Fear

Chapter One



         If I run far enough, he won’t find me. The thought ran through her head like a mantra, eclipsing all the doubts that tried to force their way into her brain. Fear, so potent it was almost tangible, was her constant companion, ruling her actions and driving her paranoia. Every stranger who looked her way, or brushed by her as she emerged from a public restroom, was sent by him, trying to find her. Emma Lucas was on her own and running from a nightmare.

          She had left Nashville, Tennessee before dawn, throwing only clothes and her dog, Bridger, in the truck. She stopped briefly at an ATM to withdraw some cash to get started, furtively glancing over her shoulders, knowing he had to sleep sometime, didn’t he? Or was he following her, watching her every move?

          She made Kansas City by 2 pm, breaking most speeding laws, and pulled into a branch of her bank to take out the rest of her hard earned money that she had saved and scrimped for over the last four years. The money from the divorce settlement was tied up in IRA’s and annuities. She didn’t have time to close them out. She had to do everything spur-of-the-moment; the last time she ran, she had tried to plan it, and he had found her.

         She cursed him, loud and long. Damn him, she had made a life in Nashville, was a respected horse trainer, had a nice little house in the country, finally had a man that showed interest-best not to thank about that- and he had ruined it, all because he thought he owned her.

         They had been married 8 years before he changed. Eight good years, and he had never given any indication of the rage and evil that was in him. He had been controlling, that was true, but at the time she had just thought he had her best interests in mind. He guided her career as a journalist, telling her where she should work, how much money she should ask for. He allowed her the hobby of training horses, but only for friends. She never thought anything of it. Her father had been a controlling man too.

          The first night he had abused her had come out of nowhere. It had been over something so trivial and stupid. She had gone to dinner with a male co-worker from her office, and was out late. Nothing had happened, in fact the man was gay, but Tyler Cole reacted out of proportion.

          When she had walked in the door, he was waiting, and the first thing she knew was the flash of lightning across her cheek that was his fist connecting with her cheek bone. No slaps for Tyler, he went for a closed fist. She fell to the floor and managed not to pass out, but it might have been better if she had. Before she could recover enough to protect herself, he was on her, his hands fisted in her hair. He screamed incoherent curses at her, calling her adulteress and worse. He slammed her head against the floor repeatedly, and she was later told that the only thing that stopped him from cracking her head open was the thick carpet in the entry hall.

When she regained consciousness, she was still sprawled in the foyer, her body a mass of aches and pains. It hurt to breathe, move, even think. Fearing for her life, not knowing where he was, she left the house and went to the hospital. The police were called, Tyler was picked up and arrested, but Tyler Cole was rich and had connections in Orlando, where they lived. He was let out on a technicality.

          Then it got worse.

          Emma blocked out her thoughts. All the thoughts did was feed her fear, and she didn’t need that right now. She needed to concentrate, figure out what she was going to do when she got where she was going. Usually a self-confident person, the years of mental anguish and physical terror had preyed upon her self esteem until it lay in tatters at her feet, and the first part of what she needed to do was concentrate on building back that self-confidence.

          Well, she had been confident before, she would be again.

         She pulled into the parking lot of a truck stop and shut off the engine, and then sat listening to it tick in the cool evening. The farther northwest she ran, the colder it got. In Tennessee, fall was still a couple of weeks away, but out here, it was in full swing. Aspens were already turning gold, and the bite of cold in the air was enough to make Emma reach into the back seat and grab a heavier jacket. Bridger was asleep, curled nose to tail on the floor in back. He was a pure-bred Alaskan Malamute, and had been her constant companion and protector for the last four years. She didn’t know what she would do without him. Now that she was almost to her destination of Bozeman, she had to start thinking of how to get her money from her IRA so she could settle. She also was taking no chances this time and would change her name. She would erase all traces of Emma Lucas.

         She cracked a window and got out of the truck, shutting the door quietly so she wouldn’t wake Bridger. The dog slept like a rock in the truck though, nothing waking him, even when the big semis went by in a roar of tires and engine noise. She walked to the front door of the restaurant, and went in. Despite the lateness of the hour, the place was busy. The group of truckers seated at the long counter eyed her, and Emma swallowed the bubble of fear that rose in her throat. The logical part of her brain knew they were just sizing up the newcomer, but the feral part, the hunted part, knew they were spies, hired by Tyler to find her. She shifted uncomfortably in her boots, and went to the cash register to put in a meal order.

         She glanced over her shoulder and noticed that they had all gone back to their meals, except for two of them. They were still watching her. They weren’t sly about it either. Emma turned back to the waitress and paid for her meal, then walked back out to the truck to get a change of clothes and her toiletry bag. She would take a shower while she waited for her meal to be ready, and maybe the guys in the diner would be gone.

         She entered the trucker’s area of the stop, where they could call home from private booths, sit in a lounge area and relax, or play video games. She headed for the women’s showers and luxuriated in the hot spray and surprisingly clean showers. Even four years ago, she never would have thought she could take a shower in a public restroom, but time changes everything. When you were on the run from a psychotic ex-husband, you learn to change your perceptions and prejudices.

         After her shower, she went back to the diner and picked up her meal. The men were still there, and they turned to look at her again, but gave her only a cursory glance this time. She released the tension she didn’t realize she was still holding onto and left the diner at a fast walk, her boots striking the surface of the black-top, assaulting her with echoes that bounced off the trucks surrounding her. The fear was building in her, reaching new levels of terror. She saw her truck, was only seconds from reaching it; she cursed herself for parking so far away, and was telling herself to not do that again, when she heard her name whispered. It came from nowhere and everywhere, and instead of spurring her on, it froze her in her tracks.

         She stood stock still, eyes wide, nostrils flared, prey sensing the predator. She heard the scrape of shoes against pavement and the furtive movement of someone coming up behind her slowly.

She fought back the immobilizing fear, turned it into something more productive. She heard her name whispered again, in a harsh sing-song and a rough chuckle. Were the bastards toying with her? What kind of sick bastard had she been married to that would go this far to get her?

She transferred her keys into her right hand, the big truck key poking out between her forefinger and middle finger, her movements slight. She knew what she was up against, knew that the men coming up behind her were the ones from the diner. They had been careless, had let her size them up, but what did they care? She was just a woman, she couldn’t hurt them. She was about to prove them wrong.

         Her ears listening for the slightest variation of sound, she knew they were right behind her. She gathered her clothes and bag, reseated the key in it’s position between her fingers, and twisted suddenly, throwing her clothes and bag at the two men that came out of the dark between two big trucks. It startled them, but not for long. The taller of the two came at her, and Emma hauled back with her right arm and using all her weight, punched him in the face with the protruding key. He screamed and grabbed his cheek where the key had dug a furrow in it, blood running freely over his hands. His buddy was fazed momentarily by that, which gave Emma the space of a second to turn and run for her truck, but he recovered and ran after her.

She pressed the unlock button on the key fob and heard the truck unlock. Bridger was standing on the backseat, barking his head off, the loud noise echoing around the parking lot. If she could just get an extra second to get the truck door open, she could get away.

         She hit the door hard and yanked it open, but before she could climb in, he was on her, his hand grabbing her ponytail and spinning her around. She yelped in pain, her scalp feeling like it was on fire, and twisted around, trying to kick out, her fist flailing in the air.

“Oh no you don’t, you little bitch. I’ve got you now, and you’re gonna pay for what you did to my friend.” He spit out, giving her hair another good yank.

“You bastard, let me go! I don’t know what he’s paying you, but I’ll double it. I’ve got money in the truck.” She panted, but she was still kicking out at him, anger over-riding her fear. She was not going to die in the parking lot of some truck stop in nowhere Montana!

“I doubt you could afford…” he started to say, but a loud snarl made his words turn into a scream as 120 pounds of dog hit him in the back. His grip on her hair loosened and Emma tore away from his grasp, stumbling toward the truck. She reached it and jumped in, viciously plugging the key into the ignition and turning it with a quick flick of her wrist. The reassuring sound of the big engine made her feel a little better and she yelled for Bridger. He was standing on the bastard’s back, head lowered to the back of his neck, snarling low in his throat, but at the sound of her voice, he turned away and started to run towards her. Half way there, she saw him jerk and turn back to bite at his side, but then he was running again, bounding into the truck.

         He scrambled over her and Emma pulled the truck door shut. She locked all the doors, and gunned the engine, looking in the rearview mirror to see if the men were coming after her. The one she had gotten with the key was bending over the guy on the ground, but Emma had no way of knowing if he was injured or not. Bridger in the normal course of things wouldn’t hurt a fly, but she knew that protecting her, he would do anything to keep her safe. She hoped he had torn the bastard’s throat out.

         How had they found her? What kind of sick bastard had she been married to that he would send men after her? Why would he send them after her? Were there more men, trailing her? She found that hard to believe, but despite her paranoia, she had never thought he would send men to find her and, what? Bring her back to him? Kill her?

         She began to doubt her plan of settling around Bozeman. If he could find her in some God-forsaken little truck stop in the middle of nowhere, he could find her anywhere. What was she going to do?



         She drove through the night, keeping an eye on the rearview, but it was clear. Bridger was sleeping in the back, not making any noise, so around 3 a.m., she pulled into a gas station outside of Livingston, almost to Bozeman. She needed coffee and something to eat, not having eaten now for almost 24 hours. Bastards, she thought again, savagely. She climbed wearily out of the truck, shutting the door carefully. She stretched, and shook out the kinks and went into the gas station. A young guy was behind the counter, and he eyed her, but even she knew that he was just being watchful for his store. A single woman pulling into a gas station at three in the morning had to be slightly odd. She walked back to the coffee makers and poured a large black coffee and then grabbed a couple of cheese danish. She walked toward the counter, thinking as she did that she would have to get gas soon, so she might as well do it now when the kid behind the counter said, “Ma’am, are you okay?”, his voice hesitant, something in it other than a greeting.

         Emma glanced up at him sharply. “I’m fine, thanks. Why?” she asked, keeping a wary eye on him. He gestured towards her stomach, and Emma glanced down. The coffee and danish fell to the floor, her fingers suddenly nerveless. There was a swath of blood on her shirt and jacket. She brought her shaking hands to feel her stomach, but she already knew it wasn’t her that had bled. She remembered Bridger snapping back at his side as he had run, then how he had brushed that same side against her as he bounded into the truck.

She paled visibly and ran out the door, the clerk coming around the counter to look out the door after her. She reached the truck and yanked open the door, jumping in and climbing into the backseat. Bridger was still curled up, but now Emma wondered if he was dead, not sleeping. Tears started running down her face, but she wasn’t aware of them.

She touched his furry side, laying her palm flat where his leg met his torso, and felt a faint pulse; when she took her hand away, it was wet and sticky with congealing blood. She reached up and hit the map lights, nowhere enough light to work by, but enough. She couldn’t tell what kind of damage had been done, but there was only an entry wound. She had never heard a shot, but the bastards had probably had silencers.

         She dug down into the storage bin under the seat and came up with a leg wrap for horses. Thankfully she had washed them, and they were clean of sweat and hair. She dug out another one and unwrapped both of them, folding one into a bandage and using the other one to wrap around Bridger’s chest to hold the bandage into place. Bridger woke briefly and licked her hand, then went back to sleep. She hoped it was sleep. She had been driving for four hours. He could’ve lost all of his blood in that time.

         She wouldn’t think about that now. She had to get him to a vet, no matter that it was three in the morning. She turned around and opened the door in the back and climbed out. She saw the clerk standing in the door, and made her way back to him.

         “Look, my dog has been hurt. Do you know where there’s a vet around here?” she asked, wiping her hand across her cheek, not realizing she left a bloody smear there. He fixed his eyes on that smear and couldn’t seem to talk.

         “Please, I’m not sure what got him, but he’s had to be bleeding now for over four hours. I have to get him help.” She pleaded, feeling the tears burning behind her eyes. One slipped out and rolled over her cheek, and maybe that’s what galvanized the guy into talking, but he said in a rush, “Doc Graves’ place is not two miles from here. Take this road to the next right and turn on that road. It runs you straight to his place.”

          “He small animal or large?” she asked, not that it mattered, but large animal vets were used to middle of the night emergencies and would be less apt to shoot someone first and ask questions later.

         “Both. Treats my horses and my dogs.”

         “Thank you.” She breathed, then turned around and got back in the truck again.

         She pulled out of the parking lot, skidding briefly on loose gravel and gained the highway. The right turn came up quickly, and she took it, the truck almost going up on two wheels. She kept all thoughts at bay, not thinking about the truck stop, about Bridger being shot, just focused everything she had on getting to the vets place. She hated having to wake someone up in the middle of the night, but she had done it before for a sick horse, she can do it again for an injured best friend. True, she knew her vet back home, she didn’t know this guy. He was probably some old guy pushing retirement. She’d probably scare him to death, barreling down his driveway so late, or early, if you looked at it that way.

         She pulled into the driveway and skidded to a stop at the front door. He had his office at his home, and she had pulled up at the main house door, where lights were blazing. She jumped out of the truck and ran around the front to the passenger side, wondering at the fact that it looked like the whole house was awake. As she yanked open the passenger door, then the trucks third door, she heard a man yelling from behind her to get out of the way.

         She ignored the voice and reached in for Bridger, hefting him into her arms. She backed out and turned to face the owner of the voice, who wasn’t an old man on the verge of retirement. She had barely enough time to notice that not only was he not old, but he was her age and shirtless, with just a pair of jeans on, not even shoes on his feet, before he was standing in front of her, gently removing Bridger from her arms and turning to carry him into the house.

         She followed him, hurrying to keep up. She was tall, and had long legs, but he was taller, and his stride carried him and her beloved friend ahead of her down a long hallway that opened up into a reception area of his office. He didn’t pause when he approached the door leading back in to the treatment rooms, just turned around and pushed through backward, Bridger held to his bare chest.

         His green eyes briefly met hers, then he was through the door, and Emma had to shoot out her hand to stop the door from swinging back and hitting her in the face. What a strange tableau this was, she thought briefly. They hadn’t even exchanged words, with the exception of him telling her to get out of the way. He had held Bridger so gently to him, despite the dog weighing as much as Emma herself did, and when he had taken him from her arms, it had been with infinite care. She felt immediate trust for him, at least where her dog was concerned, so she felt no need to say anything, just watched him work.

         Granted, she didn’t know what she was going to say when he noticed there was a bullet hole in his side; she would have to think about that, and fast. His hands were already searching the deep fur for the injury. She decided she would stick with a version of the truth, just omitting that she knew who had sent her attackers.

          “Please, will he be alright?” she asked, wringing her hands.

         Jack looked up from his patient briefly and finally noticed the person who brought him in. She was a walking ghost, her skin so pale it was almost translucent, but he could see that it was from fatigue and fear, not her regular complexion. Blood was smeared on her right cheek, a slashing mark that was a gross parody of blush, and she was working blood deeper into her hands as she wrung them nervously. She stared out at him from blue eyes that were shadowed, and her glossy black hair hung down from a braid that had come loose at one point, giving her a disheveled appearance. He took all that in a brief second then turned back to his patient.

         “Depends on how soon you got him here after he was shot.”

         His words grated on her already frayed nerves and he said them in such a way that she felt as though she was being judged, and was found wanting.

         “As soon as I realized he had been shot, but it had to have happened about four hours ago. I was attacked, and he saved me.” she whispered, almost choking on her words. He looked up again, his hand still prodding gently at the wound.

         “He’s very valiant. I’m going to do what I can, ok? I’m pretty good at what I do.” He gentled his speech, as if he were calming the dog in front of him, instead of his master. She had obviously been through a lot. “Look, Miss…”

         “It’s Em—I mean, Rebecca.” Emma stammered, wincing inwardly over her mistake. Maybe he wouldn’t have caught it; he was pretty intent on what he was doing.

         Jack caught her mistake, and filed it away for later. It didn’t matter right now.

         “Well. Rebecca, what’s his name, and how did he come to be shot? You said he saved you?” Jack turned again to his task, peeling back the wrappings she had put on the dog’s injury, noting that she had done a good job. The wound was smooth going in, but the exit wound on the other side was ragged, and he grabbed a pair of clippers to remove the thick fur from around it. He flicked them on, and pulled the light over the table down to shine on the torn flesh. His movements were deft and precise, and Emma’s mind wondered at how such large hands could be so gentle. She tore her gaze from the ragged wound the clippers were revealing and focused on her tale.

         “I was at a truck stop on I-94, just over the border into Montana, when two men attacked me. When I opened the truck door to get away from them, Bridger jumped out and attacked.”

         “How long ago was that?”

         Her befuddled brain thought back, trying to remember.

         “I think around 11 or so, I’m not sure. I’ve been driving for about four hours.” She watched him fill a syringe with a clear fluid, his eyes studying the barrel of the syringe and the little guides marked in black on the side. He removed the needle from the bottle and depressed the plunger on the syringe, releasing air trapped inside. Emma’s sleep-deprived mind took all this in, to his movements as he gave Bridger medication to help him sleep, to the fact that he was standing there shirtless and barefoot, his jeans not even buttoned.

          Jack gave the dog the shot, and then turned back towards her.

         “I need your help. I can’t do surgery without an assistant, and your all I’ve got to help me, ok? Come over here Rebecca and stand beside me.” He spoke strongly to her now, seeing in her pained eyes the need to faint, to give up control. She moved towards him, like a robot with rusty joints, and came to stand next to him.

“Look at me. Have you ever done anything like this before?”

Emma looked up at him and nodded.

“I was a vet tech all though college, and I have—had—a horse ranch. I did a lot of my own medicating and bandaging.”

Hence the exceptional bandaging that she had done. He nodded to her. Without having to be told, she readied his instrument tray while he scrubbed his hands, stopping only to ask him where he kept surgery gowns and his surgical packs. Over the next hour, she stood beside him, watching him operate on her dog, her best friend, and she felt nothing. It was like her brain had shut down every feeling and every reaction so she could cope with what had happened. He talked as he operated, filling her in on the extent of his injury.

“The bullet went in here, see the path? Thankfully it didn’t hit anything vital, or he would have bled out before you even made it here. As it is, he lost a lot, but he seems to be in good shape and he should pull through. The exit wound looks worse than it is, and that’ll need stitches, but the entry wound should close up without them. It wasn’t a large caliber bullet, but neither was it a .22. And you say that these men just attacked you out of nowhere?” Jack asked, hoping to trip her up again. Rapists didn’t act in pairs, and they rarely carried guns, he knew that. Someone was hunting her, but why?

Emma was bone tired, completely exhausted, and she almost told the whole truth, but this time she caught herself before she slipped again.

“Yes. I was coming out of the diner with my food when I heard them come up from behind me.”

Jack grunted. She was only partially telling the truth, and he had experience enough to know when someone was keeping back something. He finished with the stitches and stepped back, stretching his back. Only time would tell now if the dog made it. He had done what he could.

He ignored her as he picked up the dog and laid him gently into a recovery cage, hanging his I.V. from a set of hooks built into the side of the enclosure. He took his gloves off and ran his hand through the thick fur on the dog’s head. “Good boy, you can rest easy now.” he murmured to the sleeping dog, then turned to face the woman.

She was standing by the table still, looking down at the bloody pads and instruments that lay on the table. He couldn’t tell if she was staring at all the blood or focused on something else, but he moved over to the sink again, and stripped off the bloody surgery gown and threw it and the gloves into a bio-can and scrubbed his hands again before grabbing a scrub shirt and throwing it over his naked torso.

When he walked over to her, she turned to him, and the tears he saw in her eyes touched something in him he had long thought dead. He had many grieving owners in his office over the years, but her tears elicited in him a response he didn’t know he was capable of.

He reached up before he knew what he was doing and chased away a tear with the tip of his finger. She leaned into the touch and closed her eyes, ridiculously long lashes fluttering down to lay on the tops of her cheeks. She still had the swath of blood on her right cheek and it was the sight of that that brought him back to his senses. He took a step back from her and watched as her eyes fluttered open, and weariness was replaced by shock.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.” Emma blushed. What had she been doing? Leaning into him like she wanted his comfort, a stranger who was probably just like Tyler. She took another step back, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. She was just so tired, she hadn’t slept in over 30 hours, hadn’t eaten in over 24. That was the last coherent thought she had.

Jack knew as soon as she was going to faint, probably even before she knew it herself. Her pale face went lax and her eyes rolled back and Jack rushed forward to catch her. She slumped in his arms, and he lifted her to his chest, much as he had with her dog. He sighed, and then walked toward the door that led from inside his surgery to the house side. He would come back later and clean up.