A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(84)

He jogged up the steps to the back door, kicking the snow from his boots. As he unlocked the door, he turned and looked at the forested property behind him. Right here he’d discovered Mercy’s “dirty little secret.” Truman had known her for only a few days, the smart and driven Portland FBI agent who’d come to help solve his uncle’s murder, but he had followed her, wondering where she disappeared to at night. He had found her here, chopping wood at midnight and unable to relax until she knew she had done everything possible to prepare her cabin in case of disaster.

It had been eye-opening.

That night he saw her and came to understand the woman who’d captured his attention and heart.

Mercy had relaxed over her obsession in the last year but still stayed on her toes. She still checked international news and markets, looking for early signs of collapse, and she still harped at Ollie and Kaylie to always have their GOOD bags ready to go and additional smaller ones stored in their vehicles.

He stepped inside, the smell of fresh paint greeting him. The home was partially furnished. Mercy and Kaylie had haunted garage sales and antique stores all summer, on the hunt for the practical pieces she wanted. A simple couch, chairs, and coffee table sat in the family room. A table for four was adjacent to the functional kitchen. An elegant wall decal above the table read, FAMILY MAKES THIS HOUSE A HOME.

He stopped and stared, reading it over and over. He hadn’t seen it before.

The decal had to be Kaylie’s touch. Mercy wouldn’t have chosen something so sentimental.

His lips quirked in a half smile.

Damn, I miss my stubborn, clever woman.

A piercing pain radiated in his chest, and he briefly shut his eyes against the grief.

She’s alive. I know it. I’d feel it if she wasn’t . . .

Standing absolutely still, he waited, hoping for some sound or sight from the universe to indicate he was right.

Nothing.

The house was silent. Its plain white walls and simple furnishings waiting for her return.

Like him.

I’m being ridiculous.

He shook himself and marched up the staircase to the loft bedroom and bath they’d designed for themselves. Mercy had bought a bed, but they had left finishing the room for last, striving to get the important rooms like the kitchen and baths functional first.

He entered the loft and caught his breath, his heart in his throat. Mercy had worked on the room without telling him. The space had been painted a relaxing blue, and tranquil watercolor art hung on the walls. A fluffy down comforter covered the bed. Last time he’d set foot in the loft, the walls had been white, and sleeping bags had been on the bed. Now the room was a harmony of creamy yellows and cool blues.

She had bought throw pillows, and a thickly padded chair sat in one corner next to an empty bookcase, patiently waiting to be filled with books.

It was homey.

I’m not the only one hiding surprises.

What if we never share that bed again?

He steeled himself against the abrupt rush of grief.

Tomorrow he’d find her and bring her home.





THIRTY-THREE

The morning after he had informed Mercy’s family that she was missing, Truman and Evan Bolton parked along a forest service road to start their search for her. Truman slammed the door to his Tahoe and swore at the surrounding snow. Bolton did the same on the passenger side. Both men had pored over maps, looking for a beginning location that was far enough away from the FBI base camp but close enough to the compound. The disaster at America’s Preserve had happened six days ago. The investigation and search for Mercy and the missing teenager had been scaled down, but coverage of the incident was gaining massive steam in the media.

The ATF and FBI were being slaughtered in the court of public opinion, the nation furious at the loss of life.

It had taken a few days, but the FBI had publicly admitted that an agent had gone missing during the incident while keeping Mercy’s name private. Eddie had told Truman that he had joined other agents in another search outside the compound with no results. The FBI had brought in ground-penetrating radar and found another grave on the edge of the compound. This time holding two men.

But no Mercy.

Truman was starting his own search. The glowing recommendation from Bolton had resulted in Rowan Wolff and Thor, her black German shepherd. She had parked behind them on the service road. The dog leaped out of her vehicle, buried his face in the fluffy snow, and then hurled it in the air with an upward flick of his nose. Rowan checked her pack and slid it onto her back, fastening two buckles in front. She wore a bright-orange hunter’s vest over her coat. Truman and Bolton had done the same. No hunting was going on in the immediate terrain, but they weren’t taking the chance of being mistaken for hiding compound members.

Rowan approached. She was tall, with intense eyes, reminding him a bit of Mercy, but that was where the resemblance stopped. Her eyes were brown, and her hair was dark blonde. According to Bolton, Rowan and Thor had carried out search and rescues all over the country. She was expensive, but he claimed she was worth it. She had worked investigations with a dozen federal government agencies and nearly a hundred different police and sheriffs’ departments. Bolton said she’d also participated in a few private searches, hired by families who’d had a member lost or kidnapped after the police investigation had gone cold. One high-profile retail magnate had rewarded her with enough money to retire when Rowan found his missing daughter.