Fan the Flames Read Online Free PDF Page B

close enough to see the padlock, her breath stalled. She jogged the final few steps to the gate for a closer look. Although it and the chain were intact, the lock had been flipped over to the other side, so it hung in the small crack between the gates. Frowning, Rory eyed the ground in front of the gate, but plowing, tire tracks, and a warming sun had reduced the snow on her drive to a patchy assortment of icy clumps. There was no way to leave boot prints in what remained.
    Someone had tried to break into her home. Bile rose in her throat as she retraced her steps along the west fence. This time, she concentrated on the snowdrifts just beyond the boundary line, but there were no breaks in the even crust. Although she knew she should open the gate and explore the area beyond her fence for evidence that someone had been there, her caution overruled her curiosity. She circled around the pole barn to her line of pine trees, instead.
    Her feet kept wanting to run, but she kept her pace even and deliberate, thanks to relentless childhood drills. Her gaze moved constantly, her head turning so she could catch any threat before it jumped out at her. But when the shop door grew closer, she let out a silent exhale of relief. As she took another step toward home, she heard it—the muffled sound of snow falling…or being knocked…from an evergreen bough.
    She whirled, pulling her Python from her pocket as she crouched behind the closest concealment—a squatty pine tree. Peering through the branches frantically, she tried to get a glimpse of whoever was approaching. Between her pounding heart and her rapid, shallow breaths, she couldn’t hear anything else, and frustration at her inability to stay calm vied with fear.
    Movement at the edge of her peripheral vision brought her head and her gun around to focus on the oncoming threat. A low-lying shadow shifted, morphing into the shape of her dog.
    Her breath came out in an audible whoosh. She didn’t return her revolver to her pocket, though. Instead, she kept it out and ready until she and Jack were inside the shop, and the back door was closed and locked.
    Only after she was inside her underground bunker-home, all locks secured and alarms set, did she reluctantly place the Python in its drawer. Rory would’ve liked to hang on to the gun, since her nerves steadied when her fingers clutched the familiar grip. She kept reminding herself that she was safe in her home. No one could get through the steel door at the top of the stairs.
    Still, with the gun tucked in its drawer, she felt a little naked, her fingers twitchy without something to hold. She turned the burner on under the now-cool soup, making a face. Her fruitless walk around the property had not reassured her. Something had set off the alarm, and the lock hadn’t moved on its own. Not knowing what—or who—had triggered the motion sensor made her stomach jumpy and destroyed any trace of hunger.
    Once the soup was hot, she forced herself to eat it, despite her clamped-down belly. Ingrained childhood lessons stuck with her, even though her parents had been dead for three years now. Part of being prepared was keeping her body rested, fed, and strong, so she’d be ready for whatever came next. A nervous stomach was no excuse not to nourish her body.
    Once she was halfway through a bowl, though, even those hammered-in lessons couldn’t keep her eating, and she gave the rest of her soup to Jack. After measuring out his nightly ration of dog food and dumping it in his bowl, she tried to get lost in the thriller she was currently reading.
    Within twenty minutes of reading and rereading the same two sentences, she gave up and tossed the book onto the end table. She lasted another five minutes before she hurried over to the desk and pulled out the Python.
    Returning to the couch, she held the revolver and let her mind bounce from scenario to scenario. It wasn’t helpful, she knew that, but she