this Podunk town? Why did you pretend not to know me earlier? And why are you volunteering with Search and Rescue and living under a tin roof?”
“Why are you under my tin roof? I don’t have any cinnamon rolls here.” Now probably wasn’t the time to go comedic and dry, but a memory teetered on the edge of her mind—she used this kind of banter to do something...what?
He chuckled. “Always loved that snark. I know you hate me.”
She did?
“I’m here to make amends, Max, even though you have every right to stomp me into the ground for betraying you. I should have known better but...”
Max! Was that her name? Short for Maxine or something? She glanced at the door and her hands shook.
Peter spotted it. “Are...are you afraid?”
She was working hard to conceal it; should she not be? “Well, you did betray me.” If she told him her brain had deflated like a balloon and she was at a loss for memory, he might try to hurt her or clam up. He’d asked why she pretended not to know him. Well, he hadn’t acted like he knew her either, so he was hiding something. He was her only link to her past. She had to play the game for as long as she could.
“Look, I’ll tell you everything, but I may not be the only one who knows you’re alive.”
Oh so true. She had two creeps coming for her already.
Peter sighed. “I can help you. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise I’m telling you the truth. Where is Dr. Sayer? I can help her too.”
Her! The doctor had a name and gender. Good, she could work with this. But could she work with this man? What if he tried to betray her again? How did he betray her before? By beating her up and leaving her for dead? Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and she bit down on her lip to hide the tremble. What if she didn’t know any more self-defense moves?
“I didn’t—” He paused, cocked his head and surveyed her. It gave her the shivers but she tried to hold fast. Still, her fingers jittered, causing the umbrella to bounce. He watched it then let his gaze slowly roll over her face and locked onto her eyes again.
“What’s my name?” He was on to her somehow. The fear. The fear was tipping him off that something was wrong.
“Peter.”
He narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. She took a step back and he paused, tipped his head to the side. “What’s your name?”
Busted. Would he kill her now?
“Why do you ask?” She tossed a glance at the open door and took another step toward it.
Peter matched a step forward for every one she took in retreat, surprise in his eyes. “I thought you were toying with me this morning somehow so I didn’t say anything, played the game. But you weren’t up to anything sneaky. You don’t know me. And you don’t know you either. I’m so sorry, Max.”
“For what?”
“Everything. It was all lies.”
“What was all lies? Is my name Max?” she asked, her head spinning. Did she try to run or did she trust this man who admitted to betraying her?
He glanced out the window and shook his head; he seemed concerned. “No. It’s a nickname. Mad Max.”
Mad Max? “Am I crazy or something? If you’re not here to hurt me...then tell me who I am.”
“Max,” he whispered. “Your real name is—”
Glass shattered and Peter fell to the ground dead. Grace stared at him frozen and stunned, then another bullet slammed into the wall by her head. “Hollis!” she screamed and hit the floor.
Hollis hit the door running when the first shot cracked through the air and was at Grace’s front door as she screamed for him. “I’m here,” he called and slid across the floor to her. “Stay low.” He glanced into her bedroom and did a double take. A body lay on the floor. “Who is that?”
“Peter Rainey,” she breathed, her face deathly pale.
“You remember?” Had memories surfaced in the last ten minutes? Questions would have to wait. He needed to get Grace to safety. Hopefully, the shooter wouldn’t open fire on people in a public place. It was his only chance. Once she was out of danger, he would inspect the woods, then find out who the dead guy was in her bedroom. They huddled on the floor for several moments. The gunfire had ceased. The shooter could be changing positions, windows. Getting a better line of fire. Was it one of those men from earlier or someone new?
The woods covered the south of her house. North was the inn. No decent place there to find accurate cover or to get a good shot. “We’re going out the front door and making a dash to the inn. You ready?”
“Not really,” she groused. “But let’s go.”
“One, two, three!” He hauled her up but kept her hunched as he shielded her with his body. They sprinted across the wet walkway to the inn. Inside he slammed the door and kicked a kitchen chair into the corner. No windows. No easy target. He lowered her into the chair. Grace’s face retained the muddy streaks from earlier and strands of dark hair had come loose from its bun, sticking to her neck.
“I want you to stay here. I’ll be right back.” Hollis gripped Grace’s shoulders. “Promise me.”
She nodded as Tish entered the kitchen. “What in the world is going on? I heard the door slam and a ruckus in here...”
“Grace is in danger, Tish.” He gave her the short version, and with every word her face blanched even further until she looked like a walking snowdrift. “I believe she’ll be okay since the inn is full of people—though I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but still...keep an eye out.” He looked at Grace. “Call the sheriff. Chances are no one paid attention to the shots.” Gunfire wasn’t unfamiliar in the South, in this town—even Tish hadn’t been drawn into the kitchen from the gunfire, but from their commotion. “I’ll be back.” Hollis wanted his own time to search and he’d have it if he moved fast. Probably the SEAL in him, but he wanted dibs on any clues that might give them more information on the deceased and Grace’s identity.
Grace nodded.
“We’ll be fine.” Tish headed for the cherry-red tea kettle on the stove.
Tish had mettle and Hollis loved her for it. He retrieved his ankle weapon and slipped outside into the woods. After about five minutes, he found one man’s footprints in the mud. Fairly large. Hollis aimed his Glock toward the garden house. Perfect angle. Clean shot. Good distance away. No casings. Looked like the shooter had collected the brass, meaning he might be and probably was a professional.
He followed the prints about a mile until they tracked to an old back road. The shooter either cased the place for a few days, finding the best way to enter and escape undetected, or he was familiar with the area—a local or someone who frequented Cottonwood. The
