Tangled Webs (Men of Valor Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Irene Hannon

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192 pages

English

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Description

Three-Time RITA Award Winner Delivers Another Heart-Stopping ThrillerAfter a disastrous Middle East mission ends his six-year Army Ranger career, Finn McGregor needs some downtime. A peaceful month in the woods sounds like the perfect way to decompress. But peace isn't on the agenda once he crosses paths with publishing executive Dana Lewis, a neighbor who is nursing wounds of her own. Someone seems bent on disrupting her stay in the lakeside cabin she inherited from her grandfather. As Finn and Dana work together to discover who is behind the disquieting pranks, the incidents begin to take on a menacing tone. And when it becomes apparent Dana's foe may have deadly intent, Finn finds himself back in the thick of the action--ready or not.Bestselling author Irene Hannon draws readers into a web of psychological suspense where danger lurks in dark corners . . . and keeps them captive until the very last page.

Sujets

Romance

Thriller

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	04 octobre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493405183
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0432€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2016 by Irene Hannon
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2016
Ebook corrections 02.15.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-0518-3
Endorsements
Praise for Buried Secrets
“Twists that come out of nowhere will keep readers on their toes.”
— Suspense Magazine
“An ideal blend of romance and intrigue.”
— Booklist
“Hannon writes edge-of-your-seat suspense that will keep the reader engaged until the final page.”
— Christian Library Journal
Praise for Thin Ice
“Hannon is a master at her craft, and her unique way of handling suspense makes her a cut above the other writers in the genre.”
— RT Book Reviews
“A gripping mystery bound to keep readers up until the wee hours of the night.”
— CBA Retailers + Resources
“A stunning masterpiece.”
— Killer Nashville
Dedication

To my father, James Hannon—the most unselfish man I’ve ever met.
As I conclude my Men of Valor series, thank you for reminding me by example that valor isn’t found only in grand, sweeping gestures, but in quietly doing—day after day, with kindness, grace, humility, and love—what needs to be done.
You will always be my hero.
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright Page
Endorsements
Dedication
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Epilogue
Sneak Peek Into Sandpiper Cove
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Irene Hannon
Ads
Back Cover
Prologue
I t was a terrible night to die.
Father Daniel Pruitt cringed as another boom of thunder shook the ground beneath his older-model Taurus. This weather wasn’t fit for man nor beast.
Priests, however—different story. Being available 24/7, no matter the whims of Mother Nature, was part of the job description. That’s why the archdiocese paid him the big bucks.
Right.
Setting his brake, he peered through the pelting rain toward the hospital. In better days, Joe Larson would have offered one of his quiet smiles at that wry joke. He knew, as did all the parishioners at St. Michael’s, that priesthood was a vocation, not a job, for their pastor. That Father Pruitt considered it a sacred privilege to be there for his flock during life’s biggest transitions.
And death was a huge transition.
Especially when the person dying was alone—except for God.
Father Pruitt gauged the distance from the car to the front door of Faith Regional and sized up the black umbrella on the seat beside him. The folding model was better suited to fending off April showers than April monsoons.
No way around it—he was going to be uncomfortably damp for hours.
With a resigned sigh, he tucked his book of prayers inside the inner pocket of his raincoat. Positioned the umbrella. Opened the door.
His pants legs were soaked before his feet hit the ground.
Ducking his head—and keeping a firm grip on the umbrella as the blustery wind tried to wrench it from his grasp—he jogged toward the entrance as fast as his sixty-five-year-old arthritic knees allowed.
The door whooshed open as he approached, and he scurried inside, moving from darkness to the perennial day of the rarefied hospital world.
At this late hour, the reception desk was deserted, all the volunteers long gone and in bed—the very place he’d been until the urgent call came in sixty minutes ago.
And based on what the nurse had said, there would be no more sleep for him this night.
He continued to the bank of elevators. One opened the instant he pressed the up button, and ten seconds later the doors parted on Joe’s floor.
A woman at the nurses’ station looked up as he approached. Holly, according to the ID pinned to her scrub top. The nurse who’d summoned him.
“Father Pruitt?”
“Yes.” He halted across the counter from her, his sodden umbrella shedding drops of water on the floor.
“Sorry to make you come out on such an awful night, but after Mr. Larson took a sudden turn for the worse, he insisted. In fact, he became quite agitated about it. Since he’s left directions for no mechanical ventilation and it’s hard to predict timing with end-stage COPD, I thought it best to call you. I hope you didn’t have a long drive.”
“Twenty-five miles.”
She winced. “Too long on a night like this.”
True. Motoring through the Nebraska cornfields from Linden to Norfolk was pleasant enough on a sunny day, but the trek across dark countryside while battling wind and rain had seemed endless.
The nurse pulled out her cell, checked the window, and exhaled. “It’s going to be one of those nights. Thunder has a way of unsettling patients.” Finger hovering over the talk button, she nodded down the hall. “Last door on the right. Mr. Larson asked us to hold off on morphine until after he spoke with you, so just press the call button once you’re finished.”
“Thanks. I will.”
She was already talking on her cell, heading the opposite direction from Joe’s room.
Trying to ignore the wet fabric clinging to his legs, Father Pruitt made his way down the corridor. Most of the rooms he passed were dark; Joe’s was dimly lit. Hand on the knob, he paused for a moment of prayer, then entered and closed the door behind him.
As he approached the bed, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the floor, Joe didn’t stir. Hard to believe this gaunt figure was the same man he’d visited here three days ago, when they’d both assumed his lung infection would follow previous patterns and clear up.
But it didn’t take a medical professional to know there would be no reprieve this time. Above the nasal cannula delivering oxygen to lungs that had finally succumbed to the man’s sole vice—chain-smoking—Joe’s cheeks were sunken and shriveled. His disease had followed the classic pattern: shortness of breath, fatigue, weight loss, infections, heart failure . . . and now his uneven respiration completed the pattern, affirming the truth of the nurse’s comment.
The end was, indeed, near.
Father Pruitt hung his coat over a chair and moved beside the bed.
“Joe.”
No response.
Perhaps his faithful parishioner hadn’t been able to hang on to consciousness after all.
Vision misting, he touched the dying man’s hand. During the dozen years he’d tended parishes in three small towns that dotted the cornfield-quilted land, he’d never met a kinder, more humble person. Joe might not have much in a material sense to show for a lifetime of labor in the corn processing facility, but he’d always given generously to his church and to those in need. And along the way, he’d also become a trusted friend.
Saying good-bye wouldn’t be easy.
All of a sudden, Joe’s eyelids flickered open. “Father.” The greeting was no more than a wisp of air.
Father Pruitt grasped the gnarled fingers that had seen more than their share of hard work over the past seventy-two years. “I’m here, Joe.”
“I . . . need you . . . to do . . . a favor . . . for me.” Each gasping word was a struggle, pain contorting the man’s features.
“Anything.”
“After I’m . . . gone . . . letter in my . . . nightstand . . . at home . . . will you . . . mail it?” He tightened his grip, his gaze intent.
“Of course.”
An odd request, though. Joe had lived alone in his tiny, two-bedroom bungalow for decades—and despite their friendship, he’d never mentioned relatives or talked about anyone with whom he might have corresponded.
“Need to . . . confess something.”
“You did that on my last visit, Joe. Three days ago.”
“There’s . . . more.”
More?
What possible transgression could he have committed while flat on his back in a hospital bed?
“I’m sure you and God are on solid ground, my friend.”
“No.” He clenched his fingers. “Need . . . to confess.”
“All right.” If talking about some minor sin eased his mind, there was no harm in repeating the ritual. Gently Father Pruitt retracted his hand, lowered himself into a bedside chair. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The room fell silent save for the other man’s labored breathing, and at last he lifted his chin. Joe was watching him, eyes filmed with moisture.
“This is . . . bad . . . Father.” Anguish darkened his blue irises.
Father Pruitt touched the fingers Joe had clamped around the edge of the sheet. “When we approach God with a contrite and sincere heart, no sin is too great to be forgiven. And both I and God have heard it all. Nothing you can say will shock either of us.”
But as it turned out, that was a lie.
Because as Joe recited his confession in a halting, thready voice . . . as the meaning of the letter the dying man had asked him to mail became clear . . . Father Pruitt wasn’t just shocked.
He was stunned.
Somehow he managed to complete the rite. But as he spoke the final prayer, as Joe drifted out of consciousness for the last time, his mind was spinning.
How could you know a man for years and never suspect he carried such a devastating secret?
He pondered that through the long hours of darkness as he kept vigil beside the bed—and was still pondering it as faint lines of pink streaked the horizon and Joe’s breathing slowed. Stopped.
For several minutes, he remained seated . . . in case Joe’s spirit hadn’t yet departed the earthly realm.
But at last, filling his own lungs with air, Father Pruitt pulled himself to his feet and rested his hand once more on Joe’s motionless fingers. Studied the kindly face, now at rest, all lines of pain erased. Bowed his head and uttered one final prayer.
“May God have mercy on your soul.”
1

M aybe his brothers were right.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Gripping his