Cody Walker's Woman

Even though everything was lined up for their early departure tomorrow morning, Cody chafed at the delay. When he’d called Callahan back to let him know they wouldn’t be arriving until midafternoon the following day, the other man’s disappointment had been obvious.

“That the best you can do?”

“Just about, unless you tell me something more than you’ve told me so far,” Cody said reasonably. “Which, in essence...is nothing.”

“Okay.” Callahan wasn’t one to waste time on nonessentials. “I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

Mandy Callahan had just laid her sleeping daughter in her crib when she heard the front doorbell ring, and then ring again. She glanced at her watch as she went to answer it, wondering who could be stopping by way out here at this time of night. The hallway light was out, and she didn’t bother turning it on. But the living room was also shrouded in darkness when she entered, and her brows wrinkled into a puzzled frown. I thought Ryan was in here reading the paper. I wonder where he—

A hand closed over her mouth, and her husband’s arm encircled her waist. “Shh,” he mouthed against her ear. “Stay here and don’t move.”

Mandy froze. No! she thought as her pulse began to race, memories of six years ago as fresh in her mind as if they had occurred yesterday—firebombs ripping her world apart, vengeful murderers after her husband. Not again. Her thoughts flew to the bedroom she’d just left, where her innocent daughter, Abby, lay sleeping; and the bedroom next to it, where her two sons, five-year-old Reilly and little Ryan, only three, were asleep in their bunk beds. My babies, she thought frantically, wanting to run back to protect them, to throw her body over them and shield them from whatever danger threatened, but she knew better than to disobey her husband when his voice sounded the way it had.

His body pressed against hers for a second more, and Mandy could tell her husband was already strapped—the leather holster and the gun it contained had once been Ryan’s constant companions. But it had been years since he’d felt it necessary to be armed to the teeth in their home.

Mandy swallowed hard. She wanted to ask him why, but she was afraid she already knew the answer. Ryan hadn’t said anything, but something had been weighing on his mind this past week. She’d just been so tired and distracted trying to wean Abby, she hadn’t taken the time she normally would to demand he tell her what was going on. And now...now it might be too late....

Her husband took her right hand and wrapped it around something cold and hard—the butt of a pistol. “Use it if you need to,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.” With that, he was gone, moving down the hallway like a shadow, slipping out the back door into the night.

Her eyes flickering every which way, straining against the darkness and starting at every creak, she waited for Ryan’s return. Not my husband, God, she prayed as she waited. And not my babies. Please, don’t let anything happen to them. Please.

She sensed more than heard movement on the front porch, and her heart began hammering in her breast. Then she heard a low, pained moan, and she almost screamed, thinking it could be her husband making that sound. She darted to the front door, stopping herself just in time as she remembered what Ryan had long ago trained her to do. She flattened herself against the wall beside the door but not too close to it, then waited, gun hand up and ready, counting seconds.

“It’s okay, Mandy,” she heard Ryan call softly. “Open the door.”

She twitched the dead-bolt lock and threw the door open. A large shadow walked through carrying something even larger in its arms. “Shut the door and lock it,” her husband said. She did as he bade her, then followed him as he carried his burden through the dark hallway into their lamp-lit bedroom and gently lowered it onto the bed.

“Oh, my God!” Mandy covered her mouth with one hand to prevent herself from saying anything more. She barely recognized the young man bleeding on their bed as Steve Tressler, their nearest neighbor. His face was a bloody mask, as if it had taken a terrible beating. And there were three wounds she recognized as gunshots tracing across his chest.