Wyatt

by Susan May Warren

  Her words filtered in, found his bones. “Thanks.”

  Tate followed him to the door, then stepped with him out into the hallway. Closed the door behind him. “You okay?”

  Wyatt nodded. “I think so. I…I don’t know. It’s big, you know? Being a dad?”

  Tate considered him. “Yeah. Really big. But not super surprising. Coco and you belong together.”

  He stared at Tate’s grin, unmarred by judgment or even doubt, and something moved inside him, and Jace’s voice rose.

  You will not be free of the striving until you hear the voice of your true Father telling you that you are loved. You are delighted in. You are enough, Wyatt.

  “Wy—what’s up? You’re usually so…I don’t know. Camera ready, I guess. But you look like you want to punch someone. I’m still faster than you, but I’m wearing a suit, so…”

  “I’m not…if I want to hit anyone, it’s me.” Wyatt drew in a breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. When Coco told me about Mikka, I was…yeah, shocked. And then excited—he’s a great kid. But then I got to the hospital and…”

  “I’m sorry he’s sick.”

  “It’s not that—or just that. I mean, yeah, it’s horrible. And I hate to think of what he’ll have to go through. And I’m ready to do whatever it takes for him, and there’s a huge part of me that sees me sitting beside him and even giving him blood or whatever, but…then there’s another part of my life. The part I’ve worked myself to the bone to get for the last twenty years and now suddenly, it’s here, and I have it. And I’m just having a hard time reconciling them. Or choosing.”

  “Do you have to choose?”

  “Don’t I? If Mikka’s sick, he can’t travel with me. And maybe…I mean, I know guys leave their families all the time, but…I want to be there for him. I want to be a good dad.”

  “You will be a good dad. A great dad. But here’s a news flash—you don’t have to figure everything out right now. Just…show up. God has your back. Trust Him to work it out.”

  “What’s happened to you?”

  Tate grinned. “Maybe the same thing that happened to you. I found my happy ending.”

  “You’re such a sap.”

  “I’m not the one who has a forum for my adoring fans. That you check regularly.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  Yeah, he did. Because Coco was usually there.

  Tate laughed, something of chagrin in his voice. “Dad would love to see this. Me, the troublemaker, engaged. Wyatt, the superstar, raising his own little superstar.”

  Wyatt the superstar? He frowned at Tate. “I’m not the superstar.”

  “Whatever, Mr. Blue Ox. Dad would shut himself in the den to watch your Bobcat games, and if we disturbed him, he’d send us out to the barn. Thankfully, I wasn’t around much for that part. But we all knew who Dad’s favorite was.”

  Tate winked. Then he turned to one of the guys standing by the door. “Contact Swamp and tell him to give my brother a ride to the hospital.”

  He slapped Wyatt on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow at the rally.” Then he let himself back into the room.

  We all knew who Dad’s favorite was?

  Wyatt had taken the elevator down, and Tate’s friend, Swamp, had met him in the lobby. He had led Wyatt out to an SUV in the lot, and now he wove through the city, turning finally onto Sand Point Way.

  Swamp pulled up to the darkened taxi entrance near the side of the hospital.

  Wyatt got out. “Thanks.”

  Swamp lifted a hand and drove off.

  The place was quiet, the hallway dark as Wyatt walked toward the main lobby. He noticed a light on in the coffee shop down the hall, a female barista packing up a display of stuffed animals. He dismissed the idea of a cup of coffee and followed the tile, scattered with geometric ocean life, to the elevator and took it up to the fourth floor.

  Mikka’s room was dark, and it took a second for him to make out his mother sitting in the recliner reading something on her phone. Mikka lay on the bed, asleep. Wyatt eased the door open a bit wider.

  “Ma?” he whispered.

  She turned and offered a soft smile. “Wyatt. Honey. I knew you’d come back.”

  He dropped his duffel bag on the floor, quietly. “Yeah. About that…I…” He ran a hand behind his neck. “So—”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. I know this darling boy is your son, Wyatt. And I don’t need to know the details, but he’s a joy and a delight. I’m thrilled to be a grandma.”

  Huh.

  She got up, walked over to Wyatt, and put her arms around his waist. “And I love you. So just take a breath.”

  Oh. Ma. His arms went around her. “I love you too.”

  She looked up. “And Coco?”

  “You know how I feel about Coco.”

  “Yes, Number One, I do.” She let him go.

  “Where is she, by the way?”

  “Downstairs. She left to use the internet café just a little bit ago. She’ll be right back.”

  Right.

  He walked over to Mikka, then eased into the chair by his bedside. He could probably use more ice. “How is he?”

  “He’s good. He had a lumbar puncture today. They got the results back. Sarai says that he has all the markers for ALL—Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.”

  He took that in, braced himself for the impact, and nodded. “So, now what?”

  “Chemotherapy first, to kill the white blood cells, and then, maybe a stem cell transplant. But Sarai said she’ll go over all of this with you tomorrow.”

  “I guess I should get tested to see if I’m a match.”

  Her hand landed on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, son.”

  “No, I’m sorry, Ma.” He squeezed her hand. “I know…well, I stepped over a line with Coco and—”

  “Son. You need to let that go. Yes, it was a life-altering decision, but you know, God is still in control. He didn’t take His eyes off you that day and say, ‘Ooh, whoops. Now Wyatt is off the rails.’ He’s been with you—and Coco—every step of the way, and now…now He’s brought you back together to face this. With each other. And with Him, if you’ll let Him.”

  She leaned against the bed, facing him. “I’ve been sitting here for the past few hours trying to think what Orrin would say to you.”

  “He’d be disappointed.”

  “Oh, Wy. You don’t know your father at all. Sure, he would have been sad that you stole from you and Coco that connection that comes from the security of marriage, but in truth, he was always more interested in your heart than your actions. For out of the heart is birthed your actions.”

  “I don’t know, Ma. He once told me that I needed to change my ways or change my name. And then he sent me away. So—”

  “Is that what you think? That your father didn’t want you?”

  He looked at Mikka.

  “Your father sent you away because he believed in you. He knew you had potential to be great and he didn’t want to stand in your way.”

  Wyatt shook his head.

  “Oh, son. You are so like your father. Your passion, your big heart, your drive. Your father saw himself in you, and he didn’t want to keep you from your dreams. He was your biggest fan.”

  His mouth tightened around the edges.

  “Do you still have your father’s Bible?”

  He glanced at her. And for some reason he didn’t want to admit it, but, “It’s in my duffel bag.”

  A slow smile lit her face. “You carry it with you.”

  He looked past her, toward the window, the lights of the skyline.

  “You might consider reading it. Especially the inside cover.” Then she got up, gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I’m going down the hall to find a vending machine.”

  He watched her leave through the reflection in the window. Sat for a moment, then reached down and dragged his duffel bag over.

  The leather Bible was old, thin, and worn. An NIV version, the co
ver flimsy and tattered. He’d watched his father carry it to church with him for—well, as long as he could remember. In the mornings he was up before Wyatt, sitting in his leather chair by the soaring stone fireplace in the great room, light splashing upon the pages, his readers down on his nose.

  Wyatt opened the first page. To Orrin from Dad. Matthew 10:39. Remember, that whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for the sake of the Lord will find it.

  Wyatt turned the next page.

  A prayer list.

  And his name was at the top.

  Not Reuben. Not Knox. Not Tate or Ford. Not even RJ, the princess. But Wyatt’s name, squeezed in at the top of the long list.

  And next to his name, a verse. Matthew 3:17.

  Wyatt turned to the gospel, found the verse, and his breath clogged in his chest.

  “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”

  He had nothing. Read the verse again.

  And again.

  Jace barreled into his head. He wanted to give you what they didn’t have…a look at his heart.

  Aw, Dad. Wyatt pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, rubbing away the grit in them. But the burning continued. He was your biggest fan.

  No. How could—

  A whimper from the bed opened Wyatt’s eyes. Mikka was moaning, as if caught in a bad dream.

  The door opened and Gerri came into the room.

  Mikka cried out again.

  “Oh,” she said and moved toward the bed.

  “I got this, Ma,” Wyatt said.

  “I know you do, son.”

  Then he slid onto the bed with Mikka. The poor kid was shaking, still dreaming hard, so Wyatt pulled him against his chest, smoothing his hair. “Shh.”

  Mikka shook against him, fighting him, but Wyatt held him tighter. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s going to be okay.”

  Finally, his body began to still.

  “That’s right, little man. Go back to sleep. Rest. Daddy’s here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  13

  She just needed a distraction.

  Coco sat on a rough-hewn picnic table, her hands tied behind her back.

  The arching hemlock and cedar trees cut off any warmth, the morning dew seeping in through the grimy Blue Ox jersey and into her bones to keep her shivering.

  From the hue of the pewter gray sky, it had to be early.

  Someone had to have figured out she was missing by now.

  The scant wind stirred a pine fragrance into the air and blew ash from the blackened, lifeless firepit. Dead pine needles littered the spongy ground. Parked near it all sat a teardrop camping trailer.

  A dirt trail led away from their camping area, and Coco eyed it, gauging the distance between her and the lunatic who was pacing near the firepit, mumbling to himself.

  She hadn’t gotten a good look at him last night—and thanks to whatever drug he’d given her, the memory was hazy at best. But in the meager light of dawn, he embodied the definition of crazy terrorist, at least in her mind.

  Her panicked mind.

  White. Deeply tattooed arms, gauged ears, and a deep port-wine stain up his neck. He wore a two-day grizzle, his hair almost military short, and bore the build of someone who still took the time to work out.

  When he wasn’t plotting evil schemes and kidnapping women out of hospitals.

  At least she was out of the grimy, soiled trunk. She’d tried not to let herself drift back to the bathroom in Russia, not to let the darkness find her pores, the nightmares find her soul.

  She’d spent the past half hour fiddling with the duct tape strapping her wrists together. The fact that he hadn’t bound her feet suggested that even if she did try to run, she wouldn’t get far.

  He turned abruptly and stalked over to her. Considered her. He had feral breath, cracked, bloodshot eyes, and fit every nightmare of kidnapper her father had seeded in her.

  She drew in a breath, trying not to cower, but she’d already made up her mind.

  If he tried to rape her, she’d survive. She refused to become a statistic, a random Jane Doe body found in the woods someday, half eaten by wolves, the victim of a rape-murder.

  She wasn’t going to abandon Mikka. Not when she was all he had.

  God, please—

  Except, maybe she was on her own, despite Gerri’s words to her. You are not alone. God is with you. He will rescue you.

  She wasn’t going to wait around and test out that hypothesis.

  And sure, her head still spun, her muscles screaming, still flush with toxins, but if she had to run all the way back to Seattle, all the way back to Mikka, well, hello, she was a survivor.

  Her father had taught her that.

  Her captor cursed and turned away from her, stalking over to his squatty, teardrop camouflage-painted trailer.

  She took off.

  Not down the trail to civilization, but toward the edge of the forest. The dark, tangled forest.

  Step one—get away and hide.

  She’d been perfecting that act for most of her life. Maybe she didn’t know what came next.

  Live?

  “Hey!” Her captor must have seen her escape, and he called her a nasty name as she hit the edge of the woods and plunged in. She pushed past foliage and jumped downed trees, her feet sinking into the spongy soil.

  A branch slapped her face, and she winced as blood pooled in the corner of her mouth.

  Fast. Quiet.

  Desperate.

  The dawn was peeling away her safety, sending shafts of pale light into the forest, thick with the loamy scent of dead red alder and quaking aspen leaves.

  Behind her, she heard the heavy footfalls of her captor. Shunted, angry breaths.

  The underbrush wetted her pants legs, and she ran off-balance, her head swimming.

  Run. For Mikka. For Wy—

  She tripped over the root of a hemlock tree. With nothing to protect her from the fall, she hit the dirt, hard. Her chin banged on a downed tree, her body bouncing off the ground, slamming back.

  Her captor leaped on her, pinning her.

  She screamed, writhing. “Get off me!”

  He clamped a hand over her mouth, brought his close. “It don’t matter if you scream. Nobody’s around to hear you.”

  Then to prove it, he pulled his hand away.

  Laughed.

  It was throaty and deranged and slid like a knife under her skin. He grabbed her by the jersey and pulled her up, vising the back of her neck. “Fate’s on my side.”

  He pushed her through the woods. “I couldn’t believe it when I pulled up and there you were. Dressed in your boyfriend’s jersey, like a sign.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She jerked, trying to get away from him, and he released her neck, grabbing her arm instead.

  “You shouldn’t lie, little girl. I know Wyatt Marshall is your boyfriend. I heard him tell his brother he wanted to marry you.”

  Marry?

  She didn’t react, but…what?

  “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. It’s perfect. Wyatt Marshall, the golden boy of hockey. I followed him from the hotel but I still hadn’t worked out what to do when I pulled up to the entrance. And then I saw you standing there at the ATM, in his Blue Ox jersey, like some high school crush.”

  “It’s a souvenir. I don’t even know him.”

  He shook her then, hard, rattling her spine, and she bit back a cry. “I told you not to lie, little girl.”

  He pushed her out into the clearing and over to the picnic table. Shoved her down on the seat, then braced his hands either side of her shoulders on the tabletop, and leaned down.

  She turned her head away, which left him free to speak into her ear.

  “You might live through this, but only if you do exactly what I tell you to.”

  She gritted her jaw.

  He stood up then. Considered her. “It’s going to be okay, you know.” He sat down beside her, his should
er against hers. “We’re doing this for the good of everyone. And sometimes, you have to do somethin’ bad in order to do somethin’ good.”

  She didn’t want to ask, but, “What kind of bad thing?”

  He said nothing for a long time, then leaned forward, pulling out his phone. He scrolled over to a picture. “This here is my brother, Graham.”

  Good looking man, blond hair, a tattoo up his neck that looked like flames.

  “He died a couple months ago, trying to save our country.”

  “Was he a soldier?”

  He turned off the phone. “Yeah. Marines. Got captured in Afghanistan and was written off by our military. He was sent to a camp for POWs in Chechnya that intended on turning him against the red, white, and blue. And they might have succeeded if Senator Reba Jackson hadn’t shown up. She didn’t know he was there, but he saw her, helping the terrorists who wanted to destroy America. And he decided right then that he wouldn’t let them win.”

  “Who?”

  He looked at her, frowning. “What, are you blind and deaf? Jackson—she’s runnin’ for vice president.”

  Something began to ping, deep inside her head, but she just couldn’t wrap her brain around it quite yet. “I’ve been…out of the country.”

  He made a noise. “Then maybe you don’t know the efforts to which my brother and I have gone to save this country we love.”

  He dragged her up, tugging her across the campsite to the trailer. When he shoved her down into the sleeping compartment in the middle, her heart turned to a rock in her throat. But he only bound her feet with the duct tape, round and round, nearly halfway up her legs.

  She wasn’t going anywhere, obviously.

  “What efforts?” she said. “And what does Jackson have to do with your brother?”

  He got up and walked around to the open hatch in the back of the trailer. “She’s in league with the Russians.”

  Huh?

  “She was visiting one of the Chechen leaders in the camp. Graham wasn’t privy to the conversation, but let’s just say she didn’t leave with any gunfire. Wined and dined and if that doesn’t tell you that she’s in bed with the Russians—”

  “So wait. Senator Jackson had dinner with a Chechen warlord and she’s suddenly what, a terrorist?”