Roan

Amazement threaded Tory’s whispered accusation.

“What the hell did you expect when you came at me with this?” The sheriff hefted the pistol he’d been holding, the one she’d dropped as she was hit. Apparently he’d stopped to pick it up before he approached her. It was what he was trained to do, she supposed, the logical reaction, but that cautious lack of haste about discovering whether she was alive or dead added to her sense of ill usage.

“I didn’t,” she said, biting off the words before her voice could betray her by wobbling.

If he heard, he paid no attention. He tilted his head and spoke into a microphone attached to his sleeve. “Dispatch? Request ambulance for downed suspect. Gunshot wound…”

It seemed he had some small amount of consideration, after all. She tried again to make her position clear. “I’m not…not a suspect.” Then a feeling of lightness drifted over her. She allowed her eyelids to close. She was passing out. She knew it and didn’t care.

Pain brought her back. The sheriff loomed above her, his hands on her shoulder as he applied firm pressure.

“Stay with me,” he commanded in the inelastic tone of those used to immediate obedience. “You’re not getting out of this that easy.”

“Out of what?” She forced the question through set teeth as her nausea eased.

“Armed robbery, resisting arrest, endangering the life of an officer. You’ve got a long list to answer for.”

“Jennifer Blake demonstrates why she is one of the most highly regarded romance writers of all times.”

—Painted Rock Reviews on Luke

For my daughter, Lindy,

with loving appreciation for her generous gifts of insight and inspiration.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Author Note

The chance Victoria Molina-Vandergraff was waiting for came on the third night. She was ready, primed with rage, disgust, and a tentative plan. Still, she almost missed it.

One minute, she was trussed up on the floor of the stolen panel van as it careened around a curve on the dark dirt road, silently cursing the two jerks in the front bucket seats and cheering the cop who was hot on their tail. The next, she was tumbling over the gritty carpeting as they slid on rain-wet gravel. The vehicle left the roadway and bounced across what felt like a shallow ditch. For a breathless instant it was airborne. Then it slammed into a tree.

The screeching crunch of folding metal filled the air. Safety glass rained with a musical tinkling. Tory slid helplessly, scraping dirt from the carpet with her cheekbone before she hit a side panel. The van jolted back, shuddering. The engine died.

Headlights stabbed the darkness as the police car rounded the bend behind them. Brakes screamed and gravel flew as it slued to a halt. Seconds later, the officer’s amplified voice, deep and edged with anger, blared from the unit’s loudspeaker.

“Out of the vehicle! Hands in plain sight. Move!”

“Holy shit! What we s’pose to do now?”

The kidnapper that she’d dubbed Zits long miles back along the road from Florida growled the question as he glared at his pal behind the wheel. Big Ears whined an excuse as usual, even as he started the van and slammed it into reverse, spinning its wheels in the mud.

Zits let fly a string of curses as uninspired as they were virulent. Craning his neck to see out the window, he said, “Christ, if it ain’t the sheriff of that hick town back there. Says so on his car hood.”

“All I see is his big-ass gun,” Big Ears moaned. He gunned the van hard, hunching in his seat at the same time as if he could make the vehicle move with his body. “We gonna die. I told you ripping off that convenience store was a dumb idea. ‘Nah,’ you said. ‘They’re backward as hell in a little old place like Turn-Coupe, Louisiana. Won’t be no security camera,’ you said, ‘No alarm, no cops this time of night…”’

“How the hell was I to know?”

“You’re the brains, ain’t you? Now we’re screwed. Backcountry sheriff like that don’t give a shit who he shoots.”

“It ain’t gonna be me!”

Zits hit the glove compartment latch with his fist and reached inside for his pistol. Then he heaved from under the mangled dashboard and crawled between the seats into the cargo area.

“Where you going?” Big Ears demanded, even as he gunned the van again, gaining a few inches.

“To fix us a way out.”

“And how the hell you gonna manage that?”

Zits, going to one knee beside Tory on the canted floor of the van, didn’t answer.

She could see his teeth glinting in the glare from the police cruiser’s headlights. She pressed back against the side panel as he shoved the pistol into his waistband and pulled a knife from his boot. Before she could draw breath to scream, he slashed the duct tape around her ankles. Jerking her upright, he cut the tape at her wrists, then ripped it off along with several centimeters of skin.