Don't Let Go Read Free

home did.
    She touched each child, rubbing their narrow shoulders to comfort them. She would protect them with her life, if necessary, especially Miguel, who was exactly the age her baby would have been. Small and defenseless, he had found a special place in Jordan’s heart. She was so close to being able to take him home with her. Come hell or high water, she wouldn’t leave him now.

Suffolk, Virginia
    Special Agent Rafael Valentino read the freshly painted sign at the head of a tree-lined driveway.
    SECOND CHANCE, HIPPOTHERAPY RANCH
    With a stab of his finger, he curtailed the haunting aria from the opera
Carmen
and turned down the graveled driveway, braced for disappointment.
    The Jillian Sanders he knew was a nurse in Fairfax, not a horse rancher in Suffolk, Virginia. Still, having seen the name on a roster of incoming calls, he’d decided to pay this house call in order to see for himself.
    Mature oak trees gave way to a butter-yellow farmhouse in need of a fresh coat of paint. The front porch listed. Bushes and shrubs overran the walkway. A newly constructed barn stood fifty yards away, displaying a ruddy stain and a fence so recently erected that the tempered wood still looked green.
    Rafe cut the engine and reached for the file. Jillian Sanders had made thirty-one phone calls requesting FBI assistance.
    As he approached the front door, he listened, hearing only the sloughing of wind and the twitter of a bird. The heels of his Ferragamo shoes sounded out of place on the planks of the sagging porch.
    Before he could knock, the door popped open. “Yeah?” said a boy of perhaps fourteen, his gray eyes hostile.
    “Special Agent Valentino, FBI,” said Rafe, softening the rasp produced by his injured vocal cords. “I’m looking for Jillian Sanders.”
    “She’s in the barn,” said the boy, eyeing the scar on Rafe’s neck.
    “Who are you?” asked a young girl, poking her head out from under the boy’s arm.
    “He’s the bogeyman,” said her brother.
    “Nuhn-uhn.”
    “Well, he could be. Go back to your room and play. We don’t talk to strangers.”
    “You can’t tell me what to do.”
    With a grimace, Rafe backed away. How long had it been since he’d overheard siblings squabble? Eight years, now, long enough that the memories had faded.
    Crossing to the barn’s open doors, Rafe peered into the mellow shadows. The faint odor of horse manure mingled with the scent of fresh straw. “Hello?” he called, following a scuffling sound along an isle of empty stalls.
    The ears and eyes of a huge bay crested the dividers. The horse gave a whinny, and the stall door slid open. A woman peered out.
    “Rafael!” she gasped. Her long, golden hair was caught up in a ponytail. She wore shorts and a T-shirt stretched taut across her pregnant midsection, but he would have recognized her anywhere.
    “Jillian.” A feeling of intense satisfaction rushed through him.
    “Oh, my,” she breathed, putting a gloved hand to her heart. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
    “Nor I,” he admitted, loving the sweet timbre of her voice, the periwinkle blue of her eyes.
    “What brings you to Suffolk?” she asked in delight.
    “I transferred from D.C. eight months ago,” he explained.
    “You’re here because of my phone calls,” she guessed.
    He indicated the file. “I wondered if it might be you.” Not only had she soothed him in the ER as he’d choked on his own blood, but she’d visited him daily in the weeks following his recovery.
    “I’m so happy to see you again,” she said, pulling off her glove, extending her hand.
    Savoring the warmth and softness of her fingers, Rafe realized this was the first time they’d ever touched.
    “Do you live here in Suffolk?” he asked, releasing her regretfully. “I thought your husband was with the Fairfax police.”
    She looked away, putting her gloves down. “I moved here to start a therapy ranch. It’s for veterans who’ve lost limbs in the war. Riding