Facing It

A
Hearts of the South
story.

Mired in a brutal marriage for far too long, Ruthie Chason takes her courage and her children in hand to flee the trap that has become her life. Yet she’s no fool. She knows he’ll come after her once he discovers she possesses criminal evidence that will put him away for good—and seal her deadly fate if he ever catches up with her.

Sheriff’s Deputy Chris Parker offers emotional refuge, a safe place to begin to reclaim her life…if she can let herself trust the strong, quiet cop that far.

Chris surprises himself when he agrees to act as guardian for Ruthie and her children. He does it as a favor, then finds something about her calm strength soothes his battered soul. Now if only he can silence the demons from his past that make him cautious of falling too fast for any woman.

Their need explodes into a heart-stopping night of passion that exposes their deepest vulnerabilities. But just as they begin to explore how healing love can be, violence tracks them down. And backs them into a desperate corner…

Warning: Contains a to-die-for deputy with secrets in his past, a woman ripe for the love of a good man, and a controlling husband bent on revenge. Deep emotion, passionate lovemaking and violent mayhem to ensue.

At her husband’s cool command, Ruthie Chason’s body went cold and stiff. Before he or the children noticed, she molded her posture into one of relaxed grace. Not looking around at Stephen, she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and smoothed her youngest daughter’s wispy bangs. When the instantaneous urge to give into hopeless tears was under control, she lifted her lashes to find her John Robert watching her with a resignation old beyond his seven years.

He laid his book aside and came to kneel beside his sister. “I’ll keep her quiet, Mama.”

She tipped his chin with fingers that shook only a little and leaned down to kiss his nose. “Thank you. I’ll be back.”

Hard-won experience told her not to add the word “soon” to the assurance. Time and its management belonged to Stephen alone. Unfolding her legs, she came to her feet and straightened her sleek sheath. She didn’t have to touch her hair. Stephen liked her all pulled together and she didn’t need a mirror to know not a single strand escaped her neat chignon.

She met her husband at the door and with a tight gesture he indicated that she should precede him. Down the hallway, he closed the bedroom door, not bothering to lock it. The children wouldn’t leave the playroom without express permission to do so.

Without speaking, she managed to unzip her dress and slip out of it. She arranged it with pinpoint neatness over the back of a wingchair. Behind her, cloth rustled as Stephen removed his own clothing. Leaving her pumps by the chair, she slid off her panties and bra, laid those aside as well. Naked, she waited.

“On the bed, Ruth. I don’t have all day; my flight leaves at seven.”

Head high, she walked to the tall bed with its lush coverlet. She placed a knee on the mattress, prepared to kneel and grasp the headboard.

“No.” His voice was even, almost indifferent. “On your back. I want to see your face.”

Once more, she held in any reaction. She climbed onto the bed and lay down, a hairpin digging into her scalp. Good. She could concentrate on that pinprick of discomfort, use it to take her mind away from sordid reality.

He sat on the foot of the bed, between her feet, and ran a hand up the inside of one leg. Already semi-aroused, his penis rested above his thigh, the bulbous head red and angry.

“Beautiful,” he murmured and pushed her thighs wider apart, sifting his fingers through the curls at her mons, trimmed just the way he liked. He trailed a finger along her vulva, flicked at her clit. She stared at the ceiling, tracing the plaster swirls there with her eyes, picking out fantastical patterns, the way she and Tori had done with clouds when they were little girls, lying on the dock at their grandparents’ home.

He played with her, his other hand easing up her torso, skipping over her lower abdomen where she bore stretch marks from three pregnancies, stopping at her breasts. He pinched and rolled at her nipples. She kept her palms flat on the bed; if he wanted her to touch him, the command would come.

A pair of fingers wormed deep inside her, twisting and thrusting. The hairpin pressed against her scalp. She imagined the skin there, growing red and irritated, individual cells scraped away by the metal tips. His breathing changed, growing deeper and rougher, coming almost in pants, his fingers driving into her body, his thumb and forefinger clamping onto her nipple. Her body responded to the stimulation, fluid flowing over those fingers, but she let her mind wander where it would, keeping enough awareness to make sure she gave him what he wanted.

The mattress dipped and he rose between her thighs, palming and tugging at his heavy erection. Coming down on her body, he slammed inside her. She sucked in a gasp, swallowed it, and focused her eyes on his. He’d expect her to do so, wouldn’t allow her to close her eyes when he wanted to see her face.

He rutted into her, hard stabs that had him grunting with exertion. She stared into his brown gaze, a shade lighter than her own, and tried to remember what it had been like at first, if there’d been tenderness or love, if she’d been a person then, instead of his doll. Tried to remember if there’d ever been an inkling of the love and passion and respect she’d witnessed in her parents’ marriage.

How had she been drawn into him, so deep and so far that she’d never realized what he was until it was too late?

Finally, he tore into her with one last impossibly intense lunge, his body pulsing inside hers as he moaned. He collapsed atop her, rested a moment then pulled away. Seconds later, the bathroom door closed and the shower ran. She lay, staring at the ceiling. Semen slipped from her in a slow, syrupy trickle. A shuddery breath rasped from her lips.

The bathroom door opened, the odor of expensive French-milled soap wafting over her.

“I’ll be back Friday evening.” He didn’t cast a look in her direction as he reached for his clothes. He pulled the backing free from the transdermal patch he used whenever he flew and smoothed the patch into place behind his ear. “You need to clean up and pull yourself back together, darling.”

No. What she needed was to get the hell away from him before he destroyed what little of her remained.

“Don’t worry about us, Lorna.” Ruthie pinned on her brightest smile. “We’ll be fine.”

The housekeeper looked doubtful. “But Mr. Chason—”

“Will be out of town until Friday.” If her luck would only hold. Lord, please let him stay gone until then. No “surprise” early returns. “I assure you, I can handle the house while you see to your mother. Please, Lorna, go take care of her.”

Lorna twisted her neat white apron in both hands, the wrinkles by her mouth deepening. “If you’re sure…”

Ruthie smiled so widely her face hurt. “Positive.”

An answering expression bloomed on Lorna’s weary face. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Chason. I did so want to be with her, but I know Mr. Chason doesn’t like for you to be alone.”

She bestowed a fierce hug on Ruthie, who returned the embrace despite her surprise. When was the last time anyone other than the children had touched her with affection? What she endured from Stephen didn’t count.

Ruthie pulled away, blinking back a rush of silly tears. Crying wasn’t her style, hadn’t been for a very long time now. All crying did was give her a puffy face and burning eyes. It didn’t change a darn thing.

She gave Lorna tiny push toward the back door. “Tell your mother I asked about her.”

After another round of reassurances and goodbyes, she locked the door and rested against it. She couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. With her legs shaking beneath her, she slipped from the kitchen with its to-die-for granite countertops and professional stainless appliances she was never allowed to use. Late-afternoon sunlight shone through the tall windows of the foyer and splashed on the Italian tile floor. She hurried up the stairs, holding on to the banister, questions and doubts beating in her head.

What if he came home? What if he caught her? What if he didn’t? What if she managed to get away?

The latter was the only one that mattered, the one that spurred her on. This might be her only chance and she meant to take it.

She found the children in the spotless playroom where she’d left them. As always, they were too quiet, John Robert on the window seat with his nose buried in a book, Camille dancing a pair of dolls through the dollhouse, Ainsley curled into the rocker with her stuffed bunny on her lap and her thumb in her mouth. Studying them from the doorway, Ruthie longed for the noise and laughter of her childhood home, for that warmth and joy for her children.

Three more reasons to escape while she could.

She walked to the center of the room and sat cross-legged on the rug. John Robert glanced at her over his book; Camille didn’t look around. Ruthie reached up and pulled Ainsley onto her lap, rubbing her chin against the soft dark hair. “How would you like to go on an adventure?”

Camille dropped the dolls and stared, lips parted, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. John Robert closed his book. “Is Daddy coming?”

Ruthie sucked in a breath. “No. This is a mommy and kids adventure.”

Ainsley hugged her rabbit. “Will there be pirates?”

“Maybe.” Ruthie kissed her youngest daughter’s cheek. “But we need to leave today. Are you ready?”

“Can I take Bun-bun?” Ainsley clutched the lovey harder.

“Yes, and John Robert can take his book and Camille can pick something to take along. But we must hurry.”

She took Ainsley with her to the master suite, aware John Robert trailed her, his small face set in worried lines. “Don’t we need to pack, Mama?”

“I have what we need here.” Standing on her shoe shelf, she tugged the small tote from its hiding place. “I thought we might pick up new clothes along the way.” She needed the house to look as normal as possible, for there to be as few clues as possible to her destination once Stephen returned. “John Robert, we will need Ainsley’s go-bag. Can you get that for me? You can add some juice and snacks, if you like. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded, his eyes still troubled, and her breath caught. Already, he looked so much like her brothers, nothing like Stephen. Please,
please
, let it not be too late to get him away from his father’s influence. She didn’t want her firstborn, the joy of her heart, to grow up like her husband. She didn’t think she could bear it.

She deposited Ainsley in the playroom again and slipped down the backstairs into Stephen’s office. For once, his absolute arrogant faith in her obedience was going to come back to bite him. She slid open the unlocked credenza and removed the three leather-bound ledgers there. With them securely tucked into the tote, she gathered the girls and went in search of John Robert.

He sat at the island in the kitchen, the plaid monogrammed bag they’d termed Ainsley’s “go-bag” since her infancy, in front of him. Ruthie smiled softly and forced a note of gaiety into her voice. “Ready?”

She secured them in their booster seats, lifted the garage door via remote and backed down the drive. The neighborhood was deserted and she sent another grateful prayer heavenward. Just to be safe, she took a circuitous route downtown and left the luxury SUV in a high-rise parking garage. Carrying the stylish tote and Ainsley’s bag, she should appear as if she were merely going shopping, children in tow, if and when anyone looked for them on the garage security cameras. With the children gathered around her, she took the back exit and walked two blocks over to a second long-term storage garage.

There, she settled the children in the aging minivan. She cranked it, thankful when it started on the first try. With her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel in a painful grip, she looked over her shoulder at the children. “Okay, first stage of the adventure. We’ll stop in Atlanta for something to eat.”

Once Charleston faded behind her, she relaxed her death grip on the wheel. She’d done it. There was no going back now. Exhilaration mixed with a banked sense of dread.

She drove straight through, making only brief stops for food and restroom breaks, at shabby locations not likely to have the latest security camera systems, taking care to pay using small bills. Ainsley was asleep by the time they reached Jonesboro. Camille dozed around Macon. By Cordele, John Robert had finally nodded off.

Ruthie drove and didn’t relax until she saw the sign for Chandler County. With the ease of familiarity, she navigated the back roads. There’d been changes since the last time she’d been here, just before John Robert’s birth seven years before, but not so many that the intimacy of home didn’t bring tears to her eyes. This time, she didn’t blink them away. They slid silently down her face.

She made a right onto a gravel turnoff. The long drive opened up to a large yard and an old frame farmhouse glowing white under the moon and a bluish mercury light. A sweet sigh of relief escaped her. She’d be safe here. Her children would be safe. The house, too, had changed—a large sundeck now gracing the area next to the back porch, new plants joining the ancient azaleas and oak hydrangeas her grandmother had lovingly tended.

Ruthie stopped the van behind a dusty white Chevrolet Z71. A Volvo sedan sat next to it. She glanced over her shoulder. The children slept quietly, peacefully. Not wanting to disturb them, she slipped from the driver’s seat, her lower back and legs protesting the hours spent behind the wheel. Leaving the interior light on so they wouldn’t wake in the dark in an unfamiliar location, she hurried up the brick walkway, another change. When she’d been a child here, visiting her grandparents, a packed clay path had led to the back porch.

This late at night, the house was mostly dark, but squares of soft golden light spilled from the keeping-room windows. Nerves twisted in her stomach. It had been so long since they’d really talked. She didn’t know him anymore, not really. What if he wasn’t happy to see her, willing to help her? What would she do then?

She squared her shoulders. If that turned out to be the case, then she’d find a way to do this herself. Taking the first step necessitated that she not fail. The stakes were too high.

At the back door, she rang the doorbell and waited. Behind her, crickets and frogs sang in the dark night and beneath their song she could hear the distant whisper of the river. Oh, she’d missed this, missed the softness of these Georgia nights and the pure safety of this place.

Long minutes passed and she was preparing to push the bell again when a dark silhouette appeared at the door, backlit by the interior lights. The door swung inward.

“Ruthie?” Shock colored Tick’s deep, drowsy drawl.

She blinked away more of the silly tears. His black hair sleep-mussed, clad in navy pajama pants, he held the door open with one hand, his other behind his back, securing his handgun there, she was sure.

Suddenly blinking didn’t work anymore and the tears rushed free as she threw herself against his chest. “Oh Lord, Tick, I’m so glad to see you. I couldn’t go to Mama’s, didn’t want to risk that, because I’m sure he’ll look there first…”

She felt him falter once before he closed his arms around her, and sure enough, the weight of a gun in his left hand rested against her. “Ruthie, my God, what are you doing here? Are you all right?”

With an effort, she tried to pull herself together. He was married now, a father, although she hadn’t even attended his wedding, hadn’t seen the little boy named for him. He pulled back and used his free hand to brush the damp hair from her face. “Honey, talk to me. Come inside—”

“I c-can’t.” Her voice cracked and she caught his start of surprise. Oh, heaven above, he was going to think she was crazy. Maybe she was now. Maybe Stephen had driven her insane and she simply didn’t know it. A half-hysterical giggle escaped her and she clamped her lips closed, took a deep breath. She waved over her shoulder. “The children…I can’t leave them in the van.”

“Of course not.” He darted a quick look beyond her and spun to place the sleek semi-automatic in a kitchen drawer. “Come on, I’ll help you get them inside. Have you eaten?”

She nodded. “In Atlanta, then a snack in Perry.”

Thankfully, he didn’t ask any further questions but followed her to the van and gathered John Robert into an easy hold while she lifted Camille. Her son, cradled by the uncle he didn’t know, never stirred. Inside, Tick stopped in the kitchen with an uncertain expression.

“Do you think they’ll wake up?” he whispered. She shook her head and he nodded. “Let’s put them in the guest room upstairs and we can put your little one in the nursery with Lee.”

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she murmured, trailing him up the staircase, cataloging the changes in the house. Their grandmother’s outdated decorating was gone and the home now bore the distinct stamp of Tick’s strong personality, probably tempered somewhat by his wife’s tastes as well. The sister-in-law who was merely a face in a photograph, a signature on a Christmas card.

“You didn’t. I was up with Lee, had just put him back to bed when you rang.” He nudged open the first door on the right off the landing. He grinned over his shoulder as he settled John Robert beneath the covers on the double bed. “My night to get up.”

She slipped Camille beneath the sheets on the other side. Stephen had
never
gotten up with their children. That had always been her job, taking care of them, keeping them quiet.

“Tuck them in.” Tick brushed his knuckles over her cheek, his dark eyes concerned. “I’ll get the little one.”

She did, tucking the sheet and thin coverlet around them, kissing them, sending up silent prayers for them. She left the small lamp burning on the dresser and eased into the hall, just as Tick topped the stairs with Ainsley cradled to his chest. He tilted his head toward the room opposite and Ruthie opened the door.

It was definitely a boy’s room, with deep blue walls and wide white trim. A pine crib with white bedding stood against one wall, and a twin bed shared the space, outfitted in a quilt embroidered with an array of boats. As she flipped the quilt back for Tick to settle Ainsley down, she glimpsed a dark-haired baby snoozing in the crib, his arms laid out by his head, his lips pursed.

After she’d repeated her bedtime ritual over her daughter, Tick laid a hand on her back and ushered her toward the door. “Come on.”

Her stomach knotted all over again.

In the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, he gestured toward the kitchen. “Want something? I can make some coffee or there’s milk or juice—”

“Coffee would be great.”

The few minutes it took him to secure his gun and start the coffee brewing gave her a chance to pull herself and her thoughts together. She leaned against the kitchen island, a new addition to the keeping room area, and glanced around. The green linoleum was gone, replaced by shining hardwood. A rustic pine table graced the dining area and in the living room, a red couch and comfortable leather chairs provided a conversation area. Pine tables held baskets for magazines and books. Photos covered the walls in neat arrangements. A play yard and infant swing sat near the living area and another basket held baby toys.

She cupped her elbows and rubbed at her arms. “It looks like you. The house, I mean.”

A grin lit his face but didn’t dispel the seriousness of his chocolate gaze. “That’s what Cait says.”

At the mention of his wife, she darted a look at him. “She won’t mind, will she, us being here?”

“No, of course not.” His eyebrows winged upward. He poured coffee into two mugs and slid one across to her. “Black, right?”

She nodded and lifted the warm cup. He indicated the living room. “Come on. Let’s get comfortable and you can tell me what’s going on.”