Dropping the Hammer

Prologue

Death screamed, echoing shrilly through Rachel Maxwell’s brain as Roy Sales’s large, meaty hands tightened around her throat. His powerful body was stretched on top of hers, pinning her to her bed.

Her chest burned. She couldn’t breathe. She was losing consciousness as fear clawed at her insides, tearing her apart bit by bloody bit. Even as life slipped away, her heart persisted, throbbing erratically.

Don’t worry, sweet Rachel. I won’t let you die if you do what I say.

His maniacal laugh crawled inside her as his grip on her throat slowly eased. She coughed, choking as oxygen fought its way back into her lungs.

Bucking against me is futile, sweetheart. I’ll never let you go. You belong to me. You always will. You know you want it that way.

Let me go, she pleaded, her voice dry and scratchy, little more than a whisper. Please, let me go.

That’s the way, baby. Keep begging.

She closed her eyes tight so that she didn’t have to see the evil that darkened his eyes. Pleading wouldn’t help. He was heartless, devoid of compassion, his deranged soul as black as the depths of the deepest cave.

She writhed and twisted beneath him, finally getting her right arm free. She fisted her hand and swung wildly.

Blunt pain met her knuckles. There was a crash. She cried out in pain as blood splattered her face and dripped through her fingers.

She managed a scream. Loud. Shrill.

Her body stiffened and she kicked wildly, her feet tangling in the sheets as she escaped his grasping hands. Still screaming, she jerked into wakefulness—not to the sound of her cries, but to her cell phone’s alarm.

Rachel gulped scratchy clumps of air. It was only a nightmare. She was in her own apartment. Alone. Safe.

She fumbled to turn off the alarm. Her phone was wet. Her hands were damp and clammy, but with water, not the blood she’d imagined in the clutches of the terrifying nightmare.

She’d evidently knocked over the glass of water she’d left on the bedside table. The dizziness and cold, hard terror began to subside as she dried her phone on the corner of the sheet.

She stretched her feet out in front of her, staring at the shadows that crawled across the wall in the faint glow of sunrise. She was safe and yet the horror of being kidnapped and held in captivity by the psychopath persisted along with anxiety attacks and sudden bouts of panic.

Something as routine as a strange man walking too close behind her in downtown Houston in broad daylight could set her off. Or a man approaching in the office parking lot. Or even the creepy feeling that someone was watching her when she got out of her car at night.

She had to get her act together and move past her own trauma. But even fully awake and in the safety of her own bedroom, she could feel killing fingers at her throat, choking the life from her.

She could sense danger deep in her soul.

Chapter One

Three months later

Good morning, Miss Maxwell.

The firm’s receptionist smiled as Rachel walked through the double glass doors of their fifteenth-floor office.

You’re here early this morning, Carrie, Rachel said.

Yes, but it may be the first time I’ve ever arrived before you. Sometimes I think you sleep here.

I’ve been tempted.

Mr. Fitch Sr. beat you in this morning, too. He said to have you stop by his office when you arrived.

Did he say why?

No, but I got the idea it’s important.

Everything was important to Eric Fitch Sr. He had a controlling hand over everything that went on in this firm.

Rachel stopped by her office, shrugged out of her light gray overcoat and put it and her handbag away before heading to Eric’s office.

His door was ajar. She tapped on it and he stood and motioned her inside.

Carrie said you needed to see me?

Yes. It’s going to be a very busy and hopefully productive day. If you have any appointments that aren’t urgent, you’ll need to cancel them.

Sounds serious. What’s up?

We have a potential very high-profile case I’d like to discuss with you.

Rachel couldn’t imagine why he wanted to discuss that with her. She took the chair that faced his desk. He sat down again and leaned back in his oversize leather chair.

Who’s the defendant? she asked.

Hayden Covey. I suppose you’ve heard that he was arrested last night.

It was breaking news on my phone alerts this morning. She was certain almost everyone in the state had heard by now.

Hayden was a student at University of Texas who’d allegedly brutally murdered his girlfriend days after she’d broken up with him.

He was also the only son of a popular and very influential state senator married to an extremely rich heiress.

The victim was Louann Black, nineteen years old, also a student at the university. Though not as wealthy and influential as the Coveys, her family was well-known in the Austin music circuit.

Hayden had written several songs for big-name performers and frequently performed around town himself in popular music venues.

This would likely be the trial of the decade in Texas.

Do you think Hayden is innocent? Rachel asked.

He claims to be and I know his parents believe him.

Most parents do, though the evidence against him looks extremely damaging.

But not ironclad, Eric said. A top-notch defense attorney could win the case.

Then coming to you was a good decision, Rachel said. Few would argue that you’re not the top defense attorney in the South.

But maybe not the best man to defend Hayden. I’ll be honest with you, Rachel. Senator Covey and I have been close friends since our law school days at UT. I’ve known Hayden since he was born. He’s a great kid.

He’s twenty, Rachel reminded him. Not exactly a kid.

That’s true. He’s turned into a fine young man with a great life and a pro football career in front of him. He’s one of the top college running backs in the country and he’s only a junior.

Even great athletes commit crimes.

Yes, but he’s never been in trouble except for one unfortunate arrest last year for roughing up another student after an altercation at a bar near the university. Several witnesses said the victim was at fault.

According to the media over the last few days, those witnesses were Hayden’s friends and the roughing up was a vicious attack that sent an unsuspecting underclassman to the hospital with a broken jaw and a serious concussion from repeated kicks to the head.

That was nothing compared to the brutality of the attack that killed his former girlfriend.

Considering how my friendship with the senator might negatively influence the jury, I’m not sure I’m the best one to officially lead Hayden’s defense.

Good point, she agreed, though she was certain he’d be a strong behind-the-scenes force in the case no matter who was the lead attorney of record.

Luckily, the firm has several top-notch criminal defense attorneys, she noted.

Yes, which makes this a tough decision. But I talked with my son and Edward last evening. We all three believe that you’re the best choice for the job.

She stared at him, stunned by his words. You mean as lead attorney?

Yes, though you’ll have full backing from the firm and all the assistance you require. But you’ll deliver the opening and closing statements and handle the press.

She’d worked her butt off for an opportunity like this ever since she started with the firm right after law school. But she was certain her performance had fallen off over the last few months. She tried harder than ever, but she had trouble concentrating and dealing with the never-ending panic attacks.

Why me? she asked.

I’ve discussed it with my partners. We all agree that you have exactly the qualities needed for this trial. You’re not only capable and thorough, you read the jury as well as or better than any attorney with the firm. You proved that time and time again.

I’ve never headed up a high-profile like this.

No, but you’ve demonstrated that you know your way around a courtroom. You won’t be intimidated by a judge or daunted by the best the district attorney can hurl at you.

A year ago that might have been the case. Now she wasn’t convinced she could navigate through all the brutal murder evidence and still stay on her game.

She’d only been a team member on the case they’d just tried and won, but even looking at the photos of a young female victim attacked in an elevator at her workplace had brought on an increase in Rachel’s nightmares and a heightened anxiety level.

Her career had been her life, but it seemed to be turning on her. She definitely couldn’t handle a murder case unless she was totally convinced of the defendant’s innocence. I appreciate the confidence, but—

I know it will be your biggest challenge to date, Fitch interrupted. We think you’re ready for it.

She stared into space as she let his statement sink in. What-ifs stormed her mind. What if she wasn’t up to it? What if she wasn’t convinced of Hayden Covey’s innocence? What if she had a meltdown in front of the jury? If that happened in a case this high profile, it would be the end of her career.

Eric stood, walked to the front of his desk and stared down at her, his gaze intent, intimidating. This case is very important to me and to the firm, Rachel. We’ve stood beside you and supported you in every way we could since your unfortunate incident. Now I’m asking for you to deliver. Don’t let me down.

Don’t let him down.

The tone and stance made it clear his words were a warning. This was more than an offer. It was a demand.

I understand, she said.

Good. Then I’ve made myself clear.

Perfectly clear. When do I meet the defendant? she asked, though she hadn’t officially agreed to take the assignment. Ordinarily, the firm granted attorneys that privilege. This time that didn’t appear to be the case.

Hayden and his parents will be here this morning at ten, Fitch said. I’ll also sit in on that first meeting.

I expected that you would. Is that all for now?

Yes, except that I should warn you that Hayden’s mother, Claire, is in a distraught state. I hope you can give her full confidence in the defense we’ll provide for her son.

I’ll do as much as I honestly can. Honestly was the key word in Rachel’s mind.

Eric Fitch Sr. had gotten what he wanted. He stood, then smiled and nodded, acknowledging his win.

Rachel was getting the career boost she’d worked so hard for, the opportunity to make a name for herself and vastly improve her chance of being named at least a junior partner one day soon.

So why did she feel the almost overwhelming desire to tell Eric Fitch he could take this job and shove it?

Chapter Two

Luke Dawkins nudged his worn Stetson back on his head and took a long, hard look at the rusting metal gate. Arrowhead Hills Ranch was carved into the weathered wooden sign along with two imprints of arrowheads.

The last time he’d laid eyes on that gate, he’d seen it through the rearview mirror of the beat-up red pickup truck that he’d bought with money he’d earned working at the local feed and tack shop. That had been eleven years ago, when he was eighteen.

The rickety ranch gate seemed the same. Luke wasn’t.

You Can’t Go Home Again. Thomas Wolfe had known his stuff. The home might not change. The person who’d left would.

A few years of bouncing from job to job followed by eight years in the military had turned Luke into a man, yet he still dreaded returning to the place he’d once called home.

A small Texas Hill Country town with a lot more cows than people, more barbwire than roads and some of the best ranch land in the state.

All Luke had against the town or the ranch could be summed up in two words. Alfred Dawkins. Stubborn. Controlling. Bitter. Downright ornery.

The poor excuse for a father wouldn’t like having Luke home again any more than Luke wanted to be here.

Neither of them had a lot of choice in the matter.

The old defiant angers festered in Luke’s gut as he climbed out of his new double-cab pickup truck and stepped around a mud hole.

His boots scooted across the cattle gap as he unlatched and opened the gate before getting back into his truck and driving through it the way he’d done hundreds of times as a rebellious teenager.

He paused and took in the sights and sounds before he closed the gate behind him. A barking dog, though it wouldn’t be Ace, the golden retriever he’d raised from a pup. Ace had died from a rattlesnake bite when he jumped between Luke and the striking snake.

Luke had been fourteen then. His dad had scorned him for shedding a few tears. Nothing new. Luke had never measured up in his dad’s mind. Just one of the many reasons Luke had never looked back once he left Arrowhead Hills Ranch.

A crow scolded Luke from high in the branches of a nearby live oak. A horse neighed.

Luke looked to the left and spotted a couple of chestnut mares giving him the once-over. So his dad still kept horses. Good to know.

It had been years since Luke was in the saddle. His consecutive tours in the Middle East hadn’t allowed much time for revisiting the cowboy lifestyle.

It was shirtsleeve weather, warm for late January, but a bracing breeze rustled the tall yellow strands of grass and the leaves in a persimmon tree that hugged the fence.

Luke closed the gate, climbed back into his truck and drove toward the old house. He had no idea what to expect or what kind of health his father had been in before he suffered the stroke that had led to his being placed in a rehab facility.

Significantly weakened on the left side of his body now and with difficulty putting his thoughts into coherent sentences, he was unable to take care of himself, much less the ranch.

Not that Luke had originally gotten that information firsthand. It was Esther Kavanaugh, a longtime neighbor who’d been his mother’s best friend before her death, who’d called with the SOS. Luke had followed up with Alfred’s doctor and the rehab center.

So here he was, back in Winding Creek.

The brown roof appeared as he rounded a curve in the dirt ranch road. Trees hid the rest of the clapboard house until he was closer.

It looked smaller than he remembered it. A bungalow with two bedrooms, two baths, a family den, a large kitchen downstairs and an upstairs dormer with another bedroom and bath that had been his hideaway.

Luke parked in a gravel drive in front of the carport that covered what he assumed was his dad’s scratched and dented Chevy pickup truck. Alfred had always been a Chevy man and always hard on the finish of the vehicle. He’d never let bushes or shrubs get in the way of his getting where he wanted to go on the ranch.

The wide, covered porch that his mother had always filled with huge clay pots of colorful blooms was bare except for one old pottery planter full of dirt and dead flowers, a weathered wooden rocker and what looked to be a fairly new porch swing that dangled from the ceiling by only one chain.

Luke’s mother’s once prized flower beds that had bordered the porch were choked with weeds. The paint on