Chapter 51
The next morning, Naomi checked Grace’s carrier for the third time, adjusted the strap she’d already adjusted, and told herself to breathe.
Grace blinked up at her, unbothered.
“At least one of us is calm,” Naomi murmured.
She heard Micah’s SUV pull into the driveway and picked up Grace’s bag before pushing through the side door.
He paused when he saw her. Something moved across his face—there and gone before she could name it.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.” She handed him Grace’s bag without thinking, and he took it without thinking, and for just a moment it felt completely natural. Like they’d done this a hundred times.
Then he turned toward the SUV, and the moment passed.
Naomi followed him to the vehicle, watching the back of his head and the set of his shoulders. He seemed so careful and contained. The same way he’d been when he’d walked out last night.
She settled Grace’s carrier into the base in the back seat while Micah stowed the bag.
They climbed in, and he started the engine.
Ahead of them, the gate swung open, and Micah pulled onto the road.
Naomi watched the trees slide past her window. The morning was gray and still, clouds low over the mountains.
Then she turned to look at Micah.
He had both hands on the wheel. His eyes were on the road. His expression was neutral in a way that felt deliberate.
But something was clearly wrong.
“Micah.”
“Hmm?”
“Is everything okay? Between us, I mean.” She kept her voice even. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
His jaw moved slightly. “Everything’s fine.”
“You went from—” She stopped and searched for the right word. “You went from being present to being somewhere else entirely, and I don’t know what happened.”
“You didn’t do anything.” He glanced at her briefly, then back at the road. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept his eyes on the road, jaw set, the silence doing the work he wouldn’t.
“Actually . . . never mind. I’m sorry for asking.
” She turned back toward the window, her own walls sliding into place before she’d even made the decision to raise them.
Maybe that was what he did to her—reminded her that she knew how to do this too.
How to go quiet. How to fold herself back into something smaller and more manageable and wait.
“We’ll talk,” Micah murmured. “I promise. Just not today.”
She nodded once. Fine. She knew how to wait.
Today the problem was Dale Harding and whatever his attorney planned to throw at her in that courtroom. She’d deal with Micah and his walls later—and maybe, if she was being honest, her own.
She’d called an attorney yesterday—one that her mom had found for her—and now Naomi was still running through what the woman had told her. Stay calm, answer directly, don’t volunteer information. The attorney would meet her at the courthouse.
As Naomi reviewed everything, they came around a curve, and Micah pressed the brakes.
A dark SUV sat in the middle of the road ahead, tinted windows, angled sideways across both lanes. A woman stood beside it, one hand on the roof, looking down at the rear tire. She saw them coming and began waving her arms.
Micah flipped on his police lights and slowed to a stop. He scanned the vehicle, then the woman, then the tree line on both sides. “Stay here.”
“Of course.”
He climbed out, and Naomi watched him walk toward the woman, his posture easy but alert. She wasn’t sure why, but something about this stop made her anxious.
It was probably everything that was going on. Her nervous system was on alert.
But she just wanted to get to the courthouse and get this hearing over with.
She turned to check on Grace. “We’re almost there. Then we’re going to make sure you stay right where you belong.”
She looked back up just as Micah reached the SUV. As she did, movement from the woods caught her eye.
She sucked in a breath. “Micah!”
But she was too late.
Two men lunged from the trees, converging on Micah from both sides of the road.
They were armed—and moving fast.
Naomi gasped, and her hand flew to her door handle.
Then she saw the shadow outside her window.
A third man appeared. He blocked her exit. The barrel of his gun was pointed directly at her through the glass.
Dread hardened in her gut.
She knew without a doubt that if she made one wrong move, she’d be dead.
Micah’s hand was already moving toward his weapon when he heard movement and realized this was a trap.
“Don’t.” The voice came from his left.
He froze.
Two men in ski masks surrounded him. The woman had already moved to the back of the SUV. One other man stood at Micah’s SUV, his weapon trained through the passenger window.
On Naomi.
Micah’s hand dropped away from his holster.
“Smart,” the man closest to him said. “Give me your weapon—slow and easy—or you’ll regret it.”
Micah reached across his body with two fingers, drew his sidearm from the holster, and held it out.
The man took it without looking away from his face.
Micah watched the man at his SUV wrench open the passenger door. He watched as the man pulled Naomi out. She grabbed the door frame to stop him. But the man was bigger and stronger.
His muscles twitched. More than anything, he wanted to lunge toward her.
But he didn’t move.
There were four of them. He had no weapon. And the gun was still aimed at him.
“Naomi.” He forced calm into his voice. “Don’t fight. Let them—”
But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the SUV.
At Grace.
One of the men moved to the rear door.
“No—” Naomi twisted hard, wrenching free of the man holding her arm.
She threw herself toward the rear door, putting herself between the man and Grace.
She fought with everything she had—clawing, pushing, throwing her weight against the man reaching for Grace.
For a few seconds, she held her ground.
Then Grace started wailing.
Out of instinct, Micah lunged forward.
As he did, something hard connected with the back of his skull.
The gun.
His vision fractured for a half second.
Then the gun pressed against his temple again.
“Easy, Sheriff.” The voice was right in his ear.
Micah forced himself to still, his gaze still on Naomi.
The man trying to grab Grace shoved Naomi out of the way.
She hit the side of the SUV then fell to the ground.
His stomach dropped. No!
“Naomi . . .” The word came out raw, desperate.
She didn’t get up. Instead, she gasped for breath as if the wind was knocked out of her.
The man yanked the rear door open.
“Don’t you touch her—” The words tore out of Micah before he could stop them.
The barrel pressed harder against his temple.
He couldn’t move. Could do nothing but watch as the man unclipped Grace’s carrier from its base.
Grace’s cries grew louder as the man lifted her out.
From the pavement, Naomi made a helpless, whimpering sound that he knew he’d hear in his sleep for a long time.
“Grace—” Her voice cracked on the word. She tried to get up. One hand was pressed to her temple. But her legs didn’t cooperate.
The leader looked at Micah. “Keys.”
Micah stared at him.
The man holding the gun on him grabbed his collar and slammed Micah against the SUV hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“Keys,” the leader growled again.
“They’re still in the SUV,” Micah told him.
The man nodded to one of his cohorts, who then strutted to the SUV and grabbed the keys from the ignition. He handed them to the leader.
The leader took them then nodded to the others. Two of them moved—fast and coordinated—back toward their vehicle. The leader kept his gun on Micah, and he knew the man wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
But these men didn’t want to hurt Micah.
They only wanted Grace.
The man carrying Grace’s carrier climbed into the back seat of the SUV without looking back.
The door closed, cutting off Grace’s cries.
The leader slid into the driver’s seat. Then the engine turned over, and they were gone, leaving Micah and Naomi here without any means to follow them.
Micah crossed to Naomi in four strides and dropped to his knees beside her. She tried again to push herself upright. Her face was as white as paper.
“Don’t.” He caught her shoulders, steadying her. “Stay still. Let me look at you.”
“Grace.” The word came out wrecked. “Micah, they took Grace—”
“I know.” He kept his voice controlled even though nothing inside him was. “I know. Stay with me. Look at me.”
He cupped her face carefully in his hands and checked her pupils.
They were even and reactive, not overly dilated.
“I’m fine—” She started to get up.
He stopped her. “You hit your head. Hard.”
The gash at her temple was bleeding but not badly. Head wounds always bled more than they should. He checked the back of her skull carefully, feeling for swelling or soft spots.
Nothing obvious.
“Were you unconscious at all?” he asked.
“No. I—” She pressed her hand to her temple. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Dizzy? Nauseous?”
“No.”
She was conscious and alert. Her pupils were good. The head wound needed attention but wasn’t life-threatening.
And Grace was in a SUV with armed men, getting farther away every second.
He looked at Naomi for one more second, making the calculation every first responder hated making—good enough to move, or too risky?