Page 10 of Sachie's Hero

The man was tall, with a headful of dark brown hair and shoulders so broad he could be a weightlifter or a star in one of those superhero movies. A trim waist led to firm buttocks encased in dark jeans. As a protector, the man had missed his calling. He definitely should have auditioned for a superhero movie. He had the build and carried himself like one.

She stood outside her bedroom while he made aquick sweep of the closet, under the bed and behind the door. When he finished, he gave her a nod. “It’s all yours, ma’am.”

Sachie frowned. “Don’t call me, ma’am. It makes me feel old.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, stood back and waved her into the room.

“Sachie,” she corrected. “Call me Sachie.”

“Yes, ma’am?—”

She glared at him.

“Sachie,” he corrected, his lips twitching on the corners.

The hint of a smile made her heart race. To cover her reaction, she assumed her best formal voice, the one she reserved for reporters and society snobs. “Is my room cleared to your satisfaction, Mr. Osgood?”

“Teller,” he said. “And yes. You can go in. Just stay away from the windows.”

“Thank you, Mr. Osgood,” she said as she walked past him.

“Call me Teller,” he said. “Mr. Osgood was my father.”

Sachie hid a smile as she entered her room, and he left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Alone for the first time since she’d erupted from her closet, ready to stab her attacker with a butcher knife, she shivered, the events of the night rushingback at her like a tsunami of images in her mind, crushing the air from her lungs. Her heart beat so fast it burned inside her chest, and she couldn’t breathe.

As a counselor, she knew she wasn’t suffocating. If she passed out, her autonomic nervous system would kick in to keep her heart beating and restore her lungs to their usual efficiency. It was just a panic attack, just like all the panic attacks she’d had since that horrible afternoon in her office back in Honolulu.

No matter how many times she’d told herself she wasn’t going to die, she couldn’t reason her way out of the rush of terror. She found that when she was afflicted with such an attack, if she got out of room, house or building she was in, out into the open air, she could breathe better.

Sachie ran to her dresser and pulled out a bra. As she hurried for the closet, she dragged off the T-shirt she usually slept in, put on her bra and grabbed a button-down blouse from a hanger. She slipped her arms into the blouse and left it hanging open as she tugged a pair of jeans up over her hips, buttoned and zipped. While she buttoned her blouse, she shoved her feet in a pair of running shoes and headed for the door, her chest tight, her head light as if she’d held her breath the entire two minutes she’d been in the room.

She flung open the door and raced into the hallway, slamming face-first into a solid wall.

Hands gripped her elbows, steadying her. “What’s wrong?” a deep voice asked.

Sachie looked up into Teller Osgood’s green eyes, unable to catch her breath. “Out,” she managed to push the word past constricted vocal cords.

“Are you okay?” Teller asked.

She shook her head, broke free of his grasp and ran for the front door.

Footsteps sounded behind her, but Sachie didn’t slow until she burst through the door into the front yard.

Teller came up behind her and rested a hand against her back. He leaned close and whispered, “Breathe.”

Outside in the cooler night air, with the wide-open sky full of stars shining down on her, Sachie drew a deep breath and let it out a little at a time.

“Another,” Teller urged.

She inhaled again, her heartbeat already slowing.

Officer Layne looked over from where he stood beside her damaged car. “Everything all right, Ms. Moore?”

Sachie nodded, unable to respond in words. She raised her arms and laced her hands behind her head as if that would help her to better fill her lungs.

“Panic attack?” Teller asked softly.

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