by DiAnn Mills
Sincerity deepened in Mr. Olsson’s eyes. “I wish we could have talked to her the day she called, but she didn’t leave a number. What else can we do but pray?”
“Thank you. She loves both of you very much.”
“We could go see her at the hospital,” Mr. Olsson said.
Miles shook his head. “That’s not a good idea. She wouldn’t be able to talk to you candidly, and it might put you in danger. This is the safest place for you to be. I understand it’s easier to keep you guarded here.”
Mrs. Olsson gasped. “Guarded? Us?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve probably told you more than I should. Protection has been in place for you since sometime in August.”
Mrs. Olsson touched her heart. “Out here? On our farm? We’ve always lived here with no problems at all. And . . . and Fred alerts us to folks driving up and down the road.” She turned to her husband. “Oh, Carl. I’m frightened.”
Mr. Olsson drew his wife close to him. “Now, don’t you worry, honey. I’m right here, and according to Miles here, important people are protecting us.” He hesitated. “Is it Chet? He came to us in August. Said he had a family to support about twenty-five miles from here. I gave him a job, and he’s a hard worker. Comes real early and stays late. Most nights he sleeps in one of the spare rooms.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. But it is vitally important for you and your wife to keep to yourself what I’ve told you about your daughter.”
“Nothing will be said.” He glanced at his wife, and she nodded.
“When can we see Mikaela?” Mrs. Olsson asked. “I want to tell her I love her.” Her voice broke, and she grabbed a tissue.
“I don’t know when it’ll be safe,” Miles said. The kitchen was overly quiet. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window. “But I do know she will want to see you as soon as she can.”
“Maybe Thanksgiving?” Mr. Olsson asked.
Miles caught himself wanting to build up their hopes, but reality might be disappointing. “Let’s just say that when it happens, we’ll all feel like it’s a holiday.”
“We’ve waited this long,” the older man said. “You’ve given us hope, and that’s all we have left.” The older man snatched up a tissue and squeezed his wife’s hand. “I need a cup of your coffee, sweetheart.”
“But the doctor said you weren’t supposed to have caffeine after breakfast.”
“I’m . . . celebrating that we have another chance at being parents to our Mikaela.”
Their familiarity relaxed Miles. “My dad is always on to my mom about drinking caffeinated coffee.” He scooted his chair back from the table. “I guess I’ve taken enough of your afternoon.”
“Nonsense, you’re staying for supper,” Mrs. Olsson said. “And you can stay the night, too. I don’t imagine you’re used to driving on these roads, and once it gets dark, they can be treacherous.”
“I appreciate your hospitality. Are you sure about this?”
“Normally I have a suspicious nature,” Anna Olsson said. “But I see the love of Jesus in your eyes, and I hear love for Mikaela in your voice.”
“Then can I help with chores?”
“My kind of man,” Mr. Olsson said. “I’ll find you a warm coat. That dress jacket won’t keep out the cold, and the cows don’t care how you look. I’ll dig up some boots and gloves. Oh, and you can meet Chet. That man may be my bodyguard.”
Miles hadn’t done farm chores since he was in high school. A combination of the cold and the work helped release all of the built-up tension. He learned how to hook up automatic milkers, how much feed to give the cows, and the importance of proper sanitation and cleanliness. During the evening hours and after Chet retired to his room, the three talked about Paige. Miles listened to stories of her girlhood pranks and leafed through old school yearbooks. He did his best to tell them about the woman he’d grown to love. How he desperately wanted all of the missing pieces to form a complete picture. He chose not to tell them about Nathan. That was Paige’s job.
* * *
Miles stirred in his sleep. Had he heard something, or was he dreaming? He listened, but all that met his ears was the stillness of the farmhouse. Lately his sleeping hours centered on the CIA—high-suspense drama, the product of an overactive imagination and a juggling of what was reality. This whole thing with Paige needed to be over so they could get on with their lives. He turned on his side and started to drift back to sleep. A door slammed. A rifle shot shattered glass. He threw back the quilts and bolted from the bed. A woman screamed. Then another sharp crack. The Olssons!
At the door, he anchored chest to chest with someone. “Laird, stop right there,” Chet said. “On the floor and stay there until I tell you to get up.” No doubt who was guarding the Olssons. Miles didn’t think twice about obeying.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs. “Carl, Anna, you two all right?” Chet’s voice boomed.
“Yes,” Carl said. “I have a rifle in here, and it’s loaded.”
“On the floor and stay there until I come after you. Hold on to that rifle. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
The back door squeaked open and rattled shut. Four more shots fired. Miles waited for something else—voices or an exchange of fire—anything to alert him to what was happening. Lying on the cold wooden floor, he felt more like a twelve-year-old kid than a grown man. He couldn’t handle the helplessness any longer. Crawling on his belly, he made it out of the bedroom and down the stairs. As soon as he touched the floor, another shot pierced the air. His eardrums rang, and his heart thumped like a scared animal.
Miles inched across the living room toward the older couple. “You two okay?” He heard sobbing. “Anna? Carl?”
A bullet sailed through the Olssons’ bedroom window, sending a splattering of glass. Anna sobbed louder.
“Miles, we’re fine,” Carl said, but he didn’t sound very good.
“What’s wrong?” Sweat-drenched, Miles was glad he crouched in the dark because he wouldn’t have wanted the Olssons to see his gut-wrenching fear.
“Carl’s shot in the side,” Anna’s voice brimmed near hysteria.
“Hush, woman. I got hurt worse peeling potatoes in Vietnam.”
Miles crawled to their side. Seemed like he’d bandaged enough victims lately, and he didn’t like the slimy feel of blood. From the shadows, it looked as though Anna was holding Carl’s hand. Miles pulled a sheet from the bed. “Help me wrap this around the bleeding.”
Two more shots fired. Each time Anna gasped. Then it grew quiet.
“Take the rifle,” Carl said. “You might need it.”
Miles grabbed the weapon and waited.
The back door opened. Miles cocked the rifle and sucked in a breath.
“Carl, it’s over,” Chet called. “You two can relax.”
“Not quite,” Miles said. “Carl’s been shot. Not too bad, but it needs attention.”
Chet swore loud enough to echo through the house. “I’ll call an ambulance, and you two are moving to another location.”
Carl moaned. “What about my cows?”
Miles wanted to smack him.
Chapter 51
Friday morning, Miles stood at the window of his classroom and stared out at the gray October day. If absence made the heart grow fonder, then his heart would soon burst. His life seemed to be a constant search for diversion from thinking about Paige and the danger looming over her. Wednesday night’s encounter with Keary’s thugs had shaken him worse than he’d let on. How did Paige deal with it? Two men had been involved; both were dead.
Miles had worked at teaching today with a fervor that surprised even him, but his thoughts were on Paige. Her blue eyes stayed fixed in his mind, and her words of love kept his spirit alive. They would find a way to make their relationship permanent. He refused to consider anything less.
Principal O’Connor cleared his throat behind him. Now what? The principal didn’t make social calls. Ty Dalton had not given up on his crusad
e to end Miles’s teaching and coaching days at Split Creek. Miles greeted O’Connor.
“Can I have a word with you?” O’Connor asked.
“I’m free until the end of the period.”
“First of all, I want to wish you success in tonight’s game. It’s been a tough season.”
“Thank you. They’re a good team, and I’m proud of them.”
O’Connor closed the door. “Ty Dalton has a new concern.”
“Why am I not surprised? What is it now?”
O’Connor shifted uncomfortably. The man looked to have aged ten years since the start of the school year. Retirement could not come soon enough. “He has added to his list of reasons to dismiss you that you are not a good moral example to the students.”
“And where did he get this?”
“He claims you knew all along about Miss Rogers or whatever her name is. He fears our youth will use you as a model for immoral behavior.”
Miles thought he would explode with the new accusation. “My response to the school board is this,” he said. “I have never involved myself in any immoral behavior with Paige Rogers or Mikaela Olsson. At the next school board meeting, I would like to give my response to all of Ty Dalton’s accusations.”
O’Connor studied him. A slow smile spread over his lined face. “All right. I like a good showdown.”
“Shall I bring my attorney, or simply invite all of the parents?”
“Miles, I don’t care who you bring. It’ll be the best school board meeting we’ve seen in a long time.”
O’Connor shook his hand and left the classroom. One more diversion until Paige was released.
* * *
Miles jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach. The second quarter of the eighth game of the season, and the Bobcats were exhausted. No wonder. They were playing a tough team. Miles’s players had determination written on their faces but defeat in their passes and plays. Pep talks and attaboys hadn’t done a bit of good.
“Get your head out of the clouds and do something with those guys.”
Ty Dalton’s grating voice didn’t help the situation on the field. It wouldn’t take much for Miles to punch that arrogant, wife-cheating, poor excuse of a man.
“Excuse me?” Miles delivered all of his frustration into a fiery glare.
“If the Bobcats lose, it’s your fault.” Dalton stood beside Miles and crossed his arms over his chest.
Miles saw no reason to waste his energy in responding.
“So your girlfriend is a mental case and slept with a politician. Deal with it.”
Miles really wanted to level him. Especially since those had been Paige’s parting words.
“You’re interfering with the game. Get off the field before I get someone to escort you.”
Dalton chuckled. “Doesn’t matter. This is your last year coaching football, and from the way you’re coaching tonight, it’s probably your last game.”
Miles threw him another seething look. A dozen retorts slammed against his brain, but why stoop to Dalton’s level? Instead, he focused on a play going sour. Chris had hesitated a moment too long, and a linebacker headed straight for him. The sound of body smacking body and the crash of helmets alerted Miles to a hard sack. Chris lay sprawled on the ground. The ref blew his whistle. Chris didn’t move.
His back. Miles took off at a run. Maybe he just had the wind knocked out of him. Miles knelt beside his injured quarterback. “Hey. How are you doing?”
Chris opened his eyes and licked his lips. “I’m okay. Just help me up.”
“What about your back?”
“It’s fine.” Chris attempted to move, but pain pushed him back down, its effects evident in his pinched face. “Give me a minute to catch my breath. It’s not bad. I just hit hard.”
“Do your part!” Ty Dalton raised his fist to the black sky. “The team’s depending on you.”
Chris closed his eyes. “Coach, get him off the field.”
With that statement, Miles no longer had any doubts about the seriousness of Chris’s back. “Off the field,” he said to Dalton.
“You can’t keep me from my son.”
“I don’t want you here,” Chris said through pain-filled eyes.
“Why? I’m your dad. I have rights—”
Chris’s eyes clamped shut. “Do you want me to answer that in front of everybody? You haven’t been a dad since you came back from Angola.”
Miles inhaled sharply.
“Mind your mouth,” Ty said.
Chris attempted to lift himself on his elbows, but Miles held his shoulders down. “Stay still. Help is coming.”
“Did you try to kill Walt?” Chris asked. “Or were you with that woman?”
Dalton stood and stepped back as though he’d taken a hard tackle. “Guess I had that coming.”
“And the coach’s barn. Did you set fire to it?”
“Easy, Chris. The stretcher’s right here,” Miles said.
Tears rolled down the boy’s face. “I can’t do this to the team. I’m sure I can get up if you help me. If we don’t win, we lose our chances for the play-offs.”
“You’ve done your best. Listen, Chris, you’re worth more than any game. I’m proud of you sticking through the season when I know you hurt every time you suited up.”
The tears continued to flow down the boy’s face, and Miles had to blink back his own. Within moments, a doctor and EMS team with a stretcher carried Chris off the field. The crowd stood and applauded. Miles caught a glimpse of Walt as he grabbed his crutches and hurried toward Chris. Two fine men had given their best to a team that Miles would never forget.
* * *
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You are all winners,” Miles said. He’d been consoling his players in the field house for more than an hour. With both Walt and Chris sidelined, the team had been unable to rally. “Nothing’s changed. You’re the best. Winners understand the importance of teamwork and helping each other. The play-offs were important to us, but they will be next year too. For those of you who are seniors, your lives are forever changed by how far we went this year. You have the potential of success in whatever you choose because you know how to fight for what you want and believe in. Those of you who will be back with the team next year realize how your skills will help you have a proud season.”
“You’ll be with us, won’t you, Coach?” Walt asked, staring at his leg.
“God willing. But it doesn’t matter who coaches the Bobcats. You have the desire and the discipline to make any coach proud.” Miles sat on a bench beside a 250-pound tackle who was sobbing like a child. Sometimes words weren’t enough. Sometimes the best comfort came in the form of tears.
Hours later, as he stared at the ceiling and tried to get his body to wind down, Miles kept reliving the week. How could he ever get used to the trauma of Paige’s life? It was all he could do to comfort a team of good kids who’d lost a football game.
Poor Chris. Miles had stayed at the hospital until the doctor assured those who waited that the boy was resting. Ty didn’t bother to show. That’s when Miles realized that Chris had seen his dad’s girlfriend. Maybe she knew something about all that had been going on with Daniel Keary.
Miles rose from the bed and dialed the number Palmer had given him.
Chapter 52
Paige flushed another pill down the toilet in her room. As had become her habit, she’d allowed the nurse to think she’d swallowed her meds. Dulling her mind with sedatives and antidepressants didn’t accomplish her goal at Magnolia Life Center, which was to placate Keary. However, the days proved endless, with little to do but read and make polite conversations with the staff—and carry on her role as the unstable ex-CIA operative. The old mind-training resources rolled into place and kept her alert. From Paige’s point of view, she was playing defense instead of offense. And that had left her in a defeated—and sour—mood.
TV news carried snippets
of her past role in the CIA, all according to Keary’s interpretation. The director of the CIA had no comment. But the reporting had grown old. A photo of her before and after the identity change hit the news for three days. No one at the facility said a word, but the whispers and curious stares were constant.
Regrets assaulted her about many of the good people of Split Creek. George had nearly figured her out before Keary’s press conference. When this mission ended, she hoped he’d allow her to explain a few things. He and Naomi had been good friends, the kind she valued and respected. No point in ruminating about Mr. Shafer, Miss Eleanor, Miss Alma, the faithful book club group . . . and Voleta.
The confinement had forced her to take an honest look at her life and her relationship with God. When she’d been with the CIA years before, her work had become an addiction. She’d lusted after missions and taken chances, inviting danger and defying life. But with her faith had come a change in the way she viewed herself and those around her. She now worked for God, a pretty good boss in her estimation. The danger still gave her an adrenaline rush, but the success of her mission was not in her hands. For certain, she’d never again gauge her worth on performance. She would never again be a marionette too preoccupied with herself to see who held the strings. She was Mikaela Olsson, CIA operative and, more importantly, a child of God.
Mikaela’s longed-for promised land would be a place where she could find peace about her responsibilities to the CIA. And finally it became clear that she’d find it only with a return to dignity. Monday morning she planned to leave Magnolia Life Center and see what Keary would do in retaliation. She was cutting it close with the election on Tuesday, but the time element was her ace.
The long hours had given her time to consider Keary’s next move. Most likely, he was planning her suicide. That would keep his hands clean and would eliminate all the dangerous information she possessed. Her committing suicide would also create sympathy for him among his supporters—the nightmare for his family would be over. He’d claim to have regrets for a life lost to mental illness. As governor, he might even initiate legislation to better assist those suffering from mental disorders. What a joke.
