Chapter Fifteen

Mickelle had planned to pick up the boys immediately after Damon left, but somehow she found herself sitting on a stool and leaning over the counter, admiring the heart-shaped diamond Damon had given her. Outside, night had fallen, but the diamond picked up the overhead light and reflected it back at her.

Married to Damon, she thought, enjoying the delicious shivers that ran up her arms and down her neck and back. It’s like a fairy tale.

Of course, running a house like Damon’s would be a task. She knew he had a cook for the weekdays, a groundskeeper, and a live-in housekeeper. Mostly, she approved. She couldn’t possibly clean the entire house herself and keep up the yard, but she could do the cooking. In fact, she enjoyed cooking. Then again, if she were going back to school . . .

The possibilities were endless. Sometimes when she thought about it, Damon’s wealth frightened her. However could a woman like her, accustomed to barely scraping by, step into his world? He had assured her that she would do so easily, and yet there was that lingering fear inside that someone might laugh at the poor little pauper turned princess.

Not that Damon moved in snooty circles. During the short time they had dated, she’d learned that he didn’t waste nearly the amount of money on luxuries that many of the people in his income bracket were accustomed to spending. He employed no butler or chauffeur, his garage held only four cars instead of ten—two of which weren’t even his—and his list of charities was almost as long as his investments.

She laughed softly at her thoughts. He’s a good man. A little impatient, a little arrogant even, but he loves me. Mickelle stared at the ring, lost in the joy of her love.

The sound of a breaking window jolted her from her reverie. She listened but heard nothing else.

Had it been her imagination? She rose to her feet and peered out the kitchen window into the night, remembering the time Sasha had been an exuberant, overgrown puppy and had fallen into a window well, breaking a basement window in the process. Luckily the dog hadn’t been hurt.

The darkness told her nothing, and Mickelle decided the sound had been in her imagination. She would grab her jacket and drive over to Brionney’s for the boys. She found her jacket and purse in the closet off the tiny entryway and was reentering the kitchen with them in her hands when something barreled into her, knocking her to the ground. A heavy weight crushed the air from her lungs, and hands roamed over her body as though searching for something.

Fighting the terror that gripped her, Mickelle managed to roll out from under her attacker and put her arms up to defend herself. A figure clad in tight-fitting black sweats and a ski mask lashed out and hit her with a gloved fist. Mickelle dodged the first shot and managed to block another. Desperately, she pushed herself away from this black-clad stranger and fled down the hall toward her room, realizing too late that she should have tried for one of the outside doors.

Shut the door quick! she ordered herself. I can do it, I can do it. Scarcely breathing, she slammed the door, sobbing when the attacker’s foot wedged inside and put an immediate stop to her efforts.

“Go away!” she yelled, throwing all her weight on the door. “I’m calling the police!” In reality, the portable phone was in the kitchen, far out of her reach. In her peripheral vision, she saw that glass from her bedroom window had shattered over the carpet like her newfound peace, and the clothes from her dresser were scattered on the floor, the drawers hanging open haphazardly.

He must have entered here, she thought numbly.

The door groaned under the onslaught of the forces pushing against it. Fear clogged Mickelle’s throat, coating her mouth with a sickening taste that made her want to gag. Still she leaned against the door, praying for release.

With a sudden burst of strength, the attacker flung the door open, tossing Mickelle into a heap on the floor by her bed. Her head cracked against the bottom of the ancient box spring, and her senses whirled. In an instant he was on her, lifting her onto the bed, shoving her down. Hands again searched her body, and Mickelle fought prying fingers, bringing her knees and feet against her opponent. He struck her twice in the face, open-handed, and then again with his fist. Mickelle was helpless to move away from the assault.

She would never give in easily. From what she could see he wasn’t armed and that meant she had a chance.

She fought, using her nails, her feet, her teeth, everything she could enlist. At one point, she shoved Damon’s ring into the eyehole of the ski mask, hoping to do some serious damage, but the assailant only wrenched the jewel from her hand and made it disappear inside a pocket.

Mickelle fought on, though her strength was weakening. Her blue turtleneck had been viciously torn from her body, though her underclothes were intact. She knew now that this person wanted more from her than just her jewelry or goods. He was going to hurt her—and badly.

Another aching blow landed on her chin; another, less painful, to her stomach. She threw up then in a sudden motion, spraying the remains of her Chinese food onto her attacker. He cringed, but only for an instant. That was all Mickelle needed. Seeing the opening, she shoved her foot between his legs, using all the force she could muster.

With a growl of rage, the assailant, lashed out, pounding his hurt and anger into her body in one violent motion, then mercifully, he fell to the ground in agony. Mickelle knew she should run, knew that she had to get out of the house before he recovered. But every inch of her body ached, and moving made her feel as though fire leaked out of her pores.

Mickelle lay panting on the bed, dragging in much-needed air. She had no concept of how long she lay there, fighting to breathe, telling herself to hurry. Faintly, she heard her phone ringing and ringing, calling plaintively for her to answer. The sound forced her to a sitting position. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she stretched out her feet. There was no reaction from the curled figure, who lay clutching himself in anguish. Encouraged, Mickelle inched forward until her feet touched the floor. She took a step.

An iron wrist closed around her ankle, and Mickelle tripped, sprawling atop her attacker. She heard a chuckle. “What I’ll do to you,” a gravely voice muttered. “You will pay for this.”

“Let me go!”

“I will—eventually.” Hands closed around her throat. She couldn’t even scream.

* * *

Damon hung up the phone with his attorney, feeling sick with the information he’d learned. “I would have called you sooner,” his friend told him, “but I was on the phone with my informant when you rang.”

With hands feeling ridiculously clumsy, Damon dialed Jesse and Brionney’s home phone number. “Hi, it’s me,” he said. “This is more serious than I thought. You’d better keep Mickelle there until I come over.”

“She hasn’t arrived yet,” Brionney told him anxiously. “I even called some of her friends who attended her Relief Society meeting tonight, just to make sure that she hadn’t changed her mind, that maybe she ran on over to the meeting after all. But one of her friends—a woman named Brenda—said that Mickelle never came and, get this, she also said that she witnessed a really odd scene between her and Colton earlier.”

“Yeah, that was the run-in with Mr. Cover Boy I mentioned, the reason she didn’t feel like going to the church in the first place. Look, I’m going over there right now. We can talk about Scofield later.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“I’d like too, but we have nothing to tell them—yet.”

“I’ll have Jesse meet you there,” Brionney said worriedly. “You still have Mickelle’s spare key, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Damon paused before disconnecting, wanting to say something to comfort Brionney. “Don’t worry too much. Kelle’s tough.”

“Yeah. She probably decided to take a nice hot bubble bath and forgot the time.” Brionney’s laugh sounded forced.

“See you soon.”

Damon hung up the phone, and ran toward the door. He had already talked briefly with Tanner and Belle when he had sent them to bed before his phone conversation with the attorney. They knew that he might have to go out, and they would be fine on their own.

Checking to make sure that his cell phone was in his suit pocket, he hurried to the garage, choosing not his new Lexus, but the trusty dark blue Mercedes instead. He wouldn’t be driving it much longer. In their conversation that evening, Mickelle had mentioned that she much preferred the Mercedes, so he would give it to her. He would need to start becoming accustomed to the Lexus, but tonight he wanted something familiar, something he knew would get him there safely and quickly.

How much time had elapsed since he had left Mickelle’s? Since he had first talked to Brionney? And where was Mickelle? Was she all right? He prayed that she was home safe, that perhaps she had fallen asleep or was taking a bath as Brionney suggested.

It wasn’t like her to forget the boys—ever. And why wasn’t she answering the phone?

Damon’s anxiety mounted until the beating of his heart filled the entire car. Have to get to Mickelle, it pumped. Get to Mickelle.

Jesse was already at Mickelle’s house when Damon arrived in record time. “Wow, you got here fast,” he said. “I didn’t expect you for another ten minutes. By then I would have everything figured out.”

Damon didn’t dwell on the miracle of his quick arrival. Didn’t that only mean that Mickelle was in serious trouble? His mind churned with the things he had learned about Colton Scofield, a.k.a., Jonny Garvey and Simon Holm.

“Looks quiet,” he said, walking toward the house.

Jesse shrugged. “I went around to the back and didn’t see anything unusual. There are a few lights on. I was about to knock.”

The men sprinted up the last few steps. Jesse rang the bell, while Damon pounded with his fist.

Nothing.

Damon produced her spare key from his pocket, and within seconds they opened the door.

* * *

Just when Mickelle thought she would lose consciousness, the pressure at her throat lessened.

He was on top of her now, hands biting cruelly into her flesh despite the black gloves. Mickelle’s fear increased. So did her anger. Her thoughts changed from Why, why, why? to How dare he!

His mouth closed on hers and Mickelle bit him hard, tasting blood, but was unsure if it was his or hers. He swore and pummeled her again. She tried to lift her leg, to kick him as she had before, but she was pinned under his heavier form.

Would no one help her?

Everything in her life had boiled down to this one moment. She was alone, and the only one who could save her was herself.

* * *

In moments, Damon and Jesse determined that no one was in the living room or kitchen. Damon strode down the hall, afraid that he would miss something in his hurry. He heard sounds now, coming from Mickelle’s bedroom. Sounds of a struggle.

As he plunged through the door, he saw Mickelle straining under a figure in black. She lifted her head in a sudden motion, slamming her forehead into the face of her attacker. The person moaned and drooped slightly to the side. Mickelle brought up her newly freed foot . . .

“Mickelle!” Damon shouted. The few steps between them seemed like an ocean.

The black-clad figure leapt up and darted toward Damon. Caught unaware, Damon couldn’t grab him as he escaped into the hall.

“Jesse!” Damon yelled. But Jesse was also unprepared as the intruder slipped past him and out into the night.

Damon, torn between needing to go to Mickelle and catching the man, was only slightly behind. He jumped from the porch, tackling the black-clad figure. They rolled once, then twice, as one struggled to get away and the other to hold fast. Out of the corner of his eye, Damon saw the other man reach for a stone frog in Mickelle’s rose garden. Saw, but couldn’t stop him from slamming it into his head. Desperately, Damon grasped at his opponent as his world titled crazily.

In a violent wrench, the intruder was gone, leaving only his black ski mask behind as evidence that he had ever been there at all.

“Did you see him?” Jesse yelled from the porch.

“No. Too dark.”

Jesse helped him to his feet. “Sorry I didn’t get out here sooner. But you were both fast. By the time I got out here, he had that rock. Boy, that must hurt.”

Damon was too angry to reply. He should have managed to keep hold of that punk, to punish him. “Mickelle,” he said, pushing off Jesse’s hands.

Mickelle lay on the floor in her room, unmoving. Her shirt had been torn from her body and the rest of her clothes were ripped or askew. Damon gathered her into his arms. “Get the blanket,” he ordered Jesse.

Tenderly Damon tucked the worn quilt from the bed around Mickelle. It was only then that she began sobbing.

“I thought no one would come. I thought no one would save me.”

“I’m here, Kelle. I’m here now. No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

“How do you know?” her voice was shrill, hysterical.

He tightened his arms around her, trying to make her feel safe. “Because I’ll make sure of it.” It sounded stupid, even to his own ears. Sure, he could quit work and stay with her every second, but would that make either of them happy in the long run? Living with fear wasn’t a life he relished.

“I thought no one would come,” she muttered again, burrowing her face into his chest, not even wincing at the pain of the cuts and bruises on her skin. Blood from her face stained his expensive suit, but that was the least of his worries. He felt like an utter failure.

He rocked her slightly, as he did Belle when she awoke with a nightmare. “I’m sorry, Mickelle, I’m sorry.”

“No one came,” she sobbed.

He stroked her hair, rocking her. “I’m here. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

His voice seemed to calm her, if not his words, and soon her sobbing drained away. She clung to him, though, and he was grateful for that much. She didn’t seem to blame him as he blamed himself.

“Better call the police,” he told Jesse as he dabbed a rivulet of blood from a nasty gash in her forehead.

“And Brionney. She’ll have my head if we don’t.”

When Jesse left the room, Mickelle spoke. “It was him—Colton.”

“You saw him?” Somehow Damon didn’t think Scofield had the guts for something like this.

“I didn’t see him, but it was Colton. It had to be him. He was searching for something in particular.” Her voice broke. “He took my ring.” Her left hand pushed up out of the blanket, looking white and incredibly frail. Along the ring finger were darkening bruises and raw scrapes. “I tried not to let him have it, but . . .” The words were drowned by another sob.

“The ring isn’t important. You are. It’s insured. We can always buy another one.”

She rested quietly against him for a long time. Then, “Why did you come? How did you know?”

Damon cleared the lump in his throat and explained about Brionney’s concern after finding the little black book, as well as that fact that he’d talked with his attorney about Colton.

“What did he say?”

Damon wished he didn’t have to answer, but Mickelle had a right to know. “So far the guy has pulled off several dozen insurance thefts, his target mainly being young widows. First he tracks a likely target down, joins their church or civic group, finds out everything he can about them and then goes in for the goods.”

Mickelle said nothing. She only closed her eyes. A tear dripped from the corner, and Damon wiped it away with his fingertip.

“Apparently, he has some friends in different investment groups who help him. Somehow he gets the women to sign over their funds, and boom, he’s gone. They never track him down.”

She sighed. Tears again leaked out of her eyes, but they were silent tears, the kind that hurt the most.

Damon rocked her. “I’m sorry, Mickelle. I really am.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I love you so much.” His whisper fell into her hair.

“I love you, too.”

His heart ached at the sight of her battered face, but he became really upset when she added softly, “He said he’d be back.”

“You won’t be here.”

Again she said nothing, but let her head rest on his chest.

The police arrived, and Brionney and Mickelle’s sons were on their heels. Bryan and Jeremy rushed past the officers to their mother.

Mickelle recovered enough to put her arms around them and assure them she was all right. “It looks worse than it is,” she insisted.

“Your mom’s strong,” Damon agreed, trying to support her statement for their benefit. “I arrived just as she head-punched the guy. In another minute she would have had the best of him.”

“Way to go, Mom!” Jeremy cheered.

Mickelle smiled faintly, but there was an emptiness in her eyes. “No one was coming,” she stated in a small voice. Damon tightened his hold, wishing he could do something more to comfort her.

Brionney took the boys to the kitchen while the police began to ask questions, but she returned shortly to hold Mickelle’s hand. Finally Damon said, “Look, are you through with your questions? I think she may need to go to a doctor.”

Mickelle started to protest, but Brionney interrupted. “No buts about it. You might need stitches or something.”

“Come on, I’ll take you,” Damon said.

“I’m going too,” Bryan insisted, almost sullenly, from the doorway.

Damon stared at him. “I think that would be a good idea. Your mother needs us all right now.”

Bryan’s face appeared slightly repentant, but Damon didn’t feel any satisfaction.

If only he hadn’t left Mickelle.

As though reading his thoughts, she put a hand to his face. He felt an overwhelming feeling of gratitude that she was safe, and that he wouldn’t have to watch her wither away as he had Charlotte. He bent his head and whispered. “Oh, Kelle, I couldn’t live without you.”

She put her finger over his lips, saying nothing, but her eyes communicated volumes. And Damon understood what they were saying, for as terrifying as losing her might be, it would be infinitely worse not to have loved her at all.

* * *

Mickelle answered what seemed like a million questions from the police and her family. And from Damon. Poor Damon, who blamed himself for what had happened. She knew it wasn’t his fault. She had been too trusting, too busy running away from her fears to recognize the signs Colton had given her.

At the hospital she received stitches on her forehead, but after cleaning her wounds, there was little more they could do. Damon insisted she stay overnight for observation, and then for good measure, he stayed by her side most of the night. Brionney and Jesse took the boys to their house, but not before Mickelle hugged them and assured them for the millionth time that she was all right.

In the silence of the dark hospital room, she found it difficult to sleep. Several times she would close her eyes, only to find that she couldn’t breathe, as though the attacker were once again on top of her, squeezing the air from her throat.

All alone!

She cried silently, not wanting Damon to hear, not wanting to hurt him further. Tears trickled down her face and into the pillow. Though Damon was in the room, she still felt as alone as when she had faced the intruder.

I was there.

It wasn’t a voice exactly, but a thought, appearing in her head. And in that seemingly brief expression, she felt a multitude of feelings, a lifetime of conversation between spirits. Pure knowledge, pure love, and compassion, flowing from one heart to another—from one soul to another. Immediately, her inner wounds were eased, her understanding complete. She hadn’t been alone. The Lord had been her silent companion during this experience as He had been throughout her life, giving her strength and determination when she’d needed it most.

“Damon,” she whispered.

Instantly, he was out of the armchair and next to the bed. “I’m here. Do you need something?”

“No. I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t alone. I thought I was, but I wasn’t. He was there, helping me. And He will always be.”

Damon’s lips gently caressed a spot under her left eye that was untouched from the attack. Then he laid his cheek even more gently against hers. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, now I love you even more than that.”

“You were right,” she whispered. “I am stronger than I thought.”

“Does that mean you’ll still marry me?”

She put a hand on his cheek. “Yes, I will.”