Wyatt

by Susan May Warren

  He opened his eyes. “I play hockey for a living. Goalie. I know what it feels like to take a shot to the head.”

  York offered a tiny smile. “RJ says you’re good. You play for a professional team?”

  “The Minnesota Blue Ox. Three years, the last two as their starter. Except, now that I’ve jumped the train…yeah, I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”

  “Jumped the train? What’s that short for?”

  “No. I really jumped the train. In some town called Spassk. The team was on their way to Vladivostok to do some meet and greet and I just couldn’t get it out of my head that Coco was in trouble. It was the way, well, the way we left it. I begged her to leave the country with me. And she said she couldn’t. And now I know why.”

  York looked away.

  “I wish she’d trusted me enough to tell me,” he said quietly. “We were together in Moscow and…she took off. And I never knew why.” He looked at the door. “It was because of Mikka. I wonder if the guy ever knew—”

  “Oh my gosh, you are such an idiot!”

  Wyatt recoiled. York was rubbing his forehead, shaking his head. “This is so not my business, but geez, man, you are so freakin’ blind.”

  “Hey. Listen. I know this is hard for her. It’s not a picnic for me either. I love her—she’s my, my soul mate. Or I thought so, and I show up here thinking she’s been missing me for the last two years—and frankly, that isn’t my fault because she is on the hockey forum for the Blue Ox all the time, and we chat and she never once, not once mentioned her son. Or having another boyfriend—or what, did she marry him?”

  He paused, stared at York who was simply deadpanning him, a sort of disgusted look on his face. “What if she married him? Is she divorced? What if she was married to him when we…when we—” He shot a look at York who now looked a little horrified.

  Agreed. “Okay, yeah, we had a one-night stand in Moscow, but it wasn’t like that for me. I love—loved her. I wanted to marry her. I know I should have led with that—I mean, I know better. I was raised better. But she has this way of getting under my skin and my brain sort of turns off, and I just get into the zone, sort of like I do for hockey, you know. Where you just feel it, and know it’s right? Like I know when a wing is going to take a shot and my body just reacts. And that’s what happened. She was there, and I missed her so much, and I just reacted. And no, I don’t really regret it, except, maybe…I should have asked a few more questions. But then she was gone. And nothing’s been right after that. I’m still playing, but there’s something missing, you know? I keep thinking that it’s because I left myself back in Russia, with Coco, and if I can just find her again and tell her how I feel…but maybe I’ve got this thing all wrong. Maybe she didn’t love me, but it seemed like she did, and now I look at her with that kid, and he’s so cute, and she’s such a great mom, and there’s something wrong with me because it just makes me want her even more—”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, man. The kid is your son. He’s yours.”

  Everything went silent. In his head. In his body. Not even the thump of his heart.

  “Take a good look at him. He’s got your eyes and your hair, and…geez, man, did you see the way he looked at you? He knows it too.”

  “But he’s…too old. I mean, he’s what—”

  “I don’t know. Five?”

  Five.

  Five years old. Oh. No.

  Their first time. Oh, Coco.

  Wyatt looked at York. Closed his mouth. Swallowed. “I got her pregnant that night.”

  “Whatever night you’re referring to, I’d say that’s a yes.”

  Wyatt pressed his hand to his chest. “Oh…uh…”

  “Wanna rethink everything you just said?”

  What he wanted to do was rethink his entire life.

  For the past four hours, Coco had experienced the happy ending she’d longed for. At least, deep in the secret parts of her heart.

  She just wanted to snapshot this moment.

  Mikka lay with his head on Wyatt’s lap, sound asleep, his little lips askew, and even drooling a little onto his jeans. Wyatt’s hand rested on his tiny body, almost in a protective embrace.

  A fatherly protective embrace. Which might be as much as she should ever expect given the fact she hadn’t told him the truth.

  She simply didn’t know how to form the words. Wyatt, so, the little boy you’ve been playing with for the past four hours? Teaching him how to win a thumb war? Kicking that tennis ball you always carry down the hall to you? The one who erupts into laughter when you tickle him? Yeah, well, he’s yours.

  She’d stood at the entrance to their private berth, watching Wyatt stop Mikka’s crazy throws, not unlike he’d done with her back when she’d been a scared little girl fresh out of her home country.

  He just had this way of making everyone feel safe. As if they mattered.

  She’d never seen her son so happy. Wyatt had bonded with Mikka so fast it took out pieces of her heart. It almost made her think that maybe he’d figured it out. But he’d said nothing to her, no, Hey, Coco, got something life-changing to share with me? when she’d returned to the compartment, so…

  She had to find a way to tell him.

  But not with York around, because, well, this was a private conversation. Not just the news, but the fact that she’d spent five years not telling him. Five long, stolen years.

  So, as happy as she was to see Mikka curled up against Wyatt, her stomach was in a hard knot by the time they reached Khabarovsk.

  Wyatt started to reach for a sleeping Mikka, but when his eyes closed hard, probably against a rush of pain from the now horribly bruised and swollen head wound, York stepped in.

  Picked up the kid and threw him over his shoulder.

  Wyatt picked up Mikka’s bag, as well as his own, and braced himself as he rose from the bunk.

  “Sarai should check out your head,” she said.

  Wyatt wouldn’t look at her. She had noticed that too. Ever since she returned from the dining car where she’d purchased Mikka a milk and chips, Wyatt had practically ignored her.

  Well, except for a couple strange looks that seemed almost pained. But he had been hit on the head, so maybe…

  No, something was definitely off with him because he nodded. “Good idea.”

  Huh.

  York carried Mikka off the train, across the platform, and into the train station, Wyatt and Coco behind him. She had to practically run to keep up with him, and it reminded her of the last time they’d been in K-Town, when he’d practically carried her to Roman’s house.

  She was tired of showing up wounded or on the run or in desperation. Someday she wanted to be the heroine of the story instead of the victim.

  York was waiting by a cab when she caught up to him. He nodded inside, and she climbed in. He handed her Mikka, who had just started to wake up. Wyatt squeezed in next to her, and York got in front.

  Mikka raised his head, trying to get his orientation.

  Wyatt looked over at him and smiled.

  Oh her heart was going to burst because when Wyatt smiled, Mikka grinned back and…

  “Wyatt, I need to talk to you,” she said quietly.

  He glanced at her, frowned, but nodded.

  “Later. After I talk to Sarai—”

  “Sure,” he said, but his response felt sharp, almost cutting.

  He tousled Mikka’s hair.

  The driver let them off at Roman’s nine-story building, and she took Mikka’s hand as they headed to the door. It buzzed and they went inside and climbed into the lift.

  Sarai was waiting in the doorway, frowning. She glanced at York, then at Mikka, her eyes big. “Is this—”

  “Yes. My son, Mikka.”

  She crouched. “Hey there.”

  “He only speaks Russian.”

  “Of course he does,” she said and switched into his native tongue, offering him a cookie. Mikka beamed.

  Sarai set him up with a treat
at the kitchen table, then emerged into the hallway. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  Translation: ever.

  “Roman is out with the kiddos.”

  More translation: or he’d have questions.

  “So, what’s going on?”

  Coco gave her a quick rundown of her medical fears, ending with, “I just need to know if I’m overreacting—”

  “You’re never overreacting when it comes to children. I need to draw blood, but I have a kit here. I’ll take it to the clinic to run tests, but I can get them rushed and we can get labs back by tomorrow.” Sarai touched her arm. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Coco noticed Wyatt leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his jaw a hard line.

  “I’m going to make a call. I’ll be back in a bit,” York said and slipped out of the apartment.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Wyatt said and headed into the kitchen.

  Sarai glanced at Coco. “That’s Wyatt?”

  She nodded.

  “And—?”

  Coco shook her head. “And please don’t say anything.”

  Sarai raised an eyebrow, looking over her shoulder to where Wyatt was sliding onto the bench next to Mikka. “I don’t think I need to. One look in the mirror…although, your man looks pretty beat up.”

  “He’s not my man anymore.”

  “Mmmhmm,” Sarai said.

  Seeing him trying to steal one of Mikka’s cookies, making her son laugh, Coco very much wanted him to be.

  Coco hadn’t a clue how this was going to turn out, but she feared to dream.

  As Sarai drew Mikka’s blood, Wyatt held him between his legs, his big arm around Mikka, his voice in his ear. Coco cried with Mikka’s tears, and shoot, if Wyatt didn’t have tears running down his cheeks, too, at Mikka’s whimpers.

  “I’ll take this down to the hospital and ask them to run the right tests,” Sarai said, putting the vials into her purse.

  The door buzzed, and she went to let York in.

  “Can we use your internet?” York asked as he came in. “Kat needs to do some work.”

  Oh. Right. RJ’s information.

  “Computer is in the office,” Sarai said. “Password is this long number written on a Post-it on the desk.”

  “Kind of defeats the purpose—” York started, but Coco gave him a look.

  “Thanks,” Coco said.

  “Vitya has a bunch of trucks in his room, and if you want, Zia has books in hers. I’ll be back with dinner.”

  Sarai let herself out.

  Wyatt picked up Mikka and tossed him over his shoulder. “We’re going to go zoom-zoom.” He headed down the hall in search of what Coco thought might be the trucks.

  Zoom-zoom.

  Oh, that was too cute for her own good.

  York motioned with his head down the hall.

  “So, I checked in with Yanna, our favorite FSB agent, about Natalya and she said that she’s been rogue from the FSB for six weeks.”

  “What?” Coco pulled out a chair in front of the desk, running the mouse to activate Roman’s laptop.

  “Yeah. Apparently, your father’s been practically apoplectic about it, and the FSB has been trying to find her.”

  “Not looking hard enough.”

  “She killed two of her men before she left.”

  Coco didn’t want to suppose who. She knew most of the agents on her father’s detail.

  She logged on with Roman’s crazy sixteen-digit random password and accessed the internet. “Here’s hoping that my cloud hasn’t been hacked.”

  Her breath let out when she found the information. “It’s still here.”

  York produced a jump drive.

  “You’re handy,” Coco said and downloaded the information onto the drive.

  “What’s in the packet?” York asked.

  “Gustov had two folders in his online email account. One contains the emails between him—masking as you—and RJ. And it proves that he intercepted the emails and set her up to be in the wrong place at the right time for the assassination attempt.”

  “And the second?”

  “Dating emails.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. As far as I can tell, they’re emails from a dating website he belongs to.”

  York just stared at her.

  “I went in and grabbed everything he had, but I only transferred the one file onto the disk.”

  “Download the dating files too.”

  She frowned at him but slid them over onto the offline storage drive.

  “I keep trying to figure out why Gustov hasn’t deleted those email files.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know I had them.”

  “I always wondered how he found us on the train. Only your father, David, and Yanna knew we were headed to Siberia.”

  “Natalya was there when my father suggested it.”

  “Could be.”

  “Except, how did Gustov figure out that I was in Khabarovsk…oh no.”

  York looked at her.

  “Your email account. You store your emails online too. He’s emailed you before—it would only take a hacker like me to break in, read them—”

  “And figure out where you were, what evidence you had.”

  “So, he hops on a plane for K-Town, shows up at our meet, and grabs the drive.”

  “So then why didn’t he access his drive and delete the emails?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t access the internet.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if he was traveling? Got on a plane or a train. You know how sketchy the internet and even cell service is in remote parts of Russia.”

  “Which is why Natalya didn’t know he had the drive.” York got up and moved away to the window. “Maybe he hasn’t had a chance to contact her.”

  “I injured him.” Wyatt had come in, his arms folded, that massive shoulder propped against the doorframe. “He was bleeding when he went over the balcony. He might have gone to a hospital.”

  “And then jumped on a plane.”

  “What—and lost his cell phone?”

  “Nat was on the train with me for nearly twenty-four hours,” Wyatt said. “Even if he did call her, the messages might not have come through.”

  “And if he got a train or a plane…”

  York was looking at her. “If he read my email, he knows where RJ is. I’ve been writing to her. He could track her ISP address. If he thinks Natalya did her job…”

  “RJ is the only loose end,” Wyatt said.

  “Excuse me.” York pushed past Wyatt.

  Wyatt watched him go. Turned back to Coco. “Mikka is asleep. I tucked him in to the lower bunk in Vitya’s room.”

  She reset her encryption on her cloud, then logged out. Pulled the jump drive out of the computer, got up, and handed it to Wyatt. “Hang on to this one.”

  He slipped it into his pocket as she stepped past him into the hallway, over to the bedroom.

  Shadows pressed through the window, the night falling in great swaths. Mikka lay on the bottom bunk, his breathing soft. She knelt beside him and ran her hand over his face. “I’m so afraid he has cancer.”

  Wyatt touched her shoulder. “I know.”

  She pressed a kiss to Mikka’s cheek, breathing in the smell of him, the fact that right now, in this moment, they were safe.

  She stood up and turned to Wyatt.

  “About…that talk…”

  He drew in a breath, those brown eyes latching on to hers.

  “He’s your son, Wyatt.”

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

  Her eyes widened and crazily started to fill. “You know? How?”

  His gaze fell on Mikka, his mouth lifting in a half smile. That dimple emerged. “He’s just like me, isn’t he?”

  She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

  “Aw, Coco. You should have told me.” Then he reached out and pulled her into his arms, that wide, strong chest
, rubbing her back as she started to weep.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said, his own body starting to tremble. “I promise. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Either of you.” Then he simply lowered his cheek to her head and held her as he, too, quietly fell apart.

  At least RJ hadn’t forgotten how to make cupcakes. Or muffins. Or cookies. Or cinnamon rolls and even a stack of buttermilk waffles.

  If she wanted to go undercover in a bakery, she’d be golden.

  Except, she wasn’t undercover, and frankly, was gaining weight like Knox’s prize baby bucking bull, now six months old. He was cute, too, with his big brown eyes, those reddish-brown ears poking up every time she walked out to the corral.

  She wasn’t quite so cute, probably, dressed in her yoga pants and a T-shirt, her dark hair pulled back. And flour. She wore her flour like the champion of cupcake wars, down her apron, across her chin, up her arms.

  That was the price of excellence.

  That, and Tate’s smile as he reached for another cupcake. “So, is this a thing now? Late-night baking?”

  Outside, the night pressed against the windows, the glow of the kitchen holding it at bay. Holding back, too, the nightmares that awaited her upstairs.

  So, “Yeah. I do my best work at zero-dark-thirty.”

  Tate gave her a look even as he peeled the wrapper from the chocolate cupcake. “I know about PTSD, sis. You can’t bake your way out of it.”

  “I don’t have—”

  “Seriously. You were shot at. Had to escape Russia. There’s an entire genre of books about escaping Russia, so don’t tell me that’s not traumatic. You have PTSD, and it never really goes away—you just get better at pushing through.”

  She opened the oven and pulled out her final tray of cupcakes. Set them on the island of her mother’s remodeled kitchen.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Reuben says you’ve been binge-watching Alias again. Listen, I get it. I think I watched all six seasons of Lost when I got back from Afghanistan. That’s about 120 hours of my life I’ll never get back.” He ate half the cupcake in one bite. Made a noise of appreciation.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been helping Ma harvest the garden, canned some tomato sauce, made some pickles, and even sorted through more boxes of Dad’s books to donate to the library.”