Dangerous Redemption

By

Roxanne Rustand

Chapter One

Sara Carson held back as the older woman marched up the steps of the imposing entryway, trying to ignore the sudden tension in her stomach. She'd never been prone to silly fears or foolish thoughts—so why did entering her late father's house fill her with such a sense of foreboding?

"He was a fine, fine man," said Grace Dooley, unlocking the front door of the two-story brick house and handing Sara the key. Grace had been her father’s legal secretary for as long as Sara could remember, and her familiar presence was a comfort. She held on to Sara’s hand as she gave her the key, adding: "I know this must be…difficult for you."

Sara nodded, a good measure of remorse weighing heavily in her chest. Grace had clearly known Meade Carson better than Sara had and the brief hesitation in her voice served as silent rebuke over that fact. I should have come back more often. I should have called.

But Meade, a widower for the past twenty years, had been a stern, taciturn man. He'd been adamant about Sara focusing on top grades at Northwestern and then her career at a prestigious legal firm in Chicago. He certainly hadn't welcomed her home for visits beyond those at Christmas and Easter, and even then, he'd been cold and distant.

And he'd never said a word about having serious health problems.

So when he’d collapsed and died of an apparent heart attack in this house a month ago, he'd left Sara to deal with guilt as well as her grief. I should have known he was sick.

Shaking off her thoughts, Sara dredged up a smile for the woman who had been her father’s legal secretary for the past forty years. Grace’s faded blue eyes hinted at her own grief over Meade Carson's unexpected death.

Sara had long suspected that Grace cared for her boss on a personal level, but Meade had sworn that he'd never look at another woman after his wife's death. How sad, to love someone who would never return it.

Not that Sara had done any better in the relationship department. After three years of handling divorce cases before switching to corporate law, she knew romance was highly overrated, way too expensive and definitely not her cup of tea.

So she'd immersed herself in her career and had met every one of her goals, right on time. Perhaps her father would've even been proud…if he'd ever cared enough to ask.

Forcing herself to focus on the present, she turned to Grace. "Would you like to come in, just for old-times' sake?"

"Yes…no…" Flustered, Grace flapped a hand. "I…"

"You're welcome to, really." Sara pushed the door open and ushered her inside. "Were you here often?"

"Just a few times. A Christmas party once, and I dropped off documents whenever your father was ill and wanted to work from home. It’s a beautiful place. By the way, Mr. Hollister has been very careful with the property since you left after the funeral," she added. "He even had new locks installed and asked the sheriff to cruise past several times each night."

Hollister was the other lawyer in town and had helped with some details of the estate. Following any death, property could appear vulnerable to local troublemakers and his concern was probably well-founded. But new locks and twenty-four-hour surveillance hardly seemed warranted.

Grace apparently caught Sara's doubtful expression because she gave Sara an odd look tinged with surprise and even a touch of pity. "You didn't know? There’s good reason for the extra security. Your father was being stalked, my dear."

"What?" Wolf Creek was just a small town in the shadows of the Wyoming Rockies, where everyone knew everyone else and where her father had been a highly respected man. "That can't be."

"For months," Grace added. "There's no telling what the guy was after, but he was relentless. Meade received at least a dozen anonymous letters—hate mail, really. I begged him to turn it all over to the sheriff, but I think he saved just a couple and shredded the rest. The whole situation made him angry. He said the letters were an empty threat."

Sara took a deep breath. "So the 'stalking' was just those letters?"

"Goodness, no! Later there were a couple of nasty phone calls. Then someone broke into his office." Grace shuddered at the memory. "And shortly before he died, Meade told me that someone had followed his car every night that week, but stayed back too far for him to identify the vehicle."

"He never hinted at who it could be?"

"I honestly don't think he knew, but I still wonder if…if whoever it was had a hand in your father's death."

Sara suddenly felt faint. Disoriented. "But—it was a heart attack. The death certificate says so."

Grace lifted an eyebrow. "Does it? He was in perfect health, so did something trigger it? I can certainly think of some old clients who could stir up trouble. Big, big trouble."

The back of Sara's neck prickled with the sudden sensation that they were no longer alone.

She turned to look back at the open front door—and found a tall, dark-haired man staring at her through the screen.

And she realized that she hadn’t locked it.

Grace drew in a sharp breath, her face white. "Meade was suspicious of several people in the area, and that man was one of them," she whispered. "He moved back to town just weeks before Meade's death, but I've seen him around here at other times over the years."

The man on the other side of the screen door rapped on the frame. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

He was silhouetted by the setting sun, but there was something oddly familiar about the deep timbre of his voice. Sara rested a hand on the cell phone clipped to her waist as she moved a few feet closer and tried to make out his features. "Who are you?"

Someone stepped out from behind him—a short, stocky woman with close-cropped hair and a clipboard cradled in her arms. "Kay Winslow," she said briskly, pulling open the screen door. "Real Estate Agent." She thrust out a hand. "And this is my client, Brett Langley. I talked to Hollister this afternoon and he said you'd be here. I assume its all right to take a quick tour?"

"I—I—guess so," Sara said faintly, shooting a glance at Grace. "Though I won't be listing it until at least October."

The man's name suddenly registered and a flood of high school memories rushed back.

He'd come from the wrong side of the tracks with a mother well-known for too many men and too much booze. He'd run with the rough crowd in school and was known for his defiant attitude, skipping school and wild parties out at the quarry.

Yet Sara had always been drawn to him. Apart from the attraction of the James-Dean-rebel air he exuded, she’d sensed a keen intellect in him, though he'd tried to hide it beneath a shell of sarcasm and indifference. She’d been captivated by his tall, muscular good looks and she’d even had an unrequited crush on him throughout high school…though he'd been several years older and probably hadn't ever noticed that she even existed.

But his old bad-boy image didn't begin to mesh with the man towering over her now. He wore a Ralph Lauren polo, crisp Dockers and what might be a Rolex. Still, Sara couldn’t help but wonder if his apparent money came from less-than-reputable business deals. Or maybe appearing as a potential buyer with money to burn was just a pretext for a thief casing his next job.

From the sardonic look in his eyes he probably knew exactly what she was thinking but didn't care what anyone thought. He gave his agent a bored glance. "Kay?"

"He's an absolutely qualified buyer," she gushed. "No problem whatsoever. So if you don't mind, we'll take a quick run through and be out of your way. Brett?"

Without waiting for an answer, she whisked him off down the hall, popping into one room after another, chattering non-stop. After a quick tour of the second floor she took him downstairs. They left by the back door—ostensibly to view the backyard—though given Grace's snort of disbelief and the way she hurried to peer through the curtains, she probably thought he was checking out easy access for a break-in later.

Five minutes later, Kay hurried back inside without knocking and thrust her business card into Sara's hand. "He wants it," she said breathlessly. "The sooner, the better. I'll be in touch."

And then she was gone.

"Mark my words: he comes from trouble, and that's what he is," Grace announced grimly after the door slammed. "He came into the law office the day before Meade died and those two had a big argument."

Sara turned and stared at her. "About what?"

"Meade didn't tell me and he didn't leave any notes in his planner. Far as I know, the sherriff never followed up after I told him what happened. The fool should've retired ten years ago. "

Her dad's death had left a huge empty place in her heart over all the words that had been left unsaid, all of the years ahead when she'd never again be able to call him, or come home for Christmas…

But murder? Was that possible? And in this little one-horse mountain town, had the murderer gone free?

She tightened her jaw. Settling her father's estate would take months, so she would have perfect access to this town and its people. Maybe Grace was imagining things, but maybe not. And if she was right, the perpetrator could still be in the area reveling in his freedom.

But Sara wasn't leaving Wyoming untill she knew the truth…

"You mentioned a stalker and said Brett argued with my dad." Sara studied Grace's expression carefully. "Could they be the same person?"

"I—I don't know."

"But until now, there's been no mention of anything unusual about the cause of death! Not in the hospital records or on the death certificate. No one mentioned even a hint of suspicion at the funeral or visitation."

"No one else knew. Meade never had any real proof that someone was after him. He told the sheriff that someone broke into his office files, but Brownley insisted on keeping it quiet. He figured it would be easier to catch the guy if he got careless."

"My father had no idea who it was?"

Grace's expression grew troubled. "He didn't—or wouldn't—say. But after a twenty-year career as District Attorney and almost twenty more years in private practice, I know he made plenty of enemies. Brett Langley and his mother, June, were just two of many."

"What kind of vendetta would Brett and his mother have?"

"She had a lot of legal trouble while he was growing up. Got evicted a few times from the Haskins Trailer Court, wrote some bad checks. Fought the electric company when her power was shut off. When Meade was the DA, she even served some time once—maybe thirty days."

"Is she still having problems?"

"Nothing I've heard about. Maybe she finally has someone to pay the bills after all the losers she consorted with. I almost never see her around town."

With Grace’s troubling information buzzing in her head, Sara searched the room for comfort. But the dusty chandelier suspended over the two-storey foyer offered only dim light that didn't quite penetrate the shadows.

"It…seems so empty, doesn't it?" Sara took a fortifying breath and stepped farther into the entryway. "But of course it would. I'm just being silly, really—"

Grace gasped and fell back against the door with a heavy thud. Hearing the sound, Sara spun around and saw it, too: a dark figure looming in the shadows at the end of the hall.

And for one heart-stopping moment, she thought she saw her father there, scowling and impatient.

She blinked and looked again—it was just her father’s 1960's pork pie hat atop a hall tree and his wool topcoat on a hanger, its padded shoulders still shaped by years of draping his stooped shoulders.

Grace gave a nervous laugh. "That was unexpected."

"Yeah. No kidding." Chastising herself for her foolish imagination, Sara forced herself to focus on business, though it still took her a moment to find her voice. "You're welcome to walk through the place, if you’d like. Maybe you'll see a memento of some kind that you'd like to keep."

"Oh, but I couldn't!"

Sara stepped further into the wide foyer and looked up the open staircase to the second floor. "Most of the things here will be sold at the estate auction anyway, after I sort through it."

"But why?" Grace said, a hand fluttering at her throat. "Surely all of the memories…"

"I'll keep sentimental items, of course, but the rest won't fit in my condo. I'd like for some things to go to people who cared about my father."

"Are you really giving up this lovely house as well?" Grace blinked. "You aren't taking over your father's practice?"

"My career is in Chicago, but I'll stay here as long as I can. I want to update the house so it can go on the market." Glancing around, Sara suppressed a shudder. Before her mother had fallen ill, there'd been laughter in this place. Happiness.

Now, with Brett and his agent gone it seemed particularly dark and deathly quiet, with a heavy, musty scent in the air. The thought of living here for a few months, surrounded by the past filled her with inestimable sadness and dread.

Grace glanced at the faded wallpaper and the worn carpet. "Maybe it could use just a bit of freshening," she murmured.

"The will specified that I have to keep the house for at least six months, so that will give me plenty of time."

Grace nodded and rambled off into the parlor. Sara went to her father's main floor office at the back and flipped on the lights. A chill slithered down her spine when she stepped inside.

This is where he had died—or had been murdered….

Dad had died at his desk alone and hadn't been found until three days later when Grace grew worried and called the police. The phone had been off the hook and was lying on the carpet as if he'd tried to call 911 but hadn't made it in time.

Even now, that image filled Sara with sadness and an escalating doubt about what really happened.

Grace appeared in the doorway, breaking into Sara’s thoughts. "This is such a fine photograph of Meade," she murmured, reverently running her fingertips over a gilt frame she held in her hands. "W-would it be all right if I took this?" She blushed. "I'm sorry. Of course you'd want to keep everything of so personal a nature. Forgive me."

Sara smiled. "Please—take it. I have a copy back home."

Her face wreathed in a grateful smile, Grace touched the glass of the frame. "It will be a nice keepsake after all the years I worked for him.” She looked up at Sara. “By the way, Mr. Hollister says a neighbor will stop by today with the item they've been keeping for you. I have no idea what it is—do you?"

"It's probably just a plant." At a sharp knock on the door, Sara flinched then managed a smile. "But I think I'm about to find out."

Meade's will stated that the house and its contents could be sold six months after his death, but that a mysterious object was to stay in Sara's possession or the estate would be transferred to a local charity.

Furthermore, she was supposed to keep this thing alive—whatever it was—a very disconcerting thought.

Since Meade had always abhorred finned, furred and feathered pets, it had to be one of his beloved rare houseplants, maybe a treasure from his travels in Africa or South America. But with Sara's black thumb and history of inadvertently killing anything green, it wasn't going to be easy.

Had he become too eccentric or confused to remember her complete lack of nurturing skills? Why in the world had he entrusted this thing to her care?

She hurried to the front door and glanced through the vertical full-length window next to it. A wrinkled face peered back at her, clearly unabashed at being caught trying to see inside the house. Neva Wallace, the next-door neighbor, stood holding a large, battered box tied with twine and from her awkward stance, the box appeared to be moving.

The moment Sara opened the door Neva thrust the box into Sara's arms and scurried back down the sidewalk.

"Wait!" Sara called after her. But the woman kept walking and the load inside the box suddenly lurched to one side. It was all Sara could do to stagger over to the antique bench in the entryway and set it down.

An unearthly wail pierced the dismal silence of the house. Something scrabbled madly inside the box, clawing at the cardboard.

Her heart in her throat, Sara took a step back, her gaze riveted to the top of the box. A huge paw thrust through the interlocked, folded flaps of the lid, razor sharp claws extended. It patted the outside of the box tentatively. Tested it. Then furiously attacked the cardboard.

A second later, a massive feline head with a single malevolent, golden eye plunged upward through the flaps, and then suddenly the entire beast was free, its ragged plume of a tail lashing in anger.

"Uh…Grace?"

The older woman had wandered into the parlor, but now she reappeared in the arched doorway, her eyes rounded in surprise.

With a growl worthy of a Bengal tiger, the cat launched off the table and rocketed to the top of the stairs.

"This is definitely not a plant. It has to be a mistake." Grace shook her head, eyeing the animal warily as she backed toward the front door. "The will said Mrs. Wallace had to deliver that box—your father's directions were explicit."

"B-but he hated cats. With a passion. Did he really own this cat? Is this a joke?"

Grace’s nose wrinkled with distaste. "I don't know."

"Maybe you could take it," Sara tried to rein in the pleading note in her voice. "I can't even keep a zucchini plant alive."

"That wouldn’t be in compliance with your father's will, my dear…you would lose everything."

"But—"

"And I'm allergic to cats.” Grace shuddered as she gave the animal another wary glance. "They give me the most unbearable hives."

Grace turned and practically fled out the door, leaving Sara alone—with a nearly rabid feline.

After a quick run to the store for cat litter and other supplies, Sara fitted her key in the lock of the front door—but it pushed open with ease. A sense of unease prickled up her spine. I must have left it ajar, she reasoned. But she could have sworn she had locked it. Unease quickly turning to terror, Sara cautiously prodded the door open a few inches and peered through the narrow crack before opening it all the way. Could she really have been so careless to leave the door open?

Like a sphinx, the cat still sat at the top of the stairs, its fierce yellow eye glowed in the shadows. It was perched so perfectly still that it didn’t look as if it had moved a whisker.

But the table nestled in the curve of the staircase told a very different story. It was bare, an antique Chinese vase—one that had been a good twenty inches tall and over four hundred years old—lay shattered on the floor. The unopened mail that had been stacked on top of the table was now scattered down the hall.

"Did you do this?" she looked up the stairs.

The cat looked back, unconcerned.

"Did you?" At a loss for the cat’s name, she dropped her shopping bags on the floor and bent over the battered cardboard box still lying next to the door. She hoped some sort of message was in there to explain the animal. The neighbor would be no help—Neva had apparently dropped off the box on her way to visit a daughter in California and wouldn't be back for weeks.

At the bottom of the box she found an old bath towel. Beneath it was a manila envelope. Her heart caught at the sight of her father's familiar scrawl. The letter inside was like a voice from the grave. And typical of her father, it was terse, without sentiment and straight to the point:

Sara, follow through with this or my property will indeed go to charity. The deal is iron-clad.

Call him Puff.

Meade

Sara glanced at the destruction around her feet then stared up at the cat. Puff? With one ear torn and drooping, a missing eye and that intense, make-my-day air, Terminator seemed like a far better name. Already, he'd destroyed a vase worth well over a thousand dollars and…

She looked down and felt her heart stumble.

The mail wasn't just scattered. Some of it had been opened, the envelopes neatly sliced—with a razor blade? The contents had been carefully unfolded, as if the perpetrator had been searching for something and had taken exquisite care removing the letters and reading the contents.

And even a cat with a vendetta couldn't have done that.

Had someone been watching the house? Saw her leave then managed to break in during that brief hour that she was gone?

The chilling evidence of her vulnerability lay at her feet. And now, the suffocating, heavy silence of the house seemed to close in on her, stealing the breath from her lungs.

And what if the intruder was still here? What if she’d come home a little too soon and caught him without an escape route? Or worse—what if he'd hidden in the house, waiting for his chance to attack when she least expected it?

Grabbing her cell phone, she started dialing 911 as she spun around and raced for the door. She flung it open and vaulted off the front porch.

And almost ran straight into Brett Langley.

Who didn’t seem at all surprised to see her.

"W-what are you doing here?" she demanded, scooping her hair away from her face. "And how long have you been out here?"

"That's what I love about small towns,” he replied with just a bit of a sarcastic edge. “Friendly neighbors. Pleasant visits over the back fence." A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth, deepening the faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. "Frank suspicion at every turn."

Across the street, an elderly man in Bermuda shorts appeared to be enjoying the evening on his porch swing. A half-block down, a mom was loading her brood of children into her minivan. Their presence gave her courage.

"I mean it. I was gone for less than an hour."

"And I just stopped over to say hello." He frowned. "Was that wrong?"

"I—" she glanced over her shoulder at the front door of her house, a chill of uneasiness sliding through her midsection. There was only frank curiosity in Brett’s eyes and that arresting touch of humor in his voice. Hardly the hallmarks of someone who had just broke into her house and gone through her mail. Yet Grace had been so sure that he spelled trouble.

Sara riveted her gaze on his, watching for his reaction. "I came home just minutes ago and discovered that someone was in my father's house while I was gone. Someone who went through my mail, in fact."

He shrugged, tilted his head toward the small stucco house three doors down and across the street. "I'm renting that house over there and I didn't see anything. But…" he cleared his throat. "I wasn't exactly honest a moment ago. I didn't just stop to say hello."

Again, she caught a faint twinkle in his eyes. "Oh?"

"I came to discuss the house. If it's a matter of money…"

"It's a matter of my late father's will, which specifies that it can't be sold for six months. In the meantime, I'm planning to telecommute to my Chicago law office, and will be doing some updates on the place so it will show better come October."

"What price range are we talking?"

She named the price her own real estate agent had suggested, thankful that she'd thought to start researching the process early on.

"What if I made you an agreeable offer now, gave you a substantial down payment and we just held off on the paperwork until later?"

"I don't think that's quite what my father intended. But there are other houses in town, I'm sure. Some that are probably in better shape."

"It has to be this one," he said with a weary sigh. "Believe me, I personally wouldn't care, but…well…"

"But what? I don't understand."

"It's…uh…for my mother. A surprise, I hope."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. She used to live in an old trailer about the size of this porch, so when I started making money I was determined to get her into something better. She’s been living in a nice place just outside of town, but it’s a bit cramped and I think she'd love this one." He lifted an eyebrow. "It could make your life easier, knowing the matter is settled. Maybe I could even suggest some of the colors and so on."

She blinked, warmed by this thoughtful side of Brett that she'd never imagined he possessed.

"Or," he added with a wink, "you could save yourself the trouble of redecorating and just drop the price."

Sara shook her head. "This is the last thing my father ever asked of me and I need to follow through with his wishes. I'm sorry." And he looked so crestfallen that she really was. "Look, once I finish updating the place, I'll have it reappraised and I'll set a fair final price. You'll have first dibs. Okay?"

"Unless I can win you over a little sooner?"

Again, that engaging smile—one that had probably helped change many a female heart. "Don't count on it."

But despite her words, she found herself hoping she might run into him again…and she wasn’t as sure Grace Dooley’s judgment of Brett and his mother was right.

After Brett left, Sara called the police. It took two hours for a deputy named Joe Paulson to show up and it wasn't worth the wait. After asking a few questions, he glanced at the front and back doors, jotted a few notes on his clipboard, then he took a quick tour of the house with Sara at his heels.

"No sign of forcible entry?" he said when they were back out on the front porch.

"Nothing that I could see."

"So you left the house unlocked?"

"I don't think so. But when I got home, the front door was ajar."

"And you didn't notice that anything was taken?"

"It doesn't look like it." Sarah sighed. "But someone rifled through the mail and opened some of it. Has anyone else had problems in the area?"

The man had the gall to laugh. "In Wolf Creek? I don't even remember the last major crime." He frowned and rubbed his chin. "Maybe the breeze sorta blew that door open and scattered your mail?"

"I really doubt it. As I said, some of it had been opened." Sara was having a hard time keeping her rising anger out of her voice.

The deputy didn’t seem to notice. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and turned to her. “Well, we’ll look into it. Have a good night.”

Sara kept replaying their conversation in her head, long after she settled into the guest room for the night. She was no longer surprised her father hadn't reported the stalker to the local authorities. The deputy had been amused by her concerns and Grace had told her about the lackadaisical approach of the sheriff, who was pushing seventy and in poor health. How much help would either of them be?

In fact Grace's primary suspect, Brett Langley, would probably be a better bet if Sara needed help in a hurry.

The thought returned long after midnight when she heard the sound of breaking glass somewhere on the main floor of the house—followed by an unearthly, heart-stopping howl.

She grabbed the phone from the bedside table and called 911. The operator told her to remain where she was until the authorities came, but Sara changed into sweatpants, a sweatshirt and running shoes just in case she had to make a break for it.

But there was only silence. Still she didn’t move. The prospect of coming face to face with an intruder kept her behind her locked bedroom door with her heart pounding and her thoughts racing. Alone with her fear, Sara started to pray. God, I know I don't talk to you often enough. But please, watch over me, and keep me from harm.

Her pulse unsteady and her hands clammy with fear, she said the prayer over and over, wondering if God would even listen. Why would He, when she spoke to Him so rarely? When she was barely even part of His flock? Yet soon a gentle feeling of calm spread through her, a feeling of blessed reassurance that slowed her galloping heart.

The sheriff himself and a deputy showed up twenty minutes later. The garish swirl of blood-red lights sweeping through the bedroom window was the most welcome sight she'd seen in days.

And this time there was no question of the intruder simply being a destructive cat or a capricious breeze. A window pane had been shattered by the back door. A muddy, man-sized footprint was smeared just inside the now-empty frame.

But it didn’t look like he had gone beyond the kitchen. Tiny drops of blood trailed partway across the center of the kitchen and stopped. A chair was tipped over, but nothing else on the main floor was disarrayed.

When she'd heard the intruder's entry she’d been paralyzed by fear. But now, seeing the splinters of glass and that footprint and the blood—her pulse ratcheted up and shock waves of nausea crashed through her stomach. What if this guy had kept coming? What if he'd found my bedroom door? Kicked it in? Threatened me…or worse?

A flicker of movement brought Sara’s attention to Puff, glaring down at them from atop the refrigerator with one narrowed eye, his claws flexing, his expression almost…smug.

Sara looked at him again. Could he…? Don’t be silly, Sara. With the exception of his initial leap out of his cardboard prison, she'd never actually seen him move. He just…appeared.

Brownley interrupted her thoughts with a jingle of the change in his pocket. "The intruder must've gotten cut on broken glass," the sheriff said needlessly, eyeing the blood. "Find someone with lacerations, and we've got your man." He turned to her. “Got any enemies?”

Sara sighed. "I just came to town, Sheriff. But my father may have had some from his days as the District Attorney and his private practice."

"So we've got possible revenge here."

"But why now? After he's gone?"

"Criminals aren't necessarily smart. Or maybe it's someone who's been outta the area a long time and just got back."

Someone like Brett Langley?

Sara stared at the sheriff, trying to reconcile the Brett Langley she'd known as a teen with the man he was today. Could he really be the one who was harassing her?

Oblivious to her thoughts, the sheriff continued: "Maybe it’s someone who has been in prison," he theorized. "Someone your father put behind bars when he was the D.A. A guy doing hard time has way too much time to think. If it is someone dangerous like that, maybe you oughta get yourself a good dog."

"A dog?" Puff already made her life complicated. A dog would have to go inside and outside, couldn't be left for long. And once she got back to Chicago…

"Folks in these parts mostly have rifles, and they have dogs. Sorta like having an alarm system and back-up if it don't work."

She laughed, but the sound was reedy and tense even to her own ears. "You make it sound like the Old West."

"Oh, it ain't like that. There’s almost no crime to speak of. Ranchers have rifles for varmints and the dogs for company and herding livestock. But it all works double-duty, and I just think a dog would help scare away any prowlers. A good loud ruckus draws too much attention."

The deputy strolled back into the kitchen. "No sign of anyone—I went through the entire house and checked the yard. And I made sure all the windows and doors were locked."

Sara looked across the kitchen to the glittering glass shards near the back door. "But someone could come back. He could reach through that broken window again and let himself inside."

Brownley smiled and canted his head toward the street. "I doubt he'll be back tonight. He's surely seen us here, and the neighbors are now way too curious. Word will spread and everyone will be watching this place a little closer."

At a light rap on the back door, the three of them turned and the deputy went to open it.

Brett stepped inside, carefully skirting the broken glass. He looked genuinely shocked and concerned with the scene—or he was a great actor. "I saw the lights. Is everyone all right over here?"

"Break-in," Brownley said, eyeing him with considerable interest. "You're the Langely boy."

"Brett."

"You've been back what, a few days?"

"A week." Brett's voice was cold and a muscle ticked at the side of his jaw. "I'll be here for three more, probably. You have a problem with that, Sheriff?"

Brownley splayed his hands in a passive gesture and smiled. "None yet."

"Good. Because I'm not here to cause problems. You won't even know I'm here." He nodded at Sara and handed her a business card. "If you need anything, this lists my cell phone number."

Then he turned on his heel and left.

After his footsteps faded away, Brownley turned to Sara with a fatherly smile. "You won't want to be calling him," he said gently. "If there’s trouble around here, he's probably the guy who caused it."

Sara decided to take the sheriff’s advice, though it went against her instincts. No commitments, no ties had been Sara's mantra since she'd left college. She'd always traveled light and that philosophy had served her well during her frequent moves and spur-of the-moment trips.

Now she'd been back in her father's house for a week and she was responsible for substantial real estate, a fifteen-pound cat with an attitude and a dog with ADD.

Jack hadn't appeared to be attention deficit at the animal shelter. He'd watched her with wise, calm eyes, forgoing the desperate antics of the other inmates who were begging her for a home.

He was a masterful actor.

The moment the Irish setter-border collie mix hit the front door, he'd ricocheted off the walls at light speed until she was dizzy and breathless from catching lamps and photo arrangements and her late-mother's decorative whimsies that still graced most of the flat surfaces in the house.

He was also heartbreakingly attached to her from the first moment he'd seen his new home—repeatedly returning to her at the same light-speed velocity he attacked the furniture with, sometimes launching himself from half a room away into her arms so he could melt against her chest and shower her with wet kisses as she staggered backward into the nearest chair.

But even if whiplash and back strain were in her immediate future, he did show a pleasing propensity for barking if anyone dared knock on the door. An admirable trait to be sure, because since someone had broken in through the back door, there'd been four heavy-breather hang-up calls late at night, and each one had sent a shiver of dread down her spine.

Was it the same guy? Was he trying to find a time when no one was at home? The police were useless. Apparently, he was using public telephones, which were untraceable. So she’d installed an early warning system so at least the creep couldn't break in again unannounced.

Which would—hopefully—give her time to go through all of her father's old cases and find out who this guy could be.

The harsh ring of the old-fashioned phone on her father's desk slashed through the silence. She froze, her blood pounding through her veins. It's probably just a neighbor. That eager real estate agent. A recorded message from a political candidate.

But even before she lifted the receiver with shaking fingers, she knew what she would hear. Nothing. The too-familiar fear gnawed at her stomach.

The watcher lounged against the heavy trunk of an oak tree in the backyard, staring through the bare windows of the fine old brick house.

There'd always been particular pleasure in this view. Watching, unseen, as Meade walked from room to room, he appeared so confident in his power and his untouchable status. So unaware of the perfect, tempting target he offered. But waiting too long had eliminated the chance for perfect revenge against him and now Meade's daughter had moved into the house—as if she deserved so rich a prize.

No, the job wasn't done.

It wouldn't take much to get rid of that noisy excuse for a dog. And after that, Sara would be easy enough to frighten away—the edge of fear in her voice over that simple phone call had been clear. If she didn't take the hint pretty soon, a more permanent solution would be the next step.

And then, the coast would be clear. That house held secrets no one could be allowed to discover…and items that would only begin to repay the debt Meade owed.

Smiling, the watcher withdrew into the shadows, and decided it was time to up the stakes.

At Sara's request, Grace stopped by the house the following day—but only after Sara promised to lock Puff and Jack in the laundry room before she arrived.

Still, she walked gingerly down the hall to Meade's office, her face wrinkled in an expression of distaste. "You've found some files of people that might hold a grudge?"

"Fifteen so far. I hoped you might remember something about these cases. I've been trying to figure out who might've had reason to wage a vendetta against my father." Sara smiled ruefully. "I'm coming to think it'd be easier to eliminate the people who don't."

"He was an excellent District Attorney," Grace retorted. "One of the best."

"Which meant he sent a lot of criminals to prison. Ex-cons who could want revenge."

"Well…of course."

Sara waved her to the executive chair behind Meade's desk and pushed a stack of thick files toward her. "These are the ones I thought were the most likely suspects. What do you think?"

Grace pursed her lips as she opened one file after another, skimmed the pages, then set it aside. "Hagerty—no. Baker—no. Anderson…" she frowned, contemplating a coffee stained folder. "Maybe. And here’s another maybe: Reed Miller. He abused his family for years according to his wife's testimony. After he beat her within an inch of her life, Meade got him sent away for fifteen-to-twenty. Reed was livid.” Stifling a sneeze, she sifted through several more. "Ahhh. Geoff Nelson—embezzler. The obscenities he shouted across the courtroom at your father would've made your ears burn.” She opened another file. “And Fred Howell—he robbed some vacationers up in the mountains. Shot one. He maintained his innocence even as he was being dragged away in shackles. Swore everyone in the court was going to be sorry, which of course didn't help his appeal any. Still, he got released early on a technicality.” Grace flicked open the next folder. “Vance Walker is a maybe. He did Federal time on a drug conviction."

She thumbed through the rest, setting three others aside and then stood abruptly. "But you're overlooking the one who is right under your nose."

"Brett? I haven't found a file on him."

Grace sniffed. "He was a juvenile, so those records were expunged. As I remember, he was arrested a couple of times for underage drinking and criminal mischief with those rowdy friends of his. Four of them were in a car involved in a serious accident that sent a nice older couple to the hospital, in fact. The husband nearly died."

Sara felt faint. "Brett was driving drunk?"

"He was in the car with the rest of those boys, but he refused to testify against them in court. His mother…well, for a small town woman with a reputation like hers, she certainty showed no respect. None. She had the audacity to say the charges against her son were completely untrue then she and Meade got into quite a shouting match because she would not back down." Grace harrumphed. "Of course, Meade had all the proof he needed, anyway."

So when Brett's mother ended up in court later on during her own legal difficulties, had her father exacted just a bit of revenge? Meade had always been a bulldog in court, and he'd never tolerated people willing to go toe-to-toe with him on any issue.

Sara was beginning to see a picture that made her stomach twist. "What happened to the boys?"

"The driver was tried as an adult, but his daddy hired a good lawyer and he served just ninety days, plus two years of probation. Meade filed multiple charges against the other boys, but they just got a slap on the wrist with two hundred hours of community service at the hospital emergency room in Salt Creek." Grace shook her head in obvious disgust. "Trouble begets trouble, I always say. And that Langley family has had plenty of it. Do you see now why you should be suspicious of that boy? He has the most history with your father—and living just down the road he has plenty of opportunity to harass you. Be careful of him, Sara."

These were the ones that Grace had singled out, but that didn't mean there couldn't be a hundred other possibilities. And even after several hours on the Internet before going to bed, Sara had only managed to find information on two of them: Miller was still incarcerated with no hope of getting out soon and Walker had been released last winter.

By dawn, she was still tossing and turning and the dog was watching her with weary patience. He finally jumped off the bed and whined at the door, so she took him downstairs and let him out into the fenced backyard while she made a pot of strong coffee to help her face the morning. In an effort to put aside the disturbing events of the last couple of days, she’d scheduled some workers to come and appraise the upgrades she wanted to do on the house. A painting contractor was due at eight, a handyman at nine, both planning to write up bids.

She was halfway up the stairs to get dressed when she realized just how quiet and peaceful the early morning hours were.

Unusually quiet, really, because when Jack went outside, he deemed every bird and every beetle a trespasser and everything was cause for barking. His amazing ability to bark ceaselessly, without apparent need to pause for a breath, meant she never dared leave him outside for very long. But now she could hear nothing.

Uneasiness crawled through her as she hurried for the back door and raced out onto the porch, calling Jack’s name. But the minute she scanned the back yard, she had her answer.

The locked side gate facing the street was wide open. The heavy, padlocked chain had been cut.

And Jack was gone.

Sara pulled on her jeans, a T-shirt and tennis shoes and raced outside calling Jack's name. She went up one street and down the next until her shoes were soaked with dew and her lungs and throat were raw from calling Jack's name.

Sara could barely see the ground in front of her. Low-lying fog swirled through town and to the west the Rockies were shrouded in heavy clouds. It was an ethereal morning with house lights glowing through the mist—but the soft beauty of it all could easily hide an injured dog lying a heartbeat away. She prayed Jack hadn’t been hit by a car or truck….

How far could one goofy dog go? Main Street—all five blocks of it—dipped into a rocky hollow, crossed a mountain stream then meandered up into the foothills. But she found no sign of Jack. She resolutely continued on. But as she trudged further from town, she found it increasingly difficult to suppress the thought that Jack hadn’t just been let out of her yard—he’d been taken. Stolen by someone who wanted to take away all of her protection. Or maybe simply to lure her out of the house…

Suddenly a tall, dark, broad-shouldered form seemed to coalesce out of the heavy mist of the hollow. The huge mass was right in front of her but she couldn’t see any features. It was faceless. Looming over her, the thing was threatening, just by its size.

She bit back a cry and stumbled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs, her muscles turning to jelly. She gauged the distance back to the convenience store. A hundred yards? More? Please, Lord, it's me again and I really, really need your help.

And then she ran for her life.

"It's me, Sara," a voice called out as she started to run. "Brett."

She blinked and pulled to a stop.

"I run every morning," he said, jogging to catch up with her. "Peaceful, isn't it?"

"Not if you're on the verge of a heart attack." Her heart pounding, she took a deep, steadying breath. Sure enough, he was wearing running shoes, a windbreaker and disreputable old sweatpants. But had he really just come out for exercise or had he also seized an opportunity to scare her?

After seeing the open gate and broken chain, she'd immediately started sorting through possible suspects. Grace was convinced that Brett was a troublemaker, and her own father had apparently agreed. She had to admit that he was the most likely culprit.

And he certainly wanted Meade's house.

His interest had seemed sweet and sincere before but after everything that had happened, she couldn’t help but be suspicious. What better way to get the house more quickly than to harass Sara and convince her to leave town?

But one look up into his compelling, dark-chocolate eyes and gentle expression and that scenario seemed as far-fetched as blaming the man on the moon. Still, could her own father have been so wrong about this man's character?

Brett frowned. "You look worried about something. Can I help?"

"Jack is gone." She bit her lower lip. "Someone cut the chain on the gate and stole him—I think.” Had she told him too much? Sara wanted to trust Brett with her fears, with all the frightening things that had been happening to her, but her doubts still lingered. No, she couldn’t tell him anything. “Who would want to steal him? It seems preposterous. He's a mutt and he barks incessantly when he's outside. A thief could go after any number of the fancy purebred dogs around town."

"You've found no sign of him at all?"

"I've been up and down every street. I think I woke up the whole town, calling for him. He always comes like a rocket at home." The damp, chill mist had soaked her shoes and jeans and now she started to shake.

Brett took off his windbreaker and offered it to her, insisting when she hesitated to let him give up his own comfort. The jacket smelled of pine trees and fresh air and a faint hint of Brett's woodsy aftershave. When she put it on she could still feel his warmth in the fabric and it enveloped her like a comforting hug.

"There are only two highways running through town," he said. "On foot, it would take all day. How about you and I go back for our cars, then you take one road and I take the other? Once the sun burns off this mist, we'll be able to check the ditches, in case he's been hit."

Surprised and grateful for the offer, she nodded somberly. "I can't imagine that he'd just run off and not come back."

"It happens. Dog sees a rabbit, forgets everything else. But…" Brett's voice grew troubled. "There's another possibility."

Their eyes met, and she realized she didn’t have to make the connection for him between recent events and Jack’s sudden disappearance. He didn’t know all of it—the first intruder who had rifled through her mail, the anonymous phone calls—but he’d seen the second break-in where the window had been shattered. Since then, she'd often had an uneasy sensation of being watched, though she had no proof of that.

And if Jack's disappearance was tied to those escalating threats, what could happen next?

Two hours of driving isolated mountain roads yielded no sign of Jack. Brett had found no traces of him either and had reluctantly gone home. After returning to her house, Sara checked with the sheriff's office but they hadn't received any reports of dogs hit on the highway, nor had they received any calls about suspicious persons lurking in town.

A deputy—who barely looked old enough to shave—did stop by the house after lunch to take a look at the padlock and chain.

"Vandalism," he announced with a shrug. "Probably some teenagers wandering around and looking for trouble. Over on Maple, Mrs. Potter found two flat tires on her car last night."

"I don’t think this was random," Sara said quietly. "I'm seeing an escalating pattern, which falls under your state's statues for stalking, breaking and entering and now destruction of property, which is a misdemeanor. Further, my dog is missing and I'll bet that falls under theft, not a simple disappearance."

The young deputy took a wary look at her then studied the chain in his hand. "I'll notify the sheriff and the other two deputies. We stopped our nightly drive-bys as soon as the house was occupied, but we'll keep a closer eye on it now."

"Thanks."

He looked up at her intently. "Though do understand—there's too few of us to cover this whole county, so I can't guarantee that one of us will be by every night."

"I understand. Any chance you could run the prints on that padlock?"

A faint blush crept up his neck when his gaze dropped back to the chain—which he'd handled without gloves, a clear sign of his inexperience and initial lack of concern. "I—I can sure try. I didn't touch the padlock and it does have a good flat surface."

After the deputy left, Sara paced through the house, feeling its emptiness and an even greater hole in her heart without Jack barreling into her knees or looking at up her with absolute love in his eyes. She imagined her father here all alone, his solitary footsteps echoing down the halls.

So this is how you lived all those years after Mom died, in this big old mausoleum. Without even something like Jack or Puff to keep you company. She glanced over her shoulder and found the cat watching her from the back of a sofa in the parlor, his single golden eye glittering, his tail slowly flicking in a sinuous rhythm.

Suddenly she realized that she'd become the image of Meade in so many ways: in her absolute dedication to her career, her solitary lifestyle, her basic distrust of almost everyone she met because of her clients who tended to shade the truth on even the most trivial of matters.

And she'd drifted away from her faith, just as he had. He'd always been "too busy" for church. While her mother took Sara to Sunday School and church, he'd typically stayed behind at his desk, laboring over one legal matter after another, never really catching up, putting his career above everything else.

But even when he’d achieved status as one of the best lawyers in town and then become renowned across the state as a judge, he'd never seemed happy, had never seemed fulfilled.

And now, sitting alone in his house Sara understood just how he'd felt.

Sara lifted a small, framed photo of herself from an end table. Her Confirmation Day, when she'd innocently believed that her future would hold everything she wanted: joy, love, success. A family of her own, maybe. And certainly a beautiful palomino horse with four white stockings, like the Breyers horse on the shelf in her bedroom. She’d had continuing, childlike faith.

Out of all of those, she'd achieved one out of six—the career success—which wasn't exactly batting a thousand. Maybe it was time to make some changes.

Through the window, she saw Brett striding up the walk to the front door and her heart lifted. No matter what Grace said, every time she’d been in trouble he’d gone out of his way to help her. And he was still one of the more friendly people in town. Maybe he did have an agenda to sweet talk her into selling the house before October, but now she had one, too. She was going to prove he had nothing to do with the harassment of her father, his death or her own recent terrors.

She met him at the door and stepped out onto the porch, feeling an odd little flutter in her stomach at just seeing him again. She smiled, trying to seem casual. "What's up?”

He didn't smile in return. "I just thought you should know. Four other dogs disappeared last night. All on this side of town."

"Oh, no." Instantly, that butterfly of anticipation dissipated as she imagined the grim possibilities. "Not wolves or coyotes."

"It's potentially worse." He shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, his expression grim. "The sheriff did some checking. There've been similar reports in some other rural towns around here. It's possibly the work of 'bunchers'—guys who collect dogs and sell them for research. It's legal if they buy the animals from shelters, but some figure it’s easier money to just steal whatever they can find."

Now she felt physically ill. "Not Jack. Not all those beloved pets. Just think of the kids or the old folks who have no one else."

He rested his warm hands on her shoulders, his touch sending a flood of sensation through her. "No one knows for sure. It could just be a coincidence, but the county sheriffs have all received bulletins and are on the lookout."

"This is why I've never had pets. You love something and what happens? In the blink of an eye it’s gone and it leaves a big, painful hole in your heart."

He bent his knees a little to look straight into her eyes. "I get the feeling this isn’t just about your dog."

She shrugged, unwilling to say.

But it was about the dog. And now the loss of both of her parents. It was about her career and her choice to be alone and concentrate only on the job because that had been the one way to her father's heart.

And now that she was back home, every time she drove past the Wolf Creek Community Church it was a subtle reminder of her faltering faith, something she'd largely ignored since she'd moved away.

She had a rising career. A beautiful condo. An enviable investment portfolio. She'd once thought she had everything that mattered most. But maybe she was missing the most important thing of all.

Brett cleared his throat, pulling Sara out of her thoughts. "We have another three hours of daylight. Do you want to go back out and look for Jack with me?"

Surprised, Sara looked up at Brett and saw only genuine concern in his eyes. "That's nice of you, but you've already spent hours on this. I don't expect you to keep at it."

He shrugged. "Hey, if it was my dog, I'd appreciate all the help I could get. And if you run into the wrong sort of people, it might be better to have someone along."

Given that he had to be a good six-foot-two, he had a point. And now that she had decided he was not the one behind the recent incidents she could enjoy his company. "I'd appreciate that."

"Let's take my SUV, so you won't be alone when it starts getting dark." A smile played at the corner of his mouth. "I promise I won't spend the time trying to convince you to sell me your house early. Scout's honor."

After calling all of the vet clinics in the county as well as the three animal shelters, she climbed into Brett's vehicle and they circled the perimeter of the town then slowly drove up and down the streets.

Still they saw nothing. "I really don't think he's anywhere in town, Sara. We've looked everywhere."

"Not the alleys."

He gave her a patient smile. "Even if he was roaming the alleys, he would have heard you calling his name."

"Maybe he's hurt and lying somewhere and he wasn't stolen after all. And I'd like to check the park again, just to be sure." She knew she probably sounded like a stubborn child, but Jack had to be somewhere close by. The alternative was just too frightening. She refused to even entertain the thought he’d been taken by profit-hungry thieves—or a person with a more sinister and personal purpose. "You've been wonderful, Brett, but I think I should go and get my own car. You probably have other things to do, and—"

"No, it's no problem at all. Believe me." He resolutely headed for the little park on the edge of town.

But the park was empty. Brett drove back towards the center of town, slowing down to a crawl at every alley, but there was still no sign of Jack. Disheartened, Sara stared glumly out the window. They turned onto a small side street and she could see into the yards of a long row of houses. "I never thought I'd get so attached to such a silly dog. Maybe someone did steal him. I just hoped—"

Something red and silver caught her eye. Sara sat up. She twisted in her seat to look back. "Wait—what was that? Go back!"

"I didn't see anything." Still, Brett dutifully stopped and put the SUV into reverse. "But if you think so…"

She jumped out and ran to the fence to take a look, her stomach already starting to tie itself in a knot.

Sure enough, there it was on a picnic table in the backyard. A bright red collar with reflective stripes and a shiny new rabies tag. Jack's collar.

Then Sara looked to the house. Her stomach clenched as she recognized the all-too-familiar stucco frame. She turned to look at Brett, her heart sinking and the fear returning. How could she have been so totally wrong about him?

“This is your yard, Brett. What did you do with my dog?"

Sara's eyes burned as she stared at the dog collar in her hands. "Why was this here—in your yard! Where is Jack?"

Brett's expression hardened. "You honestly think I did something to harm your dog? Why on earth would I do that?"

A dozen reasons came to mind, and none of them were good. "You tell me."

“Well there’s the house, but given that you’ve probably been talking to your father’s secretary, you might figure that I've been seeking revenge." His voice grew cold. "Your father tried to convict me for a tragedy that wasn’t my fault. When he couldn’t, he verbally attacked my mother's character in court. He made sure the court levied fines and costs that she couldn't begin to pay, which dominoed into a whole new chain of problems. We were ultimately evicted, Sara. But you know all of that. You were there. In the audience, hanging on to your father's every word as if he were a movie star."

Her blood chilled at the precise intensity of his memory, even after all these years. "I—I don't remember that case. I never connected any of them with you. Your mother must have had a different name."

But she did remember shadowing her father. She'd sat in the courtroom for countless hours as a teenager, watching her father at work. She'd been proud of him. Excited about following in his footsteps.

She’d never considered the other side of what happened after those cases were over. What the consequences were for people like Brett’s mother. She’d given so little thought to the defendants she hadn’t even recognized Brett’s mother. Her case had probably seemed inconsequential—even boring—compared to the more thrilling cases involving robbery or assault.

But looking at it now from their point of view, Sara’s avid interest in the proceedings had probably felt like salt on the wounds of the defendants who lost everything to her father's courtroom skills.

Brett wasn’t finished. "Or maybe you do think it’s about the house. That I've been busy all this time trying to find ways to drive you out of town so you'll decide to cut your losses and leave early. Buying your house faster would certainly suit my purpose, right?"

She shifted uneasily at his harsh indictment of her. Yet there was a grain of truth in what he said. She had doubted his intentions. Spoken aloud, her uncertainties sounded baseless and mean-spirited, especially after his willingness to help her and the obvious concern she'd seen in his eyes.

"I'm aware of the local opinion about me. I just didn't think you were like the others," he added with a disparaging glance.

"I—I'm not. Really."

He continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I assure you that I've had nothing to do with the incidents at your house, with your dog or anything else. I only came back to town to buy a new home for my mother. Despite how people used to treat her, she refuses to move away from this town and she used to talk about how much she loved walking by your father's house. When I heard about his death, I thought I could make her dream come true by buying it for her."

"But you still can—in October."

"Quite honestly, I'm not sure I want to anymore." He looked down at the collar still clutched in Sara’s hands. "Anyone could’ve put this collar here, Sara. You might want to think about who—and why—because it definitely wasn't me.” He took his car keys out of his pocket.” Your house is just down the street. Forgive me for not driving you home. See you around."

She watched him get into his car and drive around the corner to the front of his house, feeling a deep sense of loss. She'd doubted him once, but now she'd come to realize that he was a warm, caring man despite all of his early hardships. He had gone out of his way to help her several times.

And she'd repaid him by accusing him of something he simply couldn't have done.

Numbly she walked back to her own house, fumbling for her keys. She blindly fiddled with the front door lock and let herself in, still berating herself.

It wasn't until she was halfway to the kitchen that she realized she wasn't alone.

It was a noise—so out of place now without Jack—that put her on high alert. The house felt so cold recently, so empty without Jack bounding over to see her. Sara saw no sign of Puff, though he usually seemed to appear in whatever room she was in and watched her every move with bored disinterest. He still didn't deign to let her stroke him and he'd never jumped on her lap, but at least he was company and she suddenly missed him very much.

Had he made that faint noise she'd heard just a moment ago?

"Puff? Kitty-kitty-kitty?" She listened and glanced around, but he didn't appear, even though it was past time for his cat food. When served, he usually put on his snooty royalty act, passing by his dish with his nose in the air. She'd never actually seen him eat, but he was never late for his performance and the food always disappeared as soon as she was out of sight.

So where was he now? "Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!"

Maybe he was asleep, curled up on top of the refrigerator where it was warm. But then what had made that noise?

Sara stood glued to the ground, the back of her neck prickling, her senses on high alert. The floor creaked and she whirled around, staring at the darkened parlor through the open archway.

The shadows in the parlor seemed to darken, coalesce and then loom higher. Sara tried to calm herself. It must be her imagination. There wasn't anyone there. There couldn't be. The front door had been securely locked. And yet…

She took a step backward toward the kitchen, her hand at her throat, knowing instinctively that racing for the front door would be a grave mistake—that would take her right past the open mouth of the parlor where anything or anyone could be lurking in the shadows.

Maybe she could make it through the kitchen and out the back door. She took another step in that direction. Then she felt a brush of cold air against her neck. Heard…something behind her. The harsh sound of something breathing? Or was that her own straining lungs, her own pounding heart?

"You shouldn't have come back to Wolf Creek," a voice whispered harshly near her ear. "It was a very, very stupid mistake."

Fear lanced through her like a dagger of ice, freezing her to the spot for a split second. The door—I've got to get to the door.

She started to run, but a hand caught her collar and tightened sharply, robbing her of breath. Then her captor closed both hands around her neck. She clawed helplessly at those hands but the pressure grew tighter, tighter, until the room started to tilt and color seemed to explode beneath her eyelids.

And then everything went black.

She was floating on a midnight sea under a starless sky. Silent. Cold. Black. So frigid that her body could no longer shiver and she let herself drift down; down into the welcoming embrace of the depths where the pain no longer mattered.

Her throat was raw and her wrists were on fire. Her feet had been bound so tight she couldn’t feel them. She tried to cry out but her mouth wouldn't open. Her panic escalated as bile rose in her throat. She could so easily choke to death—if she allowed that to happen.

Dear Lord, please help me.

She stopped struggling frantically and forced herself to go limp and draw in a slow, steady breath through her nose. Easy. One breath…and another…stay calm…

But where was she?

Every muscle was bruised and aching. Thin wire cut into the flesh of her ankles and her wrists which were bound in front of her. A blindfold was tied tightly around her head. The lower edges drew against her nostrils with each breath, threatening to suffocate her. If the cloth slipped any lower…

God? I seem to be praying to you more and more and it's just when I'm in trouble. Please, help me out of this. I have so much to do, so much I want to change in my life. Please, let me have a second chance.

Something rough scraped against her cheek and she swallowed a scream, desperately wanting to cry out for help. But as her senses sharpened she felt cold, rough cement beneath her. She was breathing damp, chilly air and could detect a faint scent of fabric softener. She was in the basement!

From the increasing pain throbbing throughout her body, she guessed she'd probably been pushed down that long, steep flight of wooden stairs.

That she was still alive filled her with a sense of calm, as if God had wrapped his arms around her, protecting her. And with that came a sense of power.

Again there was a rough scrape against her cheek—only this time, it was followed by a brush of something soft as down and a low, rusty purr. Puff? A brief flash of humor hit her, but the tight band of tape across her mouth made it hurt to smile.

In the old Lassie movies, the dog always went for help. But what could one lazy, disgruntled cat do? She could hardly write a note and affix it to his nonexistent collar and send him to the sheriff. If only she hadn't doubted Brett. If only she'd trusted him, trusted her heart, maybe he would have come in the house to talk.

But as always, she'd managed to drive away yet another person from her personal life. And doing so might have just cost Sara her own life.

She wasn’t ready to give up yet. She tentatively scraped her cheek against the rough concrete, hoping to loosen the duct tape. She tried again and again until her cheek was raw and burning and something warm and slick dampened the floor. She smelled the metallic scent of blood.

But the tape was finally looser. But still not enough to yell for help. Help me know what to do. Please, Lord, help me.

An idea hit her like a lightning bolt. Rolling over, she wriggled across the floor until she reached one of the vertical support beams. She struggled until she was able to rise to her knees and then prayed hard as she edged painfully, slowly against it. Sara rubbed her shoulder against the wood until she found something—the head of a nail protruding from the wood just an inch. Just enough.

Time slowed as she worked at the blindfold, trying to catch the edge of it against the nail.

And then, suddenly, the blindfold slid down to her neck. Bolstered by her success, she focused on the tape covering her mouth. The duct tape, loosened by her efforts and slick with blood, finally snagged on the nail and ripped painfully free, leaving her lips raw and bleeding, but giving her a blessed chance to draw in a deep breath of air. Thank you, God—thank you.

The basement was dark, but a shaft of moonlight shone through a window on the other side of the basement, spotlighting a small portion of the room. She needed that light to help her figure out how to untie her wrists and ankles. Gauging the distance, she drew in another deep breath. Then she slowly edged over there, an inch at a time, the wire cutting into the soft flesh of her ankles and wrists with each movement.

Finally. She closed her eyes, said another prayer and lowered herself to her knees. Unable to break her fall, she tripped and fell hard against the cement. Dizzying stars exploded in her head, but she'd made it. Her wrists were bound but her fingertips were free, and with that faint illumination to guide her, she could work at the wire around her ankles.

And then, maybe she could make her escape.

It was a good plan—until the basement light suddenly blazed on and she heard the first footstep coming down the stairs.

Sara frantically glanced around the basement, looking for a place to hide. But she knew there wasn’t one—her attacker could just follow the drips of blood.

She looked for some sort of weapon. But given her bound hands, she couldn’t hold anything let alone swing it with enough force.

Another step came down the stairs.

Another.

She looked wildly about her, then struggled toward the washer and dryer against the wall behind the stairs. She fell against the washer, sending pain rocketing through her bruised ribs. Blinking away tears of agony, she bent over a plastic pail on the floor and awkwardly pried off the plastic lid.

"You can't hide, you know. There's no place to run." Again, that eerie, singsong voice, a caricature of one she knew all too well. "It's a shame that you were too foolish to leave when you had the chance because this really is an inconvenience."

One of the stairs creaked and she looked over her shoulder. Someone was partway down the stairs. She could see the glint of a rifle barrel next to her attacker's legs and a pair of serviceable shoes. Her heart lodged in her throat.

A rifle meant that her would-be murderer could shoot her from a greater distance. She looked desperately at the pail at her feet—it would be no help against a rifle. In a few minutes, she was going to die.

Please Lord, welcome me home. I trust in you and know you are my savior, but if it's Your will, please help me.

Her attacker reached the bottom of the stairs and slowly scanned the basement, focusing on the shadowed corners. "Well, well—aren't you the resourceful one. But then, Meade always bragged about you. Said how you would reach far greater heights than he ever did. I didn't mind. I knew he would come to realize that I was the one who loved him, the one who had always been by his side. But he never did."

The figure turned and fixed her faded blue eyes on Sara and lifted the rifle. "When I typed his will, I knew it was over. He'd never loved me and he left me nothing. Funny thing, he died that week."

"Grace? You did it?" Sara stared over her shoulder at the woman in disbelief, her fear ratcheting up another notch.

From somewhere outside, she heard a car door slam and the faint sound of someone knocking on the front door. Keep her talking….

Sara lowered her voice and infused it with sympathy. "But of course you did. He used you all those years. Strung you along. How could he do that?"

Grace came a few yards closer, raising the rifle to her shoulder. "I was a ranch girl, you know. Spent a lot of years using this rifle to chase off the varmints that were after our calves. It was a hard life and I deserved so much more—"

A huge shape launched off the edge of the steps above Grace's head, landing on her with outstretched claws. The rifle fired with a deafening explosion that reverberated within the cement confines of the basement, then clattered to the floor.

Grace screamed and grabbed wildly at her neck, but the cat nimbly leaped away from her and disappeared.

Puff, bless him, had given Sara a few extra moments to live.

Grace sneezed heavily. But she quickly bent and picked up the rifle, riveting her gaze on Sara, her eyes wild and filled with hatred. "I think," she said slowly, "that it's time to see you suffer."

The knocking became pounding and finally Sara heard the front door crash open. "Sara? Sara!"

Grace glanced up at the ceiling and listened as footsteps ran to the kitchen, then thundered up the steps to the second floor. "How sweet. It's Brett, but he's going to be too late…and now, he'll also have to die."

Grace was close enough, now…just close enough. There'd only be one chance.

Sara closed her eyes, prayed, then spun around and threw the cup of detergent at Grace's face.

The older woman screamed then began to cough and gag on the bitter, acidic powder. She scratched blindly at her eyes.

From somewhere above them, Brett called Sara's name. She croaked out a response, hoping he would hear her. A heartbeat later, he thundered down the basement steps, his face white.

It took him a split-second to assess the situation and a second longer to grab the rifle and start punching 911 into his cell phone.

This time, the sheriff showed up within minutes. "I was already in Wolf Creek on a domestic disturbance call," he announced as he handcuffed Grace. "Your lucky day."

"Not exactly," Brett shot back, wrapping an arm around Sara's shoulders. "Sara could've been killed."

And him as well, though Sara just smiled, her gratitude welling up in her chest until it was almost hard to breathe. "Actually, it was my lucky day. I prayed so hard. And God was truly here with me, every step of the way. Who would've thought my father's old cat would've come to my rescue? Or you, Brett—even after what I said."

He winced. "I shouldn't have reacted that way. Of course you would've had doubts."

"But you came back." Sara said. "Why?"

"First to return something and also to apologize," he said ruefully. "Someone knocked on my door right after I got home and brought over something that belongs to you. I knew you were home, and when you didn't come to the door, I got worried. Then I heard the gunshot and I stopped thinking. I'm afraid I kicked your door off its hinges."

They followed Grace and the sheriff upstairs, then Brett went with them out to the patrol car. When he came back into the house, he looked down at Sara, his eyes warm with concern and something more.

When he opened his arms, she walked into his embrace, feeling as if she had just come home to the place where she'd always belonged.

He held her tight, his chin on her head, while she savored the warmth of his broad chest, the steady beat of his heart and she wished she'd never have to let go.

After a moment, he held her at arm's length. “I almost forgot what I came her to bring back to you!”

Then she heard the eager scrabble of paws against the kitchen door. "Jack?"

Brett grinned, stepped away and went to open the door. The dog shot down the hall and leaped up into her arms to frantically kiss her face, wiggling with joy. "He had about six feet of rope tied to his collar and the end had been chewed clear through."

Sara collapsed on the sofa and Jack wiggled against her all the more, his tail waving madly. Then he jumped out of her arms and rocketed through the house at light speed. “Grace must have had him tied up at her place and he escaped.” She paused, thinking about the secretary. “I just don’t understand what she wanted. The house and possessions were all going to be sold. And I told her she could have anything she wanted."

"I guess she thought she deserved everything."

"And all along she's been trying to shift suspicion onto you." Sara's eyes widened. "Maybe she embezzled money from Dad and was afraid I'd find incriminating evidence in his files. Or she just wanted to steal whatever she could. She probably hoped for uninterrupted access to the house once I ran scared."

"We'll find out soon enough. I have a feeling she'll be telling that sheriff everything before long."

A sudden thought hit Sara and she laughed aloud. "I once thought that Dad left me Puff to make me open up my heart to something besides my career. What if he'd started to suspect Grace but had no real proof—and figured her allergies would keep her away?"

"Or at least he knew you'd hear her sneezing if she started snooping around." The brief glimmer of humor in Brett's eyes faded. "So…what about you, will you be leaving? I know that none of this has been easy."

She shook her head. "I still have to meet the stipulations in the will." She locked her gaze on his, praying that he felt the same way that she did. "But there are other, much better reasons for me to stay."

She caught a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and felt her heart sink.

"I want you to know that I was never the boy your father thought I was," Brett said, his voice somber.

She tried to still her trembling hands. "I know. I think I've always known, Brett."

"I need to get this out in the open, though. I did run with a bad crowd for a while, back when I was a teenager. I rebelled against both God and my mother. I felt so angry and helpless in the face of the things she went through in this town. The gossipers were wrong about her, you know. She's a woman of faith who endured too many tough breaks in life. She had a lot of struggles as a single mom, but she never lost sight of who—and what—was most important. Family and God." He smiled ruefully. "Guess I didn't get to that place in my life until I was much older."

And there it was. A simple declaration of faith that reminded Sara of everything she had been missing in her own life all these years. That empty place in her heart that had never been filled by her successes in school or her career, no matter how hard she worked. Coming back to Wolf Creek and seeing her childhood church again had stirred her longing for something deeper in her life. Facing death had driven that point home.

"I understand," she said quietly. "I know that God has been working in my life all these years, but I let myself drift away. That isn't how I plan to live the rest of my life, believe me."

"So you're staying here, then?"

At the unmistakable note of hope in his voice, she smiled. "I need to fix this place up and meet the stipulations of my father's will, so I'll be staying until October. Are you still interested in buying the house for your mother?"

"I am." He lifted her chin and brushed a gentle kiss against her lips. "But there's something else I'm even more interested in. I'd like a lot more time with you…."

Joy exploded like beautiful fireworks within her, filled with the radiance of God's blessings and abundance as she realized everything she'd ever wanted was standing before her. "I would love that, Brett."

And when Brett kissed her again, she could feel all the love in his heart. And this time, she returned it in full measure.

The End