He might be helping her now, but she could not forget what his interference might have cost her. Couldn’t let go of her fury until her only child—everything that she had left of Devin—was recovered safe and sound.
The truck jolted through a washed-out dip, and black splotches splashed across her vision. Unable to will away the pain shooting through her head and body, she cried out as a wave of dizziness engulfed her.
“Hold on, Lisa,” he urged. “We’ll be on them any second.”
Groaning, she slumped against the door, her gaze drifting, drooping, until Cole said, “See? They’re coming this way. Tell me, is it them?”
It was like a hip-deep slog through hardening concrete, sucking in a deep breath and forcing herself to sit up. Finding the bloodstained towel and pressing it against her oozing wound, she welcomed the stab of agony to rouse her.
But it was the sight of the gun in Cole’s hand that brought her fully to awareness, that and the dark resolve in those flint-gray eyes of his. He meant to shoot the two abductors if he had to. But what about Tyler? He could be hit, maybe even killed, in the cross fire.
Fresh adrenaline surging through her, she focused on the bumper of the vehicle emerging from the trees. She clamped down on her terror and tuned out the roaring in her head.
“No!” she cried. “That isn’t my car.”
Her denial didn’t stop Cole from pulling into the center of the dirt road and blocking the beat-up sedan coming their way.
As the gun disappeared beneath his jacket, he ordered, “Stay here, and I’ll find out if this guy knows anything.”
“No. I’m coming, too. I have to...” Lisa began, until the trees, the truck, the entire world, spun like a whirlwind all around her. Before she could say more, the black splotches roared back with a vengeance, and she slumped a second time and went completely limp.
* * *
C OLE GRIMACED WHEN HE saw her pass out, though it solved one potential problem. If the other driver got one look at the blood on her, there could be a lot more trouble than either he or Lisa needed.
Climbing from his Ram, he waved his hands urgently, trying his best to look like someone in distress rather than a threat. The shaggy-bearded, graying driver in faded overalls stared at him, his expression a mixture of caution and confusion. Cole could not be certain, but he thought he saw the man reach for something underneath his seat.
Possibly a weapon, and Cole didn’t blame him, not in this secluded, rural spot. He approached slowly, keeping his palms raised.
The window lowered, and a wary squint creased the corners of the driver’s eyes. “You need help, mister? You hurt?”
He was staring at the smear of blood on Cole’s hand. Damn it. Cole had to come up with something quick to get the driver on his side with a minimum of explanation—and no suspicious-sounding details about a bank robbery gone wrong.
Improvising, he said, “I was coming home from work, and saw these two thugs, a man and woman, robbing my wife right in our driveway. Before I could stop them, they hit Lisa and took off in our Camry with our five-year-old inside.”
The fisherman paled, barely managing a low “Damn, mister.”
“We followed them to Sunset Avenue before they got away,” Cole said. “But when I saw the dust coming off this road, I thought—did you see them? Did they pass you? We have to get our Tyler back before they—”
“No, sorry. That was only me, comin’ up to grab the tackle box I forgot. No car could go any fu’ther back. There’s a big tree ’cross the road, and no way past but over.”
Cole cursed softly, his heart sinking at this failure. A mistake that might cost Lisa Meador’s child his life. “Damn, I’ve just given them an even bigger lead. I’ve gotta get back after them on Sunset.”
“You report this to the sheriff?”
“No time.” He shook his head, the knot in his gut tightening. “We have to hurry.”
“Wait! We need to call 9-1-1 and get you some backup. And what about your wife? Is she hurt?”
But Cole was already sprinting back to his truck. Leaping inside, he jammed it into gear and made a sloppy three-point turn, taking out a couple of small trees with his bumper. By that time he was past caring about any dents and scratches, or whether or not the fisherman actually called for help. Waiting for a patrol car would take too long and result in hours of interviews. He had to get back on the road and catch up with the Camry fast.
Reaching the end of the dirt track, he waited for traffic. “Come on, come on,” he said, foot tapping. As the clutter of vehicles passed, however, another glance at the unconscious woman stopped him from pulling out again.
A few more drops of blood had dripped down her temple, a startling contrast against her pallor. Full and parted, her lips had gone as colorless as a corpse’s. Which meant that her injuries might be more serious than he’d thought.
As badly as he needed to get going, he was seized with the fear that his bullet might have killed her just as surely as his failure had cost her husband his life. Throwing the truck into Park, he felt for the carotid pulse beside her windpipe, a practiced move he had repeated on many a military mission.
His pounding heart pushed into his throat, but this time, thank God, he was not checking a dead body. He felt the flutter of her pulse, more rapid than it should be, but she was alive. Determined to keep her that way, Cole found a first-aid kit he kept beneath the seat, along with a clean T-shirt he had stuffed inside the bag he’d planned to take to the gym later. Thankful for the basic combat medic training the Rangers had provided, he got out and went around to her side, then ripped the shirt at the seams and improvised a pressure bandage for her arm.
Every second delayed what he now saw as his mission, so he worked with swift efficiency, thankful to be finished before the fisherman showed up with more questions to delay them.
He snatched up an old army blanket from behind the front seat, then tossed it over Lisa to help protect her from shock. After slamming the door behind him, he made his way behind the wheel.
Strapping in, he pushed the pickup’s powerful V-8 to eat up the lost miles and within minutes overtook the knot of traffic that had delayed him. He deftly passed one vehicle after another until a blind curve obscured his vision and he was forced to flash his high beams at the clueless driver of an ancient rust bucket puttering at the head of the parade. When the car still failed to yield, he tapped the horn twice until the old woman finally pulled onto the shoulder.
After that the road unspooled before him in a dark, unbroken ribbon. He goosed the gas again, quickly gaining speed. But what if he was wrong, if right at the outset he’d guessed incorrectly that the kidnappers were heading out of town on this rural farm-to-market road? And what about the intersection he knew was coming up? Though they might well keep to the smaller roads in the hope of avoiding capture, that would be slower than the interstate.
Each option had its advantages and pitfalls, so how was he to choose the right one? And how could he be certain he wasn’t chasing after a mirage, a desperate wish to find redemption for the unforgivable?
* * *
L ISA FOUGHT HER WAY through the blackness, through her pain, and toward the son who needed her.
“Tyler,” she murmured, forcing her eyes open, blinking at the way the landscape had shifted into grassy hills studded with occasional rocky outcrops.
All too quickly, memory roared back and she choked down a cry. Bolting upright, she looked