SOUL DEEP
by
Pamela Clare
SOUL DEEP
Published by Pamela Clare, 2015
Credits for cover images
Couple: PeopleImages.com
Landscape: Epic StockMedia/Depositphotos.com
Cover design by Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Copyright © 2015 by Pamela Clare
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials by violating the author’s rights. No one should be expected to work for free. If you support the arts, do not participate in illegal file-sharing.
ISBN-10: 0990377113
ISBN-13: 978-0-9903771-1-5
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to all the women—and men—who know that the human desire for romance, love, and sexual passion has nothing to do with age.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This story would have been much more difficult to write if not for the unflagging support of the following wonderful people: my sister, Michelle White; my younger son, Benjamin Alexander; and my dear friends Jackie Turner, Shell Ryan, and Stéphanie Desprez. Thank you for your friendship and support.
Thanks, too, to Benjamin Gaibel, who helped me hold on when writing this book took me through my own personal loss and grief to a very dark place.
Special thanks and lots of love to Anette Stoltze, my dear friend from my teenage days at Sorø Akademi in Sorø, Denmark, and her husband, Erik Buhl, for taking me into their home and allowing me to experience life on their stud farm—Stutteri Brandtbjerggård in Pjested. By the time I’d been there for a week, I was the most relaxed I’ve been in years. Watching the birth of a colt and experiencing the workings of the farm was an incredible experience that I’ll never forget. Tusind tak!
CHAPTER ONE
September 28
Janet Killeen gripped the steering wheel of her Toyota Corolla, snow falling so thick and heavy that she couldn’t see the side of the highway. Her windshield wipers were clumped with ice and snow, the rubber blades no longer making contact with the glass. She would need to pull over soon to clean the ice off—if only she could see the shoulder so that she could pull over.
Leaving Denver had been a mistake.
She rolled down her window and scooted forward in her seat, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through her hip and pelvis at the motion. Reaching outside, she grabbed the bottom of the wiper blade. Icy flakes hit her face, the cold almost taking her breath away as she raised the blade and dropped it against her windshield once, twice, three times. The thick crust of ice and snow broke off.
She rolled up the window, turned her heater up a notch.
She’d left the city first thing this morning, hoping to make it to the mountain town of Scarlet Springs before the storm hit. She’d booked a room for a week at the Forest Creek Inn, a family-run bed and breakfast, and had been looking forward to seeing the aspens and maybe even sitting on a horse again. It was part of a promise she’d made herself, her way of celebrating her survival and the end of rehab.
Having grown up in Hudson Falls in upstate New York, she always yearned for fall color, and the only place a person could find that in Colorado was in the high country during that brief couple of weeks when the aspens turned. It had become her yearly ritual, the one time of year she put aside her badge and her duties as an FBI special agent and let herself go.
Forecasters had predicted up to eighteen inches in Denver and a good few feet in the mountains, but when were the forecasters ever right about Colorado’s weather? Last week, they’d predicted snow, and Denver had gotten hail and funnel clouds instead. Of course, they just had to be right this time.
You should have turned back.
Yes, well, it was too late for that now. She needed to reach Scarlet Springs—or find someplace she could pull off the highway and wait for a break in the storm.
She glanced down at the speedometer. Ten MPH. At this rate, she’d get there faster if she got out of the car and ran. Except that she couldn’t run. She would probably never run again. She was lucky to be able to walk.
You’re lucky to be alive.
Last February, a sniper bullet intended for journalist Laura Nilsson, whose protection detail Janet had managed, had ripped through Janet’s left hip, shattering the joint, breaking her pelvis, severing her sciatic nerve, and damaging her vaginal muscles before exiting through the front. Doctors had replaced her hip, used plates to put her pelvis back together, reconnected the severed nerve, and stitched her vagina, but her body would never be the same.
Gone were the days of running daily 10Ks and rock climbing on the weekends. Though she had learned to walk with a cane instead of a walker, her left foot still dragged. She didn’t know whether she’d ever be able to ski or ride a horse or even enjoy sex again. Little things she’d always taken for granted were difficult now—grocery shopping, keeping a clean house, getting a full night of pain-free sleep.
And then there were the nightmares.
Gunshots. Screams. Pain.
That single bullet hadn’t just ripped through her body. It had torn a path through her life. Byron, the skier she’d been dating, had ended things during her second month of rehab. He’d said that he’d changed and needed to move on, but she’d known he was turned off by her lack of mobility and had run out of patience waiting for them to have a sex life. But that wasn’t all of it.
When she returned from this little vacation, she would be going back to work, but not to the position she’d held before the shooting. She’d be taking a desk job instead. An agent who couldn’t run or stomach the thought of holding a firearm was an agent who couldn’t leave the office.
The life she’d known had vanished in a split second, and she missed it, even grieved for it, crying tears she didn’t share with anyone.
Melodie, her younger sister, saw this as a sign that Janet should leave the FBI, find a husband, and start a family before it was too late. Setting aside the fact that Janet’s biological clock seemed to have run out already, her injuries would likely make sex and pregnancy difficult, even if by some miracle she could get pregnant.
Janet and Melodie were very different people. Melodie had always wanted to be a wife and a mother, and Janet had always wanted to be a superhero and save the world. It wasn’t that Janet didn’t want a husband or kids, but her life as a special agent had been busy and fulfilling enough without them. Besides, finding a husband wasn’t like shopping for patio furniture. A woman could spend years looking for the right guy and still not find him. Janet had had her share of boyfriends and lovers, but after Byron, it seemed to her that a woman might be better off on her own.
Despite whatever her sister might think, Janet didn’t regret her choices—not even her decision to volunteer for Laura’s protection detail. She had always admired Laura and was proud to have played a role in saving her life. Laura had just married Javier Corbray, that sexy SEAL lover of hers. Seeing her move on from the hell that had been her life to claim some happiness had been the best reward Janet could have received.
She would adapt and find a way to do the things she loved again. That’s exactly why she’d made this trip—to reclaim some part of her life for herself.
Snow had begun to build up on the wipers again, the tail lights of the truck that was at most ten feet in front of her barely visible. Janet roll
ed down her window once more, scooted forward, then grabbed the wiper blade and tapped it against the glass, dislodging the snow and ice.
It seemed to be coming down even harder now, the wind driving the snow straight into her windshield. How could the driver in front of her even see where he or she was going? Was the driver blindly following someone else’s tail lights like she was? If so, what was guiding the person in front?
She needed to get off the road. She tried to remember if there were any gas stations or small towns between here and Scarlet Springs. She didn’t think so. The only place she knew of for certain was the Cimarron Ranch, but she wouldn’t stop there even if she knew where it was. Jack West, the man who owned it, was as big a jerk as he was handsome. She’d had a less-than-pleasant exchange with him when she’d gone there as part of Laura’s protection detail to make certain the place was secured.
I know every man, woman, and child on my land, SA Killeen. I don’t need you checking IDs or running background on my people. I understand you want to protect Ms. Nilsson. So do I. But I’ve got twenty men here, every single one of whom knows how to use a firearm. They’ve all been made aware of the situation. Laura is safe under my roof. I guarantee you that. Now, either come inside for a bite to eat, or get the hell off my property.
She’d only been trying to do her job, and West had ordered her off his land as if she’d been nothing more than a trespasser. She’d been furious at—
Ahead of her, the red tail lights swerved. The highway seemed to vanish from beneath her tires, the car sliding sideways down a steep embankment, coming to rest with a sickening crunch.
Janet found herself holding the steering wheel in a death grip, her heart slamming in her chest. She took a few deep breaths, tried to dial back on the adrenaline.
Way to go, Killeen. That’s one way to get off the highway.
She wasn’t hurt, and the car was no longer moving—two reasons to be grateful. The vehicle had come to rest at an almost forty-five-degree angle, what looked like a fencepost pressing against her crumpled passenger side door.
She knew there was no way for her to get back onto the road, not without trading her Corolla for, say, an M1 Abrams tank. She would have to call for help. The tow would probably cost a small fortune, to say nothing of the damage to her car and the fence.
Consider it all a tax on being stupid.
She turned off the vehicle, took off her seat belt, and bent down to retrieve her handbag off the floor. She pulled out her cell phone. No bars. “Damn it!”
She had no choice but to climb back up to the road. She might be able to flag down a trucker with a radio who could call for help on her behalf. Or maybe someone would come along who was willing to give her a ride to Scarlet Springs.
She grabbed her cane and pulled up the hood of her parka, determined not to be one of those drivers who wandered from their vehicles high in the mountains and froze to death in the snow. She pushed the door open—lifted it, really—then turned in her seat and tried to step out of the car into the snow. Her feet slipped, and she fell, instinctively reaching out with her hands to stop herself, her legs sliding beneath the car. The door swung down, almost hitting her in the face before she caught it.
Using her cane to steady herself and support her weight, she crawled out and got to her feet again, sidestepping the door and letting it slam behind her. Then she began to climb the embankment.
There couldn’t have been more than twenty feet between her and the highway, but it might as well have been a mile. Last winter, she would have been able to do this without difficulty, but now it was a struggle. Again and again she slipped, gaining only a few feet despite intense effort, her thigh and hip aching, snow biting her face.
Swoosh!
A wave of white billowed down on her from above, knocking her backward down the embankment, losing her all the ground she’d gained.
Snow from a Colorado Department of Transportation snowplow.
Thanks a lot, CDOT.
Chilled to the bone, she shook off the snow, climbed to her feet, and tried again, this time setting her cane aside and attempting to crawl up the slope, dragging her left leg behind her. But the snow was too deep, and she was soon out of breath and badly chilled.
If she didn’t stop, she’d soon be hypothermic.
By the time she was back in the car, she was exhausted, freezing, and in pain. She would have to wait here until the storm let up. When the snow stopped, she would wave out the window at passing drivers. Someone would see her and call for help. In the meantime, she had a space blanket, water, ibuprofen, her Kindle, and chocolate covered almonds. It wasn’t the Forest Creek Inn, but it would have to do.
# # #
Jack West tossed the last hay bale into the bed of his Ford F-250 pickup, the cold biting his nose, the air fresh with the scent of new snow. A good four feet had fallen overnight, and the National Weather Service was saying the mountains could expect more this afternoon. He needed to get hay up to the herd in the high pasture before the flakes began to fly again.
He’d been working since before dawn, plowing the road to the ranch’s front gate and then seeing to the horses. His son, Nate, normally took care of these things, but he’d stayed at the family townhome in Denver, not wanting to drive up the canyon with Megan, his wife, and Emily, their six-year-old daughter, in the middle of a blizzard. Jack supported that decision. He didn’t like taking chances with the lives of those he loved.
Chuck, the ranch’s foreman, stepped out of the barn. “Want me to come along?”
Jack frowned. “Is that your way of saying you think I’m too old for this shit?”
“You kidding, boss?” Chuck laughed. “You’re in better shape than most of the younger guys.”
“If that’s true, I ought to fire the lot of you.” Jack grinned, opened the cab door, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Did you take care of that business with Kip? I don’t think ill of him, but I don’t want him having the keys to the bunkhouse now that he’s no longer working here.”
Jack had found himself with no choice but to fire the man. Kip Henderson was a great cattleman, skilled with steers and horses, but he was also a slave to the bottle.
“I took care of it yesterday when Luke and I went into Denver to pick up supplies. His key is on my desk.”
Jack shut the door, buckled the seatbelt. “I appreciate that.”
Chuck stepped back to give the truck room. “See you when you get back.”
Jack turned the key in the ignition, the 385-horsepower engine roaring to life. He headed down the road toward the main gate, his gaze traveling over the valley. Apart from his time in the army, he’d lived his entire life here, the third generation to call this mountain valley home. His family had done well, running black Angus and breeding quarter horses, managing to hang on through thick and thin to a way of life that had largely vanished from the state.
Jack turned up the truck’s heater. The Cimarron had been transformed overnight into a landscape of frozen white, ribbons of golden aspen, dark patches of evergreens, and crags of red rock adding color to the mountainsides. The beauty of it was enough to take a man’s breath away. Then the sun peered through the clouds on the eastern horizon, sending a shaft of pink light across the snow, making it sparkle.
Theresa, you would love this.
Whether Theresa could hear his thoughts, Jack couldn’t say, but after almost forty years of being married to her, it was hard to experience life and not want to share it with her. She’d died seven years ago of a brain aneurysm, and Jack had never stopped missing her. One moment she’d been inside making lunch, and the next she’d been gone. He’d found her lying on the kitchen floor, and his world had come crashing down.
Still, life went on, and Jack had had no choice but to go on with it. When Nate had been wounded in Afghanistan, badly burned in an IED explosion, Jack had devoted himself to helping his son heal and regain his strength. Now Nate was happily married, his wife Megan and their little E
mily bringing joy back into the house.
And if there were days—and nights especially—when Jack felt lonely, well, that was just the price he paid for the privilege of having lived so damned long.
Nate had given him his blessing to remarry and wanted him to join some online dating service, but Jack couldn’t see how any good could come of that. Not that he didn’t have anything to offer a woman. There was the ranch, of course, and he had money. And, unlike a lot of men his age, he was physically fit and didn’t need a pill to get an erection. But he hadn’t dated in forty years and wasn’t sure he’d even know what to say to a woman.
Hell, no, that wasn’t for him. He’d been married once and knew what it was to love a woman and be loved in return. He and Theresa had made a good life together, and they’d had a son. Now, she was gone, and Jack’s job, as he saw it, was to be there for their son and his family and to pass on the Cimarron intact.
He reached the main gate, which he had already opened, and turned onto the highway. The road was slick and snow-packed—not surprising given how much accumulation they’d gotten. It was unusual for the state to get a blizzard this early in the fall, but this was Colorado. He’d seen it snow up here on the Fourth of July.
He was about a mile east of the turnoff to the high pasture when he saw a fencepost out of alignment with the others. It took a moment before he realized why the post had been knocked to the side. A car had slid off the road, down the embankment, and struck the fence. The car itself was all but buried in a big snowdrift, just a bit of tail light and rear bumper showing. CDOT plows must have buried it during the night, concealing it under a few feet of snow and slush.