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CHAPTER EIGHT
Abigail Mayfield gripped the covers, fear icing the breath in her throat as she strained to hear the noise again. A slight sound had disturbed her sleep. She closed her eyes against the darkness and listened intently. An unnatural silence greeted her. The wind was calm and no tree branches brushed against the side of the house because she’d had them removed after buying the property.
Her eyes blinked open when she heard a small scratching sound. The stalker is here! She had moved all the way across the country for nothing. She struggled to breathe and goose bumps pimpled her arms until a cold, wet nose nudged her neck.
In slow increments, Abby forced herself to relax and silently thanked her grandmother for helping her find a trained protection dog before she moved to Texas.
“Bates,” she whispered, “did you hear that noise, boy?”
The seventy-pound, playful but dead-serious-about-his-job, black-and-tan Belgian Malinois grabbed her blanket with his teeth and tugged it off the bed. That was answer enough.
As quietly as possible, she slid out of bed, grabbed her cell phone off the nightstand, along with the Glock 19 pistol her grandmother had given her last year for Christmas. She might appear to be a harmless Tinker Bell—and had been called that on occasion—but appearances were deceiving. While growing up, her grandmother made sure she knew how to handle a gun.
“God, I need a little help here,” she whispered as they moved toward the bedroom door. The dog glued to her side bolstered her confidence. Bates would attack an assailant, but his main job was to protect her; at least, that’s what the trainer had said during the handler classes.
Tinkling glass hit the kitchen tile floor and left no doubt that someone was breaking and entering. At the top of the stairs, Abby took a deep, steadying breath. She buried her fear—the way Daddy had taught her—dialed 911 with one hand and held the pistol loosely at her side with the other. She had the advantage at the top of the stairs. If someone tried to come up, she’d fire a warning shot.
“Nine-one-one. Is this an emergency?”
Having turned the volume down before leaving the bedroom, Abby held the phone close to her ear. “This is Abby Mayfield. Someone is breaking into my house,” she whispered.
“Ma’am, leave your phone on and keep it with you. We can track you through your cell if circumstances change, but for now, give me your address.”
Abby swallowed hard. She knew what that meant. They could track her if the assailant removed her from the house. “My address is 135 Grove Street, Blessing, Texas.”
“Stay hidden if you can. We’ll have a squad car there as soon as possible.”
Abby didn’t respond because the sound of soft footsteps climbing the wooden stairs reached her ears. This scenario was the reason she’d removed all the carpet and installed wood and tile floors. She raised the Glock and Bates released a low, snarling growl. Bless his heart. The sweet animal she knew and loved sounded as if he wanted to rip someone’s throat out, and he probably would if it came down to it.
The footsteps stopped and Abby sensed the menace and hatred floating up the stairs in a thick wave of dark emotion. Whoever it was meant her harm. But why? Who disliked her that much? The police in North Carolina had asked her that question and she still had no answer.
A siren wailed in the distance. Quick footsteps raced back down the stairs and out the kitchen door. Her legs wobbled. Abby plopped onto the top step and blew out a relieved breath. Her dog licked her face and she hugged him close. “Thanks for the help, Bates. I know you’d probably be happier as a police dog, but I sure am glad you’re with me.”
The trembling in her body started small, but gained momentum as the police cruiser swerving into her driveway illuminated the front of her house.
* * *
Noah Galloway pried his eyelids open and squinted at his wristwatch—it was 3:15 a.m.—when his cell phone belted out “God Bless America,” his call tune for dispatch. He came fully alert within seconds. “Galloway.”
“Sheriff. We have a B and E in progress at 135 Grove Street. Nine-one-one transferred the call.”
Night calls were rare. B and Es, even more so in their small town. Grabbing his jeans, he dressed with one hand and held the phone to his ear. “You on your way over?”
“Yes,
