Not even a noise from the dog, or none that he could hear.
He’d had a flashlight on his phone, but turning it on would only draw attention to him, and someone or something was inside this barn. Whoever or whatever it was didn’t seem friendly.
He’d been about to duck into the tack room and text Cassie to call the police when he’d heard something . . . the soft tread of footsteps? And he’d felt a rustle in the air, movement behind him. He’d spun and lifted his rifle to his shoulder in one motion, but it had been too late. The would-be assassin had go
tten the drop on him, somehow silently dispensing with the dog, and fired the instant Trent had been in his sights.
Son of a bitch, Trent thought now. He’d been foolish, too comfortable in his own ranch, believing that some animal was causing the dog to go nuts.
He should have been more careful.
Christ, he’d been in the damned military. He knew better.
Shit.
Now, he was waiting in the dark, his back against the wall of the stall, his rifle ready, though firing in the building would be a disaster with bullets ricocheting against the walls and posts.
But here, he was a sitting duck. If the killer had night goggles, Trent was as good as dead.
Without making a sound, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his phone and realized he was weakening, his brain not as clear.
Damn!
Did he hear the sound of footsteps outside the stall? Was the killer taking aim? Or were the noises just the sound of restless, nervous hooves in the straw or his own imagination running wild? Tensing, he focused on the open stall door. Waiting. Expecting to hear another blast from a gun.
Get a grip, Kittle.
You can’t lose it now. Think of Cassie. She has to get to safety. Somehow.
He blinked. Concentrated. Heard a banging and realized he’d left the damned door open and it was catching in the wind to pound against the siding.
Making sure the phone was still on silent, he saw that he already had two texts. Both from Cassie.
r u ok?
Hell, no.
And shortly thereafter:
What’s going on?
I wish I knew.
He typed his response quickly:
Leave now!
Call 911
Then he added:
I’m ok
That was a lie, but if she had any inkling that he was wounded, she might do something stupid and put herself in danger. God, he felt weak. Lightheaded. It took all of his effort to send the text, but he managed to click off and send another to Carter:
Under attack.
In the barn.