Resisting Pressure (Rhinestone Cowgirls Book 5) (16 page)

Molly held the gun, her hands shaking. “Not if I kill you first.”

“Molly, wait.” Violet climbed over the couch, making her way to the younger woman. “Give me the gun. I’ll take it. You call for help,” Violet pleaded with Molly. She didn’t seem to hear Violet. The young woman stood motionless, gun aimed at a withering, bleeding Charles. “This isn’t the way, Molly. He’s down. He won’t hurt you again. Now let me have the gun and you get help.”

Her bottom lip trembled and seconds ticked by. Charles was definitely crying now as he lay in a spreading puddle of his own blood. “You better kill me, you rotten cunt. I’ll get you and when I do, I’ll be the one holding the gun.”

Violet touched Molly’s hand. “Think of your son. Don’t let his father ruin you.”

Molly lowered her hands, sticking out the gun for Violet to take. Once she had it safe in her grip, she sighed in relief. “Go on and get Sam, then get help. I’ll stay and make sure Charles doesn’t go anywhere.”

Molly backed toward the door as if she was scared that Charles would run after her. Once she was ten feet away, she turned and ran.

“This isn’t the end, whore!” Charles barked.

Violet turned her gaze on him, anger undulating through her. “Best keep your mouth shut.”

“I knew that bitch wife of mine couldn’t kill me.” He cackled.

“Who are you kidding? She’s just a bad shot. Me though, I shoot guns as a hobby and I’m known to never miss my target.” She held the gun aimed at him, grateful that she was steady. Seconds later she heard loud footsteps followed by heavy breathing.

“Violet?”

It was Keefer. He was behind her. She’d never known any better relief. “I caught an intruder.”

“Yes you did. Molly is calling the police.” He then stepped beside her. “He ain’t going anywhere now.” Keefer went to Charles and kicked the knife out of his hand, sending it sliding underneath the couch. He grabbed the man up, practically lifting him off his feet. “Good thing I didn’t get to you first,” Keefer muttered in his ear.

****

Keefer watched as the ambulance loaded Peterson on the gurney into the back of the ambulance. He was handcuffed and the Sheriff was standing close by. Keefer was sitting with Violet on the steps and Molly was holding Sam near the driveway and Cal was beside her.

“I’m an idiot,” Keefer whispered.

Violet looked at him. “Why?”

“Because in those few minutes that it took me to get to the house once I heard the gun blast, I realized if something happened to you I’d never be the same. I was watching for the bastard, but apparently he snuck in from the woods.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “I’m okay. Nothing happened.”

“Still doesn’t change the fact that I’m head over heels in love with you.”

“You’re not just saying that because you’re still reeling from an adrenaline rush?”

“I’m saying it because I can’t imagine living life without you. I’ll give you as much time as you need.”

She turned and laid her palm on his arm. “I need ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds?” He lifted a brow.

“To tell you that I don’t need any more time. I need you—I need us. I want us to move forward, together. Life is too short to not take a risk when love is knocking at your door. I want to take that jump, holding your hand. Now did I go over ten seconds?”

“I haven’t heard better words. I want to share everything with you, especially that pretty view on K&V Ranch.”

“K&V Ranch? When do you—wait…what are you saying?” Her eyes twinkled.

“I bought the sign this morning. Keefer and Violet. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” He laughed.

“You’re a little presumptuous, aren’t you?” Her voice shook.

“Love makes a man silly. I would never give up on you or the hope that we have a future. I guess I could have been the happiest man alive or the dumbest.”

She laughed. His gut clenched and then she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Definitely happy,” she whispered.

THE END

From the author: 

Thank you for reading. Please leave a review and let others know your thoughts.  Like my author page. http://www.amazon.com/Rhonda-LeeCarver/ 

Hugs, 

Rhonda Lee Carver  “Writing Men Who Love to Get Their Hands Dirty…”

At an early age, Rhonda fell in love with romance novels, knowing one day she’d write her own love story. Life took a short detour, but when the story ideas were no longer contained, she decided to dive in and write. Her first plot was on a dirty napkin she found buried in her car. Eventually, she ran out of napkins. With baby on one hip and laptop on the other, she made a dream into reality—one word at a time. 

Her specialty is men who love to get their hands dirty and women who are smart, strong and flawed. She loves writing about the everyday hero. 

When Rhonda isn't crafting sizzling manuscripts, you will find her busy editing novels, blogging, juggling kids and animals (too many to name), dreaming of a beach house and keeping romance alive. Oh, and drinking lots of coffee to keep up with her hero and heroine. 

For other titles by Rhonda Lee Carver, please visit: www.rhondaleecarver.com Find me on Facebook, too! www.facebook.com/rhondalee.carver 

Other books by Rhonda Lee Carver 

Diamond in a Rose

Double Dare

Delaney’s Sunrise

Second Chance Cowboy (Book 1, Second Chance Series)

Second Ride Cowboy (Book 2, Second Chance Series)

Second Round Cowboy (Book 3, Second Chance Series)

Second Dance Cowboy (Book 4, Second Chance Series)

Second Song Cowboy (Book 5, Second Chance Series)

Second Burn Cowboy (Book 6, Second Chance Series)

Second Hope Cowboy (Book 7, Second Chance Series)

Second Sunrise Cowboy (Book 8, Second Chance Cowboy Series)

Castle’s Fortress

Dreaming Ivy

Friends With Benefits

Sin With Cuffs

With Honor

Wicked Pleasures (Book 1, Wicked Wolves Series)

Wicked Lust (Book 2, Wicked Wolves Series)

Fighting Flames

UNDER PRESSURE (Book 1, Rhinestone Cowgirls)

PRESSURE RISING (Book 2, Rhinestone Cowgirls)

PRESSURE POINT (Book 3, Rhinestone Cowgirls)

SECRET PRESSURE (Book 4, Rhinestone Cowgirls)

Under the Mistletoe

Cowboy Paradise (Cowboys of Nirvana)

Leather for Two, Wings of Steel MC      

Have you read UNEXPECTED HERO?

Here’s the Prologue as a gift to you.

BUY LINK: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=rhonda+lee+carver

Prologue

Grace Atwell looked through the rain-splattered windshield onto the busy street of Atlanta. The tall buildings and lights could be seen in the distance, but the shapes were distorted.

She blew a circle of warm breath on the side window, then wiped away the moisture with her palm as Trace passed in front of the car. He stepped onto the sidewalk and waved, making a funny fish face. She laughed at his humor. He continued on his way and she tracked his blurred movements. He stopped at the post office box on the corner, pulled out a stack of envelopes from inside his jacket pocket and dropped them into the slot. Trace gave her one last glance and a smile before he headed toward the store where a flashing neon sign boasted cheap cigarettes. She hoped that’s not what he was grabbing, but she realized weeks ago that he’d taken up the habit again after being smoke-free for almost two years. She’d caught on to the subtle hints—especially his disappearing acts after dinner and his empty mint wrappers lying all over his desk.

He went inside and she thrummed her fingers on the door along to a Pat Benatar song playing on the radio.

She hoped her husband didn’t stop and chat with everyone who crossed his path. He enjoyed meeting new people, and mostly she found his outgoing nature a positive trait, but on occasion his chattiness got him into trouble with time management. If she complained he would tell her, “That’s why we get along so well. My extroverted nature balances your introverted personality.” What her husband didn’t know, once upon a time she was extroverted, but there just wasn’t enough room in the spotlight for the both of them. It wasn’t his fault he commanded attention everywhere he went. Six foot, two hundred pounds of solid muscle and dashing cornflower blue eyes, she didn’t blame anyone for staring.

Blowing a long breath through one corner of her lips, she leaned her head back onto the headrest as excitement bubbled up inside of her chest. They needed this time, alone, to recharge their relationship and to get away from Buttermilk Valley, a town of less than three-thousand people who knew everything about everyone’s business. When she found out Trace had planned a long weekend in the city to celebrate her birthday, she’d jumped into his arms and kissed every available space on his face. She’d expected another birthday spent at home where she would cook her own birthday dinner, and cake, for close family and friends, then top the night off cleaning up the mess that always took her longer than the entirety of the celebration.

Trace had changed it up for her and tonight’s entertainment included a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant, one that didn’t have chicken nuggets on the menu and a drive-thru window, and tickets to the theater. If Trace hurried and grabbed whatever he needed from the market, they might make their dinner reservations.

The last time they got away just happened to be on their honeymoon in Jamaica—what seemed like centuries ago, not that she counted the time—well, maybe she did. Five years, three days and two hours.

Everyone needed a change of scenery on occasion, and she loved Atlanta. Born and raised here, she didn’t get enough chances to visit. Coming back to her old stomping grounds gave her purpose, reminding her of a blissful childhood with a loving mother and a father who provided her with love and opportunities. Grace and her sister, Sophie, would share stories of growing up, but the best memories were the summers at the cabin by the lake.  She met her first boyfriend there—broke up for the first time too. Met lots of friends and found a deep, abiding love for nature. That’s what she wanted for Daxton—great family memories.

Grace had finished college, met Trace right after, and her life had taken on a whole different spin, quite different than she’d planned. They’d had their son, Daxton, soon after they married and Trace had started his ministry. Countless days and evenings were spent at home alone with Daxton or at the church where a pastor wife’s presence was important.

Nothing had really changed in the last five years. These days, Trace spent more and more time helping others than spending time with his son, or with her. There was only so much understanding one could muster and she was expected to have triple the patience of the average human.

Loving her husband, she’d managed to paint rainbows on turds.

Her husband had a church full of people who loved him too, but at times she felt like the members got more of him than she did. He was a busy man, always doing good deeds and helping others. But a woman had needs too, parts which desired her man’s attention, and she’d lost count of the dry spells her body had suffered over the last several years.

Daxton kept her busy too. He was a typical five year old who liked getting his hands dirty and exploring everything around him—sometimes to a fault. At three, he climbed a tree and fell, breaking his arm. At four, he wrecked his bike into a barbed wire fence and now the scar across his cheek was a reminder of that day she’d carried him, blood soaking her white sundress, into the emergency room screaming hysterically for assistance. A mother was allowed to lose her head when her baby was hurt. Ten stitches later, he was eating ice cream and her nerves had finally relaxed.

A roll of thunder brought her chin up and she looked through the window. The rain came down harder and lightning flashed, illuminating the sidewalk. Mother Nature could bring what she wanted, tonight would be special. Grace would enjoy every second until they had to return home and take up reality again.

The car’s digital clock reminded her that if Trace didn’t hurry, they’d be late for dinner.

The air was getting moist and the windows were clouded. She turned the dial on the AC to high and a blast of cold rushed over her face. Pushing the seek button on the radio, she stopped at a familiar country song. She sang along to the catchy tune—the only time she allowed herself the pleasure was when she couldn’t be overheard.

The song ended…another started. This time about an angry woman taking a baseball bat to the headlights of her ex’s truck. She switched the station, settling on a talk show.

Digging into her purse, she pulled out her cell phone. No messages or missed calls. Daxton was with his grandmother and, knowing her, she was spoiling him rotten with ice cream and cookies.

Pop! Pop, pop, pop!

She sat upright in her seat, her phone dropped from her hand and landed at her feet. Turning off the radio, she listened closer, wondering if she’d imagined the popping, like firecrackers. The fourth of July had passed. Who would be lighting fireworks in the middle of August? In the middle of the city?

Horns beeped and a truck’s engine hummed. Nothing unusual.

A scream ripped through the night. Grace jumped, her heart picked up speed and her cheeks burned as she twisted in her seat, looking up and down the sidewalk. Her breath fogged the window and with trembling fingers, she wiped the mist from the glass, staring through the distorted shadows. Lightening lit the black sky, yet giving her little visibility. Lowering the window, the cool rain splashed her skin, but didn’t ease the heat burning her insides. Her breathing grew louder in her ears as she curiously watched and waited, looking for any sign of her husband coming back.

The sidewalk was eerily empty, yet a crowd had gathered in the doorway of the market.

Staring so intently, she didn’t realize the shadows on the sidewalk moved until the person, dressed in all black, was within a few feet of her door.  A squeal barreled up her throat and she quickly covered her mouth to block the sound, jerking back into the leather seat. Her heart pounded so hard, so fast, she wondered if it would burst out of her chest. The dark frame was broad and intimidating…a man—taller and heavier than Trace. A toboggan was pulled low on his forehead and she couldn’t make out his face. Something shiny glinted in his hand, and he raised it. Was it a gun? A knife?

Did this person mean her harm?

Holding her breath, she waited, seeing Daxton’s innocent face flash before her. Who would take care of him? Would her son remember how much she loved him?

Heavy footsteps pounded the cement. Could it be Trace?

The man in black backed up. She knew without seeing that he was staring at her. She squirmed away from the window, her breath catching in her aching lungs. Goosebumps prickled her flesh and the soft hairs at her nape lifted. With shaking fingers, she pushed the lock button on her door and the loud click echoed in the small space. Little good it would do when the window was down.

He took another step deeper into the shadows as the activity from down the sidewalk grew louder. She wanted to look but was afraid to take her attention off the man. Seconds passed until he turned and ran into the alley. She dragged in a ragged breath, forcing her lungs to work again.

Dread climbed her spine, making her head woozy. Something terrible was wrong, she could feel it in her bones—in her heart. The loud noise she’d heard wasn’t fireworks, but the sound of a gun being fired. Had the man in black shot someone?

Pulling the handle, she pushed open her door as several passersby raced by. She heard someone yell out, “Call 9-1-1!”

A blast of summer heat mingled with the fresh scent of rain, smothering her, making her legs weak. Beads of water splattered her face, not giving any relief from the scorching sensation traveling through her limbs. Her senses were heightened. A strong smell burnt her nostrils—an odd odor she’d never smelled before. Gun smoke? She barely registered the people rushing by her, pushing her. Her heels clomped loudly on the cement of the broken sidewalk as she blindly followed her husband’s earlier path. A loud whirling splintered the air. Sirens were now heard a few blocks away.

Time seemed to go into warp speed. She concentrated on her breathing and each step she took, taking her closer to the mob in front of the store. She knew she was walking, but it seemed like she wasn’t reaching the corner. Once there, she stood outside of the throng. “Excuse me.”

No one moved.

With the force of adrenaline, she pushed her way through several people until she finally reached the open glass door leading into the store.

A pool of blood looked stark against the floor.

Shoes. Polished loafers. Trace’s favorites.

Another scream broke through the eerie darkness.

She realized it came from her…