Deadly Christmas Secrets

by Shirlee McCoy

  A door opened. Closed.

  Was the gunman pursuing them?

  He lost the trail of footprints at a creek that tripped along the base of a deep embankment. A bucket was there, sitting near the water, half filled with red mud.

  Clay, Harper had said.

  He didn’t think it would matter much if they were both dead.

  He wanted to call to her, draw her out of her hiding place, but the forest had gone dead silent. Years of working in some of the most dangerous places in Afghanistan had honed his senses. Even now, years after he’d left the military to raise his younger siblings, he knew when trouble was lurking nearby.

  He moved cautiously, keeping low as he crossed the creek and searched for footprints in the mucky earth. The scent of dead leaves filled his nose, the late November air slicing through his jacket. He ignored the cold. Ignored everything but his mission—finding Harper Shelby and keeping her alive.

  He moved up the embankment, dropping to the ground as leaves crackled behind him. Whoever was coming wasn’t being quiet about it. Not Harper. She’d moved like a wraith, disappearing into the forest with barely a sound.

  He eased behind a thick oak, adrenaline pumping through him as he waited for his quarry. It didn’t take long. A few more loud snaps of branches and crackles of leaves and the bald man appeared, inching his way down toward the creek, his belly hanging over a belt that was cinched so tight, Logan was surprised the guy could breathe.

  He could have taken him out then, fired one shot that would bring the guy down for good, but he was more interested in hearing what he had to say and knowing why he was trying to kill Harper.

  He waited, counting footsteps as the guy drew closer.

  Another few yards and he’d be within reach. Another few feet. The guy moved past the tree where Logan was hiding, completely oblivious to the danger he was in. Not a professional hired gun, that was for sure. Logan had run into his fair share of those during the years he’d been working for HEART. They weren’t this careless, and they were never easy to take down.

  He waited another heartbeat.

  That was all it took. Just that second of waiting, and calm became chaos. The bushes beside the guy moved and Harper’s dog burst out, snarling and barking as he tried to bite the bald guy.

  The man cursed, raising his weapon, aiming at the dog’s head, and then Harper was there, a shovel in hand. She swung hard, the metal end of the tool smacking into the guy’s wrist as Logan pulled his weapon and fired.

  TWO

  The bald guy looked dead. His eyes were closed and blood was seeping from a wound in his shoulder. He was breathing, though, his barrel chest rising and falling.

  Harper dropped the shovel and leaned over him. She would have touched the pulse point in his neck, but Logan edged in beside her and nudged her away.

  He lifted the man’s gun from the ground, unloaded it, then shoved the cartridge in his pocket.

  “He needs first aid,” she murmured, trying to move closer again.

  He blocked her way, frisking the guy, pulling a knife from the sheath strapped to his calf.

  “First things first, Harper,” Logan muttered. “We secure the weapons. Then we provide first aid. It’s in the rule book.”

  “What rule book is that?” she asked, shrugging out of her jacket and using it to staunch the blood flowing from the bald guy’s shoulder.

  He moaned. Not dead after all.

  “The one called How to Keep Alive in Dangerous Situations,” Logan responded drily. “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes.” As soon as she’d cleared the tree line, she’d called 911. The dispatcher had assured her help was on the way.

  Good thing she hadn’t had to depend on that.

  She’d be dead now.

  She pressed harder on the bleeding wound. The guy had been shooting at her, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead.

  “Get off me!” he growled, rolling onto his side and struggling to his feet. His wrist was broken from the force of her blow, his face ashen, but he looked more angry than anything.

  “How about you mind your manners, buddy?” Logan said calmly, holstering his weapon.

  “How about you shut up?” the guy spit out, his voice a little slurred, his gaze darting back the way they’d come. No one was there, but Harper thought he must be hoping for help.

  “Fine by me.” Logan pulled a cell phone from his pocket, typed something into it and snapped a picture of the man.

  “Hey! What’s that about?” the guy snarled.

  “Just sending your mug shot to a friend who can find out who you are and whether or not you have any warrants out for your arrest.”

  “You got nothing on me.”

  “You tried to shoot us,” Harper responded, and the guy grinned.

  “Thought you were deer. Hard to see people out in woods like this.”

  “No one is going to believe that,” she said, and Logan touched her shoulder, his fingers warm through her T-shirt.

  “Don’t engage him, Harper. He’s got his story. It’s what he’ll tell the police. He’ll still end up in jail.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” the guy responded, his gaze darting toward the creek.

  “You think your friend is coming for you?” Logan asked, brushing dirt from his jeans, his expression unreadable. He had dark eyes. Not brown. Not black. Midnight blue. They remained fixed on the gunman, no hint of emotion in them. “Because he’s not.”

  “We’re a team—”

  “A team that kills for money?” Logan smiled, a hard, predatory curve of the lips that would have made Harper’s blood run cold if she’d been on the receiving end of it. “That’s the kind of team that lasts until one guy gets caught. Then it’s not a team. It’s just that one guy alone, wishing he’d picked some other way to make money.”

  “You don’t know—”

  An engine roared to life and tires thumped on gravel. First slowly, then more quickly.

  The man’s accomplice escaping while he had the chance? Probably, and the man seemed to know it. He pivoted and tried to run into the trees.

  Logan moved so quickly, Harper barely had time to realize what he was doing. One minute he was beside her. The next he and the bald guy were on the ground, Logan’s knee pressed into the other man’s back.

  “Not smart, buddy,” Logan said quietly. “Stuff like that could get a man killed.”

  “I’m not your buddy, and I’m not the one who’s going to die.” The guy bucked, trying to dislodge Logan. He didn’t have a chance. Even if he hadn’t been weak from blood loss, Harper didn’t think he could have moved Logan. Muscles and training definitely trumped anger.

  “I guess that depends on whether or not you try to run when the cops get here.”

  “When the cops get here—”

  “Tell you what,” Logan interrupted. “How about we skip the discussion and get to the point. Who hired you to follow me out here?”

  The guy went silent, his face blazing with anger.

  “Right. So someone did hire you.”

  “I didn’t say that!” the man snarled.

  “Which answers another question. You’re afraid of whoever hired you, and that’s why you’re denying it.”

  “I’m not—”

  Sirens cut off the words, the screaming sound of them filling the woods. Picasso barked frantically, excited and alarmed by the chaos.

  Harper just wanted it to be over.

  She wanted the police to take the gunman away. She wanted Logan to leave. She wanted to go back to the life she’d made for herself. Quiet. Simple. Free of disappointments and heartaches and sorrows.

  She supposed that made her a coward.

  She wasn’t really.

&n
bsp; She’d loved the life she’d once had—the hectic, high-stress graphic design job, the sweet brownstone she’d bought for a steal and remodeled. She’d loved her sister, her niece. She’d even fallen in love. Once upon a time. When she’d still been in college and not nearly as convinced that Shelby women always chose men who were going to hurt them.

  Daniel had taught her a valuable lesson about that.

  If she hadn’t learned it from her college sweetheart, she might have learned it from watching Lydia. Gabe hadn’t been the kind of husband any woman deserved. He’d cheated. More than once, and he hadn’t been apologetic about it.

  And then Lydia and Amelia had died, murdered by a homeless man who’d stolen Lydia’s purse. That was the story the prosecuting attorney told. He’d built a tight case and presented it to a jury, convincing them that Norman Meyers had killed Lydia and Amelia and tossed their bodies into the Patuxent River. Norman was a known meth addict who’d committed enough petty crimes to be a frequent flyer with the police. He’d been married twice, and both his wives had restraining orders against him. Violent was a word that had been used a lot during the trial, and Norman’s angry, defiant glare hadn’t done anything to convince the jury otherwise. Despite the fact that Amelia’s body had never been found, the prosecuting attorney had gone for two counts of second-degree murder. He’d gotten what he’d wanted, and Norman had been put away for life.

  Harper had always thought she should be happy with that, but she’d felt no sense of closure. Most days she could convince herself that the jury was right, that Norman was guilty. There were other days when she thought it was all a little too convenient—Lydia and Amelia sneaking out of her place in the middle of the night, walking along a street quiet enough for them to be accosted without any witnesses. Amelia’s body missing and never found. Harper’s brother-in-law finally free of a wife he’d seemed to despise. Harper had spent enough time with her sister and brother-in-law to hear the arguments, the accusations, the veiled threats. She knew that Gabe loved his daughter. He would have never been able to hurt her, but Harper wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have hurt Lydia.

  Had he killed her? Secreted their daughter away somewhere?

  The idea seemed farfetched. Besides, the only family member the police seemed to have suspected was Harper. She’d been the last person to see her niece and sister alive and—according to her brother-in-law—was a jealous younger sister who’d hated Lydia.

  The press had had a field day with stories that implicated her. She’d lost a few clients because of it, and then she’d lost her job.

  Worse, she’d had no alibi, no way of proving that her sister and niece had left her house alive. Until Norman Meyers had pawned Lydia’s engagement ring, Harper had been certain she was going to be tried and convicted.

  Not good memories. Any of them.

  She shuddered, taking a step away from Logan and the man he was still holding down.

  “Harper?” Logan said sharply, and she thought he must have already tried to get her attention. “Can you head to your place and lead the police here?”

  “Why?” the gunman spat. “Because you plan to murder me and don’t want any witnesses?”

  Logan ignored him, pulling out his cell phone and glancing at the screen. “Tell the police that I’ve got Langley Simmons here. Looks as if he has a warrant out for his arrest.”

  The gunman cursed, tried to twist out from under Logan.

  “Harper?” Logan prodded.

  “I’ll get them,” she responded, calling to Picasso and jogging away. She wanted to leave both men behind, leave the entire mess behind.

  She knew she couldn’t, of course.

  She’d spent her life trying to do the right thing, trying to live the way she’d thought she should—following the rules, being moral and just and kind. She’d wanted what her mother had never been able to achieve—stability, security, edifying relationships.

  God had obviously had other plans.

  Her life had taken a turn she hadn’t anticipated, and now all she wanted was to be at peace.

  It didn’t look as if that was going to happen, either.

  But God was in control.

  He had a plan and a way.

  She just wished He’d tell her what it was.

  There was a lesson in trust there, she supposed, but she’d never been good at trusting. Even when it came to God. Maybe especially then. She’d prayed a lot when she was a kid, begging God to step in before the family was evicted or the lights were turned off or the police came to search for the drugs one of her mother’s boyfriends had left.

  Most of the time, those prayers hadn’t been answered. At least not in any way that made sense to her. Lights were often turned off and evictions happened. As an adult, she knew those were natural consequences to her mother’s habitual sins, but those old feelings of distrust and anxiety were still there.

  She pushed aside the memories as she raced up the steep hill that led to her cabin. Picasso bounded out of the woods in front of her, and she heard a masculine voice call his name. Sheriff Jeb Hunter or one of his deputies.

  Seconds later, she hit the top of the path and ran out onto her driveway. Two police cars were parked close to the cabin, Jeb Hunter crouched next to one of them shooting pictures of a bullet casing. Picasso lay a few feet away, panting quietly.

  Jeb looked up as Harper approached, his deep green eyes shaded by a uniform hat. “Heard there was trouble out here, Harper. From the look of things, that might be true.”

  “It is.”

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Someone was shooting at us.”

  “Us?”

  “A guy my brother-in-law sent. He showed up a few minutes before the guys with the guns.”

  “There’s more than one gunman?”

  “Yes. One drove away. One of them is in the woods, injured.”

  “The guy your brother-in-law sent? Where’s he?”

  “Keeping the injured guy from running.”

  “Then, I guess we’d better go find them. Want to lead the way?”

  Not really. What she wanted to do was go back to her clay. It wasn’t a possibility, so she whistled for Picasso and headed back into the woods.

  * * *

  Logan didn’t much like stepping aside and letting other people handle problems. Right now, he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t a cop and hadn’t been hired to work with them, so he hung back, watching as Simmons was loaded onto a stretcher, his wrist handcuffed to a deputy sheriff.

  Sheriff Jeb Hunter wasn’t taking any chances. That was good. Simmons was desperate. Given the opportunity, he’d run. If he did that, Logan doubted he’d ever be found. If he was, it would probably just be his body that turned up. The guy was scared of someone. Logan wanted to know who, but all Simmons was willing to admit to was a few too many beers and a case of mistaken identity.

  Lies, but it didn’t matter.

  The guy was guilty of nearly killing someone, and he’d be in jail for a while. Maybe when his buddy didn’t show up to bail him out, he’d be more willing to talk.

  “So, Logan Fitzgerald,” Sheriff Hunter said as the ambulance pulled away. “You want to explain how you happened to be in the right place at the right time?”

  “I was hired by Gabe Wilson.”

  “My brother-in-law,” Harper interrupted as if those words would explain everything.

  They explained nothing. Not to the sheriff and not to Logan. Finding Harper had been easy. She’d taken out a loan for property in Westminster, Maryland. No address was listed, but with only a little digging he’d found a house title with her name on it.

  Easy.

  So why hadn’t Gabe done it himself?

  The guy had money. Plenty of it.

  He could have h
ired anyone to find his sister-in-law. He’d hired HEART.

  Had he known there was going to be trouble?

  Or had he simply wanted to hedge his bets, make sure that Harper was found because...

  Why?

  It had been four years since Harper disappeared from Gabe’s life. If he’d wanted to kill her, wouldn’t he have made an attempt before?

  Lots of questions.

  Not many answers.

  The sheriff must have felt the same way. He frowned, took off his uniform hat and ran his hand over his dark hair. “Now, why, I’m wondering, would your brother-in-law want to find you?”

  Logan responded, “He said he received information about his daughter.”

  “Amelia is dead,” Harper said, her face pale as paper.

  “There was a funeral,” Logan corrected her, because he’d studied the case, read every article. That was the way he was. He liked to be prepared, to understand all the details before he began a mission. “Her body was never found.”

  “I know,” she said quietly. “What information does he have?”

  “A photograph. A piece of cloth that he says might be part of her blanket.”

  He didn’t think it was possible, but she paled more, swaying slightly. Her dog nudged her side.

  She touched his head and seemed to ground herself.

  “I received something similar.”

  “A photo?” Sheriff Hunter asked.

  “No. A newspaper article and a piece of something that might have been Amelia’s favorite blanket.” The words rasped out, and Logan cupped her elbow, afraid she might pass out. She looked that shaken, that anxious.

  “Did you keep it?” the sheriff asked, and she nodded.

  “I called the DC police about it, but they haven’t gotten back to me.”

  “When was that?” Logan asked, leading her toward the two-story cabin that sat in the middle of a cleared lot. An acre. Maybe a little more. He’d looked at the plans before he’d driven out, gotten a good feel for the land. Not because he’d expected trouble. Just because it was what he did.

  It had paid off this time.

  He knew the topography. The creeks. The flatland and forests. The twenty acres she owned wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to get lost in when the forests were as deep and untouched as the ones that surrounded Harper’s place.