She jerked awake, trembling. Her hands felt clammy, her throat raw, her stomach heaving.
It couldn’t be real. She was dreaming again. Having another one of the terrifying nightmares that had dogged her since she’d left Rex.
But a wet tongue trailed a path down the side of her face. A very real wet tongue. “I’d forgotten how beautiful you look when you’re sleeping, Rach.”
Nausea flooded her. How had he found her this time? She’d covered her bases, changed her name again, hadn’t left a paper trail behind…
But the acrid scent of sweat and whiskey breath told her that she hadn’t been smart enough.
Rex’s heavy weight pressed her into the mattress, and stirred her panic to a frenzy.
“Just tell me you’re sorry and come back to me, Rachel.” Another swipe of his tongue and he ground his crotch into hers. “You want me,” he murmured into her hair. “I can feel it.”
“No,” she whispered. But her efforts to escape were cut off as his hands tightened around her throat.
“Yes, you do. Say it.” He kneed her legs apart with his and rubbed the rough stubble of his jaw against her face. He’d always thought it was funny to hear the rasp of his whiskers scraping her delicate jaw. And he’d taken pride in the whisker burns he left behind. He liked to mark her, brand her like a piece of cattle, so any man who looked her way recognized that she belonged to him.
“Our son needs me, too,” Rex murmured. “And I intend to be there for him. To teach him how to be a man.”
Over her dead body.
Ever since she’d left Rex, she’d been prepared for him to find her. Attack her. Beat her up. Try to kill her.
He had once before.
That was the reason she’d run. And bought a .38.
“After we make love, you can whip us up a batch of pancakes,” Rex said. “Kenny will be happy to see me, won’t he, Rach?”
The thought of Rex touching, fathering her precious son sent rage through her, and she summoned every ounce of strength she possessed. Kenny would never be subjected to Rex’s violent mood swings.
But Rex had gained weight and he was even heavier than she remembered. She had to use her wits to gain advantage long enough to retrieve her gun.
“Rex, please…you’re choking me.” She lifted her hips slightly as if she was warming to his touch, and in the moonlight streaking the room she saw a slow lecherous smile spread across his face. Rex was such a narcissistic man that he still believed she’d fall for his charms.
“That’s it, baby. Show me you still love me.” His hands slid down her throat to her breasts, then he shifted slightly, ready to shuck his jeans.
Taking advantage of the moment to strike, she raised her knee and slammed it into his groin, then shoved him backward with all her might. Rex bellowed in pain and shock, and she reached sideways below the mattress and grabbed her gun.
He lunged at her, but she flicked off the safety and pointed the barrel at his chest.
“Move and I’ll shoot.”
Shock made his eyes bulge. “You wouldn’t, Rachel. You’re too soft.”
“You changed that,” she said sharply. Keeping the gun trained on him, she slowly pushed herself up on the bed and slid off the side. He started to move toward her, but she shook her head and cocked the trigger, then yanked open the drawer to her nightstand and removed a pair of handcuffs she’d bought at a pawn store.
“One inch,” she said. “And you’re dead.”
His jaw hardened to steel and he froze, but the menacing look in his eyes grew fierce and deadly.
“You wouldn’t shoot the father of your son,” he said, although his voice had a tremor to it this time.
Good, let him know what it felt like to be afraid.
“Now sit down in that desk chair,” she said between clenched teeth.
His eyes narrowed, but he gave a cocky shrug as if he thought it was a game. Then she pressed the gun to his temple and tossed the handcuffs into his lap. “Handcuff yourself to the chair. Now.”
He shot blades of steel from his eyes and cursed violently, but did as she said.
“You’re going to regret this,” he growled.
“The only thing I regret is marrying you.” Still keeping the gun aimed at him, she tugged on her jacket, grabbed her purse, then ran to get Kenny, tucking the .38 in her handbag so he wouldn’t see it. He was asleep in his bed and looked so innocent and cozy snuggled with his blanket and stuffed puppy that she hated to disturb him.
But they had to go.
He stirred as she lifted him in her arms. “Mommy?” He blinked and glanced around his room, confused.
“It’s okay, sweetie. We’re taking a little trip. Go back to sleep.”
She wrapped him in the blanket, tucked his stuffed animal under his arm, then ran toward the den. The chair clanged against the floor in the bedroom, then Rex’s grating voice shattered the air.
“I’ll kill you when I find you, Rachel. You’ll never get away from me. Never!”
Rachel’s throat clogged with fear, but she forged ahead and ran out the door. A breeze kicked up, stirring leaves and dust around her as she settled Kenny in the backseat and buckled him in. Just as she climbed in the driver’s side and shut the door, Rex ran onto the front porch, dragging the chair behind him. His arms were still chained to the wood, and he was cursing and raging like a bull tied in a pen.
Grateful she’d kept a suitcase for her and Kenny packed in the trunk, she cranked the engine and stepped on the gas. Then she gunned the engine and ripped down the dirt road, praying she could outrun him this time.
If he caught her again, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d kill her.
JOHNNY LONG HAD TO MAKE one more attempt to help his old friend Carter Flagstone clear his name.
He just hoped to hell Carter didn’t refuse to see him as he had the last time he’d tried to visit the jail.
The sprawling ranch faded in his vision as he headed toward the state prison, and his thoughts turned back to the meeting with Brody Bloodworth, the founder of the Bucking Bronc Lodge. The ranch was designed to give troubled boys a second chance through working with animals, ranch hands and cowboys, and reminded him of how he, Carter and Brandon Woodstock had all grown up.
He admired Brody and his plans and appreciated the fact he’d given his sister, Kim, a job, yet Johnny had sworn never to put himself in the limelight again. And spearheading the rodeo Brody wanted to raise money for the summer camps would do exactly that. Worse, using his name could backfire in all their faces.
Still, the idea of a rodeo for a bunch of needy, troubled kids, kids like he had once been, sent an adrenaline rush through him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. If it hadn’t been for the rodeo, he might never have pulled himself out of the gutter. But fame and fortune came at a price.
And the events of that last year, the way the media had turned on him, had almost destroyed him. Still, as a kid, channeling his anger and energy into penning, roping cows and riding had saved his life.
That and his friendship with Brandon and Carter. They had been like the Three Musketeers, growing up.
All from poor, dysfunctional homes. All roughhousing boys who liked to ride and cause trouble and skirt with the law. All had sorry daddies who’d beaten them. Mothers who’d done just as much damage by walking away, finding home