Always Faithful: A Hat Creek Thriller, #2

By Elizabeth Rain

Searching for Refuge from the demons of her past, former FBI agent Elle Adams escaped deep into the Little Hat Creek Preserve to start over.

Transforming a derelict hunting camp into a sanctuary for battered women may be just the redemption she needs.

But her newfound peace is shattered when a desperate and pregnant young woman arrives on her doorstep seeking sanctuary for herself and her unborn child.

She didn't come alone...

A criminal mastermind and his ruthless crew of mercenaries have followed, intent on hunting them down.
An unforgiving killer, he will stop at nothing to exact revenge and reclaim what's his.

The stakes are escalating as Elle, along with her canine partner Mia, forge a desperate alliance with a group of local law enforcement and those who claim the preserve as their own. Together they will be forced to confront their deepest fears and navigate the unyielding determination of a madman to survive what's coming and bring justice home where it belongs.

Soul-deep in the Wilderness of the Little Hat, the Heart is Always Faithful…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Rain
• Release date: Aug 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223564782

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Thick clouds hung low in a muddy sky, threatening heavy snow and the promise of an early winter. In the isolated little town of Glad Corners, the sidewalks had rolled up early, and most of its hardy citizens had already fled the descending cold in favor of the warmth and relative safety of their homes. Only a few area businesses remained open past five o’clock.

Dan picked up his pace, long legs eating up the distance to the next corner. Born and raised in Escanaba, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan all his life, the weather held no fear for him.

The occasional scuff of heavy leather on concrete behind him did. It wasn’t the first time someone had followed him back to the minuscule apartment he had rented above Deb’s Place, the little café on the corner of Lincoln and Burns Street.

He turned into the next block and immediately broke into a run while he was temporarily hidden from view. He ducked inside the open doorway of Walt’s Tools, the little hole-in-the-wall hardware store in the center of the next block. He darted down an aisle beyond sight of the full-length window and waited. Seconds later, a dark figure stalked past, moving too fast for a casual stroll down the sidewalk. Danny waited thirty seconds and moved to follow. Before he’d taken two steps, a large shadow filled the space, and he gasped, his heart racing. The owner, Bill Murdock, smiled at him. Hi, can I help you find something?

Recovering, Dan stared nonplussed at the rotund man, nearly as wide as he was tall. He shook his head and made to move around him. No, I’m fine, thanks...

Bill countered, and there began a mad dance as each tried to get out of the other’s way. By the time he extricated himself from the hardware store and stepped back onto the sidewalk, his tail was long gone. With a sigh of frustration, he took a turn at the next crossroads. It seemed suddenly prudent to get off the main street and find an alternate way home.

INSIDE THE APARTMENT, he closed the door behind him and engaged the deadbolt. Not that it would hold anyone out who was determined to come in. A solid boot would do the job through the cheap, hollow door. Maybe it would buy him enough time to grab a kitchen knife or climb out his second-story bedroom window if he was quick about it. He tossed his keys on the counter and looked around, his nose wrinkling. The lingering smell of stale cigar smoke stung his nostrils. He didn’t smoke, and Deb’s was a non-smoking restaurant.

Someone had been inside his apartment. The deadbolt should have kept them out. It was obvious they’d found another way in. It wasn’t the first time, and whoever it was didn’t worry overmuch about his knowing about it.

He figured it was intentional, a little bigger push to get him to cut stakes and leave Glad Corners for good. But he’d always had more stubborn than brains, and he hated bullies.

Living in the Upper Peninsula like he did, he was used to towns so small you could drive through them twice before the first blink. But as small towns went, Glad Corners gave him the proverbial creeps, and set his reporter’s nose to twitching like mad.

He took a second whiff, trying to decide how recent the visit was, and if whoever it was might still be lurking around the next corner. Maybe he should start thinking about carrying a gun.

But the scent was faint, and the room had an empty feeling about it. And there weren’t many places to hide, since the entire apartment encompassed three rooms—the kitchen-living room combo, a bathroom the size of a broom closet, and the bedroom and a second small closet no bigger than a minute.

His mouth tightening with anger at the intrusion, he strode down the tiny hall past the bathroom, shooting it a glance before reaching the door to the bedroom. It was where he expected to find anything exciting, and the intruder hadn’t disappointed. The bed sheets and comforter had been uprooted and flung sideways across the floor; the small dresser stood with his clothes dripping over the edges of all three drawers. Almost everything had been flung from the closet, clothes removed from their hangers, and the shelf cleared of what little he owned of any interest.

And that hadn’t been much. His heart rising in his throat, he crossed the room, sidestepping shoes and a broken lamp, and stepped up to the closet, flinging the single door remaining on its track wide. He flicked the switch several times, and nothing happened. He shone his phone flashlight over the ceiling, confirming the worst. Someone had busted the damned bulb. He’d pay hell getting the thing unscrewed to replace it. He turned the light to the floor, and the corner of the rug that butted up to the back left corner. Down on hands and knees, he carefully peeled back the carpet to reveal a small rectangular suitcase recessed into a hole in the floor he’d carved out after the first time someone had torn the place up. He pulled it out, flipped the latch and pulled it open with a sigh of relief, revealing a small, top-of-the-line laptop.

He lifted it free and carried it back into the kitchen, opening it on the counter and switching it on. He brought up his hotspot, and the paper he’d been working on that he was getting ready to send off to the small, freelance paper he worked for out of Marquette, where he’d spent the last five years since leaving Escanaba. He’d left behind his mother and an older brother. It had been months since he’d seen her. His brother was in the middle of his second tour somewhere overseas.

He read through his latest piece, adding an observation here and there, checking for grammar and anything else that might have his picky editor kicking it back at him. He frowned in self-disgust. The article held an abundance of speculation. What it lacked was any substantial proof to back up his claims of shady dealings and suspicious behavior in Glad Corners. So far, Clyde Owens, the editor-in-chief of the small paper, hadn’t stonewalled him completely. But his patience was running thin, and Dan knew he was working on borrowed time.

He couldn’t make a case on small town bullies and a bunch of terrified people who wouldn’t speak up in their own defense. The town reeked of secrets and corruption, but proving it was another matter entirely.

Satisfied the paper was as good as he could make it with the information he’d gathered, he hit send.

After, just as a precaution, he changed his password. He shut it down, and returned it to its hiding spot, replacing the foam padding and rug. Afterward, he went about cleaning everything back up. He didn’t bother to report it to the sheriff in town.

He’d tried that the first time, before the shady cop had basically tried to make it appear like he was to blame and had razed the place himself in pursuit of some insurance scheme. He stared up at the light bulb and remembered an old hack. He had a couple of potatoes left. Maybe he could use one to unscrew the fragmented lightbulb holder without electrocuting himself.

THE OWNER OF DEB’S Place, Deborah Mae Prescott, looked up when he entered at fifteen minutes past seven the next morning and sent him a wan smile. Dan took a seat in the corner booth and watched as she started a second pot of coffee and topped off the cup of a regular, reading his morning paper at the end of the long, scuffed counter. Her smile stopped short of her eyes and Dan’s mouth pursed. Had they gotten to her, too? The fact that he couldn’t even put a name to who they were yet pissed him off. He reminded himself it was one reason he was still there and putting up with crap. It was his job to find out.

And, of course, there was CeCe. A light blush of awareness traveled up past his jaw and tinted his cheeks when she came through the door, already snugging her apron in place and jamming her little notepad and several pens into the wide pocket. She didn’t spare him a glance, but he knew she was aware by the way her chin tipped up, and her full lips tilted just so. CeCe Williams was just a couple of inches past five feet, slim and curvy. Long, dark ringlets were held away from a sharp-boned face with a clip high in the back. Her dark, creamy complexion and nearly black eyes gave away her mixed heritage. Deb caught her eye and waved a few menus at her to catch her attention.

He watched curiously as they bent close and whispered, wishing he could hear when CeCe abruptly stiffened and shot a startled glance his way before jerking her attention back to the owner.

When they parted, she didn’t come to take his order. Instead, Deb stopped at his table, pad in hand, a hard look in her eyes. He squirmed uncomfortably.

Hello, Dan. Want the usual?

He put in his order, watching her closely, his suspicions rising. Is everything all right, Mrs. Prescott?

A look of fear, quickly hidden, entered her eyes. She ignored him. Bacon or sausage? And did you want a milk with your meal this morning?

He stared at her a few seconds more, chewing his lip. No. That’ll be good.

Without another word, she grabbed his menu and turned, all but fleeing back towards the safety of the kitchen to turn his order in.

Through the window into the back, Jordan Prescott, the cook, and Deb’s husband of thirty-five years, caught his eye. The warning look in his square face had Dan wondering if it would be safe to eat his breakfast.

Dan frowned. What the hell was going on in this town anyhow?

He nursed his coffee while he waited for his food, his eyes sharp on several other patrons when they entered, and the morning rush began. It made both women too busy to worry about his being there. Deb’s Place was a hole in the wall, barely big enough to hold five or six tables and the same number of booths. It was the only restaurant in town unless you counted the single little bar down the street whose menu was limited and where the service was nonexistent.

Deb’s Place filled up quickly with businessmen and women, farmers and their wives, and a couple of families with children too young to be in school yet. An equal number didn’t fit any part of that description, but were instead large and imposing and fit, with cold, watchful eyes that nobody dared to meet. They strategically spread themselves around the room, in a couple of cases ousting a few patrons who, when told, moved without a whisper of complaint and found alternative seating or simply left. It was deliberate, he knew, segregating the townsfolk from the Others. He didn’t know what else to call them. He just knew that in this isolated town in the middle of nowhere, they didn’t fit. From his careful observations, they somehow appeared to be in charge. He didn’t know what hold they held over the remote town, but whatever it was, it was absolute, and nobody dared to protest. He wondered what happened to those who did. One of them, a tall, thin black man with a cruel smile sat at a little table with his back deliberately to the door. It wasn’t an act of trust, Dan knew. It allowed the cold-eyed stranger to sit directly facing him—he, the outsider, and wholly unwelcome.

Anger simmered in his gut, hidden with effort. He managed a smile and sent the goon a playful wink as Deb delivered his breakfast along with a handful of extra napkins. She dropped the check suggestively with the meal and left. He watched her go, her back ramrod straight and stiff. After carefully examining his meal just to be sure, he tucked in.

The cold-eyed man at the other table never blinked or looked away. He continued to watch him eat, unsmiling, accepting a cup of coffee and his own breakfast from Deb without a word and somehow consuming the entire thing without shifting his attention elsewhere even once. Dan admired the skill with which he pulled it off.

Finished, Dan pushed his empty plate back, reached for the napkins and went to wipe his mouth—and froze. There was a brief message written in ink on the bottom. He read it quickly twice before wiping his mouth and crumpling it and pushing it down into his milk glass.

What did it mean? Get out of town while you still can. If you care for CeCe, leave her alone.

Before he could fully comprehend the strange message, a slight shadow fell on his table, and he looked up in bemusement. CeCe stood there, a coffeepot in one hand, and a look of warning in her lovely dark eyes.

Swallowing, he smiled politely when she offered the pot. Thank you, but I’m good. He placed a hand over his cup and picked up the bill after she laid it down and moved on without another word. He carefully concealed his expression when he felt the note folded inside. He looked at the total and reached for his wallet, tossing down enough to cover the cost plus a generous tip. With his other hand, he carefully palmed the small letter and shoved it in his pocket.

Ten minutes later, in the safety of his room, he read the message. Meet me after work. You know where.

He frowned in confusion, crumpling the note. A shiver of apprehension quivered past his shoulders in a sea of goosebumps. A part of him wanted to go back to the restaurant and confront her, ask her what was with all the secrecy and notes. But the reporter in him, the detective, sensed that would be foolhardy.

He pulled the laptop back out instead and spent the rest of the afternoon in the relative safety of his apartment, going over notes, trying to unravel the puzzle that was Glad Corners, and putting together his next insider article filled with half-truths and speculation in lieu of any real clues or facts.

He’d find out the truth, he was exceptionally good at it. But maybe it was time for him to grab CeCe and get out, report his suspicions to someone with more authority, somewhere else, who would listen and conduct a proper investigation that couldn’t be shoved under the rug.

He’d been seeing CeCe for a little over a month in secret, at her insistence. She’d mentioned she had overprotective relatives, and she wanted to wait before she shared their newfound relationship. He was equally sure she was lying through her perfect white teeth, but what they had was too new and wonderful for him to be questioning it.

But he didn’t like that she was afraid.

Whatever this was, it wasn't about family at all. Something else had her scared, and Ms. Debbie as well.

He concentrated on what he knew about the muscle that seemed to run the show, and he jotted down more notes.

THE HUNTING SHACK WAS old. He wasn’t even sure anybody used it anymore, probably afraid the makeshift roof would cave in on their heads. He and CeCe had discovered it one day while out walking, away from the prying eyes of the town and anyone else who thought to butt their noses in where they didn’t belong.

He’d dressed warmly, anticipating the trek through several inches of old snow and over and around fallen logs and brush and brambles that pulled and cut in if he wasn’t careful. There was a small deer path to follow, but it wasn’t made for a human and by the time he stepped into the open and faced the little shack, he was in a fine temper. Maybe he should have spent more time with his buddies around open campfires and hunting for the big buck like they had. It had never been his thing. His brother was the woodsy sort. As far as Dan was concerned, he could keep it.

The door opened with a creak of rusted hinges, and he had to give it a firm shove to get it to move at all. Inside, he turned on the light to his phone and closed the door. He’d have started a fire if he wasn’t almost positive the entire chimney would blow up on him if he did, and if he knew how to start one in the first place, he admitted. Instead, he stomped his feet and stuck his hands beneath his pits to warm them up while he waited.

He heard the scuff of feet outside the door right before it opened, watching the handle twist. His mouth curved into a smile and his eyes lit up when the door flew open.

It was short-lived. His stomach plummeted when two tall figures stepped through the door instead, bringing a gust of icy snow and wind with them.

He didn’t know their full names. He only knew them as Hernandez and Mikels, the same guys who’d shadowed him earlier that morning at Deb’s Place. They didn’t look happy or surprised to see him. He dismissed the first thought that occurred, that he’d been set up. CeCe wasn’t behind his sudden unwelcome company.

What are you doing here? he asked, straightening, when he really wanted to curl up in a ball and squirm in fear.

Mikels smiled coldly. What, were you expecting someone else?

What do you want? he snarled.

Hernandez stepped wide on Mikels other side, effectively blocking any thought of escape. Dan gulped, trying to talk himself out of the reasonable amount of fear that threatened to strangle him. He’d talk his way out of this—it was what he always did.

Mikels’ expression never changed. What we wanted was for you to get out while you still could—while we were still willing to let you leave in one piece.

Dan swallowed, his hands forming fists at his side. He wasn’t a small man at an even six feet, and he was in good shape. But he wasn’t trained to fight, and he was pretty sure the two in front of him could do whatever they wanted to him with one hand tied behind their backs, and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.

Look, I’m not sure what this is, but I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement we can both live with.

Hernandez chuckled. Well, one of us for sure. What, were you expecting that pretty little thing from the restaurant, Miss CeCe? She should have told you she was off limits to outsiders like you. Did she tell you she was already spoken for?

Dan frowned in confusion, sure they were lying. No, she didn’t. She’s not like that, he protested.

Mikels laughed and took a step forward, his fists opening and closing in anticipation. They all are. You should have listened when you had the chance and followed directions. Now it’s too late.

Dan opened his mouth to protest.

He didn’t even see the fist heading for his jaw until after it connected and sent his head and body snapping backwards, bouncing off the back wall, causing dust motes to explode into the air and the warped timbers to shudder when he hit. Gasping, blood running from busted gums and a couple of loose teeth, he scrambled to his feet, unwittingly grabbing two handfuls of dirt and sawdust. He stood swaying as they closed in, flanking him. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he stood a chance if they got their hands on him. Trying to watch them through bleary eyes, he waited for them to come closer. They made a move, and he closed his eyes, flinging what was in his hands in in their direction and surging forward, busting between them. He turned when they screamed, chancing a quick look. Both men clawed at their streaming eyes.

Dumb shit. You’re dead, Mikels snarled, lunging blindly forward, his hands reaching.

Hernandez didn’t move. Instead, his hand fumbled at his side, and Dan watched in horror as he went for his gun.

It was more than enough incentive for him. Dan wasn’t waiting around for either of them to recover. He whirled and yanked the door open, darting through the opening and back down the path the same way he’d come.

But while he’d been waiting for CeCe, the weather had arrived. Thick, fat flakes whirled past his cheeks as he plowed through them. They’d been falling just long enough to obliterate any tracks they’d left behind earlier, and just enough to make it next to impossible to retrace his steps. He plunged into the woods, his heart pounding, his ears listening for the telltale sound of pounding feet at his back. He didn’t have to wait long.

You can run...

But you can’t hide... they parroted, already having recovered enough to give chase. When an arrow sailed past his shoulder and buried itself in the trunk of a mid-sized elm just a few feet to his left, he screamed, the sound a gargle of panic.

Better run fast, white boy, Mikels screamed. Ol’ Hernandez here needs to sight in his bow.

Dan gulped and pushed his legs to go faster, trying to navigate through the dense wood and thickening blanket of snow coming down. Another arrow went high past his head, wobbling several yards beyond him to the right and plowing into a huckleberry thicket. He was sure it singed the top of his scalp on its way.

It was when he realized they were playing with him for keeps—Mikels and Hernandez were hunting; and he was the target. Unless he thought fast, they’d be burying him out here. His heart pounding, he started weaving back and forth, trying to keep the larger trees between him and the sounds of running feet at his back. He tripped over a log and went ass over end, his momentum thrusting him back to his feet in a strange parody of a somersault. He kept going, not questioning his brief fortune.

He rounded a large oak near the top of a hill and came to a skidding halt, coming up on his toes before tumbling over the edge and into a deep ravine, a sharp slope of huge boulders tumbling all the way to the bottom, a hundred feet below.

He considered jumping and dismissed the suicidal thought outright. That would suit them just fine if he were to up and break his neck and take care of their problem for them. He didn’t plan on giving them the satisfaction.

He twisted, changing direction and moving along the upper rim in a desperate ploy to go around. He’d gone only a couple of steps when something heavy plowed into him and lifted him off his feet with a scream. Agonizing pain followed as he went over the edge and landed hard on his shoulder past the rim of the hill. His head glanced off a rock as momentum carried him down, his body flipping crazily. His arm slammed into another boulder on the way with a crack and he screamed again before he lost consciousness, coming to an abrupt halt against a massive boulder in a tangled heap at the bottom.

At the top, Mikels and Hernandez slid to a stop, looking down. I hit him, I’m sure of it, Hernandez said excitedly.

Unsmiling, Mikels squinted. I can see the dart from here. Don’t know how it didn’t break off.

Hernandez bent forward, trying to get a better look. His partner grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and gave a rough shake. Don’t be a dumb ass, unless you plan to join him.

What if he’s not dead? Shouldn’t we go check, just to make sure?

Hernandez thought about it, frowning. The boss would say they should, but it was a helluva long way to the bottom, and Cady Burrows wasn’t there to push them around. Nothing could have survived that. He’s bleeding good. If he isn’t dead already, he’ll be dead by morning in this cold. I say we call it clean and go have a drink to celebrate somewhere warm.

Hernandez stared longingly down at the bloody figure at the bottom for several more seconds. He straightened with a scowl. Fine then. It’s getting colder out, and my feet are sopping wet from stomping through that creek back there. Let’s go.

ELLE SUPPRESSED AN enormous yawn, staring up at the towering black man on her front porch, scowling furiously. A dark green hunting cap was jammed haphazardly past his ears, thick unruly curls escaping past the edges, and odd, slate blue-gray eyes making