Chained by REBECCA YORK

stinging the
backs of her eyes. She wanted Matthew to stay with her. So much. But she knew
she was asking for the impossible. He was a ghost. He’d been chained to this
place—and she’d destroyed that link.
    Wanting to be alone, she started to step back into the
sycamore grove, but it was already too late.
    “Over there!” a man called out, pointing toward her.
    An older man fitting the description Matthew had given her
came hurrying forward, moving with a slight limp.
     “Senorita Flores, I’m . . .”
    “Frank Decorah,” she said before he could finish the
sentence.
    He looked perplexed. “I don’t think we’ve met before. How do
you know?”
    “Somebody told me.”
    “Who?”
    She turned her palm up. “Somebody.”
    He gave her an odd look, like he thought she might have had
a couple of screws shaken loose by the explosion. Maybe she had.
    “Thank God you’re safe. We were afraid the assassins from
San Marcos might have gotten you,” another man said. He was taller than Decorah
and looked to be in his early thirties.
    “This is one of my agents, Jordan Stone,” Decorah said.
    She nodded, not sure what to say.
    “Are you all right?” Decorah asked.
    “Yes,” she said in a shaky voice.
    Stone gestured toward the smoldering heap that had been her
house. “What happened? Did they blow the place up?”
    “No. When we lived here, my father told me about the
explosive charges under the house—if I needed them. The detonator was in the
escape tunnel under the house.”
    “It took guts to go through with that,” Stone said.
    She turned pleading eyes toward Decorah. “What about Papa?
Did the general’s men get him?”
    “No. He saw them coming and got out the back way. But he
couldn’t contact us for a couple of days. As soon as he did, we went to your
house. You were missing, but we knew there had been some shooting.”
    “I had an escape plan. I got away.”
    “Your father figured you’d come here. It looks like you did
a great job of protecting yourself.”
    Stone turned to inspect the rubble, leaving her and Decorah
alone.
    She raised her chin. “You asked how I knew your name. Would
you believe me if I told you I got it from Matthew Houseman’s ghost?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because Matthew Houseman isn’t dead.”

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
    Isabella struggled to take in what Frank Decorah had said.
“I don’t understand. Matthew was here. Like a ghost. Guarding the ranch. If
he’s not dead, then where is he?” she gasped out.
    “He was badly injured. He wasn’t expected to live. Somehow,
he survived, but he’s been in a coma ever since.”
    She stared at the man, still grappling with his words.
“Where is he?” she repeated.
    “In a facility called Garrison Care. In Los Angeles.”
    “I have to go there.”
    He kept his blue eyes fixed on her. “Don’t you want to see
your father? He’s worried about you.”
    “ Ay, Dios . Of course.”
    “He flew to Phoenix. He’s waiting for you.”
    “Yes. Gracias.”
    Frank Decorah stared at her, and she wondered if he thought
she’d come unglued because of her recent experiences.
    He cleared his throat and said, “If you need anything, don’t
hesitate to call me.”
    “Even though you think I’m . . . a little off.”
    “You’ve been through an ordeal that would knock anyone for a
loop.”
    “Not exactly a vote of confidence.”
     He cleared his throat. “I know Matthew Houseman guarded you
here eight years ago. I know you were close.”
    “How?”
    “He talked about you.”
    She struggled to hold back tears.
    “It makes sense that you’d be thinking about him here.”
    Not just thinking . But she didn’t say that aloud.
    Isabella went back to Phoenix in the helicopter. At the
Decorah Security satellite office, Jordan Stone did a full interview with her.
    She gave an account of what had happened since she’d walked
in the kitchen door of her rented house. But this time, she left out the parts
about Matthew.