Читать книгу Single Father Sheriff - Carol Ericson - Страница 8

Chapter One

“Let go of my sister.” The little girl with the dark pigtails scrunched up her face and stomped on the masked stranger’s foot.

He reached out one hand and squeezed her shoulder, but she twisted out of his grasp and renewed her assault on him, pummeling his thigh with her tiny fists.

The monster growled and swatted at the little girl, knocking her to the floor. “You’re too much damned trouble.”

As he backed up toward the door, carrying her sleeping twin over one shoulder, the girl lunged at his legs. “Put her down!”

With his free hand, the stranger clamped down on the top of her head, digging his fingers into her scalp, holding her at bay. As he gave one last push, he yanked off the pink ribbon tied around one of her pigtails and left her sprawled on the floor.

She scrambled to her knees, rubbing the back of her head. Whatever happened, she couldn’t let the man take Kayla out that door. She crawled toward his legs once more.

“Your parents are gonna wish I took you instead of this one.” Then he kicked her in the face and everything went black.

* * *

KENDALL RAN A HAND across her jaw as she dropped to her knees in front of the door. “I’m sorry, Kayla. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Common sense and her therapist’s assertion that a five-year-old couldn’t have done much against a full-grown man intent on kidnapping her twin were no match for twenty-five years of guilt.

Kendall leaned forward, touching her forehead to the hardwood floor. She’d relegated the trauma of that event to her past, stuffed it down, shoved it into the dark corner where it belonged. Now someone in Timberline was bringing it all back and that sheriff expected her to help in the investigation of a new set of kidnappings.

If she could help, she would’ve done something twenty-five years ago to bring her sister home. Her heart broke for the two families torn apart by the same torment that destroyed her own family but she couldn’t save them, and that sheriff would have to look elsewhere for help solving the crimes.

She’d come back to Timberline to sell her aunt’s house—nothing more, nothing less. It just so happened that her aunt’s house was the same house where she’d spent many days as a child, the same house from which someone abducted her twin sister and had knocked her out cold.

Raising her head, she zeroed in on the front door. She could picture it all again—the stranger with the ski mask, her sleeping sister thrown over one of his shoulders. Much of what followed had been a blur of hysterical parents, soft-spoken police officers, sleepless nights and bad dreams.

She still had the bad dreams.

Someone knocked on the door, and her muscles tensed as she wedged her fingers against the wood floor like a runner ready to shoot out of the blocks.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Wyatt, Wyatt Carson.”

Her thundering heartbeat slowed only a fraction when she heard Wyatt’s voice. If she was looking for someone to bring her out of the throes of these unpleasant memories, it wasn’t Wyatt.

Clearing her throat, she lumbered to her feet. “Hold on, Wyatt.”

She brushed the dust from her knees and pushed the hair back from her face. Squaring her shoulders, she pasted on a smile. Then she swung open the door to greet the last man she wanted to see right now.

“Hey, Wyatt. How’d you know I was back?”

“Kendall.” He swooped in for a hug, engulfing her in flannel and the tingly scent of pine. “You know Timberline. Word travels fast.”

“Supersonic.” She mumbled her words into his shoulder since he still held her fast. She stiffened, arching her back, and he got the hint.

When he released her, she shoved her hands in her pockets and smiled up at him. “I just arrived yesterday and took one trip to the grocery store.”

He snapped his fingers. “That must’ve been it. I heard you were back when I was getting coffee at Common Grounds this morning.”

“Come on in.” She stepped back from the door. “How have you been? Still the town’s best plumber?”

“One of the town’s only plumbers.” He puffed up his chest anyway.

“Do you want something to drink?” She held her breath, hoping he’d say no.

“Sure, a can of pop if you have it.”

“I do.” She moved past him to go into the kitchen. She ducked into the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda. “Do you want a glass?”

She cocked her head, waiting for an answer from the other room. “Wyatt?”

“Yeah?”

She jumped, the wet can slipping from her hand and bouncing on the linoleum floor. Wyatt moved silently for a big man.

“Sorry.” He pushed off of the doorjamb and crowded into the small kitchen space.

Before she could recover her breath, he crouched down and snagged the can. “Do you have another? I don’t want to spray the kitchen with pop.”

She tugged on the fridge door and swept another can from the shelf.

He exchanged cans with her. “You’re jumpy. Is it this house?”

Her gaze met his dark brown eyes, luminous in the pasty pallor of his face—a sure sign of a Timberline native.

Ducking back into the fridge, she shoved the dented can toward the back of the shelf.

“You just startled me, Wyatt. I’m not reliving any memories.” She waved her arm around the kitchen to deflect attention from her lie. “This is just a house, not a living, breathing entity.”

“I’m surprised you’d have that outlook, Kendall.” He snapped the tab on his can of soda and slurped the fizzy liquid from the rim. “I mean, since you’re a psychiatrist.”

“I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”

“Whatever. Don’t you dig into people’s memories? Pick their brains? Find out what makes them tick?”

“It doesn’t work that way, Wyatt. You get out of therapy what you put into it. My clients pick their own brains. I’m just there to facilitate.”

“Wish plumbing worked that way.” He slapped the thigh of his denims and took another gulp of his soda. “Seriously, if you ever want to talk about what happened twenty-five years ago, I’m your man.”

“I think we’ve talked it all out by now, don’t you?”

“But you and me—” he wagged his finger back and forth between them “—never really talked about it—not when we were kids right after it happened and not as adults.”

Folding her arms, she leaned against the kitchen counter. “Do you need to talk about it? Have you ever seen a therapist?”

He held up his hands, his callous palms facing her. “I’m not asking for a freebie or anything, Kendall.”

A warm flush invaded her cheeks, and she swiped a damp sponge across the countertop. “I didn’t think you were, but if you’re interested in seeing someone I can do a little research and find a good therapist in the area for you.”

“Nah, I’m good. I just thought...” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, you and me, since we both went through the same thing. You lost your sister and I lost my brother to the same kidnapper. We just never really discussed our feelings with each other.”

Years ago she’d vomited up these feelings to her own therapist until she’d emptied her gut, and she had no intention of dredging them up again with Wyatt Carson...or with anyone.

“It happened. I was sad, and we all moved on.” She brushed her fingertips along the soft flannel of his shirtsleeve. “If you need—if you want more closure, my offer stands. I can vet some therapists in the area for you.”

He downed the rest of his drink and crushed the can in his hand. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what’s going on, Kendall.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath. “Two children have been kidnapped.”

“I moved on, too.” He toyed with the tab on his can until he twisted it off. “I had it all packed away—until this. I just figured that’s why you came back.”

“N-no. Aunt Cass left this house to me when she passed, and I’m here to settle her things and sell the property.”

“Aunt Cass passed away ten months ago.”

“You know, probate, legal stuff.” She flicked her fingers in the air. “All that had to get sorted out, and I had a few work obligations to handle first.”

“If you say so.” He held up the mangled can. “Trash?”

“Recycle bin in here.” She tapped the cupboard under the sink with her toe.

He tossed the can into the plastic bin and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, you might not be able to slip in and out of Timberline so easy.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s a new sheriff in town—literally, or at least new to you. He’s actually been here about five years.” Wyatt tapped the side of his head. “He’s been picking my brain, and I’m pretty sure he’s gonna want to pick yours, too, once he knows you’re back.”

Her heart flip-flopped. “I’d heard that from someone else—that he wanted to talk to me.”

“Timberline’s still a small town, even with Evergreen Software going in. Coop must’ve heard you were back already.”

“Coop?”

“Sheriff Cooper Sloane. He moved here about five years ago.”

“Yeah, you said that. Isn’t the FBI involved?”

“As far as I heard they were. I think they set up operations just outside of Timberline. There are a couple of agents out here poking around, setting up taps on the families’ phones, waiting for ransom instructions.”

Kendall pressed her spine against the counter, trying to stop the shiver snaking up her back. There had been no ransom demands twenty-five years ago for the Timberline Trio—the three children who’d been kidnapped. Would there be any now?

“Anything?”

“Not yet and it’s already been almost three weeks.” Wyatt scratched his chin. “That’s one of the reasons Coop’s so interested in talking to all the players from the past. He sees some similarities in the cases, but the FBI agents aren’t all that interested in what happened twenty-five years ago.”

“Well, I’m not going to be much help.” She pushed off the counter. “But I do need to get back to work if I hope to get this place on the market.”

“Don’t worry. I’m outta here.” Wyatt exited the small kitchen and stood in the middle of the living room with his hands on his hips, surveying the room as if he could see the ghosts that still lingered. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

“I appreciate that, Wyatt.” She took two steps into the room and gave the big man a hug, assuaging the pangs of guilt she had over her uncharitable thoughts about him. Had he sensed her reluctance to talk to him? She squeezed harder.

“Take care, Wyatt. Maybe we’ll catch up a little more over lunch while I’m here.”

“I’d like that.” He broke their clinch. “Now I’d better head over to the police station.”

As much practice as she’d had schooling her face into a bland facade for her clients, she must’ve revealed her uneasiness to Wyatt.

His dark eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “This is just a plumbing job, not an interrogation.”

“Honestly, Wyatt, what you plan to do is your business.” She smoothed her hands over her face. “I’d rather leave it in the past.”

“I hear ya.” He saluted. “Let’s have that lunch real soon.”

She closed the door behind him and touched her forehead to the doorjamb. Wyatt didn’t even have to be an amateur psychologist to figure out she was protesting way too much.

She’d need a supersize session with her own therapist once she left this rain-soaked place and returned to Phoenix.

Taking a deep breath, she brushed her hands together and grabbed an empty box. She stationed herself in front of the cabinet shelf that sported a stack of newspapers.

She dusted each item in her aunt’s collection before wrapping it in a scrap of newspaper and placing it in the box. She’d have an estate sale first, maybe sell some of the stuff online and then pack up the rest and take it home with her. She studied a mermaid carved from teak, running her fingertip along the smooth flip of hair. Her nose tingled and she swiped the back of her hand across it.

Kayla had loved playing mermaids, and Kendall had humored her twin by playing with her even though she’d have rather been catching frogs at the river or riding her bike along the dirt paths crisscrossing the forest.

She’d been the tomboy, the tough twin—the twin who’d survived.

She rolled the mermaid into an ad for discount prescription drugs and tucked it into the box at her feet. Thirty minutes later, she sprayed some furniture polish on a rag and swiped it across the empty shelves of the cabinet. One down, two to go.

The round metal handle on the drawer clinked and Kendall groaned. Most likely, Aunt Cass had more stuff crammed into the drawer.

She curled her fingers around the handle and tugged it open. She blew out a breath—papers, not figurines.

Grabbing a handful, she held the papers up to the light. Bills and receipts. Probably of no use to anyone now.

She ducked and grabbed the plastic garbage bag, already half-full of junk she’d pulled from her aunt’s desk. She dropped the papers in the bag, without even looking at them, and reached for another batch.

A flash of color amid all the black and white caught her eye, and her fingers scurried to the back of the drawer to retrieve the item. She tugged on a silky piece of material and held it up.

The pink ribbon danced from her fingertips, taunting her. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t breathe.

She crumpled the ribbon in her fist and ran blindly for the door.