by Joanna Wayne
“New Orleans.”
“That’s a long way from Montana.”
“Another world. Have you ever been there?”
“I went to Mardi Gras once when—” She stopped. Every time she opened her mouth, she gave something away. “When I was in my early twenties, before the girls were born.”
“They’re cute girls.”
“They’re my life.”
“I can tell.” He turned his gaze to the rhubarb pie. “You’re a pretty amazing woman to manage Danny and Davy and still find time to bake.”
“Evelyn Miller made the pie.”
“It looks great. Bet it would be good with a cup of coffee about now.”
Sure. Her and the sheriff having coffee and pie in the cozy kitchen while their children played together in the living room and a quiet snow fell just outside the frosted windows.
“No coffee for me,” she said. “But you’re more than welcome to half the pie. I’ll cut it and wrap it in foil while you get the boys into their coats and boots.” She could not possibly make it any plainer that it was time for him to leave.
Instead of walking away, Josh stepped closer. “Is everything okay?”
Her insides shook. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. I just get the impression that something’s bothering you.”
Dread swelled until she could barely breathe. She had to play this cooler, seem more like a woman with nothing to hide. She should have invited him to stay for pie and coffee, but then that might have led to even more mistakes.
“I’m fine, Sheriff, just tired.”
She found herself holding her breath until he’d turned and left the room. She made him a pie doggie bag, then went to tell the boys goodbye.
“Are we coming back here tomorrow?” Davy asked.
“Not tomorrow,” Josh said.
“Then who’s going to watch us?” Danny asked.
The concern in his young voice got to Chrysie, but there was too much at stake here for her to consider anyone except Jenny and Mandy.
“Don’t worry,” Josh assured his sons, “I’ll make certain you’re in good hands. Now go hop in the truck and buckle up.”
Chrysie stepped to the door and breathed in a huge gulp of the cold air as the boys raced to the truck. Unfortunately Josh didn’t race away with them.
“If you need anything, Chrysie, anything at all, just give me a call.”
She swallowed hard and shivered, chilled by the cold wind and the realization of how badly she wished she could open up to someone. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself.
Even now, she’d have to start thinking about moving on. Aohkii was no more the refuge she’d hoped for than any of her other stops had been. Safety for her and her daughters was never more than an illusion.
CHRYSIE ATWATER HAD managed to do what few women in Josh McCain’s life ever had. She’d kept him awake and thinking about her most of the night. But it wasn’t Chrysie’s good looks and great body that had caused the insomnia. Not the way her short blond hair curled around her cheeks, either. It wasn’t even about the way her jeans rode her hips, low and tight so that the back pockets seemed to be cradling her cute little butt.
It was none of that, he assured himself. It was only that she was the first person in a long time who’d handled his sons for an entire afternoon without seeming ready for the loony bin. More important, in spite of the boys’ complaints about her last night, over breakfast this morning they’d both asked if they could go back to her house after school. She hadn’t offered her services, of course, but that didn’t worry him. His powers of persuasion with the opposite sex were legend.
But so were his instinctive hunches, and Chrysie’s behavior last night had raised a couple of bright red flags. She’d been far too quick to change the subject when he’d tried to ask her about herself.
And then there was that story of reading about Aohkii in a travel magazine. Aohkii was so little it wasn’t even on most maps. The town’s only claim to fame was Ted Greely’s collection of rodeo buckles, and he hadn’t ridden a bronc since he’d been thrown and kicked in the head down in Wyoming.
Josh dropped to the worn leather chair in his office, punched a few keys on his computer and brought up the Web site for the national law enforcers’ listing of missing persons. No use to type in Chrysie Atwater. People on the run never used their own name.
He considered possibilities as the Web site continued to load. He couldn’t see Chrysie as a hardened criminal, but she might have taken her daughters and escaped an abusive husband. Women did that all the time, though frankly Chrysie didn’t seem the type to run from anything.
But then, this might be a case of kidnapping by the noncustodial parent. He could see her taking matters into her own hands if a judge had given her husband custody of the girls. But why move here? And what was she using for money?
Josh typed in the parameters for the search. Within the last three years, since he was pretty sure Mandy was no older than that. A mother and her two children, approximate ages between two and six years. That should do for starters.
He hit the search key and waited. The list that came up seemed endless. He added a new criterion: disappeared from Texas.
The modified list was still long but more manageable. He skimmed quickly, hoping for a recognizable image of one of the three. None of the pictures triggered any kind of recognition—not until he was almost through the list. Even then, the actual picture didn’t show a lot of similarity to the girls, but the computer-generated likeness to predict what the older girl might look like today showed a distinct resemblance to Jenny Atwater.
Last seen with their mother, Dr. Cassandra Harwell. Josh studied the grainy photo of the woman. Her hair was dark and cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain business suit with a tailored blouse. She was paler and much thinner than Chrysie, almost gaunt.
Yet there was something about the photo that reminded him of Chrysie. Maybe the eyes. And the mouth, upturned slightly as if she were forcing a smile. Chrysie had smiled that same way last night.
Reluctantly Josh hit the accompanying hot key for more information.
Sara Elizabeth and Rebecca Marie Harwell, disappeared November 6, 2003, from Houston, Texas. Believed to be in the company of their mother, Dr. Cassandra Blankenship Harwell, a child psychologist in Houston.
Dr. Harwell was wanted for questioning in the shooting death of her husband Jonathan Harwell and was considered a prime suspect in his murder.
Chapter Three
The information sent a couple of shock waves to Josh’s brain. He’d heard of man killers who looked like innocent babes before, but he’d never expected to run into one at the local civic center. But if it turned out Chrysie and the missing doctor from Texas were one and the same, he’d not only run into her but had left Danny and Davy in her care.
The heat in his office kicked on, and Josh shrugged out of his jacket as he skimmed the sparse facts. Jonathan Hawthorne Harwell, a Houston attorney, had been found murdered in his bed. His wife and their two children had gone missing four days after the crime. Dr. Harwell had withdrawn one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, the full amount of her personal checking and savings accounts.
A low whistle escaped Josh’s lips. Dr. Cassandra Harwell was one tough shrew. He looked at her picture again. Not the typical face of a born killer, but she did look a little uptight—kind of the way Chrysie had looked the other night when she’d lit into him about the crooked Christmas tree.
But not the way she’d looked serving up plates of sloppy joes and washing dishes in her cozy little kitchen. Definitely not the way she’d looked when she’d stood at the back door to tell them goodbye. Her vulnerability then had really gotten to him. Of course, she could have been playing him.
He studied the picture again. Different color and hairstyle. That was easy enough to accomplish. Chrysie was shapely where the woman in the picture was too thin, but a few added pounds could
explain that.
And there were some very definite similarities. The shape of the face was the same and the features were similar. Little turned-up nose, full lips. And something about the eyes. The similarities didn’t justify tearing out to the Millers’ ranch to make an arrest, but when you considered the two children were exactly the right ages, there was ample evidence to warrant further investigation.
If Chrysie was the missing psychologist, it would explain her Texas accent and the way she knew so much about handling the boys. It would also explain why she could be a stay-at-home mom. She could still be making it on the one-twenty if she’d lived as cheaply the past three years as she was now.
He should be feeling at least a hint of excitement at the possibility of arresting a fugitive practically in his backyard. Instead he felt more as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. His muscles tightened as he picked up the phone and dialed information for the phone number for the Houston Police Department. With any luck, he’d find the listing was a mistake and that Dr. Cassandra Harwell had been located months ago.
He had a very strong hunch that this was not his lucky day.
DETECTIVE JUAN HERNANDEZ hung up the phone and lumbered down the hall to his new partner’s office. Her door was open, so he walked in. Angela Martina was sitting at her desk, her breasts pushing ever so slightly against the soft cotton of her yellow blouse as she shuffled through the photos of last night’s shooting on the east side of town.
“Lousy photos,” she said. “I may have to start taking my own.”
He looked at the photo she’d just thrown to her desk. It looked fine to him. “I just got a call from a sheriff in Aohkii, Montana,” he said.
She didn’t bother to look up. “What’s his problem?”
“He was calling about Cassandra Harwell.” He knew that would get her attention. Jonathan Harwell and Angela’s older sister had been partners in a law firm before he was murdered.
Angela tossed the photo she was holding back to the desk and stared at Juan from beneath her mascara-coated lashes. “Has Cassandra been spotted in Montana?”
“Probably not. Said he had some strangers in town and he was checking them against known felons.”
“I don’t guess the strangers are a woman with two small children?”
“He said there were some children. He’d check and see if they matched the ages of the Harwell kids.”
“Did he give you a description of the woman?”
“No, only said she didn’t much favor the online photo of Cassandra Harwell.”
“So why did he call?”
“You know those Montana guys. What else they got to do up there besides cozy up to a sheep?” He laughed at his own joke. Angela didn’t.
“What did you tell him?” she asked.
“To check out the kids. If the woman had two girls that looked anywhere near the ages of the Harwell kids, he should get us a set of fingerprints from the woman and keep an eye on her until we checked them out.”
“Did he agree to cooperate?”
“Yeah. Said no problem. He seems on top of things, but I don’t look for anything to come of this. I can’t see Cassandra in Montana. More likely she’s down in Mexico somewhere. No reason to be freezing her ass off up there.”
Angela drummed her bright red nails on her desk. “If it’s Cassandra, someone from the department will need to go up there and fly her back. Frankly I would love to see some snow. It’s hard to get in the mood for Christmas shopping when I’m still running the air conditioner.”
“Well, don’t make any plane reservations just yet. This is a really long shot.”
“Just keep me posted.” Angela turned her gaze back to the photos.
Juan lingered. “You want to get some breakfast and then go question the usual suspects on the east side?”
“Not if we have to go to that greasy hole-in-the-wall where we went last time.”
“They make good breakfast tacos.”
“I want a bagel. And give me a few minutes. I have to make a phone call before we go.”
He started to drop into the straight-backed chair near her desk to wait.
“A private phone call.”
He grinned and left, though he’d love to hang around and listen. Angela was single and the hottest number on the force. He could imagine what a private phone call from her would sound like. Not that he’d ever get one. She’d made it clear she didn’t date police officers. He guessed that meant she wouldn’t sleep with him either.
He walked back to his office, once again thinking about the sheriff’s call. Be one great boon if it was Cassandra Harwell who’d shown up in Aohkii, Montana. He was as eager as ever to get his hands on the murdering bitch—for reasons that had nothing to do with her husband’s death.
JENNY GATHERED a handful of snow and hurled it in her mother’s direction. The snowball splattered against the leg of Chrysie’s jeans. “Okay, kid, you’re going to get it now.”
Jenny took off running, her boots sinking in the snow with each step. Chrysie caught her easily, grabbed her around the waist and swung her around while Jenny squealed excitedly.
Mandy came running over. “Swing me, too, Mommy.”
“As soon as I catch my breath.” She took a huge gulp of the cold air, marveling again at how gloriously beautiful the world looked covered in white. Last night’s snowfall had been the heaviest of the season and had left the entire mountainside glistening.
It was one more reason she’d love to stay in Aohkii. Actually, she’d love to stay almost anywhere. Constantly moving from one town to another was hard on her and even worse on the girls.
Every town they settled in seemed to have its drawbacks. At least it had seemed that way until she’d arrived in Aohkii one sunny afternoon two months ago. She’d only planned to stop for lunch, but when she’d heard some young mothers at a nearby table talking about the excellent preschool program at the Methodist church, her interest had been piqued.
And then when she’d followed up on the waitress’s suggestion that she contact the Millers about renting their cabin, she’d felt it was meant to be, had even dared to hope they could make a real life here.
But now she had Sheriff Josh McCain to deal with. If his questions and interest in her persisted, she’d have no choice but to run again. Her heart constricted at the thought of tearing her innocent daughters away from this place that seemed so perfect.
She picked up Mandy and spun her around until she grew so dizzy she had to lean against the trunk of a towering tree for support. Mandy needed no recuperation.
“Look, Mommy. I’m making snow angels,” she announced as she flopped around in the snow like an injured bird.
“That’s not how you do it.” Jenny fell to her back and started demonstrating the correct way—not that Mandy was looking at her. Mandy had already given up on snow angels and was standing and brushing the snow from her bright red parka. She wandered a few feet away, then came back and grabbed Chrysie’s hand. “Come see this, Mommy.”
“Yes. The spruce tree looks very pretty covered in snow.”
“It’s not a ’pruce tree. It’s a Christmas tree.”
“I guess it could be.”
“Can we have it for our tree? Can we, please? I love it.”
Jenny jumped up from the snow and came over to voice her protest. “It’s not tall enough to be a Christmas tree.”
“They don’t have to be tall, do they, Mommy?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s no height requirement.”
“What’s height?” Mandy asked.
“That’s how you measure how tall something is.”
“I want lots of height,” Jenny said, “for the decorations. And we can put a big star on top, just like the one on the tree in The Night Before Christmas.”
“I want this tree,” Mandy insisted.
“There’s no law against having two Christmas trees,” Chrysie said. “Maybe we can leave the small one outside so that it can keep growi
ng. We can decorate it for the birds so that they won’t go hungry for Christmas.”
“Two Christmas trees.” Jenny was clearly impressed.
The hum of an engine grabbed Chrysie’s attention, and she turned to see a truck making its way up the center of the freshly plowed road that led from the highway. She expected it to be Buck Miller or one of his hands, but as the vehicle got closer, her heart plunged to her toes. It was Sheriff McCain.
She grew instantly tense, starting the all-too-familiar acid flow to her stomach and constricting her throat so that it was difficult to swallow.
No reason to panic, she told herself. He’s just here to see the Millers. Or else he wants me to watch the boys for him. If he asks, I’ll say yes. Pretend it’s no problem. Pretend he’s no problem.
She waved and managed a smile as he stopped a few feet from them and stepped out of his truck. It struck her how well he fit in this world of snowy isolation and rugged terrain.
“Good morning,” she said, striving to sound at ease. “Back so soon?”
“That’s what happens when you feed a stray. They just keep hanging around until you run them off with a well-placed broom handle.”
“Lucky me, I have a new broom.” She turned back to the girls as he joined them. “Time to go inside and warm up.”
“Don’t go in on my account,” Josh said. “I didn’t come to visit. I was heading up to the Millers’ house to talk to Buck about some cattle he’s selling, but I saw you and the girls outside and wondered if you were having battery trouble again.”
“No, I have a new one.”
“Good thinking. Guess you just decided to give the girls a holiday. I don’t blame you. I was tempted to let the boys stay home, but once they hit first grade, the teachers frown on that.”
“I assumed school would be called off due to the weather.”
“It’s just a little snow. Plows already have the main roads cleared. And looks like Buck took care of this one.”
“Yes. One of his hands was out just after daybreak.”
