by Rita Herron
Memories of good times and bad. Memories that haunted him at night and tormented him during the day with the fact that he’d failed them.
They had died because of his damn job.
No more.
He was done with being a Ranger. Done with relationships.
Done with wanting anything but the next bottle of whiskey.
Desperate to bury the pain, he forced himself to block out the image of his six-year-old nailing the finishing touches on the tree house they’d built together around the big oak tree.
Instead, he scrutinized the house and his property with a buyer’s eye. The rotting boards on the porch needed repairing, the overgrown bushes and weeds tending. As much as he didn’t want to be here, he needed to spruce the place up to entice some other sucker to sink their money into it and relieve him of ownership.
But not tonight.
Tonight his best friend Jack Daniels was calling.
Yanking his Stetson down to block the sunlight as it dipped below the horizon, he strode toward his pickup truck. He climbed in, shifted into gear and drove toward the cabin on the creek side.
The rustic log cabin had been built for the foreman of the ranch when his grandparents owned the property, but he’d moved into it now, unable to stand the sounds of the empty farmhouse and Todd’s voice echoing through the lonely rooms.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy . . .”
Tears burned the backs of his eyelids. He knuckled them away with a curse. Had Todd called out his name when he’d been dying?
Probably. But he’d been unconscious and hadn’t heard him. Hadn’t saved him.
Christmas music blared from the speakers of the radio, making him even more surly. Dammit to hell, he didn’t want to hear about reindeer and holiday wishes and
Santa Claus.
They reminded him too much of his son.
Todd had asked for a new fishing rod and reel this year.
But Todd wouldn’t be here to get it, and he would never go fishing again.
Mitch flipped off the radio, but the silence was just as bad, so he focused on the rumbling of his truck as he bounced over the rutted dirt road leading to the cabin. A dark cloud rolled across the sky, adding a gloomy gray to the horizon as he climbed out, grabbed his brown bag and strode to the front porch.
His stomach growled, reminding him he should eat, but he dropped into the chair on the porch, opened the fifth of whiskey, turned it up and downed a hefty swallow.
Maybe his luck would turn around, and he’d end up in the ground beside his son soon.
KAYLIE STARED OUT INTO THE NIGHT, THE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS glittering along the street bringing a pang to her chest.
It had been almost a year since she’d lost Joe.
Her husband had died trying to protect her and CeCe.
Unable to return to the house after the shooting and during the months afterward, she’d moved to a temporary rental house.
But a few weeks ago, the man who’d killed her husband had escaped prison, and
now she and her daughter were in their third safe house in weeks.
With Christmas around the corner, they both wanted to be decorating, shopping and trimming the tree.
But who knew if they would still be here on Christmas?
Besides, they’d been given strict orders to lay low, not to be seen in public or attract attention.
Poor CeCe should be in kindergarten, making friends, finger painting and singing songs.
Instead, she was immersed in protective custody and struggling with the nightmares of her father’s murder.
Damn Larry Buckham for ruining their lives. Kaylie had testified against him, cementing his life sentence in prison.
The district attorney had also made the case that Buckham had terrorized and killed three other families in the same manner. They’d dubbed the serial killer the Family Man. When the jury realized that connection, they hadn’t hesitated to convict.
Kaylie and CeCe were the only ones who’d survived his attack.
Unfortunately, Buckham had broken out of prison with two other inmates, and now he was most likely looking to finish her off.
Kaylie glanced at the calendar. One more week until Christmas. Hopefully Buckham would be back in jail where he belonged by then, and she and CeCe could go home.
Home? Where was that?
Not the little house with the white picket fence where they’d once felt safe. Not with Joe’s blood and the stench of his death still permeating the walls and carpet.
The cleaners had assured her they’d gotten out the stains, but the blood would always be there in Kaylie’s mind, tainting the house.
In a few days, Christmas would have come and gone. She would have missed the chance to give CeCe a bright spot in the dismal existence that had become their life.
CeCe looked up from the floor where she lay drawing a picture, her freckles dancing across her pug nose. Kaylie’s heart squeezed when she noticed the Christmas tree CeCe had drawn. Only it was bare of decorations and lights, and there were no presents beneath it.
The policeman guarding them, a chuffy guy named Arnold, frowned as his phone buzzed. He snatched it up and paced while he took the call.
As if it wasn’t nerve wracking enough to be locked up for days, he was notorious for pacing, making noises beneath his breath and chewing his nails which only added to her agitation.
Suddenly something blasted through the front window. CeCe jumped up and screamed.
Smoke sizzled from a pipe bomb on the floor.
“Out the back!” the guard yelled.
Kaylie snatched her purse then dragged CeCe through the hall to the kitchen. Smoke began filling the house as they ran for the back door. Behind her, a loud noise sounded, then an explosion shook the walls and floor.
Arnold shouldered his way past her and opened the back door, but a gunshot blasted the air, and he collapsed.
Dear God, it had been a set up.
Terrified, she clutched CeCe behind her. Arnold managed to lift his hand and fired a round into the man waiting to ambush them. The man cursed and fell backward. Kaylie didn’t wait to see if anyone was still moving.
She scooped CeCe into her arms and ran for the car Arnold had stashed out back.
“Mommy!” CeCe cried.
“Shh, baby, it’s okay. Just buckle up!” Kaylie’s hand trembled as she fumbled for the keys in her purse.
CeCe crawled into the back seat, her cries shattering the night as Kaylie jammed the key into the ignition and roared away.
CECE WAS TIRED OF RUNNING. AND SHE WAS SCARED.
Just like her mommy was, although her mommy pretended everything was going to be okay. But her mommy’s voice rattled when she talked sometimes, and at night when CeCe was supposed to be asleep, she heard her mommy crying.
CeCe curled herself into a ball in the back of the car and buried her head into her hands. Tears soaked her fingers and dripped down her cheeks.
How could it be okay when her daddy was dead, and someone wanted to kill her and her mommy?
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could forget the way her daddy looked that night. The way the red blood splattered everywhere, and how his face looked white as milk, and how much her mommy had been shaking when they’d runned away.
Her mommy was shaking now and so was she.
And that man, Mr. Arnold, he was dead, too. He had to be. That was what bullets did to people. Even big men like her daddy and Mr. Arnold.
Tires squealed as her mommy took a turn too fast. CeCe jammed her fist to her mouth to keep from screaming as the car bounced and jolted. If they crashed, she might go to Heaven and see her daddy again.
But she didn’t want to go to Heaven, not just yet anyways.
Christmas was almost here.
Not that she was going to get any presents. She and Mommy hadn’t even gotten a tree.
Mommy said maybe later. They had to be ready to run in a minute, just like tonight.
A tree
would be something else they’d leave behind just like they left all her toys and friends and that nice fat cat Lackey that lived next door. He used to sleep by the fence and crawl up on her windowsill and meow at her through the window.
She rubbed her eyes and looked at the front seat, half thinking she’d see the boogey man that shot her daddy in the car. But all she saw was the dark and the city lights as they drove out of town.
Where was Mommy going?
Would they get another Mr. Arnold to watch them? Would they change their names again?
She didn’t want to change her name. She wanted to be CeCe Whittaker and live in a real house and hang lights on a tree and put stockings on the mantle and make cookies with sprinkles on them.
She wanted to send Santa a letter and tell him what she wanted for Christmas. Not much. Not dozens of toys like she’d asked for last year when she was just a kid. Just four.
All she wanted this year was a real home. Her mommy and daddy together and to get hugs and kisses when she went to bed at night.
Oh, yeah. She wanted a kitty, too. A baby kitten with soft fur and orange hair like fat Lackey.
A kitty to keep her warm and curl up on her pillow and meow, and chase away the boogey man at night.
But she wouldn’t get a kitty this year cause even if Santa got her letter, he wouldn’t know where to leave it.
THE DAMN POLICE WERE EVERYWHERE LOOKING FOR HIM.
Of course, some of them were his friends.
And they had helped him find where little miss Kaylie and her kid were hiding out. But that fat idiot cop had gotten in the way.
So he’d had to kill him. And now the woman had escaped.
Not for long though.
He steered the car his buddy had left for him through the suburbs, maintaining a low speed to keep from drawing attention to himself as two police cars barreled down the street and whirled into the driveway of the safe house.
Laughter gurgled in his throat.
Safe house—what a farce.
Kaylie Whittaker and her little girl were anything but safe.
CHAPTER TWO
THE CHEAP MOTEL LIGHTS BLINKED NEON GREEN AGAINST THE dark as Kaylie parked. Her poor little girl had cried for miles and miles until she’d finally fallen asleep from exhaustion.
Kaylie had kept driving until she felt herself starting to nod off, then decided she had to stop for both their sakes. Thankfully, Arnold had stowed some cash in the car along with emergency supplies, and insisted she keep an overnight bag for her and CeCe inside, too, in case they had to leave in a hurry.
She’d hoped that wouldn’t happen, but here they were on the run again.
She pulled the car around to the back of the motel to prevent it from being seen from the road. Weary from the drive and the night’s ordeal, she carried CeCe inside, then eased her down onto the double bed, slipped her shoes off and pulled the covers up over her.
Guilt and anger suffused her as she studied her daughter’s tear-swollen face. Guilt for dragging CeCe around the country instead of giving her the safe, loving, stable home she needed. And anger that they were in this situation.
She hurriedly locked the door to the room, shoved a chair against it and collapsed onto the other bed, fatigue clawing at her. But self-preservation kicked in, and she dug the throwaway cell Arnold had given her from her purse.
Who should she call?
No one was supposed to know about the safe house. But somehow Larry Buckham had found them.
How? Had he paid off a cop?
That was the only logical explanation. Arnold had warned her the first time they’d been forced to switch locations that they suspected a leak from the inside.
And now Arnold had been shot . . . Was he dead?
She fiddled with the radio, found a news station, and listened as the reporter detailed a list of crimes across Texas.
“Two of the prisoners who escaped the state pen—Geoffrey Jones and Robert Simpleton—have been apprehended, but forty-year-old Larry Buckham is still at large. Citizens are advised to be on the lookout for the man as he is considered armed and dangerous.”
A shiver rippled through Kaylie. She could still see his menacing eyes as he’d glared at her when she took the witness stand. Saw his mouth moving with the promise that he’d kill her if she testified against him.
Because of that threat, she and her daughter had been forced into WITSEC.
The news continued, “A bombing and shooting at a home outside Austin has been reported, one which may be related to Buckham’s prison escape. A federal marshal, Arnold Pinter, was shot and killed in the suburban house. Authorities believe that Pinter was protecting a woman named Kaylie Whittaker and her young daughter. Mrs. Whittaker testified at Buckham’s trial, stating that he murdered her husband Joe in a home invasion.
“New evidence has just come to light suggesting that Mrs. Whittaker actually murdered her husband and falsely identified Buckham for the crime. Buckham was thought to be the notorious Family Man who murdered three families in their homes, but Buckham’s attorney claims she was on the verge of an appeal and had evidence that Buckham did not kill Joe Whittaker or the other families, that he was set up for the crimes.
“Mrs. Whittaker is now wanted for questioning in the case and is considered a person of interest in the death of Marshall Pinter as well.”
Kaylie’s chest constricted. What? The police thought she killed Joe and now Arnold? That Larry Buckham was innocent?
Hadn’t they seen the menacing way he’d looked at her during the trial? Hadn’t they heard him threaten to kill her?
For God’s sake . . . Larry Buckham was not innocent.
Terrified, she went to the window and pulled the curtain back, just enough to look outside. Two other cars were parked in back. Other than that, the motel was deserted.
Set off the beaten path, the wilderness beckoned. A wilderness that would be a good place to hide.
Anxiety knotted her stomach, and she dug the business card for her WITSEC contact from her purse. The number she was supposed to call if she was in trouble.
Her fingers shook as she punched the number into her cell phone. A machine picked up, and she identified herself according to the code she and Marshal Rafferty had arranged.
Headlights from the highway flickered by as an eighteen-wheeler roared past the motel.
A second later, her call went through.
“I’m sorry, Kaylie,” a voice shouted. “Run!”
Rafferty?
Kaylie’s heart hammered. “Marshal—”
A gunshot rent the air, then another man’s voice. One she’d never forget.
“Hello, Kaylie.” A bitter laugh. “Sorry but Marshal Rafferty’s done talking.”
Kaylie’s knees buckled, and she gripped the window ledge and sank into the chair beside it. Dear God, no.
It was Larry Buckham. He’d killed the only person she knew to turn to.
She and Kaylie were on their own now.
MITCH SPENT THE MORNING REPAIRING FENCING AROUND THE ranch, and the afternoon redoing and painting the front porch of the farmhouse. While he left the porch to dry, he went inside and began cleaning out the closet in the master bedroom.
He was tempted to hire a service to pack up Sally’s and Todd’s things, but somehow it seemed wrong to allow strangers to touch their belongings. Hell, it seemed wrong for him to touch them, especially to box them up as if he was erasing them from his life.
Not that Sally had really moved in. At least not to stay.
She’d hated the ranch, had wanted to live in the city. She’d been disgusted that the farmhouse needed fixing up and angry that he expected her to settle down in what she called the boring wilderness. She’d begrudgingly moved a few clothes in but had refused to stay in the house until he refurbished it.
Todd had loved the ranch though, had been eager to fish in the creek and learn to ride.
Todd . . . the bright spot in a dull marriage that had disintegrated
due to the differences between him and Sally.
Todd . . . the future he’d looked forward to.
Dammit. His son had been taken from him so abruptly he’d never even gotten to say good-bye.
Scrubbing a fist over his bleary eyes, he boxed up Sally’s clothes, shoes and purses and carried them out the back door to his pickup. He cleared out the jewelry box next, grimacing that he’d never been able to afford to buy her diamonds.
But his job as a Ranger hadn’t brought the big bucks. At first she’d said it hadn’t mattered, but eventually she’d longed for expensive, fancy clothes and precious gems, items her rich father had spoiled her with.
And then the trouble had begun. She’d wanted him to quit the Rangers and take a job with her dad. He had refused.
Being a Ranger was who he was. What he was.
Or it used to be.
Not anymore.
He stuffed the jewelry box inside a larger box, then tossed in Sally’s winter scarves, belts, hats and shawls. That box went in the truck, too. He tackled the dining room and packed up the fancy doilies, lace tablecloths and ridiculously expensive napkin rings she’d purchased.
None of them fit the ranch house. That should have been a sign that they weren’t meant to be together. That she’d wanted another life.
Guilt hammered at him. She’d lost hers because of him.
He should have been the one to die instead of her and Todd.
God, he wished he had.
Last night’s binge had dehydrated him, so he went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water and chugged it. Outside, storm clouds threatened, the wind swirling leaves and sticks across the parched grass.
Once he’d wanted to fill that pasture with horses.
Now the pasture was almost as empty as his heart. He’d only kept two ranch horses and the chestnut named Horseshoe that Todd loved so much.
Aching with the memories, he forced himself to go to Todd’s room. Pain knifed through him at the sight of the toys his son had played with. Sally had decorated the room in a baseball theme, and her father had started a baseball card collection with Todd.
