Hearts on the Line

by Margaret Daley

  “I haven’t seen your mom tonight,” Becca said, taking a bite of her house salad with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing.

  Quinn chuckled. “Because I did some snooping and discovered that she isn’t working tonight. After the barbecue Saturday, I figured you needed a break. Where do you think Brendan got his interrogation techniques from?”

  “She means well. She only has your best interests in mind.” Becca relaxed back in the chair now that she knew that Quinn’s mother wouldn’t pop out of the Stagecoach Cafe’s kitchen to ask what her intentions were toward her son.

  “That’s why I tolerate it. Mom’s the best, but she wants to know everything going on in her children’s lives, as well as everyone else’s.”

  “Having been a surrogate mother with my siblings, I understand where she’s coming from.”

  “Is your sister the only one coming home over the Fourth?”

  “Yes. My brother can’t get away.”

  “Then I’ll have to meet him some other time.”

  The statement implied a relationship beyond the renovation, and Becca responded with, “Are you sure you’re up to that? He takes his job as the man of the family quite seriously.”

  “When it comes to family, I’m an expert. With such a large one, no one is capable of minding their own business.”

  “I owe you a dinner. This is the second one you’ve treated me to. But you’ll have to wait until a certain carpenter finishes with my kitchen.”

  “I have a kitchen you can use at any time.”

  “How about this Saturday night I treat you to one of my home-cooked meals?”

  “You’ve got yourself a date.”

  There was that word again. She might as well admit that they were dating, as Quinn had suggested. She couldn’t continue fooling herself into thinking they were just friends. It was more than that—much more.

  “And speaking of a date, I need one for Colleen’s rehearsal dinner next Friday and for her wedding on Saturday. Care to come with me?” He wiggled his eyebrows and quirked a grin.

  “You’ve got yourself a date.” Becca finished the last of her salad, her hunger pangs partially satisfied. She knew better than to skip lunch, since she hadn’t had much for breakfast, but all her and Sam’s work had finally paid off. “I have some good news.”

  Quinn perked up, his gaze swinging to hers. “About Escalante?”

  “Yes. Sam and I think we’ve narrowed down his location to three places near Cripple Creek.”

  “Where Michael Vance lives?”

  “One isn’t too far from Michael’s ranch, so that’s the one we are concentrating on. We can’t get a warrant because we don’t have probable cause, so we’re staking out each place to see who comes and goes.” Becca had never shared an investigation with an outsider before, but she couldn’t contain her excitement and she trusted Quinn. That spoke volumes about the depth of her feelings toward him. She liked coming home, like tonight, and finding him at her house. It felt so right that it scared her.

  He lifted his water glass. “Here’s to getting the man soon so we can get back to our normal lives.”

  She clinked her tea against his drink. “I’m all for that. Normal is good.”

  Quinn’s gaze narrowed on something beyond her. “Looks like normal won’t happen tonight. Mom’s making a beeline for us.”

  Becca glanced over her shoulder and saw Fiona negotiating her way toward the table, stopping to say a few words to several of the customers on her trek toward them. The woman’s indifferent expression didn’t fool Becca.

  “The food here is great, but I’ve got to find another restaurant,” Quinn muttered as his mother came to a halt by their table.

  “Hello, Becca. It’s good to see you again. I hope the food is to your liking. Quinn, you should have told me that you were coming to eat here tonight. I’d have made sure we had your favorite dessert. We’re all out of pecan pie.”

  “Pecan pie? Not apple pie?” Becca asked, suppressing a laugh that bubbled up.

  Before Quinn could answer, Fiona said, “Oh, no. Every birthday instead of a cake, he’s always insisted on a pecan pie.”

  “I’ll survive without a piece of pie tonight.” He blushed. “Is another waitress ill?”

  “No, I like to come by sometimes and make sure everything is running smoothly.”

  “Sure. ’Fess up, Mom. You’re here because someone called to tell you I was here eating with Becca.”

  Fiona waved her hand in the air. “Well, that, too. My staff knows I like to be kept informed of what’s going on here.”

  Quinn threw back his head and laughed. “The staff knows you are a busybody.”

  “Quinn Montgomery, I am not a busybody.”

  “Mom?”

  Her mouth twisted into a pout. “Okay, maybe a little. But I only want to make sure the people I care about are happy.”

  Becca was enjoying the exchange between Quinn and his mother. A warmth infused the banter that proclaimed the strong, comfortable relationship they had.

  “Would you like to join—” Her cell vibrated at her waist, cutting off her invitation. “Excuse me,” Becca said to the pair and flipped open her phone, tension gripping her as she noted who was calling. “Hilliard here.”

  “We have a woman who has barricaded herself and her family in her house on Taylor Street.”

  “I’m on my way.” She bolted to her feet as she clipped her cell at her waist. “I have a hostage situation.”

  Quinn rose, tossing down his napkin. “I’ll take you.”

  “Thanks.” Becca knew that time could be an enemy or a friend in a barricaded situation. She needed to get there as quickly as possible to assess which it would be.

  Becca started for the entrance while Quinn said to his mother, “Talk to you later.”

  “Go. I hope everything works out. I’ll be praying, son.”

  “Thanks.”

  Quinn caught up with Becca as she left the café. Her professional demeanor had fallen into place as they emerged from the restaurant. Having seen her in action, he knew she was a capable negotiator who took her job very seriously. Much like Maggie had been as a bomb expert. But one bomb had become her enemy and taken her life.

  As he headed toward the address Becca gave him, fear planted itself in him, and there was nothing he could do to keep it tamped down. Anything could happen in a hostage situation, and Becca would be right in the middle of it all.

  EIGHT

  The chill of the air that swept down from the mountains encased Quinn as he stood behind the perimeter barrier to the house on Taylor Street, lit with spotlights that had been brought in to see what was going on. Becca sat in the command center, but several yards away, talking on the phone to a woman threatening suicide.

  He should have gone home hours ago but couldn’t drag himself away. Becca had been negotiating with the woman for the past seven hours, trying to get her to give herself up and not go through with killing herself and her husband, who was in the house with her.

  How did she do it for hours on end? Quinn had asked himself that question every hour since the hostage situation had started.

  Her voice still sounded calm and steady even though the last time he had gotten a glimpse of her, dark circles under her eyes accentuated the toll this incident was having on her. He wanted to help her and knew there was nothing he could do but be here when it was over—which, from what had transpired the past half hour, might be soon. He’d heard Becca’s laugh a few minutes ago as she’d joked with the woman, Shelly Roberts.

  Becca turned slightly, saying something into the phone headset, and glanced back at him. She gave him a weary smile. He returned it, wishing he could hold her and take some of her stress away.

  Becca’s heartbeat responded to Quinn’s grin by quickening. For a second she didn’t hear what Shelly had answered to her question. She twisted around, keeping her gaze trained forward. She couldn’t afford to lose her concentration.

  “The jerk is h
aving an affair with a friend! I caught them in bed together. Here! The bed I sleep in!”

  The woman’s voice swung back to hysteria. Over the past hours she had gone from rage to joking to agitation. “I understand. You sound angry at your husband for having an affair.”

  “He needs to suffer for what he did. I’m gonna make him pay.”

  Becca knew from the neighbors who had been interviewed that the Roberts family had a gun collection in the house. From what Shelly had said earlier in their conversation she was sure that the woman had one in her hand. “Shelly, why don’t you come out here, and we can talk about some solutions to your problem.”

  Silence.

  “Shelly?”

  Sobs echoed through the earpiece. “Why doesn’t he love me? He’d miss me if I went away.”

  “What do you mean if you went away, Shelly?” Becca heard a man yelling in the background. Great. The victim wasn’t helping the situation by telling the woman she needed to lose weight.

  “If I kill myself, he won’t have anyone to take care of him, clean his house, cook his meals,” the woman said between bouts of crying.

  “Shelly, do you really want to die?”

  Again silence filled the phone line. Even though the air was chilly for a summer night, sweat popped out on Becca’s forehead and upper lip. She swiped her hand across her brow, then closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Tension held her rigid.

  “Becca, I’m fine. Just give me a moment. Everything will work out.”

  The calm in the woman’s voice signified a change in the situation. Becca shot to her feet, looking over the barricade that protected her from any stray bullets from the house.

  Becca cupped the mouthpiece. “Sarge, I think she’s gonna kill herself and her husband. We’ve got to—”

  Through the earpiece she heard a man yell, “No. Don’t do it!”

  “Move,” Becca said as the blast of a weapon echoed through the air.

  Too late, she thought, bracing herself for another shot.

  Sarge signaled for the tactical team to breach the house. As the members hurried forward, another gunshot sounded over the phone, followed by a scream. Then silence. Thirty seconds passed, and all she heard over the still-open phone line was the police officers moving through the rooms. She ripped off her headset and started for the house as the signal came that the place was secured.

  Her heart beat painfully in her chest, and an uncomfortable sensation lodged itself between her shoulder blades. As she moved through the entrance, she smelled gunpowder and blood and knew no good had come from this captive-victim situation.

  In the bedroom Becca viewed the slightly overweight woman sprawled on the floor before the full-length mirror that was shattered from a bullet. Shelly had shot herself in the head while her husband sat on the bed, his face buried in his hands, his body shuddering. His cries reverberated in the unearthly quiet.

  Shelly had killed herself right after shooting her image in the mirror, and Becca hadn’t been able to help the woman. Her failure churned her stomach, the constriction in her chest mushrooming.

  “You did all you could, Becca,” Sarge said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “At least the victim is alive.”

  “She was a victim, too.” Becca pivoted away from the scene in the bedroom. Already she was beginning to run through the tape in her head, trying to see where she could have altered the outcome of this incident. Later she would review the real tape of the negotiation and maybe have some answers that would help her in the future with other Shellys.

  “C’mon. It’s been a long night and you still need to do your report, then get some sleep.” Sarge walked down the hallway toward the front door.

  Becca watched him for a few seconds, then trailed after him. In her mind she knew she couldn’t save everyone, that all she could do was her best. But in her heart she felt the loss deeply.

  Nearing the command post, Becca saw Quinn and headed toward him, wanting his arms around her, wanting him to tell her everything would be all right. She didn’t go into his embrace but stopped a few feet from him, purposely keeping her distance. Someone had switched off a few of the spotlights so a dark pall hung over them. She was glad for that. She didn’t want him to see the toll Shelly’s death had taken on her. She would work her way through it, but right now she couldn’t help but blame herself. There should have been something she could have done to change the situation.

  “Becca?”

  There was a wealth of concern in that one-worded question. She tried to smile her reassurance, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. “I’m okay.”

  “Do you want me to take you home? Or to the station?”

  “I’ll catch a ride with Sarge back to the station.”

  “How will you get home?”

  “Someone will bring me.”

  “I can wait for you at the station.”

  “No, it’s been a long night. At least one of us should get some sleep.” Because she knew she wouldn’t even when she did finally go home.

  “Becca, let me—”

  She held her palm up. “Quinn, I’ll see you later.” If she allowed him to comfort her, she might fall apart in front of everyone. The wound of her loss was still too fresh. She needed time.

  Quinn watched Becca turn away and climb into a squad car. She was hurting and didn’t need him to help her. He realized they hadn’t known each other long, but the connection he felt with her was strong—or at least he had thought so. Maybe it was for the best. As he’d witnessed the incident tonight, his fear for her had been reinforced. She laid her life on the line every time she put herself into a hostage situation. Different circumstances from Maggie but the end result was the same. Like Maggie, Becca had a dangerous profession. Could he handle that?

  Quinn strode to his truck and left Taylor Street, hoping never to have to return. He started to drive toward his house but found himself parking in Becca’s driveway twenty minutes later. He couldn’t go home and sleep. And he knew that Becca wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon, either.

  Dear Heavenly Father, I want to help Becca. I could see in her expression this hurt her deeply. Please give me the guidance to say and do the right thing for her. She needs You in her life to help her through these tough times.

  Although he had a key to Becca’s house, he would respect her privacy and not enter without her knowledge. Quinn sat himself on her front porch to wait for her return home. She wouldn’t go through it alone if he had anything to say about it. Friends were there for each other through the bad and good times.

  Two hours later, as the sun began its journey across the sky, a squad car dropped Becca off in front of her house. The defeated sight of her contracted his heart as though someone had reached into his chest and squeezed it as tight as possible. Not aware of her surroundings, she trudged toward the porch, her shoulders slumped, pain reflected in her expression. He rose from the wicker love seat.

  When her gaze fell on him, she ghosted a smile that instantly vanished. “What are you doing here? This is awfully early to start working on the kitchen.” She glanced at her watch as though to make sure she had the time right. “You couldn’t have gotten more than a few hours sleep.”

  “I didn’t get any. I didn’t go home. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The strap of her purse slid off her shoulder and down her arm. She grasped it before her bag dropped to the wooden floor. “Why?”

  “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

  His words stirred her, prodding forward the emotions she had held in check. She dared not let go of their tight rein. “Go home to bed, Quinn. I’m going to.”

  One eyebrow quirked. “Are you?”

  “Okay, maybe I’m not gonna go to sleep. Who could after a night like I’ve had? But I probably should lie down and rest at least. I’m all right. I’ve lost a person before this incident.”

  He shuffled forward, his hands in his pockets. “How many?”

  “Well, only one other,
but I knew when I became a hostage negotiator it could be part of the job.”

  “Knowing it and experiencing it are two different things.”

  “Sure, but—” Her throat choked off the rest of her sentence as her pain rose. She hurried toward her front door, hoping to get inside before she fell apart. She contemplated how to shut Quinn out, but before she could, he was in her foyer—large, commanding, a force to be reckoned with.

  “It’s okay, Becca. You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he murmured, drawing her to him.

  The instant his arms wrapped around her, as though forming a protective shield to keep out the rest of the world, she couldn’t hold the tears back. They poured from her as she pressed her cheek against his chest. She cried for all the Shellys of the world, who saw suicide as the only solution to their problems. She cried because she hadn’t been able to talk Shelly down, to get her the help she needed. She cried because she couldn’t see a relationship with Quinn working out in the long haul. She’d seen the shellshocked expression on his face while watching her deal with the captive-victim situation. When he had time to think about everything, he would compare her job to Maggie’s and want nothing to do with her.

  Slowly the tears dried, and she managed to put her own battered emotions back in a box deep inside her and lock it. She couldn’t afford to indulge in them too much or she wouldn’t be able to do her job. And she needed to do her job. For the Shellys of the world.

  When he pulled back and framed her face with his large, calloused hands, she relished their rough texture against her skin. It made her feel alive, totally in the moment. Her eyes, burning with exhaustion, focused on his endearing features.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice husky with the residue of feelings she was wrestling with.

  “Why do you do it, Becca?”

  “Because someone has to.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be you.”

  She tugged away. She needed some hot tea, something calming, soothing. She strode toward the kitchen, aware that Quinn was only a foot behind her. He wasn’t going to let the issue go.