Hitched and Hunted. Paula Graves
He grabbed one end of a broken fireplace mantel and tugged. “They’d hunker down there.”
Jake grabbed the other side of the heavy mantel and helped Don haul it aside.
“Need some help?”
At the sound of a new voice, Jake looked up. A few feet away, a stocky man with black hair and weather-beaten features watched them, drenched by the steady falling drizzle.
“You bet.” Don waved the man in. “I’m Don, this is Jake.”
“Cooper,” Jake supplied. “Jake Cooper.”
“Victor Logan,” the stocky man said with a nod.
“We think there are folks trapped in here,” Jake explained as they reached the part of the house still standing. The walls here sagged but held.
“This should be the bathroom.” Don gestured toward a closed door blocked by the remains of a heavy oak wardrobe.
“We need some sort of leverage,” Victor suggested. “Something to wrap around it to haul it out of the way.”
“I have rope in my garage.” Don lived next door in the house that had sustained no real damage. He headed out.
“We need as much as possible,” Victor called after him.
“I don’t know how we can set up a pulley.” Jake gazed at the cracked remains of the ceiling. The exposed beams overhead didn’t look as if they’d hold up if a bird alighted on them, much less take the weight of the wardrobe.
“If the rope’s long enough, we can wrap it around that tree there and get enough torque to move the armoire out from in front of the door,” Victor said.
Jake gave the man a grateful smile. “You an engineer?”
Victor gave him an odd look. “Sort of. How about you?”
“I’m a fishing guide, here for a tournament at Flint Creek Reservoir this weekend. Guess that’s not going to happen now.”
Don came back carrying an enormous coil of sturdy nylon rope. “Think this will be enough?”
Victor looked at Jake through slightly narrowed eyes before taking the rope. “Tie this end to the armoire, while I wrap the other end around the tree.”
Jake helped Don secure the rope around the heavy wardrobe. “You should stay up here and make sure the armoire doesn’t swing into the wall,” he suggested when the rope was secured. “I’ll help Vic out there pull the rope.”
Don nodded his agreement, looking a little sheepish. He was in his late forties and a little on the heavy side; he was already breathing hard and looking worn out from their exertions. Jake was young and fit, and though Victor was at least ten years older, he looked trim and strong, as if he worked out every day.
Jake joined him at the tree, where he was looping the rope around the oak’s sturdy trunk. “We ready?”
Victor gave a nod. “Don’t let the rope snag on the bark.”
“Here.” Jake took off his windbreaker and wrapped it around the trunk of the oak, tying the arms together to hold it in place and provide a flat, snag-free surface for the rope.
Victor gave him an approving nod and drew the rope across the windbreaker. “On the count of three.”
On three, Jake started pulling his end of the rope, digging his feet into the ground. Two days of rain had softened the lawn, making it hard to stay planted without slipping, but Jake fought for balance and held on. A couple of feet in front of him, Victor grabbed the rope and added his strength.
The rope began moving, slowly but steadily. Within a minute, Jake heard Don call out for them to stop. “It’s out of the way! We’re in!”
Jake ran back into the house. Don had the door open and was staring into what was left of the bathroom. A gaping hole above let in rain and light to illuminate the debris scattered all around the bathroom, including an enormous jagged slab of mirrored wall that had come to rest against the tub.
“Bill, are you in there?” Don called from the doorway.
“We’re okay, I think,” came a man’s voice. “A few broken bones, some cuts and scrapes, but we’re all still kickin’. Just help us get out of here!”
Grinning with relief, Jake looked at Don. “I think the paramedics are all down the road, but the teams at the staging area can reach them by radio—you could go down there and let them know we’re going to need help.”
“I’ll go,” Victor volunteered quickly.
“Okay,” Jake agreed, a little surprised. Victor had seemed intent on helping out here just a few minutes earlier. “Hey, do me a favor—my wife Mariah’s helping out at the staging tent. She’s probably worried about me by now. Can you tell her I’m fine and I’ll be there soon? Mariah Cooper. She’s about five-eight, long black hair, gray eyes, gorgeous—you can’t miss her.”
“Will do,” Victor agreed, an odd light shining in his eyes. He turned and hurried away.
“Ready to do this?” Don asked, waving at the mess in the bathroom trapping the family in the tub.
Jake nodded. Stepping carefully into the mess, he went to work, putting Victor’s strange expression out of his mind.
MARIAH WAS CROUCHED BEHIND the water table, opening a new case of bottled water, when she heard a voice as familiar as a nightmare. She stood quickly, banging her head against the edge of the table so hard she saw stars for a moment.
When her vision cleared, she saw a short, muscular man with midnight-black hair flecked with silver standing in front of one of the emergency dispatch stations, rattling off an address. Her heart fluttered wildly before settling into a gallop.
Victor.
As if she’d spoken the name aloud, Victor Logan turned his head toward her. His black eyes gleamed with predatory excitement. Mariah’s first instinct was to take flight, but she was trapped between the table and the wall of the tent, other volunteers blocking her means of exit. She could do nothing but stand there, like a bird in a snare, while Victor walked the short distance to her table.
He bared his teeth at her in a horrible smile. “So, Marisol. It’s been a while.”
She tried to speak but nothing emerged from her throat.
“I have news of your husband. Quite the hero, your husband. Big, strapping, strong fellow. He asked me to tell you he’s fine.” Victor’s smile widened. “For now.”
Chapter Two
Mariah clutched the edge of the table, her fingertips stinging from the pressure of her grip. She found her voice, though it came out faint and strangled. “What have you done?”
“I told you, he’s fine.” Victor picked up one of the bottles sitting on the table in front of her. He made a show of studying the label.
Mariah stepped backward until she felt the canvas of the tent against her back. “What do you want?”
Victor didn’t answer, twisting the top off the water bottle. He took a long swig, his eyes never leaving hers.
Mariah clenched and unclenched her fists, eyeing him warily, like a cornered mouse watching a very large, very hungry cat. To her right, the volunteer blocking her exit route moved away, leaving her an unexpected opening.
But before she could make a move in that direction, Victor stepped into the gap, reading her intentions.
She’d forgotten how well he knew her.
He screwed the cap back onto the water bottle. “You haven’t told him you were a street whore, have you?”
Though he didn’t speak loudly enough for anyone else to hear him, humiliation poured