Maggie Price - The Ransom

“Forbes can help get Matthew back safe,” he repeated. “You can trust me on this.” And she could. After all, he had always been honest with her. Brutally so.

“It’d probably be best if you talk to Matthew’s father first,” Clay added. “Better if you both decide what to do about Forbes.” And if the unthinkable happened, she wouldn’t have to live with the hellish guilt that the sole responsibility for her child’s death lay with her.

She shook her head. “I tried to call Devin. He’s in Tibet, shooting a movie. I couldn’t get a good connection. It might take hours to get through to him.” She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “I can’t just wait and do nothing. If the man you know, this…”

“Forbes. Quentin Forbes.”

“Forbes.” Dropping her hand, she looked up at Clay, her eyes dark pools of anguish. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is Matthew. Clay, they might kill my baby.”

“No.” Because he could no longer stop himself, he reached out, played a hand down her arm. It had to be ninety degrees, yet her flesh was ice-cold. “They don’t want to hurt him. They only want you to believe they will. The kidnappers want money,” he continued. “Keeping Matthew unharmed is their only guarantee of getting it. Hang on to that, Kat.”

Nodding, she looked away. Clay watched as she raked her fingers through her hair, leaving it a dark, rumpled frame around her ashen face. He remembered, perfectly remembered, the silky softness of that hair against his hands.

Again, he felt the hard knot of regret for how callously he had treated her. For all that he’d given up. Thrown away. Lost.

When Kathryn remet his gaze her eyes were expressionless, her face as calm as carved stone. “Call him, Clay. Call your Mr. Forbes.”

“All right.” Clay’s chest tightened. He would do everything he could to save Kat’s son. Just as he’d done all he could to try to save his parents.

Beneath his hand, he felt Kathryn shudder. Until Forbes arrived, Clay knew he was the only man who could help her.

And the last man who should.

AFTER LEAVING a message for the negotiator, Clay swung up into the saddle on Kathryn’s mare, then held out a hand to her. When he saw her hesitate, he felt a quick, nasty slice to his heart that he struggled to ignore.

Hard to do when on its heels came a flash of memory: Kat at eighteen, slim and leggy, with black hair to her waist, a young woman not entirely aware of her effect on him. Granted, her schoolgirl crush had her chasing after him for years, but one look at her that summer and he’d let himself be caught…not captured. Still sowing his wild oats, he’d refused to admit there was more to the relationship than the lustful, sweaty need of a man for a woman. Yet, when he reported back to work in Houston, Kat had stayed on his mind. And still he denied his feelings, telling himself he had time to get a handle on things.

Time ran out when she phoned and told him she was pregnant. He’d headed for Layton, his emotions warring. Age-old emotions of the rounder he’d been with those of the man whose heart was trying to lead him for the first time.

But when he arrived in Layton, Kathryn had miscarried. And the pale young woman lying in the hospital bed no longer gazed at him with love shining in her eyes, but with hurt and indifference.

So he kept his uncertain feelings to himself, took her to the friend’s house where she wanted to stay, then left when she told him to go.

And tried to put her out of his mind. Which was something he’d done pretty well, until his parents died and all the guilt and regret flooded over him.

Clay’s thoughts jerked from the past when Kathryn slid her hand into his.

With ease that came from a lifetime of climbing onto a horse, she fit her left foot into the stirrup and settled in front of him in one smooth move. The scent of her hair filled his head. When her backside nestled into his thighs, he felt his insides jolt, like a boulder teetering off a cliff.

Ah, hell. The last thing he needed was a reminder of the heat that had always arrowed straight to his loins whenever they touched.

Thinking of Matthew in a kidnapper’s clutches, Clay set his jaw, reined the mare around and moved off.

After reaching Cross C property, they left the mare to graze and approached the house from the rear where a flagstone terrace spilled out of tall French doors. Yellow mums sat amid the wrought-iron furniture; the clear water in the swimming pool glittered like diamonds beneath the bright sun.

“Did you notice if any doors were unlocked this morning?” Clay asked while studying the house. “Any windows open?”

“I didn’t check the doors.” Kathryn dragged her fingers across her damp forehead. “If a window had been open, I probably would have noticed, but I’m not sure.”

“What about Willa? Did she hear anything last night or early this morning?”

“She’s not home. Willa spends every Wednesday night at her daughter’s house in Dallas.”

“Every Wednesday?”

“Yes. She’s done that for as long as I can remember.”

“Is there any other live-in help?”

“No. Pilar Graciano comes in daily and helps Willa.” Kathryn met his gaze. “You might remember her or her husband, Nilo. Matthew went with Nilo and his son, Antonio, to string fence.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips. “Yesterday. It was just yesterday morning.”

When her world was still on an even keel, Clay thought. “Did Pilar come to work this morning?”

“No. She had to take Antonio to the dentist.”

Interesting, Clay thought, that the kidnapper struck the one night of the week Willa was gone. He wondered if the kidnapper knew the maid wouldn’t show this morning. Forbes would want to give everyone privy to that kind of info a hard look.

Thinking of the negotiator reminded Clay how out of his league he was. But until Forbes returned his call, he could at least look around and at the same time keep Kathryn busy. Giving her as little time as possible to think about the uncertain fate of her child was the best thing he could do for her.

“Kat, I need you to walk me through everything you did this morning, starting from when you woke up. Retrace your steps.”

“I looked for Matthew everywhere. Even the outlaw tunnel.” She closed her eyes. “I didn’t find anything.”

Clay gripped her elbow, turned her to face him. She looked afraid. Vulnerable. “You were searching for Matthew. We need to see if we can find a trace of himself the kidnapper might have left. Something that may lead us to him. To Matthew.”

“All right.” Her lips trembled. “He needs his medicine. We have to find him, Clay. We have to.”

“We will,” he said. And hoped to hell that when they did, Matthew was still alive.

BY THE TIME Kathryn finished walking Clay through the house, it was late afternoon. Now, she stood in Matthew’s bedroom, her arms wrapped around her waist while she stared out the window at the distant stables and barn. Beyond them sat two houses. Nilo and Pilar Graciano and their son resided in the larger of the two. Johnny Sullivan lived next door to them.

Behind the houses land stretched toward the horizon. Matthew was out there. Somewhere. Scared. Wanting her. Needing her. Crying for her.

She closed her eyes. The helplessness—the awful knowing she could do nothing to lessen her child’s terror—wrapped around her like a suffocating strait-jacket. She felt ill from the fear burning inside her. A horrible, all-consuming fear that she was destined to stand at this window for the rest of her life, wondering what had happened to her child.

“So, after you talked to Reece Silver and Johnny, you changed clothes,” Clay said. “Then rode over to find me.”