Chained (6 page)

“He opened his eyes. And he was talking to me. Well, maybe
not to me, but he was talking. Now something’s happening again.”

Peggy looked doubtful, but she rose out of her chair and
followed the other woman down the hall.

Matthew Houseman was lying in the bed where he always lay,
only instead of lying perfectly still, the way he always did, he was moving his
head restlessly from side to side.

“What did you do to him?” Peggy demanded.

“Nothing!”

“You said he was talking. What did he say?”

“He called out to a woman—Isabella.”

“That’s all?”

“Maybe he said she was in danger.”

As they stood beside his bed, he opened his eyes again.
“Isabella.”

When he tried to climb out of bed, alarm shot through
Gloria.

“Matthew, take it easy,” she murmured as she pressed a hand
against his shoulder. “Everything’s all right.”

“No. I have to . . .” He stopped talking abruptly and made a
moaning sound.

“I’ll call Dr. Berman,” Peggy said.

oOo

 One moment Matthew was there. In the next, he had vanished.
Was this like the night she had arrived? Had he gone to confront the enemy or
had he disappeared again?

Isabella had never lit the lamp. Now she moved quietly to
the window, peering out. It was still light, and in the distance, she could see
a dust cloud rising along the access road. But she had no idea who was coming
to the ranch. It could be her father, Decorah Security agents, or the men who
had tried to kill her.

Matthew had said he would protect her in this place, but she
couldn’t rely on him. Not when her life might depend on saving herself. She ran
back to her room, grabbing a knapsack and her purse. After snatching the gun
off the kitchen table, she dashed into the study.

She picked up the rug and threw it into the tunnel, then
yanked on the desk, pulling it over the trapdoor before climbing down the
ladder, lowering the panel above her as she went. In the tunnel, she opened the
door to the safe and pulled out the canvas bag, which she stuffed into her
knapsack and carried down the tunnel to the escape hatch where she opened the
door and set the bag outside.

A stirring in the air made her catch her breath.

“Matthew?” she asked.

He didn’t bother to show himself, but he spoke in a low
voice as though he were standing next to her. “Three men are coming.”

“Not from Decorah, I guess.”

“Not likely.”

“There were two the other night. Or maybe I didn’t see them
all.”

“It’s definitely three. They all look like the ones you described
yesterday.” His voice turned hard. “I listened to them talking. They’re here to
kill you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“How did they find me?”

“I wish I knew.” Frustration laced his voice. “I don’t know
if I’m strong enough to smash all of them against the stable.”

“Blow them toward the house.”

“Toward you?” he asked, his voice full of doubt.

She told him what she had in mind.

He made a sound of approval. “Good.”

“How close are they?”

“Almost in the ranch yard.”

In the next moment he was gone again.

She was just heading back up the tunnel when she heard a
noise outside.

A man shouted in Spanish. “What the hell? Get in the house.
Quick.”

Then she heard the sound of shots being fired.

At the wind? She didn’t know, but it sounded like Matthew
was doing what he promised.

Above her she heard footsteps pounding across the floor and
more shouts from the men. They were looking for her.

“She’s been here,” one of them called out. “The bed’s been
slept in. And there’s food and a book on the table.”

“She must be hiding. Maybe in the tunnel.”

“Where is it?”

“We’ll find it.”

Her heart leaped into her throat. They knew about the escape
route.

Above her, she heard the thugs searching through the house.
Praying that they wouldn’t find the trapdoor, she ran to the second panel.
Inside was a timer attached to a long-life battery.

Her heart was throbbing like a drum as she set the timer for
sixty seconds. Long enough for her to get out, but not long enough for them to
figure out where she was. She hoped.

With the device ready to go, she dashed toward the exit and
stepped out.

She had just breathed out a small sigh when she saw a man
like the ones from the night before. He was holding a gun in one hand and the
canvas bag in the other.

“Got ya. Drop your weapon,” he ordered in Spanish.

She let the gun fall to the ground.

 “And I see you have the money your father stole from San
Marcos, too.”

“That’s a lie. He didn’t steal anything. It belonged to our
family.”

The man snorted, and she wondered what other lies he’d been
told about her father.

She kept her eyes on him as she moved to the side so that
her back was no longer in the doorway.

“Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, bracing herself against the
rock by the door as she silently counted in her head.

Each second seemed to stretch for an eternity. The man spoke
into a microphone clipped to his shirt collar. “I’ve got her. . . . Out back.”

Just as he finished speaking, she felt an enormous explosion
shake the ground.

A blast of air, rock and dust came roaring down the tunnel,
knocking the man off his feet and throwing him backward.

Isabella stood with her legs locked against the ground and
her back braced against the rock, waiting for the world to stop shaking as she
reached for the gun she’d stuffed into her purse.

The thug had been blown about eight feet away, but a rock
stopped him. He was scrambling to recover, scrambling to get his weapon into
firing position when a blast of wind picked him up and sailed him into a
boulder. Not from the explosion. From Matthew.

The
hombre
screamed as he hit. Then he went silent as
he fell to the rocks, his body lying in a broken heap, his neck at an odd
angle.

She stood there, feeling shell-shocked.

“Isabella, are you all right?” Matthew asked, his voice
urgent.

“Yes. Thanks to you.”

“Thank God.”

He flicked into view, more solid than she had ever seen him.
The man she remembered from years ago, the man who had kept his word and
protected her.

“Oh, Matthew.”

She felt him then, pulling her close and wrapping her in his
arms. She closed her eyes and breathed out a sigh, leaning into him, feeling
the warmth of his body, even when she knew that was an illusion.

She said his name again.

“You were very brave,” he murmured.

“I guess I had to be.”

“I blew the others toward the house, and they went in to get
away from the wind. They were inside when the building exploded, but they must
have sent this one to cover the tunnel entrance.”

She nodded and looked back toward the house. In its place
she saw a huge dust cloud and flames leaping into the air.

“It’s gone,” she whispered. As that reality struck her, she
sucked in a sharp breath. “You were staying here. What’s going to happen now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t leave me.”

Clasping him more tightly, she raised her face as he lowered
his. Their lips met in a kiss that quickly turned frantic. She hung on to him,
her mouth moving over his with gladness—until a sound penetrated the haze
around her. The blades of a helicopter.

He looked up.

“Now what?” she whispered.

“Hide in the rocks.”

He was gone again, leaving her alone.

She scooped up the bag of money and thrust it back into her
knapsack, then slung one strap over her shoulder. If she ran for the car,
they’d see her. But maybe whoever that was would think she had died in the
explosion.

She worked her way farther into the rock formation and
ducked under a ledge, hoping it would hide her.

The chopper landed, and she held her breath until she felt
Matthew’s shoulder against hers. When she turned her head, she saw he was
looking more real than he had looked since she’d arrived.

“Matthew.
Gracias a Dios
.”

“It’s okay. They’re Decorah Security agents. One of them is
Frank Decorah, the head of the outfit. I heard him talking to the other men. He
was saying that the general was making a last ditch effort to get your father
because he knew his regime was crumbling. But rebels have assassinated him.
You’re safe now.”

She struggled to take that in. “Then why did those men come
after me?”

“They didn’t get the latest news from San Marcos. You’re
safe,” he repeated. “Frank Decorah is looking for you. Go tell him you’re
alive.”

If anybody else had said that General Lopez was dead, she
might not have believed them. But she believed Matthew.

“Come with me,” she murmured.

“You don’t need me now.”

“I do!”

“I can’t leave this place.”

Desperation rolled through her. “Then I’ll stay.”

“You can’t. The house is a ruin. You have to go on with your
life. If you need anything, ask Frank. Remind him of Powder Keg.”

“I . . . never met him.”

“Look for a guy in his fifties. Trim. Dark hair, going gray
at the temples. ”

“Mention Powder Keg,” he said again. “He’ll remember.”

“Matthew, stay with me.”

“You have to go back to your real life. I knew that all
along.”

He turned and hugged her to him. Just for a moment. Then he
was gone.

“Senorita Flores,” a man’s voice called. “Senorita Flores,
can you hear me?”

“What in the hell happened here?” another man asked.

Still cautious, she kept the gun in her hand as she walked
through the grove and into the yard where the house was a black ruin in front
of her. She stared at it, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. It was
her work. But even though she’d set the timer that detonated the explosives
planted in the foundations of the house, it was still difficult to comprehend
the magnitude of the destruction.

She didn’t speak—because she felt utterly alone, even with a
rescue team on the property.

And she knew what the feeling of abandonment must mean.
Matthew was gone. “
Dios
no,” she whispered, even when she knew she had
been expecting this terrible moment.

In reality, he’d been gone for a long time. And it was a
cruel irony that she’d been given a little taste of what she might have had
with him, if he had lived.

Her chest tightened, as she fought the tears stinging the
backs of her eyes. She wanted Matthew to stay with her. So much. But she knew
she was asking for the impossible. He was a ghost. He’d been chained to this
place—and she’d destroyed that link.

Wanting to be alone, she started to step back into the
sycamore grove, but it was already too late.

“Over there!” a man called out, pointing toward her.

An older man fitting the description Matthew had given her
came hurrying forward, moving with a slight limp.

 “Senorita Flores, I’m . . .”

“Frank Decorah,” she said before he could finish the
sentence.

He looked perplexed. “I don’t think we’ve met before. How do
you know?”

“Somebody told me.”

“Who?”

She turned her palm up. “Somebody.”

He gave her an odd look, like he thought she might have had
a couple of screws shaken loose by the explosion. Maybe she had.

“Thank God you’re safe. We were afraid the assassins from
San Marcos might have gotten you,” another man said. He was taller than Decorah
and looked to be in his early thirties.

“This is one of my agents, Jordan Stone,” Decorah said.

She nodded, not sure what to say.

“Are you all right?” Decorah asked.

“Yes,” she said in a shaky voice.

Stone gestured toward the smoldering heap that had been her
house. “What happened? Did they blow the place up?”

“No. When we lived here, my father told me about the
explosive charges under the house—if I needed them. The detonator was in the
escape tunnel under the house.”

“It took guts to go through with that,” Stone said.

She turned pleading eyes toward Decorah. “What about Papa?
Did the general’s men get him?”

“No. He saw them coming and got out the back way. But he
couldn’t contact us for a couple of days. As soon as he did, we went to your
house. You were missing, but we knew there had been some shooting.”

“I had an escape plan. I got away.”

“Your father figured you’d come here. It looks like you did
a great job of protecting yourself.”

Stone turned to inspect the rubble, leaving her and Decorah
alone.

She raised her chin. “You asked how I knew your name. Would
you believe me if I told you I got it from Matthew Houseman’s ghost?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Matthew Houseman isn’t dead.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Isabella struggled to take in what Frank Decorah had said.
“I don’t understand. Matthew was here. Like a ghost. Guarding the ranch. If
he’s not dead, then where is he?” she gasped out.

“He was badly injured. He wasn’t expected to live. Somehow,
he survived, but he’s been in a coma ever since.”

She stared at the man, still grappling with his words.
“Where is he?” she repeated.

“In a facility called Garrison Care. In Los Angeles.”

“I have to go there.”

He kept his blue eyes fixed on her. “Don’t you want to see
your father? He’s worried about you.”

“
Ay, Dios
. Of course.”

“He flew to Phoenix. He’s waiting for you.”

“Yes. Gracias.”

Frank Decorah stared at her, and she wondered if he thought
she’d come unglued because of her recent experiences.

He cleared his throat and said, “If you need anything, don’t
hesitate to call me.”