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She yanked the crisper drawer out of the fridge and dumped the contents into the kitchen garbage, squirted a healthy dose of dishwashing soap into the now empty, but still reeking, drawer and filled it with water. A quick scrub in the morning and it would be as good as new. The kitchen, however, would smell like a toxic dumpsite if she didn’t get the trash bag into the outdoor container.
Bracing herself for the October night’s chill, she dashed out the back door and made a beeline for the outdoor garbage bin next to the house. In one fluid motion, she tossed the plastic bag in and swiveled to head back to the house. A truck sat parked at the end of the driveway, blocking in Natalie’s rental car. The front porch light was off, obscuring all but the outline of the vehicle. Heart in her throat, her mind went blank except for one word. One name.
Carl.
She scanned the shadowy wraparound porch for signs of movement, but even the wind had stilled. Weak light spilled out from the back door she’d left open.
Open!
Like an idiot, she’d left the house vulnerable. And Natalie was inside, asleep and alone. Pushed forward by the terror nipping at her heels, she sprinted the last few feet and bounded onto the porch. She grabbed the screen door’s handle with one hand and with the other grabbed a hollow, ceramic garden gnome sitting on the railing.
“Miranda.”
She whirled around and brought the gnome down against her attacker’s head. It shattered against his skull, and he dropped to his knees.
Taking advantage of his incapacity, Miranda ran into the house, slammed the door shut, and flipped the deadbolt.
The front door. Was it locked?
She tore through the kitchen, whacking her thigh against the corner of the table and not giving a damn. The living room was located on the other side of the dining room and beyond that, like a lone sentinel on a faraway battlefield, stood the front door.
Running as if her sister’s life depended on it, she slapped her palms against the front door in record time.
The deadbolt was already locked. Still, she ran her hands over it to confirm her what she saw. Her clammy palm slid off the cool metal and she sunk down to her knees, sucking in lung-fulls of air.
She rolled back onto her haunches and listened for the truck’s motor to turn and for Carl to get the hell off their property. The only sound she heard was her own blood thundering through her ears.
She had to call the police. Hauling herself up, she tried to mentally pull herself together. The old farmhouse was solid. Natalie and she were safe. All she needed to do was get to the kitchen and call 911. Ignoring as best she could the pain in her thigh, Miranda limped into the kitchen and grabbed the phone with shaking hands.
“Miranda.” The muffled voice coming through the back door struck a chord.
Was that… Her fingers faltered on the phone’s number pad. “Logan?”
“It’s me,” he said. “I’m bleeding. Please let me in.”
The phone hit the hardwood floor with a bang. She hurried to the back door and flung it open. Logan stood with his right palm pressed against his temple, blood dribbling down his cheek.
“Oh, my God. I thought you were Carl.” She grabbed his free hand and pulled him inside the kitchen.
“Yeah.” He gave her a shaky smile. “I would have called first, but had to leave my phone at the station.”
Logan sank down into a chair at the oak table. His jaw tightened and blood traveled a crooked path down his cheek, making the skin around it ashen in comparison to the bright red.
A wave of dizziness hit her. “I’m so sorry. It’s bleeding like a stuck pig, but I don’t think it’s very deep.” He paused and inhaled a deep breath before letting it out with a groan.
Miranda sprang up from her seat and grabbed a clean dishtowel out of the drawer by the sink and dampened it. Knowing she had a job to do calmed her jangly nerves and gave her something to focus on beyond her own panicked reaction. “Okay, let me take a look at my handiwork.”
He dropped his hand, revealing his blood-covered temple. Bile rose in Miranda’s throat, and her knees wobbled. There was a reason why someone with her grades in organic chemistry bypassed medical school and went straight into the finance program. Clenching her jaw against the upcoming tide, she wiped away the blood to reveal a two-inch-long gash that, while bloody, didn’t look to be all that deep.
She gritted her teeth and surveyed the cleaner surface. “It’s not awful, but you should probably still get it checked out. You might need stitches.”
“You’re looking a little green there, Sweetling.” He flashed her a grin that sent panties dropping six counties away. “It’s nothing. Head wounds always bleed like crazy.”
Whether or not he meant to distract her, it sure as hell was working. Her heart skipped a beat or twelve, and heat pooled in her belly.
Leaning in closer, she wiped away the blood already drying on his skin. His woodsy scent reminded her of warm summer evenings and soft kisses that turned into so much more. Damn, the man was like potato chips. She could not stop with just one night of hot sex with him.
“Oh yeah, you have plenty of experience with head wounds, huh? Are you leading some kind of double life?”
