rock flew at her. Hit her shoulder.
She backed up, bumped into the line of carts.
“Stone her for her grievous sin!” one of the men shouted.
Cece turned to run. She had no choice. Stones hit her back, her legs, her shoulder. When one hit her on the head, she bit her lip to prevent crying out.
Before she could take off running, a man blocked her path. Tall, dark hair...dark eyes.
She opened her mouth to scream.
He grabbed her and pulled her behind him.
“Back off,” he growled at the mob. “The police are on the way. Unless one or all of you wants to be arrested, you had better get the hell out of here.”
Cece dared to peek beyond one broad shoulder. The stones had stopped flying but the group still stood there lurking like something from a bad horror movie.
“We’re not finished,” the woman who had spoken first said, her hate-filled gaze on Cece.
The siren in the distance had the group dispersing.
Cece watched as they climbed into two SUVs and sped away. The woman—the one who appeared to be in charge—stared at Cece as they drove away.
The woman’s face didn’t trigger any memories, but she certainly knew Cece.
The idea that they had all come together suggested that the attack against her had been planned. Anger, hurt and frustration twisted inside her.
“You all right?”
Cece looked at the man who had come to her rescue and nodded. She wanted to ask his name. She wanted to ask why he had come to her aid. But she couldn’t seem to put the words together and force them beyond her lips.
The Winchester Police Department cruiser came to a rocking stop a few feet away and Cece was grateful the stranger took the initiative and explained the incident to the officer. By this time Mr. Holland had come out to the parking lot.
“Are you okay?” he asked Cece.
“Yes.” She relaxed the tiniest bit.
The police officer approached her then. “Miss Winters, would you like to come to the station and fill out a report?”
Cece shook her head. “I just want to go home, please.”
Holland turned to the officer. “I think that’s a good idea. She’s had enough excitement for today.”
The officer nodded. “I’ll let Chief Brannigan know you’re home, Miss Winters. He’ll check in on you. Be sure to let us know if you have any more trouble. The chief doesn’t tolerate nonsense like this.”
Cece found the wherewithal to thank him.
“I’ll follow her home. Make sure she gets unloaded without any trouble.”
She stared at the stranger. Why would a man she had never met go out of his way?
“Good idea, Ross,” the officer said. He turned to Cece. “Miss Winters, Mr. Ross lives just down the road from you. He bought the old Wilburn place.”
The Wilburns. She remembered them. “I’m sure I’ll be okay now, Mr. Ross.” She met the stranger’s gaze. “Thank you for your help.”
All she wanted to do was get into her truck and drive away. Before anyone could attempt to change her mind, she rushed to her truck and climbed in. She left without looking back. She made it all the way to the city limits before the tears defeated her. She swiped at her eyes, frustrated and angry...mostly at herself.
She was back, and by God she was not going to be run out of this damned town until she had the truth.
Deacon Ross stood at the edge of the woods, watching the house. Cecelia Winters had carried in her supplies a couple of bags at a time. She had not purchased all that much. Her funds were limited. He suspected the attorney—Frasier—had made some sort of arrangements before his untimely death.
It seemed that no matter how guilty most folks in the town thought Cecelia was, there were a few who wanted to look out for her best interests. The attorney he could understand—that was his job and he had been an old friend of her grandmother’s. The chief of police and the county sheriff going out of their way to keep her safe infuriated Deacon, but, like the attorney, that was their job.
Chief of Police Brannigan and Sheriff Tanner had taken extraordinary measures to ensure no one learned the date she was coming home. If it had not been for Deacon putting the word out, she would have reappeared in Winchester with no fanfare at all.
He could not allow that to happen.
Fury fired through him. Made him flinch with its intensity.
The murder of her old man wasn’t the only crime Cecelia Winters had committed. Another man, a man who meant a great deal to Deacon, had disappeared around the time of that murder. It had taken years to narrow down the possibilities, but a year ago Deacon had discovered reason to believe Cece was involved. He had been digging into her past and her family since. If it was the last thing he accomplished in this life, he intended to find out what she knew about his friend’s disappearance. As the date for her release from prison neared he had reached an important conclusion: the only way to find the facts he needed was to get close to her.
Eight years, seven months and nineteen days had passed since her arrest and she had not once changed her story. She was innocent, she claimed. She had not killed her father. When her appeals were exhausted, she quietly served out her time. Due to the circumstances surrounding her childhood, the judge had been lenient in his sentencing. The crime that should have earned her twenty years had garnered her only eight.
But the disappearance—probable murder—of Deacon’s partner would be a different story. If she had played any role in his death, he intended to see that she was charged, found guilty and sentenced to the fullest extent allowed for that heartless crime. More of that fury ignited deep in his gut.
Jack Kemp had been a good man. A good man as well as Deacon’s mentor and partner. Deacon blamed himself in part for not being here to provide backup for Jack. But the Bureau had wanted one of them to stay on the case in Gallatin. The investigation there had been on the verge of busting wide open. In the end, half a dozen people had died in Gallatin—all part of the extreme survivalist cult known as Resurrection. Since he disappeared, Jack had not been able to prove it but he’d believed the survivalists in Gallatin were connected to the ones in the Winchester area. The church—more a cult than a church—the Salvation Survivalists, was somehow serving as a liaison between the two branches.
All those years ago, Jack’s investigation had been buried under a mountain of red tape. The powers that be hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that Resurrection’s reach was so wide and deep. The information had been suppressed for years. Deacon wondered if the truth would have ever come to light if he had not pushed so hard for so long. Jack’s family had a right to know what happened to him. Deacon
