Page 9 of Ardently Yours

Less than one minute passes before Bronnie makes a snuffly sound from the backseat.

I open one eye and stop breathing.

No luck. Bronnie screams her pitiful wail, and my milk lets down in a burning tingle. I grab her pacifier and turn. “You’re okay, baby girl. Just another minute.”

In my periphery, I see a sickeningly familiar champagne-colored sedan pull into Rochelle’s driveway, trapping us.

My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline racing through me. I drop the pacifier into the baby seat and reach for my door handle.

Jeremy Polford steps out onto the gravel drive and heads straight for me, blond hair flapping in the March wind. For a hot second, I can’t process what’s happening. I sit there like a bump on a log. Then I see it. A handgun in his fist.No no no.

I shove open my door and barrel straight for him to put my body between him and the baby. “What the hell is your problem? Put that thing away.”

He keeps coming, and I spread my arms protectively. “Stop. Not another fucking step.”

He points his gun at me. “Five years ago, a stupid little girl tried to ruin my life. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.”

“You think killing me will help? They’ll know it was you.”

“They’ll call it a murder/suicide. You’re depressed and crazy. It’ll be you, your friend, and the kid. All of you stupid whores at the same time.”

Never. “You preach to people on Sunday about forgiveness, and—”

“If people turn against me, they turn against their faith. Coming after me is stealing people from God. Do you notunderstand that?” Red-faced, he spits the words. A vein pulses in his temple.So much rage.

In my periphery, Rochelle creeps toward him. If I look at her, he’ll know she’s there. I want her to run, but, God, I need her to stay. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I made a mistake. I didn’t realize. I’ll do anything you want,” I say desperately.

His lip curls in disgust. “Don’t play games. I know you hired aprivate investigator. They think they’re pulling off some sting with law enforcement.” He taps his temple. “I’m too smart to fall for that.”

Rochelle is nearly close enough to reach him, a garden shovel lifted over her head. A piece of loose gravel skids out from beneath her foot and Polford turns his head toward the sound.

I slap the hand holding the gun as hard as I can, batting it away just as Rochelle slams the shovel down onto his head with a clang of metal and the sick thunk of a watermelon dropped on concrete.

Polford hits the driveway like a felled tree.

I lift my hand to my throat, freezing wind stinging my cheeks, and try to form words. Face bloodless, Rochelle stands as unmoving as a statue, still gripping her shovel like it’s a baseball bat.

Bronnie continues to scream inside the car.

“I think I’m going to puke,” Rochelle says.

“Kick his gun out of the way. Before he wakes up.”

Her head jerks in a rough shake. “I don’t think he’s waking up.”

My gaze travels from his brown loafers, up his khaki pants, to his gray coat, then to his face. Hands at my temples, I back into the car.

The man has a perfect, bloody, shovel-shaped dent in his cranium.

“Oh, God. I think he’s dead,” I say.

Rochelle lifts her left hand. “Was it the brains splattered on my driveway that clued you in?” She whispers even though there’s no one around here for miles.

“You had to do it. He was going to kill us,” I say.

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