Wrong Place, Wrong Time (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 1)

Shards of pain shot through her head, and she crumpled to the floor.

IT WAS THE coughing that wrenched her back to consciousness. She couldn’t stop choking, her entire body racked with spasms. And her eyes. They burned unbearably.

She jerked upright, fighting to curtail the choking as knives of pain sliced through her head. Her fingers found the massive bump at the same time as she realized what was going on around her.

The cabin was on fire.

Flames had already engulfed the drapes, and were licking their way around the room, swallowing up the cabin in record time.

Frederick.

Sally crawled over to him, shouting his name and shaking him as hard as she could. No response. She pressed her fingers to his wrist, then his neck, to feel for a pulse. Nothing. Frantic, she pulled apart the sides of his bathrobe, pressing her ear to his chest. Not a flutter. And the blood. There was a massive amount of it still pouring from the gaping wound on his head, pooling all around them. Beneath the wound, Sally could see that his entire forehead was bashed in. And his eyes were wide-open and unseeing.

Dear God, he was dead.

A wooden beam crashed to the floor, sparks erupting next to Sally.

She struggled to her feet, feeling dizzy and close to fainting. There was so much smoke in the cabin now that she could hardly breathe, much less see the front door. If she didn’t get out of here now, it would be too late.

She turned around and grabbed Frederick’s legs, trying desperately to drag his body with her. It wouldn’t budge. Her conscience warred with itself, sickened by the inhumanity of leaving him here to burn to ashes. But she had to be practical. He was gone. She had to save herself.

Pulling the collar of her parka up over her mouth, she flipped up the hood and staggered for the door. She shoved it open with her gloved fist.

A blast of cold air struck her, and she tumbled out, swaying on her feet and falling to her knees in the snow. Her head was throbbing horribly, but she didn’t dare give in to the urge to collapse. She’d die. Either from hypothermia or from being devoured by the flames. Plus, she had no idea where the son of a bitch who’d done this had gone. He might be coming back to make sure his handiwork was completed.

She had to get out of here—now.

Shoving herself upright, she weaved away from the cabin.

CHAPTER 3

It was rare for Devon to have a weekday morning off. When she was lucky enough to do so, she relished the event like a kid whose school was closed for a snow day. She slept late, took long baths, even went shopping or called a friend to gab over lunch.

Not today.

Today, she couldn’t even relax long enough to linger over her coffee and newspaper.

She jerked awake at seven thirty, with the vague awareness that she’d been having a bad dream. She took a quick shower, yanked on some comfortable sweats, then padded downstairs to feed, pamper, and walk her various pets. That done, she headed for the kitchen, where she gulped down a cup of coffee, swallowed a bowl of cereal, then proceeded to scrub her three-level town house from top to bottom.

She’d bought the place brand spanking new last spring. It was everything she wanted—two bedrooms, two baths, and all the amenities, plus lots of grassy areas for Terror, her high-energy, several-breeds-in-one terrier, to run around in. It was also in central Westchester, just a fifteen-minute drive to the clinic. That made responding to veterinary emergencies much easier.

The house was pretty tidy, with more clutter than dirt—thanks to her three very active pets. Terror’s chewed socks, Convict’s chase-and-destroy squeaky mice, and Runner’s food pellets were everywhere.

“You’re a slob,” Devon informed Runner, who was watching her restore his cage. “You may be a ferret, but you’re still a man.”

He returned to eating his breakfast. He didn’t look the least bit offended.

“I rest my case,” Devon proclaimed. She pivoted around to Terror, who was tugging at the sock she’d just picked up, trying to reclaim it. “That applies to you, too,” she told him. “Considering you go to work with me every day and wear out the staff at doggie day care, you have plenty of energy left over for the limited time we spend at home to turn this place into a laundry basket.”

Convict—a gray tabby whose appearance had earned her the name—rubbed up against Devon’s legs, meowing apologetically and trying to make peace.

“Connie, you, on the other hand, are clearly female,” Devon advised her, stooping to collect the last toy mouse and then scratch her cat’s ears. “Clever and diplomatic.”

Connie meowed again, this time distinctly pleased with herself.

“Don’t get carried away,” Devon muttered, resuming her cleaning. “I said you were smart, not neat. And the scratch marks on my kitchen cabinets have your name on them. We have to have a talk about that.”

Connie rounded the corner and disappeared.