Chapter Six

Clare took a quick shower and put on some makeup. She was going to start this thing right. She wasn’t going to let him push her into anything, but she was willing to talk, to explore new possibilities that included Jackson in her life.

Just because he said he was falling in love with her, didn’t mean that he was ready to do anything crazy, like get married. She needed to do a little probing first. He had to prove to her that he was over Brittany and not rebounding with her, and she had to prove the same to him, and to herself about Mark.

They’d both had bad endings where romance was concerned. There wasn’t anything wrong with being cautious, but she wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t about to let the possibility of real love slip away.

Hearing heavy boots on the front porch, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

“It’ll do for a sort of dinner date.”

With a small grin, she left the bathroom and took a step into the hall toward the front door. But before she could take another, the sound of pounding ricocheted through the house. That wasn’t Jackson, and they weren’t going to stop pounding on her front door until it gave way.

In a near state of panic, her heart leaping in her chest, her hands shaking like never before, she grabbed her rifle from where it stood beside her grandfather’s desk, not wanting them to use her own weapon against her, and ran for the bedroom in the back of the house. She slammed and locked the door, then put the gun on the bed, and struggled to shove the dresser in front of the door.

She stifled a scream at the sound of a loud crash from the living room. They’d made it inside. Her life might depend on how she handled the next few minutes, she couldn’t allow the panic rising in her throat to gain control of her actions.

The dresser finally in place, she grabbed the gun and moved to the far corner of the room behind the bed. As much as she’d like to let off a warning shot, thinking it might scare them away, somehow she had a feeling it wouldn’t work.

With her eyes on the bedroom door, now vibrating from the beating it was taking, she rifled through the nightstand for more ammunition. Bullets spilled out onto the floor beside her foot, and she crouched down beside them.

She wished she’d ran upstairs instead of staying on the main floor. They could try to come in through one of the windows instead of the door, but at least she realized that. They wouldn’t catch her off guard.

Several minutes of pounding, of things crashing in other parts of the house, strengthened her resolve. She was ready. If they got through, she’d shoot, no questions asked.

Then abruptly as it had started, the crashing and banging stopped, followed by hurried footsteps. She wasn’t convinced they were gone and kept her place behind the bed, her gaze moving from the door to the windows, her ears struggling for the slightest sound.

“Clare!”

Tears sprang to her eyes at the sound of Jackson’s voice. “I’m here!”

She dropped the gun to the bed then struggled to move the dresser. She managed to shift it enough to allow the door to open a crack and saw his wonderful face twisted with worry.

He shoved at the door, forcing the dresser to move with a horrendous squeal across the wood floor, then reached out and pulled her into his arms.

“God, Clare. I thought—” He buried his face in the side of her neck and held her so tightly she could barely breathe.

Tears ran down her face as she held onto him with all her might. “I’m okay.”

He lifted his head and cupped her face in his hands. “Are you sure?”

She nodded and tried to blink away her tears.

He hugged her once again, then guided her across the room and eased her down to the edge of the bed. Kneeling before her, he took her hands into his. She knew he could feel her trembling.

“Take a deep breath and tell me what happened,” he said.

She let the air slip from her lips as slow and steady as she could, attempting to calm her racing heart.

“I had started down the hall at the sound of boots on the porch, thinking it was you,” she said. “I stopped when they started pounding on the door.”

“Did they say anything? Did you get a look at them?”

“No, they just kept banging on the door. I realized they were trying to break it down. So I grabbed the rifle and ran to the back of the house.”

He rested his forehead against their clasped hands.

“Did you see anyone?” she asked.

“No.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “I saw a cloud of dust across the back field but couldn’t make out the vehicle. It was over the ridge. Then I saw the door and damn near had a heart attack.”

He moved the dresser back into its rightful place.

“They trashed the place pretty good,” he said, taking her hand.

Together they walked down the hall to the living room. Clare sucked in a breath at the sight of the mess.

Jackson pulled her tighter against his side and gave her a gentle squeeze. “We’ll get it cleaned up, and I’ll fix whatever I can. You should probably check to see if anything was stolen.”

Her gaze slid to the floor beside the overturned couch where her quilting hoop sat in pieces. The friendship star torn and trampled. At least it was only one of the blocks for the quilt. The rest, she hoped, were still safe in the upstairs room she and Granny had turned into a sewing room.

“We need to call the sheriff,” he said, pulling her from the ache in her heart over her destroyed work.

She nodded and moved to see what else was damaged beyond repair, while he called the sheriff. Her grandparents hadn’t owned anything of any real value to anyone, just some old furniture and some sentimental things.

“Oh, Granny’s quilt,” she said, gently lifting it from the floor where it lay in a ball. Carefully, she unwound the fabric and found a few rips here and there.

“He’ll be right over,” Jackson said. He moved to stand beside her. “Can you fix it?”

Her fingers brushed across the faded fabric, as memories of curling beneath it while Grandpa told one of his fish stories flashed through her mind. “I think so.”

He brushed a kiss to her temple. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart. We’ll find out who did this. We’ll make it right.”

She looked at him and nodded, having very little to say that wouldn’t bring new tears to her eyes.

“Let’s see if I can set some of this furniture back in place.” He moved to her grandfather’s old desk and wrestled it back to its feet.

She moved to the corner beside it and lifted a drawer still half filled with fishing lures her grandfather had made. It was sort of his hobby.

“Why would someone do this? Why—” She stilled and looked at him. “Are you thinking the same thing I am?” she asked.

“Morgan,” they said in unison.

“Looks like he’s trying to scare you out now,” he said, as he put one of the drawers back in place.

She shook her head and slid the last drawer not broken back in place. “But he has to know he’ll be the prime suspect.”

Jackson shook his head as he placed his hands on his narrow hips. “You’d think so, but if he paid some drifter to do some dirty work, he could potentially get away with it.”