The Fugitive's Secret Child

by Geri Krotow

  He pulled off to the side of the road and quietly opened his door. He reached under his seat and pulled out the handgun that he always carried.

  Lucky, as if sensing that something was very wrong, growled.

  “Be quiet,” Rico said. “Stay.”

  Then he grabbed a small flashlight from the middle console. Considered his crutches and discarded the idea. His doctor said his ankle could start taking a little weight.

  He limped up the driveway. There was a vintage white Mustang with Tennessee plates and a kid’s car seat in the back. For just a minute, he wondered if it was possible that Georgina had been able to come. But he almost immediately discounted the idea. She was too sick.

  He climbed the two steps to get onto the front porch. There were no rocking chairs to navigate around—those were in the back, where a person could sit and see the lake. He moved close, in an attempt to see inside the cabin through the small slit the almost-closed blinds offered.

  He was pretty sure the family room/kitchen was empty.

  He was going in. He tried the door. Locked.

  No problem. He started to punch in the code on the keypad near the door. Stopped when he heard a noise behind him.

  “Put your hands up,” a female voice said.

  Well, hell. This was interesting.

  The accent wasn’t Colorado. So not a local.

  He considered his options. He was a good shot, and fast, but he wanted to let this play out a little. He slipped his gun into the front of his pants and pulled his shirt to cover it. “I’m putting my flashlight on the ground,” he said. He bent, did what he’d said, then straightened. Then with his hands in the air, he slowly turned.

  It was dark in the mountains because even on moonlit nights, the trees were so tall that they blocked the light. But he’d pointed the beam to try to pick up the woman behind the voice.

  There she was. She stood about fifteen yards away, and he could just make out her frame and what he thought was a rifle.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Rico,” he said.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Just trying to get into this cabin,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m staying here.”

  There was a pause. “That’s impossible,” she said. “I rented it.”

  He knew that wasn’t true. But he was intrigued. “Oh, this isn’t good,” he said. “You don’t think there was a screwup and it got rented to two different people for the same week?”

  She didn’t answer for a long minute. “I don’t know. But I’m already here. You’ll have to find someplace else.”

  He didn’t think so. “When did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday,” she said.

  “I get that I’m the latecomer and I’d like to be a good sport and leave you to it, but I’m in a lot of pain. I don’t think I can go any further tonight.”

  “Pain?”

  “Yeah. Ankle injury. My crutches are in the car and right now, I could use them.”

  Silence. “What kind of injury?”

  “Fracture of the lateral process of the talus.”

  She did not say what the hell, which was what most people said. All she asked was, “How did you do that?”

  “Caught a bad wave while waterskiing.”

  He half expected her to dismiss the injury. A little like his dry cleaner and his barber had done. You play, you pay. Their responses had been some version of that. But she said nothing.

  “Look, do you think I could sit down somewhere?” he said finally.

  Again, it was such a long pause that he wondered if she intended to ever respond. Finally, she said, “Enter the code if you’ve got it.”

  He turned, hoping like hell he hadn’t misjudged the situation and she decided to shoot him in the back. He entered the code, heard a click, and he opened the door. He took five steps in before making a big deal out of collapsing onto the nearest couch.

  She did, indeed, have a rifle. But she didn’t seem comfortable carrying it. He gave that only cursory consideration before examining her more closely. She was...he supposed striking was the best word. Tall, maybe close to five-ten, slim but not skinny. She had some curves. She wore boots that looked new, jeans and a flannel shirt that was not totally buttoned up. He managed to tear his eyes away from that and got stuck on her face. Strong bone structure. Green eyes and fair skin with a smattering of freckles that made him think redhead, but instead, her thick shoulder-length hair was ash-blond. She was very pretty.

  He guessed her age at midthirties. “Hello,” he said. “Thanks for the couch.” He drew in a lungful of air. His cabin smelled like bleach. The cleaning crew he hired would have cleaned it after the last visitor, but he’d never noticed the smell before.

  “Did you have surgery?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. Because it seemed important to her, he leaned down, pulled his jeans up and his sock down. “Three weeks post-op,” he lied, shaving off two weeks.

  She nodded and he caught a quick flicker of unease in her eyes as she quickly glanced toward the second bedroom. There was definitely someone else in the cabin. There were two plates and two glasses drying on a towel next to the sink.

  “This is a heck of a problem,” he said. “I’m really sorry about it.” He stopped. “You’re not allergic to dogs, right?”

  She blinked, as if she was having trouble following him. Shook her head.

  “Great. That’s great. Look, the only thing I know for sure is that I need a place to crash and get my leg up for the night. My dog is in the car and I’ll need to bring him in, too. My info on this place said there were two bedrooms and some couches that pulled out.” He made a pretense of verifying that the one he was sitting on did. “Yep. I’d be happy to just flop here for the night and we can figure this out in the morning.”

  * * *

  What he was suggesting was impossible. He was a stranger.

  But she was fairly confident that he’d told the truth about his injury. The incision was consistent with surgery to fix a fracture of the lateral process of the talus. And that kind of injury could indeed happen in a waterskiing accident. Three weeks post-surgery, he definitely should not have been driving. No wonder his ankle was hurting.

  He was being pretty nice considering that he had to be irritated that there’d been a mix-up with the reservation.

  She’d known this was a possibility. But Melissa, who worked as a home health aide, had made it sound so good. “There’s a cabin, in Colorado,” she’d said. “I don’t know much about it except that one of the patients that I’m assigned to was supposed to go there. But she’s too ill. Just canceled this morning.”

  At first, Laura had discounted it. How the hell was she going to get to Colorado?

  But then Melissa, who’d been assisting the patient with accessing her emails, had offered up the entry code. As well as her ex-husband’s car that was currently in storage. Clovis will never know it’s gone.

  It had seemed like a good option, certainly the best option she had on short notice.

  She hadn’t counted on the rental company being able to get another guest on such short notice. He was apologetic now, but when this man called in the morning, it would become very clear that she was the interloper, not him.

  She should go now. But the truth was, she was exhausted and desperately needed some sleep. She was still recovering from the marathon drive and, quite frankly, it had been horribly stressful to cut Hannah’s long hair. She’d wanted to cry when she saw the long blond curls lying on the floor. Had thought about saving some but then immediately dismissed the idea. She needed to be vigilant about not leaving clues, and a lock of hair would be a stupid mistake. So she summoned her nerve, finished the haircut, swept up the hair and burnt it in the fireplace. Then put a medium brown
dye on Hannah’s remaining short hair and dried it with a hair dryer to keep it smooth.

  Fortunately, Hannah hadn’t seemed to mind any of it. Her best friend at daycare had short brown hair and Hannah had been delighted that they were going to look like twins. Laura knew she’d never see that other child again but said nothing.

  There’d been no opportunity for a nap later, not even when Hannah had slept because Laura had dyed her own hair during that time. She hadn’t wanted the little girl to see her doing it. It would have elicited too many questions, made too big of an impression. Was much better that Hannah woke up and Laura passed off her new hair with a simple, “Now I’m blonde like you used to be. We both changed our hair today.”

  And if she were to leave now, there was no way she’d get Hannah into the car without waking her. Would she go back to sleep right away, or would she be awake for hours, concerned that they were once again in the car?

  How much change and disruption could the little girl take? Taking off in the daylight, after she’d had a good night’s sleep, had to be less startling, less scary.

  Laura wasn’t physically scared of the man. Yes, he was tall and fit but so was she. He had a definite liability with the ankle injury. One well-aimed kick from her in that vicinity would bring him to his knees. But she didn’t want him on the couch. There was a front door and a back door and he’d be squarely between both. Not good if she needed to leave quickly in the middle of the night.

  Why would you need to do that, a little voice nagged at her. She should be safe here. But just in case, she said, “You can stay. There’s no need for you to sleep on the couch. Give me a minute to get settled. The bedroom with the open door will be yours.”

  She waited until he nodded.

  “And just in case you’re wondering,” she added, “I’m a light sleeper. I’m taking my gun with me. If you try to come in, I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Copyright © 2018 by Beverly R. Long

  ISBN-13: 9781488093029

  The Fugitive’s Secret Child

  Copyright © 2018 by Geri Krotow

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