by Rita Herron
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.
Even though the old man hated Mitch now, he had loved his grandson. Mitch packed the baseball cards and other baseball paraphernalia into a box and labeled it to mail to Sally’s father.
He boxed Todd’s clothes next, his heartbreaking at the reality that his son would never wear his favorite rawhide jacket or cowboy boots again. Mitch didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the tears drip down his cheek.
He swiped at them, then carried the boxes to the truck, determined to take care of them that day. But when he returned to Todd’s room and saw the stuffed toys, farm animals, horses and stable that his son had collected, anguish threatened to bre
ak him.
On the shelf beside the bed sat Todd’s rock collection. One of Todd’s favorite things to do was skip stones across the pond. He’d collected the smooth, odd shaped rocks as if they were treasures.
Unable to part with them, he boxed the stones to take to his cabin, then packed the toys in another box and slipped them under the bed out of sight. One day he’d donate them to a children’s shelter or hospital, but for now, they were all he had left of his son.
That and the picture he kept in his wallet. He pulled it out, traced a finger over his little boy’s innocent face, and headed out the back to meet his best friend Jack.
Kaylie waited until dark, then ushered CeCe back into the car again. Knowing the police were looking for her made traveling during daylight more dangerous.
It also meant that she had to ditch the car Arnold had commandeered for them.
She found a used car lot on the outskirts of a little town called Twin Branches and talked the owner into trading it for a Pathfinder. Using the fake ID Arnold had given her helped, but she needed to ditch that as well.
If someone on the inside killed Arnold and Rafferty, they might know her new name.
“Mommy, where are we going?” CeCe asked.
Kaylie sighed, weary of running. She wanted to sugarcoat the situation for her daughter, but CeCe would see through a lie.
“I don’t know, honey. Mommy’s trying to make a plan.”
CeCe sniffled. “I wanna go home.”
There was that word again. Home?
But they didn’t have a home now, and no telling when they would. Not until Buckham was caught.
And until she cleared her name.
Another problem added to the mounting pile.
Being a real estate agent had not prepared her for a life on the run.
Christmas lights twinkled along the street signs in Twin Branches, the storefronts decorated with Santas and snowmen, even though it rarely snowed in this part of Texas.
Holiday music wafted from speakers in town and stores, and the toy store and pet shop advertised specials featuring the latest gift ideas. Puppies and kittens were also half priced.
“Mommy, look,” CeCe said. “They have kitties in the store.”
“I see, honey,” Kaylie said.
“Can we stop and get one?”
A pang tugged at Kaylie’s chest. “Not today, CeCe. But maybe soon, once we’re settled back down.”
“But I want one now,” CeCe said, a pout forming on her mouth.
“I understand you do,” Kaylie said. “But, sweetie, kitties don’t travel well.”
CeCe folded her arms. “I’m never gonna get one cause all we do is drive and drive and go and go and go.”
Kaylie gripped the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m doing the best I can.”
CeCe pulled her legs up and propped her folded arms on top of them. “Santa won’t ever find me if we don’t gots a house.”
Kaylie battled tears. “Santa will find you. I promise.”
But CeCe settled into a pout that wouldn’t lift. Kaylie could hardly blame her. She hated running herself and was terrified for their lives.
Poor CeCe’s world had completely crumbled in a matter of minutes.
A For Rent sign on one of the buildings caught her eye, and she had an idea. Properties rarely sold or were bought during the holidays.
Which meant that properties weren’t being shown, owners were too busy with families to check on business, and houses were sitting empty.
She checked the storefronts and discovered a real estate office on the corner. Anxious to see what she could find, she parked in front of the office.
“Stay here,” she told CeCe.
CeCe forgot her pout and sat up, straining to see what her mother was doing as Kaylie slid from the car, snatched one of the free real estate magazines from the display in front of the office, then jumped back in the car.
She shifted, backed out and drove out of town, then stopped at a hamburger joint. She drove through the drive-in and ordered food, then pulled to the back of the dimly lit parking lot and parked.
Happy again, CeCe devoured her burger and fries, then entertained herself, temporarily satisfied with the toy she’d received with her meal, while Kaylie scoured the pages of the real estate magazine.
There were two apartments and three houses listed in town. It would be chancy to squat in a place close to residents and businesses where people might see her coming and going and get suspicious. She needed a place out of town, maybe on a deserted road, someplace no one would look or visit, at least until after the holidays ended.
Two different ads caught her eye, one for a Victorian house that actually boasted that it was haunted.
A shiver went up her spine. She and her daughter had enough ghosts haunting them to last a lifetime.
The next—a ranch for sale about ten miles out of town. It was called the Double M, the ad sporting two M’s intertwined.
It had just gone on the market.
That was the kind of place she needed, a house off the grid. But what if someone was still living there?
There was only one way to find out.
She turned onto the road and headed toward the ranch.
The gunshot pierced Mitch’s chest, knocking the breath out of him.
Sally screamed. “Mitch!”
“Daddy!” Todd cried from the backseat.
“I’m okay,” he muttered, although he wasn’t okay. He’d been hit and was bleeding out fast. And the goon that had shot him raced up and slammed the side of his vehicle with his truck.
Tires screeched as Mitch swerved. Sally tried to grab the steering wheel, but the Jeep skimmed the guardrail and spun out of control. Mitch pumped the brakes, but they were going too fast, and the SUV crashed through the rail and careened toward the river.
Sally screamed again.
Mitch clenched the steering wheel as the Jeep nosedived into the water. Then everything went black.
Mitch jerked awake, panting and sweating, the nightmare so vivid that he heard his wife and son’s screams as if they were in the car that second.
But they were gone.
Grief and sorrow clenched his chest.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, then absentmindedly over the scar on his chest. The doctors assured him he wasn’t to blame, that he’d tried to get his little boy and wife out, but they’d been trapped, and he’d been so weak that he’d lost consciousness from blood loss at the edge of the river.
How could he not blame himself? It was his fault they’d died.
If he could have traded his life for theirs, he would have in a second.
Emotions pummeled him, making bile rise to his throat. God . . . why had he lived?
Was this God’s way of punishing him for not being a better man? Not being a better husband? Not spending enough time with his son?
The week before the shooting, Todd had begged Mitch to take him fishing, but Mitch had been adamant about finishing his latest case. A sadistic man named Maurice Willingham had shot and killed two men, but escaped detection.
Until Mitch had convinced Willingham’s wife to turn on him.
He’d made the arrest, proud that he’d finally locked the man up.
Willingham had hated Mitch for that and vowed retribution.
Shockingly, the bastard had made bail. As he walked out of jail, he’d promised to make Mitch suffer.
Mitch had understood the warning. Fearing Sally and Todd were in danger, he’d raced home, ushered them in the car so he could protect them.
But Willingham had help, an accomplice who’d followed Mitch and fired that bullet into Mitch’s chest.
Thunder rumbled outside, accompanied by the sound of horses whinnying. He should have put them in the barn earlier.
Who the hell would be coming out to the Double M this time of night?
Curious, he rolled off the bed, staggering as he shuffled across the room, grabbed his rifle and walked outside.
From the front porch of the cabin which sat on a hill overlooking the ranch, he could make out the farmhouse in the distance. A few stars fought through the storm clouds, glittering against the inky darkness, the moon a sliver of pale gold light.
But twin beams from an SUV flashed across the land, then died as the car rolled to a stop. Mitch’s detective instincts surged to life.
He’d just put the ranch on the market. Had some teens seen the ad and decided to use the place as a party house?
Then again, one of the prison escapees was still on the loose.
He propped his rifle by the side of the door, stepped inside, grabbed his night binoculars, walked back onto the porch, and peered through the lenses to see what was going on.
The driver’s door opened, a pair of jean-clad legs emerging.
A woman’s legs, he realized, as that sliver of moonlight streaked her golden hair.
Mitch’s gut tightened. She was a tiny little thing. Was she lost?
She stood by the car and glanced in all directions, craning to see up the dirt drive as if she was looking for someone. Then she leaned inside the car and removed a pistol.
Clutching it to her, she eased her way around to the side of the farmhouse near the carport, again searching the area.
If she’d seen the ad regarding the sale, why would she come out here in the middle of the night to look at the house?
And why was she carrying a gun?
Returning to the front of the house, she climbed the porch steps, once again glancing around, except this time he saw the expression in her eyes and realized she was nervous.
