A Soldier's Redemption. Rachel Lee
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and said, “Hello?” Let it be more than a couple of hours. Make it a couple of days. God, she needed the hours.
A muffled voice said, “I know where you are.” Then nothing but a dial tone.
The phone dropped from her hands and her knees gave way.
They’d found her.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked up from the floor, at the huge man who had entered her life barely two hours ago. He stood in the doorway, his arms full of bags. She tried to breathe, but panic had locked her throat. Speech was impossible, and she couldn’t answer that question anyway. Not to a stranger.
Finally she managed to gasp in some air. The instant she recovered her breath, even that little bit, tears started to run. And then she wanted to run. To get in her car and drive as far as she could on what little money she had left, which wouldn’t be far at all in that damn Suburban.
And then she realized that if they’d found her, even stepping out her front door could cost her her life.
“Ma’am?”
The giant dropped the bags, and crossed the short distance between them. He squatted beside her. “Put your head down. All the way down.”
Somehow, with hands that seemed too gentle for someone she had already identified as threatening, he eased her down onto the floor, then lifted her legs onto the couch. Treating her for shock, she realized dimly as the wings of panic hammered at her.
“What happened?” he asked again.
The adrenaline had her panting. Who should she call? The Marshals? She knew what they’d do, and God help her, she didn’t want to do that again.
“The sheriff. I need to talk to Gage.”
At least he didn’t question her again. Instead he reached for the phone she had dropped and pressed it into her hand.
“Need me to leave?” he asked. “I’ll just go unload the car …”
He shouldn’t hear this, but around his dark eyes she saw something like genuine concern. Something that said he’d do whatever was best for her, regardless of what it might be.
Her throat tightened. So few people in her life who would care if she lived or died anymore. Even the Marshals would probably just consider her a statistic on their chart of successes and failures.
“I …” She hesitated, knowing she wasn’t supposed to share her true situation with anyone. Not anyone. But what did she have to say that he couldn’t hear? She didn’t have to mention anything about the witness protection program or her real identity because Gage already knew.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Just don’t get up yet. I’ll get the rest of the stuff from the car.”
Amazing. He rose and went back to unloading as if she hadn’t just done the weirdest thing in the world: collapse and then demand to call the sheriff.
Amazing.
But she realized she didn’t want her car left unattended and unlocked with bags in it. Bags in which someone could put something. And she didn’t want her front door open indefinitely, or the alarm off. Her life had become consumed by such concerns.
Muttering a nasty word she almost never used, she brought up Gage’s private cell phone on her auto dialer. He answered immediately.
“Cory Farland,” she said, aware that her voice trembled.
“Cory? Did something happen?”
“Gage I … I got a phone call. All the guy said was, ‘I know where you are.’”
Gage swore softly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Most likely it was just a prank. You know how kids are when they have time on their hands. Stupid phone calls are the least of it.”
“I know, but …”
“I know,” he said. “Trust me, I know. I’m not going to ignore it, okay? Stay inside. Don’t go out at all, and keep that alarm on. Do you have caller ID?”
“No, I can’t afford it.”
Another oath, muffled. “I’m going to remedy that as soon as possible. But Cory, try not to get too wound up. It’s probably a prank.”
Yeah. She knew kids. Probably a prank, like Prince Albert in the can. Yeah. A prank. “Okay.”
Gage spoke again. “Think about it, Cory. If they’d really found you, why would they warn you?”
Good question. “You’re right.” She couldn’t quite believe it, but he was right. She drew another shaky breath, and felt her heart start to slow into a more normal rhythm.
“I’m not dismissing it, Cory,” Gage said. “Don’t misunderstand me. But I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain it’s some kind of prank.”
“Of course.” She said goodbye and disconnected, then lay staring at her ceiling. It was an old ceiling, and watermarks made strange patterns, some like faces she could almost identify. Like the face of the man who had killed Jim and almost killed her.
She heard the front door close, the lock turn, the sound of the alarm being turned on. The tone pierced what suddenly seemed like too much silence, too much emptiness.
She heard footsteps and turned her head to see Wade. Still impassive, he looked down at her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Life’s biggest lie, and it rose automatically to her lips.
“Your color is a bit better. Need help getting up?”
“I can do it, thanks.” Yeah, she could do it. Get up, go to the kitchen, put her groceries away and resume the pretense of normalcy. Because there was no other option. All her options had been stolen over a year ago.
Sighing, she pulled her feet off the couch and rolled to her side to get up. A steadying hand was there to grip her elbow, surprising her. She looked into the rigid, unrevealing face of Wade Kendrick and wondered if he were some kind of instinctive caretaker.
She should have protested the touch. But all of a sudden, after a year of avoiding contact with other people, she needed it, even just that little bit of a steadying hand offered out of courtesy.
“Thanks,” she said when she was on her feet. “I need to put groceries away.”
One corner of his mouth hitched up just the tiniest bit. His version of a smile? “I think,” he said slowly, “it might be best if you sit for a bit. I can put your groceries away, and you can supervise.”
She should have argued. The independence thing had become of supreme importance to her since circumstances beyond her control had gutted her entire life. But she didn’t feel like arguing at all. No, with her knees still feeling rubbery, and perishables like frozen food and milk in her two shopping bags, the task needed to be done soon, and she honestly wasn’t sure she could manage it.
Adrenaline jolts had a high price when they wore off. So she led the way into the kitchen, her knees shaking, and sat at the chipped plastic-topped table while he emptied her two bags and then asked where each item went. He went about it with utter efficiency: economy of words and economy of movement both.
And she felt very awkward, unable to engage in conversation. She’d lost most of her conversational ability over the past year because she didn’t have a past, at least not one she could talk about, and lying had never come easy. So she had become limited to the most useless of topics: the weather, work, a recent film. No depth or breadth of any kind.
And when faced by a man like this, one who seemed disinclined to talk, all she could do was sit in her