Serial Killer Eyes 2 E-Book

Gayle Lynn

• Herausgeber: BooxAi
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Santee Smith is a strong independent young woman who has endured a lot in her short life. Physically, sexually, and mentally abused Santee has just started to care about people again.
She has a unique way of interacting with both people and animals. This special ability leads her into many adventures.
Just trying to save an abused stallion Santee’s actions are recorded and went viral on the internet. Now she finds herself captive and has to fight her way out of a desert stronghold and into more dangers in South Dakota.

Leseprobe

Gayle Lynn

Serial Killer Eyes 2 - The Return

Gayle Lynn

Serial Killer Eyes 2

The return

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2022 by Gayle Lynn

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by BooxAi

ISBN: 978-965-577-982-0

Serial Killer Eyes 2

The Return

Gayle Lynn

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respected holders.

This story is meant only for adults. It contains adult language, sexual situations, and possibly disturbing scenes, including flashbacks of child physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, which may cause or trigger disturbing reactions.

This book, though it takes place in the Black Hills of South Dakota is not meant to be a Black Hills travel guide. Nor is it a ‘how to’ ranch guide. Artistic license was heavily used in the topography, location, creation of towns, ranch settings, terrain, and how a ranch is operated. If an event or a place was needed for the story such a situation was knowingly invented.

I hope the residents of the beautiful area of the Black Hills will forgive me for playing fast and loose with their world. And I hope the ranchers out there, who have all my respect for an arduous, thankless job that only true lovers of the land and ranching would continue to deal with year after year, will forgive me for all the things I got wrong…some of it knowingly and probably much unknowingly.

Thank you readers. I sincerely hope you come to love Santee, Ruarke, and their adventures as much as I do.

Gayle Lynn

Chapter1

A new day was dawning. A beautiful day…weather wise. Otherwise, it pretty much sucked.

The Sinclair Ranch house was now a cop-shop. Sheriff’s officers and FBI agents roamed in and out. A buffet table with coffee, pastries, sandwiches and snacks had been set up. A mountain of paper plates and foam cups were left in their wake.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” Jenkins or Cooper said. One of the agents was white, the other black. Ruarke Sinclair’s porous brain couldn’t keep them straight, didn’t even try anymore.

The phones were bugged, but so far, no ransom demands had been made. There was no sign of the helicopter that had whisked Santee Smith, the love of Ruarke Sinclair’s life, away.

The only proof of a crime; a dart being tested for prints and residue, some footprints (you guys, meaning Pete, Joe, (Ruarke’s bodyguards) and Ruarke, really screwed up the scene by tromping through in their search effort, what might be helicopter skid marks, a sunglass’s lens, a pistol pouch that had been cut off from Santee’s belt, and a dead wolf-dog. Not much to go on.

The phone rang.

Everyone jumped. Ruarke’s heart dropped into his gut. Recording devices were switched on, earphones hauled onto useless, doubting law enforcement officers' heads. Ruarke held his breath as Pete lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” Pete shook his head. “No, sorry, none of the Sinclairs can come to the phone. Yes, I’ll give them the message.”

Another call from a nosey neighbor.

Good God!

Already, less than 24 hours, and the media had found out. They’d had to hire a security firm to man the gate and keep them off the property. Looky-loos were prowling the gravel road. And the phone hadn’t stopped ringing.

Ruarke’s head throbbed. He rubbed his hands over his bristly face and up into his dirty blonde hair. His ears rang with the sobbing cries of his kids, kids who wanted the woman they called Mommy T to come home.

Santee’s dogs, Sunny, a three-legged, massively scarred Golden and Rufus, a goofy, long-legged pitbull type, whimpered and roamed the house with tails tucked.

Outside an abused stallion, Rogue roared his anger at his mistress’s disappearance, hooves clop, clop, clopping continuously as he circled the corral.

Ruarke’s gut hurt from too much coffee and no food. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. He’d tried to forget, but his brain kept dredging up his pissiness when she’d left to exercise that damned horse. He could have…should have…

“Let’s go over it one more time.”

Not again! Ruarke shoved to his feet, head shaking. “I’ve got a dog to bury.” But then he stopped. Goddamn it! He couldn’t even do that! He wanted to bury Duke, Santee’s white wolf-dog who’d tried to protect her, out where they’d buried Jack, his sister, Savannah’s, dog who’d also died fifteen years ago, trying to save the little five-year-old from a kidnapper. But Duke couldn’t be buried out there with Jack because of the site’s location, near the road and the swarming media; media who shouted asinine requests for comments about ‘how do you feel—?’ every time anyone ventured close to the end of the driveway. Amidst it all was the click, click, click of unauthorized photos being shot and video cameras following their every move. Plus, he wouldn’t put it past those ghouls to dig up the dog and make his mutilated body their page 1 breaking news…’Tragedy strikes Ruarke Sinclair for the third time in his life’.

Christ!

Rob, Ruarke’s Dad, his eyes swollen and red, clapped his hand on Ruarke’s shoulder. “We’ve frozen Duke until we can bury him.”

“Dad,” Ruarke shook his head, fighting tears. “I can’t even bury her damn dog for her.”

“I know,” Rob whispered. He crushed Ruarke in his arms and held on strongly as Ruarke sobbed for the first time. “I know.” He hadn’t embraced his son in years, other than a clap on the shoulder or a handshake, but he stroked Ruarke’s hair and rubbed his back as tears ran down his own face. He loved that girl like a daughter. He’d used her as an excuse to get back into his first love…horse training. Santee had a special way with horses, evidenced by that damned, horribly abused stallion that no one else could get close to. He’d rebuilt the indoor arena that had burned down over fifteen years ago and started their ‘bomb-proof’ horse training business, specifically designed to provide horses that novices and young children could safely ride.

The light stabbed like shards of glass through her eyes into her brain. Something cool was placed over them, bringing relief. A moan sighed, sounding so lost and lonely.

Everything hurt, from her hair follicles on her scalp to her little piggie toenails. Her entire torso felt like she’d gone five rounds with Mike Tyson and lost. Her brain was mush. Where was she?

Who was she?

The room seemed darker. Had time passed? How much time? Minutes? Hours?

The air smelled strange, hot and dusty…maybe slightly spicy.

She forced her eyes open and pushed aside the covers, the small movements taxing her strength. Her eyes slit through the room that lay mostly in shadows. Gentle female hands, murmuring words she couldn’t understand, helped her off the bed and to the bathroom.

She warded off their continued help. When finished and alone, she tried to rise, but her knees buckled. In the shadowy recesses of her mind, she remembered falling on her knees to dirt, not this hard tile. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Like a worm, she slithered across the cool tiles and into the sanctuary of the shower, her go-to safe place. She curled into a ball. Something metal bounced onto her hand. She grabbed it, hung on, and, for the first time, slept.

He sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor watching her sleep. His warrior princess; who’d taken a wild crazed stallion and gentled him in mere hours and, by doing so, had melted a part of him never before claimed by a mere woman.

She rocked herself slowly as a woman was wont to do to a cranky baby. The tattoo on her shoulder, 4 ★★★☆, made him wonder at its significance.

The trip had been hard on her, or perhaps it had been the drugs used to ensure her safe arrival. In the three days hence she’d had little more than a few sips of water and a few spoons of broth.

The doctor had recommended an IV, but once started, her heart had fluttered and slowed alarmingly; something that had happened several times, or so he’d been told, on the long flight. Though her journey here had not been at his behest, the abductors knew the price they’d have paid had the woman not survived. Once the needle had been removed, her heart had settled. But she couldn’t continue in such arid conditions without fluids.

And he couldn’t lose her now, not after all the trouble that had gone into getting her here.

He would not lose her.

Santee awoke with a start. Her palm hurt from the death clench she’d maintained on the ring. She stiffened. A presence lurked. Male.

“Ruarke!”

She spun around but found a swarthy man with raven hair, neatly trimmed beard and piercing black eyes sitting beside her.

Not her Ruarke at all.

The man held out a glass.

Her nostrils flared at the scent of water. And her stomach rumbled.

“You may as well drink it. Unless you would prefer it intravenously?”

The palsy of her hand as it reached out to the glass scared her. Water slopped cool and refreshingly over her parched skin.

Was it drugged? Her cracked lips and swollen tongue begged her brain not to worry about it…to deal with it later.

The contents that managed to make it down her throat threatened to roil back up from her gut, but she clamped a hand over her mouth and forced it to remain inside.

Her hand went to the chain and the ring. She had to get strong in order to make her way back to him.

The prince’s eyes narrowed on her hand. She had been clinging to it all of these days. He hadn’t been aware that it was a ring.

Not that it mattered.

She was here now.

Santee was his.

Chapter2

The turkey steamed on the table, along with a whole ham, and a crown roast. All of the traditional Thanksgiving side dishes were accounted for.

But the plates were not piled high with goodies. The vacant chair was an appetite killer.

“We have a lot to be thankful for,” Rob said with false heartiness.

“Grandpa, don’t,” Shaynee, one of Ruarke’s twins, pleaded.

Outside that damned horse squealed.

“She’ll be b-back,” Rob said. “I have faith.”

“Faith!” Ruarke shot to his feet. “Faith in who? God? Give me a fucking break! If God were half as loving as he’s touted to be he wouldn’t have pulled this shit on us again. If he were magnanimous, that damned stallion would have his rider. These dogs would have their mistress. These kids would have a mother, you a horse training partner, these people”— he swept his arm toward Pete, Joe, and Rosarita (Pete’s wife and the ranch’s head housekeeper), “their friend and I—I—“ He grabbed the chair and threw it away from behind him. He tromped around the table, vaguely aware of the muffled sobs but, immune to them. He headed to his bedroom.

Ruarke let the dogs scramble in before he slammed the door. He marched across to the north-facing windows and stared, unseeing, out at the lazily drifting snowflakes.

He didn’t have any memories of Santee here…at least not the memories he’d envisioned making. The hot tub had been involved in several fantasies of his; the rug in front of the fireplace; every flat surface and a lot of vertical ones, too. But they’d never come to fruition.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. He hadn’t known he could cry like this at the drop of a hat. But it seemed to be a daily ritual.

Each passing day eroded a hunk out of his hope.

Santee jogged around the women’s quarters, the outside gardens, and the pool. Guards watched her every movement. To lose her was to lose their heads.

The harem women didn’t know what to make of her. They whispered amongst themselves in a language she couldn’t understand and didn’t care to learn. The harem women seemed focused on being soft, submissive and pleasing…words that were not part of Santee’s vocabulary.

When she’d started running, she’d run barefoot, but after just a short time, a pair of Nike® running shoes showed up. She also exposed parts of her body; long bare legs, smooth belly below the confines of the sport bra and horse-handling muscular arms to view that were scandalous even within the harem. But she didn’t really care. Her focus was escaping this mountain stronghold; that was all that kept her strong…kept her sane.

It wasn’t going to be easy. The fortress was in the mountains. From the castle walk, a vast expanse of sand stretched as far as she could see in every direction.

“Santee!”

She looked down at the girls running with her. Ariel was twelve, Alexandra was eight and Farah was five. As near as Santee could figure out, all three had different mothers but, of course, the same father. Raschid.

“Papa is coming home!”

Santee’s heart fell. So far, she’d been able to fend off his advances, but he was losing patience. She doubted that he’d ever allowed a woman to dictate anything to him…to deny him anything.

Which included the #1 bitch. His first wife. The one who’d abducted her and gifted her to him.

Apparently, Raschid’d been bored and restless. #1 wifey, being the loving soul she was, discovered that he’d been searching out video clips showing Santee at the horse sale gentling the terrified, abused Rogue. And, of course, #1 had decided to spice up her husband’s life with his secret desire.

So here Santee was. Whether she wanted to be or not.

“When is he coming home?”

“Tomorrow! And perhaps he will take us out riding!”

These three little girls were like she had been at their ages, horse crazy. She supposed she still was. Yet, here they were, stuck in a culture that did not encourage such pursuits by lowly females. The SOB allowed them to ride around inside the fortress’s walls, heavily guarded, of course, but it merely whetted their desires to race free into the desert.

Santee had cased the fortress. Apparently, no one thought a mere woman would dare try to escape. She knew where a dune had formed against the exterior wall. It had to be tonight. No more procrastinating. No more fraidy-cat hesitancy.

So here she was, like a cat burglar, tying her bedding together to form a fair length of rope. An olla of water was shoved into her shirt, its coolness next to her belly. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had.

If this didn’t work…

If the water ran out…

Oh, well. At least she wouldn’t be here any longer.

She hooked the blanket rope over a high spot in the notched wall, crawled through and back-stepped down, a line in each hand.

When the line ran out, Santee released one hand, held on with the other and fell. The darkness hid the dune so the landing surprised her. Her butt hit first. Arms around the precious jar, she rolled so her feet led her in a downward slide.

The sand worked its way up her pant legs and scraped her calves. The hard-packed sand slammed into her soles and launched her to her feet as she ran to catch her balance.

Santee paused for a moment getting sand out of places where sand ought not to be. Then she headed off. The direction didn’t matter.

She had no idea where in this vast desert she was, so one direction was as good as another.

“SHE WHAT!”

“WHEN?”

“FIND HER!”

Raschid goaded the helicopter pilot for more speed.

He was two days later than expected. The woman had been gone that entire time, yet no one had seen fit to inform him of that fact. Not even Amira!

He stepped off the helicopter as the blades still turned. Amira strode past the obsequious men who awaited their fate.

“We have her, my husband.”

“And?”

“She is alive.”

He strode to the waiting Hummer. Amira trotted behind like a dog who’d peed on his master’s best boots. Raschid allowed her to enter before climbing in.

“How did this happen?”

“I warned you, husband, that you were allowing her too much freedom.”

He whirled on her. Her dark eyes widened, and she pressed herself back into the seat. He had never hit her, unlike all other males of their lineage. But the power and predilection were there.

“That’s not what I asked,” he snarled.

“I do not know. We have found no way she could have escaped.”

“I want her in my room in one hour.”

“Yes, my husband.” Amira pulled out her phone and made the necessary arrangements.

“What did you do?” Ruarke said loudly, the envelope crunched in his hand.

Deacon flinched. His eyes refused to meet Ruarke’s. “Nothing.” He wasn’t Ruarke’s son, nor his ward or his foster child. He’d been a fuck-up, growing up with a beast for a father who’d finally had enough and kicked his only child out on a sleety wintry night. Deke-now Deacon-had headed for the only place he could think of…the home of the kid he’d tormented relentlessly…to the woman who actually cared for kids who weren’t hers…who took in screwups like him, evidenced by the scarred dog and the crazed horse. Santee hadn’t wanted to allow him to stay. Deacon had read it in her eyes. But he’d had nowhere else to go…would have begged if he’d had to. But she hadn’t debased him like that. The ground rules were strict but fair. But now Santee was missing. Where did that leave him?

“Nothing! You don’t get notes sent home from school for nothing!”

“Ruarke,” Reggie, Ruarke’s mother, said evenly. She tilted her head toward the other kids who were watching with wide eyes. Reggie was a nurse and worked in the school system. She often drove the kids to and from school and so had known by Deacon’s paleness and slumped shoulders that something had gone very wrong this day.

Ruarke dragged in a ragged breath. He shoved his fingers through his too-shaggy hair and scrubbed down his bristly cheeks. God how he wished Santee were here!

“Alright we—“

Ruarke

He looked around the room. No one else was reacting to the sound of Santee’s voice. And it had been so clear. Deacon and the older kids warily studied him.

“We’ll um— find out tomorrow, I guess.” He turned away and rushed outside into the cold. He grabbed his knees as he sucked in deep gulps of frigid air.

A hand gripped his shoulders. He glanced over at Pete’s miserable face. Joe’s hand landed on his other shoulder, eyes equally miserable. His two bodyguards might be able to keep him safe from a crazed stalker, but they hadn’t been able to save his woman for him.

Maybe it was true. Misery did love company. He felt better knowing that Santee was missed by others, too. Even Bobby John, the husband of Ruarke’s manager-best friend, had wanted to retire mid-football season, but what was the point? There was nothing he could do.

There was nothing anyone could do.

Chapter3

Santee felt like a convenience store hotdog that had been allowed to roll around and around on the cooker for a couple of days. Her skin seemed to have shrunk at least two sizes. Great fissures carved her lips, bleeding at the least movement. Swollen bare feet gimped her around the locked and shuttered room. Though showered and lotioned, sunburned flesh still scratched with grit.

The door burst open. Not a surprise. Santee had heard the helicopter descend past the tall castle parapet.

Raschid was home.

She tamped down the butterflies. His reaction to her escape was burgeoning in her mind.

Without a word but with a jerk of a rifle barrel Santee was motioned out of her sanctuary.

Unseen eyes condemned her as she walked, head high, down the echoing hallway.

How could this misbegotten heathen dare thwart his excellency’s desires?

Infidel though she was, it was her birthright to cleave unto the master.

His rage at one meant misery to all.

Pity to the one chosen to assuage him at times like this!

A thousand plagues on the foreigner!

Santee limped slightly along the cool tile floor, leaving dots of blood behind like breadcrumbs to guide her return. Now she knew how Marie Antoinette felt on her way to the guillotine. Dread followed the stabbing pains from her soles to her brain as she was escorted to an area in the castle she had never been in before…by armed escorts. They’d learned their lessons well. So, well that they no longer clustered closely around her when guarding her movements. She allowed herself a moment to relish the tiny victory, her silvery eyes twinkling in her otherwise impassive face.

A guarded archway opened to a more masculine area than the women’s quarters; darker wood, heavier furniture.

Two guards stood on either side of a massive solid wood door; bas-relief sculpted scenes; of robed hunters on gallant steeds, of lean saluki-type dogs in pursuit of and capturing a decurved-horned oryx, decorated the double doors. One man pushed one of the double doors open. The guard behind gave Santee a shove in the middle of her back, forcing a graceless stumble-step into the room. The door slammed shut behind her like the clanking closure of a prison cell portal.

“Come in, my dear,” Rashid called. “Join me.” He held up a crystal decanter. “What would you care to drink?”

Santee swallowed hard. Rashid had apparently just come from the shower. His raven hair shone glossy wet. His muscular shoulders carried a faint sheen of water droplets. His dusky, nearly hairless chest and legs were strong and toned. A skimpy white towel encircled his lean hips.

He stood poised as if awaiting her reaction to his near-nudity.

Though her heart hammered, she kept her gaze neutral. “No, thank you.” Her mouth was dry as the desert she’d slogged through, but alcohol wasn’t going to solve the problem.

He wasn’t as tall as Ruarke, perhaps even a shade shorter than she was, but his presence was overbearing, his manner that of an overlord descended from generations of tyrannical totalitarians. Santee could feel his rage at her temerity of denial of his offer clear across the room. She wondered when he had last been defied and if that someone had come out of it with their head still attached to their shoulders?

Rachid grabbed his crystal glass, drained the contents in one gulp and threw it at the wall with a roar.

Santee forced herself to remain stoic. Just when the Sinclairs, with their gentle ways and unqualified love, had begun to thaw her out, she was now forced to revert to the pre-Sinclair Santee; the cold, heartless, impenetrable Santee…the Santee who had survived the physical, mental, and psychological abuse of the man who claimed to be her father…who had killed him to prevent him from raping her two-year-old sister and had gone to prison for it…who had survived the prison guards’ abuses, incentivized by money from her supposed mother. Now the original Santee Smith was back!

He strode to her lean nostrils flaring with each angry breath. His hand shot out to her neck, the long fingers easily encircling its slenderness. His eyes blazed into hers…furious obsidian versus glacial silver.

His fist closed, oxygen becoming a premium. But still, she remained impassive, refusing to struggle. He desired a response, an acknowledgment of his dominion over her. She was just as determined to defy him…for as long as she could, lifting her chin imperiously.

He hauled her by the throat to his bed and flung her down onto her back. He landed on her, knee between her thighs, breathing heavily. Her delicate silk, almost see-through shirt rent easily exposing her soft whiteness in stark contrast to the redness of her arms, face and neck. Her small breasts swelled and ebbed with each easy breath…not at all the way a woman in her position should be reacting when confronted by a seething man set to vanquish her.

With ease he shredded the filmy trousers.

She neither moved nor twitched.

Enraged by Santee’s passivity, he rammed his hand between her legs as he whipped off the towel that concealed his desire and threw it aside.

The dark place in Santee’s mind hovered enticingly close. A hairy brown dog bowed there before her, bushy tail wagging enticingly to his long lost playmate. ‘Come play with me!’ Santee smiled at the dog, a familiar from her childhood. When life was at its bleakest, he was always there for her, even in the blackest of closets, for days at a time, she was never truly alone.

Santee grabbed her talisman, whispering ‘Ruarke’ before racing off to join her friend.

“Ruarke.”

He jerked, heart soaring as he looked around the elementary school hallway for the impossible…Santee walking toward him as if the intervening weeks were nothing but an awful nightmare.

“Mr. Sinclair,” Mrs. Helling said, jerking him back. “Please, come in.” To Hannah, Jamie, and Deacon, who hovered in the hall, she said, “Wait here.”

Deacon weaved as if he were going to pass out or cry, or both. Ruarke squeezed the boy’s trembling shoulder. He’d give a thousand bucks, hell, he’d give a million to have Santee here beside him. She and Deacon were two of a kind. Simpatico. She would have known how to defend this changeling.

The door closed and Mrs. Helling laid her hand on Ruarke’s arm. “How are you holding up?”

Tears, ever so close to the surface, were blinked furiously away. “It’s been hard.”

“I am so very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Are there any leads?”

Ruarke shook his head. “Only me. Apparently, everyone; FBI, Sheriff Armstrong, the media, sports commenters, all are positive I did something to her, and everyone on the ranch is helping me cover it up.”

She sighed. “I read a lot of mystery novels. I know the mentality of law enforcement. But, if I may be so bold—?”

Ruarke nodded to his former sixth-grade teacher.

“I met the young lady at the open house and, in my humble opinion, if one of you were to kill the other, I would bet my retirement that it would be she, not you doing the killing.”

Ruarke snorted.

“No offense, but she seemed far tougher…rougher around the edges, so to speak, than you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Helling,” Ruarke said, laughing for the first time in weeks, “you always were my favorite teacher.”

“And you were also a favorite of mine. And your twins, Shaynee and Shawnee, were delightful. Please don’t ask me about their mother, your first wife, Heather Henderson, though.” She smiled, eyes twinkling. “Do you think we’ve tormented poor Deacon long enough?”

She went to admit Deacon leaving the door open to the hall.

Deacon and Ruarke took the chairs placed in front of the desk, while Mrs. Helling took her accustomed place behind it. Deacon’s fisted hands shook. Ruarke put his over the knotted fingers, but he knew he was a poor substitute for the one Deacon needed here beside him. Hell, Ruarke wished for it…prayed every night for it, too.

“I know my note was ambiguous, but this is not something I felt I could say in a letter. I’m just sorry Miss Smith is not here to hear this, as I feel it was her influence that brought this all about.”

“Let me begin by saying that I am past the age where I could retire. But I love teaching so much. However, when the class lists were handed out this fall, and I saw Deke Jones’s name on my roster, I almost quit right then and there. You see, the name Deke Jones is notorious in this school.”

Deacon squirmed on the hard chair.

“And the fact that he has been here an extra two years to perfect his seething anger hasn’t helped. I’d heard all the horror stories. Knew exactly what to expect…or so I thought. I’d had tough students before and survived. I wasn’t about to quit before I’d at least tried to turn this child around.”

She gave a little laugh. “Unfortunately, it didn’t go as planned. Every day I fully expected Deke to march in, pull a weapon out and blast away, first me and then as many of his classmates as he could before help arrived. I have never endured such an awful two months. My husband said over and over that it wasn’t worth the toll it was taking on my health. So I wrote up my resignation.” She held up a piece of paper. “Effective January 1st.”

She carefully laid the paper back down and placed her folded hands on top of it. “When Deke, Jamie and Hannah were expelled for a week, it was the best five days of this year…not because of Jamie and Hannah’s absences. They’re always a joy. But without Deke, the entire classroom changed. The tension was gone. My ulcer could take a break. The kids relaxed. We could have some fun.”

“The day they were due back, I stood here and regretted that I hadn’t retired, effective immediately. Then Jamie and Hannah walked in with this new kid. Tall, clean, well dressed. He walked past me with a nod and went to sit in Deke’s desk. I can’t tell you how long it took me before I actually realized that that child was Deke.”

“I don’t know…don’t want to know how Deacon came to live with you, Sinclairs. But if there is ever any backlash, let me know. I would be proud to be a character witness.”

Mrs. Helling stood up. “Deacon.”

He looked up, still processing what he had heard.

“Will you do something for me?”

Deacon studied her for a moment before nodding.

She held out the sheet of paper she’d shown earlier-her resignation. “Will you tear this up for me?”

It took a moment before he stood and took the paper. “This is all because of Santee,” he whispered. He ripped it into pinky-nail-sized bits and let them fall like confetti into the metal trashcan.

Cheers resounded in the empty corridor. Beaming, Deacon loped out into his brother’s and sister’s embraces.

“Thank you, Mrs. Helling. We needed a little lift.”

“I know it’s been hard. The kids’ grades slipped a little there for a while, and I feared a return to the old Deke, but all three are back at the top of my class, ’A’ students once again. But they don’t smile like they used to.”

Mrs. Helling leaned and whispered, “And Hannah? Is Hannah living with you, also?”

Hannah was another of the town of Edgarville’s lost children. Her parents seemed to have all the time in the world to devote to their older kids, both sports stars. But Hannah, a brainiac, was left to muddle through with unkempt hair, baggy tattered clothes, and eyeglasses that had their bow repaired with white medical tape.

“Not full time, but several nights a week and most weekends,” Ruarke admitted.

“I didn’t know what caused the change in her, but I knew immediately that something good had happened in her life, too.” She squeezed Ruarke’s arm. “God bless you and your family.”

“Thank you, but again most of the credit goes to Santee.”

At the door he paused. “You might have given us a hint that it was good news. Saved him from a rough night.”

The elderly woman gave a slightly evil chuckle. “It was rather thoughtless of me given all you’ve been through recently, but I reasoned that after all the rough nights he’d caused me, it seemed appropriate.”

Ruarke nodded. “You have no idea how many nights Santee slept in the hall outside the boys’ bedroom, making sure that Deke didn’t try anything with the younger kids or our girls.”

Mrs. Helling’s eyes widened. “Oh my! I never thought of that possibility!”

“I wouldn’t have either. Have a good year, Mrs. Helling.”

“I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

“We need them. We really do.”

Chapter4

Santee was running through a field of wildflowers. The hairy brown dog, Jack, bounded by her side. Not a worry in the world. Happy and carefree.

Then she was jolted away.

Gasping, she lay on a bed. Light streaming across her face made her throw her arm over her aching eyes.

A rustle of material and the eye killing light was muted to semi-darkness.

The heat from her sunburned arm combined with the heat of her sunburned face was enough to cause spontaneous combustion. Santee lowered her arm onto the cool silk that covered her. The ache in her hand induced her fingers to slowly open, letting the metal circle fall against her chest.

The pressure of staring eyes made her head fall to the side.

He sat there, dark eyes boring into her. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Bathroom.”

Her bladder demanded that she roll over. Every joint protested. Her burned skin seemed to have shrunken another two sizes. The silk she’d been covered by turned out to be a robe.

It was pointless to try to save her modesty…he’d seen everything, so she forced her legs over the side, the material drooping to her waist. Her swollen feet on the cool floor made her breath hiss.

Carefully, she levered herself off the bed, hand on the mattress until the wobbling steadied. She pulled the cooling silk over her skin, keenly aware that he greedily scrutinized every detail of her body.

The robe must have been one of his as it wrapped almost twice around her. She knotted the tie but knew that whether it stayed tied or not was not something she could control.

With that comforting thought she tottered like an old woman for the bathroom.

Raschid had never known a woman like this American. Given her circumstances, he expected fear or at least trepidation. But she’d looked him in the eye as she passed, chin held high. A dare in her steely gaze.

Despite almost dying in the desert and almost being raped, she still challenged him.

Praise be to Allah! What a woman!

The bathroom door pushed open. Santee covered her startled jerk by continuing to towel dry her hair. She didn’t know how long she’d been away from the ranch, but it had been long enough for her hair to grow out to short ponytail length. What a pain!

Raschid walked in like he owned the place…which he did…and her…which he didn’t, and smoothed his hand down the damp strands, his fingers rolling a lock between their sensitive pads, an appreciative smile on his sensual lips.

Santee angled her head to pull free, but he locked his fist in and jerked her back, forcing her to face him.

“You are mine. Never pull away again.”

“I am not yours.” She glared at him. “If I am anyone’s, it would be Ruarke Sinclair’s.”

Still forcing her to look at him, Raschid jerked free the edge of the towel that was tucked over her breasts. The towel dropped to the floor. He put his hand on her breast and squeezed. “I beg to differ.” He leaned down to claim that perfect, though small, blossom.

Santee snorted. Raschid’s head jerked up, eyes fiery. “You may control my body. But you do not claim me.”

His hand clamped onto her buttock and hauled her tight to his erection. “Someday, you will beg me to make you mine.”

Mere inches apart, Santee stared into eyes that contained all the humanity of a hungry eagle’s stare. “Never.”

His lips curved into a confident smile. His hand left her hair to slip his forefinger under the chain and bring the ring upwards. “You think that this will save you?” he sneered.

Santee refused to so much as glance at the huge amethyst and diamond ring that gave her reason to continue the battle. “I think the man behind that ring is doing his damnedest to find me.”

“And if I told you he had already moved on to another…a lovely blonde with breasts the size of melons?”

“I’d say you’re lying.”

He chuckled as he hauled her face to his by the platinum chain’s links. “Someday, my dear, you will unhook this chain and give this ring to me thereby proclaiming that you are well and truly mine.”

“Never. Going. To. Happen.”

He brushed his warm, soft lips across her cracked ones. “You will never be his again. I will kill you first.”

“Then have at it.”

Their gazes clashed in epic battle.

Ruarke and Pete were in Washington D.C. Not because Ruarke wanted to be. He disliked the place. Too much power being wielded by too many self-serving idiots, high on power and prestige.

But he’d researched private investigators and the best one seemed to be based in D.C. So, he’d gotten an appointment with Collins Investigations and here they were.

He’d insisted on a meeting with Mr. Collins himself. Not an underling.

In a terrifyingly thin envelope he carried everything that Sheriff Lance Armstrong had. When asked, Ruarke’s old high school nemesis hadn’t hesitated. The copies were ready within an hour. But Ruarke could sense that Lance thought this was a waste of time and money. There was nothing to go on…especially when the sheriff halfway believed that Ruarke, himself or with help, had committed the perfect murder.

The office building in Georgetown had once been a Victorian home, wide wrap-around porch with Boston ferns hanging in pots all along the eave. A small sign dangled from a post arm at the picket fence’s gate.

This couldn’t possibly be all there was to a firm with Collins’s reputation. Maybe this all was just a waste of time.

The door opened into a small quiet reception area. An alarm sounded.

The redheaded, green-eyed woman looked up. “Weapons in that lock box over there.” She pointed to what looked like postal mailboxes, only larger. Her right hand remained below the desktop.

Ruarke nodded to Pete. Ruarke knew it was almost like giving up his child for Pete to leave his weapon. Even Ruarke felt vulnerable with Pete disarmed.

“Thank you,” she smiled sweetly. “Mr. Collins is expecting you, Mr. Sinclair.” She wheeled herself out from behind the desk in a wheelchair designed for sports, sleek and nimble. She led them down the hall to the rear of the house.

They passed three other doors, but there was no sound of activity seeping out.

Expertly she spun the sporty chair sideways to the door and tapped before opening it. “Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Jackson are here.”

Ruarke glanced at Pete, wondering how they knew Pete’s name. Ruarke hadn’t told them he’d be bringing anyone with him.

The woman shoved the door open and wheeled backward to allow them entrance.

The man who rose from behind the desk was Ruarke’s age but had a thick shock of snowy hair. He stepped out, hand outstretched. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Ruarke wanted to rail at the man that there wasn’t any time for that, but Pete’s hand on his elbow stilled it. So much time had already passed. He eyed the tastefully expensive Christmas decorations and knew there was no need to rush.

They sat on buttery soft leather chairs around an antique oak table. The table was completely clear until Ruarke put the paltry envelope on it.

“My fiancé was kidnapped in October.”

Collins nodded gravely. “So I understand.” At Ruarke’s surprise, he said, “When I heard your name, research was begun.”

He’d known the name Ruarke Sinclair…first baseman for the Yankee’s, GQ model, Sports Illustrated cover several times over, winner of just about every baseball award from rookie of the year to Gold Glove winner, to batting champ, and MVP of the World Series. Then tragedy had struck in the form of a bullet shattered femur. He’d made an unfortunate stop at convenience store in Minneapolis and stumbled into a robbery, nearly dying and his career in shambles.

The man had two ex-wives…one now deceased and four natural children: twin girls with his first and two sons with his second, gaining custody of the boys only upon their mother and step-father’s deaths, along with the step-father’s son, Jamie, and their twins, Trev and Trey.

What he didn’t know was how this man had met Miss Smith, whom he’d been unable to establish even existed.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Ruarke shot to his feet, shaking off Pete’s hand. “Santee is not dead!”

“It has been two months with no word. No ransom demand. Nothing,” Collins said reasonably.

Pete pulled Ruarke back down to the chair.

“I hear her call my name,” Ruarke said. “She can’t be dead.”

“In your dreams?”

“No. Well…sometimes. But not always. Sometimes it happens in the middle of the day, out of the blue.”

“I see.”

“No,” Ruarke said. “You don’t.” He nodded to Pete.

Moving carefully, fully aware that they had to be under surveillance, Pete took out his phone and keyed up the video of Santee at the horse sale.

Thomas Collins watched the shortened version of the hour-long video three times before passing the phone back. “I’m afraid I do not see the relevance of that video. She obviously has a way with horses, but—.”

“It’s not just horses,” Ruarke insisted. “She knows things before they happen. She digs at the back of her neck until it’s bloody as a warning.”

“And was she behaving thusly the day she disappeared?”

“No, but…” Ruarke knew he was screwing this up majorly. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone, and I want her back.”

“And if she went of her own volition?”

“She didn’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Ruarke leaned his elbow onto the table. “Because one of her dogs was killed at the time. Also, she has major issues with crowds and noise. Her other dogs act as service dogs, calming her so she can function in stressful situations. She left them behind that afternoon.” His breath caught and his eyes widened. “Almost as if she sensed something and wanted them out of harm’s way.”

Ruarke looked at Pete and saw that the idea was also new to him.

“Or,” Pete said softly, “to keep them from being held hostage and used against her.”

“Shit,” Ruarke breathed. He hadn’t thought of that. Sunny and Rufus could be commanded to stay home, but the wolf-dog, Duke, would follow her no matter what she said and had taken a bullet to the brain trying to protect her.

Thomas Collins didn’t believe in that woowoo crap. But the woman had vanished into, literally, thin air. It would be quite a coup if his team could find her when no one else could.

He reached out and slid the envelope from under Ruarke Sinclair’s hand.

“So, what can you tell me about Miss Smith.”

Ruarke looked at Pete. The FBI had asked the same thing, and he was stunned to realize that he knew painfully little. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that Santee was taken, and I want her back.”

Chapter5

The sun had yet to appear, its brilliance just starting to golden the mountain crags, when he strode into her room in the women’s area as if it were his right.

Santee sat on the balcony and listened to his approach, the ring clutched in her fist, scritching as it slid back and forth along the chain.

She didn’t move. Night after night of elusive sleep left her worn down in body and spirit. The impatience of his boots slapping the tile as he strode across to the open doorway barely registered.

Raschid stopped behind her, but Santee remained with her bare feet up on the chilly rail.

Women arose at his entrance! he fumed. Women showed him respect…perhaps even fear. But none disrespected him by ignoring him!

He dropped the armload of clothing on the floor. Boots thudded first, followed by the rest.

Santee angled her head slightly but seemed unimpressed.

“Get dressed.”

“I will not ride a horse.” She looked him in the eye. “Or anything else of yours.”

Raschid’s simmering temper flared into a rage. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Her hip slammed painfully into the chair’s arm, but she never made a sound.

Nose to nose he was keenly aware of the gaping silk robe, the only clothing she’d been allowed since her escape attempt. He wanted nothing more than to slake his fires within her, but he wanted her to take him, not he to take her. He’d never raped a woman. Had never had to. Santee would open her long legs to him willingly. It would be his name on her lips as she moaned her ecstasy.

“You will get dressed, or you will come to the stables as you are. It makes no difference to me.” In fact, though, he would have her forcibly dressed rather than have his men see all of her and know that he could not control a woman, least of all an American woman.

“You have five minutes.” Raschid spun away before his lust had its way, and he threw her onto the bed… a bed that appeared unslept upon, and took her hard and fast, driving out any residual memories of the other.

Santee had no doubt she’d be hauled down to the stables, dressed or undressed. So, she pulled on the skin tight jodhpurs and knee-high leather boots. A white silk shirt carefully concealed the talisman and a sheepskin-lined leather jacket kept the early morning chill at bay. At the door she found a flat crowned Spanish-style hat and a pair of dark glasses. She picked up the glasses and closed her fist around them. Crushing them would be a pyrrhic victory, and her head would suffer the consequences. With a growl she shoved them onto her nose and jammed the hat on, pulling her hair out the convenient ponytail hole.

The guards at her door led her outside, where horses were saddled and waiting. Three giggling girls carefully hurried past their calm geldings to Santee’s side. “Father’s taking us outside the walls with him!” They bounced on their toes, barely able to suppress their excited squeals. The three Arabians, a bay and two sorrels, turned to nuzzle at the girls drawing giggles.

A staccato clatter of hooves preceded a prancing horse into the stable yard. A wild-eyed, foam-covered mare reared to a halt and minced in place. The reins in the teenage boy’s hands were beyond taut, forcing her head up to an unnatural angle and her blood flecked mouth to gape. Sharp spurs dug into bloody gouges on her barrel, urging her on while being held in place by a cruel bit. A vicious smile sneered the teen’s cold patrician face.

In two strides Santee was at the mare’s side. She caught the reins with her left hand as her right grabbed the boy by his silken white shirt and hauled him from the mare, tossing him to the ground like the trash he was.

The girls gasped. But otherwise, the courtyard was deadly silent.

The boy sat, stunned, in the dirt. Too bad he couldn’t have landed on a nice fresh pile of manure, Santee thought, as she cooed to the panicky horse, a careful eye kept upon the boy.

When the shock wore off, he sprang to his feet. His face was beet-red as he sputtered, “How dare you, bitch!” He turned to the nearest man and demanded something in Arabic. Enraged when the man remained stoic and at attention, he went to the next and the next.

Raschid finally made an appearance, black eyes noting Santee attending to a quivering mare, then focused on his number one son. He had sired only two sons; this one and a three-year-old. Many, many daughters but just the two who meant anything. And here his oldest was, ordering that he be given a weapon; a pistol, a rifle, or even a knife, and threatening death to those who didn’t comply.

Said stumbled to his father. “Your American whore dared to touch me!” His shaking finger nailed Santee. “And the men failed to protect or obey me! I demand that she be drawn and quartered for laying her hands upon my royal personage! And they be gutted like the insolent pigs they are!”

“You, my son, needed protection from a mere woman?” Said’s puce-colored face, on an older man would have warned of an imminent heart attack. Raschid looked down upon his heir. “And what of your horse’s condition?”

Said looked at the mare being led away by a stablehand. He shrugged. “She displeased me.”

“How?” At his son’s mute stare, Raschid said, “That horse is a product of centuries of selective breeding. She is bred to be obedient, intuitive and strong. She lives to serve her master. In return, a man respects that loyalty and love by treating her well and caring for her needs. There is no need for spurs with sharp points that cause pain and bleeding. That is not how a horseman treats his mount.”

Said glared at his father, his lips pursed petulantly. “You would know more than I about a mount’s—” his narrowed eyes leered at Santee as Raschid tensed. “—treatment. I have seen better in the slums of London or Paris. You, who could have any woman on the planet, sniff after this one’s pussy like a lovesick—“

The backhanded blow spun Said around and to his knees. He launched upward, fists boxer ready. Fury uglied his fine features.

“Said!” Amira said sharply, freezing both males.

Dressed to accompany her husband into the desert, Amira stepped to Raschid’s side and laid her hand gently on his vibrating arm, preventing him from again striking the belligerent, defiant boy. Though Said was not her son…she had not been blessed to give her prince a son…she knew the dispute had to be resolved now lest it turn septic. “Darling—“

Raschid shook her hand off and stepped toe to toe with Said, staring down at him. “The woman was right to prevent you from further harming that defenseless animal. If any retribution is meted upon her, it will be at my hand, not yours, nor at your demand. Am I clear!”

Still simmering, Said kept his head bowed to cover his rebellious eyes. He stood, stiff shouldered, unrepentant in the face of his father’s might.

“You will not ride again unless it is with me. Nor are you allowed in the stables.” He looked at his men who gave discrete nods. “Now return to your room, and think about all that has happened today. We will talk more later.”

Said’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. He spun on Santee, murderous rage burning in his coal black eyes. “American whore!” He spat at her feet.

Santee didn’t take offense. She’d been called worse and couldn’t have cared less. She also sensed that was the opinion of all the people here…women included. Except for three horse-crazy girls.

“Convince your father to take me back to America, and we’ll call it even.”

Said’s fist quivered at his sides. “I shall convince my father to present your head to me upon a pike.” He spun away and marched off.

“That’d work, too,” Santee said softly.

Raschid snapped his fingers for Santee’s horse to be brought up. The fact that his men had chosen a horse that was of no special breeding, caught wild in the desert, was barely noted. He grabbed the reins, hauled the recalcitrant horse to Santee and thrust the reins at her.

“I don’t…”

He grabbed her around the waist and flung her up onto the startled horse’s back. He flipped the reins on either side of the nag’s neck as the horse tried to shy away. “Ride or be tied on and led. Either way, you will accompany me.”

Santee gave him a curt nod, still stunned by the strength he’d marshaled to get someone of her height and weight so effortlessly onto the horse. She straightened herself in the saddle, feet automatically finding the stirrups, adjusted her sunglasses and settled the hat down.

She would allow him this small victory.

Santee patted the horse’s neck, absently noting the difference between her horse and the elegant Arabians the others rode.

She hadn’t been astride a horse in over a decade. Even then, it had mostly been when she could slip away from HIS eagle eyes to sit bareback upon one of the horses HE was training while the horse stood in its stall.

With a clatter of hooves the cavalcade flowed across the courtyard to the ululations of the castle’s denizens. Several rifle shots cracked the desert air as they passed through the wide open gates.

Santee balanced easily, moving with the stubby-legged iron-mouthed animal. The sensations of movement between her legs, the touch of hard leather against her nether region and buttocks, was surprisingly carnal.

Christmas dinner was spread across the table. Colored lights blinked gaily at the windows. A seven-foot pine sat in the corner, boughs drooping beneath the lights, garland, and ornaments. The angel on top listed to the side as if she’d imbibed too much hot nog.

Beneath the tree were dozens of carefully wrapped packages, still unopened. A row of Santa stockings hung heavy from nails along the family room wall.

Two and a half months and the children had yet to move on…now refusing to open their presents without Santee.

Hell, Ruarke thought. They weren’t the only ones who hadn’t moved on.

Two dogs lay gaunt-eyed in suspended animation, just waiting to be rejuvenated upon their mistress’s arrival.

A squeal resounded outside. Her stallion’s constant pacing forced the men to throw gravel through the fence onto the rut he was carving. No one dared go in with the horse anymore, not even Sol, the ranch’s stable foreman, a veterinarian by virtue of years of experience and horse-genie to the animals constantly being dumped outside the ranch gate. Sol had worked beside Santee on the stallion until he’d gotten to the point of allowing Sol to enter the corral without being charged and to even touch him. Now, the horse had reverted, not allowing Sol anywhere near him. Rogue hadn’t been touched in months; left uncurried, hooves untrimmed, and mane tangled. Hay was tossed over and grain was dumped through the fence while a hose was stuck into the grungy water trough to fill it.

A gong on Joe and Pete’s phones announced an arrival. Joe punched to open the gate.

“Who is it?” Rob asked. Desultorily he’d been chasing his food around with his fork.

“Sheriff Armstrong.”

The collective inhalation seemed to suck all of the house’s air in like a vortex. Heads popped up. Hope sparked.

Ruarke hurried to the porch. He waved the kids back and shut the door behind him. If there were gory details, he didn’t want them to hear it from the Sheriff.

Lance opened the vehicle’s door.

Ruarke called before Lance could even get a foot out, “Have you found her?”

Lance got out and stood by his Tahoe. “No.”

Ruarke slumped. Behind him wails echoed. “Then what? We’re trying to celebrate Christmas here.”

“I know.” Lance walked up the sidewalk. “It’s just—“

Ruarke’s heart fell. Oh, God, not another body to be identified. This would be the fourth. “Where?”

“California. L.A.”

That was a very small relief. None had been in Texas, thank God. He was terrified that a body found there would actually be Santee’s. The way she had fixated on that state when she’d first arrived could easily have been another of her crazy premonitions. If she were found dead, Ruarke wouldn’t be surprised to find out her body’d been found somewhere in the Lone Star State.

“When.”

“Day after tomorrow. I’ll text you the specifics. But I have to warn you. It won’t be pretty.”

“What one has been?”

“I know, but…. Just be prepared.”

Ruarke nodded and held out his hand. “Thanks, Lance.”

Lance’s grip was strong as if to infuse some of his strength into his old rival. “Wish it had been better news.”

Ruarke was just relieved the bad news hadn’t been specific…that the dead body was certainly Santee’s.

Chapter6

Santee’s hand dug at the nape of her neck, nails bloody.

Something…

She paced the length of her quarters. Now that she no longer had the freedom to run for exercise—her punishment for trying to escape—she only had pacing, sit-ups and pushups to take the edge off. Barefoot, wearing only a silken robe, her long legs made short work of the floor’s length.

Raschid entered Santee’s quarters to check out what her guards had reported as unusual activity within. He gasped at the sight of raven strands dangling from Santee’s fingers. In two strides he captured her in his arms, forcing her bloody hand from her scalp. “Santee, what is wrong?”

She snorted as her eyes focused on him. An attempt to break free by abruptly twisting her torso merely caused his fingers to dig deeper into her flesh. Silvery eyes glared into stony black. Chin lifted she said, “Would you like a list? In alphabetical order or chronological? What would please Your Highness?”

Such continued defiance! Few men had the inner strength to fight so long! He locked his hand into the stickiness behind her neck, stilling her attempt to turn aside and claimed her lips.

Santee shivered at the warmth covering her mouth. Eyes closed, her hands slid to his neck, lips parting as she whispered, “Ruarke.”

He shot to his feet, looking wildly around the dining room. “Did you hear that?”

Raschid flung her from him. She floundered backward, feet tangling into the robe. The confusion in her eyes changed to ice. She pirouetted to scramble away, but Raschid was on her, his superior weight forcing her to the floor. She whirled around to fight, but the damned robe acted like a piggin’ string around her legs. Her fingers, arched like talons, jabbed at his eyes, but he grabbed her wrists and, after a surprisingly mighty struggle, got them pressed above her head.

The robe was askew, uncovering both breasts. He smiled appreciatively, never having understood the fascination his British classmates had shown for large breasts. Her body bucked in an attempt to throw him off. “Easy, woman,” he murmured as if to a jittery mare. He locked both wrists in one hand, barely managing to keep both, and slid his free hand down her cheek. Her head turned, teeth snapping at his hand, but he merely chuckled.