Free Protecting Peggy by Maggie Price Page A

baking.
    Samantha’s absence gave Peggy a few extra minutes to linger over her plants. Still, she couldn’t get any real work done since it was nearly time to prepare that evening’s cheese plate and the accompanying wine to serve her guests in the study.
    Turning to the bench opposite the one that held the peat pots, Peggy used the shears to clip a sprig of baby’s breath. She had just laid the sprig aside when a vague noise that seemed to come from somewhere behind her sent a chill zipping up her spine. Swallowing hard, she told herself the noise had been nothing more than the wind rattling the panes of glass. Or maybe a car pulling into the parking lot. Those reassuring thoughts didn’t stop her from looking across her shoulder while her heart banged against her ribs like a moth against a screen.
    The only thing behind her was the bench covered with peat pots. Beyond the glass walls, the fog seemed to have grown more dense. It pressed against the panes, obscuring the parking lot, heightening her sense of isolation.
    Turning her attention back to the task at hand, Peggy expelled a slow breath. The half sigh ended ina choked gasp when a hand grabbed her hair in one hard yank that snapped her head back. The pain that stabbed into her skull was like an explosion, as clear as a star on a cold night.
    From behind, thick fingers locked like a vise on the back of her neck and lifted. She was nearly on tiptoe, and bent so far backward that her spine threatened to crack.
    The strength necessary to raise her almost off her feet told her that her assailant was a man.
    She had a sickening half moment to think about rape while she struggled, her body twisting while her blood pounded in her ears. Her hand, still gripping the shears, flailed, stabbing futilely at the air behind her.
    Fear screamed through her head, shrieked toward her throat. Before she could make a sound, she was spun toward the rear of the greenhouse then shoved forward. Staggering off-balance, she slammed sideways into the potting bench; the force of the blow sent the shears flying from her grasp. The bolt of pain that exploded in her hip blurred her vision and turned her legs as spindly as a foal’s.
    She fell hard on her hands and knees to the dirt floor. Dazed, she was vaguely aware of movement behind her, heard the door bang outward, felt the cool wind sweep into the greenhouse’s dim recesses. Through a haze of pain and fear, she heard footsteps scrambling across the gravel lot. Then nothing.
    He was gone. Had something scared him away? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was alone. Shaking, scared and alone. Until he came back.
    Sheer black waves of terror threatened to engulf her.What if he came back? He’d been immensely strong, could have snapped her neck with one twist of his powerful hands. What if he killed her next time? Samantha had no other family, she would be alone. Who would take care of her child? Love her?
    Sobbing, Peggy raised a trembling hand above her head and gripped the edge of the bench. Her fingers slipped, leaving a streak of dirt. She tried again, using both hands. When she pulled herself up, pain seared up and down her thigh from the spot on her hip that had smashed against wood.
    Eyes watering from the pain, short breaths scraping at her throat, she took an unsteady step forward. Then another. Her instinct for survival shrieked for her to get inside the inn, get away. Lock herself in before he came back.
    Reaching out, she gripped the bench that held the peat pots. She saw that her garden shears had landed in the middle of the small pots, scattering them. Her fingers numb and stiff, she gripped the shears as though they were a weapon. If her attacker came back, if he tried to touch her again, she would use them.
    Leaning her weight against the bench, she inched toward the open door, her heart hammering wildly. Fingers of fog crept across the dirt floor, sliding around her ankles like shackles,