Reclaimed

By Sara Vinduska

Their attraction might be just as dangerous as the killer she’s hunting...
Mark Goddard is lost. After being beaten, broken, and left for dead, he stopped caring—about anything. He’s not even sure his bull riding legacy is worth saving. Drinking himself into oblivion would be better than feeling like this. But then a murder investigation brings a gorgeous sheriff into his life, and he starts wondering if maybe—just maybe—he has something worth living for after all.
Whitney York wanted peace. A quiet place to heal from the horrors she barely survived. The small town sheriff’s department job seemed perfect. Until the murder at the local rodeo, that is. Now it’s up to her to find the killer. She can’t afford to be distracted or to trust anyone—not even Mark, whose tormented soul seems to call to her own.
Falling for each other could be the best thing that ever happened to Mark and Whitney. But if the killer stalking their every move has his way, they might never get the chance to find out...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Vinduska
• Release date: Nov 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005313036

Sara Vinduska

Originally from Kansas,Sara Vinduska is a romantic suspense author and aspiring farmer in Wyoming. Her other passions include yoga, soap making, good red wine, and K-State football.

Book preview

1

Mark Goddard knew he was riding sloppy, wasn’t surprised at all when the bucking bull got the best of him and he went flying through the air.

He hit the ground hard, flat on his back. The air whooshed out of his lungs and the entire back side of his body exploded in pain. He tried to take in a breath, but his lungs refused to work. He tried again.

Nothing.

Panic started. God, he was going to die right here in the dirt. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His vision dimmed. Reality merged with the past. He was trapped inside the pitch black trunk of a car, dying, drowning in his own blood.

Voices came from somewhere above him. Then a hand was on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

Not alone.

His lungs finally decided to get with the program and he gasped in air. His vision cleared. He could see his mentor, Rodney, squatted down next to him, could see the bottom of the arena fence. Smell the dirt and the animals. Hear the roar of the crowd.

Not in the trunk.

He closed his eyes. Breathed.

Can you move? Rodney asked.

He opened his eyes again. Let’s find out.

He looked around. The bull was safely back in the chutes. His buddy Lane, one of the two bullfighters in the arena, was looking at him, concern etched on his face.

Rodney helped him to his feet. Mark wavered on shaky legs, managed a wave at the roaring crowd, then let the older man lead him out of the arena.

Damn, boy, let’s get you checked out, Rodney said, heading towards the medic tent.

Mark stopped and shook his head. Nah. I’m okay.

Rodney looked him up and down. You hit pretty damned hard.

Mark rolled his shoulders. Nothing’s broken, just sore. We both know I’ve had wrecks way worse than that.

Rodney shrugged. No point in arguing. The stupid, stubborn SOB.

Just need a few drinks and maybe some female company, I’ll be good as new, Mark said with a wink.

Okay, Rodney answered, wishing not for the first time, that the young man he considered a son wasn’t so hell bent on self-destruction.

Mark turned back towards the arena in time to see the last rider get bucked off his bull and scramble over the fence to safety. Guess that’s it for the night, he said to Rodney, then made his way to where the other riders were gathering.

You okay? his buddy Lane asked, still dressed in his bullfighter costume.

I’m good, Mark answered. Ready for a drink.

If you’re sure, Lane said, not looking convinced.

Damn sure. The last thing Mark wanted right now was to be alone. Not yet. Not with the memories so close to the surface.

So he followed Lane and several of the other riders to Misfits, their usual hangout. He ordered a beer and a shot of bourbon, started to feel the pain in his back receding. Then he kept drinking. Drank until the memories faded, until he didn’t hurt at all.

The alcohol might have dulled the physical pain, but not the dark thoughts swirling around in his head. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to erase those.

He knew how inconsistent his riding had been lately. When he was on, he was on. When he wasn’t, he was damned lucky he hadn’t gotten himself seriously injured or worse. He knew it pissed Rodney off to no end that he was wasting his natural God-given talent.

Lane turned towards him, looking unsteady on his bar stool. Shit, I’m fucked up, man. How you doin’?

I’m good, Mark lied, not wanting to talk about what was going on in his head. Not even with Lane.

Lane was the best damned bullfighter he’d ever met. And one of the best men he’d ever had the privilege of being friends with. Though he was named after a famous bull rider, Lane had taken the art of bullfighting to a whole new level. He was amazing to watch in action and had saved Mark’s ass on numerous occasions. Including tonight.

Can I tell you something? Lane asked, slightly slurring his words.

Mark knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it was his friend had to say, but he was drunk enough that he didn’t give a shit. Say it.

Lane cocked his head, looked Mark square in the eyes. You’re the best bull rider I’ve ever seen, no doubt in my mind, but if your heart’s not in it anymore, I’d rather see you quit than get yourself killed.

The words cut through the drunken fog in Mark’s head. Lane was right. He should honor his commitments and sponsorships then get the hell out while he still could.

And then what?

That was the million dollar question. What the hell would he do if he didn’t ride bulls?

He took another drink.

He needed something to focus on, or he’d fall right back down into the pit of darkness and depression he’d struggled so damned hard to get out of. And even now, he felt like he was hanging onto the edge with his fingertips.

No one is safe.

The words echoed in his head. But he refused to give in to the memories.

He ran a hand down his face. Somehow he needed to get his shit together.

But not tonight, he thought as he finished his drink and looked around the room at the women gathered around the bar in various states of dress and drunkenness. His eyes settled on a dark-haired beauty in a tight red tank top.

Tonight he was going to get blind stinking drunk and fuck a beautiful woman.

---

Dubois, Wyoming Sheriff Lieutenant Whitney York let herself into her hotel room after a long day of work and sighed. She looked around the small space that was her temporary home. She’d been looking at the same bland room for the past two months. God, had it really been that long?

She’d left almost everything she owned in a storage unit back in Raleigh, North Carolina when she’d moved. Or ran away, her mind added.

She put her purse and brown paper bag of food down on the desk and went into the bathroom to wash her hands, carefully avoiding looking at herself in the mirror.

She seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

She’d settled into a daily routine of getting coffee at the small stand down the block from the hotel, going to work, then eating a take-out dinner back in her room while she watched the evening news.

In some ways, the boring routine was nice. The Fremont County Sheriff’s office was a far cry from what she’d seen daily as a detective in Raleigh, NC. Not much crime to deal with here in the small town of around 1,000 people and that suited her just fine. Her co-workers were nice and had finally stopped trying to get her to go out with them after work.

They were all decent people and seemed to be competent at what they did. She just had no interest in getting friendly with any of them. It wasn’t worth the effort. Not that she had the energy or desire to put forth much effort into building relationships. Maybe someday. But not right now.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling of being in limbo. Hadn’t even bothered to look for an apartment to rent, much less a house to buy.

The thought of returning to Raleigh for her things made her physically sick. She had to find a way to move forward, she knew that.

But not tonight, she thought as she settled in to watch a chick flick movie on HBO while eating Chinese take out.

2

Two nights later, Rodney Grainger watched Mark ride from his spot next to the chutes. As the arena owner and Mark’s mentor, he had a vested interest in how Mark performed each night. But on a personal level, he was concerned.

He winced as he watched Mark get thrown from his assigned bull and hit the dirt hard on his shoulder and knee, curse, then throw his hat to the ground in frustration.

Only Rodney noticed how pain had tightened the younger man’s face, how he tried to hide the limp as he made his way out of the arena. He ran a hand down his face. Mark hadn’t been the same since he’d come back all those months ago. He’d been hoping once he settled back in things would improve. Instead, it had been a slow slide downhill. Sure, the guy could still ride, and the crowd, especially the women, loved him. But Mark was hurting, inside and out, no question about it. He wanted to tell Mark to take a few weeks off, take an exotic vacation. Get the hell out of there while he could. Not that he would listen, the stubborn son-of a-bitch.

And if he did listen, that would be the end of his season, and probably the end of his career.

---

Mark stopped in his kitchen to swallow a handful of ibuprofen, washed down with vodka straight from the bottle. He closed his eyes, braced his hands on the counter. Waited until the sharp edge of pain lessened. He had no idea how long he stayed there. But eventually, he was able to move and limped down the hall to the bathroom, carrying the bottle in one hand.

He drank more as steam filled the small room. When the shower water was as close to scalding as he could tolerate, he set the bottle down on the counter, stripped off his clothes and stepped in. He stood, with one hand braced against the wall, letting the water pound into his aching muscles and joints.

There was only one sure thing about riding bulls. It wasn’t if you get hurt, it’s when.

Of course, he knew that each night he rode, it aggravated his old injuries as well as adding new ones. The constant diet of pain pills and booze didn’t help either. If he kept going the way he was, he would be seriously crippled or dead before he hit forty. But at the moment, he was having a hard time mustering up the will to care.

---

Headlights cut through the dark Wyoming night, highlighting the still, pale form that lay in the ditch just at the edge of the rodeo arena’s parking lot. The blood looked black and oily as it pooled around the small pale body.

Rodney sighed. He was tired and he needed a shower. Killing was damned hard work. He glanced down at the body one more time. He didn’t want to make the call. He really didn’t.

But it had to be done. There was no way around it. Better that he do it now and stayed in control. And this was his world. He controlled what went on here. No one would suspect him. He looked around, then dialed 911.

911, what’s your emergency, a calm female voice said.

I think I saw a body, he said as he let his breath come harder and faster. She’s not moving. I don’t know what to do!

He half-listened to what the operator was saying.

He hadn’t intended to kill so close to his home turf, but the dark urges had demanded it. And the extra thrill it had added . . . Damn, he was rock hard at the memories.

A unit is on the way, the operator said, pulling him back to the present moment.

Ok. Ok. Oh, God please hurry!

He put the phone down, fighting down the urge to laugh. Damn, but this was going to be fun.

3

Whitney knew next to nothing about rodeos, having spent most of her life living in big cities. And she’d sure as hell never been around any animals other than dogs and cats. Now, she was headed to the local rodeo arena to conduct interviews. The owner of the arena had found a dead body at the edge of the parking lot the night before. She reviewed the few facts they had as she made the short drive from the sheriff’s office to the rodeo arena located just outside of town.

The deceased was twenty-two, a local woman who frequented the rodeo and was enrolled in the nearby community college. She’d been missing for six days. Her family were all long-time residents of the area. She had been raped and stabbed fourteen times.

The owner of the arena, Rodney Grainger, had found the body when he was leaving for the night after finishing paperwork in his office. She’d looked over the notes from his statement and found nothing concrete to go on. Apparently the guy had been pretty shook up when the responding officers got to the scene.

She wanted to talk to him again now that a little time had passed since he’d found the body. She also had a list of people who worked at the arena and competed there.

This kind of crime was rare for the area, and she suspected her boss had assigned her because of her experience working major crimes. For the first time since moving to Dubois, she felt a tingle of excitement about a case. This one looked to be an interesting one.

---

Mark had heard about Rodney finding the body. He’d immediately called his mentor, who assured him he was doing okay, but Mark was worried about him. Finding a dead body