Christmas on the Run

by Shirlee McCoy

  “It’s a long story. I don’t have time to tell it. I left you a note. Read it. Decide what you want to do about it, if you want to do anything, but right now I have to get to my son.”

  “Your son?” he asked, and she heard the hidden question, the words he didn’t say.

  “Mine and Josh’s.”

  His face went blank, every bit of anger and annoyance seeping from his eyes.

  He hadn’t known.

  Of course he hadn’t. Just like with everything else, Josh had lied about telling his brother about the baby.

  “He said he told you,” she said into the awkward silence, and his jaw tightened.

  “Josh said a lot of things that weren’t true.”

  “I know.”

  “So maybe you could have made sure his family knew about the baby instead of believing him.” He started walking away, and she should have done the same, but she felt the desperate need to make him understand, because she needed his help. She needed it more than she’d ever needed just about anything else.

  “I didn’t have contact information for your parents, and I only found contact information for you after Josh died.”

  He just kept walking.

  “I sent you a note when he passed away. You sent a signed card with no indication that you wanted anything to do with me.”

  He stopped short. “I know what I sent. I figured you were like every other woman he’d ever dated.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing anymore. He’s gone. You’re here, and you’re telling me I have a nephew. You’re also telling me you need help, but you’re not saying anything about what kind of help.”

  “I...can’t. Not here.”

  “Then I can’t help you.”

  He was walking again, and she was just standing there watching him go, because she couldn’t tell him what was going on, how much was at stake, how scared she was. The words were stuck in her throat, the threats she’d been hearing for two months echoing through her mind.

  “Dallas,” she said, her voice raspy and harsh.

  “What?”

  She might have answered—she might have told him everything—but her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the caller ID, sure it was Jazz asking why she was out running in twenty-degree weather.

  Only it wasn’t Jazz.

  It was him.

  Unknown caller. Texting words that made her breath catch, her heart stop.

  I hope you kissed your son goodbye last night.

  Her breath caught, the veiled threat filling her with terror. She hadn’t shared anything with Jazz, hadn’t even hinted at the trouble she was in. Jazz wouldn’t be on guard, because she wouldn’t be expecting trouble. Fingers shaking, she texted her friend, telling her to keep Zane inside until she got home. She’d explain when she got there.

  She didn’t wait for a response. She didn’t bother explaining to Dallas. She needed to get home to her son before it was too late.

  * * *

  Dallas needed to talk to the police. He’d discharged his weapon, and he’d obviously hit the perp. He’d seen the blood, but the guy had moved fast, running between houses and preventing Dallas from getting another clear shot. He hadn’t wanted to risk a bullet going through an exterior wall and injuring someone. He’d sprinted after the guy instead, his bum knee keeping him from going full-out. He’d turned around at the path, worried about Carly, concerned that she might be heading straight toward the perp. And, of course, she had been.

  And now she was on the move again, sprinting along the path, her long-legged stride even and practiced. She was a runner for sure, an athlete. Young. Pretty.

  A mother. And Dallas was an uncle.

  If what she’d said was true. He didn’t know her, hadn’t been invited to the wedding, hadn’t received anything but a cursory email from Josh that said he’d been married. By the time he’d received Carly’s note about Josh’s death, it had been too late to attend the funeral. Even if it hadn’t been, Dallas had been in no shape to travel. He’d been in the hospital recovering from the car accident that had taken the lives of Lila and the twins. He’d spent three weeks there, the burns on his arms and chest healing a lot more quickly than his heartache ever would.

  Josh’s death had been a tiny pinprick of pain compared to the agony of losing his wife and unborn children.

  He shook the thought away, concentrating on the run and on keeping his gait even. Carly was sprinting west along a dirt trail that wound its way to one of several parking lots, running like her life depended on it. If he hadn’t been so much taller than her, he and his bum knee might have had trouble catching up. As it was, he caught up to her on the first hill, his knee twinging with pain as he matched her pace. His doctor wouldn’t be happy. His physical therapist would read him the riot act, but he wasn’t going to let Carly head off into the sunrise while an armed man wandered the park.

  He grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop.

  “Let go,” she muttered, tugging away.

  “Running isn’t going to solve your problems,” he said, and she swung around, her face white, eyes blazing. He’d been afraid she’d be crying, but she looked angry, her words hard and staccato.

  “Neither is staying. Go back home, Dallas. I never should have tried to contact you.”

  “You didn’t try. You did contact me.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “Mistakes can’t be unmade,” he replied, and the muscles in her jaw tightened, her lips pressing together. “You came to me, Carly,” he continued. “So did some guy with a gun. I want to know who he is and what he wants.”

  “I told you—”

  “Nothing. Except that you left me a note. And that I have a nephew. Do you think I’m going to forget about him now that I know?”

  “I think that you’re not going to believe he’s your nephew until I offer proof,” she countered, swinging around to run again.

  “Josh didn’t want kids,” he responded, because it was true, and because he wanted to push a little harder, force her to give him the information he needed.

  Behind them, the woods were filling with voices as the police hunted for the person who’d left the blood trail. He’d need to check in with them. If he didn’t, his boss, Chance Miller, would want to know why he hadn’t. As a member of the hostage-rescue team, Dallas had an obligation to follow protocol. Even when he wasn’t on duty.

  “Sometimes we don’t get what we want,” Carly panted. “Sometimes we get what we don’t want. Zane is Josh’s son. He’s your nephew. And he needs me. I have to go home.”

  “You left him alone?”

  “Of course not! He’s only six!”

  “There are plenty of people who leave kids younger than that at home alone.”

  “I’m not one of them. He’s with my friend, and... I’m worried.” They’d reached the end of the dirt path and pounded onto a paved one, their steps in sync, their breathing almost synchronized, her gasping breaths matching his steadier ones almost perfectly.

  She was obviously a long-distance runner, but he doubted she was a sprinter. She was slowing, the speed zapping her energy. He slowed with her, his body humming with adrenaline as he scanned the woods to either side, looking for a glint of metal, a subtle movement. The perp would be a fool to stick around when the police were so close, but people were often willing to be fools if the cause was important enough, what they stood to gain big enough.

  “You’re worried about the guy with the gun,” he said.

  She nodded but didn’t speak, every bit of her energy pouring into muscles that he could see trembling.

  She was done, but she’d keep going. Whatever was driving her—her son, her fear, her need to escape Dallas—forced her to continue. He grabbed her arm again. Gently,
because his adoptive father, Timothy Morgan, had taught him how real men were supposed to treat women. It had taken him a couple of years to learn the lesson, to understand that true strength lay in gentleness, calmness, kindness. Once he’d learned it, he hadn’t forgotten. Sometimes, though...sometimes he reverted to the troubled inner-city kid who’d walked into the Morgans’ suburban home carrying nothing but a plastic bag filled with old clothes.

  She jerked away, stumbling as she accidentally stepped off the pavement and onto icy grass.

  “Stop,” he said as gently as he’d grabbed her arm. His work gave him plenty of practice calming frantic people. He’d dealt with parents who’d lost kids, spouses who’d lost partners, people desperate to find friends, neighbors, lovers. He knew how to keep his voice steady and his approach soft.

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. There were no tears in her eyes or on her cheeks, but she was on the verge of losing it.

  “Eventually, you’ll have to.”

  “Not until I’m home.”

  “What’s your address?” he asked, studying her face, trying to find some hint of who she was, what she really wanted. All he saw was a woman who shouldn’t have been his brother’s widow. She was too young, too tired, too skinny. Too desperate. Josh’s widow should have been full figured, smiling, made-up and fake. She wouldn’t have had a care in the world, and she sure as anything wouldn’t have had a son.

  “I told you, I made a mistake contacting you,” she panted.

  “I’m sure you remember my response.”

  “I don’t have time to play games, Dallas.”

  “Neither do I. You said you needed my help. I plan to give it.”

  She shrugged, rattling off an address in DC. He knew the neighborhood. It was part of a revitalization project designed to beautify the city. Not far from HEART, and filled with young professionals who loved the hustle and bustle of city life, young families who enjoyed the community vibe, older men and women who were on their own and loving it. It was the kind of neighborhood he and Lila had planned to live in until they’d found out she was pregnant. Then they’d chosen a cute house in the suburbs halfway between his parents and hers. They’d decorated the nursery yellow because Lila hadn’t wanted to know the gender of the babies. He tried not to think about that or about the way she’d looked when she’d picked him up from the airport that last night—her belly softly rounded and pressing against the pink sweater she wore. She’d been six months pregnant and glowing with it. He’d told her that she’d never looked more beautiful.

  He released Carly’s arm, pulled out his cell phone and sent a text to his boss, shoving aside all the old memories and focusing on the present. That was how he’d survived the first year, and it was how he continued to survive.

  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  Only Dallas hadn’t been ready to let Him take anything, and he’d spent most of the past few years trying to get over the anger and bitterness the loss had caused.

  Chance replied to his text, promising to send someone over to Carly’s place to keep an eye on things. He also asked for an explanation.

  Later was all Dallas offered. Something was going on. Something that was putting a six-year-old kid in danger. He wanted to find out what, and he wanted to know exactly how Carly had gotten involved in it. Maybe she was an innocent bystander who’d been pulled into something, or maybe she was responsible for the trouble she’d found herself in.

  Either way, he planned to keep the kid safe.

  If there was a kid.

  He slid the phone back in his pocket, made certain his Glock was hidden beneath his jacket and reached for Carly’s arm again.

  She sidestepped him. “Who were you texting?”

  “My boss.”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll send someone to your place. We need to speak with the police.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “They threatened to take my son,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

  “The police?”

  “No.”

  “Then who?” He knew he sounded impatient—because he felt impatient. He didn’t play games, didn’t keep secrets. He was a straight shooter and honest, almost to a fault.

  “If I knew that, I’d have called the police the first time I was contacted.” She started moving again. In the wrong direction. Heading for her vehicle, he assumed.

  “We need to talk to the police,” he repeated, not following her, because he knew she wouldn’t go far. She needed his help more than she probably needed just about anything. She’d admitted as much when she’d given him her address.

  She made it about a hundred feet before she stopped, turning around to face him, her dark ponytail swinging in a wide arc as she moved. “If they find out I’ve gone to the police, they’ll take my son. I’ll never see him again.”

  “Is that what they told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ll have to get through some very well-trained people to get to him, Carly. Come on.” He held out his hand and was surprised when she moved toward him. “We’ll talk to the police, and then I’ll bring you home.”

  “I can bring myself home,” she muttered, but she’d reached his side, her eyes vibrant green against her tan skin. He could see that clearly now. Just like he could see that her running vest was navy blue rather than black. The world was waking, the sun bringing color to life—light brown grass, gray-black pavement, and the dark brown freckles on Carly’s cheeks, threads of red and gold in her dark hair. She tucked a loose strand back into her ponytail holder, white scars crisscrossing a couple of her knuckles, her fingernails short and chipped. She worked with her hands, he’d guess, but he wasn’t sure what kind of manual labor would afford her a place in a posh neighborhood in DC.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” he asked, wondering if she lived with a boyfriend who paid the bills. It wasn’t a very nice thought but was more in line with what he’d have expected from any of the girls Josh had dated when he’d lived at home.

  “Jazz,” she responded.

  “He play in a band or something?”

  “She is an author. Jasmine Rothschild. We went to college together. She moved in after Zane was born, because I needed the help and she needed a place to stay.”

  “You said your son is six?”

  “Yeah.”

  The twins would have been nearly seven.

  If Zane was his nephew, there was a very real possibility that Lila and Carly had been pregnant at the same time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, wasn’t even sure he was supposed to feel anything. It sure didn’t change what had happened.

  He scowled, his knee aching as he walked. They weren’t far from the neighborhood, but the woods were thick on either side of them, the dawn light only deepening the shadows of the forest. They’d walked past the same trees a few minutes ago, and he’d felt nothing. Not even a twinge of nerves. Now the woods had gone silent. No chipmunks or squirrels or tiny birds flitting from tree to tree. The breeze had stopped and the leaves weren’t rustling, but somewhere in the deepest part of the shadows, a twig snapped.

  He grabbed Carly’s hand, feeling thick calluses on her fingertips but silky skin on her palms.

  She didn’t jerk back, didn’t attempt to pull away.

  “What is it?” she whispered as he dragged her off the path and tugged her down into thick undergrowth.

  He leaned close, whispering in her ear, “Stay down and stay quiet.”

  She didn’t respond, and he took that as agreement.

  Someone was out there with them. And not the police. They’d have announced themselves by now.

  He shifted, easing out from behind the brush and scanning the area. Staying low because, as far
as he knew, the guy was still out there and still armed. Hopefully, he’d be too afraid to fire a shot and risk attracting police attention.

  A phone buzzed, the sound a discordant note in the eerie silence.

  He turned, gesturing for Carly to turn the thing off. She had it in her hand, was staring at the screen, her face leached of color.

  “We need to go,” she said, jumping up and trying to dart past him.

  “I don’t think so,” he muttered, but there was something about her expression, the tension in her face, in her muscles, that made him snatch the phone from her hand and glance at the text she’d opened, the photo it contained. A white wicker table and chairs, bright red mums near a back door. A kid staring out from behind a window, his dark curly hair a lot like Carly’s, his eyes...

  Pale blue. Just like Josh’s had been.

  Dallas’s pulse jumped, his mind racing with the possibility that Carly was telling the truth, that Zane really was his nephew.

  She snatched the phone back, tucking it into her vest pocket, her hands shaking.

  “They’re going to take Zane. I’ll never see him again,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “No. They aren’t.”

  “They’re outside my house, watching him.”

  “So are my coworkers,” he responded, the hair on his nape standing on end, his skin crawling. A warning that he needed to heed. Someone was watching them. Someone was watching Zane. Someone who was very clearly trying to manipulate Carly.

  They could go back and talk to the police. They should go back and talk to the police, but getting to Carly’s place was suddenly just as important. Yeah, someone from HEART was already there, but Dallas wanted to get a closer look at Carly’s son, see if his eyes really were the same color blue as Josh’s.

  “What are you involved in? Drugs? Organized crime?” he growled, stepping back onto the path, his Glock in hand. Let the perp see that. Let him think twice about attacking.

  “I’d starve to death before I did something illegal to earn money,” she responded, her tone just as harsh as his had been.