Read the book: «A Killing Frost»

Praise for
HANNAH ALEXANDER’s
Hideaway Novels

DOUBLE BLIND

“Native American culture clashes with Christian principles in the freshly original plot.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

GRAVE RISK

“The latest in Alexander’s Hideaway series is filled with mystery and intrigue. Readers familiar with the series will appreciate how the author keeps the characters fresh and appealing.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

FAIR WARNING

“The plot is interesting and the resolution filled with action.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

LAST RESORT

“The third novel in Alexander’s Hideaway romantic suspense series (after the Christy Award–winning Hideaway and Safe Haven ) is a gripping tale with sympathetic characters that will draw readers into its web. The kidnapped Clarissa’s inner dialogue may remind some of Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones. ”

— Library Journal

SAFE HAVEN

“ Safe Haven has an excellent plot. I was hooked from the first page and felt like I was riding a roller coaster until the last. Ms. Alexander’s three protagonists kept my adrenaline racing. But Fawn stole the show—who could resist a sixteen-year-old running for her life? This writer is a crowd pleaser.”

— Rendezvous

HIDEAWAY

“Genuine humor and an interesting cast of characters keep the story perking along…and there are a few surprises…an enjoyable read.”

— Publishers Weekly

A Killing Frost
Hannah Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In loving memory of Don (Teddy) Keebaugh,

a hero in our hometown, whose spirit will live on

through the lives of all the students he inspired.

Acknowledgments

This is an exciting time as we leave Hideaway behind and begin a new series in a new town, new location, new characters. We have received nothing but encouragement from our editor, Joan Marlow Golan, and the talented people who work with her: Krista Stroever, Lee Quarfoot, Megan Lorius, Sarah McDaniel, Maureen Stead, Amy Jones and Diane Mosher. From editing the inside to covering the outside of our novels, we have received top-notch care and professionalism. What an amazing team!

Thanks to our agent, Karen Solem, for her constant challenge for us to dig more deeply.

Thanks to the friends who helped us brainstorm this book on a cold January morning: Colleen and Dave Coble, Nancy Moser, Judy Miller, Rene Gutteridge, Deborah Raney, Doris Elaine Fell, Dan and Steph Higgins (Stephanie Grace Whitson to her many adoring readers).

Thanks to Mom, Lorene Cook, for her constant love, prayers, encouragement and endless promotion for our books.

Thanks to Mother, Vera Overall, whose love for her son and pride in his accomplishments is never-ending.

Thanks to Tim Puchta, of Puchta Winery in Hermann, Missouri, who was a great help to us as we researched last year’s killing frost in wine country along the Missouri River. Any mistakes in this book are not his fault. He’s the expert. We’re simply enthusiasts.

As always, our deepest appreciation goes to God, who has placed the blessing of stories in our lives.

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter One

D oriann Streeter had never been kidnapped before, but if she’d ever tried to imagine what it might be like—which she hadn’t—she’d have been wrong. She would’ve expected to be brave, but right now she couldn’t stop shaking. If she weren’t trying so hard just to breathe, she’d be surprised that she’d never expected anything like this, because she had a good imagination.

Her hands shook as she clenched them in her lap.

What had she done wrong? Why was she stuck inside a stinking, rattly old pickup truck between two dirty people with black beneath their fingernails, who reeked so badly she thought she might puke?

And what if she did puke? It could happen.

She dared a glance at the dirty man’s pocket. It was where he’d stuck her cell phone when it rang. He’d grabbed it, turned it off, shoved it into his pocket with an ugly chuckle, nearly driving the truck into the ditch when he forgot to watch the road.

Some things just never occurred to a girl.

The call had to have been Mom checking up on her. Or Aunt Renee. Please, God, make them worry when I don’t answer. Please!

They knew she always answered her calls, even when she was up to something she knew they didn’t want her to be doing.

She gagged again at the smell that filled the hot cab of the pickup. She had a decision to make. Get sick in the truck and get killed, or ask for some fresh air and get killed.

“Could you open a window or something?” she asked finally, after working up her nerve to speak. She hated the way her voice shook. Not strong, the way she’d always thought she’d sound during a crisis, but scared, like a little kid. She hated that these two loser bullies scared her.

Neither of them said a word.

Doriann crossed her arms, holding them tightly against her stomach.

The windows stayed up.

This was not the time to throw a tantrum the way her cousin Ajay would do.

She dared a glance to her right at the skinny woman called Deb, who had teeth missing.

Maybe it was better that these two bullies didn’t listen to her. If they saw her as a threat, then she’d be tied up and thrown into the back of the truck. But since she was just a kid to them—as if an eleven-year-old who’d already graduated from her trainer bra and had a 153 IQ could possibly be considered just a kid—they figured they could handle her between the two of them.

Doriann’s face still stung from the slaps the woman had given her for screaming. Tears had dried on Doriann’s face. The farther the dirty man drove from Kansas City, the faster the tears had come for a while. She’d even been afraid to ask for a tissue, so she’d had to wipe her nose on the sleeve of her jacket.

Can’t panic. Don’t let them see how scared you are. Think of something else.

Deb’s teeth, maybe. Deb was a stupid name for a kidnapper. Deborah was a name from the Bible, a judge and prophetess in the Old Testament. Deborah was Mom’s hero, because she “held a position of honor in a world that honored only men.”

Good thing Judge Deborah was in heaven now. She didn’t need to know how her nickname was being besmirched down here in Missouri.

Besmirched? Yes, that was the word.

They passed a road sign on I-70, and Doriann felt her eyes go buggy. Could that be right? Hadn’t they just left Kansas City less than an hour ago? According to the sign, they were almost to Columbia. Halfway across Missouri. She knew this road well, because she traveled it with Mom and Dad whenever they went to River Dance to visit Grandpa and Grandma Mercer—which was never often enough for Doriann.

But if that sign was right, that meant they’d been on the road for two hours!

How could that be? During homeschool study hour, Aunt Renee always said that time crept by when a person was in a state of high stress, so if Doriann and her cousins would just relax and be quiet, they could complete their lessons in half the time, then go out and play.

This wasn’t right, because time was passing way too fast, and if Doriann was any more stressed, this stinky cloth seat would be drenched with her pee.

Maybe she was in the middle of a bad dream.

The road blurred, and Doriann blinked. She couldn’t cry again. The woman and the man called Clancy might enjoy it. They were the kind of people who probably liked to make kids cry. Clancy would laugh at Doriann’s tears, and Deb was probably waiting for a reason to slap her again.

And so, as they drove past the sign for Columbia, Doriann counted billboards and reworded them to make them rhyme, and added the mileage in her head, while taking slow, steady breaths until her vision cleared.

They’d just passed the exit to Columbia Regional Hospital, leaving the city behind, when the corroded old scanner in the truck’s open glove compartment hissed and spat, and then a tinny male voice said, “We have report of a…pft…pft…pft…male and female, possible hostage situation…pft…last seen two hours ago in the vicinity of Swope Park, possibly headed east on I-70…pft…pft…pedestrian reported seeing a child being forced into the pickup—”

“That would be me,” Doriann said, voice wobbling like a baby’s. “You should let me—”

Deb slapped a dirty hand over Doriann’s mouth. Hard. “Shut up!”

Doriann blinked to keep the tears from falling. She breathed slowly. Tried to stay calm. Not panic. Who’d have thought it would be so hard?

“…pft…FBI’s most wanted couple…at least six already dead…possible sighting at a convenience mart at exit…pft…could be en route toward St. Louis.”

“Six.” Clancy spat on the floor.

Doriann grimaced in spite of her fear. Eeww!

“People can’t even do their job right. The count’s at least nine. No, wait, that’s eleven.”

Deb took her hand from Doriann’s mouth and reached across her to smack the man on the side of the head. “Didn’t I tell you not to grab the brat?” Her voice sounded like the crackle of a campfire built with green cedar branches. “And I told you not to stop for gas along the interstate!”

Doriann nodded. That was right. Deb had told him. But Clancy seemed to be the kind of person who did exactly what he was told not to do.

“What was I supposed to do, let the truck run out of gas?”

“You could’ve taken an exit and found a place out of sight of cruising Feds, but, no, you had to park right out in plain sight, where anybody watching for us—”

“Everybody’s watching for us!” His voice clattered like a chain saw in the truck cab, making Doriann wish she could disappear into the seat cushion. “It doesn’t matter where we are, they’re after us!”

Doriann held her breath as Clancy’s fingers turned white on the steering wheel. She peered sideways at him, though trying to appear as if she wasn’t. His lips disappeared in a red streak, and his eyes narrowed to the point Doriann wondered if he could see the road. She knew that look. Her cousin Ajay looked the same way just before one of his screaming fits.

“I’m making you famous.” He spat the words at Deb as if he was shooting bullets.

“Being on the FBI’s Most Wanted list isn’t my idea of fame,” Deb snapped back.

He cut a look at her. Would he punch her in the stomach again? He’d already done it once, when they’d stopped for gas. Doriann braced herself.

He held his cold stare on Deb, as if his eyes controlled a razor blade. And then, one by one, slowly, his fingers returned to their dirty pink color as he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. His lips regained their shape. He stuck out his jaw, took a deep breath, blew it out—the way Doriann did when her cousins were getting on her last nerve.

“Why didn’t somebody call the police on us sooner?” he asked, sounding almost normal. “We’re heroes, that’s why. Those idiots deserved to die, and people realize it,” he snapped, then muttered, “Bunch of rich thieves who make their living on the backs of the working class. Bloodsucking scum. That’s why this country’s in the state it’s in.”

Doriann stared at the dashboard. So this guy hated rich people.

“Think again!” Deb said. “The callers were probably scared. Or stupid. Or just found out about the search for us. But they called, all right?”

Clancy turned his attention to Doriann, and his eyes narrowed again, but not as if he was mad. It was as though he became a different person all of a sudden. Very weird. Very scary. Doriann couldn’t take a breath.

He patted her leg, leering at her as if she was a banana split with extra nuts and chocolate syrup. “This here’s our little protector. They can’t get to us without coming through her.”

Deb pounded a fist against the passenger door and spat out a stream of words that made Doriann’s eyes bulge, and started her breathing again.

Doriann was proud of her vocabulary, and always tried to use words properly. These didn’t sound like words she’d need to know, but the anger behind them scared her. They were crazy.

Jesus, help me, please! These people are killers, and I know I shouldn’t have lied about being sick and skipped out to the zoo today. Oh, yeah, and I know I shouldn’t have drank coffee after Mom and Dad told me I couldn’t have it. But I was so far ahead in my studies after this weekend, and I was so tired of Danae and Ajay and Coral and the baby all being so noisy at once, and now the coffee’s going right through me, just like Mom said it would…Oh, Jesus, please don’t let these people kill me, and don’t let me wet my pants.

“Got to get off this highway,” Deb snapped. “Now!” She reached in front of Doriann and grabbed the steering wheel.

Doriann wished she had a seat belt; there was no exit. The truck bounced off the road and nearly hit a tree and Doriann closed her eyes and focused on not screaming as her chest bounced against Deb’s arm.

Clancy was going to kill somebody for sure this time.

Doriann thought about home and Mom and Dad and the great work both her parents did at the hospital, and about how Jesus was always with her, and about how she loved her cousins even though they drove her crazy, and about her schoolwork, and the great future Aunt Renee said Doriann would have when she graduated high school early and—

Clancy jerked the wheel hard to the left. Deb’s head hit the window. Doriann screamed.

Chapter Two

O n Monday morning, when Dr. Jama Keith stepped from her ten-year-old Subaru Outback onto the gravel parking lot in front of the brand-new River Dance Clinic, a chorus of birdsong merged with the familiar splash and gurgle of multiple waterfalls. A serenade. Like old friends welcoming her home.

A wave of unexpected hope and longing struck her.

She fought the hope. This would be a temporary stop. An extended one, yes, but temporary. She had to keep that in mind.

Maybe memories would be short for the citizens of River Dance, her tiny, isolated childhood home. Maybe, at least, those memories would be gentle, smoothed over and worn down by time.

“Hey, Dr. Keith!” someone shouted to Jama from across the street.

She turned to see sixteen-year-old Kelly Claybaugh on her way to school. Jama waved and smiled, surprised that she recognized the kid after so many years. And that Kelly had recognized her. And called her “Doctor.” Very cool.

“How’s your great-grandpa?” Jama called to the pretty teenager.

“Still at the nursing home. He said you visit him every time you come to town.”

“I’ll be by to see him in a couple of days.”

“He’d love that!” Kelly said, and Jama guessed by the perky sound of her voice and the bounce in her step that the girl must be a cheerleader at River Dance High. Her great-grandfather, Ted Claybaugh, former teacher and football coach, must be proud.

Jama was an hour early. She needed time to adjust before putting on her professional face for the new director.

River Dance, population eight hundred and thirteen, was a picturesque town built into the hillside above the northern bank of the Missouri River. The location’s charm and beauty drew tourists in spite of the remoteness from more commercial river towns such as Washington and Hermann and the state capital, Jefferson City.

River Dance had inspired more than one calendar company to feature the quaint, restored homes, gift shops, waterfalls, gardens and vineyards. The new clinic was within sight of two rivers, if one could catch a view through the trees. The scent of pine needles wafted over Jama, along with the moist perfume of fresh water and rich, freshly tilled soil.

The whisper of the wind in the treetops harmonized with the mad waterfall rush of the rocky Show-Me River as it danced steeply downhill and into the mighty Missouri. The springlike gentleness of the air belied the weather forecast of a freeze tonight.

Someone honked from the street, and Jama waved instinctively before she recognized Mildred Lewis on her way downtown to her café. Best pies on the riverfront for fifty miles in either direction.

Jama’s new, thick-soled shoes crunched gravel as she strolled to the log building that had recently replaced Charla Dunlap’s sprawling old bed-and-breakfast. To Jama’s joy, the construction crew had managed to preserve five of the seven grape arbors that Charla had so lovingly tended on her property over the years. Grapevines were the lifeblood of this town.

The solid pine porch of the new River Dance Clinic echoed Jama’s footsteps as she strolled past the wooden rockers to one of the multipaned windows and peered inside. The waiting room was well furnished, with tasteful prints on the walls.

She hoped Mayor Eric Thompson had arranged for enough staff to support this place. She grinned to herself. Eric Thompson. Who’d have thought that wild rascal would someday be mayor?

The racket of a loud engine broke the tranquility of wind and water. Jama turned to see a faded blue pickup slide into the parking lot and lurch to a stop barely three feet from her Outback.

She’d have known that farm truck anywhere—she ought to, she’d learned to drive in it. And the brawny sixty-year-old rancher inside had been her teacher out on the dirt tracks that crisscrossed the vast Mercer Ranch.

“Monty?” Jama rushed down the wheelchair ramp at the side of the porch and approached the truck as Monty Mercer slowly opened the door to the sound of protesting metal.

Though Monty’s short beard had aged from black to salt-and-pepper over the years, the big, strapping rancher had barely a touch of silver at his temples. “How’s my favorite blonde?”

“Nervous.” She stepped into his arms and hugged his weathered neck.

He patted her back instead of giving her his usual, bone-cracking bear hug. “First-day jitters?”

“Just settling in.”

“This is what you’ve been preparing for all these years. Kinda scary, huh?”

“Kinda.” What an understatement.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s up, kid?”

“Aren’t you still a city council member?”

He nodded.

“So you met Dr. Lawrence?”

“Can’t say that I did. She’s apparently a friend of the mayor’s, and he did most of the footwork on that one. Her credentials are in order, and she is well suited to the town’s seclusion. Eric said she’ll be driving back and forth from Hermann until a rental opens up in River Dance. You talked to her?”

Jama hesitated. “On the phone. Twice.” The woman had been curt to the point of rudeness, which boded ill for a comfortable working relationship.

Did Monty realize, knowing Jama so well, that she had already decided she would chafe under the leadership of Dr. Lawrence?

“You’ll be fine with her,” he said.

Yep, he’d realized it.

“Give it a chance.”

Jama glanced up at him. Okay, reading her so well, did he also know about her recent drama with his son? Had Tyrell said anything to him?

And did Monty understand her trepidation over returning to a place where everyone was aware of all her past sins?

Or at least most of them.

Monty kept a heavy arm over her shoulders as he turned to walk with her toward the building. “Got any keys to this place yet?”

“Nope. Dr. Lawrence is supposed to show up before nine, but I…thought I’d come early. This is the first time I’ve seen the building all completed and ready to go.”

Monty released her and sank slowly onto one of the wooden rockers on the front porch with a muffled groan.

She eyed him critically. “Been working too many hours again?”

“Something like that.”

“I know you’re a hunk in top form, but even you have your limits, and—”

“And I’m not getting any younger,” he muttered, without the dry humor that typically laced his tone. “The latest studies show that people who remain active throughout their lives will—”

“I know, I know, but I’m just saying—”

“We’d hoped you’d stay with us at the ranch last night, maybe even agree to lodge with us for a while. Do you know Fran hasn’t seen you in at least a month? And you haven’t returned her last two calls. She’s reminded me about that at least twice in the past twenty-four hours. She’s eager to see you.”

Jama sat in the other rocker and allowed the motion to help calm her as she listened to the sound of wood gently moving against wood. “Sorry. My housemates decided to throw a party for me last night, so I stayed in Columbia and drove here this morning.”

“And the calls?”

“Sorry about that, too. It’s been a hectic few days, settling my affairs at the hospital, trying to find someone to sublet my share of the house in Columbia, staying—”

“Staying away from Tyrell.” Monty gave Jama a look. “He’s at the ranch now, you know.”

Her rocking motion stopped. “He’s back in River Dance already?”

Monty rested his head against the pine rocker, closing his eyes to the early-morning sun. “He’s staying in the apartment over the garage. He’s ready to shove all kinds of new ranching ideas down my throat.”

“He told me a few weeks ago that you’d already purchased that new tractor he showed you.”

“I didn’t say I disagreed with his ideas.” Monty opened his eyes and fixed his attention on Jama again. “What’s going on with you two? Last we saw of him, we were sure he would pop the question.”

Jama studied the wooden floor of the porch, but she didn’t see wood grain; she was seeing Tyrell’s face, the light of love in his dark blue eyes. She heard his voice so clearly telling her that he wanted her in his life for as long as he lived. He’d asked her to marry him.

How could it all have gone so wrong? A dream she had nurtured for so many years finally coming true, and she’d been unable to embrace it.

And when she looked up at Tyrell’s father before her, she felt the throbbing ache inside.

“Is that why you came this morning?” she asked Monty. “To heal the breach?”

“At least you admit there’s a breach,” he said. “Tyrell won’t admit that much. All his mother and I know is that he’s changed. He’s not his usual, cheerful—” Monty grimaced, and his face whitened.

“Monty?”

He held a hand up and gave a brief shake of the head.

“Seriously, what’s up with you? Did you pull a muscle or something?”

“I’m not feeling the best, okay?” As he said the words, Jama spotted a streak of blood seeping through the blue sleeve of his chambray shirt.

She sprang from her chair and dropped to her knees beside him. “What happened?” She reached for his arm.

“Had a little accident with a ladder out behind the barn.”

“You fell from the ladder? And you didn’t tell me about it immediately?”

“It wasn’t at the top of my list.”

“I’m a doctor now, remember? We need to see to this.” Jama unbuttoned his sleeve.

“Think that director of yours will be here any time soon?”

Jama slid his sleeve up. “I’m not sure, but I’ll call and find out. Tell me exactly where you’re hurting. How did you land?”

“Think I might’ve busted a rib or two.” He grimaced again.

Jama saw a superficial cut on his wrist. The arm didn’t appear to be broken, but she would delay judgment about that until she had an X-ray. “Why didn’t you say something when you got here?”

“I wanted to meddle in your life while I had the chance, before you could pull out the doctor’s bag.”

“You can meddle as soon as we get you taken care of.”

“Promise?”

“Sure, whatever. First, I’ve got to get you inside. Sit tight.” She clipped her Bluetooth to her ear and punched in the new director’s number on her cell phone. She hadn’t bothered to incorporate the voice recognition for Dr. Lawrence’s name, because she had, without doubt, subconsciously hoped that somehow the director would just go away before the need arose to connect with her again. The woman was as cold as a well digger’s—

“How far did you fall?” Jama asked as she waited for Dr. Lawrence to answer the call.

Monty looked up at her, his face a frightening gray. The director picked up the call just as Monty slumped over, unconscious.

“Monty!”

Chapter Three

J ama felt for a pulse at Monty Mercer’s throat and watched the rise and fall of his chest. “Dr. Lawrence,” she said into her earpiece, “this is Dr. Jama Keith. I’ve arrived early at the clinic, and I have a patient on the front porch who just lost consciousness.”

“Call an ambulance.” The clipped voice of Dr. Ruth Lawrence had not grown warmer since the last time Jama had heard it. “We aren’t open for business.”

“I can take care of him if I can get him inside. We do have supplies, don’t we?” Jama gave what vitals she could. “Where can I get a key? And when is the staff due?”

“I’m at least thirty minutes out, and no one else is scheduled to be there. Either get a key from the mayor or get the patient to the closest facility. That would be Jefferson City or Fulton.”

“I know that,” Jama snapped.

“I highly advise transfer.” No emotion. Not irritation at Jama’s shortness. Not concern. Nothing.

“I’ll call the mayor for a key.” Jama clicked off, then spoke the mayor’s name into her Bluetooth. Why was no staff scheduled to arrive?

With one call, Jama discovered Eric Thompson was out of town for a meeting and wouldn’t be back until later in the morning. She dug her only credit card out of her purse, doubting she could jimmy the lock as easily as she had at the high-school gymnasium on her graduation night. If this failed, she’d break a window.

“Hang on, Monty. I’ll take care of you.” She placed another call as she knelt before the front door and slid the card between the door and the jamb.

A deep male voice sounded in her ear. “Jama? Are you at the clinic yet? What’s up?” Caller ID.

“Hi, Tyrell, where are you?” She was surprised by the relief she felt.

“Getting the Durango serviced down at Joe’s.”

Good. That was only a few blocks away. He could walk from there. Or run. “I need you to come to the clinic. Your dad’s been injured.”

“What happened?”

“He fell.”

“I’m on my way.”

She closed her eyes, allowing herself a few seconds of comfort…followed by regret.

By the time Jama had the clinic’s front door open—Mayor Eric Thompson was welcome to withhold the cost of the broken window from her first paycheck—a crowd of two men, a woman and two children had noticed the activity and now clamored to help. They moved Monty into the clinic and settled him on a bed in the first treatment room.

They continued to hover while Jama ran from room to room, looking through cabinets for supplies to stop the bleeding and assess the damage, slamming doors and tripping over equipment. Where was the EKG machine?

“What can we do, Dr. Keith?” Harold Kaiser, the local grocer, had known Jama since she was a toddler. Her new title sounded odd on his lips. “Just tell us and we’ll do it.”

“Sure thing,” said Carol Saffer, the town postmaster. “I had some first-aid training a couple of years ago.”

Jama grimaced. Sweethearts, both of them, but she needed somebody who really knew how to help. “Hey, guys, doesn’t Zelda Benedict still live across the street?”

“Sure does,” Harold said. He and Carol often competed over which of them knew more citizens of River Dance, and who knew them better. “She walks three miles on the Katy Trail every morning she doesn’t work, then smells up the neighborhood every night before bed when she sits on her front porch and smokes her cigar, if she doesn’t have a night shift.”

Some things never changed. “Would somebody run across the street to see if she’s back from her walk?” Jama asked. Though Zelda was retired from her job as an RN at the nursing home, she had recently told Jama she still did part-time nursing.

To Jama’s great relief, just as she found the EKG machine behind door number three in the largest treatment room, all the would-be helpers were scrambling out the clinic entrance to search for Zelda.

Monty’s eyes opened when Jama began to attach the leads from the machine to his chest. He looked around the room, grimaced and tried to sit up.

“Don’t you dare move.” She pressed him back. “I’ve got work to do, and you’re hindering me. You don’t want me to look bad my first day on the job, because I will make you pay.”

He studied her a moment, then relaxed as well as any man could relax when he’d been stripped half-naked and attached to wires by a woman who’d once been a child he’d helped raise. “Did I bleed all over that nice, clean front porch?”

“I wouldn’t know, but you can help pay for the window I broke to get you in here.”

His answering grin was more of a contortion of the face. “Did this on purpose, you know. Wanted to break you in right as soon as you arrived here.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t fall from the ladder, you jumped.”

“That’s got to be it. I’ve climbed plenty of ladders. Never fallen before.”

“So what happened this time? Did a rung break? Did the ground shift under the—” The lines on the EKG machine caught her attention.

“Monty, you said you thought you might have busted a rib or two.”

“Chest hurts.”

She swallowed and tried to keep her breathing even. “Did it hurt before you fell off the ladder?”

He paused. “I’m not sure, but it might have.”

“Think about it. This is important.”

“Why?”

“It’ll give me a better idea about the source of your pain.” She searched through the cabinets for IV supplies and fluids while she punched in the preprogrammed number on her cell phone for the airlift service for St. Mary’s Hospital in Jefferson City. She would need a blood thinner and other meds…“Where was that pain located?”

He pointed to the middle of his chest.

When the line connected, Jama requested a helicopter, explained the situation and location. The emergency personnel would have to land in the parking lot of the winery, the only large, paved surface in River Dance. The gravel on the clinic lot would spray in every direction if the chopper landed here. Jama needed help to make sure the winery lot was cleared. This early in the morning, it should be empty except for employee vehicles.

She disconnected and returned her attention to Monty. “I’ve checked you over, and can’t appreciate any obvious deformities. There was a lot of blood, but it was superficial. Since I don’t have an X-ray tech, I can’t get a film right now, but, Monty, your EKG shows classic ST elevation. I’m going to establish a large bore IV and—”

“English, Jama.” He was looking gray again.

“Sorry. It looks like you’re having a heart attack. I’ve called for an airlift, but—”

“Somebody need a seventy-six-year-old nurse?” came a screechy shout from the waiting room. Zelda Benedict.

Jama was flooded with relief. That voice, recalled from Jama’s past, brought to mind memories of strength and calm assurance. “In here,” Jama called. “Second room to the left. When’s the last time you established an IV in a patient?”

The tall, slender woman entering the room wore orange jogging shorts that matched her hair, dusty tennis shoes and a light green tank top that matched her eyes. She had a green jacket that matched her tank top, but it was tied by the sleeves around her waist. Zelda Benedict looked closer to fifty than seventy-six.

“I did one yesterday, that recent enough for you?” Zelda peered at the monitor, then clucked her tongue. “Large bore? Tell me where everything is.”

“I can’t. I just got here, myself. We aren’t exactly open for business.”

“You got that right. If you’re the one who broke that glass, the mayor’s gonna tear you a new one.”

“Tear a new one…” Monty mumbled. “That’s it, Jama. That’s how my chest felt.”

Zelda patted his hand. “We’ll get you feeling better. An aspirin, a little heparin, a little trip to the hospital, and you’ll be fixed—”

“Hold it,” Jama said. “Monty, what do you mean? You felt something tearing in your chest when you fell?”

“Felt that way. Something seemed to rip, but I didn’t think much of it—didn’t have time after the fall.”

“So you’re saying you felt this tearing pain in your chest before you fell?”

He nodded.

Jama closed her eyes. She’d heard of bad first days, but this was becoming a nightmare. “Zelda, find the sublingual nitro.”

“Where do I look?”

Jama turned, scanned the glass-doored cabinets and pointed to one. “Try there. And locate the heparin and aspirin, but don’t get them out yet.”

“Why not? If this is a heart—”

“Wait a minute, will you?” How could this be happening, today of all days? Was this punishment from God so many years after the original sins?

Jama checked Monty for neurological deficits and found a decided weakness in his left leg.

Zelda brought the nitro. “Here you go. Now, how about the—”

“Forget the heparin,” Jama said.

The nurse arched a finely drawn eyebrow that matched her hair. “An aspirin, at least?”

“Can’t risk the bleeding.”

“What bleeding?” The question was threaded with the steel of Nurse Zelda’s teacher voice, honed from her years of being nurse director of River Dance Nursing Care. “This arm isn’t bleeding enough to warrant withholding blood thinners.”

“Something about this doesn’t seem to be a simple MI,” Jama said.

“So what is it? We need a diagnosis before we can treat.”

Jama touched Monty’s arm. “The ripping in his chest could be a clue about what caused the MI.”

“Did you call Fran?” Monty asked, eyes closed. Under the harsh, bright lights, his pale, grayish skin and leathered wrinkles from years beneath the sun made him look suddenly aged.

“I called Tyrell. He’s on his way here.”

“Don’t let him bully you.” Monty’s words had begun to slur. “Tell him you’ll take good care of me.”

Jama met Zelda’s inquiring look, and all the years of training fled. She was just Jama Keith again, the girl who tagged after Zelda Benedict at the nursing home like a lost puppy, finding acceptance from the elderly patients she loved, even before she began receiving pay as an aide.

Who was Jama Keith now, standing here making life-and-death decisions for the man who had been her second father? How could she—

“Dr. Keith?” Zelda’s soft green eyes held only respect. “What are your instincts telling you?”

“Dissecting aortic aneurysm. A tear in the wall of the aorta—”

“What do you need for a positive diagnosis?”

“I need to see if he has mediastinal widening, and for that, I need a chest X-ray.”

“You’ve got no tech scheduled?”

Jama shook her head. “As I said, we’re not open yet.”

Zelda’s frown finally showed her age. “Well, folderol. I knew I should’ve taken that course at the university.”

“If we treat him for a classic MI with blood thinners of any kind, and this is a tear in the aorta—”

“I know,” Zelda said. “He could bleed to death.”

“I’ve called for airlift to St. Mary’s.”

“How long do we have?”

Jama looked at the large wall clock. “They should be here in ten minutes.”

“I’ll contact the hospital for an accepting physician.”

“I need someone to clear a landing space for—”

There was another shout from the waiting room—one Jama recognized. For as far back as she could remember, that voice had meant comfort, friendship and much, much more.

And now? Tyrell Mercer’s voice stirred conflicting emotions, but she didn’t have time to deal with anything but Monty.

“There’s our man,” Zelda said with a wink. “Just in time, as always. Go put him to work, and tell him his daddy’s being well cared for by the best doctor and nurse in River Dance.”

Jama rushed to intercept “our man” and fill him in.

Tyrell was in the middle of the large waiting room, his six-foot-three broad-shouldered bulk cutting a swath across the polished wooden floor and area rug toward the treatment rooms.

He stopped when he saw Jama, his expression apprehensive. “What happened?”

Jama felt drawn to his comforting strength. She wanted nothing more than to step into his embrace and let it engulf her. Today, however, she needed to be the strong one.

She stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s his heart.”

Chapter Four

D oriann mustn’t throw up. If she did, Deb would for sure kill her—though nothing could make this truck stink any worse, so it shouldn’t matter to Deb. Doriann tried to focus on the white dotted line in the center of the road, and on the distant hilltops, not the trees that raced past on both sides in a blur of spring green.

Think, Doriann. Got to think! Where are we?

She glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-two miles per hour.

Speedometer…speed. That was what Aunt Renee had been teaching about during Social Studies lessons for the past month. Speed was a nickname for an illegal drug. Doriann would probably know all this stuff so much better if she attended public school and had friends besides her cousins and other homeschooled kids at church.

Mom and Dad always worried about the development of Doriann’s social skills in a homeschooling environment, but they wanted her to be able to learn at her own pace. In public school, she’d be in sixth grade, not ninth. Who would have thought teaching her about illegal drugs might save her life?

If her life got saved.

There was a drug that stank like dirty socks—the way this truck stank—when it was being cooked, and one of the words for it was speed. Methamphetamines. Meth. Crank. It made sense. Had these people been cooking meth? Dopeheads? All kinds of terms for that drug. Missouri outranked every other state in the country for meth lab busts per capita.

Doriann felt that could be a good thing, or a bad thing. If the busts were because the police in Missouri worked harder than police in any other state to find the meth labs, then that was good. But it could also mean there were more meth labs to be busted.

Aunt Renee said that someone on meth would do anything for another fix. Since this truck had nearly turned over when they left the interstate before waiting for an exit ramp, Doriann bet that either these two freaks were crazy or high on something.

Think, Doriann! How do you get out of this mess?

Aunt Renee said more than once that Doriann was the smartest kid she’d ever known. More like a little grown-up than a kid. Of course, Aunt Renee believed in positive reinforcement. But still.

Aunt Renee had made that statement yesterday, right after Doriann had told her cousins a scary story and made Ajay cry. That meant the statement wasn’t being made in a positive way, but to heap on the guilt.

Mom said Aunt Renee was good at guilt trips. Mom should know that about her twin sister.

So if Aunt Renee says I’m a great storyteller, tell Clancy a story. He does everything Deb tells him not to do. He’s a lot like my cousins, and I know how to handle them. What do dopeheads want most in all the world? More dope, right? And what do I want most in all the world? Out of this truck!

Clancy blasted through an intersection without even slowing at the stop sign, or checking for traffic. Had to be scorched on speed. Right?

“You missed the turn,” Deb said. “94. That’s the road that’ll take us to St. Louis.”

Doriann perked up as Clancy stomped the brake with a screech of tires. They were taking Highway 94. Thank you, Jesus! She suddenly felt less like crying. If she could get Clancy to take the exit to River Dance…Uncle Tyrell was there, and Grandpa and Grandma, and even Aunt Jama, who was supposed to start her new job today.

Uncle Tyrell was big and tough and could take on a dinosaur. He wasn’t afraid of anything. And Grandpa wouldn’t let anybody hurt her, over his dead body. But how was a kid supposed to get Clancy to take River Dance Road?

She cleared her throat. “We’re going the wrong way.”

“Shut up,” Deb snapped.

Doriann braced herself to be slapped again. “I’m just warning you, is all.”

Deb didn’t slap her, but she looked as if she was about to.

“I have to warn you about one of the towns we’ll be passing,” Doriann continued. “River Dance. It’s a bad place. W-we don’t want to go there.”

Clancy’s jaw tightened, and he flexed his right arm. “That’s not where we’re headed.”

“This road will take us right past the turnoff to—”

“Why don’t we want to go to River Dance?” Clancy growled.

“Don’t talk to the brat,” Deb said. “Don’t listen, and don’t talk.”

“Why not? If she knows something about this place—”

“She’s a kid, and she doesn’t know anything. Who takes directions from a stupid kid?”

“I might be a stupid kid, but I know somebody who’s been to River Dance, and you don’t.” Doriann braced herself.

Still no slap.

“They have a lot of drugs in that town,” she continued. “That’s always been a problem there.” Her family would kill her for slandering their hometown this way…That was the word, wasn’t it? Slander. Yes. Not libel. Libel was slander in print.

“My friend says it isn’t all bad,” she said. “I mean, there’s this great winery on top of the hill, and there are some cellars below the main building where wine barrels are stored, and some of the high-school kids sneak in and steal some of the wine. And there are old, abandoned farmhouses.”

“So you know this town, huh?” Clancy asked.

Deb wrapped her hand around Doriann’s arm. She squeezed. Hard.

Doriann winced. She realized she’d better be careful. “My friend did…until she moved to Kansas City. My friend used to play in one of those farmhouses until she found out she was in one of the places where drugs are made. Scary people hung out there.” That should get their attention.

“Scarier than me?” Clancy asked with a laugh that blasted his rotten breath through the cab of the truck.

Doriann nearly gagged. “People like you.” She wasn’t going to pretend she thought he was a good guy. “It’s creepy around that town. There are lots of trees along that part of the river. A person could get lost in those woods and never get out.”

That should convince him to turn there. Didn’t he and Deb need to hide from the FBI agents and police? And if they thought they could find drugs in River Dance, why go farther?

“Sounds like a place I might want to visit,” Clancy said.

Doriann slanted a look at Deb, who didn’t look mad at all. Good. She had their attention.

She sank back into her seat, trying not to show her relief. Grandpa, here I come, ready or not.

Doriann watched the trees whiz by, so fast that she was reminded of her mother’s blender concoction of yogurt and green vegetables—an awful drink that made her feel sick just to remember the taste.

Clancy gave her another narrow-eyed look, making her squirm. “So. You think you know your way around this River Dance?”

She kept her eyes on the road—something she wished Clancy would do. “My friend told me all about it.”

“Then you could be our tour guide?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Deb snapped. “Somebody could recognize her.”

“Nobody knows me there.” Doriann figured if she was going to lie, she might as well go all out, as Grandpa would say.

Deb seemed to space out. She blinked, gave Doriann a confused look, closed her eyes as if the day was too bright.

Yep. Meth.

“It sounds like a good place to hide until the heat’s off. Besides—” Clancy rested his hand on Doriann’s leg “—with little Dori here as a guide, we won’t get lost, will we, darlin’?”

Doriann cringed at his touch. “No, but it’s a bad place.” How am I getting out of this truck?

“She’s gotta go,” Deb said. This time she studied Doriann with a sly look of hidden intention that was scarier than slapping or curse words.

“Not till we’re through with her,” Clancy growled.

Doriann swallowed. Through with her? Through doing what with her? And how was she going to “go,” as Deb said? Did she mean they were going to kill her?

“We’re gonna crash soon if we can’t get some stuff,” Deb said. “What are we gonna do with her then? I’m telling you, Clancy, she can’t be here.”

“Wait a minute, will you?” Clancy’s voice shot through the cab with a force that told Doriann there was more where that came from. Violent killer.

And they were talking about what to do with her? She was sorry she’d said anything. Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut?

“We’ll tie her up or lock her in one of those old buildings she’s jabbering about,” he said.

“That’s stupid,” Deb said. “She could get away and we could wake up in jail. Just dump her and leave. And slow the truck down! What if there’s a speed trap? These backcountry roads are known for traps.”

Doriann felt a flare of hope, but then the speedometer needle dropped.

She couldn’t depend on a traffic cop to notice Clancy’s reckless driving and rescue her. She was going to have to think of some way to save herself.