Carla Cassidy - Snowbound with the Bodyguard & The Cowboy's Secret Twins - Snowbound with the Bodyguard / The Cowboy's Secret Twins

Janette sat at the table, her face devoid of all color. As she stared at him a deep, wrenching sob ripped from the back of her throat. “He killed Nana. First he raped me, and now he’s killed Nana,” she cried.

She jumped up from the chair. “I’m—I’m going to be sick.” She ran for the bathroom as Sammy began to cry.

Janette stood in the bathroom fighting not only an all-encompassing grief, but wave after wave of nausea, as well. Just hearing his deep voice had made her ill. Knowing he’d been on the other side of the door had sickened her.

He’d found her.

He’d said he found a notepad with Dalton’s name and number next to Nana’s bed. There was no way Nana would have willingly given him that information. Oh God, she must have died trying to protect Janette and Sammy.

Blinded by her tears, she leaned weakly against the wall and wondered if it were possible to die of grief. She felt as if she were dying. Her heart felt as if it might explode at any moment.

Nana was dead.

Nana was dead.

Never again would Janette feel Nana’s arms around her, never again would she see the old woman’s eyes shining with love, her wrinkled face wreathed with laughter.

And Janette was wanted for her murder. That’s how he would get Sammy. He’d see her tried for a murder she hadn’t committed. She’d spend the rest of her life in prison, and Brandon Sinclair would have her precious boy. And her nana, the woman who had meant the world to her, was dead.

“Janette?” Dalton knocked on the door.

She sucked in air, trying to staunch the deep sobs that ripped through her. She didn’t want to face him, was afraid that he might believe all the horrible things that Sinclair had said. And if he did believe Sinclair, there was nothing to stop him from contacting the lawman and letting him know she was here.

“Janette, come on out. We need to talk.” His voice held a quiet command.

She grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped at her eyes, at her nose, then tossed the tissues into the trash. But she was reluctant to open the door, afraid to face him. What if she told him the truth and he didn’t believe her? She didn’t think she could handle it.

“Janette, you can’t stay in there all night.”

He was right. She couldn’t stay in the bathroom. She opened the door. He no longer held Sammy, but as she stepped out of the bathroom Dalton opened his arms to her. She walked into them as tears of rich, raw grief began to flow again.

His strong arms surrounded her, and they felt like shelter from a world that had been terrifying for a very long time. She cried into the front of his shirt, wondering how she was going to survive without Nana’s loving support.

After several minutes, Dalton released her and led her to the sofa. Sammy was once again on his blanket on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as if fascinated by the patterns the late-afternoon sunshine made as it drifted through the window.

Dalton sat next to her, his features inscrutable. “The truth, Janette. I need to know the whole truth,” he said softly. “You said he raped you. Were you talking about your old boyfriend?”

She had two choices. Continue with the lies she’d told him, or tell the truth about everything. Her heart banged against her ribs. “No.” The word whispered out of her on a wave of despair. She knew it was time to tell the truth. She had nothing to lose now and she wanted—needed—Dalton to know.

She grabbed a strand of her hair and twisted it around her finger. “There is no ex-boyfriend. The man who raped me, the man who killed my grandmother, is Sheriff Brandon Sinclair.”

Dalton’s eyes narrowed and he drew in a quick breath of surprise. “I think maybe you need to start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

She leaned back against the plump sofa cushion and closed her eyes, fighting the overwhelming grief that still reached out to smother her in its clutches. She opened her eyes and gazed down at Sammy, who in the midst of her heartbreak had fallen asleep.

Looking at Dalton, she fought against the tears and drew a deep, steadying breath. The beginning. “It happened one night when I was driving home from the classes I was taking to study for my GED. They took place at a community college about twenty-five miles from where I lived in Sandstone.”

She rose from the sofa, unable to sit as she fought against the panic that remembering that night always brought. It was a panic that constricted her lungs, closed up the back of her throat and quickened her heartbeat. It was the fear of having to remember and the additional stress of wondering if Dalton would believe her.

“Janette.” He reached out and took her hand. Holding it firmly he drew her back on the sofa next to him. “It’s okay, you’re safe for now.” He didn’t let go of her hand. It was as if he knew she needed support, something to cling to as she went back to that horrible night.

She nodded and swallowed hard. “The highway between the community college and Sandstone is pretty deserted after dark. I was about halfway between the college and home when I saw the lights of a patrol car in my rearview mirror. I knew I was speeding so I pulled over to the side of the road, figuring I was about to get a ticket.”

She paused and drew another deep breath, trying to still the frantic beat of her heart. Dalton squeezed her hand, as if to give her strength and she desperately needed it. She needed all the strength he could give her to get through the rest of it.

“I thought something was odd when he told me to turn off my headlights and get out of the car. He told me I had been speeding and asked if I was doing drugs. I’ve never touched drugs in my life,” she stated emphatically.

Dalton nodded, his expression giving nothing away of his inner thoughts. “Had you had run-ins with him before that night?”

“Never,” she replied. “I’d seen him around town, on the streets, but he’d never spoken to me before, never even noticed me that I knew of.”

“What happened next?” he asked.

A trembling began deep inside her. It was as if all the warmth of the room had been sucked out and an arctic chill had taken over the world. Tears blurred her vision once again and she blinked them away, angry that after all this time the memory of what happened still had the power to make her cry.

“He told me he needed to frisk me and he warned me that he’d hate to have to shoot me for resisting.” She looked down at Dalton’s hand around hers, unable to look him in the eyes.

“He raped me there on the side of the road.” The words didn’t begin to describe the horror, the violation of that night.

Her nose filled with the sweaty, ugly scent of Sinclair. Her skin wanted to crawl off her body as she thought of the way he’d touched her, the sounds he’d made as he pushed himself against her. “I won’t bore you with all the ugly details.”

She pulled her hand from Dalton’s, afraid he could feel the ugliness inside her. She couldn’t look at him, was afraid to see disbelief in his eyes. She’d fall completely to pieces if she saw doubt or condemnation there.

“What happened after?” His voice was soft, as if he understood the emotions blackening her soul. Thank God he didn’t press her for any of the details of the rape itself, for she’d shoved those particular memories deep inside her in a place where she wouldn’t easily retrieve them.

She looked up into those warm green eyes of his. “Nothing,” she said simply. She forced a smile of dark humor. “I guess I should be grateful that at least I didn’t get a speeding ticket.” The smile faltered and fell away as tears once again burned at her eyes.