Free Haven by Kay Hooper

to escape the foul breath, and through tear-blurred eyes she saw a muscled forearm.
    She blinked, trying not to think about the panting and heaving, the raw soreness, the acrid smell of sweat, just waiting for it to be over. She concentratedon that forearm, on the muscled strength of it, strength she surely couldn’t have fought even if she hadn’t drunk too much.
    And on…the marks. Scars? No…there was color.
    A tattoo. A rose tattoo.
    Her nightmare. Some of it. Maybe the most important parts of it.
    Half under her breath, Jessie heard herself mutter, “A tattoo. He had a tattoo.”
    She had no idea whether Victor had a tattoo; today he’d been wearing a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, and hard as she tried she couldn’t remember whether he’d had one fifteen years before.
    He didn’t seem the type to consider a tattoo appropriate decoration or expression on a body he worked hard to keep in shape, but she was unwilling to trust either her judgment or her memory about that, not after so many years away.
    But what if it was him? He was at those parties, almost always. And he was always egging me on to try all those different kinds of drinks. I remember that.
    I think I remember that.
    But had he done more?
    He had been the one refilling her glass even if all she was drinking was beer; she remembered that clearly. Flirting with her. Touching her casually and yet in a possessive way that thrilled her because he was so much older and all the girls wanted him. And then there was the forbidden-fruit aspect of it.
    Her father would have had a fit if he’d found out, and all the church biddies would have been appalled—and that had added to her excitement.
    She didn’t want to cull through that flash of memory, but forced herself to. Three of them. At least three of them. Four? Laughing.Pouring whiskey into her mouth as they held her down. And then tearing at her clothes—
    Jessie could literally see the curtain in her mind drop, cutting off the memories with an abruptness that was almost a shock.
    She wasn’t ready. Not yet.
    Not ready to remember all of it.
    Absently reaching up to rub her bare arm where Victor had touched it, frowning, Jessie walked on.
    CAROL PRESTON WAS a confident young woman and an experienced hiker. She had hiked all over the country, even in this general area near Baron Hollow—though it was the first time she had actually gone down into the town.
    She didn’t linger. She’d been raised in a small town, and knew how boring Sundays tended to be. Very. So after enjoying her box lunch and the casual conversation of other hikers, she set off again.
    She hiked with several others for maybe a mile or so, then bid them good-bye, with more reassurances that she really could take care of herself and would be fine hiking on her own. She struck off alone to the north, as planned. She’d gotten off to a late start because of the lunch and conversation, pleasant though it had been, so the afternoon was well advanced, and she’d hiked no more than another couple of miles over the rough terrain before deciding to make camp for the night.
    She found a likely spot and went through the familiar motions of erecting her small tent and building a safe fire. Not that she needed it for warmth, but a campsite just wasn’t a campsite without a fire.And besides, she wanted coffee and her supper, and she wanted both hot.
    She enjoyed solitude, and nothing happened to mar her experience that night. She enjoyed her coffee and her supper, and after sitting for a time gazing into the flames, she banked the fire for the night and crawled into her tent.
    It was a warm night, so she didn’t zip the tent or her sleeping bag. The quiet night sounds of the forest were familiar to her, and lulled her quickly to sleep.
    Nothing disturbed her rest or her dreams, and she never felt the presence of something that drifted into her campsite sometime after midnight and stood for a long, long time just watching her.
    JUNE 29
    She