“I want her back here, if she’s willing.” The look he gave Rick was filled with cold purpose. “She belongs to Sam and I want her here.”
“What about Heather and what she wants?” Tara asked him, her eyes narrowing.
“The bastard knows what he’s doing. If Heather hadn’t cared for Sam, it wouldn’t have happened. And if she cared for him before the attack, then she cares for him now. She didn’t look like a woman that scares off easy.”
Tara exchanged a glance with Rick, then sighed.
“She’s fighting to come back now,” she told them wearily.
“She can recuperate here. We’ll take care of her.” Marly came to her feet, her face drawn, her eyes hard. “Bring her here. Sam doesn’t need time to build a defense against her. Get her here, Tara. Then get every man you can find here. We’ll put them on as cowboys, no one will know the difference.”
Sarah leaned her head against Brock’s chest, feeling his arm tighten around her. They still weren’t safe. As long as that bastard was out there, they were all in danger.
“We’ll get through it,” Brock promised her, holding her close. “And we’ll get Sam through it.”
“Sam is the catalyst,” Rick told Brock softly. “Sam knows it. Find out why, Brock. Until we know, we’re helpless. We have to know why this guy has fixated on Sam.”
Brock sighed. He rose to his feet, pulling Sarah up with him.
“Sam won’t talk about it. But I’ll do what I can.”
“Brock,” Tara stopped him. “Heather won’t give Sam what he needs from a woman. Are you sure you want her here?”
Brock glanced down at Sarah. When his grin came, it was slow, easy.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I’m sure, Tara. Maybe she’s just what Sam needs.”
Sarah shook her head. Brock sometimes had a strange sense of humor, she had learned.
“When she’s released, we’ll bring her here.” Rick nodded. “I’ve pulled in more men, they’ll work the ranch, blend in better than the others. We have to get him soon, Brock. This is becoming more dangerous each time he attacks.”
“I agree, Rick. Get your men here. We’ll do whatever we have to, to catch the bastard.” Brock nodded.
He turned, drawing Sarah from the dining room, heading for their bedroom. Rick’s arrival had disturbed his play and he was eager to return.
“Do you think Sam suspects he’s in love with her?” she asked him as they entered their room.
“Sure he does. He’s no fool. But he’ll fight it.” Brock closed the door behind him, then began removing Sarah’s clothes quickly.
“But does he know he loves her?” She slapped his hands away as she continued to worry about the despondency Sam had sunk into since reading that letter.
“Not yet.” Brock grinned. “But he will, Sarah, when the time is right. Just like we did.”
* * * * *
Marly sat alone on the patio hours later. The words in the poetry-style letter haunted her. She knew them. Knew the style. Surely it wasn’t an uncommon style of composing such poetry, she thought. Random phrases, a blending of sounds. She knew herself from her college classes two years before that it was common. But she also knew that each writer had his or her own style. Each one did it differently.
She licked her lips, staring into the darkness. She was wrong. She knew she had to be. No one she knew could be so cruel. No one she cared for could be so deceptive. She prayed she was wrong. She couldn’t say anything, because Cade would kill without proof, his rage would become so all-consuming. Yet, if she didn’t speak out— Her hands fisted, her teeth clenched. It could mean the end of her family.