The battle to regain her life. Her normalcy.
For many women, she supposed discovering their husband was a murdering psycho would probably ruin them. What happened after that…
No. It was in the past. Never to be spoken or thought of again. What was done was done, and she wasn’t willing to become a slave to one horrific night.
Gracie had wanted to be a mother since she was three years old, playing with her Burp and Boo Betty doll. She’d dreamed of winning CAI’s competition ever since her graduation from the prestigious Western Culinary Institute. With two such cherished goals on the line, no one—especially not some clueless marshal—was going to bring her down.
From here on out, she would take nice, deep breaths. Dream of holding her baby girl in her arms in the kitchen of the new restaurant the prize money would help start. In short, life would finally get back to normal.
Normal. The word had such a melodic sound. In a life led in Normalville, husbands didn’t do what hers had. They didn’t go to prison and then escape. They didn’t want to kill pregnant wives.
Mmm…Gracie liked Normalville. Much preferred to her past locale of Chaosville. So she raised her face to the sun, pasted on a bright smile and reveled in the first unhurried, carefree moments of her and her baby’s new lives.
“YOU SEEN HER?” Beau asked the clerk at the third convenience store he’d stopped at along Highway 26, the only route leading east or west out of Fort McKenzie. Other deputy marshals covered less traveled roads. He’d chosen this one for himself because if by chance Ms. Sherwood had gotten it in that pretty head of hers that she’d wanted to go for a nice drive home to Georgia—without her security detail—then by God, he’d be the one to give her a good talking to. The woman wasn’t only putting her life at risk, but her baby’s.
People who crossed Vicente Delgado died.
It was that simple.
His gut told him Gracie was too smart to have gone back to hubby, which, after a quick look at her file, only left a couple other options. There was some cooking thing she’d told Portland PD she wanted to compete in, but after having been shot at, surely even she’d seen how attending such a well-publicized event was a bad idea. She had family in Georgia. But why would she want to drive all that way? No doubt it had something to do with her pregnancy. Best he could remember, women about to pop weren’t supposed to fly, right?
The paunchy, graying Caucasian male manning the convenience store counter took the photo, eyed it a good fifteen seconds, then tapped it. “You know, I think I have seen her. Maybe an hour ago she got gas, then bought OJ and those little powdered sugar doughnuts. I remember ’cause the combination would’ve sent me to the ER with heartburn.”
“Excellent,” Beau said, snatching back the picture. “You see which way she went?”
“She definitely turned that pink tank of hers west.”
West? Beau rubbed his throbbing forehead. Sighed.
Had she decided to go to that cooking thing after all? And if so, why? What didn’t the woman get about psycho exes and crowds being a bad combination?
Well, soon as he caught up with her, he’d give her an education in both. Lucky for her, bad news exes were his specialty.
Climbing back in his SUV, grabbing Ray-Ban Aviators from the dash and slipping them on, he couldn’t help but wonder what was it with him and women?
When it came to judging guys, he could sniff a whack job from eighty miles back. Throw in a hot female, and his radar went haywire. Not that preggers Gracie Sherwood was either a whack job or hot—at least not in the conventional sense. But she was cute. And Lord knew, as in the case of his cheating ex-wife, cute had its own set of pitfalls.
Initially, when Gracie had first split, he’d been a little out of his mind. There. He’d admitted it. But he was stronger now. Her taking off wasn’t anything like what had happened with Ingrid. Not even remotely. It was job stress making him crazy, linking everything into one big jumbo mess in his head. Time was all he needed to work through it. Everyone he knew agreed.
Now, all he had to do was convince himself.
“MA’AM?” Beau said to the waitress who’d just set a juicy double cheeseburger and fries on Gracie’s table. Gracie was in the rest room. It was lunchtime at I-5, exit 282—about thirty minutes south of sweltering, traffic-clogged Portland. And while Beau was thrilled about having spotted Gracie’s pink whale in the truck stop lot, then blocking her car in with his SUV, he was more thrilled about landing a burger. “Mind bringing me the same?”
“Sure,” she said, giving him a funny look while he slid into the turquoise vinyl booth.
“Extra mayo and grilled onions, please.”
“You got it.”
In the meantime, Beau helped himself to Gracie’s fries. Lucky for him, she’d chosen a lonely corner, away from the obnoxious pop blaring on the jukebox, out of the line of sight of anyone walking through the front door or on their way back from the john. Expecting Gracie to pounce the second she caught sight of him, Beau continued downing her fries, but remained on alert.
A few minutes later, she rounded the corner and gasped. “What’re you—”
By the time Gracie had even realized what’d happened, a marshal—that nice one—stood, nudged her into the booth, then sat beside her, pinning her in. “Howdy,” he said in his best Southern twang. “How y’all doin’?”
“Let me go,” she snarled from between clenched teeth. “Or so help me, I’ll scream so loud every redneck in this joint’ll tear you to pieces.”
“Good,” Beau said, helping himself to another fry. “Then after that, they’ll no doubt be happy to tackle the other guys after you.”
“What other guys?”
“Four goons your hubby hired. Yesterday afternoon, a friend of mine from Portland PD gave me a tip. We found out that with the bulk of his pals still behind bars, your ex assembled a new crew to take you out. Which is why my boss feels a sense of urgency about getting you back under our protection.”
“Right,” Gracie said, snatching her plate from him, then wolfing down a fry. Oh, personal experience taught her Vicente was a man to be feared, but he wasn’t superhuman. She wasn’t using a credit card or cell phone, so as far as she knew, she couldn’t be traced. As for how this marshal ended up finding her, she’d chalk that up to pure, dumb luck. She’d told police her plans to compete in San Francisco, and he no doubt assumed she’d be on I-5—the most direct route.
Mistake Number One.
From here on out, she’d stick solely to back roads.
After all, this close to obtaining her most cherished dreams of becoming a mother and winning the world renowned CAI competition, she wasn’t about to do something stupid like put her life at risk.
Yes, Vicente no doubt knew that she would attend the Culinary Olympics, but come on, the man was a prison escapee. He was also brilliant. Meaning, he wouldn’t risk freedom by showing up at one of the most publicized events in the culinary world.
Wishing for her own wafer-thin, home cooked potato chips accompanied by a nice, mellow dill dip, a turkey burger and side of pasta salad, Gracie instead made lemonade from the lemons of her life by grabbing for the ketchup bottle. But it was new, and the lid wouldn’t budge.
The marshal calmly took the bottle from her, easily twisting off the top. It made a cheerful little pop.
Glaring at him, choosing to ignore the supercharged hum that’d passed between them when their hands brushed, Gracie took the bottle back, giving it a good, hard shake. She was just about to reach for her knife to stick it inside, when he took the bottle again,