Carrie Weaver - Secrets In Texas

Normally Angel would have answered with a well-rehearsed spiel. But she knew it wouldn’t fly with Matthew. He was too perceptive. “A cop helped me once when I was in trouble. I guess I admired her and I wanted to help other women like me.”

“What kind of woman would that be?”

Angel refused to allow anyone but her very close friends and her superiors to know she’d ever been that vulnerable. A victim.

“You know all you need to know about me, Matt.” She stood and headed for the bathroom. Stopping in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “Except that you really don’t want to get in my way.”

“What about the game?”

Angel wasn’t sure if he referred to the Scrabble game she’d abandoned or the dangerous personal game developing between them.

Dear Reader,

If you enjoyed my first romantic suspense, The Secret Wife, I suspect you’ll become immersed in Secrets in Texas. As the titles suggest, both books involve (family) secrets. They also contain twists and turns and complex emotional entanglements.

The idea for Secrets in Texas was born of news articles I read about the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—polygamous sects prevalent near the Arizona/Utah border, among other places.

I contemplated how hard it must be for men and women raised in this culture to adjust to living in the outside world. So I gave my hero, Matthew Stone, just such a challenge. I tested him to the limit and sent him back to the polygamist group, this time with a faux wife who is anything but submissive. Problem is, there are secrets in Angel Harrison’s past that have her wondering if she might be more vulnerable than she thinks.

While I did research fundamentalist sects, I didn’t try to factually recreate their lifestyle in my book. Instead, I created my own sect, Zion’s Gate.

Please join Angel and Matthew on their journey of discovery at Zion’s Gate.

Yours in reading,

Carrie Weaver

P.S. Carrie enjoys hearing from readers by e-mail at www.CarrieWeaver.com or snail mail at P.O. Box 6045, Chandler, AZ 85246-6045.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With two teenage sons, two dogs and three cats, Carrie Weaver often feels she lives in a state called Chaos (not to be confused with Dysfunction Junction, a place she’s visited only once or twice). Her books reflect real life and real love, with all the ups, downs and emotion involved.

This book is dedicated to my editor, Laura Shin.

Thank you for having confidence in me even

when I sometimes don’t.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

ANGEL OPENED HER eyes, trying to focus. What started as a fuzzy recollection of violence morphed into full-blown terror.

She stifled a whimper as she rolled onto her stomach.

Must be quiet. She knew her survival depended upon it.

Drawing her knees beneath her, she bit her lip as her legs slid in opposite directions. It was like a grotesque combination of Twister and Slip ’N Slide. Only the splotches were red instead of an assortment of colors, and the liquid was too slimy for water.

It was blood. Hers? His?

Her knees stabilized, gaining traction. Slowly, deliberately, she placed a palm on the once-pristine tile floor. Then she put her other hand next to it.

Sweat rolled down her face. This should have been so simple.

But nothing had been simple for a long time.

She bit back a hysterical chuckle.

Must be quiet.

By slowly tilting her head, she was able to survey much of the kitchen peripherally without expending precious energy.

Kent wasn’t in the room.

She had already registered that fact on a subconscious level, but caution had served her well in the past. Otherwise she’d be dead.

Inching forward, she focused solely on the cordless phone that had skittered beneath the table. Frowning, she tried to remember holding it, making a call.

But it was like a recurring nightmare. The phone was just out of her reach. And so was the memory.

Angel smiled grimly.

The phone might be out of reach, but the butcher knife wasn’t. It was a foot or two away, probably dropped in haste.

She forced back the hot saliva pooling on her tongue as she moved forward and grasped the handle. It was slick with blood from hilt to tip. The blade was coated with the stuff. And she was pretty sure it was her own.

Bones crunched. Pain radiated up her arm. The knife dropped from her numb fingers.

It took precious seconds for reality to register. A size-twelve work boot pinned her wrist to the floor. Jeans brushed the tips of the brown boots, jeans she’d laundered so carefully earlier that morning.

Angel’s scalp burned as her head was jerked backward. Her long, dark hair had once been her pride and joy. Now it was simply a handy leash, snarled in Kent’s fist, as he forced her to look evil in the face.

She struggled to get away, an effort so ineffectual it made him smile. A cold, triumphant smile that told her she would die today.

The sound of splintering wood barely penetrated, as did the shout to freeze.

That confused Angel. It was a bright, beautiful Sunday afternoon. No frost or snow on the ground.

But something about that weather report seemed to enrage Kent even more. Or maybe it was the jumble of DPS officers arriving uninvited into his home.

He glanced at the cordless phone lying a few feet away. Fury burned in his eyes.

“Bitch.” He swung her just far enough away so he could reach the knife and still keep her within his grasp.

She saw the knife arc into the air, then sweep toward her.

Waited for the fatal thrust that never came.

Flinched as shots echoed in her sunny kitchen.

Stumbled to the floor, still tethered to Kent. Saw him writhe once, twitch, and then lay still.

Sighed when her hair was cut from Kent’s grip. And focused on the hank clutched in her husband’s fist.

Even in death, Kent had refused to let her go.

Nine years later

Brownsville, Texas

ANGEL HARRISON squared her shoulders and entered the conference room. One look at her new assignment and she wanted to puke—the man and all he represented sickened her. But he was one of the good guys now, she reminded herself.

Or so she was told.

Realizing her supervisor waited for her to make nice, she forced herself to step forward and shake the visitor’s hand. She also forced herself not to break all twenty-seven bones in his pale hand. Just apply enough pressure so he knew she meant business. “I’m Agent Harrison.”

To his credit, he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t try to one-up her by resorting to force. He just held her gaze, his green eyes serious as he acknowledged her greeting. “Ma’am. I’m Matthew Stone.”

“So when are we getting married?”

He shrugged, not a golden hair out of place on his conservative head. Nodding toward the suit and the ranger entering the conference room, he said, “Whenever they decide.”