Her Christmas Hero

by Linda Warren

  Her mother, Britt knew without a doubt.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said into the receiver, trying to sound as cheerful as possible.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Emotionally I’m a little ragged, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, baby.”

  “I’ve decided to quit my job,” she blurted.

  “Oh. That’s rather sudden.”

  “It’s the only way I can get Dillon back. I’ll find somethin’ else.”

  “Whatever you feel is best.”

  She could always count on her mom for support.

  “Why don’t you come home and stay for a few days until you get used—”

  “Thanks, Mom, but I have a lot to do. I’m calling my sup er visor as soon as I get off the phone with you, and I’ll probably fly to New York tomorrow to turn in my ID and manuals. I’m sure I’ll have papers to sign.”

  “It just breaks my heart what that man has done to you.”

  Britt bit her lip. “He fooled me, but another man will never get that chance. If anything, I’m tougher and wiser.”

  “Oh, sweetie, would you like for me to come over?” Britt could hear the worry in her mother’s voice. It hurt that she’d caused her so much anguish. Carin had wanted her to stay in college and get her degree, but Britt had had a friend who was leaving college to attend an airline attendant program. Seeing the world was a dream come true, and when the semester ended, Britt had joined her friend. She’d never regretted her decision. Until now.

  That’s how she’d met Phil—on a flight to London with a lady friend. He’d flirted shamelessly in front of the woman, and had called Britt when they were back in the States. He’d never told her how he got her number. By devious means, she was sure. She was so gullible. She’d never seen the warning signs, and she should have.

  “Britt, are you there?”

  It took her a moment to gather her thoughts. “Mom, I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. Oh, have you heard from Mama today?”

  “No, why?”

  “She wasn’t here this morning when I got up. I thought she was working in that ridiculous winter garden, but when I checked she wasn’t. She was on the phone with Enzo a long time last night, and I have a suspicion that she caught a bus to go see him.”

  “Didn’t y’all stop by yesterday?”

  “No, I was too upset.”

  “Just call Uncle Enzo.”

  “I did, but he doesn’t answer. Sometimes he doesn’t hear the phone. I better start looking. I swear she’s worse than a child.”

  “If she shows up, I’ll call you.”

  “Phone me anyway. I want to hear from you.”

  Britt’s doorbell rang. “Gotta go. Someone’s here.”

  “Call if it’s Mama.”

  Britt walked to the door, hoping it was Onnie. Her grand mother being out on her own could not be good for anyone.

  “Britt, I’d like to talk to you,” a voice said loudly.

  She stopped in her tracks. Quinn.

  “I have nothing to say to you—ever.”

  “Just five minutes.”

  “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

  She pressed her ear against the door. Silence. He was gone.

  Resting her head against the wood, she allowed herself to think about him. She had really liked him—his humor, his bravery—and had felt an attraction, a connection she’d never experienced before. She’d trusted him.

  But her hero was one of the bad guys.

  When would she ever learn?

  Curling her hands into fists, she marched back to the phone to call her lawyer. Mona needed to hear her decision, and then Britt would call her supervisor. She had a full day ahead of her.

  And maybe somewhere in the busyness she wouldn’t hear Dillon crying.

  Or see Quinn’s face. Or hear his voice.

  QUINN HURRIED INTO HIS office, his stomach tied into a tight reef knot. He had only wanted to talk, but Britt wasn’t willing to listen to any explanations. He had crossed a line by going back without his client. But he’d crossed lines before.

  He just wanted to make sure she was okay, even though he knew she wasn’t. There was nothing left to say and he had to accept that.

  His secretary, Denise, handed him some messages and walked out. Levi Coyote, his P.I., lounged in a chair, his long legs stretched out, his cowboy boots crossed at the ankles. A Stetson, pulled low, hid his expression, but Quinn knew he wasn’t asleep. Levi was part Indian and he didn’t know what else, but the man had better tracking and hunting skills than anyone he’d ever met.

  They’d attended the same high school, two young lads as different as night and day. Quinn was a city boy, Levi country, but somewhere they’d made a connection. Quinn helped Levi with his homework, and Levi taught him how to be tough. After graduation, they went their separate ways. Levi attended the academy and became a police officer. Quinn went to law school. When Quinn became a defense attorney he’d needed a good P.I. He’d heard that Levi had left the department and was doing investigative work. One phone call was all it took for them to connect again. Levi had worked for him ever since.

  As Quinn laid his briefcase on the desk, Levi sat up straight, his dark eyes alert. “What’s up? Your secretary called.”

  Quinn opened his briefcase, pulled out the folder with the photos of Britt and placed them on the desk in front of his friend. “I want you to verify these.”

  Levi flipped through the pictures. He didn’t ask questions or comment. Quinn liked that about Levi. He was very straightforward. “Just so we’re clear, explain ‘verify.’”

  “I want to know Ms. Davis’s involvement with the men in the pictures and when, where and how that condo was trashed.”

  Levi stood. “Consider it done.”

  “I need the info as soon as possible.”

  “You always do.” His friend headed for the door.

  “This is important.”

  Levi looked back with his hand on the doorknob, one eyebrow lifted slightly beneath the brim of his hat. “Aren’t they all?”

  Quinn shrugged. “This one more than most.”

  He nodded and walked through the door just before Quinn’s assistant, Steve Archer, walked in.

  “The Bailey case is on the docket at the end of Nov ember.”

  “Good.” Quinn opened his laptop. “I have a meeting with the D.A. next week and I’m hoping to get a plea bargain. Jerry Bailey doesn’t need to be in prison. He needs help.”

  “Good luck with that. He did kill his stepfather.” Steve was a skeptic about most things.

  Quinn leaned back. “Lloyd Dixon was an abusive drunk who repeatedly beat his wife and her two kids. Jerry shot him trying to stop him from beating and raping his sister. I think he deserves a medal.”

  “If I know you, you’ll make sure he gets it.”

  Steve was fresh out of law school and tended to cast Quinn as a hero, whereas many people vilified defense attorneys. But Quinn only took cases where he felt the defendant was innocent or being railroaded by the D.A.’s office. It was well known that if Quinn took a case, he’d done his homework, and the D.A. had a fight on his hands. These days the D.A.’s office usually listened to him. Not that he always got his way, but he was in there fighting.

  Denise popped her head around the corner. “Deidre has called three times. Those messages are from her.”

  “Are you saying I should call her back?” Quinn asked in a teasing tone.

  “Please.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Or I’ll just answer the phone all day.”

  He winked. “I’ll do it right away. And I’ll need someone to oversee the Rutherford case.”

  “We’re babysitting now?” Steve asked with a touch of cynicism.

  “Anything the judge orders.” Quinn dropped his voice. “Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. I was—”

  Quinn held up a hand. “Never mind. If I need you at the Rutherford condo, you�
�ll be there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This might be a good job for Bea or Gail,” Denise ventured. “They like babies.”

  “Set it up. Whoever it is has to be there at eight on Sunday morning, and, of course, she’ll be off on Monday.”

  “Will do.” Denise headed back to her office.

  And Quinn’s day went on, chaotic and stressful. Through it all he was haunted by Britt’s sad, dark eyes.

  BRITT MET WITH MONA AFTER lunch. Her firm was located in an old house off Congress Avenue that had been converted into offices. It was pleasant, with lots of green plants and homey touches like candles and fluffy pillows.

  Britt sat in a comfy chair gripping a pillow printed with bright red flowers.

  “Are you sure you want to quit your job?” Mona was seated at her white French provincial desk.

  “I’ve been dissatisfied for months with being away from Dillon. I should have quit long ago, and today might not have happened.”

  Mona pushed back her blond hair with a weary hand. “I don’t think so. I got the feeling Mr. Wallis and Mr. Ross had all sorts of ammunition to fire at us. The judge had already made up her mind, though, which is a little suspicious to me.” She touched legal papers on her desk. “I’m drafting an appeal and thinking about filing a complaint against Judge Norcutt. A woman’s job shouldn’t matter. Her mothering capabilities should. The judge didn’t want to hear anything I had to say.”

  Mona was a fighter and Britt liked that about her. “How long will an appeal take?”

  “Too long, so I suppose quitting your job is the best solution. But it bugs the crap out of me that we have to cave in to the judge’s antiquated ideas.”

  “I just want my baby.” Britt stood. “I’m flying to New York in the morning to do the necessary paperwork. I’ll start job hunting when I get back. You have my cell number if you need to contact me.”

  “Hang in there, Britt.”

  “I’m trying.”

  As Britt was leaving the office, her mother called.

  “I finally found Mama,” Carin said.

  “Where was she?” Britt walked out the door to her car.

  “At Enzo’s. Evidently, he called early this morning and said he was sick. Strange I didn’t hear the phone. Anyway, she took him chicken soup and said she might stay the night.”

  “Why didn’t she tell you?”

  “She insisted she left a note, but I can’t find it.”

  “Mom, this sounds strange.” Britt slid into her car.

  “I know. I promised Vera I’d sit with her mother today so she could have a day off, but I plan to pick up Mama later. She can’t spend the night. It’s not allowed.”

  Britt’s mom was always there for everyone. Vera was a neighbor whose mother had had a stroke, and Carin helped out when she could. When Britt was growing up, Carin had been a stay-at-home mom and a homemaker, and she still was. Her husband’s death had shaken them all, and Britt thought getting a job might help Carin. Instead, she continued to help others. And she didn’t need to work. Ten years ago her husband’s car had been hit by an eighteen wheeler whose brakes had malfunctioned. The company made a large financial settlement, enabling Britt to go to college and Carin to take care of Onnie and anyone else who needed it. Her mother was very frugal, making the money last. How Britt wished she had been more like her mom—being there for her child. She pushed the thought away, resolving to be there from now on.

  Backing out of the parking lot, she asked, “Do you want me to check on them?”

  “No, you have enough to deal with.”

  “I have an early flight so I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

  “Okay, baby, and try not to worry.”

  That was almost impossible, Britt decided as she drove home. Inside the apartment she picked up a few of Dillon’s toys, holding them to her chest for a moment before putting them away. Her heart ached and tears weren’t far off. And it was only the first day. How was she going to survive four months without her baby?

  AFTER LOSING A LOT OF THE morning dealing with the Rutherford case, Quinn was working late. Deidre wanted to spend the weekend on her dad’s houseboat on Lake Austin. He wanted to make sure Sunday went smoothly for Britt, so he refused to join Deidre, using work as an excuse, even though it ticked her off. But it wasn’t really an excuse. He had to get all his ducks in a row for his meeting with the D.A. in the Bailey case. For every argument he wanted to have a counterargument.

  A shuffling sound interrupted his thoughts. All his employees had gone for the day and it was too early for the cleaning crew. He heard muffled voices. Clearly, someone was in the outer office. Getting up, he walked around his desk to the door. He paused as he saw two elderly people, a man and a woman. Evidently they were lost.

  “Are you sure this is it, Ona?” the man asked. He was tall, thin, stooped over and was completely bald. The woman was just the opposite, short and round with gray permed hair, support hose and a large purse on one arm. Their backs were to him.

  Quinn stepped forward. “May I help you?”

  The woman swung around, the man more slowly. Quinn froze. In the man’s hand was a gun. And it was pointed at Quinn.

  “What the…”

  “Are you Quentin Ross?” the woman asked in a direct, no-nonsense voice.

  Quinn stared at the gun. It looked big, old and heavy, and he could swear it had rust on it.

  “What are you doing in here and what are you doing with that gun?”

  “Now listen here, mister.” The woman moved closer, her brown eyes narrowed on him. “I’ll ask the questions, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll answer them.”

  Had they escaped from a home or something? An asylum maybe? This was bizarre.

  “Are you Quentin Ross?” the woman asked again, her voice angry now.

  Despite the gun, the two looked fairly harmless. Maybe they just needed a lawyer. “Yes. I’m Quentin Ross.”

  “Figured you’d be some slick sonobitch.” She flicked a glance over his suit, white shirt and tie as if she was looking at dog poop.

  “What?” He was taken aback by the vicious words.

  “Listen up. You’re gonna do exactly what we tell you or Enzo’s gonna shoot you.”

  Quinn’s body tightened. He wasn’t afraid, just getting more annoyed by the minute. “What would that be?”

  “Give Britt back her baby—tonight.”

  Britt.

  Then it dawned on him. The infamous grandmother.

  “I don’t have Britt’s baby. He’s with his father.”

  “But you made it happen. Now make it unhappen.”

  “Ma’am…” He took a step toward her, hoping to make her understand.

  She moved back. “Don’t come a step closer or Enzo will shoot.”

  At that precise moment they heard a snore, and both of them glanced at Enzo. Standing there, he’d fallen asleep, his chin on his chest, the gun still in his hand.

  “Enzo!” the woman shouted.

  He blinked and looked around. “Did we find him?”

  “You idiot.” She jerked the ancient gun from his hand. “I thought I could depend on you.”

  “You can, Ona, but I’m tired after walking up all those stairs.”

  “Why didn’t you take the elevator?” Quinn asked.

  “Because we didn’t want anyone to see us, that’s why, hotshot.” The woman waved the gun at him. “Now are you going to do what we want?”

  Enzo appeared shaky, and Quinn grabbed his arm before he collapsed. “Here.” He pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.”

  “Bless you, son. That’s mighty nice.”

  “He’s not nice, Enzo,” Ona yelled. “He’s the lawyer who took Britt’s baby.”

  “You sonobitch. You shouldn’t have done that. Now we’re gonna have to hurt you,” her companion stated.

  The man couldn’t hurt a cockroach. But Quinn wasn’t so sure about Ona.

  “Enzo, you’re looking a l
ittle pale.” Britt’s grandmother tucked the gun under her arm and opened her suitcase of a purse. “Probably low blood sugar. Here.” She handed him a candy bar. “Eat this.”

  Quinn knew he could overpower them at any time, but he decided to let this play out. Just to humor them. And that was the most insane thing he’d ever done, except for jumping into a swollen creek to save her granddaughter.

  Enzo took a bite and glanced at him. “Got any beer?”

  Quinn had liquor in his office, but he wasn’t offering it to Enzo. That was the last thing the man needed. “No. But I have water. Just a minute.” He went into the small kitchen off Denise’s office and found a bottle of water. He glanced at the phone, knowing he could call the police. But he wasn’t sure what that would accomplish. And he didn’t relish the thought of putting Britt’s grandmother in jail, even if she was off her rocker.

  When he returned, Ona had pulled up a chair next to Enzo, the gun and purse in her lap. He removed the cap and handed Enzo the water, and then carefully reached over for the gun.

  But Ona was too quick. She jerked it away. “Not so fast, hotshot.” She pointed the weapon at his chest.

  “I don’t think that rusty gun will fire,” he told her, not batting an eye.

  “Wanna find out?” A gleam entered her eyes similar to one he’d seen in Britt’s.

  “Fired in 1945,” Enzo said, munching on the candy bar.

  “Go ahead then, shoot me.” Quinn held out his arms, thinking the only way to deal with insanity was with more insanity.

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn and Ona stared at each other.

  Her eyes squinted down the barrel of the gun. “You don’t think I will, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.” He lowered his arms. “You wouldn’t shoot a man in cold blood.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that, hotshot. My Britt’s heart is broken and I aim to change that.”

  Enzo choked, gasping for air. Ona laid the gun on her purse and slapped him on the back.