With a start, Dennis realized what he’d done. He cursed, then took his glass of tea and threw it at Hope’s head. She simultaneously ducked and drew her weapon. The glass flew past her head and shattered against the doorjamb behind her. Bits of broken glass, cold tea and ice cubes exploded around her.
Instead of running to the back door to escape, which was what she’d expected him to do, Dennis charged her, knocking her gun hand aside just as she fired. He grabbed her, and they both slipped on the tea and broken glass.
Hope landed on the floor hard, a struggling Dennis on top of her. She tried to bring the gun up and around, but he grabbed her wrist and pushed it away. They struggled for control of the weapon, and h
e was winning that struggle. For a skinny man, Dennis was strong. There were muscles in those ropey arms, and he was desperate. Only a desperate and dangerous man would do what he’d done to Marcia Cordell.
She thought of the protection charm she wore beneath her blouse, and as she fought for control, she wondered if it would do her any good at all in this particular situation.
“Did she send you after me?” Dennis asked breathlessly as he tried to take the pistol.
Was it possible that Dennis knew what Gideon could do? Did he think Marcia Cordell’s ghost had given them his name?
Dennis pinned Hope to the floor with his knee and ripped the gun from her hand. One word popped into her mind, unexpected and powerful.
Emma.
THIRTEEN
Gideon was halfway to the white house, running as fast as he could, when he heard the gunshot. His heart jumped into his throat.
It was hard enough to talk to the ghosts of complete strangers, people he had never seen alive, never touched, never cared about. As difficult as it was to be visited by the shells of murder victims, he’d never had to confront the battered and weary spirit of a friend—or a lover. Last night and this morning Hope had been his in a way he’d thought impossible. She knew who he was, and still she stayed. She was probably carrying his child. Probably, hell. Dante’s “gift” had worked too well; it was impossible to dismiss Emma as imagination.
He didn’t want to be haunted by Hope; it was too soon to lose her.
Would Emma haunt him, too?
He jumped onto the porch and burst through the front door, pistol in hand. Sounds of a struggle in the back of the house drew him there, and still at a run, he glanced into the kitchen to see a man on top of Hope. Her gun was in his hand, and he was doing his damnedest to turn it on her.
Gideon had his pistol ready, but no clear shot. Hope was holding her own, but that meant his target wasn’t steady. He was rushing for Floyd in order to knock the gun away and pull him off Hope when she executed a well-planned and impressive move that simultaneously pushed the man off her and wrested the gun from his hand as her elbow slammed into his face. The entire maneuver took a few seconds, no more. With a whoosh of air and a grunt, Dennis Floyd ended up on his back, unarmed and bloody-nosed. A panting and red-faced Hope pinned him to the floor with her knee.
She lifted her head and looked at Gideon, her chest heaving with deep, quick breaths, her hair not as sleek as usual, her eyes strong and angry but also afraid. Outside, the sheriff’s car pulled into the yard, and heavy footsteps sounded as the lawman made his way to the scene.
Gideon couldn’t take his eyes off of Hope’s face, and his heart hadn’t yet slowed to a healthy pace and rhythm. He had come this close to losing her and Emma. He had come this close to being forced to bury them.
He was this close to asking Hope to marry him and never again leave his sight when the clumsy sheriff blundered into the house.
Hope rose, and Gideon gladly took charge of Dennis. He hauled the little man to his feet and slammed the skinny bastard against a wall.
“Ow. Be careful of my nose,” the man said, squirming. “I think she broke it.”
It took all the self-control Gideon possessed to read Dennis his rights. Since he was well out of his jurisdiction, he asked the sheriff to repeat the process. At this point Dennis hadn’t been charged with anything, but Gideon was taking no chance that this little man—this little monster—might get off on a technicality.
“I know what you did,” Gideon said in a lowered voice.
“I…I didn’t do anything,” Dennis blustered.
“I don’t care about you, you little pissant.” Gideon pressed Dennis more forcefully against the wall. “The sheriff will take good care of you after I’m gone. I want Tabby.”
Dennis swallowed hard a couple of times before answering. “I don’t know anyone named Tabby.” He was a very bad liar.
“Fine. Don’t talk. When she finds out I’ve been here—and she will find out—I imagine she’ll pay you a visit. You’ve seen her work, so you know what to expect when she gets her hands on you.” He leaned in until his mouth was close to Dennis’s ear, and he whispered, “She likes that knife of hers, doesn’t she? I’ve run across plenty of killers who prefer a blade to a gun, but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who enjoys what they do as much as Tabby does. I wonder what sort of keepsake she’ll take from you, little man? What body part will she take to remember you by?”
“I just met her that day,” Dennis said, his voice high and quick. “I was at the gas station, filling up and getting something cold to drink, and this woman walks up to me and says she knows what I’m thinking. I hadn’t been thinking anything,” Dennis said. “She put them ideas into my head.”
“Bad ideas,” Gideon said as he backed slightly away.
Dennis nodded. “It’s true, I always did think Miss Cordell was kinda uppity, thinking she was better than everyone else….”