The Price of Redemption. Pamela Tracy

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      The Price of Redemption

      Pamela Tracy

      MILLS & BOON

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      They say it takes a village to raise a child. In my case a village helped me realize my dreams of publication, and there are many, many villagers who need special thanks.

      First, to the members of the Loaded Pencils critique group (established 1993 and still going) who taught me most of what I know: Betty Hufford, Stacy Cornell, Karen Lenzen, Dana McNeely, Bill Haynes and Mark Henley.

      Next, to the members of the CCLP critique group (established 2002 and still going) who keep me on task and tell me when I’m meandering: Cathy McDavid, Libby Banks and Connie Flynn.

      Also, to my last-minute readers, who catch my silly mistakes: Stacy Cornell, Elizabeth Weed, and Stacey Rannik.

      Last, to the editors who make it all come together: Jessica Alvarez, Krista Stroever and Becky Germany.

      The word thanks doesn’t seem to say enough.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      ONE

      It wasn’t his first dead body. Or even his second.

      In truth, if Eric Santellis needed to, he could, off the top of his head, remember standing over roughly four, no five, corpses. All died violently. One had been his best friend. Two had been relatives. Two had been strangers who’d had the bad luck and bad judgment to mess with one of his brothers.

      But this dead body scared him more than all the others—even though there was no way he could be fingered for her death.

      Nope, Eric figured this woman had been dead awhile and he had an airtight alibi courtesy of Florence Prison. And her discovery guaranteed him a spot on the front page of every major newspaper—again.

      Unable to stand the stench any longer, Eric stumbled across the shed’s uneven flooring. In places, the boards had given in to age, neglect, and some spots were little more than earth. He tripped up the two narrow steps leading outside and to fresh air, sunlight and wide-open spaces. A moment later, he thought there might not be enough fresh air in the world to rid his nostrils of the stench of his discovery. Once he could breathe again, he flipped open his cell phone and started searching for a location that might allow a signal. Reception, here in the middle of nowhere, was hit-and-miss.

      He found a spot and soon connected with the local authorities and a dispatcher. “Sheriff’s Office. How can I help you?” She sounded all of twelve years old.

      “Yes, I’m at 723 Prospector’s Way. I’ve just discovered a body in my shed.”

      “Are you sure the person is deceased?”

      “Very sure.”

      “Your name please?”

      “Eric Santellis.”

      His family had helped establish this small town more than a hundred years ago. His last name often rendered the good people of Broken Bones speechless. Otherwise, he’d have mistaken the silence for a lost connection.

      The dispatcher finally cleared her throat. “Did you say Santellis?”

      “Yes, I’m at my cabin. There’s a body in my shed. It’s been there awhile. It’s in pretty bad shape and—”

      “I’ll get a deputy out there immediately.”

      The silence returned, but this time he could legitimately blame a lost connection. He returned the phone to his pocket, and with nothing else to do but wait, stared at the cabin that had been in his family forever.

      Family. That word should conjure up good memories and a lifetime of nurturing. It didn’t. But, then, good memories and nurturing were not the stuff the Santellis clan was known for. His grandfather, who’d left him the land and falling-down buildings, had been a bitter old man. Eric had been more than surprised twenty years ago when he’d inherited this place. It was Eric’s last piece of the Santellis fortune.

      When he’d entered Florence Prison, his net worth probably figured in the millions if you considered his family’s fortune. When he’d left prison just three months ago, he no longer had family; they no longer had a fortune. His two older brothers were dead, his father had advanced Alzheimer’s and his sister and younger brother had disappeared. Without anyone standing guard, the misbegotten gains of the Santellis crime family fell victim to his sisters-in-law’s lawyers and to the government. Eric would have turned it all over without an argument.

      The empire was a legacy paid for with blood—starting with that of his ancestor who’d built this cabin more than a hundred years ago. This land, this cabin, was one of the few Santellis holdings the government hadn’t claimed.

      Of course, that all might change now that a deceased female had taken up residence in his shed.

      Sirens echoed in the distance and a cloud of dust appeared. Eric headed for his porch and sat to await chaos and suspicion. Three vehicles arrived. First came the sheriff’s SUV. It quickly bumped over the dirt driveway that led to Eric’s porch and skidded to a stop. A few minutes later, and taking the bumps at a precarious speed, a sedan bearing the same logo pulled in behind the sheriff. The deputies parked near the cabin and jumped out—the dispatcher probably hadn’t understood what Eric meant when he said the body had been in his shed ‘awhile.’ Hurrying was unnecessary. Then, surprise, surprise, came a third vehicle, a Cadillac not from the sheriff’s department. It carefully moved up the driveway, parked close to the porch, and a tall, white-haired man climbed out.

      The deputies stayed huddled by the sheriff, but the older man came on the porch and said, “James Winters. Call me ‘Doc’, everyone does. I’m the local doctor, retired, but in a