"Junior or Senior?"
"Uh, Senior, I guess," I replied. "Is the address the same for both?"
"Yes." The operator rattled off the number and the address, which was somewhere off highway 44. I thanked the woman and hung up.
"Where are you going?" Gavin demanded when I raced inside the guesthouse to grab my purse. No sense driving without a license, even if it was bogus.
"To prevent a murder, I hope," I said and ran downstairs to the garage. One of the SUVs was missing; Winkler was on his way already.
"What happened?" Gavin was beside me in a blink.
"Sam and Whitney got married this afternoon," I said, jerking the door to the Cadillac open. I hoped it had gas in it.
"Christ," Gavin muttered, running a hand through nearly black hair. "Lissa, you don't need to get in the middle of this." Was that concern in his brown eyes? Couldn't be. They were hooded immediately.
"That kid doesn't deserve to die and don't stand there and tell me Whitney didn't participate in this," I snapped at him. He could've volunteered to help me, but then this was Gavin, the man who stood on the sidelines and watched everybody else worry. "Winkler just needs to calm down enough to see sense," I said.
"And if Winkler doesn't calm down, you could end up dead!" Gavin was almost shouting, now. Well, here was emotion—it was just the wrong kind.
"You know what?" I looked at him steadily over the car door. "I'm already dead." I slid into the Cadillac, starting it up and driving off, leaving Gavin standing in the garage, cursing loudly.
The Cadillac had built-in GPS; I'd never have found the place without the gadget telling me how to get there. Winkler, Phil, Glen and Davis had gotten there ahead of me—I could see the SUV parked in the driveway of the large farmhouse while all four of them fretted and paced behind the vehicle. They never saw me as I drove slowly past the lane leading to the Sheridan home. I watched in shock as Phil lifted up the rifle he was carrying, firing it at the house. Okay, things were already serious. All four men ducked behind the SUV when return gunfire came from the house. It was time for strategy.
I left the car about a quarter of a mile down the road and ran back. There were a few trees around the house suitable to hide my presence, so I sneaked in behind one of those. The gunshots were sporadic; I don't think anybody wanted the police to show up. There was some shouting back and forth, though, and more than a little creative cursing going on. Blocking all of that out of my mind, I concentrated instead on turning to mist.
A window on the second floor was open a couple of inches. The night was nearly perfect, with a light breeze rustling the trees and the surrounding cotton crop as I misted through the small space the open window provided. It would be infinitely more enjoyable if bullets weren't flying. I couldn't hear anybody upstairs so I floated halfway down the steps. Sam was there at the bottom of the landing, holding a sobbing Whitney. Sam Sr. was gripping a rifle and kneeling next to one of the front windows. For a moment, flashbacks to hundreds of old westerns skipped through my mind, along with visions of gun-wielding cowboy heroes that never seemed to run out of bullets.
It took the full five minutes to turn back to myself and Whitney almost shrieked when I slipped down the rest of the steps, coming to a stop next to her and Sam.
"Calm down, both of you," I said, holding my hands out in a placating gesture. Sam Sr. was now pointing his rifle at me, but lowered it when Sam explained that I was a friend.
"Why are you here?" Whitney was still sobbing.
"Whitney, if we aren't careful, somebody is going to die over this," I told her. "Maybe more than one somebody. If you want to avoid that, you need to walk out of this house with me, right now. Your brother needs to calm down—enough that you can talk some sense to him, anyway." I wiped tears off her face with a thumb. "You have to be the grown-up here, I think."
"Will was going to sell me to Weldon Harper's son," Whitney was back to weeping. "I don't want him. I don't."
"I know that, honey. But you have to say that to your brother. I don't think he wants to hurt you. He was shocked when he found out you cared about Sam." Whitney blinked as I explained this to her and more tears fell. Sam was trying to get his arms around her again while Sam Sr. went back to his window.
"Will you walk out with me?" Whitney's voice quavered. She'd made a decision.
"I said I would," I nodded.
"We're coming out!" I shouted, "Whitney and I!" I was slowly opening the front door so they wouldn't shoot first and ask questions later. I was also shielding Whitney's body with my own as much as I could. I had no idea what reaction a vampire's body would have if it sustained bullet wounds. Yeah, I was shaking when I walked out the door.
"Winkler, we're coming out," I called again, watching him, Phil, Glen and Davis closely. They were all standing there, rifles at the ready, as Whitney and I walked across the wide front porch and then down the steps leading to Sam's home. I think we would have been all right and Winkler might have calmed down as soon as he got his hands on Whitney, but Sam, thinking Whitney was walking away from him for good, ran after us shouting her name. It took every bit of speed I had to shove my body in front of his, and I felt all three bullets enter my back when they shot me.
Chapter 8
I must have been in and out of consciousness and had no idea how I came to be where I was. I thought I heard Gavin shouting at one point, followed by more blackness and then horrible pain around my back, as if someone were digging around in it. More yelling came, followed by something cold in my mouth and after that, nothing.
I was a little stiff when I woke but I did wake—alone and inside my guesthouse bedroom. Well, that was it for me. I didn’t care who it was that shot me. They'd been trying to shoot Sam instead of talking about it first. I didn't need this. I sat up slowly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I felt achy, experiencing a bit of sharp pain around my back. Vampires heal extraordinarily fast, I suppose. I'd certainly healed quickly from the burns I'd gotten in a wheat field one fateful morning. Dragging myself to the closet, I pulled my bag out and with much effort and hefting, I lifted it onto the bed. Wishing I could move faster than the snail's pace I was going at right then, I dumped clothing inside the suitcase, not caring if it was folded properly or not. After the clothes, I tossed in my toiletries and the envelope of cash I had. No way was I giving any of that back now. The f**kers had shot me. I intended to call a cab on my cell phone and then throw the phone at the house as hard as I could when I left. Surely I could get a plane ticket—one that would land me somewhere else before dawn arrived.