Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,63

crouched beside the wheel and bent lower, sticking her head under the truck to see what he was talking about.

Suddenly, she felt something grab her shoulder and jerk her upward, slamming her head into the underside of the truck. Pain exploded in the back of her head, stealing her breath. Her vision swam a moment, specks of light dancing in an undulating kaleidoscope of color and darkness.

She was being dragged backward, like a rag doll, and for a moment, she couldn’t understand what was happening. Why wasn’t she fighting? Shouldn’t she be fighting back?

Her vision cleared enough for her to see that she was moving around the bumper to the open doors at the back of the truck. The hands that were still holding her hauled her up into the truck box, shoving her face down onto the hard floor.

She tried to move, her hand flailing for her service pistol. It was ripped from her before she got a good grip, and she growled a profanity, trying to roll over onto her back. Bramlett’s face swam into view, his expression hard and businesslike.

She kicked out at him, but the effort earned her a hard smack to the jaw, knocking her back into the truck. He ran his hands over her suit jacket and trousers in a rough search. “Where is it?”

“What?”

He closed his hand around her neck, compressing her trachea until she couldn’t breathe without wheezing. “Your cell phone. Where is it?”

She clawed at his hands and he hit her again. There was something she should be doing. She’d learned things about protecting herself even from a bigger attacker, but the details slogged out of reach, somewhere in the muddy mists of her aching brain.

He let go of her and backed out of the truck. She found the strength to launch herself after him, but she ended up slamming face-first into the back doors of the truck. There was no handle on the inside, only a smooth, solid wall of nothing where the door should be.

Her legs felt like noodles, helpless to keep her on her feet. She slithered into a weak puddle in front of the locked door, banging her hand against the door more in frustration than any hope that someone might hear her and let her out.

The truck’s engine growled to life, and suddenly they were moving, the forward lurch knocking her into the door again. Flattening her hands against the floor, she steadied herself until she felt confident she wouldn’t fall over again anytime soon. Her fuzzy head was starting to clear, the pain from her knock in the head subsiding from a howl to a low roar.

But she was still locked in the back of a truck driven by a man she was becoming utterly certain must be the killer they were seeking.

And God only knew what would happen once the truck stopped.

* * *

HE SHOULDN’T CALL HER. She’d made her decision clear enough that morning, in her stubborn refusal to meet his gaze as they said what had felt like a final goodbye.

But the phone felt heavy in his pocket as he pulled into a parking slot in front of Ledbetter’s Diner, a visceral reminder that he still had a choice. She’d made it clear she wasn’t going to leave Bitterwood as long as her mother was still there. And he’d vowed a long time ago that he’d never come back to this place again. Certainly not for good.

But he could change his mind. Or she could change hers. Anything seemed possible now that the only alternative was walking away from Ivy Hawkins forever.

She made him feel centered. Connected to something. He’d let himself forget that she’d always had that effect on him, even when they were little more than two scared, lonely kids looking for someone to trust. He’d let himself walk away all those years ago. He’d left her behind to fend for herself, cut that cord between them. He’d let himself forget how much that severed connection had bled during those first scary, lonely days on his own.

It would bleed again if he left her behind.

Damn it, he didn’t want to feel this much again. He’d gotten good at not feeling much at all, just the light buzz of camaraderie with his fellow soldiers, the respect and admiration he had for the people he now worked with at Cooper Security. It made life easier to deal with, less messy and constrained.

Less alive.

Well, now he was alive. And it ached like a