Lost Christmas Memories

by Dana Mentink

  Scared.

  Not “I just walked into a spiderweb,” but a full-on look of unadulterated terror.

  And that was enough to make him pull his motorcycle off the road and ease it down the gravel path in search of the frightened woman vanishing into the shadows of the abandoned station.

  He figured a helmeted guy on a motorcycle would only add to the woman’s unease, so he rolled down the slope and parked the bike in the shelter of the empty water tower that glowed eerily in the gloom. After dismounting, he left his helmet on the seat, finger-combed his overgrown black hair away from his face and took the path in the direction he’d seen the woman headed, down to the busted-up platform. He decided she would probably have scooted into the depot, where at least she’d be sheltered from the storm. Where had she come from? He saw no sign of a vehicle, but the station was miles from the nearest building.

  He eased through the open door. “Hello?”

  Inside, a blast of chilly air hit his face, carrying the sharp scent of rust. The clouds parted to allow just enough moonlight to probe the broken windows, lending weak illumination. The old benches were still intact in some places, as well as the ticketing counter. Branches collected in moldering piles and the tapping of tiny claws indicated rats had also found the spot to be a suitable sanctuary.

  “Hello?” he said again. No reply except for the rattle of pine needles dropping onto the sagging roof. “I saw you come in.”

  Still no answer, but his eyes were adjusted now and he saw that the most likely hiding spot was behind the ticketing counter. He had to edge around a place where the floor had fallen out, giving way to a sort of storage cellar some fifteen feet below. One wrong step would lead to a fall that would undoubtedly result in two broken ankles or worse.

  This was no place for a lady.

  He picked his way carefully around the gaping hole, his cowboy boots protecting him from the protruding nails and bits of broken wood.

  He heard the floor creak as the woman moved behind the counter.

  He was about to try the friendly conversation approach for the second time when the woman bolted up over the top of the counter and fired a pistol at him.

  TWO

  The shot went close, closer than Tracy had intended. She never had been very good with guns in spite of her father’s tutelage. The dark-haired guy’s eyes flashed shock and disbelief as he stumbled at the noise, falling into a chasm where the floor ought to be. She scrambled around the ticket counter. Her heart pounded, ears ringing from the shot, sick with the notion of what she’d just done. Had she hit him?

  This stranger wasn’t the killer. His eyes gleamed silvery in the gloom and his shoulders were too broad, but sheer panic had made her fire the gun anyway. She’d meant to scare, to buy time. Had she killed instead? Gripping the pistol, she edged to the crevice in the floor. “Who...who are you?”

  She was relieved beyond measure when he answered.

  “Keegan Thorn. And that was completely uncalled for when I was just trying to be neighborly.”

  The man, she saw now as she peered over the broken flooring, was roughly her age, late twenties or early thirties. His black hair was long enough to fall across his brow as he struggled to hold on to the piece of broken flooring that dangled a foot or so down below. He wore a leather jacket and rain pants. His long legs ended in flailing boots. Dark brows framed his eyes, and for a split second she wondered what color they must be in the daylight.

  “I...I thought you were someone else. Are you...all right? Um...your nose is bleeding.”

  “It was bleeding when I got here, from a fist.”

  Who is this guy? “What are you doing here?”

  He looked up at her peevishly. “Well, I thought I was helping you out. I live at the Gold Bar, about fifteen miles from here, and I saw you heading into the train station.”

  She still gripped the gun, unsure.

  “Are you going to shoot at me again or help me out of this hole?”

  The question startled her. “Neither. I’m sorry I shot at you, but I have to go. Don’t try to follow me.”

  He grimaced, face contorted with effort. “Why would I do that?”

  His questions unsettled her but she steeled herself. “You’re a stranger and I’m having a real bad night.”

  “My night’s not going so great, either, and I’m not a stranger. I already told you my name, so help me up ’cause this beam’s getting slippery.”

  The decision twisted her insides. She’d just witnessed a murder. Every nerve screamed for her to run as fast and as far as she could. But she might have killed the guy and maybe he was just what he seemed, a benevolent stranger.

  Strangers are dangerous. She’d known that even before she’d seen a woman’s life snuffed out. She turned to go, until she heard him grappling for a better hold on the beam.

  Something deep down made her blow out a breath, tuck the gun into her pocket, lie flat on her stomach and plunge a hand toward the guy. She managed to help all six-foot-plus of him out of the pit.

  He crawled away to a solid section of floor where he got to his feet. After brushing the dust from his jacket, he fisted his hands on his narrow hips. “Well?”

  “Well what?” Tracy said.

  “Aren’t you going to apologize for almost killing me?”

  His smile almost teased one from her until she squelched it. “I didn’t. The bullet didn’t go anywhere near you.”

  “Good thing for me you’re a terrible shot.” He gestured at her coat with his chin. “What else you got in those pockets? A Winchester? Nunchucks?”

  “Can I use your phone? Please?”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” He stepped between her and the door, and her pulse ricocheted up a notch. Maybe she’d been right in the first place. She fingered the gun in her pocket.

  “Don’t come any closer.” She was dismayed that her voice came out more like a squeak than a command.

  He held up his palms. “Listen, Pockets. I think you owe me more of an explanation, considering. Let’s start again. I’m Keegan Thorn. I live at the Gold Bar Ranch. You look like you need help.”

  Tracy stared. “I have to go.”

  He folded his arms now, biceps drawing the leather tight. “Uh-uh. Here’s what you’re supposed to say at this point. ‘Hello, my name is—fill in the blank—and I’m sorry for shooting at you when you were trying to help.’” A smile tweaked his full lips.

  Model handsome, she couldn’t help but notice.

  Stop noticing, she ordered herself. Get help. Get away. Now. She turned to go around him.

  “Who’s after you?”

  His question stopped her. “I...” Thinking about the hands choking, throttling the victim, made her dizzy.

  “You’re scared. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see that.”

  “Look,” she said, turning. “I...I’m very sorry I shot at you, but I need to get going, Mr. Thorn.”

  “Keegan.”

  “Keegan,” she allowed. “I apologize for scaring you.”

  “I wasn’t scared. Just startled.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Tell me what’s going on, Pockets.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she snapped, nerves twinging. “My name is Tracy.”

  “Excellent.” He wiggled his fingers. “Keep it coming.”

  Maybe if she could convince him of the urgency, he’d let her use his phone. “All right.” She blew out a breath. “Short story is I...I witnessed a murder and I need to call the police. The killer is after me.” She hated the wobble that crept into her voice just then.

  His eyes opened wide as saucers.

  “Now can I use your phone?”

  “I’d be happy to let you, but there’s no signal here.”

  She groaned, fighti
ng the urge to scream in frustration.

  “But I’ll give you a ride to the nearest phone on my bike.”

  “Your bike?”

  “Motorcycle.”

  She shook her head. “I just need to change the flat on my Jeep.”

  Puzzlement played across his face. “Why won’t you let me help?”

  “It’s nothing personal.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mr. Thorn—” She caught his raised eyebrow. “Keegan, I apologize for shooting at you, but I can’t explain anything else right now. I need to get away from here. Fast.”

  “All right. Let’s make a deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “I’ll change your tire for you...”

  “I can do it myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, but my mama would have my ears for allowing a lady to change her own tire. Anyway, I’ll change the tire and ride in your Jeep to the Gold Bar. We can call the police from there and my brothers will bring me back for my bike. It’s raining too hard for me to ride safely anyway.”

  “But...”

  “You’re soaking wet and scared. You need somewhere to stay for a couple of hours and I want to be sure you get to a safe place. Deal?”

  Take the help of a smooth-talking, gorgeous stranger? Trust him, when her life was on the line?

  “No, thanks.” She ran out the door into the driving rain, strode over to her hidden vehicle and retrieved the lug wrench.

  He somehow got in front of her and took the wrench from her hands.

  She groaned. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  “Because,” he said, the mischievous smile back in place. “You need my help, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

  She stared.

  He stared back.

  “Is this some kind of cowboy standoff?”

  “You got that right, and since I’m the cowboy—” he aimed a long, lazy smile at her “—I figure I win.”

  * * *

  Keegan hatched a plan as he pulled the lug nuts from the tire and wrestled the spare into place. Tracy was too scared and untrusting to tell him more regarding her situation, but she would, in time. Keegan would stick by Tracy’s side all the way back to the Gold Bar, where his mother would promptly feed her—after her call to the police—and offer her a place to sleep. Before she knew what hit her, Tracy would be spilling the details as if she were one of the family. Evie Thorn’s powers of persuasion were legendary.

  And then Keegan would fix her problem. Simple. Whoever he was, this criminal would not be terrorizing her again. Keegan would fix it by force if necessary. Part of him relished the thought. Though he’d mostly left his troubled days behind, there was still plenty of untamed energy coursing through his veins. And if there was one thing Keegan could not abide, it was a bully. That sense of intolerance had gotten him beaten up in grade school, but by the time high school rolled around, Keegan had grown to just over six feet of solid muscle and the student body had gotten the message. He would not be pushed around. Period. Nor would anybody he held dear.

  Maybe he was born to be a renegade, or maybe it was the adrenaline that came of a birth father who would not acknowledge Keegan or the affair he’d had with Keegan’s mother. Or perhaps it was the constant reminders from his half brother, John Larraby, Gold Bar’s police chief. Keegan’s gut twitched at the thought.

  One time late in high school, John had let loose a sucker punch at Keegan’s brother Jack and taken him down. Keegan didn’t remember the moments that followed, but when his head cleared, he was in the principal’s office, nose bleeding, being suspended for roughing up John along with most of the offensive line. No one laid a finger on Jack ever again and that was all that mattered. John hadn’t forgotten the drubbing and neither had Keegan.

  Tracy’s hair gleamed in the dim light, shoved behind her ears and glimmering with highlights that indicated she was a blonde. He liked blondes, but moreover, he liked women who stood right up to him and displayed a strong independent streak. Tracy had already proved herself to be that kind of woman, as she’d hurried to the Jeep and checked the pistol in her pocket.

  “Where’d you get the gun?”

  “It was my father’s. He was...he was teaching me to shoot.”

  “You didn’t finish the lessons?”

  “No.” He caught the sheen of tears in her eyes, but she swallowed and blinked hard, not about to give him access to her pain. Strong woman, but not strong enough to keep the anguish from peeping through when she’d mentioned her father.

  He finished the tire and went to his bike.

  “What are you doing?” Tracy called. “Get in. We have to go.”

  “Gotta get the ribbon,” he said as he pulled the package from his saddlebags. “For the pomanders.”

  She watched him, openmouthed, as he strolled back, package tucked under one arm.

  “Pomanders?” she said. “What’s that?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, smiling. “But two of my brothers are getting married at Christmas and Mama says this ribbon stuff is required, so I’m carrying out my duties.” He opened the door and tossed the package into her Jeep.

  The quirk of a smile twisted her mouth. It was the first time he’d seen her relax even the tiniest amount, and he was happy about it. Anything to keep her mind off whatever nightmare she’d witnessed.

  He held out a hand. “How about I drive?”

  “Why? You think you’re a better driver than me?”

  “Undoubtedly, if you drive as well as you shoot.”

  Another whisper of a smile and maybe the hint of a giggle. Score another one for Keegan Thorn.

  “I—” she said just as a rifle blast ripped the air.

  Keegan had a split second to grab her wrist and pull her down before more bullets exploded through the night.

  THREE

  Tracy hardly recognized her own scream. The next shot shattered her rear window.

  “Shooter’s up behind the water tower,” Keegan said. “We’ve got to—”

  He didn’t get to finish before the third shot ricocheted off the side mirror and struck Keegan in the shoulder. He cried out, falling facedown onto the wet ground, writhing in pain.

  She grabbed his belt and pulled him closer to the shelter of the Jeep. Frantic, she yanked open the passenger door and backed into the seat, hauling with all her strength to pull Keegan in behind her. Somehow he managed to help until they were both sprawled inside. Reaching over him, she slammed the door.

  “I guess I’m driving after all,” she quipped, earning another groan from Keegan.

  “Don’t gloat,” he said, and she was beyond relieved at his sassy reply.

  Slamming the Jeep into Drive, she floored the gas and gunned it up the parking area away from the train station and onto the main road. It would take the killer a few minutes to make it back to his vehicle, and she intended to take full advantage of that time.

  She risked a look at Keegan. He was upright, teeth gritted, eyes open, one hand clutching the door handle. “How bad is your wound?”

  “No worse than the average gunshot.”

  She reached for an extra jacket she kept in the car. “Press this to your shoulder.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Her pursuer had made it to the road. He was now approaching at a good clip, closing the gap between the two vehicles.

  “Keegan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Got your seat belt on?”

  “Uh-uh. Why?”

  “Don’t talk. Just strap yourself in.”

  His eyes found the rearview. “Your killer?”

  “Has to be, unless there’s an accomplice.”

  “Name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know the killer’s name?”

 
“I’ve never been to this area before,” she snapped. “The room was dark and whoever it was didn’t exactly make an introduction.”

  Keegan managed to fasten his seat belt. “The victim?”

  “A woman. I couldn’t see her face well, either.”

  She caught his surprise as she pushed the gas pedal hard. The approaching car kept pace.

  Tracy’s body was tight with fear, foot rammed onto the gas pedal as the Jeep topped seventy miles an hour. Her fear ramped up along with their speed.

  She shot a look at Keegan, who was dialing on his cell phone, but she was too focused on driving to pay much attention to the conversation. After a few minutes he disconnected. “Cops are dispatching someone, but I wouldn’t hold my breath that they’re going to make it a huge priority.”

  “Why not?”

  “First, I’m not sure they believed me, and second, I’m not the chief’s favorite guy.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s my half brother, John Larraby. Long story. John’s not worth the time it would take to tell you about it.”

  “Larraby? Is he related to Bryce Larraby?”

  “Yeah. Bryce is...” Keegan huffed out a breath. “He’s the guy who fathered me, I guess you could say.”

  She heard rivers of bitterness in his words. “You are kidding me.”

  “No,” he said, craning his neck to check the progress of their pursuer. “You know him?”

  Know him? He’s the guy I was going to meet. “Tell you later, after I shake him off.”

  Keegan consulted the side mirror. “Don’t be too cocky. He’s closing in. You should have let me drive.”

  She ignored his gibe, shoving down the fear as he repositioned the wadded-up jacket, now thoroughly stained with blood. She had to get help, quickly.

  He stabbed a finger toward the darkness on her left. “Slow down. There’s a logging road in fifty yards. Turn there, but we can lose him in the foothills.”

  “I can’t drive into the wilderness. That’s just what he’d want. He’s armed, remember?”