by Rita Herron
Even though the old man hated Mitch now, he had loved his grandson. Mitch packed the baseball cards and other baseball paraphernalia into a box and labeled it to mail to Sally’s father.
He boxed Todd’s clothes next, his heartbreaking at the reality that his son would never wear his favorite rawhide jacket or cowboy boots again. Mitch didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the tears drip down his cheek.
He swiped at them, then carried the boxes to the truck, determined to take care of them that day. But when he returned to Todd’s room and saw the stuffed toys, farm animals, horses and stable that his son had collected, anguish threatened to break him.
On the shelf beside the bed sat Todd’s rock collection. One of Todd’s favorite things to do was skip stones across the pond. He’d collected the smooth, odd shaped rocks as if they were treasures.
Unable to part with them, he boxed the stones to take to his cabin, then packed the toys in another box and slipped them under the bed out of sight. One day he’d donate them to a children’s shelter or hospital, but for now, they were all he had left of his son.
That and the picture he kept in his wallet. He pulled it out, traced a finger over his little boy’s innocent face, and headed out the back to meet his best friend Jack.
KAYLIE WAITED UNTIL DARK, THEN USHERED CECE BACK INTO the car again. Knowing the police were looking for her made traveling during daylight more dangerous.
It also meant that she had to ditch the car Arnold had commandeered for them.
She found a used car lot on the outskirts of a little town called Twin Branches, and talked the owner into trading it for a Pathfinder. Using the fake ID Arnold had given her helped, but she needed to ditch that as well.
If someone on the inside killed Arnold and Rafferty, they might know her new name.
“Mommy, where are we going?” CeCe asked.
Kaylie sighed, weary of running. She wanted to sugarcoat the situation for her daughter, but CeCe would see through a lie.
“I don’t know, honey. Mommy’s trying to make a plan.”
CeCe sniffled. “I wanna go home.”
There was that word again. Home?
But they didn’t have a home now, and no telling when they would. Not until Buckham was caught.
And until she cleared her name.
Another problem added to the mounting pile.
Being a real estate agent had not prepared her for a life on the run.
Christmas lights twinkled along the street signs in Twin Branches, the storefronts decorated with Santas and snowmen, even though it rarely snowed in this part of Texas.
Holiday music wafted from speakers in town and stores, and the toy store and pet shop advertised specials featuring the latest gift ideas. Puppies and kittens were also half priced.
“Mommy, look,” CeCe said. “They have kitties in the store.”
“I see, honey,” Kaylie said.
“Can we stop and get one?”
A pang tugged at Kaylie’s chest. “Not today, CeCe. But maybe soon, once we’re settled back down.”
“But I want one now,” CeCe said, a pout forming on her mouth.
“I understand you do,” Kaylie said. “But, sweetie, kitties don’t travel well.”
CeCe folded her arms. “I’m never gonna get one cause all we do is drive and drive and go and go and go.”
Kaylie gripped the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m doing the best I can.”
CeCe pulled her legs up and propped her folded arms on top of them. “Santa won’t ever find me if we don’t gots a house.”
Kaylie battled tears. “Santa will find you. I promise.”
But CeCe settled into a pout that wouldn’t lift. Kaylie could hardly blame her. She hated running herself and was terrified for their lives.
Poor CeCe’s world had completely crumbled in a matter of minutes.
A For Rent sign on one of the buildings caught her eye, and she had an idea. Properties rarely sold or were bought during the holidays.
Which meant that properties weren’t being shown, owners were too busy with families to check on business, and houses were sitting empty.
She checked the storefronts and discovered a real estate office on the corner. Anxious to see what she could find, she parked in front of the office.
“Stay here,” she told CeCe.
CeCe forgot her pout and sat up, straining to see what her mother was doing as Kaylie slid from the car, snatched one of the free real estate magazines from the display in front of the office, then jumped back in the car.
She shifted, backed out and drove out of town, then stopped at a hamburger joint. She drove through the drive-in and ordered food, then pulled to the back of the dimly lit parking lot and parked.
Happy again, CeCe devoured her burger and fries, then entertained herself, temporarily satisfied with the toy she’d received with her meal, while Kaylie scoured the pages of the real estate magazine.
There were two apartments and three houses listed in town. It would be chancy to squat in a place close to residents and businesses where people might see her coming and going and get suspicious. She needed a place out of town, maybe on a deserted road, some place no one would look or visit, at least until after the holidays ended.
Two different ads caught her eye, one for a Victorian house that actually boasted that it was haunted.
A shiver went up her spine. She and her daughter had enough ghosts haunting them to last a lifetime.
The next—a ranch for sale about ten miles out of town. It was called the Double M, the ad sporting two M’s intertwined.
It had just gone on the market.
That was the kind of place she needed, a house off the grid. But what if someone was still living there?
There was only one way to find out.
She turned onto the road and headed toward the ranch.
THE GUNSHOT PIERCED MITCH’S CHEST, KNOCKING THE BREATH out of him.
Sally screamed. “Mitch!”
“Daddy!” Todd cried from the backseat.
“I’m okay,” he muttered, although he wasn’t okay. He’d been hit and was bleeding out fast. And the goon that had shot him raced up and slammed the side of his vehicle with his truck.
Tires screeched as Mitch swerved. Sally tried to grab the steering wheel, but the Jeep skimmed the guardrail and spun out of control. Mitch pumped the brakes, but they were going too fast, and the SUV crashed through the rail and careened toward the river.
Sally screamed again.
Mitch clenched the steering wheel as the Jeep nosedived into the water. Then everything went black.
CHAPTER THREE
MITCH JERKED AWAKE, PANTING AND SWEATING, THE nightmare so vivid that he heard his wife and son’s screams as if they were in the car that second.
But they were gone.
Grief and sorrow clenched his chest.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, then absentmindedly over the scar on his chest. The doctors assured him he wasn’t to blame, that he’d tried to get his little boy and wife out, but they’d been trapped, and he’d been so weak that he’d lost consciousness from blood loss at the edge of the river.
How could he not blame himself? It was his fault they’d died.
If he could have traded his life for theirs, he would have in a second.
Emotions pummeled him, making bile rise to his throat. God . . . why had he lived?
Was this God’s way of punishing him for not being a better man? Not being a better husband? Not spending enough time with his son?
The week before the shooting, Todd had begged Mitch to take him fishing, but Mitch had been adamant about finishing his latest case. A sadistic man named Maurice Willingham had shot and killed two men, but escaped detection.
Until Mitch had convinced Willingham’s wife to turn on him.
He’d made the arrest, proud that he’d finally locked the man up.
Willingham had hated Mitch for that and vowed retribution.
Shockingly, the bastard had made bail. As he walked out of jail, he’d promised to make Mitch suffer.
Mitch had understood the warning. Fearing Sally and Todd were in danger, he’d raced home, ushered them in the car so he could protect them.
But Willingham had help, an accomplice who’d followed Mitch and fired that bullet into Mitch’s chest.
Thunder rumbled outside, accompanied by the sound of horses whinnying. He should have put them in the barn earlier.
His mouth tasted gritty and dry from the Jack Daniels, and his head was pounding like a jackhammer was beating behind his eyes. He reached for some aspirin and water, but thought he heard an engine rumble in the distance.
Who the hell would be coming out to the Double M this time of night?
Curious, he rolled off the bed, staggering as he shuffled across the room, grabbed his rifle and walked outside.
From the front porch of the cabin which sat on a hill overlooking the ranch, he could make out the farmhouse in the distance. A few stars fought through the storm clouds, glittering against the inky darkness, the moon a sliver of pale gold light.
But twin beams from an SUV flashed across the land, then died as the car rolled to a stop. Mitch’s detective instincts surged to life.
He’d just put the ranch on the market. Had some teens seen the ad and decided to use the place as a party house?
Then again, one of the prison escapees was still on the loose.
He propped his rifle by the side of the door, stepped inside, grabbed his night binoculars, walked back onto the porch, and peered through the lenses to see what was going on.
The driver’s door opened, a pair of jean-clad legs emerging.
A woman’s legs, he realized, as that sliver of moonlight streaked her golden hair.
Mitch’s gut tightened. She was a tiny little thing. Was she lost?
She stood by the car and glanced in all directions, craning to see up the dirt drive as if she was looking for someone. Then she leaned inside the car and removed a pistol.
Clutching it to her, she eased her way around to the side of the farmhouse near the carport, again searching the area.
If she’d seen the ad regarding the sale, why would she come out here in the middle of the night to look at the house?
And why was she carrying a gun?
Returning to the front of the house, she climbed the porch steps, once again glancing around, except this time he saw the expression in her eyes and realized she was nervous.
She peered through the windows, then tiptoed toward the front door and tried it. She looked frustrated that it wouldn’t open.
Rubbing at her shoulders as if she was tired, she walked around to the side of the house, jiggled a window, then another. The lock on the laundry room window was broken, and she pushed it open.
Carefully she tucked the gun into the waist of her jeans, hoisted herself up and crawled through the window to the inside.
Mitch scowled as suspicions kicked in. She was breaking in to his house? Why? There was nothing to steal.
A second later, a light flipped on in the hallway, then she exited through the front door. Anger rose inside him, and he reached for his rifle.
He didn’t care who the hell she was. He was going to tell her to get the hell out of his house.
He headed down the steps, keeping the binoculars trained on her. Dust blew in the air as the storm clouds kicked in.
The woman ran to the back door of the Pathfinder, opened it, and scooped up a little girl in her arms
Mitch’s heart stuttered at the sight of the sleeping child, stopping him in his tracks. The towheaded nymph curled against the woman, one hand clutching a rag doll, the other a little plastic train.
The woman hurried inside with the child, flicking another light on in the foyer as she found her way up the stairs. When Todd’s light flickered on, Mitch’s chest squeezed with a sharp pang.
She was putting the little girl to bed in his son’s room.
Seconds later, she ran outside, got in the car, started it and drove it around to the back of the farmhouse where it was hidden from the road.
Whatever the woman had done, or whatever she was running from—and it was obvious that she was running and scared—he couldn’t confront her tonight. Not when that little girl looked so innocent.
He’d find out what was going on first, then he’d decide what to do about his unwanted guests.
KAYLIE DRAGGED HER SUITCASE AND CECE’S PINK CINDERELLA bag up the stairs to the bedrooms. Guilt niggled at her for invading another person’s home, but as far as she could tell from her brief run through the house, no one was living here.
There were no clothes or personal items anywhere, not in the closets or bedrooms. No groceries in the kitchen or refrigerator either, indicating no one had been here in a while.
She wondered who owned the ranch. A number was listed in the paper but no real estate agency, so it must be for sale by owner.
Her shoulders ached as she dropped CeCe’s bag in the smaller bedroom. The room was painted a deep blue suggesting it had been a boy’s room at one time. CeCe wouldn’t care.
Her daughter just needed a warm bed and safe place to sleep.
And they both needed a break from running.
Hope budded as she rolled her suitcase into the other bedroom. Maybe they could lay low here until after the holidays, and she could give CeCe a real Christmas.
Surely by then the police would have Buckham back in custody. Although the news reporter said his attorney had evidence he was innocent . . . And why did they suspect that she’d hurt Joe?
Her head swirled with ugly possibilities. What was she going to do? Arnold was dead and Rafferty might be, too. Who could she turn to for help?
Sick with worry, she hurried down the stairs and locked the house, then tiptoed back to the second floor, carrying her gun to the bedside table. The antique four-poster bed and dresser reminded her of her grandmother’s house, stirring a sense of nostalgia for lost family and the future she’d thought she and Joe had built together.
That life was gone.
Wiping at tears, she fought the memory of Joe’s funeral. It seemed like she was destined to bury everyone she loved. She’d lost her parents at seventeen, her grandmother at twenty and now her husband.
She could not lose her little girl.
Determination made her grind her teeth. CeCe didn’t deserve any of this, not watching her father die or living on the run or being scared all the time.
Somehow she had to make it up to her.
The bed had been stripped of sheets, but she dug into a closet in the master bathroom, found a set of plain white ones and made the bed.
Exhausted, she tucked the pistol under her pillow, stripped her clothes, tugged on pajamas and crawled into bed. Thunder rumbled outside, the sound of a light rain splattering against the roof of the house.
Tomorrow she’d figure out a way to clear her name.
Tonight she had to get some sleep.
She closed her eyes, grateful for a reprieve from the road. But instead of sugar plum fairies, reindeer and tree trimming, images of dead bodies—Joe’s, then Arnold’s—danced through her head.
Then her own . . .
She shut out the image. She couldn’t die or go to jail for a crime she hadn’t committed.
She had to survive to take care of CeCe.
MITCH TRIED TO SLEEP, BUT QUESTIONS ABOUT THE WOMAN who’d invaded his house needled him, and he walked outside for air.
He didn’t like them there, not in the home he’d made for his own family.
Yet the woman looked scared. For God’s sake, she’d snuck inside in the middle of the damn night with a gun as if she was running for her life.
Or from the law.
Still, how could he force them to leave when he didn’t know if she was a criminal—or if she and the little girl were in danger.
He’d failed his own wife and son.
The
reminder nearly sent him to his knees. He clutched the porch rail, fighting the grief eating him inside out. How could he keep breathing when every fiber of his being was on fire with pain?
He glanced back at the farmhouse, the horses finally settling down and quieting as they hovered near the barn.
Dammit to hell. He didn’t need to take on someone else’s troubles. This woman and her kid were not his problem.
Yes, they are. They’re in your house.
The question was why?
A dozen different scenarios rolled through his head. Maybe they were just traveling and ran out of money and needed a place to sleep for one night. The lady could be in financial trouble. Or hell, someone could have stolen her credit cards and wallet and she couldn’t very well drive all night, and she was just trying to get back to family.
She might have a husband or boyfriend somewhere waiting on them.
Hopefully she’d hightail it out come dawn, and he could forget about her and that little girl with the rag doll and that little plastic train toy.
The child had freckles on her nose. He’d seen them through the binoculars as she’d hugged up to her mother.
Hugged up to her the way Todd used to hug him when he had a bad dream during the night.
Todd had loved trains and toy animals and his cowboy boots. Sometimes at night, he slid in bed beside Mitch, and Mitch told him stories about camping out, roasting marshmallows and hunting arrowheads on the ranch.
He’d promised to take Todd camping, but they’d never gotten the chance. Todd had died two days before they’d planned to leave. Their bedrolls had been packed, camping gear stashed in the back of the Jeep, when they’d crashed.
The crime scene photos had shown marshmallows floating in the river beside Todd’s body.
Mitch would never be able to erase that image from his head.
A streak of lightning zigzagged across the top of the trees surrounding the house, illuminating the window of the master bedroom.
Sorrow and regret mingled with anger at the damn woman for making him feel again. For making him worry about someone when all he wanted was to drown his grief in a bottle until he was so numb he’d never feel anything again.