Shirlee McCoy - Navy SEAL Rescuer

Catherine hefted the garage door, but he pulled her back before she could walk into the dank interior.

“Let me check things out, first.”

He expected her to argue, maybe tell him to go home, but she stepped aside, staring out over the golden-brown fields, silent, stiff and expressionless.

He had the impression of careful control and deep emotion.

That made him want to poke a little, see what kind of reaction he could get.

Surprising, because he didn’t believe in poking or prodding or searching for something deeper. He’d tried it before, found what he’d wanted to find instead of what was there. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, but he would check the garage and make sure danger wasn’t waiting in the dark corners and deep shadows.

He turned away from Catherine and walked into the musty garage.

TWO

Please, go.

That’s what Catherine needed to say to Darius.

Two words that she’d said to all the news reporters, old friends and strangers who’d come around trying to get the scoop on the Dark Angel of Good Samaritan over the past two months.

She couldn’t manage to get the words out, and she stood silently as Darius preceded her into the garage.

No one was there.

She was as sure of that as she was that the sun would shine in the morning, but she let him look, because she didn’t want to be alone. Not yet.

Her neck burned and throbbed, but she didn’t touch the bruised skin, tried not to remember the feeling of fingers on flesh or think about what might have happened if Darius hadn’t called out. Another minute, and she would have been out of breath. All the fighting skills she’d learned in prison had been useless against someone double her size and strength.

Would she have died on the dusty old road?

She shuddered, taking a step into the dim garage. It smelled of gasoline and oil, mildew and wet wood. She’d have to tear the place down eventually, but she had too many projects on her hands already, and not enough time to get to them.

“It’s clear. Come on in,” Darius called out, and she hurried to the 1965 Buick, grabbing her purse from under the front seat. She took out her cell phone, shoving it into her pocket. Leaving it in the car had been a mistake that she wouldn’t repeat. From now on, she’d carry it everywhere.

Just in case.

She gave in to temptation, touching the swollen place on her jaw, the hot flesh of her neck. Raw and dry, her throat tightened, her breath catching.

Stop!

The last thing she needed or wanted was a panic attack.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” Darius asked, his light green eyes glowing in a deeply tanned face. Dark hair fell across his forehead, silky and blue-black, but it didn’t make him look boyish or approachable. He looked hard and tough and capable, the gun she’d watched him take from his closet held loose in a broad hand.

Was he a cop? FBI? He had the look. All hard lean muscle and lithe movements.

“Catherine? Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” he asked again, his hand brushing her shoulder, his touch so light she barely felt it.

“No. I’m fine. Thanks for all your help. You can leave.” There. She’d said it. Easy as pie.

“I’ll wait until you get this beast out of the garage. Think it’ll start?” He patted the hood of her grandmother’s rusty old car.

“It should.” But just like everything else around the farm, the car had seen better days. She got in the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and heard nothing but a quiet click. She tried again and again with the same results.

Just once.

Just once, she wanted things to go her way.

She turned the key one more time, wrenching it hard.

“Sounds like you need a new battery or a new starter. Breaking the key in the ignition won’t change either of those things.” Darius reached in and pulled the key from the ignition.

“It started fine this morning,” she muttered, grabbing her purse and getting out of the car. Time was ticking, and Eileen was waiting. She couldn’t spend any more time fighting with the car.

“She’s an old car. She needs a little TLC.”

“Everything around this place does,” she responded, following him back out into the bright sunlight.

“My place is the same way, but I do have a truck that’s reliable. Come on. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.” He led the way back across the yard, a hitch to his stride that she hadn’t noticed before. Slight, but definitely there. Had he been hurt while he hunted the guy who’d attacked her?

She wanted to ask, but the words caught in her throat as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

It had been a long time since she’d made small talk.

She wasn’t sure if she still knew how to do it.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his eyes such a pure light green, she wondered if he wore contacts.

“You hurt your leg,” she said, finally managing to loosen her tongue and get the words out.

“Not recently.”

“You’re limping.”

“That happens when the lower part of a person’s leg is amputated.” He responded so casually, she almost missed what he was saying.

“You’re an amputee?”

“My leg was blown off by a booby-trapped weapon cache. That’s why I’m stateside instead of with my buddies in Afghanistan.” Darius offered the information, knowing it would distract Catherine, ease some of the tension from her face and shoulders.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m alive. Some of my buddies weren’t so fortunate.”

“Then, I guess I’m even more sorry,” she responded, surprising him. Most people who heard the story missed the part where he mentioned the bigger loss he’d suffered. Not his leg. His comrades. He’d give the other leg and both his arms to have any of them back.

“It was rough.”

“What happ—?”

“How about we save the question-and-answer session for another day?” He cut her off. Sharing some information to take her mind off what had happened was one thing. Talking in depth about his loss, that was something else.

“I thought you were heading to the hospital,” Logan called from the porch, and Catherine stiffened, her tension flooding back.

“The Buick wouldn’t start.”

“Not surprising. You need to trade that rust bucket in for something reliable.”

“The car is fine, Logan.” She sounded weary, and Darius had the urge to slide an arm around her waist, let her lean on him. He doubted she ever leaned on anyone, though, and he kept his distance, watching as she brushed dirt from her faded jeans and avoided Logan’s eyes.

“I noticed you had some vandalism on the porch. When did it happen?”

“Sometime after I left to bring Eileen to the hospital. The siding was vandalized, too, but I was able to cover that before...” She didn’t finish, and Darius imagined her out on the porch, covering paint with paint while danger stalked her.

“You didn’t report it,” Logan said, and Catherine shrugged.

“I reported the broken windows three weeks ago. I reported the slashed tire before that. I reported crank calls and people driving by the house at all hours of the night. It didn’t do me any good. I figured calling the sheriff about this was going to be just as useless.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way, Catherine. We’ve been working hard to identify the perpetrators of those crimes. It just takes time,” Logan responded with more gentleness than Darius had ever seen in him. Did he feel guilty for his part in Catherine’s conviction and incarceration? No doubt, he’d been with the sheriff’s department when she’d been accused of murdering eleven patients at the convalescent center where she’d worked.