Dangerous Pasts: Book 1




Dedication


I hope you love reading this book as much as I loved writing it. Completing my first novel is truly a dream come true.

I wish from the bottom of my heart all of you have found or will find your own Trashman and live your own epic love story that may not be perfect, but perfect for you. Maybe mine is yet to come. Perhaps it’s never too late.

With extreme gratitude I send love and blessings to my kids with fur and hooves, both those still with me and those that have passed. Also, to my godson, I love you more than anything in this world.

Most importantly, I want to thank my sister, one of the inspirations for this book, who told me I could write it. The only person who’s always believed in me and whose positive energy and support makes me a better author and person.





Prologue


Her feet flew over the grassy field as fast as they had ever gone. Her heart convulsed with violent intensity as it struggled to pump enough blood through her veins to keep her conscious. A vibrant blue sky and golden sun peered down on the landscape. The blissful weather stood in sharp contrast with the horror of the scene playing out below, enveloped in innocent glory. A shout for help would be as futile as screaming under water. Those people waxing philosophical might call this one of life’s defining moments. How would she know? She’d never been chased by someone with a gun trying to kill her.

Flames of discomfort licked the insides of her lungs as she gulped blasts of air. Her side ached with fiery discomfort but the pain didn’t register. The fear took precedence. A good distance behind her, the gun discharged and the bullet sailed past her right ear, close enough to sense the vibrations. The first one had barely missed her left arm. Sweat started to pool in her ear so she swiped at it with her hand. The liquid was bright red blood. She’d been hit. How he’d obtained a gun with his history, she’d never comprehend. Now, it only mattered that his dangerous fingers clutched it in an iron grip and he wanted to use it. He’d told her many times how much he wanted her dead but even though the threats were chilling, she’d never believed he would murder her. Most of the time, he was just a blustering or brooding, manic fool.

If that last bullet had traveled another inch to the left, she’d be dead on the ground bleeding out. He’d fired multiple rounds of ammunition straight at her head so she was lucky one of those bullets hadn’t pierced her skull. Her heaving breaths continued as she struggled to make her legs go faster. She wondered if they were calling for her at the barn. The evening chores started at five and her family would be sick with worry if she didn’t get back in time. What a pathetic way to die.

Deep scratches and cuts peppered her feet and lower ankles from the cut hay. Years of horseback riding had made her fit but she’d never liked running. She stumbled over the deep ruts, her arms flailing as she almost fell. Regret nipped at her heels and terror pushed her forward. Her mind swam with questions. She never should have left him. Why had she married him in the first place when she’d known the day she walked down the aisle it would turn into a devastating mistake?

A shed loomed on the horizon so she ran in that direction, grateful for even the slight promise of shelter. She picked up the click of the gun again, closer now. Strange, where had she heard that snapping noise? As she remembered, relief swept through her mind, leaving room for a more positive emotion. She had never been so elated to hear a sound coming out of handgun. A glimmer of hope that she’d make it through this now flickered like the tiniest flame. He’d run out of bullets.

“You fat, fucking bitch!”

Panting, yet still able to yell obscenities, he used his height to his advantage. His long strides covered ground, closing the gap between them. With her petite frame, she just couldn’t stay ahead of him. Death had come knocking with its ice cold hand reaching through the door to snatch her.

Her pursuer had dressed for the occasion knowing in advance he might have to give chase. It pissed her off that he knew her that well at all. She’d worn flip flops and lost them somewhere in the first few yards. She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know he gained on her, ever closer. She could practically feel his hot, tepid breath glazing over the back of her neck. She prayed to God he was incapable of raping her, before he killed her. Those lines from the Franky Perez song “Something Crazy” popped into her consciousness. Funny how the mind works in the grips of panic.