Legacy Reclaimed

by Robin Patchen

  Dylan walked Chelsea to his passenger door and opened it for her, then took her elbow and helped her inside.

  Her clipped “Thank you” were the first words she’d spoken since Dylan’s announcement in the restaurant. He hoped she believed him, because he wasn’t sure he could turn her loose now, knowing the danger she was in.

  Was she angry or simply thinking? Either way, the tension between them was thick.

  He drove to the drive-through ATM, then aimed the truck toward the food bank.

  “You’re right.” She faced forward, hands clasped in her lap. “My parents wouldn’t want me to risk my life. Daddy adored me. And Mum… even though she sent me away, she loved me. She would never…”

  Dylan turned into the food bank’s lot and headed toward the only Jeep there, which looked a good two decades old. Once next to it, he shifted into park. “You’ll follow my advice?”

  “For now. Eventually, I need to resume my life. I need to do my duty to Hamilton and to my parents. But I will lie low and let you investigate. Perhaps, if you can figure out what’s going on quickly, you can keep me safe.”

  Perhaps. Her vote of confidence was considerably underwhelming.

  He handed her his notebook and pen. “Write down your phone number—”

  “Don’t forget. My phone has no service.”

  “Right. Good point. Okay, write down your uncle’s name and phone number, and those of everyone who might have heard about your plan to go up the mountain on Monday.”

  “I only remember Mr. Andris and Mrs. Blanchette, and I don’t have their phone numbers.” She started writing. “The others who were there… I don’t know their names, but Mrs. Blanchette will. And Uncle Frank can tell you everyone who was at the house on Sunday.”

  When she handed back the notebook, he glanced at what she’d written, then tossed it into the console between their seats. He took the cash he’d gotten from the ATM and held it out to her. “For groceries.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I’ll put it on your bill.”

  “Oh.” Taking the money, she smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

  “Get what you need and head back to your cabin. I’m going to make some calls. I’ll be in touch when I have some information.”

  “My phone doesn’t work. Will you come by today?”

  Today, tomorrow… Who knew when he’d have something of value to share? But this wasn’t a missing person or insurance fraud case. Someone was trying to kill her. It wasn’t as if he had weeks to find out who. “I’ll come by this afternoon to tell you what I’ve learned. Do me a favor and stay at the cabin where you’re safe, okay? I didn’t recognize you, but others might, and the last thing we want is for your whereabouts to become public knowledge.” If he’d known who she was before they went to McNeal’s, he’d have insisted they find a drive-through and eat somewhere private, but it was too late for that now.

  She opened her door, but he stilled her with a hand on her wrist. “Let me come around. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  He expected her to argue, but she simply nodded. Of course, someone with her money would be accustomed to having people open doors for her.

  He hurried around the pickup, took her hand, and helped her out. And he wouldn’t think about the warmth of the little skin between the bandages. She was a client, not a date. And there was no way someone like her would ever think of someone like him as anything more than an employee.

  He’d have to keep that fact at the forefront. So what if she was attractive? She was out of his league, and, anyway, he’d never had any desire to run with the rich and famous of the world.

  She unlocked the Jeep’s door, and he helped her inside.

  The pain in her face when she moved prompted him to ask, “You need me to go with you to get groceries?”

  “I can manage. Thank you, though.”

  He closed the door and headed to his truck.

  Behind him, the Jeep’s engine turned over. Whined. Died.

  Uh-oh.

  She didn’t look his way. Just tried again.

  And again, the engine turned over, then died.

  Inside the car, Chelsea’s head lowered to the steering wheel.

  He walked to the window and tapped it. She lowered the glass.

  “You think it’s out of gas?”

  “It was full when Uncle Frank gave it to me, but it’s a guzzler.” She glanced at the dash, and so did he. According to that, the Jeep had a quarter tank.

  So, not gas. The window worked, and the engine had turned over, so not the battery. He could take a look at it. His dad had taught him enough about cars to manage regular maintenance and simple repairs.

  But one glance at Chelsea and he knew tinkering with the engine would have to wait. Tears shone in her red-rimmed eyes. She swallowed, swallowed again. Her porcelain skin had paled to a sickly pallor. Apparently, the broken car was one burden more than she could handle.

  “Are you sick?”

  “I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”

  She’d hardly touched her breakfast, but after not eating for days, with the injuries, with no sleep…

  He opened her door. “I’ll drive you home. The Jeep’ll be safe here until I can come back and see what’s wrong with it.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll just have it towed.” She slid from the high seat without argument and let him lead her back to his truck and help her in. It was still running, the AC on high. “I’m going to tell Vanessa about the Jeep so she doesn’t have it towed. And let her know you’re safe and sound, that I haven’t murdered you and fed you through my wood chipper.”

  That got a smile. “You look like the kind of guy who has a wood chipper.”

  “Of course.” He winked. “Lumberjack’s not just the name of my favorite breakfast.”

  He jogged inside the building, told the food bank manager Chelsea’d be leaving the Jeep, then jogged back to his truck and climbed in.

  “The cabin is on Rim Road.”

  “Don’t you want to stop for groceries?”

  She sighed, shook her head. “I should. I’m sorry to be such trouble, but my energy has worn out for the day, and I feel a bit ill. I’ll…”

  But she didn’t finish the sentence. Which made sense. He’d only given her fifty dollars, and that wasn’t in a bank account. She couldn’t order anything online, including an Uber, without money in her bank account or a credit card. She could call a taxi if her phone worked and there were taxis in Nutfield. But that would eat up much of the money he’d just given her. And all that was irrelevant because she didn’t have a phone.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll bring supper this evening and fill you in on what I’ve learned. Will that work?”

  “I’m not usually so much trouble.”

  She was heir to a fortune. He seriously doubted she tended toward low maintenance.

  He followed her directions and was surprised when she directed him to one of the older—and more dilapidated—cabins that rimmed Clearwater Lake. Surrounded by towering pines and skinny birches, the A-frame had worn siding, a sagging front porch, and overgrown weeds concealing the foundation. Definitely not where he’d expected an heiress to stay, no matter what the circumstances.

  But she had stayed here—and gone without food—for two days. She was tougher than she looked.

  He glanced at her. Her head rested against the window beside her.

  He parked in the short gravel drive, killed his engine, and jogged around to open her door.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I already owe you so much.”

  “It’s not a problem.” And it wasn’t. He’d just finished up a case and had no others on the back burner. Seemed God had cleared Dylan’s calendar just for Chelsea.

  She took his hand and stepped out of the truck. She swayed, gripped the door until she got her balance. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Injuries, lack of sleep, digesting food after two days. I think you need a
nap.”

  “Quite.” She looked up at him. Her smile pulled tight across her lips. “I’ll hear from you later, then?”

  He started toward the cabin. “I’m going to see you safely inside. Then I’ll go.”

  She didn’t argue, just walked beside him. They climbed two steps to the door while she pulled keys from her purse with shaky fingers.

  He took them, opened the screen, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and stood back to let Chelsea walk in.

  And then, a scraping sound from deeper inside.

  Chelsea gasped.

  Dylan yanked her back.

  He pulled the door toward him.

  A gunshot split the silence.

  Something pricked his scalp, but he ignored it as he slammed the door shut, ducked low, and pushed Chelsea into the weeds beside the house. “Stay down!” She tumbled, but he didn’t look to see where she landed.

  He pulled his handgun from its holster on his belt.

  He wasn’t stupid enough to walk back into that trap. He’d do what he had to do to protect Chelsea. He’d prefer not to die in the effort.

  He crouched low, jumped off the steps, and rounded the house. The A-frame offered little cover as he turned toward the back. There were zero windows on the slanted side to peek through.

  He didn’t want to leave Chelsea unprotected.

  He didn’t want to let the shooter escape.

  His cell phone was in the car. Surely somebody in one of the nearby cabins had called 911 at the sound of the gunshot.

  It would take a few minutes for a cruiser to get here.

  Dylan debated, decided he’d best stay near the front of the house where he could protect Chelsea.

  He inched back that direction, crouched low.

  Listened. Heard distant cars, boat motors. Squirrels chattering in the treetops. Birds trilling. The rustle of leaves.

  No human sounds.

  Too quiet.

  Where had the shooter gone? He wouldn’t stay inside and wait for the police.

  Had he crept out the back? Had Dylan missed it?

  He turned his focus in that direction. Saw nothing.

  He was too exposed here. He rushed to the trees that separated this cabin from the next. Better vantage point.

  He couldn’t see Chelsea, but she should be hidden in the weeds on the far side of the steps leading to the front door.

  She’d better not have left that spot.

  A door creaked. The sound came from the back of the cabin.

  Dylan crept that direction, using trees for cover. He’d almost reached the back corner when a man bolted outside and headed the opposite direction.

  Dylan chased, itched to fire, but there were people in the surrounding cabins. Children. He wouldn’t risk hurting anyone.

  The man was twenty yards ahead, at least. He was fast as he dodged trees, hurdled a group of children’s toys behind the neighboring cabin.

  Dylan ran after him. Prayed he’d been alone.

  If he hadn’t, then Dylan had just left Chelsea exposed.

  He slowed.

  The shooter turned. Aimed his gun.

  Dylan dove behind a tree.

  A gunshot rang out, whizzed past.

  He wouldn’t risk a shootout. He waited until he heard the man running again. Then Dylan bolted back to the A-frame.

  He rounded the house, peered at the place where he’d left Chelsea.

  She was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Chelsea crouched in the bushes, cowering after the sound of that second gunshot.

  Let Dylan be okay.

  Someone crashed through the bushes, but she dared not look. If Dylan had been shot—please, no—that could be the shooter.

  Staying beside the cabin had seemed foolish. If the shooter had stepped out the front door, he’d have seen her. So, seconds after Dylan had pushed her to safety, she’d crawled into the woods between Daddy’s cabin and the one next door. No cars in the driveway, or she’d have run over there and begged to use a phone to call the police. There were no cabins on the opposite side of the little road, and the next one was a good hundred yards away.

  Whose footsteps was she hearing? Dylan’s? The shooter’s?

  Her adrenaline pumped. She had to get out of there. Had to hide. If it was the killer, if he found her here…

  “Chelsea?”

  Dylan’s voice? Sounded like it, but did she dare look?

  “It’s me.” She could hear the tension, like the low buzz of an electric wire, beneath the calm words. “It’s Dylan. We have to hurry.”

  Dylan. The killer wouldn’t know his name.

  She peeked.

  He stood fewer than ten feet away. When she moved, he met her eyes, gestured toward the pickup. “Hurry.”

  She stood, stumbled on her broken foot, barely righted herself.

  Dylan scooped her up as if he were lifting a child and ran to his truck.

  A gunshot.

  She shrank, buried her head in the cotton of his T-shirt.

  He yanked open the door and deposited her on the floor. “Stay there.” He vaulted onto the seat above her and, staying low, pulled the door closed. He lifted the armrest, slid across, and landed in the driver’s seat, all in a matter of seconds.

  Another gunshot. This one hit the truck. She felt the vibration.

  He cranked the engine, backed out. Gravel spun as he hit the gas.

  Another gunshot. She didn’t feel that one hit anything.

  Dylan drove.

  She stayed crouched on the floorboards, arms over her head. Cowering like a child.

  Well, cowering like a woman who’d just been shot at.

  She heard a phone ringing through the speakers. Then, “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  “Gunshots on Clearwater Lake. Rim Road. Don’t know the exact address. Shooter between five-eleven and six-one, slender, wearing black jeans and black hoodie. Didn’t get a look at his face except to see he had a large nose.”

  He reported what he knew, gave his phone number and, despite the operator’s objections, hung up.

  Dialed again.

  “Nutfield PD.”

  “Detective Nolan, please. It’s Dylan O’Donnell.”

  “One moment.”

  When the on-hold music started, Dylan said, “You’re safe now, Chelsea. You can come up.”

  She was too embarrassed to look at him as she climbed into the seat and clicked on her seatbelt.

  He said, “I expected to find you by the house. Why did you—?”

  “This is Nolan.”

  The man’s voice came through the speakers too loudly, and Dylan adjusted the volume. “It’s Dylan. You just got a report of gunshots at the lake.”

  She was so cold. She wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered.

  “A couple of calls.” The detective had a Southern accent and a serious tone. “You know anything about it?”

  “Hold on.” Dylan turned off the air conditioner, reached in the backseat, and snatched a jacket. He placed it over her. “You okay?”

  Her teeth chattered. She was going into shock. She nodded, unsure of how to answer. Unsure of what the answer was.

  Dylan spoke to the detective. “I have a client, just met her this morning. She was staying in the cabin. Someone shot at us.”

  “Y’all okay? Anybody hurt?”

  He glanced at her. “Did I hurt you when I pushed you? Do you need a doctor?”

  “I wasn’t injured.”

  Dylan said to the detective, “We’re fine. Can we meet somewhere outside of downtown? My client’s—”

  “You’re not fine.” Chelsea was having a hard time focusing, but… “You have blood here.” She reached across the armrest and touched the blood dripping onto Dylan’s forehead. “Oh… Were you shot?” Her voice pitched high against her will. “Did he hit you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Were you shot?” the detective asked.

  “No, no.” Dyl
an touched the wound, looked at his fingers, which came away red. “I think… I wasn’t shot. I’d definitely remember that. It’s just a flesh wound.”

  Silence on the phone.

  Chelsea asked, “From what?”

  He shot her a look. “I’m fine. Eric?”

  “You need a hospital?” Eric asked.

  Chelsea opened the glove compartment and found a pile of napkins from a fast food restaurant. She handed them to him.

  Dylan pressed one against the wound. “It’s nothing. Head wounds bleed like crazy. Maybe just a bandage. Where can we meet?”

  “I’m at the station.”

  “My client is well known,” Dylan said, “and her face is recognizable. I’d rather not broadcast her whereabouts.”

  Chelsea didn’t think her face was all that recognizable, but she didn’t argue. She had no desire to be surrounded by strangers right now, even if they were all cops.

  “Meet me at my house,” Eric said. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Kelsey can dress that wound for you.”

  “See you there.” Dylan ended the call, made a U-turn, then looked at the bloody napkin. She took it, handed him another. “The first bullet hit the doorframe, and it splintered. I think a piece of wood hit me.”

  “Does it hurt terribly?”

  He pressed the clean napkin to his temple. “I didn’t even know I was wounded until you mentioned it. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She was warmer, feeling herself again. The nausea from earlier had passed. Had the adrenaline cured her? Or perhaps getting shot at had simply put the little bit of stomach discomfort lower on her list of worries.

  “I told you to stay put,” Dylan said.

  “I felt too exposed there.”