In Sight of the Enemy Read online

  He’d felt Cassie’s body relax next to his as she slept.

  But now she moved restlessly and gave a broken cry, awakening him.

  He called her name, but whatever nightmare had her in its grasp wasn’t ready to let go. “Cassie!” He shook her shoulder urgently, until finally her eyelids fluttered open. “How do you feel?”

  She didn’t look at him as she replied, “Fine. Just a dream. I’ve had it since I was a kid.”

  He noted the shakiness of her fingers as she pushed them through her hair. “What’s it about?”

  “Murder.”

  “Whose murder?”

  She looked at him, and her eyes held horror in their depths. “Mine.”

  In Sight of the Enemy

  KYLIE BRANT

  For Jordan, who thinks he’s suffered greatly as the “middle child” but has really been spoiled beyond belief! We love you, honey.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks goes to Roxanne Rustand, for her expertise on horses and their behavior, and her unfailing support and friendship; to Vickie Taylor, fellow author, for generously sharing her experience and knowledge of the eastern Texas forests; and to my buddy, Paul Leavens, Director of Emergency Services, Mason City Mercy Hospital, for being my go-to guy every time I’m under deadline and need to shoot someone! I appreciate everyone’s help more than I can say. Any mistakes in accuracy are the sole responsibility of the author.

  Books by Kylie Brant

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  McLain’s Law #528

  Rancher’s Choice #552

  An Irresistible Man #622

  Guarding Raine #693

  Bringing Benjy Home #735

  Friday’s Child #862

  *Undercover Lover #882

  *Heartbreak Ranch #910

  *Falling Hard and Fast #959

  Undercover Bride #1022

  †Hard To Handle #1108

  Born in Secret #1112

  †Hard To Resist #1119

  †Hard To Tame #1125

  **Alias Smith and Jones #1196

  **Entrapment #1221

  **Truth or Lies #1238

  **Dangerous Deception #1306

  In Sight of the Enemy #1323

  KYLIE BRANT

  lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning-disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.

  An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings. She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.

  She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at [email protected]. Her Web site address is www.kyliebrant.com.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  July

  Cassie Donovan was dreaming of murder.

  The familiar nightmare dragged her in, clutched her in its vicious grip, making escape impossible.

  It was a familiar scene, one she’d experienced repeatedly throughout her life. Each time it was replayed for its audience of one with the same setting, the same characters. But rather than dulling its horror, repetition had honed it like a sharp blade.

  The dark-haired woman in the room is packing quickly, frantically. Someone had painstakingly reproduced nineteenth-century splendor in the bedroom, but the panic in her movements is in marked contrast to the antiquated charm of her surroundings. Her yellow ruffled sundress flutters as she moves from dresser to suitcase, dropping a jumble of clothes into it. And then she looks up, an expression of terror on her face, listening to a sound that only she can hear. The lid to the suitcase is slammed shut, the locks engaged and the woman straightens, spine stiff with resolve or fear for the as yet unseen threat.

  Cassie moved in the bed restlessly, her subconscious searching for means of escape. But there would be no avoiding the inevitable conclusion. Not for the woman in the bed. Not for the one in the dream.

  She sends a quick look toward the half-closed closet door before grabbing the suitcase, carrying it down the hallway to a living room. A man clad in dark trousers and white shirt is already there. Slowly he rolls up his sleeves, first one, then the other. And though the woman lifts her chin, nerves show in the way her fingers tighten around the handle of the suitcase.

  “Where are they?”

  She doesn’t back down in the face of his angry demand, although she has to be aware of the menace in it.

  The pretty Tiffany lamp, with the delicate wisteria winding about the shade, is picked up, sails across the room. When the woman ducks, it shatters against the wall, shards of colored glass spraying like tiny missiles. And then the man lunges, diving for her and the woman dodges, dropping the suitcase. He catches the fabric of her dress, yanks her to the couch and his balled fist smashes into her face.

  “Where are they?”

  The words are uttered in an enraged roar, the blows raining down fierce and punishing. The woman fights, almost breaks free, but his hands go to her throat and squeeze. She claws at them in an attempt to loosen his grip, but his fingers tighten as reason recedes and temper takes over. Her struggles grow weaker, until finally her hands drop away, one palm facing upward in a silent supplication. And then there’s no sound in the room but the harsh breathing of the man above her, his guttural furious cry.

  Cassie gasped for air, her eyes flying open. She was only half-aware that she was on the floor, beside the bed, one hand flung up in a macabre reflection of the woman’s position in the dream. For the next few seconds she concentrated on the simple act of hauling air into oxygen-starved lungs.

  She rose awkwardly, then stumbled toward the window. The moon was hanging fat and full in the diamond-studded sky, but the sight failed to soothe her as it usually did. The aftereffects of the nightmare still prickled her skin, and she rubbed her arms to chase away the lingering chill.

  The dream had come often enough over the years that it was etched in her memory like acid on glass. If she wanted to, she could call up every tiny detail. The decorative vase on the ornate oak dresser in the bedroom, filled with fragrant gardenias. The Tiffany lamp on the table in the living room, with its delicate flowered vines tracing across the shade. The cameo-backed couch, the polished tongue-and-groove wood floor. The terror and resolve of the woman. The horrible intent of the man.

  But try as she might, she could never put a face to the murderer.

  It wasn’t until she was older that she’d recognized the void and tried to fill it. But each time the dream replayed, she was a helpless spectator. She could see only the back of the man, from the shoulders down; the width of the rooms; the woman engaged in her last violent struggle for life.

  But no, that wasn’t quite true either. Because she could “see” one thing that couldn’t be explained by visual acuity. Although the door to the room’s closet was almost closed, she knew there was a little dark-haired boy huddled inside it, a baby’s soft terry toy clutched tightly in his hands. And she recognized that there were two victims in that house. One who would die and another whose end she’d never
know.

  For there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that the dream would come true. All of her dreams did.

  Cassie didn’t know how old she’d been before she’d become aware of that inexplicable ability she’d been born with. The first instance she could recall she’d been about four and had dreamed every detail of the colt her favorite mare would give birth to. The events in the dreams that had followed over the years had never failed to materialize. But tonight’s nightmare had occurred with the most frequency.

  With a hand that still shook she reached up, wiped her clammy forehead. It was easy to guess what had sparked it this time—the room in the bed-and-breakfast where she’d just returned from spending two days with her lover.

  Shane had arranged the weekend away as a surprise for her, but her pleasure at his thoughtfulness had died abruptly once they’d walked into their room. When she’d viewed the turn-of-the-century furnishings her blood had run thick and cold. Although not identical to those in the dream, they had been similar enough to cause her a sleepless weekend. She’d tried, but she knew she hadn’t been able to completely hide the strain it had taken. Which hadn’t done a thing to heal the rift that was forming between Shane and herself.

  Resting her forehead against the cool pane of glass, she closed her eyes. She shouldn’t have to struggle to hide who she was, what she was, from the only man she’d ever allowed herself to love. Love—real love—meant acceptance, didn’t it? But Shane hadn’t reacted as she’d hoped when she’d tried to explain to him a few weeks ago about the dreams that sometimes came, unbidden. And he was nowhere close to believing that her precognition—or any psychic ability—was real. Especially not when she told him what she’d dreamed about him and his upcoming assignment for Doctors Without Borders.

  Her twin brother, Hawk, would frown disapprovingly if he knew she’d been honest with Shane, but she couldn’t fathom a future with a man she had to keep secrets from. And Shane hadn’t rejected her when she’d told him about her ability. She opened her eyes to stare blindly out into the night, taking a measure of comfort from the thought. As dismayed as he’d been by her revelation, he hadn’t walked away. But neither was he anywhere close to believing in it.

  The weekend had been a chance for them to repair a relationship that had recently become more tenuous. Appreciation of Shane’s gesture had kept her from suggesting a different place to stay. Had kept her from falling into a deep sleep while there, lest tonight’s nightmare make an appearance. But all she’d managed, in the end, was to delay it.

  She gave a little sigh, her breath fogging the window. Rubbing at the condensation absently, she pushed aside the trepidation filling her. The two of them would work through this. They would. What they had was too rare to give up on so easily. He just needed time to adjust, and she could grant him that time. As long as he reached some sort of acceptance in the end.

  Turning back toward the room, she stared at the rumpled bedcovers with a renewed sense of dread. She wasn’t ready to crawl back in that bed again. Not while it still took such effort to keep the mental door closed tightly against those all-too familiar images.

  But like sneaky fingers of fog, remnants of the dream filtered through her memory, leaving an icy wake. Her bedroom should be a haven. Certainly it couldn’t have been further removed from the one in the nightmare. She’d always deliberately embraced more contemporary furnishings, and the ranch bore her stamp of Southwestern decor. There was nothing fussy or overtly feminine about her bedroom trappings, or her wardrobe. Her clothing favored function and tailoring over frills and ruffles. There wasn’t a hint of the softly feminine touches apparent in the room from the dream.

  But despite the effort she’d taken to avoid such similarities, she knew that her efforts would be in vain. Over the years she’d learned to accept the inevitability of the dreams. She could no more prevent them than she could change their events from coming true. There was no doubt that the woman in tonight’s nightmare would eventually die a violent, hideous death. There could be no evading it.

  She hugged herself with her arms, in an attempt to control the shudders that worked through her. A familiar sense of fatalism filled her. Because although Cassie couldn’t identify the setting or the time in the dream, the woman’s face was all too familiar. She saw it every time she looked in the mirror.

  For as long as she could remember, she’d been dreaming of her own inescapable murder.

  Dr. Shane Farhold shifted on his bench seat in the stadium, his gaze flicking over his surroundings idly. Jean-clad men and casually dressed women packed the outdoor arena. Regardless of gender, a full half of the occupants wore Stetsons, and most carried beers afforded by the vendors in the place. It would be hard to imagine a scene further removed from those in his former home in Boston, and the differences were satisfying. After his mother’s death there had seemed little reason to stay in the city. And once his only remaining family had found him again, he’d had every reason to leave.

  With an ease born of long practice he shoved that memory aside and concentrated on the voice on the loudspeaker announcing the next contestant in the Bareback Bronc contest. Cassie was up next. As if on cue, his stomach clenched in tight knots. He could use a scalpel to slice open a man’s chest without a moment’s hesitation, but the sight of Cassie on a huge unbroken horse always had the power to turn his blood to ice. He knew all too well just how many bones could break if a person hit the ground with just the right amount of force. He’d pointed that out to her once and she’d only laughed and said that was why she preferred to stay on the back of the horse.

  The gate on the chute swung open. There was a split second of stillness, as if the huge roan was trans-fixed by the crowd. Then it exploded out of the chute, a whirling dervish of clashing hooves.

  “Relax, Doc,” said the bearded man beside Shane. “She marked out just fine. Always does.”

  He didn’t bother to correct the man. His concern was hardly on whether or not Cassie’s feet had been placed above the break of the horse’s shoulder on its first jump out of the chute. Her dainty form atop the furious horse looked spectacularly out of place. The eight-second clock crawled with excruciating slowness, a marked contrast to the frenzied movements of the animal.

  Cassie was smiling widely, looking as though she was having the time of her life. The rigging grasped in one hand, her other was raised in the air to avoid accidentally touching the horse or her equipment, an automatic disqualification. The animal reared then spun, engaging in a series of staccato, teeth-jarring sideways jumps.

  She looked, to Shane, to be spurring in perfect rhythm with the horse’s movements. If the crowd’s roar of approval was any indication, they agreed. The final couple seconds were a blur, with the animal spinning and bucking wildly. When the buzzer sounded, however, Cassie was still seated, her smile still bright as the pickup men rode out to secure the horse.

  Releasing the rigging, she reached over to one of the pickup horses and transferred to it. The horse veered free of the bronc and Cassie slid off its back, turned in Shane’s direction and blew him a kiss before running out of the arena.

  Relief mingled with a sort of amused irritation. The man next to Shane guffawed and elbowed him. “What’d I tell you? Cassie knows what she’s doin’. There’s no one knows horses better’n her and Hawk Donovan.” He then fell silent, listening intently as the announcer stated her scores and the crowd applauded once again.

  Minutes later, Cassie was slipping into the seat next to his, accepting the congratulations and good-natured ribbing of those around her with equanimity. She went into his arms with an ease that never failed to warm him. “I didn’t catch the score, did you?” When Shane repeated it for her, she wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  “What?” he asked. “That’s a great score. Best so far.”

  “With eight more contestants after me, it won’t be good enough to win.” She settled in the seat next to his. “Half the score is based on the horse’s performance, an
d with my weight I’m never going to be exposed to the horse’s maximum strength.”

  She could still surprise him, despite the fact they’d been dating six months. “If you know that going in, why the heck do you take the risks?”

  Her lips curved. “For the thrill, of course.” She laughed when she saw his expression. “You know what else would thrill me?”

  Her tone was innocent enough. The hand sliding up his leg was anything but. He clamped one hand firmly over hers to stop her teasing, even as his hormones expressed immediate interest. He wasn’t yet entirely comfortable with just how easily he responded to this woman. “What?”

  “Letting you take me out of here and…” She leaned closer to breathe the rest into his ear. “…buy me a corn dog.”

  Shane winced. “Do you know what they put in those things?”

  “No, and don’t ruin it for me. We can’t come to the county fair without tasting all the once-a-year treats.”

  He rose and followed her out of the stands. “Okay, but I’m not buying cotton candy. I do have medical ethics to uphold, you know.”

  Slipping her arm through his, she leaned her head on his arm. “No problem. I brought my own money.”

  Shane leaned back on the one empty bench they managed to find in the crowded midway and stretched out his legs. Crossing his arms over his stomach, he barely managed to stifle a groan. Despite his best intentions, he hadn’t done particularly well at withstanding Cassie’s constant invitations to take “just a bite.” As a result, he’d ingested some of the most dubious offerings masquerading as food he’d ever experienced. Following her gaze to a nearby food cart, he said emphatically, “Don’t even think about it. After three corn dogs—which could be more aptly named heart attack on a stick—cotton candy, a pretzel, a caramel apple and something called wild melon sorbet, you can’t possibly be thinking of eating a funnel cake.”