“Turn the corner,” she coaxed the stranger beneath her breath. “Walk on by.”
He could turn at the crossroads at the foot of the hill and head east. But long before he neared the brick posts and wood rail fence that surrounded her land, she knew he wasn’t going to turn. He would come right through the gate, saunter up her long gravel driveway and invite himself up to the house.
And he didn’t look like the type of man who’d hiked out into the countryside southeast of Kansas City just to buy antiques at her shop. He paused only to read the carved wooden sign, Log Cabin Antiques. He must have read the hours, knew she’d just closed at six.
Frozen in the shadows, Jessica curled her fingers around Harry’s collar. “Walk on,” she mouthed again.
The stranger’s shoulders heaved in a controlled sigh beneath the taut fit of his faded black T-shirt. Then he lifted his eyes and looked straight at her. Sought her out in the shade of the porch. Made eye contact as if he’d known she’d been watching him all along.
Her breath stuttered out in a rush of panic. Harry growled and barked twice, sensing the exponential swell of his mistress’s fear.
She grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him inside with her, bolting the door behind them.
She hurried through the tiny living room, past the stairs to her bedroom loft, sidestepped a glass-front display case that housed doll dishes and campaign buttons and slipped into the private nook that doubled as office and dining room. She squatted down out of sight beside the rolltop desk that held her computer and hugged Harry close to her chest. She could scarcely think. Breathe. See.
She was flashing back.
Flashing back to what? she demanded of herself, trying to see through the blind haze of terror that filled her mind. All she could remember was the fear, the sense of being trapped. A business trip and romantic evening gone horribly awry. She could recall that last dinner in Chicago with Alex almost word for word—how angry and heartbroken she’d been. She knew what the doctors and cops had told her when she came to in the hospital more than twenty-four hours later. But she couldn’t remember anything in between.
Twenty-four hours of her life lost in the closed-off fog of a memory, purged by a mind that craved sanity in order to survive.
All she knew was that she should have been dead. That she’d been violated in a way beyond imagining and had lived to tell about it.
Only she couldn’t tell about it.
She couldn’t remember it.
“Damn,” she muttered, as frustrated now as she’d been last March.
She came from a family of cops. Her brothers had taught her how to defend herself, had lectured her on how to be more observant than the average citizen. But it hadn’t been enough. Somehow she’d let them down and he’d gotten to her.
The crunch of gravel beneath a heavy footstep reminded her of the danger at hand. Was he here? Was that him coming closer and closer?
Burying her nose in Harry’s neck, Jessica could feel the dog’s warmth and strength. She could sense his unwavering loyalty and devotion to keeping her safe. He licked her arm, his long, raspy tongue a gentle request for direction and understanding.
“I don’t know, boy.” She hugged him tighter, trading comforts. “I don’t know what to do.”
Hidden in the dining room behind a wall of shelves and an old walnut wardrobe filled with antique dresses and quilts, she could simply lock the doors and hide until the man went away.
But she had a feeling locked doors and windows wouldn’t stop a man like him. She could hide inside the wardrobe itself or lose herself in the aisles of furniture and collectibles she had for sale—and he’d still find her.
Paralyzing fear warred with the less certain instinct to survive. Her brothers had taught her to protect herself. And although she had failed then, she was a different person now. One who was a lot smarter about the harsh realities of life. One who had a lot less to lose.
One who wasn’t done living yet.
Besides, there was really only one way to know if the man who’d come to her remote cabin was him.
And more than anything—more than the fear itself—she wanted to know the truth.
Jessica leaned back and caught the dog’s streamlined jowls between her hands. “You with me, Harry?”
Uncanny intelligence stared back at her from midnight-brown eyes. He’d had one hell of a past, too, before she’d found the giant mutt on death row at the pound. Maybe it took someone who’d survived the worst the world had to offer to understand what she’d been through, what she had to face every day of her life now. Maybe someone could understand—and love her anyway. The dog’s unflinching support actually coaxed a smile out of Jessica.
And inspired a sense of calm that allowed her to think clearly once more. “Let’s go.”
Latching on to Harry’s collar, Jessica pulled against the dog’s weight and stood, quickly unlocking the gun cabinet beside her desk. She pulled out the Remington double-barrel shotgun she used for trap shooting and loaded two rounds. She stuffed two more shells into the front pocket of her jeans, whistled for Harry and headed out the double screened doors onto the back porch.
Matching the full-length porch on the front of the house, this one wasn’t decorated to show off the cabin’s rustic charms. This was a workspace full of rockers that needed recaning, wagons that needed new wheels, a 1910 buggy that needed one of its traces replaced. Wooden boxes, shutters, a washing machine, stools, barrels, trinkets, gadgets. It was a veritable fortress of camouflage, and Jessica used it to her advantage, keeping the faded green buggy between her and the stranger who approached.
“That’s far enough,” she ordered, hugging the rubber butt of the gun against her shoulder and leveling the business end at the center of his chest. It was a broad enough target. And she was a better shot than he could ever imagine. Harry bristled to attention at her side.
The man halted his steps, betraying more curiosity than alarm. “Not exactly the back-door hospitality I’ve heard tell about Missouri.”
His voice was low pitched, smooth as whiskey and tinged with the barest hint of an accent.
And completely unfamiliar to her.
“This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast,” she warned. “It’s private property.”
He tilted the crown of his coal-black hair toward the front gate. “The sign says you sell antiques.”
She held the gun steady, making her message clear. “We’re closed.”
He’d turned from the customer parking lot up the private driveway that bisected the grounds between the cabin and her storage barn. And though she stood three steps above him on the elevated porch, she was almost looking him straight in the eye. And they were the coldest eyes she’d ever seen. Icy gray. Almost colorless behind the squint of his expression. He was a man who didn’t give a damn about anything. It was the best impression he could have made.
That meant he didn’t care about her, either.
“Do you know how to use that thing?” he asked.
He might not be a voice from her past, but he was still trespassing. “Yes.”
“And the dog?” His gaze never shifted off hers.
“I know how to use him, too.”
“Look, lady, I don’t—” He raised his hands in mock surrender and took half a step forward.
It was all the provocation she needed. “Harry, sic.”
The snarling black powerhouse leaped from the porch