Chapter 7

Another few minutes passed before the man broke the strained silence. "Why don't you sit down, take a couple deep breaths, and get your bearings? The alarm systems activated now, so you're completely safe with me. And when you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen. I just might be able to help you." Exasperating minutes passed by before his deep voice disrupted the silence again. "My name's Wyatt. Wyatt Bowman. What's yours?"

Isabella tried to control her trembling lips and slow down her breathing to normal. Confusion joined the fear and anxiety from her flight through the woods. Snared again, but this time with a stranger whom she had some kind of attraction to and no idea if he was friend or foe. She looked toward the doorway wondering if she could escape his reach and make it out the door before he caught her.

Where would she go if she did get away? Joe or Amanda could be waiting right outside the locked door for her. Joe would kill her. She had no reason to doubt his threats, especially now, after she had defied him. She didn't know whom to trust.

She remembered Wyatt's gun and the familiar way he handled it. Was he a cop? The mere thought sent a shiver through her.

Drained of physical endurance, her brain fatigued from the mental challenges facing her, she couldn't afford to be stupid now.

She took a couple small steps backward until her legs were touching the couch and sat down on the end far away from him, all the while watching him. His sharp, don't-miss-anything eyes drilled into her the entire time. She didn't have to tell him everything or even anything at all.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees with his hands clenched together between them.

She moved farther away from him.

"Well, tell me what's going on so I can help you."

He looked at her, brows raised, as if waiting for an answer. She glanced down at her fingers, her shoulders sank, her head dropped forward as wave after wave of sobs tore through her from the deluge of memories, turbulence, and apprehension.

She looked at him, trying to form words, her mouth moving but no words coming out. When she met his eyes, she lost all her thoughts. Her lips quivered, she started breathing rapidly, and her heart pounded. She was afraid to trust him, afraid she couldn't handle the consequences.

Wyatt waited for a response with patience, one of the things he did best. "Just take a minute and collect yourself. I'm sure whoever's after you is long gone by now. They probably have warrants out on them, so they aren't going to stick around."

He sat back, relaxing on the couch while she shied away from him on the edge of her seat.

"Ar-ar-are you a cop?" she sputtered, her lips trembling.

"Why? Do you want me to call the cops, or are you afraid of cops?"

She giggled. A stifled laugh, soft and snickering, stunned him by the animosity he heard within the sound. "I'm not afraid of them. I just don't trust them, not even with a stick of chewing gum."

Now it was his turn to laugh. He hadn't heard that one before. So she had a sense of humor.

"Well, you can trust me." Wyatt chuckled, trying to provide her with reassurance.

"How do I know I can trust you? I thought I could trust my friend Amanda too. Look where it got me."

"Where did it get you?"

She studied her hands, shaking her head, but unwilling to provide any further information.

"Well, let's try this again from the beginning. My name's Wyatt Bowman. I own and manage Bowman Industries and Land Development. I'm sure you've heard of us. We're pretty big in this area of the country."

"No, no, I haven't heard of you." Finally she shrugged and whispered, "Isabella, my name's Isabella Donnelly."

As her words poured out, tears trickled down her cheeks. She wiped her nose on her hand, and then wiped her wet snotty hand on the leg of her ripped pants.

"That's a beautiful name," he said. "It's nice to meet you, Isabella. You can relax. You're safe here. As I said, the alarm system's on. No one can get inside the house to harm you."

"How did I get inside then? You didn't even have the deadbolt on and the alarm didn't go off."

"I'm not sure why the deadbolt wasn't locked. But I turned the alarm system on by remote as soon as you entered this room," he answered with all seriousness.

She stared at him, thinking, remembering. "That's what you were doing with the remote. I thought you were turning on the TV," she said with a nervous chuckle.

He laughed quietly shaking his head back in forth.

Wyatt studied her bruised, war-weary face. He understood how she felt. He ran his hand through his hair, ruffled it, raised an eyebrow in question, and expelled a deep breath.

****

So, she was safe from her kidnappers. But was she safe from him?

A sickening thought entered her tired, weary mind. Surely she had not been blinded by the dream of freedom from one hellhole only to be thrown into a much worse one. And what could that be?

She looked into Wyatt's eyes for any sign of deceit, or for any lack of sincerity. But she saw only compassion and kindness. She definitely didn't want him to report her to the police or take her to the police station, drop her off, forget about her. Law enforcement of any kind would only screw it up, as they always did. Following leads that led nowhere, arresting the wrong person, or not doing anything at all. But what disturbed her more was the thought that he would forget about her. Isn't that what she wanted after all-to tell the authorities, let them take care of everything? No, she definitely didn't want them involved. She didn't think they would believe her or help her anyway. She didn't trust them enough to fix a pothole, let alone find out why or who had done this to her. She had to think!

She knew she couldn't go home. Amanda knew where she lived, had visited her apartment a few times. And since Amanda knew where she lived, Joe probably knew as well. They knew where she worked too so she couldn't go back to work teaching school where she had spent the last three years.

All her identification, credit cards, cell phone, house and car keys were in her purse which Joe carried to the van the night he "drove her home." She hadn't seen her purse or any of her belongings again.

So now she had no proof of who she was or even of how she had gotten here to his house. If the police became involved, they would laugh at her and think she was crazy.

Nowhere to go. No way to get anywhere and no one to talk to about any of this except the staggeringly handsome man on the other end of the couch.