had to know if Bethany was all right. She charged up the stairs to her daughter's room.
The nightlight barely illuminated the pink roses Heather had stenciled across the walls and around the windows. White lace curtains let the sun shine in during the day, but for now, the blinds were shut.
Heather tiptoed past the giant dollhouse and wicker doll carriage to the bed topped with a Sunbonnet Sue quilt her mother had made. She dropped her purse and shopping bag on the foot of the bed. Her daughter's feet reached only halfway down the length of the bed. At the head, strawberry-blond curls lay strewn across the pillow. The sight always squeezed Heather's heart. She brushed the curls away to reveal a soft cheek. If she never accomplished any of her dreams, if she never designed clothes or saw Paris, it would be no great loss, for she'd already created the most perfect little masterpiece.
I will protect you, sweetheart. Heather went to the windows to make sure they were locked.
"Don't run away from me again," Emma whispered from the doorway.
Heather turned. "I had to make sure my daughter was okay."
Emma nodded as she entered the room. "The first floor is clear, and all the rooms upstairs."
Wow, she was fast. And thorough. "There's a guest bedroom across the hall that you're welcome to use."
"Thank you, but no." Emma hitched her tote bag higher on her shoulder. "I'll be up all night."
"Then please help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen." Heather had to admit she would sleep a lot easier with Emma standing guard. Thank God she'd managed to avoid having Jean-Luc Echarpe over. The last thing she needed was another domineering man in her life. And a famous fashion designer? He'd probably go through her closet and throw everything out. Or worse, he would stand there and laugh.
Emma eased closer to Bethany's bed and whispered, "She's beautiful."
Heather nodded. "She's everything to me."
"I understand." Emma's smile held a hint of sadness. "I'd like to see the attic now."
"This way." Heather went to the hall and pulled the rope that lowered the folding ladder. "Do you need a flashlight?"
"I see quite well in the dark." Emma ascended the ladder. She stayed in the attic for a moment, then came down. "It's clear. I'd like to check outside again."
"Okay." Heather folded the ladder and let it swing back into the attic. Emma had already moved down the stairs and out the door, so Heather decided to get ready for bed.
She retrieved her purse and shopping bag from Bethany's room and proceeded to her own bedroom. She closed the blinds over the French doors to the balcony. What a night. A job offer from a famous designer and a death threat all in one evening. She replayed the night's events in her mind as she dragged her desk chair over to her closet. Why would a deadly assassin pick on a fashion designer? Unless...he was more than a fashion designer? Jean-Luc did have a James Bond aura of mystery about him.
With a snort, she rejected that theory. International espionage was not interested in Schnitzelberg, Texas. She climbed onto the chair, located the shotgun on the top shelf of her closet, then took it to her bed. Didn't Jean-Luc say something about Louie's other names? Cadillac? No, something else. She inserted two shells.
Maybe if she relaxed a bit, she could remember. She'd always had a great memory. She'd given her ex-husband, Cody, the shock of his life when she'd recalled his every insult and threatening remark in court.
She undressed and put on her favorite green silk pajamas. She adored the feel of silk against bare skin, and the sensation always calmed her. She sat on her fuzzy chenille bedspread, snuggled against the pillows, and closed her eyes. An assassin who had taken many names. Not Cadillac, but Ravaillac. Jean-Luc had admitted to stopping Louie, and that was why the assassin wanted revenge.
What kind of fashion designer stopped an assassin from carrying out his evil plan?
James Bond music started playing in her head. No, it couldn't be. She was letting her imagination go crazy.
She turned on her computer, then dragged her chair back to the desk while it booted up. She Googled "Ravaillac" and sat there, stunned. This was even crazier than her James Bond theory.
Fran?ois Ravaillac had been executed in 1610 after assassinating King Henri IV. Four horses had ripped him into four parts. Sheesh, did they do his death certificate in quadruplicate? One