Wyatt

by Susan May Warren

  Not hardly. “He told me that he’d find Coco and tell her about Gustov taking the drive—”

  “I called her, twice,” Roman said. “It went to voicemail.”

  “What?” Coco said. She pulled out her phone. “I don’t have any new messages.”

  “I called you too,” York said. “To warn you about Gustov’s assassin.”

  “Gustov sent an assassin?” Roman said. He glanced at his children and said something to them in Russian. They headed into the family room and turned on the television.

  “Two of them,” York said. “One of them was on the train with her to Belogorsk.”

  Wyatt stared at him, a cold horror dragging up his spine. “What?”

  “Call me,” Coco said, ignoring him, and looked at York.

  Of course she did. Because he was the superhero here.

  York took his phone out and called her.

  It didn’t ring. “It’s going to voicemail.”

  Coco was looking at her phone. She headed into the kitchen, put the phone on the table, and pried open the back of it.

  She pulled out her SIM card. “I don’t think this is mine.”

  Silence.

  “A SIM card contains user identities, personal security keys, contact lists…stored messages…” Coco looked up. “If someone took my SIM card, they could access my cloud information.”

  “And track phone numbers and even stored addresses,” York said.

  “Like our ranch,” Wyatt said and glanced at Coco. She nodded.

  “But how did they get it?” Coco said.

  “What if it was switched on the train, while you slept?” York suggested.

  “But why not just steal my phone?”

  “Clearly he—and I’m guessing this was Gustov’s work—wanted to be able to reach you. So, Natalya put a new SIM card in.”

  “So he could call me?”

  Wyatt drew in a sharp breath.

  Coco let go of the phone like it burned her.

  Wyatt had pressed his hand to his gut, the thought of this guy calling Coco, his voice in her ear making him a little ill.

  And that’s when Sarai had come home.

  If he wasn’t feeling ill before, her news about Mikka’s test results had him nauseous.

  “So, what’s next?” Wyatt said now, leaning up from the wall.

  “He needs to go to America,” Sarai said. “I have a friend who works at a children’s hospital in Seattle. We can go there, and she’ll get him fast-tracked. We’ll probably need a bone marrow aspiration and a biopsy. We’ll also do some tests to look for surface markers on the cells, maybe even a lumbar puncture—”

  “Yes, he’s going to America,” Wyatt said. “As soon as we can get him on a plane.”

  “Except, not with Kat,” York said from where he sat on a straight-backed chair, and the room went quiet. Wyatt would have been sitting also, but after two days on a train, his hips were practically on fire.

  He couldn’t pace sitting down anyway.

  “What—? Why not?” Coco frowned at him.

  “Because we have to assume that Gustov knows you’re still alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because none of the people he sent to kill you succeeded.”

  The room again went quiet.

  Roman shot a look at York. Frowned.

  York ignored him. “Listen, the best way to do this is to separate you two.”

  “What—?” Coco said.

  “No—!” Wyatt’s voice overlapped hers.

  “Yes,” Roman said. “If Gustov is after Kat, then Mikka is in danger. But if he travels with Sarai as a patient, she can get him in the USA under an emergency medical visa, even under an assumed name.”

  “I’ll go with them,” York said. “I have a name or two I can use.”

  If York thought Wyatt was leaving his son in another man’s hands—

  “Wyatt,” York said, looking at him. “I need you to get Kat out of the country.”

  Huh. He didn’t know why, but having the man turn to him, confidence in his eyes, did a strange thing to Wyatt.

  As if someone had just taken a shot on goal and he’d gloved it.

  “No problem,” he said. Except, “Any bright ideas on how?”

  “Isn’t your team in Vladivostok?” Roman asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know how long our layover was there.”

  Roman got up. “Then we need to get you on a train. Tonight. You two can fly out with the team.”

  “Wait,” Coco said, rising fast. “No—I’m not leaving my son!”

  York had gotten up also, and now he strode across the room. Grabbed her shoulders and met her eyes.

  “I will not let anything happen to your son. As long as I have breath inside me, I will protect him.”

  Coco breathed in his words. Then he looked at Wyatt. “I give you my word.”

  Wyatt met his eyes. Nodded.

  Coco sat back down, her breath tremulous.

  Sarai scooted in beside her, put her arm around her. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

  York headed down the hall to the office. “I’m going to book us plane tickets.”

  “Come with me,” Roman said quietly to Wyatt.

  Oh great. “More waterboarding?”

  Roman frowned at him. So maybe that wasn’t appropriate, but he still didn’t like the guy.

  Roman led him into the kitchen. Turned to him and shut the door. “I have a buddy in Seattle. He used to be a Russian cop. He works for the Seattle PD now. I’ll email him and tell him what’s going down. He’ll protect you—”

  “I can protect Coco.” Even as Wyatt said it, it sounded stupid, but…hey, hadn’t York just tasked him with getting Coco stateside?

  And there went Ford in his head, asking him how he was going to get her out of Russia. You don’t have a visa, you don’t speak Russian. You’re a hockey player, for cryin’ out loud.

  Yeah, well, for a hockey player, he hadn’t completely stunk.

  If he omitted the leading an assassin right to Coco part.

  And getting hit on the head—a wound that still throbbed.

  Sheesh. Still…

  “His name is Vicktor. He’s married to an American named Gracie. I’ll give you his number.”

  Wyatt nodded.

  Roman met his eyes then. “Don’t do anything fancy. Or stupid. Just go to Vladivostok and get on a plane. Stay with your team. Gustov won’t approach you if you’re surrounded.” His voice dropped. “Sarai will take good care of your son. I promise.”

  Wyatt glanced away, toward the darkened window. Saw his own reflection—the bruise on his forehead that swelled down to his eyes. The three-day beard growth, the greasy hair. He needed a shower and a shave and maybe a good look in the mirror to help him wake up and realize he wasn’t in a dream.

  “You didn’t know.”

  Wyatt turned back to Roman. Frowned.

  “Coco said that you didn’t know.”

  Aw. “You even knew about Mikka?”

  Roman nodded.

  Nice. Coco trusted the FSB before she trusted him.

  Well, he had about two days to prove that he could be the guy she needed.

  The guy to keep her safe.

  What was it that York said…as long as he had breath in him?

  Yeah, well, ditto.

  Drop the puck. Game time.

  This was no different than every other time she’d had to leave her son.

  Except, this time she wasn’t doing it alone.

  Coco didn’t know what it was about saying goodbye to Mikka while standing next to Wyatt. Or watching Wyatt say goodbye, his jaw tight, his eyes shiny as he gave Mikka a hug. For some reason, knowing that he too had to kiss Mikka’s forehead, close the door behind him, and leave their son in Sarai’s care made her feel like, well, maybe she didn’t have to bear the pain alone.

  Or maybe she did. Wyatt hadn’t exactly spoken to her since his outburst some two hours earlier at Roman’s flat. You rea
lly don’t want me, do you?

  She’d been so stunned by his words she hadn’t moved, her own retort clogged in her throat. Because it wasn’t like she was going to fall at his feet like some sort of lovesick fan.

  He had plenty of those, thank you.

  Call it her dumb Russian pride, but in that moment, she heard Natalya’s words. It’s not like he loves you.

  No, she might have said. You didn’t want me.

  She wanted to strangle York for his stupid suggestion that Wyatt bring her with him to Vladivostok. But maybe he was right—if her life was about dodging assassins, then Mikka was better off away from her. And with York, who actually knew how to defend him.

  Oh, that wasn’t fair. Wyatt was big, tough, and at the end of the day, well, he’d delivered his No problem as if he regularly sneaked in and out of former Communist countries.

  Roman dropped them off at the train station, and Coco bought a ticket with Wyatt’s money—a private coupe.

  Wyatt dumped his duffel bag on the top bunk, made his bed on the lower bunk, and lay on it, one arm up to brace his head. He’d taken a shower before they left but hadn’t shaved, and now the fragrance of fresh soap and the cotton from the sheets drifted over to her. She sat on the berth, staring out the window to the lit tracks, her heart folding over into itself.

  “He’s going to be okay. We’ll see him in Seattle,” Wyatt said, not looking at her.

  “He’ll be scared and is probably feeling abandoned.” She drew her legs up, locked her arms around them.

  “Just like you felt when you came to America.” He looked at her then.

  She couldn’t bear the tenderness in his eyes. “Maybe.” She blinked, looked away.

  The train lurched forward and eased out of the station.

  “Why did you come to America? You always said that your father died, but apparently, that isn’t true, so…”

  Her mouth tightened.

  “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. It’s just that…” He sighed, then rolled over onto his arm. “I’m reeling here, Cookie.”

  She closed her eyes. Pressed her fingers into them, her voice quiet. “For the last five years I’ve pictured how I might tell you that you had a son.” She opened her eyes and met his. “It was not like this.”

  He nodded, his mouth pinched at the edges. “Not how I wanted to find out either, to be honest.”

  “I was going to tell you I was pregnant that weekend I went to your hockey game in Helena. When you played for the Bobcats—”

  “I remember that weekend,” he said softly.

  Of course he did. That was the weekend his father had died.

  “I remember looking up in the stands, and you were wearing that crazy hat with the bobcat ears. You wore your hair long then, and it was shiny red and caught the light, and I nearly let a goal in.”

  Oh.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after…” His mouth closed. And then he broke her heart again by shaking his head. “I’m so sorry that I…” He winced around the eyes. “I think I must have taken advantage of you, twice. I was stupid and inconsiderate and—”

  “And I said yes, just as much as you did. Both times.”

  He surprised her by looking away and reaching up to thumb away a tear.

  “Wyatt?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t regret anything—”

  “But I do!”

  If he’d stabbed her in the chest, it would have hurt less.

  He sat up, put his feet on the floor, his hands rubbing his head as if trying to pry the words from his mind. “I knew…I knew it was wrong. I mean—yeah, I loved you—wow, I loved you, but all my life I’d been raised to wait, you know? Until marriage? And even though I’d lived away from home for years, I still knew that. And sure, I was probably the only virgin on my college team, but …” He finally looked at her. “It meant something to me, Cookie. It meant everything to me. And yet, I walked away from you with so much shame I could hardly breathe. I thought my father could see right through me to what we did, and I practically sprinted back to college. But I loved you so much, I was at war with myself. I longed to see you. And I was terrified I’d screwed things up so badly between us that you’d never talk to me again.”

  He blew out a breath. “And then you were there. I so wanted to make everything perfect and golden between us—like it was before…but I didn’t know how, so I thought I’d propose. We’d get married and then everything would be put right, and I could stop walking around with this cannonball on my chest, you know?”

  She just stared at him, stuck on the words shame and propose and most of all, regret.

  He regretted making love to her.

  Regretted, probably, Mikka.

  She tightened her jaw, willing herself not to cry. Because he’d been angry with her, frustrated, and even accusatory.

  But he hadn’t once said he was glad he’d met Mikka.

  “And then RJ got the call about Dad.”

  She remembered that too well. Halfway through the third period of the game. He’d been found out in the field, riding fence by himself. A heart attack.

  RJ had waited until the end of the game—a win—until she told Wyatt. He’d turned stoic and cold and hadn’t even cried at the funeral.

  Now, his eyes sheened with tears.

  “I just had to run. To forget—so the day after the funeral I hopped a bus for the juniors, up in Edmonton.” He looked up at her. “And you went to Russia. Pregnant.”

  She nodded.

  “Oh, Coco, I’m so sorry. You must have been freaking out.”

  She drew in a breath, not even sure how to start. “I was. But it wasn’t the first time I had to start over. Or was alone and afraid.”

  He flinched, and she didn’t care. Steeled her voice. “I came to America because I was nearly kidnapped.”

  He stared at her with something of horror in his eyes.

  “I was ten years old. Back then, my mother lived in Moscow—she and my father weren’t married, but I saw him often. He was in the military and he’d show up when he was on leave, sometimes for weeks at a time. Then he got elected to the Duma, as a part of the liberal party, and suddenly, my mother and I were put under FSB guard. I had a driver to and from school. We moved to a secure building, and for the first time I realized that I was different. I was in an English-immersion school, but my mother pulled me out and began to tutor me at home. The one thing she still let me attend was art classes.”

  She unlatched her arms and put her legs down. “One day, I had a different driver. I didn’t recognize him, but he was nice to me. He drove me to a café and told me that we’d get ice cream. I was ten—and maybe he thought I wouldn’t know better, but something felt off. So when we went into the café, I went to the bathroom and locked it. When he found out, he tried to get in, but I started screaming. He turned off the lights in the café to force me to come out, but I refused.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself and stared into the darkness outside the window. “I still remember sitting there in the dark, listening to him yell, banging on the door.”

  Wyatt’s reflection stared back at her, his jaw tight.

  “I heard shots and it wasn’t until I recognized my father’s voice that I unlocked the door. The man who tried to take me was dead—he’d been shot. And so had three other people—co-conspirators, I think, but I don’t know.”

  She looked at Wyatt now. He was leaning forward, his hands folded, looking at them.

  “We left for Montana a few days later, and I didn’t see my father again until I was eighteen.”

  “You were told to say he’d died for your own protection,” Wyatt said quietly.

  “He said it was up to me to keep myself—and him—safe. So, I kept his secret.”

  “And that’s why you hid Mikka.”

  “My father is now a very powerful man. People could use Mikka—”

  “Or you—”

  “Ye
s. Or me to influence him.”

  “You could have come back to Montana. Even if we weren’t together, you’re always welcome at the Triple M. My mother loves you like a daughter—”

  “You weren’t the only one who was ashamed.”

  His eyes widened.

  “I knew your family was religious, Wyatt. It’s probably why I like them. You all had this belief in God on your side, and I desperately wanted to believe in that too. So I hung on to your family like it might be a blanket over me. Especially after my mother died. And then…then I did the unthinkable.”

  A beat, and he raised his eyebrows.

  “I slept with the golden son of the family.”

  “I’m hardly the golden son—”

  “You were on television. Your dad watched every single Bobcat game.”

  Wyatt blinked at that, frowned. “He did?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. And I was about to destroy everything by getting pregnant.”

  He swallowed.

  Oh, she hadn’t realized how much she wanted, in that moment, for him to say You wouldn’t have destroyed anything.

  His silence told her the truth.

  She’d been right, oh so right, to run away.

  “I would have said yes if you’d proposed, Wyatt,” she said quietly.

  He looked up at her.

  “Which is why I had to leave.”

  “Cookie—”

  “It’s my life. I have to leave to protect people. My father. You.” Her throat thickened. “Mikka.”

  “Not anymore.”

  He reached out for her, but she pulled her hand away.

  “Coco—”

  “No, Wyatt. The only thing different now is that you know about Mikka. He’s not any safer. And now, neither are you. I bring trouble into people’s lives.” And if you’re not careful, you’re going to get your son killed. “You should have forgotten about me, like I said.”

  “Are you kidding me?” His outburst reeled her back. “That would be like forgetting…forgetting how to breathe.”

  Oh brother. He was so dramatic. “Hardly. You forgot me the moment you left Montana. My showing up a year later only got in the way.”

  “What—?”

  “You’d think I’d figure it out but no, I had to be a glutton for punishment and show up again, two years later.”