Heart of Mine (Bandit Creek) (13 page)

Desperation clawed at the back of her throat. If she tried to run away dressed in this thin cotton she wouldn't last more than a mile or two. But she had to try. Her father had done his best to ruin her past, but Laura vowed he wouldn't ruin her future, too.

The door swung inward. Without thinking she grabbed the pitcher from the washbasin. Using it as a weapon, she swung her arm wide.

It just missed Jake's head.

"Whoa!" he said, and quickly grabbed her wrist before she could take another swing at him. "Darling, you're safe. Nobody is going to hurt you ever again."

The conviction in his words and the hard edge of the tone delivering them penetrated the panic that had shot her from the bed. Releasing the pitcher, heedless of the fact that it shattered the second it hit the wood floor, Laura wrapped her arms around her husband and clung. His arms crushed her to him, pulled her off the floor.

"You're all right. I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you."

Laura drank in his scent, the feel of his chest pressed to hers. His stubbled cheek rested against her temple and his breath fluttered in her hair.

"Where are we?"

He moved away from the shards of porcelain and set her on her feet.

"The Golden Nugget. It was closer to come here, and I wanted Doc to take a look at you." Jake eased away, brushed her hair off her face. "You have minor frostbite, but you won't lose any fingers or toes." Jake took a shaky breath; his hands closed firmly over her shoulders. "You scared the hell out of me. Doc couldn't keep you awake. You were so cold and your heartbeat was faint." He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers. "I thought I'd lose you. It damn near tore me apart."

Wanting to soothe, she splayed her hands over his back, only now realizing he was wearing the flannel shirt she'd picked for him that day they'd gone shopping. It was soft to the touch but what she loved more was the tension she felt beneath the fabric. Jake had been worried about her. Surely that meant he cared about her.

"Where's my father?"

Jake raised his head. Laura had never seen such hatred in Jake's eyes before. "Dead, as he deserved. The storm let up overnight and the sheriff went out this morning. They found him frozen in the snow. His horse was nearby. Looks as though the animal broke a leg and when he fell, he broke your father's as well. Hugh was dead when Sheriff Wilson found him. The horse was alive but in pain and he was put out of his misery." Jake took a deep breath. "I'm sorry if losing your father upsets you, but I think the bastard got what he deserved. He could have killed you."

Laura knew she'd never tire of seeing her husband concerned for her. "But he didn't. I'm safe and he's gone." She'd never have to watch her back, never have to worry about her father crawling around, threatening her. She was free to live her life in peace with her husband.

"He took your money, he made me."

The shadows faded from his eyes, which crinkled at the corners when he smiled. "I know that." He cupped her cheek. "Did you really think I'd blame you? Laura," he whispered and bent his head to kiss her. Love burst from Laura's heart and she opened her mouth, welcomed him inside. The kiss exploded into heat and clinging bodies. Jake's tongue was wet against hers, his lips firm and demanding. He kissed her as though it had been months, not a day since they'd last touched.

"I knew you wouldn't take the money," his breathing was as ragged as hers. "It never occurred to me that you'd do something like that."

Tears burned her eyes. She tried to blink them away but a few escaped and trickled down her cheek. "I was scared you'd think the worst, that I'd tricked you into trusting me and was only after your money after all. I tried to signal the teller at the bank, but my father was beside me and he threatened to shoot them and Ben if I didn't do as he asked."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "If he wasn't dead, I'd hunt him down and make him pay for that."

Laura grabbed his hand. "It's over, Jake."

"No," he said with a firm shake of his head. "It's not over. It's not anywhere near over."

Then, right there in the room at the Golden Nugget Hotel, with her wearing nothing but a nightgown, Jake pulled a ring out of his pocket and lowered to one knee.

"When I knew you'd be all right, I went home. This was my mother's." He grasped Laura's trembling hand and slipped the ring on her finger. "Marry me, Laura."

Laura looked at the diamond through watery eyes. She couldn't believe he was giving her something so grand.

"We're already married, Jake."

He came to his feet, took her hands in his. "Your father had a hand in our first wedding. In some aspects, I suppose he deserves my thanks for that. But it wasn't a happy day, not for either of us." He smiled lovingly. "I want you to have the dress, the attention of everyone in town when the doors to the church open and you're standing there, looking beautiful. I want to watch my bride come to me knowing she wants to, and her knowing,
believing
, that I love her with everything I am. I want our children to know we were married out of love. What do you say?"

Laura wiped her tears. Jake had her heart and she had his. She didn't need anything else. But the idea of starting again, of starting from love was too wonderful to pass up.

"I say yes, Jake. Forever, yes."

She laughed as he took her in his arms and twirled her until the room spun. Her feet left the floor but her heart soared ever higher.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michelle Beattie has been writing for 16 years. Her first pirate novel sold to the Berkley Publishing Group in 2007 and hit the shelves in December 2008 under the title,
What a Pirate Desires
. Wanting to build a readership, Berkley encouraged Michelle to turn the book into a series and 6 months later she signed a two-book contract. Her second novel,
Romancing the Pirate
was released in 2009 and the third book,
A Pirate's Possession
was released in December 2010. Her books have received wonderful praise and have been published in several languages.

Michelle has also self-published two full length, award -winning novels as well as this novella. Since her interests vary, you can expect more contemporary romances, historical and pirate novels from her in the future.

Michelle enjoys playing games, playing golf, being outside, country living and being with her family and friends. She currently lives with her husband and two daughters near Camrose. Alberta.

You can follow Michelle on
Facebook
,
Twitter
or on her website
http://www.michellebeattie.com

Witch in the Wind

A Bandit Creek Paranormal Romance

by

Brenda Collins Deeks

Chapter One

“
Thank you for calling me,” she said. The words sounded distorted, forced through lips that were suddenly stiff and numb. “I’ll leave right away.”

Avalon Gwynn placed the receiver back in its cradle on the side table and tried to breathe.

She didn’t have the strength to lift her hand so she left it resting where it was. She watched the steam float up from the mug of tea she’d laid beside the phone when it rang. Her mind was empty. A sudden vacuum of thought, memory or emotion.

She had to move. She had to—

She had to get a grip. She had to go home. Back to Bandit Creek, Montana.

She tightened her hold on the receiver and picked it up. Fifteen minutes and she’d arranged a leave from work and a plant-sitter for her apartment. Ten more to pack her bag. Six and a half hours later, she had refilled her gas tank at Spokane and was pulling back onto the highway.

Even with the May sun shining through her windshield her hands were frozen onto the steering wheel. Her head ached and there was a persistent hum in her ears. Her parents were dead. She still wanted to believe it was some sort of sick joke.

Her mind was too paralyzed with grief to absorb most of what the sheriff had said after the reason for his call or even to ask questions. Her brain had shut down by the time she’d hung up. Thinking about it now, she realized Sheriff Morgan had been vague about the details of her parents’ death.

Crap. It must have been an accident. They’d have been together in that beat-up old wagon her father drove. A single sob pushed up from the knot in her chest and escaped, even as she clamped her lips tight.

There had been tension in her father’s voice the last couple of times she’d called. He’d insisted everything was fine. She smacked the wheel hard with her hand. Why did I let it go? A static spark flashed across her fingertips startling her. Damn dry mountain air, she thought, although she couldn’t recall that ever happening before when she was home.

She swept silent tears off her cheeks and blinked hard so she wouldn’t miss the turnoff from Highway 90. The mid afternoon sun was sliding towards the horizon, when the highway sign indicating
Bandit Creek 1 Mile
slid past the passenger side window. Her stomach clenched, the caustic brew of confusion, grief and old resentment, bubbling up into the back of her throat.

A mental map of Bandit Creek floated up from her memory. If she jogged over to Adam Street, she could take that up to Spruce and avoid most of Main Street, with its busy town hall, the shops and all the other mainstays of a small Montana town. She tightened her grip on the wheel until her knuckles hurt. For the first time since she was a small child, she wished she could use magic to get to her parents’ old house on Gwynn Lane. Despite the gossip in the town, she and her parents weren’t magic. Wicca was a religion, not woo-woo supernatural powers.

As she drove past the quaint little bungalows along Adam Street, she felt a familiar tension edge into her grief. Growing up in a backwater town like Bandit Creek would be hard on anyone but, for an outsider like her, it was torture. She could still hear Olivia Turley chanting “Bitchy, Witchy, Bitchy, Witchy” after she’d caught a glimpse of Avy’s birthmark when they were kids. Why she had the freakish bad luck for it to be shaped like a crescent moon was beyond her. The first time she was taunted, she ran home in tears. The next time Olivia bullied her, Avy remembered with no small satisfaction, she’d punched her in her perky, turned up nose. After that, no one called her names, at least not to her face. She had no regrets about getting herself the hell out of Bandit Creek.

She unclenched her fingers from the steering wheel and rolled her neck to release the tension held there. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been back. Her parents visited regularly, to see her, and participate in Wiccan holiday rituals with the Seattle Coven. She’d used that as an excuse to avoid Bandit Creek herself.

The bump as she drove over the bridge towards Lost Lake Road broke her from her memories. Her childhood home, the Old Gwynn Place as the locals called it, was isolated from the main town, the only reason it survived the 1911 flood that destroyed the rest of Old Town. The craftsman-style bungalow was nestled at the base of Crow Mountain and had been in her family for over a century.

She slowed to make her turn and then eased the car over the long, rutted laneway where it came to an abrupt stop at the front of the house. Out of habit, she pulled to the far side of the drive so her car wouldn’t block the steps to the front door. She eased open her car door and glanced at her childhood home as she stepped out.

The low pitch, gabled roof with its deeply overhanging eaves, shaded her mother’s herb garden. A mental picture flashed through her mind, of helping her father paint the exposed rafters and decorative brackets of the house during her last summer break from college.

It took her brain several minutes to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. She gulped a breath, blinked hard to clear her vision and then released a curse, a sob and a prayer to the Goddess all at the same time. “What the demon’s damn happened here?”

Where once lush clusters of lacy greenery and colorful stems had grown, now lay a mangled mat of charred earth. Directly above, black soot marked the side of the house where it extended to the left of the porch. The lawn was speckled with singe marks as if a firecracker had exploded too close to the ground. The largest burn mark was perfectly round. Like a giant bullet hole.

Tracking its trajectory, she saw scorching on the bark of the old American elm that towered over the house. She’d spent many summer days sitting under that tree, fascinated by the jigsaw puzzle bark, and making up games to entertain herself. The rough, leathery leaves caught any slight breeze, making a sound that completely freaked out the town kids and kept them from visiting the house particularly on All Hallows Eve.

She rubbed her temples with both hands as the edges of her vision blurred. Did the sheriff mention a fire when he’d called? She didn’t think so. The smell was something acrid, biting the back of her tongue as she breathed it in. Not smoke. It was familiar but she couldn’t place it.

She took a step closer to assess the damage.

“
What the hell happened here,” she repeated, this time in a whisper, choking on the words.