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Hide in Plain Sight
Marta Perry
MILLS & BOON
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This story is dedicated to my gifted editor,
Krista Stroever. And, as always, to Brian.
Contents
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
ONE
She had to get to the hospital. Andrea Hampton’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel as that call from the Pennsylvania State Police replayed in her mind in an endless loop. Her sister had been struck by a hit-and-run driver while walking along a dark country road—like this one. They didn’t know how badly she was injured. Repeated calls to the hospital had netted her only a bland voice saying that Rachel Hampton was undergoing treatment.
Please. Please. She wasn’t even sure she believed any longer, but the prayer seemed to come automatically. Please, if You’re there, if You’re listening, keep Rachel safe.
Darkness pressed against the windows, unrelieved except for the reflection of her headlights on the dark macadam and the blur of white pasture fence posts. Amish country, and, once you were off the main routes, there were no lights at night except for the occasional faded yellow of oil lamps from a distant farmhouse.
If she let herself picture Rachel’s slight figure, turning, seeing a car barreling toward her…A cold hand closed around her heart.
After all those years she had protected her two younger sisters, Rachel and Caroline were independent now. That was only right. Still, some irrational part of her mind seemed to be saying: You should have been here.
A black-and-yellow sign announced a crossroads, and she tapped the brakes lightly as she approached a curve. She glanced at the dashboard clock. Nearly midnight.
She looked up, and a cry tore from her throat. A dark shape ahead of her on the road, an orange reflective triangle gleaming on the back of it…Her mind recognizing an Amish buggy, she slammed on the brakes, wrenching the wheel with all her strength. Please, please, don’t let me hit it—
The car skidded, fishtailing, and she fought for control. Too late—the rear wheels left the road and plunged down into a ditch, tipping crazily, headlight beams spearing toward the heavens. The air bag deployed, slamming into her. For an instant she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
As her head began to clear she fought the muffling fabric of the air bag, the seat belt harness digging into her flesh. Panic seared along her nerves, and she struggled to contain it. She wasn’t a child, she wasn’t trapped—
A door slammed. Voices, running feet, and someone yanked at the passenger door.
“Are you hurt? Can you talk?”
“Yes.” She managed to get her face free of the entangling folds. “I think I’m all right, but I can’t reach the seat belt.”
“Hold on. We’ll get you out.” A murmured consultation—more than one person, then. The scrape of metal on metal, and the door shrieked in protest as it was lifted.
“The buggy.” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t hit it, did I?”
“No,” came a curt male voice, and then a flashlight’s beam struck her face, making her blink. “You didn’t.”
Hands fumbled for the seat belt, tugging. The belt tightened across her chest, she couldn’t breathe—and then it released and air flowed into her protesting lungs.
“Take a moment before we try to move you.” He was just a dark shadow behind the light. In control. “Be sure nothing’s broken.”
She wanted to shout at him to pull her free, to get her out of the trap her car had become, but he made sense. She wiggled fingers, toes, ran her hands along her body as much as she could.
“Just tender. Please, get me out.” She would not let panic show in her voice, even though the sense of confinement in a small, dark space scraped her nerves raw with the claustrophobia she always hoped she’d overcome. “Please.”
Hands gripped her arms, and she clung instinctively to the soft cotton of the man’s shirt. Muscles bunched under the fabric. He pulled, she wiggled, pushing her body upward, and in a moment she was free, leaning against the tip-tilted car.
“Easy.” Strong hands supported her.
“Are you sure she is all right, Calvin Burke?” This voice sounded young, a little frightened. “Should we take her to the hospital?”
“The hospital.” She grasped the words. “I’m all right, but I have to get to the hospital. My sister is there. I have to go there.”
She was repeating herself, she thought, her mind still a little fuzzy. She couldn’t seem to help it. She focused on the three people who stood around her. An Amish couple, their young faces white and strained in the glow of the flashlight.
And the man, the one with the gruff, impatient voice and the strong, gentle hands. He held the light, so she couldn’t see him well—just an impression of height, breadth, the pale cloth of his shirt.
“Your sister.”
