Killing Secrets (19 page)

Rachel smiled. “Joe and I met Sunday at breakfast, before your parents left for the Virgin Islands.” Of all of the foster brothers that she’d met then—every last one handsome enough to make any woman’s heart stutter—she’d felt most at ease with the high school principal. She had a feeling he saw a lot more than he let on, yet he didn’t judge. She eyed the fawn-colored dog. “I gather this is Buck,” she said. “He’s so….”

“Huge?” Patrick’s brother grinned, laughter in his midnight blue eyes. “We should have thought about bringing him home earlier. No one wants to mess with a two-hundred thirty pound dog that looks like he eats burglars for breakfast. He’ll be the best protection for you and Amanda.”

Patrick’s scowl made it clear to her that he didn’t like being left out of the conversation. Or was it because Joe’s comment implied the dog was better able to protect them? “Thanks for going to Colorado Springs to get him,” he said.

Joe looked surprised at his sharp tone. “No problem. Even though he does like to go back to play with his sire when Mom and Dad go on vacations, Buckwheat was more than happy to come home.” He ruffled the dog’s fur. “Weren’t you, boy?”

Rachel eyed the humongous dog. “I don’t know how Amanda will react to such a big animal. The only experience she’s had with a dog is the Lab puppy we had before we left California.” She’d only had the pup a month before it was killed the week before they’d fled Greg. They might have lived on a ranch, but Amanda had had little exposure to animals because their home was more of a showplace Greg used to display his success than a working ranch. “I see why Buckwheat might be a good protector, but I’m worried he’ll scare her.”

“Bucky!”

Suze’s squeal behind Rachel startled her, alerted her that the adults were no longer alone. She turned in time to see Suze grab Amanda’s hand and drag her toward the dog.

“Suze—”

Patrick uttered one sharp word. The Mastiff promptly sat back on his haunches and, with a tilted head, calmly watched the girls approach. Patrick’s hand on Rachel’s forearm kept her from dashing between her daughter and the dog. “Wait,” he murmured. “Let them sort this out themselves. Buck loves kids, but he won’t move until I release him.”

Amanda dug her heels in about two feet shy of the animal. Rachel frowned when she saw how tiny the four-year-old looked standing in front of the dog. Not a dog…a horse! The top of Amanda’s blond head barely came to the middle of the mastiff’s shoulders. The animal looked down at her. She looked up at him.

They stared at each other for several long moments. Then, Amanda pulled her hand out of Suze’s, walked straight at the dog, wrapped her arms around him as far as she could reach, and expelled a long, audible sigh of contentment. The dog huffed and lowered his head to rest gently on top of her head.

Rachel’s heart ached when she saw the lone tear that trailed down her daughter’s cheek as she nuzzled the dog like he was a long lost friend she’d just found. Did she think she was looking at a grown up version of her puppy, Boomer? Although they did have similar coloring, the two dogs were different breeds. Buckwheat was so much larger than Boomer would have grown. But, Amanda was so traumatized by Boomer’s death, maybe it wasn’t so far fetched she’d connect with Buckwheat, especially since one of her favorite shows was Clifford, the Big Red Dog.

A full minute passed before Amanda stepped away from Buckwheat and stood there petting his fur like she couldn’t stop touching him. She smiled at Suze.

Her friend looked over her shoulder at Patrick. “Can me and ’manda feed Bucky?”

“Sure. It’s time for his supper,” he said. “His dish is in the pantry.” He gave another sharp command to Buckwheat. The dog stood.

Joe released the leash from the dog’s leather collar and Suze turned toward the kitchen, Amanda’s hand caught in hers. “Come on, Bucky. Chow time!”

The dog aimed his nose toward the kitchen door. The sight of the two little girls leading the lumbering animal like they had an invisible leash was almost comical. Rachel watched them disappear into the kitchen before she turned back to Patrick and his brother. Finding herself being studied by two pairs of discerning male eyes, she stammered nervously. “I-I’ll just take all of our stuff upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for either of them to stop her, she left the brothers standing in the foyer and raced up the stairs to the bedroom she and Amanda had been sharing since their arrival. She walked into a disaster.

Her gaze darted around the room. It looked like a tornado had swept through it, hitting this section, missing the next, only to touch down in another spot. The closet door that was filled to the brim with stored Thorne childhood memories gaped open, its contents yanked out and rifled through. Her empty suitcase and Amanda’s were lying on the tossed bed covers, their contents strewn across the floor among the feathers from her shredded pillow. Amanda’s special tooth fairy pillow hadn’t escaped destruction either.

Greg! Dear God, while she and Amanda were tucked away at Southgate, he was here digging through their belongings? Bile crawled up Rachel’s throat when she saw gaping wounds in several of her shirts where he’d ripped into the material.

Then, she saw the message on the dresser mirror, printed with permanent marker in large black letters.

HE CAN’T SAVE YOU, BITCH!

GIVE ME BACK WHAT’S MINE!

For an instant, she flashed back six months, heard the swishing sound of Greg’s horsewhip in the air above her. She felt the first searing pain across her belly. Vicious words crashed through her senses, threatening words against her. Against Amanda.

“No!” The cry barely left her lips before she whirled on her heel and ran for the door. She slipped on a pile of pillow feathers and fell to her hands and knees. Quickly clamoring to her feet, she stumbled toward the hall.

Amanda!

~~~

Patrick stood at the bottom of the stairs, catching his brother up on recent events when he heard Rachel cry out. “Stay with the kids!” he ordered, taking the stairs two at a time in the other direction. He ignored a searing flash of pain from his side when he rounded the balustrade at the top.

He ran into his old bedroom, and directly into Rachel. She hit him so hard, he grunted. His arms automatically came up around her back. His left shoulder slammed the door jamb when they lost balance. The impact zinged pain in a straight line down to his ribs, loosened his grip.

Rachel squealed and beat at him with her fists. “Let go!” she sobbed. “Let go!”

Looking into her wild eyes, Patrick realized she wasn’t aware of her surroundings. She was in full flight mode. One glance over her shoulder into the trashed bedroom and he knew why.

Was the intruder still here?

Stiffening at the possibility danger remained, his hands closed over Rachel’s upper arms. He gave her a little shake. “Rach,” he said, forcing her to see
him
, not the demon she was fleeing.

Her eyes cleared. “Greg! He was here!”

He nodded to the room behind her. “Did you see him when you came in?”

“No.” Her head shook back and forth slowly. Then, she gasped. “You think he’s still here, in the house?”

“No,” Patrick replied, kicking himself for not setting the security alarm when they left for the site this morning. He’d been too concerned about the site security. “But I have to make sure. Stay here.”

“But, Amanda—”

“Joe’s got her.” He urged her back into the room and sat her down on the only empty spot on the bed. He hated to dump her in the middle of the destruction, but until he cleared the house, it was the best place to leave her. “
This
room is safe, too. Everything’s exposed and there’s nowhere to hide. Hang tight here for a few minutes.”

Leaving the room, Patrick went to the top of the stairs and called down to Joe. “Stay with the kids in the kitchen. Set the security alarm. Then send Buckwheat on patrol.”

His brother didn’t ask for an explanation, but Patrick heard the alarm beep that told him the house was secure. In the next instant, Buckwheat’s huge head poked out the kitchen door as he began his usual rounds, quietly moving from one room to the next as Patrick’s father had taught him when he was a pup. It had been his nightly ritual the past five years.

Aware it would take the dog several minutes to finish his patrol downstairs, Patrick checked the upstairs himself. He efficiently searched four of the remaining five bedrooms before Buckwheat appeared at his side and touched Patrick’s hand with his muzzle. They finished their sweep together.

Only then did the pair of them return to his old bedroom. He wasn’t surprised when Buckwheat stuck his head through the door and growled low in his throat. The dog might not see the intruder, but he could definitely smell him.

Patrick placed his hand on the dog’s collar and uttered a command to sit before walking around the animal and entering the room. The sight that greeted him made his jaw tighten. Greg had been thorough when he tore everything apart, but that destruction didn’t compare to the devastation marring Rachel’s expression as she looked up at him from her position on the bed. Her hands were curled around something metallic, the item pressed to her breasts. Blood trickled through the back of her fingers.

With a curse, he stepped over the debris to hunker down in front of her. He gently pulled her fingers away from the shattered hand mirror gouging her tender flesh. She gave one tug of resistance, but released her grip. Fresh blood seeped from the pads of three fingers, and he could see a chunk of glass imbedded in the middle of her palm.

Scooping her into his arms, he strode from the room out of sight of the wreckage. He carried her past the mastiff guarding the hallway and down the passage to his parent’s bedroom. He didn’t stop moving until he sat on the king-sized, four poster bed with her in his lap. “Rachel?” he said. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

Brown eyes met his, dark and bruised with pain. “H-he, m-mama’s—”

Patrick didn’t need to hear the loss shadowing her voice to know the mirror had a special meaning for her. “It’s okay, honey,” he said, stroking her satiny cheek. “We can fix it. Let’s deal with your cuts, first, okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said quietly.

Patrick hated to let her go because he wasn’t convinced she
was
fine, but he had to check in with Joe, have his brother call in the cavalry.
At the rate things are going, you should keep the police station on speed dial.
“I’m going to get the first aid kit,” he said. “Will you be alright here for a few more minutes?”

She nodded, wrapping her arms around her waist protectively.

His jaw clenched. “I’ll be right back.”

Downstairs, he quietly told his brother about the trashed room so the kids weren’t alarmed. They looked perfectly happy drowning their graham crackers in glasses of milk. “Keep them distracted?” he asked. “Let me make a couple of calls and take care of Rachel’s hand.”

“You might take a look at your side, too. Unless that’s Rachel’s, you’re bleeding.”

Looking down, he saw his brother was right. He’d reopened his wound running up the stairs, when he collided with Rachel, or when he carried her to his parents’ bedroom. Blood was seeping into his work shirt. Not much, but enough to be a pain in his ass. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, pulling the material away from his ribs.

He lifted an eyebrow at Joe. “Call Sam? Tell him I need stitches. I can’t go to the hospital so he’ll have to come here as soon as he can leave the ER.”

When he agreed, Patrick left the kitchen. Pulling his cell phone from his jeans pocket as he located the first aid kit in a cupboard in the downstairs bathroom, he called the precinct and talked to Jack, who promised to swing by the house first chance he got. In the meantime, a patrol car was on its way. Then, squaring his shoulders, Patrick made the call he dreaded most.

It was easy to tell Jack he could live with his decision to pull Rachel’s father back into her protection—thanks to the security consultant, Larson Cook, he had the man’s phone number—but actually taking that irretrievable step was more difficult than he expected. Rachel was not going to be happy.

After introducing himself to Dixon Grey and telling him what he wanted him to do—Grey didn’t quibble, just tersely asked if Rachel and Amanda were okay and protected until he could get the security detail back on track—Patrick carried the first aid kit upstairs to his parents’ bedroom. He considered telling Rachel her father had asked to see them, his voice tentative, unsure, but one look at her face told him to wait. With the way Rachel feels about her old man, he didn’t think she’d be receptive.

He walked into the room and sat on the bed next to her. “Amanda’s fine,” he said before Rachel could ask. “She’s spoiling her dinner with Suze chowing down on chocolate graham crackers.”

Rachel’s flashed a relieved smile. “Thanks for checking on her. I probably shouldn’t worry, but she’s all I have.”

“You have every right to be protective, Rach. You’re her mother,” he said. “But, I’m here now. I’m going to help you through this, if you’ll let me.”

Her gaze locked on his, she didn’t say anything for a long moment. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Did she see a man she could trust? Considering her history with men, would she truly trust any man again? He wanted, on some visceral level, for her to trust him.