Broken Toys
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Broken Toys
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
In the bedroom, he rummaged through the top drawer of his dresser, searching for the engagement ring. It wasn’t there. I know I put it in here somewhere. He opened the second drawer. Tossed T-shirts around. No ring. Starting to panic, he jerked open the third drawer. The tiny blue box, snuggled in the corner of the drawer beneath his rolled socks, winked up at him. His shoulders sagged in relief. He reached in, grabbed the box, and opened it.
Empty. No ring.
Oh, crap. Where is it? His eyes darted around the room. He dashed to the laundry basket, flinging dirty clothes left and right as he dug for the last pair of pants he wore. Images of the diamond ring devoured by the washing machine flooded his mind. His pulse pounded. He collapsed to the floor as his fingers brushed the hard, circular object in the front pocket. Thank God, I didn’t wash it.
When he returned to the living room, the engagement ring nestled safely in the bottom of his front jeans’ pocket.
Broken Toys
by
Glenda Thompson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Broken Toys
COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Glenda Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2020
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3379-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3380-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Darlin’—thank you for believing in me,
for pushing me, and for teaching me the difference between a clip and a magazine.
You will always be my heart.
~
To Jenn—thanks for the swift kicks to my backside
when I started lagging or threatening to give up.
And for the chocolate…always the chocolate.
~
To my wonderful support system
at 10-Minute Novelists—you know who you are.
I never would have finished this story without you.
Thanks for the encouragement.
Chapter One
As Alyssa Sanders ran through the thick South Texas brush, blood trickled from a gash on her forehead. Mixing with sweat, it dripped into her eyes, burning and blurring her vision.
Bare feet rasping over rock and sand, she floundered to a stop, doubling over and gasping. The hot night wind lifted her hair from her face. Mesquite and cactus thorns punctured her aching soles. Bloody scrapes stung her knees from the many falls she’d taken while racing through the darkness. Sucking in a ragged breath, she choked on the smell of rotten eggs.
“Sour gas,” the stranger said, bending over beside her. “From the oil wells.”
Concern smoldered in his eyes, stirring mixed emotions within her. Was it caring—or excitement?
“Here, put this on.” He straightened and placed his navy baseball cap over her hair, tucking the platinum lengths from sight. “It will make you harder to see.”
He crept forward, inching his way around the prickly pear. She hesitated. Who was this young man? Why was he helping her? True, she was a whisper younger than the other girls, but that only put him closer to their age than hers. Why wasn’t he helping one of them escape? Trusting a different young man—one she had believed with all her fourteen-year-old heart was her prince charming—caused her capture in the first place. How long ago had it been? She had lost all track of time while being confined in the cage.
The stranger grabbed her. The cap tumbled from her head. His calloused fingers, rough on her tender young skin, spun her to face back the way they had come. “Do you want them to catch us?” He yanked on her arm, tugging her forward. “I can always take you back, you know. Less hassle on my part.”
In the distance, the metal storage container where she had been imprisoned loomed, a darker shadow among the shadows cast by the meager light of the crescent moon. Heat lightning crackled overhead, dancing from cloud to cloud. The flashes made the container appear to move, as if it chased her. Despite the unseasonably oppressive heat of Texas in late April, a shiver raced down her spine. Oh my God! He wouldn’t actually take me back, would he?
A surge of panic paralyzed her. She forgot to inhale. Dark spots danced on the edges of her vision. Tremors cascaded over her limbs.
“Hey, breathe, okay? I didn’t mean it. Not really.”
She drew in a whooping gasp of air. Only this young man, this dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger, offered her hope of freedom. I just want to go home. Tears tracked through the dirt on her face.
Trust him.
She scooped the ball cap from the ground and shoved her hair back beneath it. She held her hand out to him. His massive hand engulfed her tiny, trembling one. His fingers entwined with hers as he drew her through the gloom. She drew comfort from the strength of his hand.
Dawn lurked just over the horizon, a sullen vow to steal the protective shadows from the field and illuminate their flight.
“Hurry,” he said, pushing her onward. “Stay down. We can’t let anyone see us.”
Bent low at the waist, they plunged haphazardly through the dry, hip-deep grass. Its sharp edges ripped at her arms and face. The tall grass rustled as they struggled through it. She stumbled and fell, collapsing from hunger and exhaustion. A whimper of pain escaped. “I am so tired.”
“Shh!” he whispered harshly, whipping his head back the way they came.
What did he hear? She strained her ears for any sound of pursuit. The rushing of her pulse pounding in her ears drowned out everything else. The mournful howl of a coyote split the pre-dawn air, followed by the yipping replies of the rest of the pack. Dogs? Are they using dogs to track me?
She spun wildly, peering in all directions. Tall clumps of blooming prickly pear obscured her vision. Tension churned in her belly. Squeezing her eyes closed, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and rocked back and forth on her knees.
Dear God, I promise I will never sneak out again. Please. I want my mommy.
****
As Seamus Gorman slammed open the door to his son’s makeshift taxidermy shop, hot humid air followed him inside. “Patri
ck?” he bellowed. “You in here?”
He paused in the doorway, adapting to the dim interior light. The windows, covered with black paint, contributed to the gloom of the ramshackle barn. Seamus dragged a hand across the back of his neck. All the sightless, glass eyes staring down at him from the animal heads lining the walls gave him goose bumps. He shuddered, shaking off the premonition of unease. Movement at the back of the shop caught his attention.
“I figured I would find you hiding in here, boyo. Quit your arsing around. We’ve got driveways to pave. Get your ass up and out to work. We’re already behind schedule.”
His voice echoed off the walls, a rough scratchy sound that assaulted the eardrums. Hints of his Irish heritage clung to his speech. His entire persona screamed used car salesman: loud, brash, and pushy. The only things missing being gaudy gold chains gleaming against a hairy chest and a heavy, gold nugget pinky ring.
“Shut the door, Da. You’re letting flies in.” Patrick stood from where he kneeled behind an antique display case, rolling his neck on his shoulders and wiping his hands on stained blue jeans.
Seamus stepped into the barn and drew the door closed behind him. Shutting out the harsh Texas sun plunged the shop back into its former cave-like murkiness. The dim light of one bare bulb dangling from the ceiling did little to dispel the shadows.
“Stop acting the maggot. We need to start the jobs before the gits change their minds. Or their nosy kids talk ’em out of it.”
The single window air-conditioning unit wheezed as it struggled to cool the space. He skirted around enormous glass aquariums sitting on a rusty, industrial workbench. Heat lamps above the glass cases kept the creepy crawlies inside underneath shredded paper and wood shavings. A tiny tremor crawled down his spine.
He raises flesh-eating beetles, and he’s worried about flies?
Seamus crinkled his nose as he walked deeper into the shop. A noxious, more immediate odor overcame the sickly-sweet odor of rotting meat. The shop reeked with it. “What is that manky smell?” He plucked a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth and nose. “What have you been doing now?”
The closer he got to his son, the stronger the stench became. A few feet from the counter, the mixed odors of burning flesh and feces hit him full in the face. He hurried around the display case and looked down.
“No!” He slammed a gargantuan fist against the glass top so hard it splintered. Slivers of glass embedded themselves in his hand. As he gagged, the handkerchief fluttered to the floor. “No, no, no, no.”
An emaciated teenage girl lay crumpled on the dirty wooden floorboards at his son’s feet. Her head rested in a slowly widening pool of blood that turned her platinum hair a rusty shade of copper and seeped in ever-expanding circles beneath the counter and beyond.
Her bloodshot, green eyes widened at Seamus’s arrival. Bruises, both fresh and faded, covered her face. Cigarette burns marred the skin of her inner arms. A filthy cloth, shoved in her mouth and tied around her head, muffled her cries. Cuts, human bite marks, and dried blood decorated her naked body. A teardrop of blood cut a path through the dirt caked on her porcelain cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed.
Prickly heat raced through Seamus as he shoved his son out of the way and dropped to his knees beside the girl. Ignoring the fresh blood dripping from the cut on his hand, he placed two fingers against the girl’s neck to search for a pulse. Skin cool and clammy. Pulse weak and thready but there, barely there. He glanced up to stare at his son—and saw him clearly for perhaps the first time. Blood spatter covered Patrick from head to toe as he idly twirled a blade between his fingers.
He jammed his finger into the boy’s chest. “How many times have I told you not to play with the livestock? We’re running an old-fashioned cattle drive. You and your pretty-boy Romeos round up the livestock. I’m the trail boss driving them to auction. The cartels are the railroad shipping north, or overseas, or wherever they end up. Not my concern. Our job is to get them safely to the railhead.” He shoved his son away so hard the boy stumbled. “You, idjit, how thick can you be?”
Patrick lowered his eyes. He ducked his head, raising his shoulders like a puppy cringing away from a blow. The perfect image of submissive obedience.
Unfooled, Seamus caught the flash of malevolent hate glittering in his son’s eyes before a blank expression claimed the boy’s features. “You listen when I’m speaking to you, ya useless poxy little shite. Do you realize how much money you just cost me?”
“I’m sorry, Da. Really sorry. I only wanted a bit of fun.” The boy swallowed hard. He muttered a few more indistinct words.
“What did you say?”
Patrick spoke up without lifting his gaze from the floor. He raised his hands, palms up. “I guess I got a wee bit carried away.”
“You guess? Really?” Seamus’s voice rose with each syllable. He pointed at the brutalized girl. “You call that a wee bit?” Disgust laced each word. “I truly have no words.”
The boy raised his chin just a fraction, his eyes meeting his father’s in a tiny show of smug defiance. “You didn’t want this one anyway, Da. The boys grabbed a bad one. She was damaged goods. Once the makeup and clothes came off, she was a brutal mess.” The son laughed, a cold, dark laugh. “And that was before I started on her. Scars everywhere. She wasn’t very bright either. She actually believed I was helping her escape.”
Seamus clenched his hands at his sides to keep from wrapping them around his son’s throat. As his pulse hammered in his ears, spots formed on the corners of his vision. He focused on the face of his one and only child.
All color faded from Patrick’s face as he took a quick step backward. He held his hands up to block his father’s approach. “Seriously, Da, no one would have paid much for her. I did you a favor when you think about it, keeping you from offering subpar merchandise.”
A growl slipped from Seamus’s lips. He advanced another step. Patrick moved back, hands still extended. “Da, if ye…”
“Shut the fook up.” Seamus raised his clenched fist. A muffled moan drew his attention back to the girl. “Hand me that tarp behind you. Now.”
Eyes closed; Seamus squeezed the bridge of his nose. With a deep sigh, he kneeled beside the child lying on the floor. He draped the tarp over her naked body and drew the gag from her mouth. Gently, he brushed the hair from her pallid face, examining the damage inflicted by his son. With a tender hand, he wiped the tears from her face, slid the back of his hand down her cheek in a soft caress. “I’m so sorry, sweetling. It shouldn’t happen this way.”
A bowie-style knife whispered out of the leather sheath in his boot. Muscles in his forearm rippled as he grabbed the knife and slit the girl’s throat from ear to ear, slashing open her windpipe while severing both the carotid artery and jugular vein. The smell of hot iron flooded the space. Warm blood splattered, creating a brilliant red abstract painting over the floor and walls. Arterial spray splattered as high as the cedar beams of the roof.
For several long seconds, the only sound heard was the whistle of air bubbling through the gaping, bloody wound. Gradually her pulse stilled and her heart stopped. Pale, green eyes glazed over with the opaque covering of death.
Seamus rose slowly to his feet, the weight of what he had just done crashing against his shoulders. Scooping his handkerchief from the floor, he methodically wiped the blood from his face. He glanced down at himself and then glared at his son. “You made the mess. You clean it up. I have to change. Get cracking. We still have paving to do.”
Patrick’s eyes lit up as they darted from the fleshing machine to the terrarium housing the beetles. A tremor raced down Seamus’s spine. Gruesome images of what he imagined his son doing to the body turned his stomach.
“Don’t worry, Da. I’ve got this.”
That’s exactly what I am worried about. Seamus started to the door, stopped, and turned back to face his son. “And you, or one of those boyos of yours, need to find me a replacement—soo
n. I’ve already paid for twelve spots on the auction website, and I will deliver twelve.” He paused, his hardened glare crawling up and down his son’s solid frame. “One way or another.”
****
Patrick wiped a drop of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand as he watched his father stalk from the shop. Absentmindedly, he touched the tip of his tongue to the smear of blood. Copper pennies.
He scanned the body lying on the floor and then his taxidermy shop. His eyes locked on the pale, white bone of a European-mounted deer skull. He smiled. The stew-like smell of muscle boiling from the bone when he’d peeled the skin off tickled his memory. Trophy mounts, all of them. Even the girl. An idea crept in. He flexed his hands; the smirk plastered on his face widening. “Don’t worry, Da. I’ve got this. No one will ever find her.”
He walked to the bench of tools mounted on the side wall. He picked up and discarded the bone saw. Lovingly, he fondled a variety of knives before deciding on a small skinning knife with a gut-hook on the end. The weight of it felt good in his hands, balanced. He rarely used this particular knife, so he drew the edge of the blade slowly across the tip of his finger to test the sharpness. A thin, red line of blood welled up. As he sucked the blood and glared at the old, wooden door his father had just stormed through, Patrick smiled again.
This time, his smile reached his eyes.
One day, Da—maybe one day real soon—no one will be able to find you either.
Chapter Two
Texas Ranger Noah Morgan sat in the parking lot of the Bennett County Law Enforcement Center. Engine running and air conditioner blasting in his unmarked four-wheel-drive truck, he dragged sweaty palms down his freshly pressed and starched black jeans before picking up the tiny, blue-velvet, square box sitting on the truck console beside him. A tingle of fear crept over his broad shoulders, tightening his muscles.
What if she doesn’t like it?
He opened the lid to stare again at the golden rays of sunshine sparkling off the engagement ring he’d just purchased during his lunch hour. The one-carat, pear-shaped diamond solitaire nestled in a delicate lace of quarter-carat emeralds and—according to the salesperson—would melt any woman’s heart.