rule to never ask for help. She’d clung to her faith
through rocky times, but the past few years had been stagnant and empty of hope,
her faith shriveled and dry from lack of care.

If she could care again, would God save her?

Please!

Sun-scorched earth burned through her T-shirt.

On the ground, his hands around
her neck, his breath fanning
her cheek.

“How’s it feel to be on the other side, Dark Angel?” he
whispered, his grip tightening, his knee pressing into her stomach.

She gagged, clawing at his wrists, trying to break his iron
hold.

No air.

No breath.

Just hot dirt and hot sun and cold blue eyes staring into
hers.

Please!

She let go of his wrists,
dug her thumbs into his eyes, air
filling her lungs as he shoved her hands away.

One more scream.

Another.

And his hands tightened on her throat again.

* * *

A scream broke the silence of Darius Osborne’s first day
of vacation. Not an excited scream. Not an it’s-summer-and-we’re-letting-loose
scream. A terror-filled, panicked, help-me scream, that made his
hair stand on
end.

Another scream followed the first, choked off at its zenith. He
dropped the paint scraper, grabbed the hammer, racing around the side of the old
farmhouse and onto the dirt road.

He stopped there. Waiting. Listening.

The hot summer day was silent again.

Not a breath, not a movement.

Nothing.

“Hello?” he called out, glancing up the
road toward the distant
highway, then down it toward the curve in the road and the dead fields of the
neighboring farm.

“Help me!” A woman stumbled into view, burnished red hair
gleaming in the sunlight, welts raised on the pale column of her throat. He knew
her. Knew
of
her anyway. Everyone in Pine Bluff
did.

Catherine Miller.

The Dark Angel of Good Samaritan.

Injured, terrified.

He ran toward her, scanning the area as he slid an arm around
her waist.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Someone attacked me,” she rasped, her eyes hollow, her face
expressionless.

“Where is he?”

“He ran when you called out.” She gestured to the curve in the
road, the tall, brown grass and weeds. Anyone could be hiding there.

“Come
on.” He urged her toward his house, her backbone
prominent beneath his hand, every vertebra pressing up against her shirt. Too
thin. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d seen her on the news.

Too thin, but beautiful.

Aloof.

The perfect neighbor because all she wanted was exactly what
Darius did—to be left alone.

Only, she hadn’t been left alone.

The welts on her neck, the bruise on her jaw proved that.

“Who was it? Someone you know?” He opened his front door,
ushering her inside.

“I’m not sure. He was wearing a ski mask.” She shivered, and he
pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders,
his fingers brushing her neck.

She flinched, tugging the blanket close.

“What else
was he wearing?”

“Dark pants. Long-sleeved dark shirt. He was tall. Maybe a
couple of inches shorter than you.” Her teeth chattered, but she looked him
straight in the eye, her gaze direct, her blue eyes dark and lifeless.

“I’m going to call for help, then I’ll see if I can find him.”
He pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911 as he took his Glock from the gun safe
in the hall closet.

Catherine watched as he loaded it, her expression never
changing. The media had said plenty about her incarceration and release. They’d
said plenty about her, too. Interviews with supposed friends, with people she’d
worked with and with the family of the people she’d been convicted of murdering.
There’d never been an interview with her, though. Just
photos and videos of her
leaving prison, her expression as empty as it was now.

“Stay here, okay?” he asked.

“I’ll stay for as long as I can,” she responded, and he
frowned, hot air sweeping in as he opened the door.

“You need to stay here as long as it takes for me to make sure
you’re safe.”

“My grandmother is at the hospital getting chemotherapy. I need
to be there to pick her up in less than an hour.”

“Someone tried to kill you. I think your grandmother will
understand if you’re late.”

“My grandmother can’t know what happened.” She touched her
neck, but it was the only indication she gave of her feelings or her fear.

“Unless she’s blind, she’s going to be asking a lot of
questions. How are you going to explain
this?” He touched the bruise on her jaw,
and she tensed, her eyes flashing with life for the first time since he’d seen
her on the road.

“I’ll tell her whatever I have to to keep her from
worrying.”

“Your choice, Catherine, but remember, you won’t be able to
tell her anything if you’re dead. Stay in the house. I’ll be back as soon as I
can.” He stepped outside,
listening to the noisy starlings fighting over rotten
food near his overflowing trash bin, waiting for a sign that the perp had
followed Catherine.

Nothing.

Not even a hint that things weren’t what they should be.

Darius ran down the porch stairs and across the yard, scanning
the landscape and the sun-baked dirt road. A scuffed area just beyond the curve
in the
road gave the first hint of what had happened. He crouched over it,
examining the heel digs ground into the dirt and the footprints that led into
deep cover.

He followed them into the heavy overgrowth, head-high weeds and
dried grass pressing in close, reminding him of far-off days and late-night
treks through planted fields and desert scrub. Different place, different
circumstances, but the adrenaline was the same, the skin-tightening feeling that
he wasn’t alone was the same.

Sirens screamed, their warning swelling and then ending
abruptly. Help had arrived. If the perp was close by, he wouldn’t be for long.
Not with the police on-site. Darius slipped through the tangled vegetation,
following a trail of broken branches and crushed
grass, the Glock a comforting
weight in his hand.

He’d spent four years as a Navy SEAL working in enemy territory
in Afghanistan searching out top-ranking al Qaeda operatives, and he’d never
gotten tired of the hunt. Even now, stateside and working as a security
contractor, he loved this part of the job the most.

Cat and mouse.

Hide-and-seek.

Him against
the enemy.

He followed the trail deeper into the field, then back through
sparser growth and out into Catherine’s property. An old farmhouse jutted up
from the middle of an overgrown yard, its front door swinging open.

Darius approached cautiously, his senses alert, his nerves
alive with anticipation. Cans of paint sat on the porch, a gray paint roller
abandoned beside
them. A red shoe print marred one whitewashed floorboard, and
letters were painted across the width of the porch floor. Someone had covered
them with a thin layer of white paint, but they were still easy to read.