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Stifling a yawn, she sat up straighter behind the wheel.
The house was dark when she pulled into the drive and pressed the garage door opener. Slade’s red pickup was there, parked in its usual place. Good, he must be asleep. She’d be less likely to disturb him if she went in through the clinic.
Taking her medical bag and the opener, she closed the garage from the outside and went around to the clinic’s front door. Her hand found the lock and inserted the key.
The instant the door swung open, Natalie sensed something was wrong. Heart in her throat, she found the wall switch and turned on the light. Her knees went weak beneath her.
The clinic had been completely trashed, furniture ripped and overturned, glass broken, files scattered across the floor. The computer had been smashed, the instruments and medical supplies crushed as if they’d been stomped by heavy boots. There’d been no animals in the back room, thank heaven, but the cages were toppled and bent as if they’d been kicked across the room.
Everything was ruined.
CHAPTER 9
Natalie stared at the chaos that had been her clinic. From the back of her mind, a warning voice screamed, Run! Get out of here! But she was frozen in shock. She stood rooted to the spot, taking in the nightmare. What had happened here—and why?
Then, as Slade appeared in the hallway, she knew.
Even at a distance she could smell the liquor on him. He was dressed in rumpled work clothes, his beard unshaven, his eyes narrow red slits. Natalie willed herself to stand her ground as he lumbered toward her like an enraged bear. Somehow she found her voice.
“Stop right there, Slade Haskell! Have you gone crazy? Why in heaven’s name did you do this?”
He paused, close enough to cut her off from the clinic’s front door. “Because you been screwin’ that bastard Beau Tyler. That’s why!”
Natalie’s heart slammed. She and Beau had come close
to the brink, but what Slade was accusing her of hadn’t happened. “That’s not true! I was at the Tylers’, but I went there to treat a mare with colic!”
He shook his doubled fist at her. “Don’t you lie to me, you little whore. I got an eyewitness that seen the two of you in the barn. For all I know, you were there with him again tonight.”
“I was working! You can call—”
“Shut up, bitch! You’re gonna pay right now! Then I’m goin’ after Tyler and shoot his damned balls off!”
He was coming toward her again. Natalie’s hand closed on a metal folding chair that was leaning against the wall. If he came at her, she’d need some way to defend herself.
As he lunged for her, she swung the chair with all her strength. The blow glanced off his forehead, leaving a red gash above his eye. He swore, yanked the chair away, and grabbed her arm.
Now she had nothing left. He was twice her weight and as strong as a steer. There was nothing she could do to stop the huge, rock-hard fist that crashed into the side of her face. Pain exploded in her head. Then mercifully, her vision spun into blackness.
She woke alone, in the dark. For the first few seconds, she was aware of nothing but a throbbing, swollen pain from her temple to her chin. As more awareness dawned, she realized she was lying faceup on the cold tile of the clinic floor with bits of shattered glass scattered underneath and around her.
Now the memory came back—Slade cursing her, his fist crashing home, the swirl of pain. And she remembered one more thing.
He said he was going after Beau.
She had to get up. Had to do something. She pushed herself to a sitting position. Her arms seemed fine, but something was tangled around her lower legs, restricting their movement. Reaching down to feel, she discovered her jeans and panties bunched around her ankles and a telltale stickiness between her thighs.
A cold rage flash-flamed inside her. Slade hadn’t stopped at punching her and knocking her out. While she was unconscious, her husband had raped her.
She glanced at the wall clock, which, miraculously, was still in place. Only twenty-five minutes had passed since she’d arrived home. Slade could be on his way to the Tylers’ right now. No time to weigh her options. Her best chance of stopping him was to call in the law. Fumbling for her cell in her jacket, she found it and punched in 911.
The female dispatcher at the county sheriff’s office answered. “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“This is Dr. Haskell.” Natalie’s face was so sore she could barely move her jaw. “My husband, Slade Haskell, assaulted me and knocked me out. Right now he could be on his way to the Tyler ranch with a gun. He has to be stopped.”
“Do you need an ambulance?” Had the dispatcher heard anything she’d said?
“No!” Natalie would have shouted into the phone if she could. “Just pick him up. He’s drunk and probably armed. You can arrest him for DUI—or better yet, domestic violence. Believe me, I intend to press charges. Hurry, before something awful happens!”
