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The Missing Twin
Pamela Tracy
The secret between themAngela Taylor knew her sister was in trouble. For anyone but a twin, her instincts would seem crazy, and her actions crazier. Picking up and moving her and her daughter, Celia, to Scorpion Ridge, asking questions, put them all at risk. Even more risky was trusting Jake Farraday, the handsome ex-cop turned forest ranger.Years in witness protection had taught Angela to trust no one. Yet with Abigail missing, Jake was her only hope, and she found herself wanting to share more of her past with him. And more of her future. But did Jake have his own motives for helping Angela?
The secret between them
Angela Taylor knew her sister was in trouble. For anyone but a twin, her instincts would seem crazy, and her actions crazier. Picking up and moving herself and her daughter, Celia, to Scorpion Ridge and asking questions put them all at risk. Even more risky was trusting Jake Farraday, the handsome ex-cop turned forest ranger. Years in witness protection had taught Angela to trust no one. Yet with Abigail missing, Jake was her only hope, and she found herself wanting to share more of her past with him. And more of her future. But did Jake have his own motives for helping Angela?
“Mom.”
Angela started. “What? Did you say something?”
“You’re staring off into space. Or maybe you’re staring at the man who just sat down at the counter.”
“I don’t stare at men.”
Celia sighed. “Maybe you should.”
Angela almost spewed the tea she’d been sipping. Yeah, she’d love to involve a man in her life—a man like Jake Farraday. But wouldn’t he get a kick out of hearing about the people who wanted her dead? She might never be able to lead a normal life: be a wife and soccer mother, join the PTA, introduce herself by the name she was born with. What guy wouldn’t love that?
“We should definitely come to this diner more often,” Celia said. “There’s lots of good-looking guys of all ages.”
“Eat,” Angela ordered.
Dear Reader (#ulink_a8020277-5c97-5704-a8a4-eb5ed1b2e9cb),
I see suspense everywhere. When I go to the bank, I look at the person in line behind me and think: bank robber. When I go to the airport, I look at someone with lots of luggage and think: runaway bride. Even when I pick my son up from school, I just know one of those parents is keeping a secret...
So it should be no surprise that the idea for The Missing Twin came to me while riding the city bus. It started with the thought, “Just who is that guy who always sits in the very back?” He looks so tough, but there’s something about his eyes, something that tells me he has a heart. And now he’ll be another ordinary person who I’ll thrust a whole history upon and put in one of my books. I’ll name him Jake Farraday, and he’ll be an undercover cop.
If books have themes, this one is about sudden change. Our heroine, Angela Taylor, started life as Sophia Erickson. And then she opened the wrong drawer in her father’s desk. Angela uncovered her father’s secret, exposed him and changed not only her life but the life of her twin sister.
Jake Farraday knows about change, too. He unwittingly shared a secret, and it changed Angela’s life one more time. Now, ten years later, she’s back, and he wants to repay his debt. Except if Angela ever finds out the truth, it will change the way she feels about him.
But some changes make life better.
I hope you enjoy Jake and Angela’s story as well as the others in the Scorpion Ridge series. I love connecting with readers. You can visit me at my website, pamelatracy.com (http://pamelatracy.com/pamelatracy.html).
The Missing Twin
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Pamela Tracy
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PAMELA TRACY is a USA TODAY bestselling author who lives with her husband (the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (the interference for most of her writing time). Since 1999, she has published more than twenty-five books and sold more than a million copies. She’s a RITA® Award finalist and a winner of the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award.
To Rena and Jessica,
my twin nieces, who are now traveling the road of motherhood together. You are awesome.
Contents
Cover (#ue76baa77-f33e-5e23-a53b-11ecefc06dd1)
Back Cover Text (#uce4a9007-b161-5ebf-aa1a-915ca22dcd12)
Introduction (#ud6da17d8-61f1-5e70-8cab-a14107fbed7b)
Dear Reader (#u70e0c7ce-7419-5c27-ae85-ba25e3e88b8d)
Title Page (#u40024bfa-cf27-592a-b4d1-fa5861d9e30b)
About the Author (#u68cd3c55-ecdd-56fb-ac36-ae3cfc711a25)
Dedication (#u4039f30e-12de-5ff7-b6fd-be50ba7eae8b)
PROLOGUE (#u29c8a455-77c2-52d4-9ec2-3536037b5a9e)
CHAPTER ONE (#u6ce61786-724d-53c7-8187-ccc2cf8a7323)
CHAPTER TWO (#u58850bab-75fb-5b37-af14-ab0dcf921c06)
CHAPTER THREE (#udd137360-c2d8-580b-9c65-7082b9e80076)
CHAPTER FOUR (#uafca6267-bfd0-5655-955b-6b6ec3a735ab)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u481a1f45-4311-5b66-892a-cb563adc25fd)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_fd0efe2c-a0eb-5fa1-a71c-d8d05fe24c23)
Ten years ago
JAKE FARRADAY WAS in no mood to deal with a methed-out kid on the three-o’clock bus.
But the guy had a gun.
Jake had not one but three weapons on his person. His backup gun was secure in an ankle holster. His baby, a 9 mm handgun, was safely tucked under his shirt and against his tailbone. A switchblade waited in his jacket pocket.
Jake’s left hand circled the handle of his 9 mm but he didn’t take it out, not even when the driver slumped over the steering wheel, sending the bus crashing into a light pole.
The screams were muted. The few who rose to move toward the aisle quickly fell back into their seats. No one went to see if the driver was all right.
In the aisle the methed-out kid paced—limp hair, wild eyes, pale skin, his face twitching and angry. It didn’t get much worse than this. The kid’s hand shook as he aimed his gun at the ceiling, at the rubber matting under his feet and at any passenger who made a noise. A moment ago it had been aimed at the driver.
“Money,” the kid said, his voice raspy and high-pitched at the same time. “I want more.”
Half the people on the bus had already handed over their cash, eager to get the kid—and his gun—away from them. An elderly lady fainted, her purse fell to the floor and the man sitting next to her picked it up and handed over the whole thing.
Jake hadn’t turned over a dime.
Even in his meth madness, the kid took one look at Jake—dark skin, tattoos, low-slung, baggy jeans, black T-shirt, backward baseball cap, oversize hoody, scowl—and left him alone.
“Money,” the kid screamed again.
There were two people besides Jake who hadn’t surrendered their money. One was a stocky businessman who looked as if he had more money than sense. He was the one Jake worried about. No way did Jake want to blow a cover he’d taken six months to develop over a man who loved material goods more than his life.
The other holdout was a very young mother—she couldn’t have been older than twenty—who clutched a silent toddler.
The methed-out kid looked at the businessman and then looked at the mom and kid.
Outside the bus a crowd was gathering. Any minute, cops who could actually do something would show up.
Jake prayed they’d hurry.
The meth-head turned to the young mother. “You got a purse? Hand it over.”
Jake couldn’t tell from his spot at the very back of the bus if the woman, four seats ahead and down a step, had a purse or not. From the back all he could tell was that she had shoulder-length, choppy, brown hair, white skin and curves in all the right places. Amazingly she didn’t flinch.
“I don’t have a purse,” she said in a low voice. “Or any money.” The teen quickly looked at the businessman, who tensed, and then back at the young mother, who didn’t move.
The little girl didn’t move, either.
Outside, someone pounded on the side of the bus. The passengers flinched but no one called out.
The meth-head was running out of time and he knew it. He cursed before stepping even closer to the young mother. Glowering, he held out a hand.
It took all of Jake’s power to stay seated. A good cop didn’t bring unwanted attention to himself, didn’t risk blowing a deep cover, unless there was no other choice.
When the young mother didn’t move, the meth-head pounced, reaching past her and going for her daughter.
Children were the deal breaker. Jake stood, as did a clean-cut teenager who, after wisely turning over his money, had kept a low profile slouched against a window. Jake was probably the only person on the bus who realized the teen had been recording on his cell phone.
Before either one could take a step, the mother pulled a gun from somewhere inside her jacket, stood and aimed.
Jake’s heart almost stopped. He started to reach for his firearm then paused.
She didn’t so much as blink. Her body assumed a cop’s front stance and she clearly had a solid grip on the gun.
Jake knew why the meth-head believed. Her high-hand grasp was steady while his wildly shook. The meth-head stood so close to her, she didn’t really need to aim. Her trigger finger moved, just enough to show she meant business.
The meth-head took one step back, stumbled, fell and awkwardly hit the floor of the bus with a thud. His hand—the one with the gun—was in the air and the businessman who’d refused to give up his money quickly unarmed him.
Jake may have misjudged the man.
The woman gathered her daughter up in her arms. She stroked the girl’s hair and whispered in her ear. Jake hadn’t seen her conceal her weapon, and he could only imagine what the little girl thought about all that had happened.
The bus’s front door opened with a jarring racket; the cops had arrived. It was as if someone had thrown a switch. Suddenly everybody was moving and talking.
Jake slouched and pretended to be disinterested, hoping for a chance to exit the bus and fade into the distance. Curiosity warred against common sense and he hesitated. He wanted a closer look at the young mother who carried a gun and knew how to use it.
She didn’t look like a cop.
Nah. She’d have had to identify herself before taking aim. Otherwise the paperwork and interviews would have been endless.
The passengers were starting to exit the bus at the cops’ commands. Jake could see her carrying her daughter down the bus steps, but there were too many people in the way and he couldn’t get any closer.
An ambulance pulled up. An older man fell as he was getting off the bus. He didn’t even make it to the ground—the teenager who’d almost butted in to help the mother caught him just in time.
People often said society was going to the dogs because of today’s youth, but thanks to his cell phone’s video camera, this teenager would be the cops’ best witness. Maybe the businessman and young mother would be, too.
Jake searched the perimeter for her.
Interesting.
She was even better than Jake at disappearing.
