Trusting His Instincts, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Patricia D. Eddy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Deranged Doctor Design
Cover Photo: CJC Photography
Proofreading: Book Dweller Proofreading
Contents
Just for you
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
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Patricia D. Eddy
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Prologue
Twenty Years Ago
Nash
Something thuds in the hall. Rolling my eyes, I throw back the blankets. My little sister can’t go more than a few hours without a nightmare. Not since our parents moved us to this old house in the middle of Minnesota, told us we couldn’t be Nathan and Mae anymore, and started calling us Ned and Melissa.
Mae swears the house is haunted. I wish she’d grow up. You don’t believe in ghosts when you’re fourteen. But she’s only eight, and Mom told me I wasn’t allowed to make fun of her anymore. Not about this.
I grab the flashlight from my nightstand. She’ll want me to check under her bed and in the closet before she’ll go back to sleep.
My foot lands on something soft, and the door opens. I skid as two quiet pops break the silence. Something hits my head. Pain—worse than anything I’ve ever felt—overwhelms me. I can’t see. Or move. Heavy footsteps come closer. I should care. Find Mae. Or Mom and Dad. But all I can do is lie on the floor until the world fades away.
With Mae’s stuffed sloth clutched in my hands, I stare out the hospital room window.
“Nash?” Duncan—my parents’ handler with the U.S. Marshals—taps me on the shoulder. “You have to get used to the new name, son.”
“I don’t want a new name. I want to go home. Back to Chicago.” Tears make the room shimmer, but I won’t let them fall. When I woke up three days ago and found out my parents and Mae were dead, I cried for so long, the doctor had to sedate me.
“You know that’s not possible.” Duncan scoots his chair closer, glances over his shoulder at the door, and rests his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know how they found your family, Nash.”
“My name isn’t Nash!” I throw the sloth across the room, then instantly regret it. It’s all I have left of Mae. Of my entire family. But when I try to get out of bed, the room starts to spin.
“Whoa.” The marshal presses down on my shoulders and eases me back against the pillows. “You were shot in the head. You’re not supposed to get up on your own.”
“I need it…back…” I manage.
Duncan scoops the sloth off the floor and returns it to me. The stupid thing saved my life. Dad was shot in the back. Mom and Mae in the head. But I slipped on the stuffed animal, and the two bullets meant for me lodged themselves between my skull and my brain. I’m lucky—according to the doctor. A miracle. And all I want is to be with my family again.
“Nash…”
I turn onto my side, my gaze pinned to the trees swaying gently outside. “You said we’d be safe.” Nine months ago, he showed up at our house in Chicago, told me and Mae to call him Uncle Duncan, and promised to protect us. “You lied.”
“No one knows how they found you. But Ned Vasco was buried along with Melissa, Nathalie, and Owen Vasco in a little cemetery outside of Rochester. Nash Grace is just a kid from Minneapolis who was injured in a drive-by shooting. No one—not even my boss—knows you survived. As long as you don’t take anything from your old life when we move you this time, no one will have any reason to come after you. I’m sending you with my old partner, Frank. He’ll be here in a few hours so you can meet him. He’ll protect you.”
“Like I’d believe anything you say.”
“Son—”
“I’m not your son!” After a beat, I close my eyes. “Go away, Uncle Duncan. I want to be alone.”
One Month Later
“Get a move on!” Frank strides out to the car, keys in hand, checking up and down the street constantly. “You’re gonna be late.”
“I don’t care.” The first day of class at my new high school is the last place I want to be. But I don’t have a choice. Grabbing my backpack, I take a long moment to stare up at the sloth on the shelf above my bed.
Duncan had it cleaned, and there’s only a small spot of reddish brown left on one of the paws. My blood. I’ve taken it everywhere with me since I woke up in the hospital. I even thought about stuffing it into my backpack today. But if anyone at school saw it, Frank would probably find me beaten to pulp behind the gym this afternoon.
“Nash! Get your butt in the car. Now!” he yells.
“Coming. Pops.” I cringe, and my throat feels…weird. It’s hard to swallow. I didn’t want Frank—one of Duncan’s oldest friends—to legally adopt me. But they swore it was safer that way. Safer to move to Denver. Safer to start over with my third name in as many years. Safer to take nothing with me except Mae’s stuffed animal. They tried to get me to leave it behind, but I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
The sun’s brighter here. It’s the altitude, Frank says. The air is thinner too. If I could still run track, I’d be slower. But that’s not allowed either. I was good back in Chicago. Really good. Junior State Championship good. College scholarship good, my coach said. Now, it’s football or nothing.
I hate football.
“Seat belt,” Frank says, his brown eyes only landing on me for a split second before he starts the car. “Remember. You see anything strange—”
“Hide in the bathroom and call you. I know.” I pat my backpack. Frank sewed a hidden pocket on the inside to hide my cell phone. Before…only my parents had one. And Frank spent hours the other night telling me how much it cost, how hard it would be to replace, and how important it was that I never let the battery die.
We don’t say another word to each other until he pulls up in front of Larimer High. “It’s going to be okay, Nash.”
His quiet words don’t reassure me. Nothing will ever be okay again. Not really. But even though I hate it here, he and Duncan are the only “family” I have left. So I nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”
I shut the door, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and stare up at the single-story building that takes up an entire city block. Nash Grace’s first day of school. Nash Grace’s first day of…anything.
Kids wander up the steps in twos and threes, and I start to follow, but then turn and offer Frank a little wave. “Bye. Uh…Pops. See you later.”
He doesn’t smile. He knows better than that. “Have a good day. Nash. And remember.”
Be careful.
Yeah. I’ll remember. I’ll always remember.
Four Years Ago
Raelynn
Lightning arcs across the gray-black sky. I call out to Brooks, but the heavy rumble of thunder steals the sound.
Rain falls in thick, blinding sheets, plastering my clothes to my skin. The Stetson keeps the water out of my eyes—barely—but the rest of me is soaked through.
My horse rears up, and I tighten my hold on the reins. “Whoa, Gracie. Settle. Settle!”
She does, though if I’m not careful, she’ll toss me ass over tea kettle and I’ll break my damn neck.
At the far end of the pasture, Brooks kneels next to one of the fences, running razor wire between two freshly reinforced posts. The storm blew in early this morning, and we found a dozen cows wandering toward the road after dinner. I coaxed two of the injured back to the barn, then started rounding up the herd while Brooks worked on the repairs.
We’ve been out here for hours. All the cows are penned in the upper pasture, and if we’re lucky, we’ll both be back in the house, warm and dry, before the storm gets any worse.
“Brooks! Wrap it up. We need to get inside, now!” I urge Gracie faster down the hill, but my husband’s horse, Buddy, spooks at the next thunderclap and bolts toward the stables.
For a long moment, Brooks holds my gaze. I nod. Twenty-two years together—even if I did spend ten of them in the Air Force—and we don’t need words. He’s almost done, and needs me to get to Buddy.
I urge Gracie around and dig my heels into her sides. “Come on, girl. Get a move on.”
It takes forever to catch the brown and white gelding, and even longer to get him to follow me back to the edge of the property.
Brooks isn’t where I left him. His bag sits next to one of the posts, but razor wire flaps in the wind, untethered.
“Brooks! Where’d you get off to?” I holler into the wind. I’m still five hundred feet away up the hill. If he went over—or under—the fence, I wouldn’t be able to see him.
Buddy whines, pulling his reins free from my grip. But he doesn’t bolt this time. Just starts trotting down the hill. I point Gracie after him and squeeze my heels around her massive barrel.
She follows, but it’s so muddy, we start to slip. If she breaks her leg, that’s it for her, so I pull back on the reins.
Buddy stops, and I squint into the deluge. Until my heart seizes in my chest.
His black Stetson tumbles toward me, mud staining the brim. In a shallow ditch, my husband lies on his back staring up at the angry sky.
“Brooks?” I jump off the horse, slipping and sliding in the thick muck until I fall to my knees at his side. “Baby, talk to me.”
Cupping his cheek, I pray he’ll look at me. Blink. Say something. Anything. Even in the rain, I can smell the ozone. Patting him down, ripping at his shirt, I find the wound. “Oh, God. No.”
A spiderweb of reddish scars spreads over his chest. The black scorch mark at his shoulder from the lightning strike would still be smoking if it weren’t for the rain.
I bite down on my glove and yank it off with my teeth. Pressing my fingers to his carotid artery, I hold my breath. One beat. Two. He’s still alive.
“Brooks, open your eyes, you damn fool. Right now!” Another bolt of lightning hits the fence a few hundred feet away, and in the glow, I see his lids flutter. “That’s it. Come back to me.”
“Rae…” I don’t hear his voice so much as see his lips move. The clap of thunder makes my ears ring. His eyes open, bloodshot, unfocused, and his breath stutters in his chest. “Love…you…”
“Shut up! You ain’t dyin’ on me. Stay awake.” I slap his cheeks, then slant my lips over his. For a second, he returns the kiss, and I know everything’s going to be okay. Until his mouth goes slack.
“No, baby. Fight!” I check his pulse again. I can’t find it. Pulling off my other glove, I start CPR. The Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” runs through my head—the song happens to be the perfect speed to time compressions—but by the time I finish the first verse, I want to damn every member of the band straight to hell. It’s not working.
My cell phone is back at the house, and even if it weren’t, there’s no reception out here. My husband hasn’t stirred, and after the refrain, I check for a pulse one last time before I let loose with a string of curses that would make even the most seasoned pirate blush.
“Baby,” I say quietly, pulling him into my lap and cradling him close. “You’re my everythin’. I’ve loved you since we were seventeen. Don’t leave me alone. Not like this.”
But he’s already gone. Brooks would never stop kissing me. Not unless he had no choice.
By the time I drag his body into the house, I have no more tears left to cry. I never should have left him. The herd was safe. He didn’t need to fix the fence in the middle of the storm.
“It’s not that bad out, darlin’. I’ll be done in an hour.” He cups the back of my neck and pulls me in for a swift, hard kiss. “If I wait ’til tomorrow, the field’ll be flooded so bad, it’ll take me all day. Plus, I can’t leave my tools down there.”
“I don’t like the look of those clouds, baby.” All day, I’ve been nervous for no reason, and I wish we hadn’t put off hiring a couple of additional ranch hands.
Another kiss, and he slaps my ass just hard enough to sting. “Get the rest of the herd penned in, and I’ll be done in two shakes. Then we’ll hunker down in front of the fire with that bottle of bourbon I picked up last week.”
“Just…hurry.” I slap his ass back, earning me a wicked grin as he mounts his horse.
“Love you, Rae. I won’t be long.”
I should have said the words back to him. But he took off so fast, I didn’t get a chance. Now, I never will.
Laying his body in front of the wood stove, I brush his damp blond curls away from his face. “Stay here, baby. As soon as I call the sheriff, I’m gettin’ that bottle of bourbon.”
I hold Brooks close for as long as I can, until the sheriff walks in and I have to face the fact that my husband is truly gone, and I wasn’t there to save him.
Chapter One
Raelynn
“Catch up, probie!”
I glare at Hidden Agenda’s tactical genius, retired SEAL West Sampson. He stands at the edge of the indoor track, holding a stopwatch. Graham, Tank, Inara, and I run two laps around the warehouse—after slogging through a sadistic obstacle course and a stint on the climbing wall.
West’s drills are only getting harder now that the leader of the Kidnap & Ransom firm, Ryker McCabe, is about to be a father.
“I ain’t your damn probie,” I pant, pushing myself even harder.
“Until Wyatt starts joining us for workouts, the honor’s still yours.” West calls out Graham’s time—eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds—then Inara’s, then Tank’s. I’m almost a lap behind them.
Ryker—who, despite his size, beat everyone else by a full minute—cracks the seal on a bottle of water and stares me down. It’s meant to be intimidating, but he can’t get inside my head. No one can. Not anymore.
I plaster on a sweet smile as I skid to a stop in front of West and brace my hands on my thighs.
“Damn, probie.” He whistles, and if looks could kill, I’d have just murdered him.
“Don’t you give me any shit, y’hear? I made it through the climbin’ wall without usin’ my right arm. As instructed. And Inara still only beat me by two minutes.”
“I was about to say, ‘I’m impressed.’”
“Oh.” Snagging my towel from the bench, I mop my forehead. “I’m fixin’ to knock on Wyatt’s door and drag his sorry ass here for the next workout so y’all have someone else to gang up on.”
Ryker snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Watch me.” I drop onto one of the mats in the corner to stretch. Despite my bravado, there ain’t no way I’ll give Wyatt shit for sticking close to home. Not after Hope’s psycho ex nearly killed them both last month. If I had someone warm and willing, I wouldn’t be here either.
“How’s the shoulder?” A few feet away, Ryker groans as he lowers himself down and crosses one leg over the other to stretch his back.
Every inch of his exposed skin is covered in scars—except the left side of his face. The Taliban tortured him for fifteen months, leaving him in near constant pain, but he rarely lets it show. Not even when his spine lets loose with a series of pops that sound like they’re excruciating.
Grabbing my right arm with my left hand, I pull it gently across my chest. I’m about to tell him I’m fine when he narrows his multi-hued eyes at me. “Think twice before you answer.”
Damn Special Forces training. The man is a human lie detector. “Fair to middlin’. Only hurts first thing in the mornin’.”
He nods, apparently satisfied with my answer. “When do you see Doc Reynolds again?”
A spark of pain skates down my back, and I let my arm drop, flexing my fingers. “End of the week. I’m doin’ my PT every day. Give it a rest.”
A single brow arches, the other bisected by a thick scar. “You want to try that again?”
