Читать книгу In Sight Of The Enemy - Kylie Brant - Страница 9

July

Cassie Donovan was dreaming of murder.

The familiar nightmare dragged her in, clutched her in its vicious grip, making escape impossible.

It was a familiar scene, one she’d experienced repeatedly throughout her life. Each time it was replayed for its audience of one with the same setting, the same characters. But rather than dulling its horror, repetition had honed it like a sharp blade.

The dark-haired woman in the room is packing quickly, frantically. Someone had painstakingly reproduced nineteenth-century splendor in the bedroom, but the panic in her movements is in marked contrast to the antiquated charm of her surroundings. Her yellow ruffled sundress flutters as she moves from dresser to suitcase, dropping a jumble of clothes into it. And then she looks up, an expression of terror on her face, listening to a sound that only she can hear. The lid to the suitcase is slammed shut, the locks engaged and the woman straightens, spine stiff with resolve or fear for the as yet unseen threat.

Cassie moved in the bed restlessly, her subconscious searching for means of escape. But there would be no avoiding the inevitable conclusion. Not for the woman in the bed. Not for the one in the dream.

She sends a quick look toward the half-closed closet door before grabbing the suitcase, carrying it down the hallway to a living room. A man clad in dark trousers and white shirt is already there. Slowly he rolls up his sleeves, first one, then the other. And though the woman lifts her chin, nerves show in the way her fingers tighten around the handle of the suitcase.

“Where are they?”

She doesn’t back down in the face of his angry demand, although she has to be aware of the menace in it.

The pretty Tiffany lamp, with the delicate wisteria winding about the shade, is picked up, sails across the room. When the woman ducks, it shatters against the wall, shards of colored glass spraying like tiny missiles. And then the man lunges, diving for her and the woman dodges, dropping the suitcase. He catches the fabric of her dress, yanks her to the couch and his balled fist smashes into her face.

“Where are they?”

The words are uttered in an enraged roar, the blows raining down fierce and punishing. The woman fights, almost breaks free, but his hands go to her throat and squeeze. She claws at them in an attempt to loosen his grip, but his fingers tighten as reason recedes and temper takes over. Her struggles grow weaker, until finally her hands drop away, one palm facing upward in a silent supplication. And then there’s no sound in the room but the harsh breathing of the man above her, his guttural furious cry.

Cassie gasped for air, her eyes flying open. She was only half-aware that she was on the floor, beside the bed, one hand flung up in a macabre reflection of the woman’s position in the dream. For the next few seconds she concentrated on the simple act of hauling air into oxygen-starved lungs.

She rose awkwardly, then stumbled toward the window. The moon was hanging fat and full in the diamond-studded sky, but the sight failed to soothe her as it usually did. The aftereffects of the nightmare still prickled her skin, and she rubbed her arms to chase away the lingering chill.

The dream had come often enough over the years that it was etched in her memory like acid on glass. If she wanted to, she could call up every tiny detail. The decorative vase on the ornate oak dresser in the bedroom, filled with fragrant gardenias. The Tiffany lamp on the table in the living room, with its delicate flowered vines tracing across the shade. The cameo-backed couch, the polished tongue-and-groove wood floor. The terror and resolve of the woman. The horrible intent of the man.

But try as she might, she could never put a face to the murderer.

It wasn’t until she was older that she’d recognized the void and tried to fill it. But each time the dream replayed, she was a helpless spectator. She could see only the back of the man, from the shoulders down; the width of the rooms; the woman engaged in her last violent struggle for life.

But no, that wasn’t quite true either. Because she could “see” one thing that couldn’t be explained by visual acuity. Although the door to the room’s closet was almost closed, she knew there was a little dark-haired boy huddled inside it, a baby’s soft terry toy clutched tightly in his hands. And she recognized that there were two victims in that house. One who would die and another whose end she’d never know.

For there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that the dream would come true. All of her dreams did.

Cassie didn’t know how old she’d been before she’d become aware of that inexplicable ability she’d been born with. The first instance she could recall she’d been about four and had dreamed every detail of the colt her favorite mare would give birth to. The events in the dreams that had followed over the years had never failed to materialize. But tonight’s nightmare had occurred with the most frequency.

With a hand that still shook she reached up, wiped her clammy forehead. It was easy to guess what had sparked it this time—the room in the bed-and-breakfast where she’d just returned from spending two days with her lover.

Shane had arranged the weekend away as a surprise for her, but her pleasure at his thoughtfulness had died abruptly once they’d walked into their room. When she’d viewed the turn-of-the-century furnishings her blood had run thick and cold. Although not identical to those in the dream, they had been similar enough to cause her a sleepless weekend. She’d tried, but she knew she hadn’t been able to completely hide the strain it had taken. Which hadn’t done a thing to heal the rift that was forming between Shane and herself.

Resting her forehead against the cool pane of glass, she closed her eyes. She shouldn’t have to struggle to hide who she was, what she was, from the only man she’d ever allowed herself to love. Love—real love—meant acceptance, didn’t it? But Shane hadn’t reacted as she’d hoped when she’d tried to explain to him a few weeks ago about the dreams that sometimes came, unbidden. And he was nowhere close to believing that her precognition—or any psychic ability—was real. Especially not when she told him what she’d dreamed about him and his upcoming assignment for Doctors Without Borders.

Her twin brother, Hawk, would frown disapprovingly if he knew she’d been honest with Shane, but she couldn’t fathom a future with a man she had to keep secrets from. And Shane hadn’t rejected her when she’d told him about her ability. She opened her eyes to stare blindly out into the night, taking a measure of comfort from the thought. As dismayed as he’d been by her revelation, he hadn’t walked away. But neither was he anywhere close to believing in it.

The weekend had been a chance for them to repair a relationship that had recently become more tenuous. Appreciation of Shane’s gesture had kept her from suggesting a different place to stay. Had kept her from falling into a deep sleep while there, lest tonight’s nightmare make an appearance. But all she’d managed, in the end, was to delay it.

She gave a little sigh, her breath fogging the window. Rubbing at the condensation absently, she pushed aside the trepidation filling her. The two of them would work through this. They would. What they had was too rare to give up on so easily. He just needed time to adjust, and she could grant him that time. As long as he reached some sort of acceptance in the end.

Turning back toward the room, she stared at the rumpled bedcovers with a renewed sense of dread. She wasn’t ready to crawl back in that bed again. Not while it still took such effort to keep the mental door closed tightly against those all-too familiar images.

But like sneaky fingers of fog, remnants of the dream filtered through her memory, leaving an icy wake. Her bedroom should be a haven. Certainly it couldn’t have been further removed from the one in the nightmare. She’d always deliberately embraced more contemporary furnishings, and the ranch bore her stamp of Southwestern decor. There was nothing fussy or overtly feminine about her bedroom trappings, or her wardrobe. Her clothing favored function and tailoring over frills and ruffles. There wasn’t a hint of the softly feminine touches apparent in the room from the dream.

But despite the effort she’d taken to avoid such similarities, she knew that her efforts would be in vain. Over the years she’d learned to accept the inevitability of the dreams. She could no more prevent them than she could change their events from coming true. There was no doubt that the woman in tonight’s nightmare would eventually die a violent, hideous death. There could be no evading it.

She hugged herself with her arms, in an attempt to control the shudders that worked through her. A familiar sense of fatalism filled her. Because although Cassie couldn’t identify the setting or the time in the dream, the woman’s face was all too familiar. She saw it every time she looked in the mirror.

For as long as she could remember, she’d been dreaming of her own inescapable murder.

Dr. Shane Farhold shifted on his bench seat in the stadium, his gaze flicking over his surroundings idly. Jean-clad men and casually dressed women packed the outdoor arena. Regardless of gender, a full half of the occupants wore Stetsons, and most carried beers afforded by the vendors in the place. It would be hard to imagine a scene further removed from those in his former home in Boston, and the differences were satisfying. After his mother’s death there had seemed little reason to stay in the city. And once his only remaining family had found him again, he’d had every reason to leave.

With an ease born of long practice he shoved that memory aside and concentrated on the voice on the loudspeaker announcing the next contestant in the Bareback Bronc contest. Cassie was up next. As if on cue, his stomach clenched in tight knots. He could use a scalpel to slice open a man’s chest without a moment’s hesitation, but the sight of Cassie on a huge unbroken horse always had the power to turn his blood to ice. He knew all too well just how many bones could break if a person hit the ground with just the right amount of force. He’d pointed that out to her once and she’d only laughed and said that was why she preferred to stay on the back of the horse.

The gate on the chute swung open. There was a split second of stillness, as if the huge roan was trans-fixed by the crowd. Then it exploded out of the chute, a whirling dervish of clashing hooves.

“Relax, Doc,” said the bearded man beside Shane. “She marked out just fine. Always does.”

He didn’t bother to correct the man. His concern was hardly on whether or not Cassie’s feet had been placed above the break of the horse’s shoulder on its first jump out of the chute. Her dainty form atop the furious horse looked spectacularly out of place. The eight-second clock crawled with excruciating slowness, a marked contrast to the frenzied movements of the animal.

Cassie was smiling widely, looking as though she was having the time of her life. The rigging grasped in one hand, her other was raised in the air to avoid accidentally touching the horse or her equipment, an automatic disqualification. The animal reared then spun, engaging in a series of staccato, teeth-jarring sideways jumps.

She looked, to Shane, to be spurring in perfect rhythm with the horse’s movements. If the crowd’s roar of approval was any indication, they agreed. The final couple seconds were a blur, with the animal spinning and bucking wildly. When the buzzer sounded, however, Cassie was still seated, her smile still bright as the pickup men rode out to secure the horse.

Releasing the rigging, she reached over to one of the pickup horses and transferred to it. The horse veered free of the bronc and Cassie slid off its back, turned in Shane’s direction and blew him a kiss before running out of the arena.

Relief mingled with a sort of amused irritation. The man next to Shane guffawed and elbowed him. “What’d I tell you? Cassie knows what she’s doin’. There’s no one knows horses better’n her and Hawk Donovan.” He then fell silent, listening intently as the announcer stated her scores and the crowd applauded once again.

Minutes later, Cassie was slipping into the seat next to his, accepting the congratulations and good-natured ribbing of those around her with equanimity. She went into his arms with an ease that never failed to warm him. “I didn’t catch the score, did you?” When Shane repeated it for her, she wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

“What?” he asked. “That’s a great score. Best so far.”

“With eight more contestants after me, it won’t be good enough to win.” She settled in the seat next to his. “Half the score is based on the horse’s performance, and with my weight I’m never going to be exposed to the horse’s maximum strength.”

She could still surprise him, despite the fact they’d been dating six months. “If you know that going in, why the heck do you take the risks?”

Her lips curved. “For the thrill, of course.” She laughed when she saw his expression. “You know what else would thrill me?”

Her tone was innocent enough. The hand sliding up his leg was anything but. He clamped one hand firmly over hers to stop her teasing, even as his hormones expressed immediate interest. He wasn’t yet entirely comfortable with just how easily he responded to this woman. “What?”

“Letting you take me out of here and…” She leaned closer to breathe the rest into his ear. “…buy me a corn dog.”

Shane winced. “Do you know what they put in those things?”

“No, and don’t ruin it for me. We can’t come to the county fair without tasting all the once-a-year treats.”

He rose and followed her out of the stands. “Okay, but I’m not buying cotton candy. I do have medical ethics to uphold, you know.”

Slipping her arm through his, she leaned her head on his arm. “No problem. I brought my own money.”

Shane leaned back on the one empty bench they managed to find in the crowded midway and stretched out his legs. Crossing his arms over his stomach, he barely managed to stifle a groan. Despite his best intentions, he hadn’t done particularly well at withstanding Cassie’s constant invitations to take “just a bite.” As a result, he’d ingested some of the most dubious offerings masquerading as food he’d ever experienced. Following her gaze to a nearby food cart, he said emphatically, “Don’t even think about it. After three corn dogs—which could be more aptly named heart attack on a stick—cotton candy, a pretzel, a caramel apple and something called wild melon sorbet, you can’t possibly be thinking of eating a funnel cake.”

With a look of unmistakable regret on her face, she nodded. “You’re right. I should give it another hour. I’ll be hungry again by then.”

He cocked an eyebrow, raked her slight figure with disbelief. “Your metabolism just might constitute a medical miracle. I should alert researchers at the National Institute of Health.”

Quick reflexes had him deflecting the elbow she jabbed at him. “Not everything has a scientific explanation, you know. And my metabolism is only one of my inexplicable talents.”

Her words managed to puncture his feeling of well-being. He didn’t want to engage in yet another conversation about her so-called abilities. Not for the first time he wondered what had happened to the woman he’d thought he’d known. The one full of life and fun, but with shadows of secret sorrows in her eyes that she’d never spoken of. The one whose sudden claim of psychic ability terrified and dismayed him by turns.

Deliberately, he changed the subject. “What’s the game plan for the rest of the afternoon? Are you signed up for any more death-defying events?”

She laughed, shook her head. “Nope, but you really haven’t experienced the fair until you enter something yourself. I think they’re still looking for contestants for the pie-eating contest.”

Apparently the expression on his face was its own answer. She went on without pausing a beat. “No? Well, the longest beard is out, because even if you’d been interested, you didn’t get the head start most of those guys did. Although,” she reached up, rubbed her hand over his unshaven jaw, “I have to say, the day-old beard is a good look for you.” Her fingers lingered, and her touch, coupled with the slow smile she gave him, ignited an immediate flicker of heat.

“Really?” He lowered his voice intimately. “That’s not what you said when my whiskers were leaving marks on your skin yesterday morning. I distinctly remember when I was kissing your breasts and you said—”

“Or we could go see Hawk at the horse barn.” Cassie jumped up, her cheeks flushed. “I probably should. He’s been stuck with the chores all day.”

Shane rose as well, satisfied by the flare of color his suggestive remark had brought to her face. The woman was a study of contrasts. Strong and confident in her reputation as one of the leading horse breeders in the nation, yet appearing almost unsure sometimes of the allure of her own femininity. Assertive on one hand, with flashes of an unexpected vulnerability that had gotten to him from the first. Discovering the layers of her was an endless fascination.

Or had been until he’d uncovered the one thing about her that would have sent him running from any other woman. The one thing that he’d never be able to live with.

An innate protectiveness had him moving closer to her side, to shield her from the mob of people jostling around them as they made their way to the horse barn. He couldn’t explain to himself why he hadn’t run, couldn’t explain the stubborn hope he clung to that he could talk her out of her sudden foolishness. He only knew it was imperative that he do so.

The crowd thinned as they got closer to their destination. Cassie’s steps slowed as they approached a line of children having their faces painted by an older woman sitting on a stool at the edge of the midway. There were shrieks of laughter as the children dodged around them on their way back to their waiting parents, eager to show off the small brightly colored pictures adorning their cheeks.

“Well, this seems like a harmless enough interest,” he said, glancing down at her. She’d come to a complete halt, her gaze fixed on the woman with the paints. “Are you getting the lasso or the horse?”

Her head cocked, Cassie stared intently at the woman. “She looks familiar, but I don’t think I know her, and I recognize just about most in the county.”

Shane shrugged. The sun overhead was merciless in a way he’d been unfamiliar with until he’d experienced Texas heat firsthand. He found himself wondering if the horse barn would be air-conditioned. Somehow he doubted it.

“Maybe she’s someone who travels the county fairs in the area,” he suggested.

At that moment, the older woman looked up and smiled. “Come, Cassie, it’s your turn now.”

There was a slight accent to her words that Shane couldn’t identify, but it matched the exotic slant of her eyes. Aside from that, her appearance blended in with most of the other fairgoers. She was dressed in jeans, boots and a short-sleeved denim shirt. Her long dark hair was streaked with white, and she wore it pulled back in a simple ponytail.

Cassie smiled tentatively and walked toward the lady. “I’m sorry. I feel like I should know you.”

“You know a great many things, not all of which can be explained. But you trust in your gift, as you should. You’ll share that ability with one to come, and teach her to nurture it. As you must. The ability that brings you your greatest sadness will also save your life.”

Shane felt, rather than saw, the jolt the words had on Cassie. And he’d heard as much cryptic nonsense from the stranger as he wanted to. “C’mon, Cass,” he said shortly. “I thought you wanted to go see Hawk.”

But she remained rooted to the ground, her gaze on the woman before her. If she’d heard him, she gave no sign of it. The older lady leaned forward, a slight lilt to her voice. “Your daughter will share your gift and you will teach her to use it well, not hide it as you’ve been forced to. Accept your future without the fear you’re used to regarding it with. There is joy there, as well as sorrow.”

“My daughter? But when…”

Irritation turned to something else. His hand went to Cassie’s back, in an effort to move her away. “Lady, this fortune-telling nonsense might play with the rest of the fairgoers, but you picked the wrong couple to lay it on.” He couldn’t believe his damnable luck. All Cassie needed right now was a stranger’s babblings to encourage her in her own ridiculous notions.

Her attention switched to him. “It is you, Shane, who regards it as nonsense, but you must learn to listen, and to accept. Cassie’s fear for you is well founded. Afghanistan holds dangers for you that cannot be comprehended. Consider well before deciding your course. Your decision will change everything.”

There was a moment of stunned shock before fury began to boil. He looked at Cassie, a bitter sense of betrayal almost choking him. “No wonder she looks familiar to you. How long did it take for the two of you to cook this thing up?”

Cassie stared at him, a mask of confusion on her face. “What? Shane, this only proves what I’ve been trying to tell you. I knew you shouldn’t go on that assignment. It isn’t too late. You could still back out.”

He took a step away from her. And then another. It was safer that way, given the rage surging through him. “Someone more easily controlled might even fall for this scene. Of course, a more honest woman would never have set up such an elaborate ruse to manipulate a man, but hey, whatever means necessary, right?”

Hurt mingled with determination in her expression, but he wasn’t going to allow it to affect him. Not when it appeared that he’d been the biggest fool of all time. Had he given it a thought, he would have found it ironic that the greatest betrayals in his life had been perpetuated by frauds and fakes who’d pretended to love him.

But he wasn’t much in the mood to appreciate the irony.

“Shane, you have to listen.” There was desperation in Cassie’s voice, in the clutch of her fingers when she laid them on his arm. “If you go through with that assignment, I’m afraid you may not come home alive. I told you about my dream—”

He jerked away from her touch. “You told me. What you didn’t tell me was the lengths you’d go to get your own way.”

“This isn’t about me! It’s about—”

“Finally something we can agree on.” His jaw was tight, his chest felt as if a vise squeezed it. “This isn’t about you at all. Not anymore.”

The older woman was speaking again, but he couldn’t hear her. There was a roaring in his ears, and a fist punching his heart as he turned to leave. The first step felt like a surgical slice, neatly peeling away a part of his life he’d begun to think of as permanent. With the second step, a blessed sort of numbness settled in and he welcomed it, even knowing it wouldn’t last. The lack of feeling made it possible to take the next step. And then the next. Soon he was striding rapidly toward the parking lot where he’d left his vehicle. Away from the charlatan spouting her cryptic psychic nonsense.

And away from the only woman he’d ever loved.