Family in Hiding

by Valerie Hansen

  Smiling, the lanky young man rose and reached into a jacket pocket for his badge wallet. “Marshal Burke Trier, at your service, folks.”

  Dylan relaxed when he saw it. “Okay. Sorry. You just don’t look the way I’d expected.”

  “I can have that effect on people when I work at it,” Trier said. He gestured to the empty aisle. “Now, shall we go? I’d like to get you settled and get back to St. Louis by tonight. The Cards are playing a home game and I have tickets.”

  Life goes on, Dylan thought sadly, for everybody but me and my family.

  He sighed and opened the overhead bins to hand down the bags and backpacks. Sometimes he felt as if he were acting a part in a movie, simply following a script instead of participating in life. Parts of his brain felt numb. Disconnected from reality.

  That was his problem, he realized. He might be up to his neck in alligators but his mind was still refusing to acknowledge that he was anywhere near a swamp, let alone about to be pulled under water for the last time and drowned by hungry gators.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the present, to take it moment by moment. That was the only way he was going to make it through this, he reasoned, the only way he was going to be able to adequately defend his family if it came to that.

  Dylan’s heart felt as though it was being clenched by a mighty fist as he gazed at his wife and children. He’d had everything that really mattered all along and had been too blind to see it.

  Pretending they were still a viable family group was foolish, he knew, yet he planned to put the time when they were forced to be together to good use. The marshals’ insistence that they live as husband and wife while still technically married had made his heart sing.

  At this point, Dylan didn’t care what size house they ended up with or what it looked like. This was his chance to try to repair the hearts and minds he’d wounded. He would not waste this second chance.

  Would Grace mourn if he lost his life? he wondered.

  That thought led him straight to the other far worse possibility; the threat that had landed them where they were at present.

  If anything bad happened to his family, Dylan knew his own heart wouldn’t want to keep beating. He wasn’t being morbid. He was simply being brutally honest.

  * * *

  The black SUV that transported Grace and the others through Houston to the suburbs was comfortable enough. It was the reason for the trip that was unnerving her. Everything was strange. New. Unknown. Houston was clearly a major city—not that St. Louis wasn’t—yet she wondered if she was going to feel half as at home here as she had there.

  “We’re taking you to a neighborhood called Larchmont,” Marshal Trier said. “It’s close to shopping and schools without being too crowded. Most of the older homes that were built there in the fifties have been replaced by newer, two-story houses.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Grace replied. Judging by the dwellings they were passing, the area was fairly upscale and definitely acceptable. Landscaping was fashionable and well-tended, and the homes were quite lovely.

  “I said most, not all,” he told her with a chuckle. “Yours could use a little sprucing up. Feel free to do whatever grabs you. Even if you end up moving again, you’ll want to make the place feel homey while you’re there.”

  “What I’d like to do is go back where we came from,” she answered wryly. The SUV was slowing and turning onto a narrow, concrete driveway. Grace took one look at the house she was supposed to move in to and gasped. “Surely not here.”

  “It’ll grow on you,” the marshal told them, sounding so cheerful Grace wanted to scream. “You insisted on separate quarters and this duplex was all we had available that met your demands. It’s fully furnished including linen and kitchen stuff. The backyard is fenced for safety and there’s a door between the two units so you can send the kids back and forth without stepping outside.”

  “I’m not sending my children anywhere.”

  “Suit yourself.” He stepped out of the SUV and circled to retrieve their bags for them. “Everybody out. You’re home.”

  Without comment, Dylan hoisted both carry-ons and started to herd the kids toward the porch while Grace remained rooted to the ground. The house’s paint was flaking, the porch sagged and there were enough shingles missing from the peaked roof she wondered if it was still waterproof.

  The boys and their father were approaching the place eagerly. Beth, however, clung to Grace. That was what finally convinced her to pretend she accepted the accommodations, such as they were.

  She took her daughter by the hand and stepped forward, acting as though this was not another chapter of her ongoing nightmare. The property located to one side of their new home seemed nice enough. The house on the other side, however, left almost as much to be desired as the duplex did.

  “Who lives next to us?” Grace asked with trepidation. Since they were being relocated, was it possible they’d been put in a conclave of reformed crooks and other unsavory individuals?

  “Beats me. I don’t do the vetting, but somebody has.” Trier handed a ring of keys to Dylan and shook his hand. “You’ll be hearing from us when we need you. In the meantime, the best thing you can do is behave as if you’re exactly who we’ve told you to be. The more successfully you convince the locals, the less likely they’ll wonder about you and the less chance anybody will give you away, accidentally or otherwise. Is that clear?”

  Grace nodded, noting that her soon-to-be-ex was doing the same. “Are both sides of this house the same?” she asked.

  “They’re close.” Trier gestured. “One of the bedrooms over here has been made into a den so you’ll probably want the other side for whoever keeps the kids.” He pointed to a small table in the entryway. “The rest of the info is in that file over there. Mr. Appleby already has a job in a big warehouse store this side of the Galleria in the Uptown District. We drove past it on our way here.”

  “What about me? I need to be home to watch Brandon, and with summer coming the other kids will be out of school, too.”

  “We thought of that, Mary Grace,” the marshal said with a grin. “You were a stay-at-home mom before and that’s what you’ll be now. Believe me, it’s a lot safer than trying to find adequate daycare. I know. My sister went through a dozen places before she found a good one.”

  Frowning, Grace looked toward her husband. “Dylan has to work? At a blue-collar job? That hardly seems fair. I thought you’d be taking care of us?”

  Dylan raised a hand. “They are. If I stayed home with you all the time, how would I explain my idleness? Besides, it might be a nice change of pace to ditch the starched collars and neckties. Half the time they made me feel as if I was being strangled.”

  What her contrary side wanted her to do was to tell him she’d like to help strangle him. Instead she merely nodded in apparent capitulation.

  Burke Trier was already heading for the front door. “We’re relying on you folks to keep your eyes open and report anything that seems out of the ordinary. Phone numbers you may need are in the file, too. Other than that, just sit tight.”

  Staring after him as he left, Grace realized belatedly that her jaw had dropped, so she snapped her mouth closed. “Well, I guess that’s that.”

  “Why don’t you and the kids go inspect this place and choose where you want to sleep?” Dylan asked.

  She faced him, chin raised, hand extended. “First, give me the keys so I can be sure the locks work.”

  “You won’t have to lock me out of your quarters, Grace. I won’t bother you. I promise.”

  Her stance didn’t waver.

  Dylan laid the entire ring of keys in her palm and sighed. “Keep whatever you want and give the rest back to me. I trust you, Gracie.”

  “Mary Grace,” she countered, whirling and starting for the conne
cting door. “Mary Grace Appleby, thanks to you.”

  He didn’t blame her for being cross. If he’d been in her shoes he figured he’d have lost his cool long ago. Still, they’d have to work together if they hoped to carry off this charade.

  Pacing across the threadbare, living-room rug, Dylan paused at a window and lifted one edge of the heavy drapes so he could check the street. Everything seemed quiet. A couple of children were passing on bicycles and the man across the street was mowing his lawn.

  Was that normal? He had no idea, which meant they could be in terrible danger and not even suspect it until it was too late.

  While his family was exploring the house, Dylan decided to step outside and introduce himself to as many of his neighbors as possible. With no friends and no way to assess their tenuous situation, they were like sitting ducks. Having a few friends would be an asset.

  The realization that a rifleman could be lining him up in his sights at that very moment shook Dylan to the core, made his pulse jump, brought perspiration to his brow.

  Nevertheless, he stepped out onto the weathered porch and started across the street toward the lawn-mowing figure.

  Hair on the back of his neck prickled. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans to hide the slight tremor he couldn’t totally control. When he had to wait for traffic to pass he almost changed his mind and went back into the house.

  The neighbor who had been working in his yard paused, wiped his brow with his sleeve, then looked over and waved.

  Now Dylan was committed. He had to proceed or attract the wrong kind of attention.

  Squaring his shoulders and forcing a smile, he looked both ways and stepped off the curb.

  He’d nearly reached the opposite side of the street when a speeding motorcyclist roared around the corner on a heavy bike, headed his way.

  Since he was already well in the clear, Dylan didn’t pay much attention to the cycle—until its rider jerked the wheel and swerved toward him at the last minute before gunning the motor and roaring away.

  Dylan leaped aside, jumping between two parked cars and landing on the newly cut grass lining both sides of the concrete walkway.

  He heard his neighbor shout and curse at the rider.

  Rising above that din was a clear, high-pitched shriek he recognized immediately. Grace had seen the whole thing!

  Worse, she’d left the children in the house and was rushing to his aid. If this had been a trap or even a mere diversion, she had just made a critical error. One he was going to have to mention in the strongest terms once he had her alone.

  In the meantime Dylan decided, getting to his feet and dusting himself off, they were about to meet their first neighbor. He hoped he’d be able to think up a valid excuse to cut the meeting short because all he wanted to do at that point was to gather up his semihysterical wife and hustle her back to their children. ASAP.

  SEVEN

  “Don’t yell at me,” Grace told Dylan once they were back in their new home. “You’re scaring the kids.”

  “They’d be a lot more than scared if some stranger had waltzed in here and hurt them while you were busy playing Florence Nightingale across the street.”

  “I thought you’d been hit, okay?”

  “Don’t tell me you cared.”

  She pulled a face and planted her balled fists on her hips. There was no way she was going to admit how frightened she’d been for him when she’d seen him go down. For all she’d known, he might have been badly injured.

  Instead of admitting concern and weakening her uncompromising stance, she said, “If the bad guys find you, they find all of us. Why shouldn’t I be worried when something odd happens?”

  “I suppose there is a certain logic to that train of thought,” Dylan admitted, although Grace could tell he wasn’t fully convinced.

  “Of course there is. Give me some credit. You know I’m not the kind of person who acts silly and helpless the way a lot of women do.”

  “You’re right.”

  Grace’s eyebrows arched. “Excuse me? Did you just agree with me?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. It took me by surprise, is all.”

  “Actually, I was amazed that you managed to pull yourself together fast enough to carry on a semiliterate conversation with the guy across the street.”

  “Semiliterate? Please, don’t overdo the compliments. Too much approval is liable to go to my head.”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it came out,” he said, seeming genuinely contrite.

  “Good.” Dylan looked so uncomfortable she couldn’t help laughing. “For a guy who’s supposed to be a whiz at courtroom debate, you sure seem to be having trouble expressing yourself lately.”

  “That’s because I can detach my mind from my feelings when I’m working,” he explained. “But when it comes to you and the kids, it’s different.”

  Noisily clearing his throat, Dylan paced away from her, leaving Grace wondering if he was going to walk off in the middle of their intense exchange. Instead he turned. And as he did she noticed the pathos in his gaze, the moisture that made his dark eyes glisten like agate.

  “I know you hate me enough to want your freedom and I don’t blame you, Grace. I know you’ll never forget the mistakes I’ve made. I also know I deserve all the punishment life deals out. All I ask is that you believe I’m trying to make amends and make some effort to accept me the way I am now.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “It won’t be easy. I know that.”

  She hesitated. Studied him. Judged him sincere. Her voice was soft, her inflection heartfelt, when she said, “No, it won’t be.”

  Left unspoken was any promise to try to understand the man she’d once loved enough to marry and start a family with. This current version of Dylan was closer to that original person than he had been for years. Did she dare open her heart again?

  Logic told her no, while her emotions urged forgiveness. For the present she chose to heed her sensible side. If Dylan continued to be this kind of appealing person, then perhaps she would eventually reconsider. They had time. At least she hoped they did.

  That was the real question, wasn’t it? Were they living on borrowed time or were they going to actually have a chance to get to know each other again, to perhaps pull their fractured marriage back together?

  Grace’s follow-up question depended more on her than on her estranged husband. She silently asked herself, Do I want to go back to the way our life was? and answered easily that she did not.

  She assumed she’d eventually be able to forgive Dylan, up to a point, but she never wanted to return to the days when his whole focus had been on making lots of money. Back then, he’d barely had time for her or the children. He hadn’t even bothered to pretend interest in their daily lives, let alone accompany them anywhere unless he absolutely had to.

  Grace sighed, letting out a noisy whoosh of air and shaking her head sadly. Even Sunday mornings, when he was free of work responsibilities, he usually opted to stay home while she took the kids to Sunday school by herself.

  Which reminded her that it was currently Saturday. Were they allowed to find a nearby church and attend, or was that another privilege now denied them?

  Thoughtful, she glanced from her husband to the hall table. The large manila envelope with files the marshal had left was still there, unopened.

  “I’m going to go sit down with those instructions and memorize as much as I can,” she said flatly, gesturing. “Do you want to stay here and look at them after I’m finished, or would you like to come over to my side of the house and do it with me?”

  “Did I just get invited to cross the border into enemy territory?” He looked as though he was blushing.

  Grace had to smile in spite of herself. “If your passport
is in order and you have a current visa, I guess you’ll be okay.”

  His grin matched then surpassed hers. “I’m sure I have proper documentation for any circumstance,” he joked. “The U.S. marshals think of everything.”

  Although she made a face at him, she wasn’t really angry. This kind of humorous, witty exchange had been one of the things she’d once found so appealing about Dylan. He’d had a mischievous bent that had so well meshed with hers that they could anticipate the twists in each other’s funny quips almost instantly. In short, Dylan got her. At least that was the way it had been when they were dating and he was finishing law school.

  Those were halcyon days, Grace admitted. And, in her heart of hearts, she truly did miss them.

  Glancing at her soon-to-be-ex she swallowed hard. She’d missed experiencing this playful side of Dylan. It was delightful to see him as someone who could find humor in almost any situation and be comfortable in his own skin the way he was now. Instead of his normal business attire he was clad in worn jeans and had chosen a long-sleeved shirt that hid the bandage on his arm. His dark hair was mussed, his chin slightly shadowed by stubble. He would never have gone even one day without shaving when they were in St. Louis. Now, he looked more like the reality television version of middle America than he did a high-powered lawyer.

  That will change, Grace warned herself. As soon as he’s testified and gone back to his former career, he’ll be just the way he was when I filed for divorce.

  Except... She glanced at his arm and noticed blood spotting his sleeve. “You must have hurt yourself when you fell,” she said, pointing.

  “It’s nothing. Just bumped the place where I was shot when I took that dive.”

  Looping a hand through his good arm, she led him to her part of the house, through her sparsely furnished living room and down the hallway to the bath before positioning him at the edge of the tub and ordering, “Sit. I found a first-aid kit. I’ll redo the bandage for you.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  Grace stood her ground. “Oh, yes, it is. Unless you plan to explain to the neighbors why you have a bleeding bullet hole in your arm.”