Hour of the Lion, Cherise Sinclair [good story books to read TXT] 📗

She gripped the wheel tighter and concentrated on driving. Already the sun was setting, sending its fading rays across the valley and turning the snow-capped mountains a bloody red.

The traffic had dissipated after leaving Seattle. Not much going on in Cold Creek, according to the realtor. The town ordinances kept it from growing or even having a McDonald‘s. The realtor had sounded positively disgruntled.

Vic‘s smile grew as she drove through the downtown, maybe four blocks long with nary a stoplight in sight. Apparently, the residents had spent their money on the trees and plants in the center island and on antique street lights. People were strolling into the stores, sitting on wrought-iron benches in the shade.

'Toto, I think we‘re back in Kansas,' Vic murmured, unsure if she was pleased or appalled.

The peacefulness increased when she turned onto a small street with arching maple and spruce trees, brightly colored flower gardens, white picket fences, and wide front porches.

It was all very civilized until she looked upward to the dense green of an untamed forest.

One mountain, then more and more, piling up on each other like blocks scattered by a child.

Made sense that werethingies would hang out close to big forests and mountains, right? The thought sent icy fingers up her spine.

She pulled her gaze away and concentrated on following the realtor‘s directions. A block from Main Street, the sidewalks disappeared. There— House for Rent, Cold Creek Realty, See Amanda Golden. The sign was stuck next to a distinctive mailbox in the shape of an outhouse.

Outhouse...she could definitely use one of those. That swing through Starbucks had been a poor tactical decision.

The rental was a small brown house with white trim and a wide porch. Unlike the other houses on the street, this place boasted no flowers. Instead, short bushes marked the property lines, and a widely branching oak tree dominated the small, well-trimmed lawn. Looked peaceful enough.

A hotel would have been easier, but who knew how long this might take. She should have asked the kid his last name.

And she‘d have to be really discreet. Did the bad guys know Lachlan came from Cold Creek? Would the cops be alerted to watch for her? She wouldn‘t survive long if they found her.

The suit had shown no remorse over what he‘d done to the kid, and Swane had reveled in it.

She turned off the ancient Jeep—the only decent car in the cheapo car lot—and the engine died with an ominous sputter. A short, limping walk to the house left Vic out of breath, her legs quivering…and fear creeping into her gut. She‘d lost too much blood, taken too much damage.

Look at the way her hands were shaking. She couldn‘t defend herself against a five-year-old child, let alone someone like Swane.

Come to think of it, she wouldn‘t know who to defend against. She closed her eyes and shook her aching head. Coming here without knowing the score was like walking blindfolded into a fire zone. Even so, she wasn‘t going to leave. Lachlan had trusted her to tell his grandfather what happened.

God, she‘d rather face a Bradley tank with a twenty-two pistol than notify someone their kid was dead. Would the old man break down and yell at her like O‘Flannagan‘s parents had? Or be like Shanna‘s. Her best friend‘s mother had deflated as if her soul had shriveled away with Vic‘s words.

Why did people have to die?

At the memory of Lachlan and his courage, his humor, she had to brush the mist from her eyes. Dammit, stop. She could almost hear the drill sergeant‘s cutting voice, “You gonna break down and bawl, Morgan? Pick up your weapon and act like a marine!” She sucked in a breath, and straightened her shoulders.

On the white-railed porch, she glanced longingly at the cushioned wicker chair before rapping on the door. No response. She frowned at her watch. Five-thirty. Right on time. The blasted realtor better hurry, cuz, God, she really, really had to pee. Scowling, she looked around for a secluded nook that would serve for a latrine. Nothing.

Trying not to cross her legs, she studied the house. A screenless front window near the end of the porch was half-open—just calling to her. Really.

She shoved the window open all the way, wishing it was either set lower in the wall or her legs were longer. Dammit, haven"t I done enough calisthenics in the past twenty-four hours?

Grabbing the window frame with one hand, she jumped up far enough to swing a foot over and grimaced when the movement painfully jostled every fucking owie she had. She tried to pull the other leg over and—dammit—her jeans caught on something sharp. A nail. Stuck. Fucking-A.

She tugged, feeling the nail dig into her inner thigh.

Why does this stuff only happen when I need to pee?

Ignoring the wood pixie chittering angrily in the oak tree, Sheriff Alec McGregor silently stepped onto the porch, coming up behind the burglar. He tried not to laugh as the criminal squirmed like a paw-pinned mouse.

It‘d been a boring week so far. The last excitement was a good four days ago when old Peterson, having indulged in rotgut tequila, tried to demonstrate how to tap-dance on top of Calum‘s bar...which he did about once a month.

At least a pinioned burglar had the dubious distinction of being unique.

He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble. He‘d noticed—being as how he was a guy—

what was wiggling was a very fine, nicely rounded ass in tight jeans.

And being a guy, he felt the need to see the front of this dangerous perp who had one leg inside the window and the other outside. He moved silently across the porch and checked out the criminal‘s front side to see what else the evening might hold.

Evening is going well. Hair, the rich color of dark walnut, rippled across her shoulders, and her purple T-shirt was tight enough to reveal amazingly lush breasts for such a compact body.

Since she was