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ANNIE WHITMAN LISTENED to the steady breathing of the man beside her, the man bleeding all over her passenger seat. He’d said no hospital, no doctor. He’d been adamant. Lucky for him she’d finished a year of nursing school before Army had been born. Yeah. Lucky.
Tears burned her eyes as her six-year-old son’s face came to mind. His big blue eyes, his gap-toothed smile. His blond hair that he used water to spike. He left for school looking like a rock star. By the time he got home, he was her Army again. Her sweet innocent little boy.
She caught back a sob. Was he scared? Hungry? Did he miss her? Or did he believe this was the adventure she’d told him it was when his father had taken him from her at gunpoint? Vince’s thugs had flanked her so Army hadn’t seen their weapons. One had been pressed to her side, level with her heart, one to the center of her spine. Her ex hired only the best.
She couldn’t call the cops; Vince owned them. She couldn’t think of anyone in town who might help; Vince frightened them. The idea that he’d evict the Gamas for coming to her aid... She groaned, the sound more of a sob. And if she valued her own life, if she ever wanted to see her son again, she had to sit and wait for his instructions. Her hands were completely tied.
She couldn’t believe this was happening. She couldn’t believe he would do this. What had happened to the boy she’d gone to school with, the one who’d become the man she’d fallen in love with and married, the father who’d sworn to give his son the best life possible?
He may have kept Army from seeing the danger she was in, but he was using him for leverage. That was not what a father did! And he was demanding something she couldn’t deliver in exchange for Army’s return.
She had no idea what she was going to do. She hadn’t even had time to process the afternoon’s events. It was like she’d been dropped into the middle of a bad crime show. It made her want to laugh. But mostly cry—
“Where are we?”
Startled, Annie waved a hand mindlessly toward the near distance, then returned it to the wheel. “I’m taking you home. To my home.” Nothing in Markit, Texas, was far from anything else. They’d be there in three minutes. “No doctors leaves you with me to patch you up.”
“I can patch up myself,” he said, straightening in the seat, a groan in his throat like coarse sandpaper. The sound went with the rest of him. Coarse. Rough. Uncivilized, though that could’ve been his defense skills... not to mention the state of his clothes. And the smell.
He should’ve driven to the closest truck stop and used their washing machines. And their showers. Not that she was really complaining because smell or not... wow. Just wow. She could’ve stared at him for, well, longer than the drive would allow.
She shook off what felt a whole lot like lust. This wasn’t the time. This wasn’t the place. He wasn’t the right man... Though what did she know about men? Look at the son of a bitch she’d married. Fucking Vince. “I appreciate you stepping in, but they weren’t going to hurt me.”
“They had guns. And knives,” he said, wincing.
“That was to scare me, but they need me alive so...” Ugh. She sounded so ungrateful. And honestly, she had no idea if Vince intended to follow through on his threats. The decency she’d once seen in him had obviously been an act. She’d been so stupid. So stupid.
She pulled to a stop at the upcoming sign and took a deep breath before accelerating. “Thank you. I’m sorry you ended up hurt.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said just as she hit a pothole. He grunted and flinched.
She grimaced and apologized. “You can’t be sure—”
“I can. I’ve had worse.”
“You do this a lot then?” Rescue damsels in distress?
She kept the thought to herself, hating that she’d entertained it. She might be in distress, but she would figure a way out. She had to figure a way out.
“Fight?” He shook his head, working his bruised jaw. “I saw some combat action.”
Combat meant service and had her thoughts returning to Vince. Her voice was sharper than she intended when she said, “I meant interrupt a stranger’s workday to bleed all over her car.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He turned to face her, leaning into the door, his shoulders broader than the import’s narrow seat. “I’ll pay to have it cleaned.”
She made the turn onto her street, wanting to scream. It was Vince who deserved her fury, not this man. Her eyes began to burn anew, and she sniffed, slowing for her driveway. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried. I’m saying I’ll pay.”
“Fine.” She doubted she’d see him again once she’d bandaged him up and sent him on his way, but whatever. “I’m not a complete amateur, by the way. I did a year of nursing—”
She slammed the car to a stop, sucking in a sharp breath. Then she sat there, her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead.
Army’s bike was propped against the garage door.
She’d told him to put it up last night after supper. She’d reminded him this morning before driving him to school. But he couldn’t find his homework and they were running late and—
“Are you okay?”
Nodding, she turned off the engine and climbed out, heading for the garage’s side door. It was a pain in the ass to open but she put her shoulder into it and shoved. Then she went back for the bike that still needed a kickstand and rolled it inside.
She propped it against the wall in front of the lawnmower and inhaled deeply—gasoline, mouse droppings, dirt, stale cardboard—then wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to do!
She pulled herself together as best she could and turned to find him standing there, a silhouette filling the doorway. She breathed deeply again; his scent mingled with the rest of those in the garage, fitting in. Belonging.
Boy, this wouldn’t do. “What’s your name?”
It was suddenly the most important thing in the world that she know. He had saved her. He had military training, had seen combat. He fought like a pro. Mostly. Maybe he’d have an idea as to how she could get her son back and get out of this mess in one piece.
“Kyle Abbot.”
Kyle. Kyle. She turned it over, testing it. “I’m Annie. Annie Whitman.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said because she was not going to tell him what she’d been thinking.
“Annie.” He moved closer, looming but not threatening. “What’s wrong?”
The way he said her name... Shivers rolled through her, raising gooseflesh on her limbs. “I was just thinking”—she latched on to the first thing that came to mind—“that I’m going to have to mow the lawn before too long.”
He held her gaze with his, which was searching, as if reading her mind. “You sure you’re not thinking about the little boy’s bike you just put up?”
He stared at her, his eyes so, so blue, his lips full even when pressed into a grim line. The scruff on his face was so inviting, but more so was the width of his shoulders. She wanted to step into his arms and have him hold her while she cried. She really needed to cry.
Instead, she told him, “My ex kidnapped my son.”