A Dream To Share (Heartland Homecoming) Page 12

  So why was she avoiding him? Unless…was it possible she wasn’t attracted to him?

  Stunned by the possibility, Mark’s hand stilled on the coffeepot. None of the women he’d ever pursued had been immune to his dark good looks. Not that he was vain about his appearance. After all, he couldn’t claim any credit for the way he looked. It was merely the hand he’d been dealt. But the fact was, he’d always turned women’s heads.

  With the possible exception of Abby’s.

  Pouring his coffee, he grabbed the hot-off-the-press Wednesday edition of the Gazette and headed back to the conference room, noting that her door was still closed. As he mulled over his dilemma, he gave the paper a distracted scan—until the headline for the final installment of Abby’s hate-crimes series popped off the page and snagged his attention.

  Here we go again, he thought, his gut clenching as he read the article.

  Like the original editorial and part one of the series, the piece was objective, well-researched, thoughtful and articulate. Yet he was sure it would again incite the person who had taken issue with the previous pieces.

  Mark admired Abby for her courageous coverage. It was no wonder the Gazette had won numerous awards through the years, in addition to the Pulitzer prize. And there was no question that Abby was following in the footsteps of her predecessors, carrying on their tradition of sharp, insightful journalism.

  His father would be impressed, Mark knew. It was because of articles like this that the Gazette had come to Spencer Campbell’s attention. The Campbell Publishing CEO would probably commend her on the series, dashing off one of his trademark “attagirl” e-mails.

  Mark supposed he should do the same. And maybe he would.

  Just as soon as he figured out how to wash away the taste of fear that even the strong coffee couldn’t seem to vanquish.

  When Molly passed the conference room door the next Tuesday, Mark’s attention zeroed in on the nine-by-twelve manila envelope clutched in her hands. Without stopping to think, he rose and followed her. Though he’d only caught a glimpse or two of Abby since he’d read the hate-crimes piece the previous week, he’d been operating with a sense of heightened awareness. And Molly’s posture and expression spelled trouble.

  He reached her as she knocked on the closed door of Abby’s office, and she turned to him with a worried glance.

  “What’s up?” He kept his voice low.

  “This just arrived. It reminded me—”

  “Come in.” Abby’s muffled voice came from behind the door, and Mark gestured for Molly to enter. He wasn’t far behind.

  Trepidation flickered across Abby’s face as her visitors stepped inside and Mark shut the door behind them. Removing her glasses, she kept her attention on Molly.

  “What’s going on?”

  “This came in the morning mail.” Molly held out the envelope. “I haven’t opened it, but the printing looks a lot like that first letter you got about the hate-crimes editorial.”

  Taking the envelope, Abby examined the crude block letters. “There is a similarity.” She picked up a letter opener and slit the flap. Her movements were cautious, and Mark thought he detected a slight tremor in her fingers.

  With the envelope at arm’s length, Abby bowed it to peer inside, then turned it upside down. A copy of the hate-crimes article, perforated with holes, slid across her desk.

  Confused, Mark stared at the mutilated newsprint. “I don’t get it. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve seen a pattern like that before.” Her face tight with tension, Molly leaned forward for a closer look. “It looks like the targets that Stan sometimes brings home after he practices with his shotgun.”

  Cold fear gripped Mark’s heart. “Call Dale.” When Abby opened her mouth, he spoke before she could utter a sound, his expression grim—and unrelenting. “If you don’t, I will.”

  “I’ll take care of this, Molly.” Pressing her lips together, Abby reached for the phone. “You can go back to work. I’ll let you know if Dale thinks there’s any reason to worry.”

  When Molly departed, Mark took a seat in Abby’s office. The set of his jaw convinced her he wasn’t going to budge until Dale showed up, so she placed the call, then went back to work. Or at least she tried to.

  Fifteen minutes later, Dale confirmed Molly’s assessment. “The scattered pattern gives it away. As well as the nature of the holes and the variation in size.”

  “What now?” Mark asked.

  Fisting his hands on his hips, Dale sent Abby a concerned look. “I don’t like this, Abby. Up until now I was pretty sure we were talking about a prankster. Even the fire at Ali’s restaurant was set at night, meaning there was no deliberate intent to hurt someone. But the perpetrator’s persistence bothers me. As does the fact that he’s got a lethal weapon. Do you have any more coverage planned?”

  “No. The final piece ran last Wednesday.”

  “Good. I’ll beef up patrols for the next few days around your house and the Gazette.”

  “Is that it? Abby could be in serious danger.”

  At Mark’s comment, Dale turned, his probing gaze more insightful than Mark would have liked. “I’m continuing my investigation. And I do have some pretty good leads that I’m following up on.” He looked back at Abby. “There was a similar incident with a Middle Eastern business over in Crandall yesterday. It has the earmarks of the same perpetrator. And he left us a few more clues. I think we’re closing in. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Time that Abby might not have,” Mark countered.

  “We’re doing everything we can.”

  “Can you put a guard on Abby?”

  “We don’t have the manpower for that.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Abby insisted, darting a look at Mark before turning to Dale. “I’ll be extra careful and—”

  “At least I can follow you home every night for the next few days,” Mark cut in.

  Startled, she stared at him. “That’s not necessary. I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “I think it’s a good idea, Abby,” Dale interrupted. “Anything we can do to ensure your safety until this is all straightened out is a plus. If Mark’s willing to help, I’d suggest you let him.”

  Outvoted, Abby stared at the two men across from her. She’d done her best to avoid Mark since the jogging incident, and just when she was starting to get her emotions back under control, fate was conspiring to throw the two of them together.

  “I stay late,” Abby balked, fiddling with some papers on her desk, still refusing to look at him.

  Propping a shoulder against the door frame, Mark folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “What about basketball practice?”

  “It’s over by six. I’ll swing back around when I’m done.”

  “Give it up, Abby. It’s a good plan,” Dale said.

  Defeated, Abby threw up her hands. “Okay. Fine.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  At Mark’s wry comment, hot color spilled onto Abby’s cheeks. It wasn’t like her to be ungracious—as Dale’s arched brow and speculative look confirmed when she glanced at him.

  “Sorry,” she amended. “I appreciate the offer. But I do have work to do. So if you gentlemen don’t mind…”

  “I’ll take this along.” Dale tucked the tattered paper back into the envelope. “See you two later.”

  As Dale exited, Abby was left with no choice but to look at Mark. He’d stepped aside to let the sheriff pass and was now regarding her with concern.

  “You’re still going to be alone in that house every night.”

  She swallowed past her nervousness. “I have good locks.”

  His gaze locked on hers. “I’m worried about you, Abby,” he said softly.

  She wanted to ask why. But she didn’t dare. She was too afraid of the answer. His expression was already too eloquent, his tone too warm and personal. Mark cared about her. Too much. More than she could return. She co
uldn’t let this go any further. They’d only end up hurting each other.

  “I’ll be fine.” She tried her best to sound calm and in control, but she couldn’t stop the tremor that snaked through her voice.

  Instead of responding, Mark looked at her in silence. And from the skeptical tilt of his head, she knew he hadn’t bought her reassurance.

  Neither had she.

  It wasn’t that she was worried so much about the physical danger. Caution and common sense would protect her, she was sure.

  But when it came to her heart, she didn’t seem to have sufficient reserves of those qualities to keep her safe.

  By Friday night at seven, as Abby gathered up her purse and the stack of copy she planned to review tomorrow, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Though there had been no more incidents related to her hate-crimes coverage, she hadn’t been sleeping well. On top of that, Mark had been hovering around since Tuesday, wreaking havoc on her emotions—and her resolve to keep her distance. She needed a long weekend to unwind, decompress and regroup.

  As she had come to expect, Mark was still in the conference room when she appeared in the doorway. “This really isn’t necessary, you know. I’m sure you have better things to do with your evening than wait around for me.”

  Looking up, Mark assessed her as she hovered in the doorway, her briefcase clutched to her chest like a shield.

  “I didn’t mind. I’ve been working on a special project and I needed access to the Internet.”

  It was the truth. He’d been using every spare minute to research and flesh out the idea that had been germinating in his mind since he’d learned of the Langes’ plight. Though Campbell Publishing’s charitable contributions had always been generous, why not create a foundation designed to serve the areas in which the company published papers, with each region overseen by a board of local clergy? That kind of direct, grassroots effort could quickly and effectively identify and provide real assistance to those most in need.

  But he also recognized that Campbell Publishing wasn’t a charitable entity. He had to make a solid humanitarian and business case for his idea—a task that had required exhaustive research. He’d been working on it for weeks, whenever he had a few spare minutes. The hours waiting for Abby had given him the chance to draft a proposal for his father, which he planned to overnight tomorrow.

  Her skeptical expression, however, told him she didn’t buy his reassurance. “Scout’s honor.” He grinned and placed his hand over his heart. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Give me a sec.” In one smooth sweep, he slid his papers into his briefcase and shut down his laptop, then rose and followed her to the exit.

  A sudden gust of damp, chilly autumn wind sent a pool of rustling leaves whirling around their feet when they stepped outside, and Abby turned up the collar of her lightweight jacket as Mark fell into step beside her. The day had grown much colder as the sun had set, the Indian-summer heat of the afternoon swept away by the fickle end-of-October muse.

  Not until she was settled in her car did Mark speak. “I had to park a bit farther away when I came back after lunch. Sit tight a minute.”

  Without waiting for a response, he strode down the street. Though he wore only a long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows, he didn’t appear in the least affected by the cold wind, which ruffled his thick, dark hair and whirled around his tall form. When a wave of longing swept over Abby, as powerful as the relentless wind that was stirring up the world on this blustery night, she forced herself to look away.

  In ten minutes, she’d be home, she reminded herself. Mark would be gone. She’d have the whole weekend to whip her wayward emotions into shape. And by Monday, she’d be back to normal.

  Instead of offering comfort, however, that scenario depressed her. Because she now equated normal—the life she’d led before Mark—with lonely. And that held no appeal at all.

  It happened in the home stretch. And so fast it took several seconds for Mark to react. Not fifty yards from her driveway, Abby swerved abruptly, slid on the damp pavement and plowed into one of the tall oak trees that lined her street.

  When the shock passed and his adrenaline kicked in, Mark sped up, then screeched to a stop behind Abby’s car. As he raced toward her, his heart pounding, fear choked him. Was this another hypoglycemic episode? That seemed the only possible explanation, since he’d neither seen nor heard anything that could account for her accident. And if she was ill, he knew she needed help. Fast.

  Mark yanked open the driver-side door and leaned down. In the car’s dim overhead light, he could see that the air bag had inflated, leaving a small, bright red burn mark on Abby’s forehead. But other than that, she didn’t appear injured. She was staring straight ahead, dazed but conscious, and he touched her cheek.

  “Abby?” His voice came out in a hoarse croak, and he cleared his throat. “Are you having another diabetic reaction?”

  She drew in a sharp breath, as if her lungs had just kicked back into gear, and turned to him. “No. There was a…a wire stretched across the road. I swerved to avoid it.”

  Her voice was shaky but coherent, and her eyes were clear and focused. It wasn’t a diabetic problem. Relief coursed through him as he slowly let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. But they weren’t out of the woods yet, he reminded himself. Even though she hadn’t been driving fast, she could still be injured.

  Reaching out, he took her shoulders in a gentle grip. “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Are you dizzy?”

  “No. But someone did this, Mark. It was deliberate. There was a wire across the road. I’ll show you.” She angled her body to exit the car, but Mark pressed her back into the seat.

  “Stay put. I’ll take a look. Meanwhile, call Dale.” He handed her his cell phone.

  The fact that she didn’t argue told him she was a lot more shaken than she was letting on. Loath to leave her alone, he made quick work of his scouting expedition, then rejoined her.

  “Well?” she prompted as he dropped down on the balls of his feet beside her.

  “Nothing.” He enfolded her cold fingers in his.

  She tried not to savor the comfort of his protective clasp. Yet neither did she pull away. “But I saw the wire! I didn’t imagine it, Mark.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. But it’s too dark to see much. Maybe Dale can make some sense of it.”

  And he did. After a quick look at Abby’s car and a few queries about her condition, he did some scouting of his own with a high-powered flashlight. Within a couple of minutes he rejoined them, holding a length of magnetic tape.

  Clambering out of the car, Abby stared at the metallic strip. “What’s that?”

  “Tape from an audio cassette. When car headlights hit it at night, the reflection looks like a wire. I’ve seen this prank before. Sometimes with far more serious results. If you’d been going much faster, your car would have sustained a lot more damage than a dented bumper and a broken headlight. And so would you.”

  “I assume this is related to the hate-crimes piece,” Mark said.

  “That would be a safe bet,” Dale concurred. “The timing in relation to the article is too close for coincidence, and no one lives at this end of the street except Abby. It was meant for her.”

  Suddenly the car shifted, and Abby gasped. Mark’s arms went around her in an instinctive protective gesture. He felt her lean into him, the warm softness of her body in sharp contrast to his muscular frame. Dale tensed, and his hand flew to his holster as he peered toward the front of the car. Then his posture relaxed.

  “Flat tire,” he pointed out.

  Leaning forward, Abby stared at the limp rubber in disgust. And took a good look at the damage to the front of her older-model car. With her high-deductible insurance, repairs were going to take a sizable bite out of her meager savings.

  “Not much we can do here tonight,” Dale said. “Leave the car. You can deal with it tomorrow, in the day
light. Do you want me to call Al and have him stop by to take a look?”

  The reliable mechanic had been working on Oak Hill cars for as long as Abby could remember. “Yes. Thanks.”

  “And you’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll take a look around the house before I leave. Hop in.” He stepped aside, opening a path to the patrol car.

  For a brief instant she didn’t move. Nor did Mark retrieve the arm he’d thrown around her shoulders. Seconds ticked by, silent but filled with feelings so intense they were almost tangible. When at last she straightened and eased out from under the weight—and warmth—of his touch, he thought he detected the faintest of sighs, though it was masked by the night breeze.

  “Thanks again for following me home,” she murmured, a slight breathless quality to her voice.

  In the darkness, her face was shadowed and Mark couldn’t read her expression. But he sensed that Abby didn’t want him to leave. That it had taken every ounce of her willpower to step away from him—because she felt an attraction for him as strong as the one he felt for her.

  Testing the waters, he spoke in as casual a tone as he could muster. “I could stay a while, if that would make you feel safer.”

  “No!” Her reply was swift, almost panicked. “I mean, I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  Her response was telling. She wanted him to stay. His doubts about whether she was attracted to him were unfounded. But she was afraid. Of what, he wasn’t sure. Herself, perhaps. Of giving in to the feelings that had permeated the air mere moments ago. Yet why hold back if she felt the connection as strongly as he did? Why shut him out? Why not explore this thing between them?

  Mark had no answers. But as he watched her walk away with Dale, he was determined to find them. Sooner rather than later. Because his time in Oak Hill was fast running out.

  Chapter Eleven

  I should have gone back to Chicago for the weekend.

  That refrain echoed through Mark’s mind as he stared out the window of his room at the Oak Hill Inn on Sunday morning, the whole day stretching ahead of him endless and empty. Yesterday’s rain hadn’t abated, limiting his options for activities. He’d spent Saturday morning reading, then gone into the Gazette on the pretense of checking e-mail—but, in truth, he’d hoped to run into Abby. For once, however, the hardworking editor seemed to have given herself the day off.