Moving Target

Jerking the back door open, he hauled Sailor out. “Run.”

Dragging her by the hand, he threw his body over a low wall, bringing Sailor with him to land on top, cushioning her fall. He rolled over to protect her with his body as a fireball of heat and debris shot over them, shaking the city block.

Pieces of the department-issued sedan rained down.

He let his forehead drop to touch Sailor’s. “That was close.”

Gabe pulled Sailor closer to his chest. It could’ve been her. He could have lost her.

He’d been without her for eight years and would’ve bet his favorite signed baseball that he could get two inches from her and still walk away. Coming face-to-face with losing her permanently twice in such a short amount of time had shocked him into reality.

“Gabe, what about the CDs?”

He pulled out the huge envelope. “Someone wanted these gone badly enough to try to blow us up. Now we just need to figure out who.”

penned her first suspense story—complete with illustrations—at the age of twelve, but didn’t write seriously until her youngest child was in first grade. She lives in Northwest Florida, where she gains inspiration from the sugar-white sand, aqua-blue-green water of the Gulf of Mexico and the many unusual and interesting things you see when you live on the beach. You can find her most often enjoying the water with her family, or at their church, where her husband is the pastor. Visit Stephanie at her Web site, www.stephanienewton.net, or send an e-mail to [email protected].

I have come that they may have life,

and have it to the full.

—John 10:10

For Mom, who took me to the library every week

and shared her love of romance…and for Dad, who encouraged me to read and shared his love of suspense.

Thanks to Melissa Endlich, my wonderful editor,

for choosing this book and working with me.

To Barbara Collins Rosenberg: thanks for giving

this book of second chances one more.

Many, many thanks to my critique partners

and readers: Catherine Mann, Elizabeth White, Holly La Pat, Brenda Minton…you are priceless.

To Allen and the kids: you make my life beautiful.

Thanks for putting up with this crazy writer’s life. I love you.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

A shot blasted through the quiet night.

Her dog erupted in barking. Sailor Conyers whirled around to face the French doors leading to the balcony of her art studio. Nothing but inky blackness outside.

She took several deep breaths and grabbed for Scruff’s collar. That sounded close. Too close.

Her heartbeat thumped against her chest. Maybe it wasn’t really a gunshot. It could even have been a car backfiring. Definitely, a car. Or maybe someone had fired at one of the snakes that sometimes strayed too close to a front porch. That made more sense than her overactive imagination. This neighborhood wasn’t the same as the one she grew up in.

With shaking hands, she forced herself to pick up the shells and place them gently in the grout that edged the mirror. Midnight was so not the time to be artsy-craftsy. Exhaustion from working all day in the coffee shop kept her from being as precise as she wanted to be.

The sound she heard was probably nothing.

Scruffy paced in front of the wide balcony doors. The hackles on the back of his neck crept up to stand on end. One long tooth showed out of the side of his mouth as he growled low in his throat. He obviously hadn’t gotten the memo that it was just her imagination. “You’re not helping, bud.”

She shoved a piece of coral into the grout. Therapy. This was therapy. Eight years ago, her pastor had suggested that finding a hobby would help her relax and find the peace she needed to deal with the past. It worked. Most of the time.

But not tonight. She’d grown up in a poverty-ravaged area far from the tourist-driven economy on Sea Breeze Beach. She knew firsthand that the sound she’d heard wasn’t an ancient car in need of servicing. But she could still rationalize it.

A second muffled shot popped. Her hand jerked, knocking seashells to the floor, shattering them at her feet. That was no snake shot.

Sailor called the dog, an increasing urgency to move away from the windows making her palms sweat. She shoved the jagged pieces out of her way with the side of her foot and hurtled for the stairs, skidding to a stop halfway down.

The dimly lit first floor of her cottage looked slightly sinister from up here. Scruff growled behind her.

“Way to inspire confidence, mutt.” But she scratched behind his ears, glad that she happened to be keeping him this week for her brother and new sister-in-law while they were on their honeymoon.

At the bottom, she grabbed for the cordless phone. Through the front window, she could see the back side of the coffee shop here. Her carriage house had once been the garage for the old Victorian her partner had turned into a coffee house. A light had been left on upstairs. Her office? She’d locked that up hours ago. A shadow passed in front of the shade in her office, and the light went out. Goose bumps prickled her skin. What had she seen?