Page 50 of Valor (Long Hot Summer: Christian Romantic Suspense #2)

LANI

I slam my fist into the heavy bag, and it creaks as it swings on its chain. I know nothing about boxing, but it feels way too good to hit something.

Since my brothers built this gym on our family ranch, it’s one of the few places I get to go without an escort. Of course, our security cameras are being monitored remotely by a team in Maine, and they won’t hesitate to call if anyone shows up who’s not supposed to be here.

I tried too hard to sleep last night, but ended up staring up at the ceiling until five thirty this morning when I heard my mom downstairs. After a cup of coffee and some light conversation, I knew I needed an outlet.

Something to make me feel stronger.

My brothers taught me everything I know about self-defense, though, admittedly, I didn’t pay nearly the attention I should have. And it almost cost me my life.

A quick tone sounds through the gym, so I cross over to lift my phone, only to be disappointed yet again when it’s just a message from Dr. Pierce and not Gibson. I haven’t talked to him since last night when he dropped me off here.

Dr. Pierce: I hope you’re feeling better. We miss you around here!

Me: Thanks. Miss all of you too. How’s the new doc working out?

I’d had the chance to meet Doctor Eric Street the day I came home from the hospital. It was in passing, and very brief, but he’d seemed kind. I remember being impressed with his résumé and references that included a residency at Boston Memorial.

Dr. Pierce: He’s fitting in great. I bet you’re happy to get back to your clinic when you’re on your feet again. No rush though! We’re taking good care of your patients as necessary.

Tears blur my vision, and I toss my phone down. I want to get back to work. To normalcy. But every time I take a step closer to that door, I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Tired eyes.

Fading bruises.

Hair chopped at my shoulders.

And I’m reminded that my abductor is still out there somewhere. Waiting for me to slip up so they can get another chance at me.

Never again.

I cross over toward the bag again. Keeping my face shielded the way Dylan taught me, I swing out and connect with the bag again.

Then again.

I keep hitting it, letting every ounce of my frustration loose.

“What did that bag ever do to you?”

Gibson. His voice washes over me, a welcome distraction from beating an inanimate object senseless. “Hey,” I say as I turn toward him. He’s dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt with a flag on the front. His firearm is holstered at his hip, and a baseball cap is pulled low over his eyes.

His expression is anything but soft, his shoulders stiff. What’s wrong?

“Your mom said you were out here,” he says.

“I needed to burn off some steam.” I take a drink of my water. “What are you doing out here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Gibson, what is it?”

“Carla Yates was found dead this morning.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face. Every inch of my body goes cold, and I have to grip the bag to remain standing. Carla Yates. The nurse who took me under her wing when I first graduated from med school.

A woman who was there for me when I had a stomach bug and my dad rushed me to the ER.

Dead?

How can she be dead?

“I need you to breathe,” Gibson says.

I glance over. When did he get so close? His hand rubs small circles on my back. “She’s dead?”

He nods. “I’m so sorry, Lani. She was murdered.”

“I— This doesn’t make any sense! Who would hurt her?” His expression darkens, and realization sets in. “Oh no. It’s the same person who took me, wasn’t it? Was she taken too? I didn’t even know she was missing!”

“She wasn’t. She left on her lunch break, and that’s when she was killed. Or so we think. Timeline-wise, that’s what we’re leaning toward. According to her husband, she was going to come see me today and report?—”

“Taylor,” I choke out, my heart breaking when I think of Carla’s bubbly husband. He’s one of the happiest people I’ve ever met and now—“This cannot be happening.” I cover my face with my still-wrapped hands.

“His brother is with him now,” I tell her.

“You said she was going to report something. What?”

“She saw someone taking supplies off the loading dock a week before you were taken. Since that’s how you guys transport your damaged equipment, she didn’t think anything of it.”

“Until I was taken.”

He nods. “She saw something, and I intend to find out what it was so we can catch this guy.” Gibson cups my cheeks with his hands and gently brushes the tears away from my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Lani.”

“I can’t believe she’s gone. I need to call Taylor. I need to tell my mom. She and Carla were friends. They went to high school together.”

“I know.” He releases me and steps back.

“Have you told anyone at the hospital?”

“No, not yet. I’m headed there now, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

I nod, throat burning from the tears I’m trying so hard not to cry. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Are you okay?”

“No.” I shake my head. “But I will be once this monster is behind bars.”

“That or in the ground,” Gibson growls. “I’d be fine either way.”

* * *

The whirring of my mom’s stand mixer turns off. She’s had the thing for as long as I can remember, and hearing it always meant one of two things.

She was happily making delicious baked goods.

Or she’s trying to bake her pain away.

Unfortunately, it’s the latter right now. Eyes red-rimmed, she removes the mixing bowl and adds two cups of chocolate chips. I remain where I am at the sink, grateful that she let me at least help with dishes.

Dad went over to Taylor’s house to be with him and see what he could do to help. Pastor Ford joined them, and while I know it won’t take the pain away, my hope is that it will help him not feel so alone.

Gibson hasn’t been here since he gave me the news, and I know he’s out hard at work trying to track down whoever killed Carla.

“You doing okay, Mom?” I ask as I place a now-clean measuring scoop into the dish-drying rack. After drying my hands, I cross the kitchen to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

“It hurts,” she says. “Carla and I have been friends forever.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, Mom.”

She turns toward me and smiles through the tears. “I feel guilty, too. Because even as distraught as I am over Carla’s death, I’m so thankful it wasn’t you.” Her eyes fill again, so I pull her closer and wrap my arms around her.

“Mom, it’s okay.”

“It’s not. Taylor lost his wife. Their children lost their mother. Grown or not, that leaves a mark.”

I can’t even find the words to tell her that I’m dealing with the guilt of knowing it should have been me.

She pulls back, and I use my thumbs to brush the tears away from her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”

She sniffles and pats the container she just got done filling with fresh cookies. “It’s silly to take these cookies to him, I know that. But I’m going to anyway. She loved my chocolate chip.” Her eyes fill again, and my heart breaks.

“He’s going to love the memory of it,” I tell her.

After slipping into a light sweater, she takes the container. But before she leaves, she turns toward me. “Are you okay? I can take these over later.”

“I’m fine, Mom. I promise. I’m going to go lie on the couch and watch some mindless television for a while.”

“Okay.” She smiles softly. “Call if you need me.”

“I will. Love you.”

“I love you too, honey. So very much.” She gives me one last hug before heading out. Every part of me aches right now. My head from crying, my heart from breaking—will this ever end?

I pull out my phone and open the text conversation between me and Gibson. With so much going on, we haven’t even had the chance to discuss what started between us. And even thinking that brings a fresh wave of guilt.

I’m over here reminiscing over a date I had a few weeks ago while Taylor Yates is grieving the loss of his wife.

Me: I hope you’re doing okay.

After hitting send, I toss my phone onto the couch then plop down beside it and run both hands over my eyes. If I could just remember something. Anything that would help Gibson piece something together.

My phone buzzes, but a knock at the door has me setting the phone aside before reading and pushing to my feet. I’ve no sooner pulled open the door than I realize my instant mistake. I didn’t check to see who it was first.

“Help!” I scream as loud as I can.

I try to slam the door, but a military-style boot blocks me. Turning, I race toward the kitchen. A knife. I need a knife. I sprint, moving as fast as I can. But a body slams into me from behind, and I hit the floor with such force it knocks the wind from my lungs.

Not. Again.

I throw my elbow back, and my attacker grunts. Thrashing against the hold, I manage to get my legs free, but not before pain shoots up from my thigh.

I don’t stop fighting though. I can’t stop fighting.

This is my parents’ home. My home. A place I know better than anywhere else.

But before I can get my leg completely free, it begins to go numb. “Help!” I scream again. “Help!”

My entire body goes limp within seconds.

A gloved hand grips my shoulder, and I’m rolled over. “You’ve been a bad girl,” the distorted voice says as the masked attacker drags me back toward the door. Hands grip the front of my shirt as my abductor crouches and pulls me forward, tossing me over their shoulders.

“We’re going to do this the right way this time,” the abductor says as they make their way down the porch steps and toward the open trunk of a car. My gaze lands on a security camera outside the house.

Tucker. Isn’t he on monitor duty? Won’t he be here?—

Tires crunch in the gravel.

Yes!

A truck slides to a stop. “Let her go now!”

Dad.

Without hesitation, my abductor raises their arm and fires two shots.

Bang. Bang.

Tears burn in my eyes, and grief sears my throat as the attacker turns, giving me the full view of my dad stumbling back against his truck, blood staining the front of his shirt. He pushes off of it and tries to get into the driver’s seat, likely to retrieve the rifle he keeps there.

I want to scream.

To fight.

To beg him to stay down so he stands a chance at surviving.

But I’m helpless to do any of it as I’m tossed into the trunk. It’s slammed closed, and within seconds, I’m rolled as the car speeds forward, leaving the strongest man I’ve ever known bleeding to death in the dirt.

Silent tears stream down my face. God, please don’t let him die. Please don’t let him die for me.