The Guardian's Mission. Shirlee McCoy

Чтение книги онлайн.

      It was over. Marti told herself that again and again as she sat in a small room at the Lynchburg Police Department, visions of cold-eyed killers and blood filling her head. Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup of coffee a female officer had brought in forty minutes ago. Forty minutes. It seemed like hours.

      She stood, testing her still-shaky legs as she moved to the door. They held her weight. Barely. Since the moment she’d turned and seen blood seeping from Sky’s upper arm, her body seemed to have a mind of its own, her muscles loose, her limbs ungainly. Shaky, unsure, out of sync with her brain. It was like walking in a dream or a nightmare. Only she wasn’t asleep.

      A soft knock sounded at the door and Martha stepped back as a stocky, dark-haired man strode into the room, his expression neutral. “Ms. Gabler? I’m Officer Miller. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

      “It’s okay.”

      “Can I get you something else to drink? A soda? Water?”

      “No. Thanks. I’d just like to go home.”

      “We’ll let you go soon. Right now, I need you to tell me what happened this afternoon.”

      Tell him what happened? Martha wasn’t even sure she knew what had happened. One minute she’d been stepping into her dad’s hunting cabin, the next she’d been running. Guns going off, men shouting. Total chaos. Sky bleeding. She shuddered, taking a seat again. “I just wanted to spend a weekend in the mountains.”

      She told the rest as quickly as she could, filling in as many details as she remembered until her words ran out and she had nothing more to say. “That’s it.”

      “Great.” Officer Miller looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. “I think that’s all I need. Let me just check on a few more things and we’ll get you out of here.”

      “Before you go, I was wondering, is Sky okay?”

      “Sky?”

      “He was shot in the arm.”

      “Sky. Right. He should be fine.”

      “Should be fine? How bad was his injury?”

      “As far as I know, it’s not life threatening.”

      “But—”

      “Ma’am, you’ve had a long day. I’m sure you’re anxious to get home. Give me a few minutes and I’ll make sure that happens.” He cut her off, closing the notebook and leaving the room, firmly ending the conversation.

      Which should have been fine with Martha.

      After all, he’d said Sky’s injuries weren’t life threatening. She didn’t need any more information than that. As long as he hadn’t died trying to save her, she should be willing to let the matter drop.

      She wasn’t. She wanted to know more. Was Sky in jail? Was he going to be charged with a felony?

      How had a guy who’d willingly risked his life for a stranger ended up a criminal? It took uncommon courage to step between a bullet and another person. It took valor. Heroism. It took the kind of grit most people didn’t have.

      Sky had it, yet he’d been in the mountains to buy illegal weapons. That’s what Martha had been told by police, and she’d seen the evidence of those weapons as officers led her to waiting vehicles. Still, the gunrunning militia member didn’t seem to mesh with the courageous hero, and the dichotomy bothered Martha.

      She shook her head, forcing her mind away from Sky Davis. Hero or not, he’d committed a crime. He was going to pay for it, and she was going to forget him and move on with her life.

      She really was.

      She was still telling herself that as Officer Miller returned and escorted her outside into the cool gray evening. Her car was still parked in the mountains where she’d left it, so she accepted Miller’s offer of a ride. Her only other choice was to call her father or a friend, and either of those options would have involved explaining everything that had happened.

      She didn’t want to go there again tonight.

      Tomorrow, she’d find someone to help her get her car.

      Tomorrow, she’d tell everyone about her experience.

      Tonight, she’d just pretend that her life hadn’t changed. That she hadn’t become a different person. A person who suddenly understood her own limitations. Her own mortality.

      Dusk tinged the white siding of Martha’s story-and-a-half blue-gray Victorian and shadowed the small front porch with darkness as Officer Miller pulled up the dirt driveway. Cute and quaint when the sun was bright, the place looked lonely and old in the twilight.

      Martha hesitated as Miller pulled her door open, suddenly not so sure she wanted to be alone.

      “You live here by yourself?”

      “Yes.”

      “Maybe I should call someone to come stay with you. A friend? Relative? Boyfriend?” His dark eyes scanned her face, and Martha wondered what he saw. Certainly not the delicate fragility that embodied so many of her female friends. She was more likely to be called tough than vulnerable, strong than weak. Sometimes she thought that was a good thing. She didn’t want or need to be taken care of by anyone. Other times, like now, she wished she looked a little more like a delicate rose than a hardy dandelion. Then maybe Officer Miller would have taken the decision out of her hands instead of giving her a choice.

      Because, really, there was no choice. Dad had taught her to face her fears head-on, not to rely on others when she could just as easily depend on herself. She’d learned the lesson well. “No, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride.”