Jennifer Chastain
A shiver raced up Samantha Hartman’s spine. Her father’s men had tracked her down.
Again.
Last year, she turned over mountains of evidence to the DA, confirming what she already knew about her father’s illegal weapons trafficking.
The tentacles of her father’s crime syndicate reached beyond his prison walls. He’d do anything to prevent her from testifying. The one person who was supposed to protect her was her greatest enemy.
The U.S. Marshals moved her to a new town. Gave her a new identity. Her well-ordered life upended.
There was one bright spot among all the chaos—Deputy U.S. Marshal Grant Matthews. He calmed her fears, reassuring her during the darkest moments of this crazy journey.
Grant stood to the side of the large picture window, one hand holding back the black-out curtains as he scanned the courtyard. His silhouette a contrast to the murky light flooding through the dark room.
Goosebumps skittered up her spine as she studied his rigid posture.
The curtains dropped back into place with a silent swoosh. “Don’t be alarmed, but we have a…situation.” With deliberate steps, Grant moved closer. But the beads of sweat on his forehead contradicted his calm demeanor.
Her mouth was as dry as a bucket of sand. “He’s found us, hasn’t he?” Her words scraped against her throat, raspy and muted.
“I don’t know, but the deputy on guard isn’t responding.”
Dear Lord. She rubbed her arms, chills consuming her body despite the small fireplace. All the air whooshed from her lungs, and she struggled to breathe.
“Hey, it’s gonna be okay.” Grant placed an arm around her shoulders, but his warmth was unable to penetrate the deadly reality of their current situation. “I’m here and you’re safe. Got it?”
She nodded once. He didn’t know her father or what he was capable of. Or the men who blindly followed his orders, who’d kill without a second thought.
The roar of a hockey game blared from the spare room where Deputy Marshal Johnson stayed.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know.” Grant squeezed her hand then disappeared into the spare room. The sound from the game faded. Johnson stood in the doorway, gun drawn.
“No worries, ma’am. You’re safe.” Johnson left and took up his position at the rear of the house.
“Follow me.” Grant tugged her into the small bathroom. “Keep this door locked.” He turned off the overhead light. Only a thin shaft of moonlight pierced the darkness. “Don’t let anyone in unless they give you the code word, Inconceivable, got it?” The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Samantha sagged against the door and onto the cold tile floor, the memory of last night’s movie not enough to staunch her fear.
Shouts echoed through the house, and she covered her mouth with her hands. This was it. Her dad had found her. She squeezed her eyes closed and prepared for the inevitable.
Multiple shots fired, and she flinched with every explosion. A loud thump banged against the door, and she scooted to the far side of the small room. The force of the object hitting the wall rattled the toothbrush holder on the sink and then, silence.
“Sam? Open up.” Grant’s muffled voice bled through the door.
Biting her lower lip, she fumbled with the lock. On the other side stood Grant, shirt untucked, a smear of blood on his chest.
“You’re hurt!”
He shook his head, and she threw herself into his arms and held tight.
She glanced down and saw Johnson laying prone on the yellowed linoleum. A puddle of blood spreading from under his body.
“What happened?”
Grant unwrapped her arms from around his neck. “You didn’t wait for the password.” His voice was tight.
Samantha shifted under his intense gaze and gave him a tremulous smile. “I knew it was you.”
“That’s not the point.” Grant holstered his weapon and paced the narrow hallway. His shoulders sagged and then he pivoted, grabbed her upper arms, wincing at his intensity. “What if I’d lost you? What if you…” He swallowed, emotions warring across his face.
Tears tracked down Samantha’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I-I…”
“Hey now.” Grant wiped away her tears and wrapped her in a hug.
Samantha buried her face in his chest. Grant was all hard plains and warmth. His citrusy cologne calmed her erratic heartbeat, and she pressed into his strength. “Why would Johnson try to kill me?”
“Money can be a huge motivator, even from someone like your dad.”
“He could’ve killed you, because of me…”
“It’s not your fault.” Grant’s words soothed her battered spirit. He leaned back and searched her face. He caressed her cheek with his thumbs, cradling it between his palms as he dipped his head closer and placed a tender kiss on her lips.
Holy cannoli.
When she didn’t respond, he moved away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
She fisted his shirt in both hands and tugged him closer. “Nuh-uh, Mister. You’re not getting off the hook that easily.”
A slow smile spread across his lips, and he tilted her chin up with a finger. “Yeah?” He bent closer, his mouth a fraction from hers.
“You gonna kiss me or what?”
“Oh, most definitely.” He tasted like peppermint and coffee and safety. His kisses were gentle yet underneath, they held a bit of danger and intrigue. She craved his presence, his touch.
The wail of sirens in the distance shattered the moment.
“Wow,” Samantha whispered against his mouth. She touched her lips with one finger. “Why now? Why tonight?”
“After everything we’ve been through, and Johnson’s betrayal, I had to tell you how I feel.”
Warmth and joy filled her at his declaration. “How do you feel, Deputy Matthews?”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m in love with you. I’m glad I was assigned to your detail.”
“Me too.” Samantha sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I never thought I’d run into love.”
Jennifer is a member of ACFW, ACFW-NC, Blue Ridge Reader Connections, and Novel Academy. Several of her other stories were finalists in the Blue Ridge Mountains Foundations contest and she was a finalist in the Touched by Love contest sponsored by the Faith, Hope, and Love Writers. Her stories contain themes of redemption, grace, forgiveness and second chances. During the day, she works for a research center at the University of North Carolina Charlotte. But on nights and weekends, she is a writing ninja, cramming in as many words as possible.
A hopeful romantic, Jennifer loves dark chocolate, Diet Coke, and a good rom-com, whether in book or movie form. She and her husband have been married for over twenty-five years and are permitted to reside with their black rescue cat.
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