One Night Standoff

by Delores Fossen

  “Get down!” Clayton shouted to Lenora and everyone else in the diner.

  He reached beneath his jacket to draw his Glock, but it was already too late. The bullet blasted through the window.

  Clayton felt the sharp pain in the side of his head, and even over the blast, he heard Lenora yell. He tried to move. Tried to return fire and protect her, but he felt himself falling.

  And everything around him turned cold and gray.

  Chapter Two

  Lenora’s heart slammed against her chest, and she snatched up the Glock that dropped from Clayton’s hand and onto the table. She saw the blood, no way to miss that.

  No way to avoid that punch of adrenaline, either.

  That fear.

  Oh, God.

  Clayton had been shot.

  That was her first thought, quickly followed by the realization that this could all be her fault. But she shoved those things aside because every second counted now.

  “Call an ambulance!” Lenora yelled out to no one in particular.

  She couldn’t let this guy get off another shot. She had to stop him, or he could kill Clayton, her and anyone who was unlucky enough to be near them.

  Lenora took aim at the truck.

  And she fired.

  The shot blistered through the air, but it was practically drowned out by the screams and shouts from the other diners. Lenora couldn’t be sure, but she thought she managed to shoot the guy in the arm. She took aim again, but the driver hit the accelerator, and with the tires squealing against the wet asphalt, he fishtailed away.

  She scrambled across the table, catching Clayton as he slumped to the side. There was even more blood now. And it wasn’t in a good place, either.

  He’d been shot in the head.

  No. This couldn’t be happening.

  With her heartbeat pounding in her ears and her hands shaking, Lenora kept watch to make sure the shooter didn’t return for a second round. She couldn’t risk that.

  She jerked the scarf from around her neck and lightly pressed it to Clayton’s wound. She couldn’t add too much pressure, because it might embed the bullet even deeper. It might even kill him.

  If he wasn’t dead already.

  “Clayton?” She choked back a sob and tilted back his head a little. No response, so she pressed her fingers to his neck.

  He was alive.

  Thank God.

  But he needed a doctor immediately.

  “Get that ambulance here,” she shouted, though she figured it was already on the way. Still, it couldn’t arrive soon enough, because every second counted now.

  A dozen thoughts went through her mind. None of them good. It had only been two months since her friend Jill had been gunned down just like this. Right in front of her. In front of Clayton, too. This had to have a different ending than that shooting.

  Somehow, someway, Clayton had to survive this.

  “Clayton?” she repeated. “Can you hear me?”

  He turned his head toward her, and his lips moved, too. He mumbled something that Lenora couldn’t understand, so she put her ear closer to his mouth.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  That seemed to get his attention, and he tried to open his eyes. “The baby.” The two words didn’t have any sound, but she was pretty sure that’s what he was trying to say.

  The baby.

  The reason for this visit. Lenora had dreaded coming here. Telling him. And had braced herself for his reaction. But now she had a different reason to dread why she’d decided to tell him.

  If she hadn’t come here, this might not have happened.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the movement of the man approaching and nearly lifted the gun again before she realized it was Marshal Harlan McKinney. With his own gun drawn and holding his cell to his ear, he raced across the street toward the diner and had to dodge a car that nearly plowed right into him.

  “Get here now!” Harlan shouted into his phone.

  “The driver of that black truck,” Lenora managed to say. “He shot Clayton.”

  “I saw it from the window,” Harlan mumbled, and he practically pushed her aside so he could take hold of his foster brother. The fear was right there, in his eyes and in every part of his body.

  “Hold on, Clayton,” Harlan said. “The ambulance should be here any minute.” His gaze flashed to her. “Why’d this happen?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then guess!” Harlan insisted. “Because I want to know why my brother was shot.”

  But Lenora didn’t even get a chance to speculate.

  Or lie.

  She heard a welcome sound. The ambulance sirens wailed from up the street, and it didn’t take long for the vehicle to screech to a stop directly in front of the diner. Two medics got out and came rushing toward them.

  Harlan and she stepped back out of the way, and Lenora watched. Prayed. And tried to keep it together. In addition to the flashbacks and the fear crawling through her, she thought she might throw up.

  Bad timing.

  She’d had few symptoms of the pregnancy, and she didn’t want to be queasy now when so much was at stake.

  “Marshal Caldwell?” one of the medics said to Clayton.

  Still no response.

  “Clayton?” Harlan tried.

  And this time Lenora saw his eyelids flutter and open just slightly. Clayton’s coffee-colored eyes were unfocused, glazed, but he turned them in his brother’s direction.

  “You’ll be okay,” Harlan assured him.

  Lenora prayed that was true.

  Clayton mumbled something. Or rather he tried, but like before Lenora couldn’t hear what he said. The medics moved in front of her, easing Clayton onto the gurney, and they hurried to the ambulance with him.

  Lenora moved, too. She didn’t want to lose sight of him, and apparently neither did Harlan, because he latched on to her arm and dragged her into the back of the ambulance with him. He didn’t ask them for permission to ride.

  The ambulance sped away from the diner, and Harlan and she watched as the medics took Clayton’s vitals.

  “You returned fire,” Harlan said and held out his hand. “I’ll need Clayton’s gun.”

  For a moment Lenora had forgotten that she was still clutching it. She had to force her hand to open, and she gave the Glock to him.

  “Not a smart thing to do,” Harlan snarled. “Discharging a firearm in a crowd.”

  “There weren’t any bystanders in my line of sight,” she blurted out, wishing that she hadn’t, because it brought Harlan’s attention directly to her.

  “Why did you come to see Clayton?” he demanded.

  The truth would only lead to more questions, and she didn’t want to be interrogated by this particular marshal. “Two months ago, my friend was murdered. I wanted to know if there’d been any new developments. I wanted to make sure her killer would stay in jail.”

  Harlan no doubt knew all about Jill and the investigation. He stared at her, suspicion in his eyes, and Lenora had enough instincts to know that if Harlan’s foster brother hadn’t been just a few feet away and bleeding from a head wound, he would have called her a liar.

  She was.

  And Harlan would have pushed for a better answer than the one she’d just told him.

  But there was no reason for her to tell this man about the pregnancy. When Clayton was better, he could break the news to his family. And he could also decide if he wanted to be part of this baby’s life.

  If Clayton survived, that was.

  She stared at the father of her unborn child. The man she’d slept with because she’d been too distraught to make a logical decision.

  Sex wasn’t always logical, though.

  Neither was the attraction she’d felt for this lawman. The attraction had been instant. Probably because he had rock-star looks to go along with that cowboy attitude. Or maybe it was because she’d felt this, well, connection with him. Connection aside, it’d been
beyond stupid to sleep with him. She should have just walked away. Should have written Clayton and this attraction right out of her life.

  That would have been the safe thing to do.

  But she hadn’t. And now he was lying on a gurney, maybe dying.

  Harlan’s phone buzzed, and while he took the call, Lenora moved slightly closer so she could get a better look at Clayton. There was blood on his dark brown hair, on the side of his face as well, but the flow was barely a trickle now. She had no idea if that was good or bad. The only experience she had with head wounds was they were usually fatal.

  “That was Dallas,” Harlan said when he finished the call. “Marshal Walker,” he added, but Lenora already knew who Harlan meant. Another of Clayton’s foster brothers. Another federal marshal.

  In fact, Clayton had five foster brothers, all of whom were U.S. marshals. That would mean five sets of questions, and each of them would deserve answers as to why one of their own had been shot while having a cup of coffee with her.

  “They found the shooter,” Harlan added. “He wrecked his truck only about four blocks from the diner.”

  Lenora certainly hadn’t expected that and would have thought the guy would manage to get out of the area. “Who is he?”

  “According to the ID in his wallet, his name is Corey Dayton. Ring any bells?”

  “No.” And that wasn’t a lie. Of course, the ID could be fake, and she might recognize his real name. “Does your brother have him in custody?”

  Harlan shook his head. “He’s dead.”

  Lenora pulled in her breath. “From the bullet I put in him?”

  “Maybe. But he wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and he crashed into a parked garbage truck.”

  Part of her was relieved that the man who’d shot Clayton was out of the picture, but a dead man couldn’t give them answers, and Lenora very much wanted to know why this guy had fired into the diner.

  “Tell me,” Harlan said, “is this connected to your friend’s murder?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “When you can, you’ll want to question the man who murdered Jill. Adam Riggs,” she supplied, though Harlan no doubt knew the name of the man behind bars. And he would absolutely question him.

  When his brother was out of the woods.

  It was possible that Riggs had hired the shooter, maybe because Riggs was riled that Clayton had arrested him for Jill’s murder. If so, Harlan and the other marshals would soon find that connection.

  So would Lenora.

  She’d find it, and if Riggs was responsible, then he was going to pay, and pay hard.

  Of course, Riggs could have hired someone to aim that shot at her, too, because he might believe that as Jill’s friend she’d helped catch him. She hadn’t. But there was a lot of twisted stuff in a killer’s mind. Especially this killer’s.

  “Are there any loose ends with Jill’s murder?” Harlan asked.

  Lenora knew where this was leading—the marshal was looking for quick answers. But she didn’t have them.

  “Maybe I’m the loose end.” Lenora had to pause, take a breath and choose her words carefully. “Jill worked for Adam Riggs and discovered he was into big-time money laundering. She was about to testify against him when he shot and killed her.”

  Lenora saw those images as clearly as she saw Clayton in front of her. God, when was this going to end?

  “Clayton put you in protective custody along with Jill,” Harlan supplied. “Because he thought Riggs might use you to get Jill to back off her testimony.”

  “He would have,” Lenora confirmed. “But killing Clayton and me now accomplishes nothing.” At least nothing that she was aware of.

  Still, something wasn’t right about this.

  But what?

  What was she missing?

  Maybe it didn’t even matter. What mattered was that Clayton had been safe until she’d arrived to tell him about the baby.

  She saw Clayton’s hand move, and Lenora leaned in. Clayton’s eyes were open now. Still a little dazed looking. But he looked directly at his brother, who’d moved to her side.

  “What happened?” Clayton asked Harlan.

  It such a simple question, but it caused relief to flood through Lenora. Clayton wasn’t just conscious, he was talking.

  “You were shot,” Harlan answered. The words didn’t come easily. His voice was clogged with emotion. “We’ll be at the hospital soon. You’ll be okay.”

  Clayton stayed quiet a few seconds, shook his head and then tried to get off the gurney. The medics quickly stopped him from doing that.

  “I have to go,” Clayton insisted. Definitely no slurred words now. He seemed like the determined, focused lawman that she knew. “I have a witness to protect.”

  Well, focused except for that last part. Maybe he didn’t realize he’d been shot.

  “Jill Lang,” Clayton added and tried to get up again. “I have to protect her.”

  Lenora froze. Why would Clayton mention Jill’s name? Obviously he wasn’t as coherent as she’d thought, because Jill had been dead for two months.

  “I have to protect her friend, too,” Clayton insisted while the medics held him down. “I have to protect Lenora Whitaker.”

  Clayton certainly didn’t say her name as he had earlier. It sounded foreign on his lips.

  As if he’d spoken the name of a stranger.

  “Lenora’s here,” Harlan said, inching her closer so that Clayton could see her face. “She’s okay. She wasn’t hurt in the shooting.”

  Clayton stared at her, and even though his eyes were indeed clear, something was missing. He shook his head, his stare aimed right at her.

  “You,” Clayton said. He winced, took a deep breath.

  “Yes,” Lenora answered. “It’s me.”

  But he only shook his head again. “Who are you?” Clayton asked.

  Lenora froze.

  Oh, mercy. He hadn’t just said her name as if they’d never met—the look he was giving her certainly wasn’t a familiar one, either.

  It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger.

  “Who are you?” Clayton repeated with his attention fastened to Lenora. “And why are you here?”

  Chapter Three

  Three Months Later

  Clayton spotted the woman on the stepladder perched in front of the stained-glass window inside the country church. She was about five-six. Dark brown hair. Average build. Well, average build from what he could tell. She wore a drab green lab-style coat over her jeans.

  He stayed back behind the last row of pews so that she wouldn’t see him, but he could see her.

  The light in the church was dim, thank goodness, so Clayton was able to remove his sunglasses, but he was careful to dodge the lines of sunlight piercing through the beveled glass around the window panels. The last thing he needed was a migraine. Even the mild ones were a bear, and something he’d had to deal with since the shooting. Today he didn’t want to deal with the pain.

  He wanted to deal with this woman who might have answers.

  Clayton waited, watched until she finally put her soldering iron aside and pulled off the mask that’d covered her nose and mouth.

  It was Lenora Whitaker, all right.

  Keeping a firm grip on the sides of the ladder, she stepped down to the floor, propped her hands on her hips and looked up at the glass angel’s wing that she’d just repaired. She must have been pleased with the results, because she nodded, smiled. Turned.

  The color drained from her face. The smile, too. Almost as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “Clayton,” she said in a rough whisper.

  Well, at least she remembered him. Clayton wished he could say the same about her. Yeah, he knew those features because of the surveillance footage he’d studied, but he didn’t recognize her.

  Still, there was something familiar about her that went beyond recorded images. Maybe because she’d once been in his protective custody.

  Something else he
couldn’t remember.

  She didn’t come closer, but pulled a rag from her coat pocket and wiped her hands. She also dodged his gaze. “How are you?”

  “Better than the last time you saw me.”

  That brought her gaze back to his. “You got your memory back?”

  He lifted his shoulder. “Some of it.” Including all of his childhood, even the rotten parts. Most of adulthood, too. “Not about you, though.”

  Clayton paused, studied her expression. Her forehead was bunched up, and while there was concern in her eyes, there was also discomfort.

  Probably because he’d found her.

  “According to Harlan’s account,” Clayton said, “you didn’t hang around long after I was shot.”

  She nodded, swallowed hard. “But I called, to find out that you’d made it out of surgery.”

  Yeah. Harlan had told him that, too. But what was missing were the details.

  “How’d you find me?” She turned away from him and started to gather her supplies, which she stuffed into a metal toolbox.

  “It wasn’t easy.” In fact, it’d been downright hard. Clayton tipped his head to the stained-glass panel. “Not many people do the kind of work you do, so I kept calling churches and other places that have this sort of thing.”

  And he’d finally located her through a supplier who was billing a minister in the small town of Sadler’s Falls for repairs to an antique stained-glass window. Lenora’s area of expertise.

  “I called the minister,” Clayton explained. “And I posed as someone interested in a getting a referral for some stained-glass repairs needed on a house I’m restoring. He told me about this woman he’d just hired, but I didn’t know it was you until I saw you just now.” He paused. “You’re using a fake name.”

  “Yes. After what happened, I thought it was the safe thing to do.”

  Probably. But Clayton still needed answers that he hadn’t been able to get from anyone else.

  She glanced at the scar on his forehead. It had faded considerably since his surgery three months earlier, but it was a reminder of just how close he’d come to dying.

  “I’ve been looking for updates about the shooting,” she said, “but the marshals still haven’t found the person that hired the gunman who put a bullet in you.”