What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One Read Online Free Page A

and stepped back.
Has his brief moment of gallantry put him enough off balance that I can appeal to him? Don’t I always reach people with my authenticity and with my words? She looked
up into the weathered face, trying to make eye contact, but could see nothing more than a glint. “Thanks so much for taking care of me.”
    He paused, then smiled. “Oh, I haven’t taken care of you yet”
    Damn!
“But you’re about to, am I right?”
    A chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest “Too right”
    Good! Maybe I did reach him this time… I made him laugh. How many times have I talked my way out of a tight spot? How many times have I played out this kind of scenario in my head?
    Time seemed to slow, and her perspective shifted until she watched the stand-off between herself and burly-guy from a slight distance, as though she were discussing the angle with her television camera crew.
It’s an over-the-shoulder two-shot, like one of my interviews. Then we cut to a close-up that shows the mole, the craggy face—trying to give the audience a chance
to read his expression
.
    Now her view altered and the setting was a Western: a black-hatted hulk blocked the path of a red-dressed spit-fire.
Whose story is this? When did it happen? Why are we in the Old West?
She almost seemed to recognize the scene … from a story by her favorite writer, Louis L’Amour.
Never let the opponent gain the advantage,
his narration advised.
Don’t wait. Make the first move
.
    The scene shifted again, and now she saw herself as Emma Peel in
The Avengers
. Skilled in martial arts, undaunted by her precarious predicament, the heroine faces her adversary.
Emma kicks out with those long legs, takes her man by surprise
.
    Suddenly, Chris found herself standing in her own shoes, opposite her own bad guy. He might be bigger, stronger, more massive, but maneuverability was on
her side. It’s now or never!
    She clicked off her flashlight and hurled it at his head. She’d already chosen exactly what direction she would run—past him, not away, because that would be unexpected. In the sudden blackness she knew she’d have a second’s worth of advantage. It was just the second she needed.
    She leapt forward, and saw his fist too late. It impacted her temple with the force of an explosion, hurtling her backward into the gaping hearth-well. Her body seemed to hang for a moment, suspended in space—until it smashed against the dirt, forcing the last molecule of air from her lungs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t move
.
    Her eyes blinked in the dark, her mind searched for options. She saw his huge feet land on the dirt near her, and kept her eyes still.
If he thinks I’m already dead he’ll just leave me. Don’t breathe!
    He was carrying something… a shovel.
No!
He stepped on its edge, forcing it into the big pile of soft earth, lifting a load of it, moving it toward her head.
    Just before the dirt hit her face, she closed her eyes.
I’m covered enough now that he can’t see me. I’ll breathe soon
.
    Another shovelful landed on her chest, its weight sodden. Now another was flung over her face.
    It’d been too many seconds since air had found its way into her lungs, and with a sudden clarity, she realized she had never taken that breath.
    Desperately, she inhaled, but she found no oxygen. Only the wet, sandy home-soil of the Central Coast.

Chapter 1
     
    The autumn storm tore at the clouds covering Milford-Haven, revealing a swollen moon that hung over a coastline frothy with agitated surf.
    Miranda Jones watched the distant flash of the lighthouse for a moment, then looked away from her window to focus on a narrow band of thick paper scrolled across her studio floor. Inhaling deeply, she dipped the tapered fibers of her immense paintbrush and struggled to lift its wet mass from the inky bucket, then swept a black streak across the white paper.
    She held the three-inch diameter brush handle upright—its top reaching to her waist—and resumed her bent-knee,