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Fair Warning
Hannah Alexander
Cop's wife, mother-to-be, respected ICU nurse–Willow Traynor had a rich life. Then her husband was shot, and she was hit by a speeding car. Doubting it was an accident, she quit her job and fled.In the Ozarks, Willow hoped to find peace. But arson destroyed everything she had and almost killed her brother. Now she was certain: someone was targeting her. The support of new friends, especially Dr. Graham Vaughn and his sister, rekindled her hope for a fresh start. But meanwhile her stalker was getting closer, bolder and more determined….
Critical Praise for
HANNAH ALEXANDER’S
Hideaway Novels
GRAVE RISK
“The latest in Alexander’s Hideaway series is filled with mystery and intrigue. Readers familiar with the series will appreciate how the author keeps the characters fresh and appealing.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
FAIR WARNING
“The plot is interesting and the resolution filled with action.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
LAST RESORT
“The third novel in Alexander’s Hideaway romantic suspense series (after the Christy Award-winning Hideaway and Safe Haven) is a gripping tale with sympathetic characters that will draw readers into its web. The kidnapped Clarissa’s inner dialogue may remind some of Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones.”
—Library Journal
SAFE HAVEN
“Safe Haven has an excellent plot. I was hooked from the first page and felt like I was riding a roller coaster until the last. Ms. Alexander’s three protagonists kept my adrenaline-racing. But Fawn stole the show—who could resist a sixteen-year-old running for her life? This writer is a crowd pleaser.”
—Rendezvous
HIDEAWAY
“Genuine humor and an interesting cast of characters keep the story perking along…and there are a few surprises…an enjoyable read.”
—Publishers Weekly
Fair Warning
Hannah Alexander
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
In loving memory of June James,
born July 16, 1922, passed on to heaven
January 29, 2005. Aunt June was filled with
the life and laughter that inspired
the character of Ginger Carpenter.
Acknowledgments
Joan Marlow Golan, executive editor of Steeple Hill, runs a tight ship and is a constant encourager. This attitude infects the rest of her staff, and we are the ones who benefit. We appreciate you all!
Also going above and beyond the call of duty yet again is Lorene Cook, mom extraordinaire, who supports, encourages, runs errands and markets like a pro. Thanks, Mom.
Thanks to retired Battalion Chief Fred Baugher, who knows fire and doesn’t mind his niece picking his brain from time to time.
Thanks to Captain Powell of Branson Police Department for great information about the station and protocol.
Thanks to Susan May Warren, fellow novelist and former missionary to Russia, who gave us some great insights.
Thanks to Barbara Warren for your word-slashing ability, and to Jackie Bolton for personal insights.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter One
W illow Traynor’s eyes opened to the blackness of deep night as the noise and flash of an overbusy dream receded into the mist of her subconscious.
She held her breath as her eyes adjusted to the square edges of the dresser across the room, the dim reflection of light in the mirror, the ghostly drift of gauzy white curtains above the heat register. Something had awakened her.
She knew the dream had not been a nightmare, because in the past two years it seemed as if nightmares had become her constant companions. She would have recognized the aftereffects. She didn’t feel them now—no racing heart, no night sweats, no rush of relief upon waking to discover that she was still alive.
Something else, then. A noise? Perhaps a passing car, or a boat on the lake? The neighbors in the apartment complex? Sometimes the two little Jameson girls got rambunctious late at night, and Mrs. Bartholomew in the unit next door called to complain.
Willow sat up and peered toward the small digital numbers on the nightstand clock. Two-thirty, April 1. Probably wasn’t the children.
It might be something as insignificant as the unfamiliar silence. Even after two weeks she hadn’t yet adjusted to the move—or rather, the escape—from bustling Kansas City to her brother’s rural log cabin six miles south of Branson in the Missouri Ozarks. Major change.
She had never lived this far out in the country. Although the eight-unit apartment lodge her brother managed meant they weren’t exactly isolated from civilization, it was nothing like city life. Living in the cabin, situated on the shore of Table Rock Lake, was more like being on permanent vacation. Willow still struggled to come to grips with the comparative solitude.
As she stared into darkness, the square of sliding glass door at the far end of her room seemed to emit a pulsing glow. She blinked to clear her vision, but the glow increased. Headlights from a boat on the lake, perhaps? Except she heard no sound of a boat motor.
She turned her back to the light and plumped her pillow. “None of my business anyway,” she whispered into the darkness.
Her brother, Preston, certainly didn’t want her help keeping track of the renters. As he’d told her several times in the past two weeks, she needed to take a break and heal.
After a little more than twenty-three months, she’d almost given up hope of that. True, she no longer relived the night she’d received the visit from the police chief to tell her that her husband had been killed in the line of duty. At least, she didn’t relive it every single night. Maybe more like once a week now.
And she no longer had the nightly awakenings to cries of her forever unborn child. Only a couple of times a week did she cringe when someone invaded her personal space.
People did that all the time now, because her personal space had extended, in the past twenty-three months, to include whatever room she was in. She usually allowed people she knew into her personal space, but there were still those times when she could do nothing but withdraw from the world.
Since two attempts had been made on her own life after Travis was killed, she’d found herself suspecting practically everyone. She had known when she married Travis that he had one of the most dangerous jobs imaginable—not only was he a cop, but he was an undercover narcotics agent.
Here in Missouri, the Bible Belt, the heart of the nation, a war raged against illegal drugs, particularly methamphetamines. She had never dreamed the danger would extend to the cop’s family. But with Travis’s death, it most certainly had.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, exhaled, tempting sleep with as much entreaty as she could muster, willing her body to relax. The art of relaxing had become a lost skill for her.
Since arriving here in the middle of March, she’d assured herself daily that the only things she had to fear in this place were her memories. If she died, it would be a side effect of the grief that had imprisoned her since the day she lost Travis.
There’s nothing out there. It’s your imagination. Again.
Wasn’t that what everybody kept telling her? Even Preston. They hadn’t exactly told her they thought she was imagining the attempts on her life, but after the investigations turned up no evidence of foul play, she had felt her friends and her brother looking at her differently.
Try as she might, her eyes refused to remain closed. A faint flash of light greeted her again from the wall. She sighed and rolled from the bed, irritated by her exaggerated sense of responsibility. Maybe one of the renters was wandering around the yard with a flashlight, or maybe there was a party going on.
She slipped noiselessly to the glass door and unlatched it. All she needed was to prove to herself that no one hovered in the shadows watching her, waiting for her to go back to sleep so they could pounce.
And yet, what if someone was there this time?
She slid the door open and frowned. She caught a faint whiff of smoke, with an underlying scent of something else, pungent and strong.
What was it? Turpentine? Like the bottle of stuff Preston had been using in the shed a couple of days ago? No. Not turpentine…kerosene?
No.
Her frown deepened. Had Preston left the door open to the utility shed in the back? He’d spilled some gasoline on his clothes yesterday when he was working on the boat motor, preparing it for the coming warm days of spring.
She sniffed again. Smoke. Fuel.
She caught her breath. Smoke? “Preston!” she cried over her shoulder. “Fire!”
She shoved the door wide and dashed onto the cold deck. The wood chilled her bare feet. The odor of smoke blasted her. She scrambled down the steps and around the west side of the cabin, racing between it and the east wall of the apartment lodge.
Light flared as she reached the front corner of the cabin. To her horror, she saw several jagged lines of flame streaking across the yard—snakes of fire, winding through the darkness.
She blinked and stared, stumbling in the grass, fighting confusion. What was going on? The flames pitched in headlong flight directly toward the cabin.
“Preston!” she screamed. “Oh, Lord, help us!” Please, let this be another dream.
She raced toward the front door. She couldn’t shake the impression that she’d stepped into one of those B movies where a long, glowing fuse raced toward a bomb. Fuses. That was what those ribbons of flame looked like.
Before she reached the front steps, she saw her brother’s dark form stumbling out the door onto the porch.
“Get away!” he called. “Willow, get—”
A curtain of flames suddenly blasted across the wooden porch with all the force of an explosion. Preston leaped free of the fire and caught Willow in a tackle that rocked her backward. They crashed into the privacy hedge separating the cabin’s yard from the wider lawn encircling the entire complex.
He shoved her forward, through the hedge. She cried out as roots and stones bruised her bare feet. Preston kept pushing her farther from the danger.
They collapsed into the grass.
“Willow, you okay?” Preston asked, his deep voice harsh with alarm, breathing as if he’d run for miles.
