Sacrifice of Passion (Deadly Legends) (16 page)

She stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes. Jasper was dead and she was riddled with guilt, her stomach in knots. If she’d killed him…

She rubbed her eyes. No! She did not hurt him. Did not
kill
him.

But she couldn’t shake the curandera’s warning, couldn’t shake the image of the blood covering her. And the large, indiscernible body beside her. Couldn’t shake the thought of Jasper dying. Of Vic.

The idea that Vic might think she’d done these terrible acts of violence made her sadder than anything else. She’d felt so safe when she’d been with him, felt emotions she didn’t know she had in her, felt physical pleasure she hadn’t known was possible. She was falling for him again. The bracelet on her wrist was a reminder of what they’d had, and what they’d lost. She’d give anything to go back and insist they run away right then and there so they’d be together now. But she couldn’t undo the past.

And she wasn’t a fool. He had a son, and in the light of day, after he’d had time to think about the blood and the chupacabra…and Jasper…

She’d already made up her mind that she couldn’t see him again. He’d called, both to her house and the vet clinic. She’d refused to talk to him. Didn’t allow her folks to give Vic her cell number, either, although he’d left her his. She couldn’t ask him to risk the family he was trying to create with Zach by bringing her into their lives. Not until she could prove to herself—and to him—that she wasn’t involved in any of this. She couldn’t bear to see a shadow of doubt cross his face. And she knew it eventually would…if it hadn’t already.

…

Vic looked at each of the people in his den, wondering how in the hell they’d ended up at his house. He wanted to be at the Wests’, demanding Delaney return home with him. He’d tried to get hold of Delaney all day. To talk to her. To find out how she was holding up after last night. And to try to unravel what had happened so they could start weaving a new future together.

But she’d managed to avoid him, and now he was stuck at Tierra del Oro, neighborhood-watch central, working with his closest neighbors to make a plan for how to protect their livestock against a killer. And how to protect their neighbors. Jasper Locke’s murder had changed everything.

The pastor was busy at the church, but Jasper’s brother Chris, James McDuff, and Alan Maldano were all here. Alan said he’d invited Red, too, but the man was busy doing something for his daughter.

The daughter Vic had been trying, unsuccessfully, to reach.

“There’s no way we can be everywhere at once,” Vic said. Standing sentry wasn’t a bad idea in theory, but practically speaking, it was impossible. “Protect your own ranches and yourselves.”

His gaze traveled around the room. For all he knew, the chupacabra could be one of these people.

McDuff grunted. “Don’t much matter. The chupacabra will be back.” His Scottish accent was tinged with frustration. “No way to stop it.”

Chris Locke knocked the back of his hand against McDuff’s arm. “The thing killed my brother. We have to stop it.”

The room grew silent as the men fell into remembrance of Jasper. Vic leaned against the distressed hardwood dining table he’d built just months before he’d taken in Zach. Its long boards were knotty and blackened, the wood perfectly preserved with a matte finish. Indestructible, he thought, unlike these people. Unlike their animals. Unlike his heart.

“Look,” he said, “if we had an idea what or who would be targeted next, we might have a chance. Maybe it’s over.”

McDuff hedged, scratching his scalp again. “Animal sacrifices take place in the Bible—”

Vic stared at him. “Ritualistic sacrifices? In the Bible?”

“You don’t go to church.” Chris looked at Vic, steeling his expression. Trying to mask his judgment, Vic thought, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. Chris and Jasper came from a long line of fervent churchgoers, and their uncle had heavily influenced the boys, although neither of his friends had ever made a big deal out of their church-going ways.

“Not much.” He attended Mass on Christmas and Easter with his mother, just to make her happy, but Vic had always believed that his strength and whatever God had to give him was inside himself. He didn’t buy into the idea of a God that would judge him for not attending service on Sunday.

“Sacrifices are made,” Chris said, “to atone for sins.”

Vic was silent. The oddity of believing a mythical chupacabra was behind the deaths of their livestock almost seemed more manageable to his mind than an act of redemption. What kind of twisted mind would justify killing animals—and people—to make up for a sin?

Chris’s face was painted with his devotion. “‘The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.’ It’s what we’ve all been taught. Only instead of laying down his life, someone laid down the sheep.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And Jasper…”

He couldn’t bring Jasper back, but he could still help Delaney. He needed to hear her voice to ease his mind. To tell her how he felt. Ray was handling the bar, but Vic had already called and asked him to come watch Zach as soon as his shift was over. The meeting went long—with him agitated, wanting to get to Delaney’s—and finally ended and everyone cleared out. He went to check on Zach before Ray showed up.

He’d protect his son. And he’d protect Delaney. Even if he died trying.

…

Delaney struggled to wake, tossing her head from side to side. Vic was so much heavier than he’d been last night. Too heavy. Her lungs strained as she tried to suck air into them. She gasped. “Get off.”

He said something, his voice high and sharp, and ground his hips on hers. The hard seams of his jeans scraped against her bare skin. Her mind was foggy, but something wasn’t right.

Oh, God,
this wasn’t Vic
. She had to be dreaming. Again. She flung her arm out. Flinched as she pricked her finger on something sharp.

Spirals twisted violently behind her closed eyelids. She gripped the sharp object in her hand and slashed. An anguished cry, like a tortured animal, slid through the air.

The man on top of her hissed in her ear, but the sound stretched and twined through her until it turned into a sour odor that she could almost taste. She gagged as she struggled against him, the nightmare growing more real with each passing second.
Too real
. Her brain felt spongy, everything around her stained in black and white and gray.

She pushed against his chest, shivering at the chill emanating from him and from the slick raised lines that snaked across his naked skin. Scars. Multiple lines in strict parallel, marching down and across his chest. She recoiled, pulling her knee up and wrenching herself onto her side.

“You’re mine now, Delaney. I’ll take care of you,” he mumbled, the heat of his breath making her skin crawl. “You’re my gift. My reward. I’ve earned this. Paid for this.”

Panic rippled through her as his fingers dug into her thigh. The jagged ends of his nails scratched her skin until her raw flesh burned.

Her mouth stretched open in a silent scream. She twisted her head. Felt her teeth press against his flesh. Clamped down.

He shrieked, a feral sound that sliced through her brain. Shards of color accosted her and her heart seized. She clutched the bed sheet in her fists. Snapped awake from her nightmare.

She’d stopped the rape this time!

She’d woken up before she’d had to endure him forcing himself on her for the ten-thousandth time. Delaney breathed in, her ragged breath echoing strangely in her head.

Sleep paralysis. Where dreams felt like reality. That’s all. Her psychiatrists had explained the condition to her. Over and over again.

And yet she could still feel his clammy skin against her. Still gagged at his breath on her neck. Her throat constricted.

Oh, God.
Not a nightmare
. He was here. In the room with her. Run.

Run!

She screamed and shoved at him, the dark of the room like a blanket over her eyes. She saw a flash as his hand flew to his shoulder. Seizing the moment, she scrambled off the bed. She could make out the dark shapes of the sparse furniture, the outline of the door, but as she started to bolt across the room, his hand clamped around her ankle and she crashed to the ground. The blood in her veins turned to ice. Lightning wasn’t supposed to strike in the same place twice. She had to fight! To get away!

She strained to free herself from under him, trying to see his face. To memorize some recognizable feature that she could pull from later to identify him.

“I won’t let you do this again,” she ground out. She lodged her free leg against the cheap metal frame of the bed for leverage and strained, yanking her other leg from his grip. He careened forward, losing his balance. She rolled onto her side as he crashed to the floor next to her, the heel of his hand landing on her chest. Pain exploded in her ribcage at the pressure.

“We belong together, Delaney,” he said, his voice dropping in tone.

Her skin pricked at the strange familiarity of his voice. She tried to breathe. Felt the weight of steel sitting on her chest. Stifling her lungs.

With her jaw tight, her eyes damp with agony, she managed to shove his arm off her. And then, with a burst of effort, she drew her bare knee up, hard into his groin.

Her attacker howled, jerking back, and she was able to roll away, then scrambled out from under him and ran toward the thin ribbon of light shining around the door. She flung the door open and shot out into the cold. He was right behind her. She could sense him, but she couldn’t hear him. She let out a guttural scream. Started running, her bare feet not registering the prickly grass. Her bare legs not feeling the bite of cold. Only the pain from her bruised ribs shot fire through her midriff.

Headlights speared the dark night, sweeping toward her. Her heart pounded in her chest…in her temples…in the base of her head.

And then she heard him again, cursing. Her feet tangled under her and she fell, the beams of light illuminating her surroundings like the heavens opening up.

She turned to look behind her, but he was gone. And when she looked forward again, she saw a man jump out of a truck and race toward her.

Vic.

Oh, thank God.

Chapter Fifteen

Vic’s gaze tore between Delaney’s ashen face and a dark form melting into the night. Just as he reached her, the shadow in the distance evaporated. Delaney stood up on wobbly legs, and then lurched forward, one arm crossed over her body, hugging herself. He reached her, wrapped her up in his arms, and the next second, her legs gave out and her body went limp.

He’d arrived just in time. Ray had finally shown up at Tierra del Oro, and Vic had immediately taken off, driving out to the West ranch, determined to convince Delaney to stay with him.

As his hold on her tightened, she let out a tormented cry that opened up a fissure in his gut. He reacted, loosening his arm, and her knees buckled.
Shit
. She was hurt. He moved his arm to her shoulder and held her elbow with his other hand. She had a T-shirt on. And panties. But nothing else.

“Laney, what happened?”

“It…it was…him,” she gasped.

Vic whipped his head around, searching the dark perimeter of the ranch where the figure had disappeared. The rapist? “Did you see him? Are you sure?”

She leaned against him, quiet, seeming unable to answer him. With two fingers under her chin, he turned her head to face him. “Where are you hurt?”

“My…ribs.” She held her palm to her side.

He skimmed his hand over hers, wishing there were two of him—one to stay with Delaney and the other to chase the son of a bitch who’d done this to her. Or had that been a ghost? He looked at her and saw the depth of pain in her eyes. Saw the years between them melt away. Saw nothing but Delaney—the woman he loved. “Can you stand?” he asked. She nodded, and he let go of her, praying she’d be able to stay on her feet while he got his cell phone from his truck.

He dialed 911 and reported the attack, then hurried back to Delaney. “Can you walk?”

She nodded slowly.

“The ambulance is on its way. Let’s get you out of the cold—”

“Don’t leave…”

Wild horses couldn’t drag him away. “I won’t,” he said simply.

“Blood…” She looked down at her clothing.

He followed her gaze and froze. For the second time in two nights, Delaney had blood on her. “Is it yours?” he demanded, wanting to search every inch of her. Needing to make sure she was all right.

She shook her head. “It’s his. I…I cut…him.”

He felt a surge of triumph. So now they had the bastard’s DNA. “Good girl.”

As he gingerly led her into the cabin, she plucked her shirt away from her body. Once inside, she said, “I have to…get the blood…off me,” then flipped on the light switch.

Vic blinked as the overhead light came on, and his attention froze on the state of the cabin. The bed was pulled from the wall, the covers disheveled. The lamp from the side table was overturned, the bulb shattered.

His gaze fell on a pocketknife discarded on the floor. Her weapon, he realized. When he turned back to her, he froze again. She was grimacing as she tried to cross her arms and pull up her shirt. He laid his hand on her arm, stopping the motion. “Laney. You’ll hurt yourself even more.”

Her face had lost all color, the dark stains of her attacker’s blood on her white shirt like a brand on his heart. “I have to,” she said, a pained cry escaping her lips as she tried to rid herself of the stained shirt. “His blood…it can’t…I can’t have it on me!”

And suddenly he understood. As long as she wore that shirt, marked with the man’s blood, she would continue to relive what had just happened. And what had happened when she was eighteen.

“Let me help you.”

She nodded, and as she dropped her arms to her side, he took hold of the right armhole of her shirt, stretching it out until she could gently maneuver her cocked arm through it. The left side was more difficult—the side where her bruised ribs were—but together, they finally managed to get her arm through. She stood, motionless, as he gingerly lifted the shirt up her torso, over her breasts, and finally, pulled it over her head. He laid it carefully aside to preserve the evidence for Derek. The deputy would probably shoot him for disturbing a crime scene, but screw that.

Immediately, her shoulders slumped, and he could almost see the relief at being free of the shirt and the blood weave through her. “Thank you,” she breathed.

Goose bumps prickled her skin. She’d go into shock if she stayed cold. “Do you have something else to wear?” he asked.

“On the chair,” she whispered.

He swept it up—a wrap-around number—quickly holding it open, helping her into it.

Slowly, he wound it around her, covering one breast, then the other. His fingers fumbled slightly as he made a bow with the ties of the shirt at her waist.

“The ambulance will be here—”

“Pants,” she said. “Please.”

He grabbed jeans from the chair, crouched down in front of her, and while she put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, he guided her legs into them. The inside of her thigh was marked raw with a four-inch scratch. Anger flared inside of him. Another wound. He slid the pant leg past the flaming red mark. Steady, he told himself. He didn’t want to hurt her, too.

Delaney wobbled on one leg, a low, pained groan coming from her diaphragm as she grabbed his head to steady herself.

Christ, he thought, his soul aching. There was no way he was ever letting her go.

And there was no way in hell that bastard would get away with this.

…

At nine the next morning, in the hospital parking lot, Vic carefully helped Delaney into his truck. She’d spent the remainder of the night at San Julio Memorial Hospital and had given Braido a statement before he’d taken the bloody shirt away for DNA testing. They’d have a preliminary report in a few days, which might or might not narrow down suspects, but full results wouldn’t be back for weeks. Carmen had come with flowers and an invitation for Delaney to stay at her place, and her parents had fought Vic about taking her home, but he’d insisted she come home with him. There was no way he was letting her out of his sight.

“Your house?” she asked sleepily.

“My house. I have a chair that folds out into a bed.” He wanted her in his own bed, but he also wanted her to come to him willingly, awake and aware, next time. To admit that what they’d been through together wasn’t about letting each other go, but about coming together again.

At his house, he carried her from the truck inside and up the stairs to his bedroom, a jolt of protectiveness filling him when she put her sleepy arms around his shoulders and nuzzled her face against his neck. He smiled. She felt like home, he thought again, savoring the feel of her against his body.

He laid her on his bed and then went to pull the twin bed out of the convertible loveseat that sat in a small alcove. A sleepy moan escaped her lips—sounding too much like a pleasurable lovemaking sound—and he stopped. What the hell was wrong with him? She was on his bed, exactly where he wanted her and where she belonged. She needed sleep. He could give her that. He had to give her that…and anything else she needed. But he wasn’t going to give her a chance to question what they had together.

Her hair fanned out around her head. “Sleep with the angels,” he murmured as he bent over, lightly brushed her forehead with a kiss, and covered her with a quilt.

“Sleep with the angels,” she whispered, smiling softly.

…

Ray had taken Zach to school while Vic had still been at the hospital. Once Laney fell asleep, Vic kept busy working the ranch. Manual labor cleared his head. He worked through the morning in El Rei’s stall, moving to Bluebell’s just before lunch. He spent the afternoon repairing a section of fence until finally it was time to collect Zach at the bus stop. Back at home, he checked on Delaney, who was still asleep, got Zach set up with his homework, and then he went back outside to take care of Mojo and Sheila and his horses.

El Rei nickered as Vic lifted his hoof, but Bluebell, she was a calm one. He cleaned their hooves. It was mindless, and through it all, he couldn’t get Laney off his mind. How disheveled she’d been last night, how vulnerable she’d looked sound asleep on his bed, and how much he wanted to kill whoever it was who had broken into the cabin and assaulted her.

He had to take care of her, make things right. No matter what.

He finished with his horse and began mucking the stalls, his thoughts scrambling and surfacing in dark places, twisting and turning as if trying to find a path to follow. Animals dead. Jasper dead. Delaney nearly raped. What could possibly be next?

A deputy’s cruiser pulled onto his property.

“Shit,” he muttered. This couldn’t be good. He hurried to meet Braido, guiding him around to the back of the house, away from the bedroom window.

Vic’s feelings were mixed. He wanted whatever information the deputy might have on Jasper’s death, but he hoped Derek would get to the point quickly, preferably before Delaney decided to wake up and pop her head out. Residual worry that everything that had been happening could be pinned on her had put him in full protection mode.

It didn’t matter what he wanted. Braido was taking his sweet time. He pulled out a sheet of paper and held it while Vic closed Sheila into her new pen. As Vic pulled off his gloves, the potbelly rummaged through the scraps he’d thrown her earlier.

Vick took the paper and scanned the surface. “What’s this?”

“Some verbiage from the Old Testament.”

Sacrifice
. The word shot into Vic’s mind like lightning. “Why?”

“We can’t find rhyme or reason for Jasper’s murder.” Braido made a face as if he were embarrassed by his next words. “But old Esperanza once said something about sacrifices. It struck a chord. I did some research and found that animal sacrifices were common in the Old Testament.”

James McDuff and Chris Locke had mentioned the same thing. “But where’s the connection?”

Braido shrugged. “Isn’t one. Just throwing it out there. It’s far more likely that this is a personal matter. Maybe a disgruntled neighbor.”

Vic stared as his friend. They went back a long way, but he wanted to strangle Derek right now.

“As we have no reasonable motive at the moment, everyone’s a suspect,” Braido continued.

Including Delaney, Vic thought, hoping the deputy didn’t have a pulse on her. Vic’s fantasy about a family…a wife to go with the son he already had…suddenly wasn’t plausible without Delaney. He believed in her. He had no choice. She was his family.

“Kind of odd how the killings began just after Delaney arrived in town, don’t you agree?”

“Coincidence,” Vic ground out, even knowing it was anything but.

Braido’s face was impassive. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“You knew her when she lived here before. You talked to her last night after someone attacked her, for chrissake. Has she ever seemed like a killer to you?”

Braido afforded him one shake of his head, followed by a grimace. “Nope. But unfortunately, the fact that Delaney is a bona fide Texas beauty and an old friend doesn’t have squat to do with investigating this case.”

“You going to investigate
her
case this diligently?” he asked heatedly.

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “And because you’re an old friend, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

Vic slashed a hand through his hair. “Sorry.” He sorely wanted to tell Derek about the rape twelve years ago, the one Vic believed started all this, but stopped at the last second. That was Delaney’s story to tell, and much as he wanted to help her, he wouldn’t betray her secret.

Vic ran his hand over his face, wiping away his agitation. He didn’t want Braido to interrogate Laney again. Hell, he didn’t want the deputy within spitting distance of her—not after she’d already endured endless questioning about the assault last night.

Braido turned and looked over his shoulder at the house. “Is she here?”

Vic ripped his cowboy hat from his head. Damn. He wouldn’t lie, much as he wished he could. “She’s inside. Asleep.”

Another heavy silence settled between them. “I guess I’ll come back later to talk to her, then. When she’s awake.”

Vic worked to keep his face as impassive as the deputy’s. What the hell else could he possibly want to ask her? He pulled his gloves back on. “Thanks.”

Braido snapped his little notebook closed, moving in slow, Texas time.

Vic waited, hanging on to his temper. Derek was a good guy. One of the best, and he was just doing his job.

Instead of leaving, Braido leaned against the low fence at the pig pen. “The whole thing could be satanic. Some wacko could just be trying to scare the shit out of people. Or maybe someone actually thinks he is that chupacabra thing. Or,” he paused again, “as Pastor Locke informed me earlier, the slaughters and draining of blood could be some sort of cult thing, or part of a ritualized sacrifice.”

“Murder,” Vic muttered, “has got to qualify as satanic, if you ask me.” He remembered what Chris Locke had said about sacrifices and atonement. Maybe he hadn’t been so far off the mark.

Braido directed his intense gaze at Vic, and then shifted it to the house for a moment. “I agree with you there.”

Finally, the deputy walked away. He threw a final glance at the house before cruising away in his patrol car and leaving Vic alone with his thoughts, each one of them revolving around how deep Delaney was in the thick of this. Had she been there when the steer was killed—or worse, when Jasper had been murdered? Had she been sleepwalking and not aware of what she’d seen? The biggest question, however, was about her attacker. There was little doubt in his mind her recent attack was not random or coincidental. The one twelve years ago may have been, but not last night’s. Derek was right about one thing—that had been personal. As personal as it got. Vic was convinced both attacks had been carried out by the same man.

…

Delaney watched from Vic’s bedroom window as Braido drove away. A movement in the brush at the side of the road caught her eye, but then the low rumble of Vic’s voice as he talked to himself drew her attention. Seeing him made her knees weak and her heart flutter. Animal magnetism. There was no other way to describe it. The senses he ignited in her, the way he looked at her, his gentle touch when he’d helped her dress the night before… It seeped into her until she could hardly catch her breath. He’d been there for her in a way no one else ever had. So what if he’d gotten cold feet when he was twenty years old. He was a thirty-two-year-old man now, and she was beginning to feel he’d been worth the wait. She wasn’t alone, after all.