Roan (31 page)

It was then they saw the headlamps and flashing light of an approaching patrol unit. The siren burped a greeting before the driver pulled over on the shoulder just behind the Jeep.

Cal. It could only be Cal. Roan felt his stomach muscles clench and his face set in grim angles.

“Kane,” the deputy called as he stepped out and moved
toward them with his loose-limbed stride. “Just the man I need!”

Roan gave his cousin no chance to answer. In a voice of steel, he asked, “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the house.”

“Don't get in an uproar,” Cal said, lifting both hands in a gesture both defensive and calming. “It was your prisoner who sent me to find you. Seems like—”

“Why the hell didn't you say so?” he demanded, turning toward his patrol unit.

“Now, wait a minute, don't go off half-cocked,” Cal protested. “It's Kane, here, that she really wanted found.”

“Regina,” Kane said, starting forward. “The baby, it's the baby. I
knew
I shouldn't have left the house.”

“Everything's fine, but they couldn't locate you even after your wife got to the hospital. They tried to contact Roan then, of course, but got Tory. She sent me to tell him, so he could chase you down.”

“God,” Kane whispered, then took off at a run for the Jeep.

“Wait for me.” Luke sprinted after him.

Any other time, Roan would have gone with them. Not now. Scowling at Cal, he asked, “Why the hell didn't you just call me, or have Sherry do it?”

“Everything was quiet, real quiet out at Dog Trot,” the deputy said. “And it isn't as if your prisoner was going to run off. I mean she could have done that practically any time this—”

“That's not what bothers me. Suppose whoever hired the kidnappers came after her?”

“You're not back to that are you? No, really, I just thought I'd run out here because there was a chance I'd catch sight of Kane on the way.”

“What you thought,” Roan said in low fury, “was that
you were missing out, stuck on a surveillance job while everybody else was in the middle of the excitement. So you left your post like the most stupid, wet-behind-the ears recruit. And you think you have what it takes to do my job?”

Cal shoved his shoulders back and his face forward. “Where the hell you think you get off, talking to me like that?”

“I'm still the sheriff of Tunica Parish, or was the last time I noticed. I'll talk to you any way it takes as long as you're on my force. The two men we just pulled out of the water are the creeps who abducted Tory, and whoever killed them may go after her next. That means you've jeopardized her safety. Didn't they teach you anything about that at the academy?”

Cal glanced from Roan to the dead bodies. The red in his face receded to gray. “Yeah,” he said finally. “They did. Or they tried. I'm sorry, Roan. Real sorry.”

It was a beginning toward the responsibility needed for law enforcement.

Roan gave a hard nod. “Right. Now get back in your unit and see if you can catch up with Kane and Luke, give them an escort to the hospital so Kane doesn't run over somebody or kill himself trying to get there.”

Cal took a step back, then snapped an awkward salute and took off at a run. Roan watched him only a second before he spoke over his shoulder. “Jake?”

“Yeah, Dad. I think we'd better get home, don't you?”

Luke spoke up then with a nod toward his Jeep that was disappearing in the distance. “I'll come with you, since I seem to be on foot.”

“You're not leaving me here, either,” Pop said.

“Right,” Roan answered. “Let's move it.”

 

It was a relief to be rid of Cal, Tory thought. She hadn't exactly encouraged him to stick around after she saw how
he was itching to leave. It had been weeks since she'd been really alone, with no one around to know or care what she was doing. It felt strange.

The house seemed unnaturally quiet as well. The rooms were cavernous with their ceilings so high that the light of a lamp hardly reached into the upper levels. Her footsteps echoed off the plastered walls as she walked. There were too many windows and the darkness crowded too close against them. The intermittent squawking of the scanner was so loud that it grated on her nerves.

Beau was disturbed by the absence of Jake and his dad, she thought. The big hound followed her around from room to room, curling up near wherever she settled. Now and then he lifted his head as if to listen, and twice he got up and went toward the door, barking in low and gruff inquiry. She thought he might want out, and opened the door for him, but he only stared into the night. When she shut the door again, he returned to her side.

It was perhaps a half hour after Cal left that Beau looked up from where he lay curled on the bedroom rug and barked a warning. Heaving upright, he stood with his big front feet planted and the hair on his neck raised in a ruff. Tory looked in his direction from where she sat on the end of Roan's bed, following the unfolding drama at the iron bridge. “What is it, boy? You hear something? Is it Clay again, or just April's cat teasing you?”

Luke's wife had told Tory about her big black tom, Midnight, that liked to roam around the lakeshore. Tory thought it might be the better part of valor for the cat to stay away from Dog Trot with all its hounds, but she'd promised April that she'd keep an eye out for him.

Beau growled again. Hard on the sound, a knock came on the kitchen door downstairs. Tory turned toward the
sound with her nerves jangling. She'd heard no car on the drive. Of course, it could have been covered by the scanner noise.

The impulse to ignore the summons was strong. However, the door was locked, and she wasn't sure Pop or Jake had their keys with them. It could also be news of Regina. She liked Kane's wife and was worried about her, and Cal might be back with a report.

It was Harrell who stood on the back gallery. In the light that fell through the upper glass portion of the door, she could see him standing with his hands in his pockets and a pensive smile on his face.

“What do you want?” she called. Behind her, Beau rumbled a growl followed by a low bark.

“We need to talk, Tory. Open the door.”

“I don't think so.” It was the last thing she'd do, in fact, when she was fairly certain the bodies of Zits and Big Ears were being hauled from the wreckage of their getaway truck at this moment. Mention of multiple gunshot wounds were a strong indication that their deaths had not been accidental.

“I mean it, darling. You have to let me in. I know you have questions about the papers I signed, but I'm sure I can clear up everything if you'll just listen.”

He'd always been sure he could talk his way around her. Once maybe, but not anymore. “Go away, Harrell. I'm not interested in anything you have to say.”

“Fine, if that's the way you want to play it.”

For a split second, she felt relief shift through her. Then she saw Harrell take a handkerchief from his pocket, shake it out, and then wrap it around his fist. He drew back then and slammed a hard blow at the door glass. The corner pane above the handle broke with an icy tingling, scattering shards across the brick floor at her feet. Then Harrell
reached in, feeling for the lock. Two seconds later, he was standing in the doorway.

Tory took several steps back, but stood her ground since she saw no sign of a weapon. No doubt Harrell thought he needed none to deal with her. Beau padded forward to put himself between her and her ex-fiancé while his growl rasped like a buzz saw. She laid a hand on the big dog's head. “I'd stop there, if I were you. He's trained to hunt men.”

Harrell had already come to a standstill. “We can talk here,” he said, his gaze on the dog, “but I've been watching for a chance to see you, and don't intend to miss this one.”

He'd been watching. She didn't like the sound of that since it meant he knew she was alone. “Make it brief.”

“I didn't mean to hurt you before. You looked so normal and well that I didn't think…”

“Never mind. It wasn't permanent.”

“Thank God. I'm so sorry, you know. More than I can say. I've wanted desperately to tell you.”

“Harrell,” she began.

“I'm really sorry for everything, though I know you don't want to hear it. You stopped caring, didn't you? I guess I'm just surprised at how fast it happened, how fast you threw in with the creeps who abducted you.”

“I was never in love with you, Harrell. I told you that when I gave back your ring. It was mistake from the beginning, and there was no point in compounding it. As for throwing in with my kidnappers, as you put it, you know better. Nobody's here, now, so you don't have to pretend.”

He laughed. “Right. You were too good to fall in love with me, weren't you, princess? But your sheriff is a different story. If I'd known half-killing you would do the trick, I'd have tried it long ago.”

“Crude, Harrell. But why am I surprised?”

He turned dark red under his tan. “That'll play well in the press, won't it? I know a reporter or two who'd love to break the story of the kidnapped heiress shot by the hick sheriff. TV crews and news vans will swarm this town. Nobody will be able to go to the bathroom without having a reporter hand them the toilet paper. They'll crucify this rebel Rambo of yours, a man who shot you full of holes, scrambled your brain, and then locked you up in his own house with a kinky restraint so he could use you for his own little sex slave. What a story! I love it. Don't you?”

“You are revolting,” she said, every syllable as distinct as she could make it.

“Do you think so?” His smile was snide. “But how can you tell, considering all you've been through? I mean, who could blame you for needing the services of a good therapist after all this terrible trauma? Maybe even a nice stay in a luxurious rest home would be advisable, say with a flock of high-priced psychiatrists in attendance?”

Beau, responding to the menace in his tone, edged forward with a snarl. Tory smoothed his big head to restrain him, and saw that her fingers were shaking. Her voice was not quite even as she said, “That's ridiculous.”

“You know, I don't think so. I think you've played right into my hands with this little affair of yours. Your stepfather is going to just hate all the publicity. We've already agreed that you're too much like your mother, too flighty and frivolous, unable to cope with the pressures of your family name and position. I think he'll see my point when I suggest a long recuperation under sedation, lots of sedation. That is, of course, unless you'd like to forget all our little differences and marry me, after all?”

“You're crazy,” she whispered.

“No, not at all, just determined to do things my way.
We can leave right now. I'll see that everything's kept quiet. No press, no announcements. We'll have a small wedding, maybe just a civil ceremony. You'll forget the papers you made such a fuss about before and we'll live happily ever after.”

She laughed. “Oh, deliriously. With you in charge of my money and me in a rest home.”

“Darling, I'll always take care of you. Your stepfather and I will do it together.”

“I don't think you'll find it easy to persuade Paul Vandergraff to share.”

His face turned cold. “Don't underestimate me. That's a big mistake, as I think you've already discovered.”

“It's a common failing, isn't it?” she asked, tipping her head. “Even you fell into it when you thought I'd go along with whatever you did.”

“Are you thinking of fighting me?” His voice rang deadly hard. “Don't. To have you as my wife isn't absolutely necessary. All I really need is for your signature on those papers to go unchallenged.”

He was threatening to kill her. He could stand there and do it because he thought she had no defense. The very idea sickened her. It also brought rage boiling up from inside her.

She'd been kidnapped, tied up and gagged, jerked around, shot, accused of being a felon, imprisoned, fitted with a degrading monitor, publicly revealed as a liar, and threatened with a mental institution. She was tired of it. She was damned tired of it, and she wasn't going to put up with it any longer.

“Listen to me,” she said, narrowing her eyes to slits. “I am Victoria Molina-Vandergraff, the Princess de Trentalara. You think you're a big man, but my Italian great-great grandfather once had his enemies cut to ribbons so my
great-great grandmother could weave them into rugs. Mess with me, and I'll wipe the soles of my high heels on you. Literally.”

Beau snarled as if on cue. Harrell's eyes widened for an instant, then he gave a snort of derision. “You scare me.”

“That's smart of you, because I mean every word.”

“Don't be silly, you aren't going to do anything. Come on now, let's go.”

He reached for her as he had before, but she was ready for him. She whirled away, put the table between them. The dog stood firm, with front legs planted wide and teeth bared. His barking was like constant thunder.

“All right, you little bitch…” Harrell began.

Beau attacked. His big, long body made a powerful arc in the air as he leaped for Harrell's throat.

Her ex-fiancé threw up his arm, then howled as Beau's teeth sank deep into his wrist. Dog and man tumbled out the doorway and onto the brick patio. The fall broke Beau's hold. Harrell rolled, scrambling away, wide-eyed and cursing, while Beau snapped and worried at him.

“Beau!” Tory called, starting forward. “Down, Beau!”

It did no good. The dog couldn't hear her above his deep barking and Harrell's yells. Then Harrell grabbed a roof post and dragged himself to his feet. He flung a look of impotent fury in Tory's direction. “You'll be sorry!” he shouted. “I'll make your life a living hell. I'll see you dead, and your hick sheriff, too!”