He’d felt Cassie’s body relax next to his as she slept.
But now she moved restlessly and gave a broken cry, awakening him.
He called her name, but whatever nightmare had her in its grasp wasn’t ready to let go. “Cassie!” He shook her shoulder urgently, until finally her eyelids fluttered open. “How do you feel?”
She didn’t look at him as she replied, “Fine. Just a dream. I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
He noted the shakiness of her fingers as she pushed them through her hair. “What’s it about?”
“Murder.”
“Whose murder?”
She looked at him, and her eyes held horror in their depths. “Mine.”
In Sight of the Enemy
Kylie Brant
For Jordan, who thinks he’s suffered greatly as the “middle child” but has really been spoiled beyond belief! We love you, honey.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks goes to Roxanne Rustand, for her expertise on horses and their behavior, and her unfailing support and friendship; to Vickie Taylor, fellow author, for generously sharing her experience and knowledge of the eastern Texas forests; and to my buddy, Paul Leavens, Director of Emergency Services, Mason City Mercy Hospital, for being my go-to guy every time I’m under deadline and need to shoot someone! I appreciate everyone’s help more than I can say. Any mistakes in accuracy are the sole responsibility of the author.
KYLIE BRANT
lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning-disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.
An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings. She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.
She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at [email protected]. Her Web site address is www.kyliebrant.com.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
July
Cassie Donovan was dreaming of murder.
The familiar nightmare dragged her in, clutched her in its vicious grip, making escape impossible.
It was a familiar scene, one she’d experienced repeatedly throughout her life. Each time it was replayed for its audience of one with the same setting, the same characters. But rather than dulling its horror, repetition had honed it like a sharp blade.
The dark-haired woman in the room is packing quickly, frantically. Someone had painstakingly reproduced nineteenth-century splendor in the bedroom, but the panic in her movements is in marked contrast to the antiquated charm of her surroundings. Her yellow ruffled sundress flutters as she moves from dresser to suitcase, dropping a jumble of clothes into it. And then she looks up, an expression of terror on her face, listening to a sound that only she can hear. The lid to the suitcase is slammed shut, the locks engaged and the woman straightens, spine stiff with resolve or fear for the as yet unseen threat.
Cassie moved in the bed restlessly, her subconscious searching for means of escape. But there would be no avoiding the inevitable conclusion. Not for the woman in the bed. Not for the one in the dream.
She sends a quick look toward the half-closed closet door before grabbing the suitcase, carrying it down the hallway to a living room. A man clad in dark trousers and white shirt is already there. Slowly he rolls up his sleeves, first one, then the other. And though the woman lifts her chin, nerves show in the way her fingers tighten around the handle of the suitcase.
“Where are they?”
She doesn’t back down in the face of his angry demand, although she has to be aware of the menace in it.
The pretty Tiffany lamp, with the delicate wisteria winding about the shade, is picked up, sails across the room. When the woman ducks, it shatters against the wall, shards of colored glass spraying like tiny missiles. And then the man lunges, diving for her and the woman dodges, dropping the suitcase. He catches the fabric of her dress, yanks her to the couch and his balled fist smashes into her face.
“Where are they?”
The words are uttered in an enraged roar, the blows raining down fierce and punishing. The woman fights, almost breaks free, but his hands go to her throat and squeeze. She claws at them in an attempt to loosen his grip, but his fingers tighten as reason recedes and temper takes over. Her struggles grow weaker, until finally her hands drop away, one palm facing upward in a silent supplication. And then there’s no sound in the room but the harsh breathing of the man above her, his guttural furious cry.
Cassie gasped for air, her eyes flying open. She was only half-aware that she was on the floor, beside the bed, one hand flung up in a macabre reflection of the woman’s position in the dream. For the next few seconds she concentrated on the simple act of hauling air into oxygen-starved lungs.
She rose awkwardly, then stumbled toward the window. The moon was hanging fat and full in the diamond-studded sky, but the sight failed to soothe her as it usually did. The aftereffects of the nightmare still prickled her skin, and she rubbed her arms to chase away the lingering chill.
The dream had come often enough over the years that it was etched in her memory like acid on glass. If she wanted to, she could call up every tiny detail. The decorative vase on the ornate oak dresser in the bedroom, filled with fragrant gardenias. The Tiffany lamp on the table in the living room, with its delicate flowered vines tracing across the shade. The cameo-backed couch, the polished tongue-and-groove wood floor. The terror and resolve of the woman. The horrible intent of the man.
But try as she might, she could never put a face to the murderer.
It wasn’t until she was older that she’d recognized the void and tried to fill it. But each time the dream replayed, she was a helpless spectator. She could see only the back of the man, from the shoulders down; the width of the rooms; the woman engaged in her last violent struggle for life.
But no, that wasn’t quite true either. Because she could “see” one thing that couldn’t be explained by visual acuity. Although the door to the room’s closet was almost closed, she knew there was a little dark-haired boy huddled inside it, a baby’s soft terry toy clutched tightly in his hands. And she recognized that there were two victims in that house. One who would die and another whose end she’d never know.
For