Hide the Child

by Janice Kay Johnson

Her gaze had dropped to his waist...and below. When her eyes lifted to meet his again, a delicate pink color infused her cheeks. “I...what?”

  He did some internal swearing. “I said, you win. I’ll take you to work in the morning.”

  “Um... Chloe?”

  There was something about Chloe. Oh, yeah. “Boyd called. He has a woman lined up to watch her. She’ll be here in the morning. Boyd will check in with her during the day.”

  Trina nodded, but he wondered if she’d taken in what he said. “I suppose I should go to bed.” But her tone wasn’t firm, and she stayed sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “That would be a good idea.” But he didn’t move, either. He couldn’t tear his gaze from hers, stupid as it was to keep staring at her. He’d used up his reserves of willpower in that last retreat. What he needed was a cold shower, although he knew any effect it had would be temporary. Finally, he heard himself say her name. “Trina.” Nothing more.

  She rose to her feet as if he’d tugged at an invisible string. Took a step. Then another. His heart pounded so hard, he heard it. The blood it was pumping was heading south, not to his head.

  She whispered, “This isn’t...”

  “A good idea.” He knew that; no longer cared, not with her in touching distance. Without any conscious decision, Gabe lifted his hands, cupped her cheek with one, wrapped the other around the delicate nape of her neck. He took the next step, the one that brought his body close enough to brush hers. The silk of the hair brushing his hand was every bit as thick as he’d imagined, as sensual.

  “Gabe.”

  He couldn’t mistake the yearning in her eyes for anything else. That was all he’d needed to know. Even so, he bent his head slowly enough to give her time to retreat, but instead she lifted her own hands to flatten them on his chest as she rose on tiptoe to meet his lips with her own.

  * * *

  TRINA KEPT SNEAKING looks at Gabe during the half-hour drive into town the next morning. He was in soldier mode—his gaze flicking from the side mirror to the rearview mirror to the road ahead. Missing nothing.

  They had been businesslike this morning, hustling through breakfast, both pretending the scorching kiss had never happened. She’d dressed as well as she could, given her limited selection, and come downstairs to find him letting in a woman named Diane Jenkins. Diane’s husband worked for Boyd. Well, and for Gabe, too, Trina reminded herself. Except she had the impression Gabe hadn’t stepped into any role as a boss here at the ranch.

  Because he doesn’t intend to stick around for long. The reminder left her feeling hollow.

  In her early fifties, Diane had seemed nice. “Raised three girls, one boy,” she told them. “You’re giving me the chance for a grandmother fix.”

  Chloe remained suspicious of this new person but took Trina’s departure with Gabe well. Her recent day care experience had eased some of her fear of being left behind.

  Diane had also delivered an aging, battered pickup truck with Nevada license plates for them to use. Trina was embarrassed not to have realized that anybody watching for her arrival or departure from her office could note the vehicle and license plates. If Gabe had driven his own truck, the cops would have had his name in about a minute. Anyone else watching might have had to jump through more hoops, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t take anyone who was really tech-savvy much longer.

  “Whose truck is this?” she asked finally, to fill the silence as much as anything.

  He barely glanced at her. “Belongs to a young guy who just started working for us. The address on file for these plates is a rental he vacated a couple of months ago. If the cops in Elko, Nevada, are inclined to do some detective work, they could help the local PD track down Antonio, but there’s no reason that would be a priority for any of them. Tomorrow, we’ll borrow a different vehicle. Maybe switch out plates.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  He just looked at her before turning his attention to the highway again.

  No, he was probably used to doing whatever he had to to accomplish his purpose.

  She went back to gazing out the passenger window to keep herself from staring at his powerful hands wrapped around the steering wheel, or the muscled, sinewy forearms dusted with dark hair, or his thick, taut thighs in cargo pants. All within reach.

  Arriving at the office was a relief. Trina immediately reached for her door handle, but his “Wait” had her freezing. He came around, used his body to shelter her and hustled her into the building. He didn’t relax even in the elevator, and comprehensively scanned her office once they entered it. Thank goodness, they were early enough that no patients were yet waiting, but behind the counter their receptionist, Sara Houle, stared at Gabe in astonishment and more.

  Ignoring her, he said to Trina, “I’ll be around. Don’t go anywhere without me. Not even downstairs.”

  “But the coffee shop—”

  He tipped one eyebrow up.

  Okay, with her usual midmorning latte out, she’d make it through the day on the crap coffee brewed in their break room.

  Sara was still gaping. Not until the door swung shut behind him did she blink, give her head a small shake and say, “Um. I have a bunch of messages for you. Two categories.”

  “Two?” Trina held out her hand for the pink slips.

  “Patients, social services, et cetera. The usual.” Sara gave her a pile of pink slips.

  “What’s the other category?”

  Sara’s lips thinned. “Detective Risvold.” This pile seemed an inch thick. “The man is really getting on my nerves.”

  Trina rolled her eyes. “That makes two of us.” She glanced at the wall clock. “I should have time to call him right now and get it over with.”

  “Please. Oh,” the receptionist added, “your phone is in your top drawer. I charged it Friday. If it hasn’t held the charge, I have my cord here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Her phone came to life without hesitation, and, from the number of bars, should hold out for the day. That was good, because she needed to take this opportunity to call her insurance agent and her parents. As she scrolled to the detective’s number, Trina added an item to her to-do list: buy new cord and charger.

  Risvold answered so quickly she couldn’t swear she’d heard a ring first. “Dr. Marr?”

  “Yes. I understand you’ve been inundating my receptionist with calls. One message would have done the job.”

  “Would it? You haven’t stayed in contact.”

  “I had only the one bit of progress,” she said with strained patience, “which a friend conveyed to you. We haven’t had any further breakthroughs, but I promise I’ll let you know the minute we do.”

  “I want to talk to the girl.”

  “Your interrogation skills might work for a gang member, but for a three-year-old?”

  “You’re tiptoeing with her. How do you know she wouldn’t respond better to firmness?”

  She wanted to say, Firm? Get real. You’re a jackass, but settled for asking, “Do you have children, Detective?”

  There was a pause. “Two. And they listened when I talked.”

  Gee, she’d bet he and his probably adult children had a warm relationship now. Silly cards in the mail, Facebook friends, laughter around the Christmas tree.

  “They didn’t see their father slaughtered right in front of them. Or hear their mother’s and brother’s alarmed voices, maybe screams, followed by gunshots and then silence. Dead silence.”

  He made a noise she couldn’t interpret. “So you’re set on pussyfooting around with this kid?”

  “Your lieutenant came to me,” she reminded him. “And not for the first time.” That’s right—go over his head. “There’s nobody else on this side of the state with my reputation for working with traumatized children. I do know what I’m doing. Give me some credit.”


  “Fine,” he grumbled after a minute. “You can have a little longer. But you need to bear in mind that three people were murdered in cold blood. Kids that age forget things fast. What if what she saw is already fading away?”

  “This isn’t something she’ll ever forget,” Trina said flatly. “If it wasn’t a deep wound, it wouldn’t have terrified her into refusing to speak.” She frowned. “Do I gather you have no leads?”

  “I’m unable to share the details of an ongoing investigation,” he said, clearly having repeated it a million times. Which he probably had. He must have that line on a continuous loop. In this case, she felt confident in translating it to mean no. “It makes me uneasy not knowing where you and the Keif child are staying. We can give you added security if we—”

  “I’d tell you if I believed that,” she interrupted. “Forgive me, but I don’t. I feel safer with no one knowing.”

  Sara’s voice came through the intercom. “Dr. Marr, Mrs. Thatcher and Philip are here.”

  “I’ll be out in just a minute,” she replied, then told Risvold she needed to go. She swore she’d call him daily through Friday but wouldn’t promise anything about the weekend.

  Standing to go out to the waiting room to usher in the seven-year-old boy who woke screaming several times a night, Trina sent out a prayer.

  Let Chloe have that breakthrough. Or the investigators find the answer in another way. Trina wanted her normal life back, or at least some semblance of it.

  Hand clenching on the doorknob, she closed her eyes. The weirdness of her current life wasn’t really the problem. What scared her was that she was in serious danger of falling hard for Gabe Decker, and if that happened, she’d be guaranteed a broken heart.

  * * *

  THE NEXT TWO DAYS, Gabe spent as little time alone with Trina as he could manage without being too obvious. He felt sure she noticed, but he had no idea if she was grateful or insulted.

  He’d have been in more trouble if she weren’t continuing to insist on going to work. Spending all day with her, no distractions, his bed upstairs in the cabin within easy reach... Yeah, that might’ve stretched his willpower to breaking. As it was, he just had to deal with the complications of taking her to town and back without being followed.

  If this went on, one of these days he’d run out of alternative vehicles and plates. If it hadn’t been spring, when Boyd always added some extra ranch hands, Gabe wouldn’t have had so many vehicles to choose from. It was lucky that the young cowboys tended to be a transient population, drifting from ranch to ranch, state to state.

  Monday afternoon, he’d spotted an unmarked police car parked half a block away from the professional office building where Trina’s practice leased half of a floor. He had detoured by several blocks, approaching from the opposite direction and parking in back. He’d moved her out fast and had her crouch down as he drove away, heading south into town instead of west out to the highway. Only when he was 100 percent sure they didn’t have a tail did he take a winding route out to the highway.

  Yesterday, he hadn’t worried so much dropping her off, but at the end of the day, he had her ride with one of her partners into downtown. The guy had tapped his brakes for a brief stop to let her off in front of a coffee shop. She dashed in, walked right through and went out the back, where Gabe had been waiting.

  The minute she’d buckled in, she exclaimed, “This feels ridiculous, like I’ve wandered into a spy novel. Next thing I know, I’ll be poking a packet in a tree boll for my Soviet counterpart to pick up.”

  Her exasperation triggered his irritation, which he didn’t trouble to hide. “The cops are watching your building morning and night. I wouldn’t be so worried about them, if not for your house having been set on fire with you in it.” Out of the corner of his eye, Gabe saw her chagrin and moderated his tone. “It’s harder to pin down whether anyone else is watching, but we have to work on the assumption they are. Thanks to the news coverage, everyone in eastern Oregon who has read a newspaper or turned on the TV knows that a little girl is the only witness to the brutal crime that has them transfixed. You called your brother because he has the same skill set I do. Would you have argued with him, too?”

  She’d apologized, and he had felt like a jackass for reminding her that denial was dangerous. He consoled himself that she felt safe with him, which was good. Not so good was that he was only one man. He had backup at the ranch, but not out on the often lonely highway.

  Yeah, when Joseph got back and found out what had gone on, it would not be pretty. Gabe felt some chagrin of his own. If her brother learned that Gabe lusted after his sister? Had kissed her until his brain function melted down? Gabe imagined what he’d do to someone in his position, if Trina had been his to protect.

  She was, he reminded himself. Not his, exactly, but he was all she and Chloe had to keep them safe.

  Thursday he drove his own truck, with plates he’d borrowed from an old Blazer rusting behind the tractor barn. According to Boyd, a guy working here last year had intended to rebuild the engine and replace all four tires, but spent his earnings in taverns instead and left the Blazer behind when he moved. Gabe dropped Trina off in back of her building and tried to figure out a strategy for the end of the day.

  For the morning, he parked behind a Safeway store among employees’ cars, backed up to a painted cinder block wall and with the nose of his truck facing out. Then he eased his seat back and opened his laptop. He’d done some reading about the crime but hadn’t really dug into it.

  It was past time, he thought. His subterfuges with varying vehicles and license plates might get them through the week, but beyond that? Anyone looking for them would be getting more suspicious, smarter.

  Risvold, the lead detective, was leaning too hard on Trina. That bothered Gabe. Maybe it was only that the guy thought his job was on the line, but there was a hint of desperation to his unrelenting pressure. That didn’t fill Gabe with confidence. It was time he pursued this as if it was a real mission. He needed to get to know the dead man, and any conceivable players.

  Gabe typed Michael David Keif and settled back to read.

  Chapter Six

  Gabe narrowed his eyes at his rearview mirror. They definitely had a tail today. He wanted to think it was a cop, because the police weren’t as dangerous as the alternative, but the silver sedan was hanging too far back for him to read the license plate or see the antenna. There was always something that set aside a law enforcement vehicle from everything else on the road. The lack of any of those obvious features set off a flare for him.

  He did his swearing internally. Damn it, he’d been almost to the highway, where the direction he turned would be a dead giveaway. Seeing a yellow light ahead, he lifted his foot from the gas and slowed while keeping a sharp eye on the cars waiting on the cross street. If any of them seemed ready to jump the gun... But none were. The second the light flashed red, he punched down on the accelerator and rocketed through the intersection.

  Trina clutched her seat belt at her chest. “Oh, my God! What are you doing?”

  He swung abruptly right at the next intersection, silencing her. In his rearview mirror, he saw the crossover swerve, climb the curb at that corner and turn right, too.

  Midblock, Gabe did a U-turn, a fraction of an inch from scraping the fender of a parked car, and sped back the way they’d come. And...yes, he hit the light just before it turned red, making it through.

  “Somebody is behind us,” Trina said, looking anxiously in the mirror on her side.

  “Was behind us,” he corrected.

  Multiple zigzags later, Gabe felt confident he’d lost his pursuit. Just in case, he drove a backcountry route on a narrow road that swung through thinly wooded, flat land before connecting with the highway.

  Once there, he took binoculars from beneath the seat and scanned both ways before heading sedately north.


  “You could have been ticketed,” she said after a minute. “And then they’d have found out the license plates don’t go with your truck.”

  “They had to catch me first.”

  She’d clasped her hands tightly on her lap. So tightly her fingertips dug into the backs of her hands. Because they’d have been shaking otherwise?

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. Just...” She lifted one shoulder. “Having someone actually chasing us kind of makes this real.”

  “Jumping out a second-story window with fire licking at your back didn’t do that?”

  Trina frowned at him. “Of course it did! I just thought, I don’t know, that they’d wait until Chloe was in reach again.”

  He shook his head. “That might have been just Risvold or one of his minions, mad that you’re hiding the kid.” He didn’t like the doubt he felt. “If not...whoever was involved in killing her family has to be hot to figure out where you’re staying before Chloe blurts out a description of the man she saw holding a gun on her daddy.”

  “I keep telling Detective Risvold, three-year-olds are lousy witnesses. She might say ‘The man had a mean look on his face.’ And maybe remember his hair was brown. How is this going to help?”

  Gabe glanced at her and decided to tell her what he was thinking. “What if the killer was someone Chloe knows? That would make her a serious threat.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I...sort of wondered that, too. But all this pressure from above that has Risvold in a stew might only be because Michael Keif is an important man around here.”

  “I’ve been doing some research. The guy was seriously wealthy. Open Range Electronics is one of the biggest employers on this side of the state. The manufacturing jobs make a huge difference in the local economy. Plus, did you know he sat on the county council a few years back?”

  “I’ve been doing some reading about him, too,” she said. “He chose not to run after one term, you know. He wasn’t defeated.”

  “He resigned so his partner in the company could take his turn on the council,” Gabe agreed. “Still, it means the mayor, the police chief, all the movers and shakers knew him.”