Lost Christmas Memories

by Dana Mentink

  Coughing uncontrollably now, she could hardly get in a breath as she scooted to the far corner and wet a paper towel to hold over her mouth and nose. Tracy knew if she didn’t get out of there in a matter of moments, she would not survive. There was no other exit from the lavatory, and though she pounded on the door, her blows were weak as the noxious gas robbed her of strength. Frantically scanning the room, she saw only one way to save her life: a small window set high up over the sink.

  On shaking legs, she climbed up onto the edge, slipping and banging her shin twice before she was able to balance on the porcelain rim. The window was old-fashioned, like the café itself, the old iron latch rusty as she tugged on it. Dizziness almost overcame her, but she held her breath and persisted until the latch yielded and she slid the window open a few precious inches. But it was not enough. She couldn’t squeeze out and she lacked the strength to wrestle the window any farther.

  Try to attract attention from someone outside. She grabbed an extra roll of paper towel from a shelf over the sink and held on to one edge, tossing the other end out the open window. It unrolled, a ridiculous signal, but all she could think to do. It might be enough to be noticed by a passerby, someone parking in the back lot maybe or filling the garbage dumpster.

  Seconds ticked into minutes. Despair chewed at her as she thrust her head as close as she could to the window, breathing in as much fresh air as possible.

  “Help,” she called out in a gasping croak.

  Had she heard an answer? Or was it the roaring in her own ears as her vision began to slip away? Knees shaking, she clung to the window frame.

  Was that the sound of shouts at the door?

  Yes, she decided as her knees crumpled and she tumbled off the sink onto the floor. Someone knew she was trapped. Keegan would come; he had to.

  But the door remained shut fast as she slipped into unconsciousness.

  ELEVEN

  Keegan wrestled his way by several stable hands intent on clearing the building.

  “Don’t go back in there, buddy,” one said, stiff-arming him. “Fire alarm. Can’t you hear it? Something wrong with your ears?”

  Keegan shoved him aside and made it back into the coffee shop. Inside, the owner was directing people out the exits. “Probably nothing,” he called. “We should be back in action in a few minutes. The cook charred the bacon last week and the same thing happened.”

  “But what’s that smell?” Meg, the waitress, asked, helping an older couple out of their booth. “It’s like cleaner or something.”

  No, not cleaner, Keegan thought, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. He raced past the owner without explanation and down the hallway, past the kitchen, where the cook was peeling off his greasy apron and shutting down the grill.

  “Dumb fire alarm again. This time it wasn’t my fault!” he hollered to no one in particular. “I ain’t burned nothing.”

  “Get out. Fumes,” Keegan told the man before he ducked out again and pressed on along the hallway. The air was toxic with fumes that scalded his eyes and throat, so he grabbed a dish towel from a pile stacked on a shelf and held it over his mouth. It took another few seconds to determine that the ladies’ room was the source. He pushed at the door, finding it wedged shut. Discarding the towel, he began kicking at it down low with his heel, aiming to dislodge the wedge. It remained stuck.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. Was he already too late?

  Hold on, Tracy.

  His eyes burned, but he kept on kicking until someone gripped his shoulder. Jack stood there with another person, the balding older guy with the denim shirt who thrust an ax into his hands.

  Keegan didn’t stop for introductions but began to heave the ax at the door, sending pieces flying. He aimed for the lower edge, chipping away shards of wood, chopping a hole near the wedge so he could pop it loose.

  “I hear the fire department,” Jack called. “I’ll go send them around the back.”

  The stranger did not leave, brushing away the pile of debris so Keegan could have a clear shot with the ax. Another piece came loose, just above the wedge.

  “Hurry,” the man urged.

  Keegan hefted the ax for all he was worth. Like splitting the dense oak logs on the ranch, he tried to tell himself, Steady and even strokes, but his fear was so thick it was choking him along with the fumes.

  She’d been in there for how long? Five minutes? Ten? Long enough for the fumes to have suffocated her. Jack’s soon-to-be wife would know the exact effects of the toxicity on Tracy’s body. Was he going to be too late?

  His ax ate away at the bottom of the door until the wedge popped loose. He handed the ax to the man, shoved the ruined door aside and charged through into a wall of choking fumes. Tracy lay on her side, eyes closed, blood trickling from her lips. He could not see if she was breathing.

  Get her out of here. Now. Heart jackhammering against his ribs, he scooped her up and carried her out of the ladies’ room and toward the direction of the rear exit. After only a few paces, he staggered to a stop. His eyes were streaming so badly he could not see well enough to navigate their escape.

  Keep going, keep moving, he told himself, but he had become disoriented. Was he moving toward the exit or back in the direction of the deadly toxins?

  The older man gripped his shoulder from behind and pressed him onward.

  “This way. Fast.”

  After a few seconds of nerve-pounding confusion, Keegan carried Tracy outside, bursting into the blessedly clean air. He moved far enough away from the building to be free of the gas. The medics were just dismounting their rig and they hastened over, easing Tracy onto a stretcher and beginning their examination.

  Owen and Barrett jogged up, taking it all in.

  Jack didn’t speak, just put his hand on Keegan’s shoulder. Owen and Barrett touched the other, and he knew they were saying a silent prayer. He was grateful, as he could not seem to summon a single word to edge past the terror.

  The medics checked for a pulse and then, with a stethoscope, her breathing. Keegan thought his heart had stopped completely until one medic called out, “Got a pulse. Breathing is shallow but she’s holding her own. Pupils reactive.”

  Keegan’s knees went weak and he wanted to press closer, to take hold of her fingers splayed out so delicate and small against the material of her jacket. If he hadn’t gone outside...if he’d stayed close like he should have...

  They placed an oxygen mask over her mouth while continuing to monitor her vitals.

  “Does she take any medications that you know of?” asked one of the medics.

  Keegan was surprised when the stranger answered.

  “She used to be on anticonvulsants, but she hasn’t taken them in six months.”

  Keegan turned to the man, head spinning. “You must be Tracy’s grandfather.” He offered a palm.

  The man did not extend his in return. His mouth was a hard line above the stubbled chin. “I am. Name’s Stew Wilson. And you must be the guy she told me about in her last phone call, Keegan something or other.”

  Keegan did not understand the hostility. “Keegan Thorn. I helped her out of a jam.”

  “Yeah? From what I’m hearing, she doesn’t need your kind of help.”

  Keegan shot him a puzzled look.

  “You’re some sort of tough guy, aren’t you? Ducking punches from gangsters, got a beef with Bryce Larraby and his son, the police chief, too? Yeah, I got an earful from the locals. And now this.” Stew turned tortured eyes on the still figure of his granddaughter. “How much of this is because of you, I wonder?”

  “Me? I’m not...”

  Jack stepped between them as Owen kept his grip on Keegan’s shoulder. “Not the time. Let’s get her medical attention, and then we’ll sort all this out.”

  Stew started to reply when the medics lifted Tracy into the back of the a
mbulance.

  “I can drive you...” Keegan started.

  “I’ll get there by myself.” Stew stalked away toward a beat-up Chevy truck.

  Keegan did not know how to sort through the emotions that tumbled through him—fear for Tracy, anger, outrage.

  Jack stood nearby as Keegan breathed hard.

  Barrett blew out a breath. “Let him calm down. He’s out of his mind with fear.”

  “How about you?” a medic asked Keegan. “Need medical attention?”

  “No,” Keegan said. His stinging eyes drifted back to the paper towels hanging limply out the window where she must have tried to signal for help, his help. All he needed was to be sure Tracy would be okay.

  And to find out who exactly needed to be punished for hurting her.

  * * *

  Tracy woke in the ambulance and tried to protest that she didn’t need a hospital, but she found herself there anyway, poked, prodded and given intravenous fluids and ointment for her burning eyes, along with something vile tasting to soothe her ravaged throat.

  At the hospital, John was waiting when the doctor finished her initial treatment, and she would have groaned aloud if her grandfather hadn’t stepped in front of him.

  “Grandpa.” Tears rolled down her face as he pressed his wide cheek to hers, the white stubble tickling her chin.

  “You need a shave,” she said, voice breaking.

  “Hey, Honeybunch. Don’t I always? You doing okay?”

  The tenderness from this gruff bear of a man almost made her break down. She gulped in a steadying breath before she attempted to talk. “Someone tried to kill me. Again.”

  Now her grandfather shot a scathing look at John. “And what are you doing to protect my granddaughter? Some town you got here—killers run loose as they please.”

  The chief was respectful, but his mouth tightened as he explained, “We’re looking for witnesses at the coffee shop.”

  “Keep looking,” Keegan said as he strolled in. “Must be one of the people who work for the horse center.” He turned a gaze on her that made her heart quiver. “Hey, Pockets.”

  She struggled to sit straighter, nerves thrumming. “They said you pulled me out.”

  “Not just me, your grandpa here—”

  Her grandfather cut him off. “You’re not invited in this room. Family only.”

  “Grandpa, he’s a friend.”

  “No, he’s not, and if I hadn’t rustled up the ax, you might not be alive to talk about it.”

  Tracy let out a breath. She didn’t know why her grandfather was being so unfriendly to Keegan Thorn, but she was used to his irascible nature and overprotectiveness. “I’m glad you both worked together.”

  Her grandfather’s eyes went steely. “Well, that won’t be happening again. From now on, I’m taking care of you up at the property. He’s not needed.”

  She looked from Keegan, who was stony-faced, to John, who revealed the tiniest expression of satisfaction that his half brother was the subject of her grandfather’s ire.

  “What happened today wasn’t Keegan’s fault. Someone wants to kill me—the same person who murdered a woman at the horse center. I believe the victim was a veterinarian who worked there, Nan Ridley.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard to prove, if she’s been killed.” Grandpa Stew folded his arms and waited for the chief to reply.

  John seemed to be considering how much to share. “We’ve left messages for Ms. Ridley at her vet office and with her neighbors. No one knows where she’s gone, but that isn’t unexpected, as she was a very private person. Her office is closed for a month while workers re-carpet and paint. Ostensibly, she timed that work to coincide with her stint at the horse center.”

  Tracy slapped a hand on the edge of the bed in frustration. “She must have told someone where she was going. Family?”

  John shrugged. “There’s an ex-husband in Fresno we’re trying to locate, but it’s doubtful whether she’d have filled him in on this last-minute job in Phoenix. She’s not active on social media except for a Facebook page for her vet office. Dad—I mean, Bryce Larraby—confirmed she gave her notice and quit unexpectedly, which is why he hired a replacement.”

  “We’ll keep looking,” Keegan said. “Digging. My family and I...”

  “No,” John said. “You’ll stay out of it.”

  “I don’t answer to you,” Keegan said.

  “Well, maybe you’ll answer to me, then,” Stew Wilson said, puffing up his chest.

  “Grandpa...”

  He waved her off. “I don’t care about what happened at the center, or this Nan person, or the beef between you two, or your father’s involvement. The police can clean up this mess. All I care about is my granddaughter’s safety, and I will see to that myself.”

  “Grandpa,” Tracy said again, but a coughing fit stopped her words. All three men looked at her with concern.

  A nurse entered with a paper cup full of pills. She clucked disapprovingly. “You need to rest, Ms. Wilson. The doctor told you that extreme stress and fatigue can be precursors to another seizure.”

  “I heard what he said.” Tracy was mortified that the nurse had been so indiscreet with her private health information. It was bad enough that John already figured she was a head case.

  Her grandfather stepped closer. “Is it likely? Should she stay here?”

  “I am not staying here,” Tracy said, “and I am not going to have another seizure. I’m done with that medicine protocol.”

  Her grandfather did not look convinced, but the nurse seemed to remember her professionalism. “Excuse me, gentlemen. The doctor wants to examine Ms. Wilson one more time before we talk about discharging her, so you’ll need to wait outside.”

  “I will wait,” her grandfather said. “I’m family.”

  “I’ll wait, too.” Keegan’s eyes flashed and she saw the reddening flush in her grandfather’s cheeks.

  “Don’t stick around where you’re not wanted,” John said.

  Not wanted. She saw Keegan flinch and knew in that moment it was the core of his anger, the fuel for his rage. It was not solely that Bryce Larraby had mistreated his mother; it sprang from the deepest hurt of all—the pain of being an unwanted child.

  “Keegan,” she said, palm outstretched to him. I want you. Her thoughts left her dumbstruck. It could not be in her to want this wild and wounded man. Her cheeks burned as if she had said it aloud.

  But he was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

  TWELVE

  For the first time in his life, Keegan was not hungry. He played with the pot roast and declined a biscuit. His mother, father, Owen and Barrett exchanged shocked looks. Jack no doubt would have, as well, but he’d flown his Cessna to pick up Shannon for a quick visit home for dress fittings and a bridal shower before the end of her last week of residency and the wedding.

  Keegan could not get Stew’s remarks out of his mind. If he hadn’t been tussling with Sonny, if his relationship with his father and half brother wasn’t quite so contentious...

  “Look, I’ll just be the one to state the obvious,” Owen said, “but none of this is your fault.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Keegan said. He was not sure what would come out of his mouth. All he could feel was the heavy thumping of his heart, along with a hefty dose of worry for Tracy. Worry was not something he was accustomed to, and now he could not seem to shake the feeling.

  “All right,” his mother said. She got up and brought a box of materials to the table. “Then you can help me fold the wedding place cards. Shelby has volunteered to fill them out, but I’m not sure that baby is going to wait too much longer.”

  Barrett went pale and gulped audibly.

  “Steady.” Owen gave him a whack on the back. “We’ve delivered plenty of foals over the years. Birth is
a natural process.”

  “I’d like to see you try it,” his mother said, which sent them all into chuckles.

  Keegan allowed a smile but it didn’t last long. He folded the place cards mechanically while his mind traveled along the only helpful path he could think of, the trail that might lead him to the truth about Nan Ridley. He’d spent a restless hour poring over any mention of her on the web and his half brother was right: she was a very private person.

  “Did you find any social-media activity for Nan?” he asked Ella, who had joined him at the table after wheeling her sister, Betsy, into position first. Ella was far more savvy with Facebook and the like than he’d ever be.

  He smiled at Betsy and handed her some cards to fold. She gave him a small smile in return, eager to help as always, even if she could not communicate her feelings in words.

  “Nothing. Only a business Facebook page. Her profile is professional, nothing of a personal nature to indicate any friends or hobbies.”

  Hobbies. The word made him sit straight as he recalled a tiny detail he’d stumbled across earlier. “Wait a minute. The minis.”

  His mother arched an eyebrow. “Cars or horses?”

  “Horses. Somewhere in one of the searches, it said she’d raised miniature horses as a kid. She provided pro bono care to rescued minis, so she probably donated some time at that outfit in Star Valley.”

  Ella snapped her fingers. “Little Hooves Ranch. I know the place. You can go talk to the owner.” She squinted. “Her name is Lorna. I made some custom horseshoes for her several years ago.”

  Keegan leaped up from the table. “Great idea.”

  “Well, you can’t go now,” his mother said. “It’s almost seven at night, and it’s freezing.”

  “I’m driving up to Tracy’s property to tell her. Bring her some wood, too, for the fireplace.”

  “You could call her,” Ella suggested with a calculating look.

  He grabbed a cookie from the plate on the counter. Now he had a plan, something to do to help her, to make up for the problems he’d caused her. His appetite returned in full force. “Cell phone coverage is spotty there, and besides, I want to take up a generator since they don’t have electricity.”