It was impossible to see the actual patch of grass that they’d so often played on, but Brock knew it was there, fifteenth tree in, to the left.
Brock briefly closed his eyes and slowed the car to a stop. With shaking hands, he put the car into park and sat there listening to the rain. He still had a mile or so to get to the house but he needed a minute. Just one goddamn minute to get his head on straight.
Finally, Brock sucked in a long soothing breath, put the car back in drive, and pressed down on the accelerator. Only to have the tires squeal in protest.
“What the hell?” He tried again but got the same response. Muttering a curse, he slammed his hand against the leather steering wheel.
Brock grabbed his coat and stepped out into the cold, wet rain. Lightning sizzled across the sky followed by the bellow of thunder as he made his way to the back of the Audi and inspected the damage. The tire was caught in the mud, which would have been fine if he’d had someone who could hit the accelerator while he pushed.
“Damn it.” He was going to have to walk.
Chapter Twelve
Jane giddily walked around the property, her shirt attaching itself to her body like a second skin. Rain slid down her cheeks, thunder rolled, and she was deliriously happy.
She’d left her sisters a note.
A freaking note.
She laughed out loud again at the freedom she felt. They were going to be so mad, but it was only three weeks. She imagined their clothes would be pink from their trying to figure out how to do the laundry, and they’d probably lose weight because they didn’t even know how to pour milk into a bowl for cereal.
Arms spread wide, she twirled, over and over again, then nearly ran smack dab into one of the large oak trees that had been planted on the property.
The owner must like trees, because there were hundreds lining the long driveway and a forest behind the ranch, with trails leading around the thirty acres.
In all reality, the house was a dream.
Her dream.
Judging by what she was getting paid to get the place ready for the new tenants, she assumed the man who’d called her had money, but the house didn’t shout money. Sure, the kitchen was gourmet and immaculate, but every single wall had pictures of a family that she’d suddenly, very desperately wanted to meet.
Three little boys.
Two smiling parents.
And a grandfather in a cowboy hat.
They were lucky, that family.
Lightning streaked across the sky. She should probably go inside. After all, she had to meet the elderly ranch hand first thing in the morning, and she was tired.
Escaping prison did that to a person.
With another giggle, she started making her way back to the house.
*
He’d walked more than a mile before Brock finally made it to where he could actually see the house.
He was soaked.
Pissed.
Exhausted.
Damn it, he’d do anything for a whiskey.
And a nice crackling fire.
Maybe he’d steal one of his grandfather’s cigars like he had that time when he was a kid. Only, that adventure had ended with him puking hits guts out on the back porch while Grandfather made him smoke the rest of the stash to teach him a lesson.
He smiled at the memory and picked up his pace.
The porch light was on. Hunh. Well, Grandfather did say that George, the ranch hand, would have things ready for him. He hoped that included a hot meal by the fire.
When he finally reached the porch, he sighed in relief, took one step, then felt the barrel of a shotgun shoved up against his back.
“What the hell?” he hissed, waving his arms in the air.
The gun bobbled back and then a gunshot rang out, hitting the porch light and blanketing him and the intruder in darkness.
“St-stay where you are.” The feminine voice was shaky, uncertain. “I have a gun.”
“No shit.” She’d nearly taken off his head with it!
“Don’t talk!”
“Fine.”
“I said”—she shoved the barrel of the gun harder into his spine—“no talking. Now…” Her breathing was ragged. “I want you to take two steps backward and turn around. And go back to wherever you came from. This isn’t your house!”
“Actually—” He coughed, trying to clear his throat. “It is.”
“Crap!” The gun fell to the ground in a clatter then went off, sending dirt and pieces of rock all over his feet.
“Fuck!”
“George!” the woman yelled. “I’m so sorry! You poor thing!” Warm hands wrapped around his shoulders. “Oh no, and you’re so old.”
What the hell? “I’m not—” He barely got the two words out before she started babbling again.
“Old. No, of course not, how rude of me to say that. Come on, up you go.” As soon as he’d picked up the gun and straightened to his full height she scooted around him and made her way up the front steps.