Killing Secrets (17 page)

No one wanted her here, least of all, Patrick. He’d avoided the trailer, avoided
her
, the entire day. Much as she didn’t want to admit it, his rejection bothered her. There was a hard knot in her middle that grew as each hour passed without a word from him. She’d heard him talking over the radio to his employees several times, but he’d never come to his office, not even for lunch.

She was a problem thrust upon him, and she couldn’t forget that. The all-too-masculine contractor was another kind of danger to her, one she hadn’t seen coming until it was too late. Somehow, in the span of only a few short days, he’d tapped into her scarred heart and given her a glimpse of what she’d longed for her entire life…a man who could care about her. Not her family connections. Not the money she stood to inherit.
Her.

Patrick had gotten too close. He was a bigger threat to her heart than any man who’d come before him. She had to get away from him as soon as possible. Too bad she’d promised—only this morning—to stay put until Greg was behind bars.

Chapter Thirteen

Patrick walked between the two main condo buildings toward the Southgate site trailer where he’d left Rachel and the children this morning, his emotions jumping back and forth between anticipation and dread with each step. He’d managed to avoid going into the site office all day, shamelessly using Skip to run to the trailer to locate blueprints, grab keys off the rack, and other tasks he’d normally have done himself. He’d asked Skip to buy lunch for Rachel and the kids and eat with them because he, cool, single-minded ex-Ranger, was too intimidated to be in close proximity of a brown-eyed woman who was turning his brain into putty.

That didn’t stop him from lingering within eyesight of the trailer all day. If he was drawn away by a problem elsewhere, he was quick to finish and return. On the one hand, he wanted to push Rachel away. The woman got under his skin too easily. On the other hand, he longed to pull her closer and take up the battle against her demons.

Her demons were proving to be particularly nasty. He thought of the note he’d handed over to his brother this morning, the one he’d found on his truck seat when he took Rachel and the kids to work. The words were pieced together from magazines or newspapers and pasted into place like a ransom note, which was disturbing enough. But it was the message itself that made his blood run cold, just as it had when he read it before stuffing it into his shirt pocket so Rachel wouldn’t see it.

T
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He knew the threat was aimed at him, that Bishop was staking his claim warning him away from Rachel and Amanda. What concerned him, though, was what the man might do once he realized Patrick wasn’t going to turn tail and run. That he would protect them no matter what Bishop threatened.

It was the last line of the note that disturbed Patrick most. The way it was phrased he believed Bishop was saying he was prepared to kill Rachel, if he couldn’t have her, then no one else would either. It was a common threat for abusers and, God knows, Rachel’s ex-husband was vicious enough to take things to the next level. Patrick only had to think of Rachel’s scars to remember the man was capable of unconscionable brutality.

The thought pushed him more quickly toward the trailer, his longing to see Rachel and assure himself that she was safe gaining a stranglehold on his emotions. Every time he was stopped by a contractor, a crew member, or supervisor to answer a question or give an order his irritation grew. Why were so many of his employees wandering around the site instead of doing their jobs?

Second shift, boss man.
In addition to his regular crew working fourteen hour days to get everything done on the schedule, he’d added another shift of part timers. He smiled at the second shift supervisor as he walked past, feeling foolish for his erratic behavior. Jack had
really
better find Bishop before Patrick went completely nuts.

When he was within half a dozen feet of the trailer, as if his thoughts had drawn her there, the door opened and Rachel walked down the metal stairs toward him, a bright smile on her face, her halo of honey blond hair shining bright in the late afternoon sun. She was safe and within his sight, and he was damned if the day’s tension didn’t unwind between his shoulder blades.

Thorne, you’ve got it bad.

“We’re ready,” she said, coming within arm’s reach.

So was he.

A vision played with his mind. Rachel lying in the sunlight wearing nothing but this same welcoming smile. His hands buried in her tousled curls as he made slow, sweet love to her. The glow of her climax blossoming across her cheeks. “Give me a minute,” Patrick cleared his throat, “to pick up some files and blueprints, and we can go home.”

Home.
He hadn’t lived in his parents’ house since he left for the army at eighteen, but it had begun to feel more like home than his own house on the other side of the cranberry hedge. And it was all because of this woman…who was looking past him with a horrified expression on her face.

Turning on his heel, he looked directly into the bloodshot, green eyes of a middle-aged, balding man with a golfer’s tan and a .22 in his hand. A .22 that was pointed dead center at Patrick.

“You killed her!” The gun shook. “Y-you killed my baby!” The gun shook so hard it looked like it might go off at any second, even without the index finger tightening and loosening over the trigger.

Patrick eyed the man, his training kicking in as he quickly assessed the situation. Unhinged man in front of him. Rachel behind him over his left shoulder. More than a dozen workers and supervisors, frozen in a gauntlet of shock on both sides of them. Maybe more he couldn’t see. There were too many innocent bystanders. No matter how he proceeded, this was bound to get nasty if he couldn’t gain control of the situation. Fast.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, his voice calm for the crazy man. “Why don’t you put that gun down? We’ll go into,” his gaze bounced off the trailer several feet away where Amanda and Suze were safely tucked away, “somewhere and talk.”

“Liar! I saw! What you did—” Huge tears ran down the man’s lined cheeks, a river of anguish. “You, you, oh, dear God, you—”

The gun lifted and Patrick found himself looking directly down the barrel. A pull on the trigger, at this range, and Patrick was a dead man.

“Mister. You don’t want to do this.” The husky, Southern voice to his left warned Patrick that Rachel was moving into danger closer to him.
What was she doing?

The gun waved in her direction, and Patrick knew real terror for the first time in his life. His heart pounded. Sweat popped out on the back of his neck. He reached out a hand to stop her, to push her behind him again. But she was just out of reach.

She didn’t stop moving until she stood slightly between him and the gunman. “Whatever you think Patrick’s done,” she said, still in that same soothing tone that melted Patrick’s insides, “this isn’t the way to deal with it, Mister…what’s your name?”

“M-Manning.” The gun dropped a fraction. “Bill.”

Patrick was surprised he’d answered, but more stunned when he recognized the name. William Manning was a lawyer, a councilman…and the father of the coed who’d gone missing last week.
Jesus!
“Manning—”

“No!” The .22 swiveled back in his direction. The man’s trigger finger twitched.

“Mr. Manning! Bill,” Rachel drew him off again. “Please, don’t do this. You have to know this is wrong. Let’s sit down and talk.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. Patrick prayed the police hurried. This could go south any second, and he or, worse, Rachel would be lying in the dirt with a bullet in their chest.

The councilman stiffened, his head cocked as he listened to the noise of approaching rescue. The .22 stopped shaking as it settled back on target.

The man stared into Patrick’s eyes, and he knew. He was going to die. He watched, unable to do anything to stop him, as Manning’s finger pulled the trigger. Crack! Crack! Two sharp reports rent the air, followed by shouts and screaming.

A searing pain ripped into Patrick’s side where one of the bullets grazed his ribs on his right side. He didn’t feel the second shot. He looked down expecting to find a bloom of red growing in the middle of his chest. Nothing. For long seconds, he couldn’t process why he wasn’t dead. Then he glanced back up, in time to see his brother-in-law in free-fall, Skip’s arms wrapped around the councilman as he tackled him. They hit the ground together. The gun flew out of Manning’s hand into a circle of workmen before it hit Patrick that the second bullet had missed him.

Skip had Manning in a deadlock and several of the crew rushed in to help, but the councilman wasn’t fighting them. He lay in the dirt crying, great heaving sobs of a broken man with nothing left to lose. In the next instant, a phalanx of police cars showed up in a blare of sirens and the squeal of brakes. Patrick frantically searched the confusion, terrified he’d find the second bullet had found another target—found Rachel—but he didn’t see anyone with an injury. Then he spotted Rachel rushing toward him.

“Are you okay?” she said, her hand spread wide over his heart.

He drank up the sight of her, long legs encased in blue jeans, an ultra-soft, button down shirt the color of the summer Colorado sky hugging her curves. He scanned her frame to make sure she was truly okay, his seized heart only then releasing blood into his veins in a rush. He sucked oxygen into his lungs, the hot summer mountain air tinged with the scent of lilacs and Rachel.

His hands shook with adrenaline now that the danger was over. He reached one up to cover her hand. His fingers curled around hers. He pulled them away, breaking the connection, shock giving way to anger. “Are you out of your mind? You could have been killed. He had a gun, for God’s sake!”

She stepped back and put her fists on her hips. “I know he had a gun!” She glared at him. “I had to do something to stop him from shooting you. It was working, too—”

“Until he pulled the trigger!” he shouted back. His fear for her couldn’t drain fast enough.

She might have died and all he could do was watch it happen. It was his fault…just like it was his fault Karly died.

Rachel looked down, like she was searching for a retort, but then her expression changed to one of alarm. “Oh, my God, you’re bleeding!” She drew close again and her fingertips probed the tear in his work shirt where the bullet had grazed him.

He flinched at her touch. His side stung like the devil, but her concern washed over him like a balm. “I’ll live,” he said.

When she looked away from the wound to his face, he expected to see tears. Remorse. “Of course, you’ll live!” She pushed away from him, like she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. “God protects drunks and fools, and men who think they can’t be gored by a bull or ripped apart by a bullet or…whatever. No! You just jump right in and don’t consider the people you leave behind, and, and… it’s not, it’s not okay! Okay?”

He recognized the aftermath of fear and adrenaline loosening its grip on her, but there was something else reflected in her stricken eyes. An emotion he dare not begin to interpret. He just knew it tore at his heart. “I’m a trained professional,” he said reasonably. “I had it all under control.”

She snorted. “Like hell, you did.”

He almost smiled at the fierceness in her voice, but he couldn’t forget how terrified he’d been at the thought of her being killed. He wanted to shake her. Touch her. Kiss her senseless. He forced himself to stop at sliding his hand around her neck to pull her closer so that they were not quite touching. “Maybe not,” he said quietly, searching her gorgeous brown eyes. “But did you consider what would happen to Amanda if you got yourself killed?”
What it would do to me to lose you?

She gasped. “I-I—” Her expression darkened with bewilderment.

Guilt ripped through him as he saw her confusion replaced by horror at what she’d done. She couldn’t have had Amanda in her thoughts when she stepped into danger. It looked like he wasn’t the only one fighting strong feelings here, and that both elated and scared him witless.

He didn’t do relationships. He didn’t get involved with damaged women. Not since the one he married took her own life rather than bear his child.

“Excuse me.” The voice over Patrick’s right shoulder sounded harsh in his ear.

“What?” he murmured, lost in Rachel’s gaze and his tumultuous feelings.

“Patrick,” Jack said, walking into view. He didn’t finish whatever he meant to say and scowled at the blood on his shirt. “I should have you locked up.” Motioning over his shoulder to a paramedic, he clipped out orders. He shook his head at Rachel when she began to say something. “Not another word from you either, Rachel, unless it pertains to the situation. Go with Detective Johannes. She’ll take your statement.”

Rachel glanced at Patrick but then she turned on her heel and walked away with Jack’s partner, hips swaying like a red cape to a bull. Patrick watched every step she took until she disappeared up the stairs into the site trailer.