by Rita Herron
She peered through the windows, then tiptoed toward the front door and tried it. She looked frustrated that it wouldn’t open.
Rubbing at her shoulders as if she was tired, she walked around to the side of the house, jiggled a window, then another. The lock on the laundry room window was broken, and she pushed it open.
Carefully she tucked the gun into the waist of her jeans, hoisted herself up and crawled through the window to the inside.
Mitch scowled as suspicions kicked in. She was breaking into his house? Why? There was nothing to steal.
A second later, a light flipped on in the hallway, then she exited through the front door. Anger rose inside him, and he reached for his rifle.
He didn’t care who the hell she was. He was going to tell her to get the hell out of his house.
He headed down the steps, keeping the binoculars trained on her. Dust blew in the air as the storm clouds kicked in.
The woman ran to the back door of the Pathfinder, opened it, and scooped up a little girl in her arms
Mitch’s heart stuttered at the sight of the sleeping child, stopping him in his tracks. The towheaded nymph curled against the woman, one hand clutching a rag doll, the other a little plastic train.
The woman hurried inside with the child, flicking another light on in the foyer as she found her way up the stairs. When Todd’s light flickered on, Mitch’s chest squeezed with a sharp pang.
She was putting the little girl to bed in his son’s room.
Seconds later, she ran outside, got in the car, started it and drove it around to the back of the farmhouse where it was hidden from the road.
Whatever the woman had done, or whatever she was running from—and it was obvious that she was running and scared—he couldn’t confront her tonight. Not when that little girl looked so innocent.
He’d find out what was going on first, then he’d decide what to do about his unwanted guests.
Kaylie dragged her suitcase and CeCe’s pink Cinderella bag up the stairs to the bedrooms. Guilt niggled at her for invading another person’s home, but as far as she could tell from her brief run through the house, no one was living here.
There were no clothes or personal items anywhere, not in the closets or bedrooms. No groceries in the kitchen or refrigerator either, indicating no one had been here in a while.
She wondered who owned the ranch. A number was listed in the paper but no real estate agency, so it must be for sale by owner.
Her shoulders ached as she dropped CeCe’s bag in the smaller bedroom. The room was painted a deep blue suggesting it had been a boy’s room at one time. CeCe wouldn’t care.
Her daughter just needed a warm bed and safe place to sleep.
And they both needed a break from running.
Hope budded as she rolled her suitcase into the other bedroom. Maybe they could lay low here until after the holidays, and she could give CeCe a real Christmas.
Surely by then, the police would have Buckham back in custody. Although the news reporter said his attorney had evidence he was innocent . . . And why did they suspect that she’d hurt Joe?
Her head swirled with ugly possibilities. What was she going to do? Arnold was dead and Rafferty might be, too. Who could she turn to for help?
Sick with worry, she hurried down the stairs and locked the house, then tiptoed back to the second floor, carrying her gun to the bedside table. The antique four-poster bed and dresser reminded her of her grandmother’s house, stirring a sense of nostalgia for lost family and the future she’d thought she and Joe had built together.
That life was gone.
Wiping at tears, she fought the memory of Joe’s funeral. It seemed like she was destined to bury everyone she loved. She’d lost her parents at seventeen, her grandmother at twenty and now her husband.
She could not lose her little girl.
Determination made her grind her teeth. CeCe didn’t deserve any of this, not watching her father die or living on the run or being scared all the time.
Somehow she had to make it up to her.
The bed had been stripped of sheets, but she dug into a closet in the master bathroom, found a set of plain white ones and made the bed.
Exhausted, she tucked the pistol under her pillow, stripped her clothes, tugged on pajamas and crawled into bed. Thunder rumbled outside, the sound of a light rain splattering against the roof of the house.
Tomorrow she’d figure out a way to clear her name.
Tonight she had to get some sleep.
She closed her eyes, grateful for a reprieve from the road. But instead of sugar plum fairies, reindeer and tree trimming, images of dead bodies—Joe’s, then Arnold’s—danced through her head.
Then her own . . .
She shut out the image. She couldn’t die or go to jail for a crime she hadn’t committed.
She had to survive to take care of CeCe.
Mitch tried to sleep, but questions about the woman who’d invaded his house needled him, and he walked outside for air.
He didn’t like them there, not in the home he’d made for his own family.
Yet the woman looked scared. For God’s sake, she’d snuck inside in the middle of the damn night with a gun as if she was running for her life.
Or from the law.
Still, how could he force them to leave when he didn’t know if she was a criminal—or if she and the little girl were in danger.
He’d failed his own wife and son.
The reminder nearly sent him to his knees. He clutched the porch rail, fighting the grief eating him inside out. How could he keep breathing when every fiber of his being was on fire with pain?
He glanced back at the farmhouse, the horses finally settling down and quieting as they hovered near the barn.
Dammit to hell. He didn’t need to take on someone else’s troubles. This woman and her kid were not his problem.
Yes, they are. They’re in your house.
The question was why?
A dozen different scenarios rolled through his head. Maybe they were just traveling and ran out of money and needed a place to sleep for one night. The lady could be in financial trouble. Or hell, someone could have stolen her credit cards and wallet and she couldn’t very well drive all night, and she was just trying to get back to family.
She might have a husband or boyfriend somewhere waiting on them.
Hopefully, she’d hightail it out come dawn, and he could forget about her and that little girl with the rag doll and that little plastic train toy.
The child had freckles on her nose. He’d seen them through the binoculars as she’d hugged up to her mother.
Hugged up to her the way Todd used to hug him when he had a bad dream during the night.
Todd had loved trains and toy animals and his cowboy boots. Sometimes at night, he slid in bed beside Mitch, and Mitch told him stories about camping out, roasting marshmallows and hunting arrowheads on the ranch.
He’d promised to take Todd camping, but they’d never gotten the chance. Todd had died two days before they’d planned to leave. Their bedrolls had been packed, camping gear stashed in the back of the Jeep when they’d crashed.
The crime scene photos had shown marshmallows floating in the river beside Todd’s body.
Mitch would never be able to erase that image from his head.
A streak of lightning zigzagged across the top of the trees surrounding the house, illuminating the window of the master bedroom.
Sorrow and regret mingled with anger at the damn woman for making him feel again. For making him worry about someone when all he wanted was to drown his grief in a bottle until he was so numb he’d never feel anything again.
He strode inside and reached for the bottle of whiskey, but when he glanced up at the ranch house and saw a light flicker on in the master bedroom�
��in his bedroom—and watched the silhouette of the woman pacing the room, rubbing her arms and wringing her hands together, he set the bottle back down.
He didn’t know what her story was, but he’d damn well find out. And he needed a clear head to deal with her when he ran her off in the morning because he had a weakness for a woman and kid in trouble.
And he was not falling into that trap again.
CeCe stirred from sleep and opened her eyes, squinting to see where she was.
In a bedroom somewhere. The last thing she remembered was her mommy driving to a ranch with horse stables and saying they’d spend the night in the house.
A whisper made her roll sideways, and she clenched the sheet. A boy with dark hair was standing by the window in jeans, a T-shirt and cowboy hat.
She bit her lip to keep from screaming. “Who are you?” she managed to whisper.
“Todd,” the boy said. “You’re sleeping in my bed.”
CeCe’s stomach started to hurt. “My mommy said no one lives here.”
“I do,” Todd said.
But he was floating away like he was on a cloud, and CeCe couldn’t see him anymore.
“Take care of my horse,” the boy said as he slipped away.
CeCe hugged the pillow to her. She had to be dreaming. But just in case she wasn’t, and the boy really did have a horse here, she promised him she would.
“Did you find the Whittaker woman?”
“I’m on her trail. She ditched the car Pinter was using and traded it for a Pathfinder. I’m looking for it now.”
“Find her. I am not going to prison.”
Hell. He didn’t intend to go back either. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the broad.”
“Good. This past year has been a fucking nightmare.”
He punched disconnect then turned to his attorney Willa Barnaby and stripped his clothes, eager to plant himself inside her.
She dropped her silk blouse to the floor, licking her lips in invitation.
He ripped off her bra and cradled her big breasts in his hands. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.”
She rubbed a hand over his cock, making it harden even more. “I missed you, too.”
He flicked his tongue over one ripe nipple, furious at Kaylie Whittaker for depriving him of his freedom and the pleasures that went with it the past few months.
Her husband had gotten exactly what he’d deserved.
And soon she would, too.
Then his problems would be over.
And he could screw Willa any time he damn well wanted.
Mitch felt like a voyeur the next morning as he peered through his binoculars to study the house, but he had to find out what the woman was up to. By dawn, he’d begun to wonder if she was holed up meeting someone or if perhaps she was running from an abusive spouse.
That was the logical explanation. He’d seen the same sad story too many times to count. Women dependent on some jackass who used and abused them, then made them think they were to blame. Men who should have their own butts kicked and their faces smashed in for venting his anger and small-mindedness on women and children too small to defend themselves.
Of course, she could be a money-hungry princess who’d stolen the man’s child just to exhort cash from her husband. Hell, he’d seen that scenario, too.
In both situations, the kid suffered the most.
That little strawberry blonde girl with the freckles tugged at his damn heart. A heart he’d thought had broken beyond feeling anything but pain.
He slipped into the barn, saddled up Horseshoe, the chestnut Todd had loved, and rode across the ranch, searching for anything suspicious.
Or someone who might be meeting with the blonde at the house.
But his search turned up empty. Although in the north pasture, he spotted a truck sitting high on the hill. But when he nudged Horseshoe in that direction, the truck barreled off.
That raised his suspicions, so he rode the property again, then circled back and steered the horse to drink from the creek while he dismounted and watched the farmhouse from the hill.
Hoping the woman and kid would leave first thing, he forced himself to wait instead of confronting her. He’d give her time to get off his land on her own.
He just hoped to hell she did. Then he could avoid asking questions and entrenching himself deeper into her life.
Finally, as daylight fought through the winter clouds, she emerged from the house. She wore a long-sleeved pink T-shirt and jeans that hugged curves, curves he hadn’t noticed last night in the dark. She’d pulled her long blonde hair into a ponytail, drawing it back from her face, which accentuated high cheekbones and a pouty little sweet mouth.
Sweet as in her lips were plump like raspberries and stirred a man’s blood with the desire to kiss her.
Dammit.
Out pranced little Miss Sunshine with the freckles, her own strawberry blonde ponytail swinging as she clutched that scraggly doll to her. Her eyes lit up when she spotted the horses trotting across the pasture.
For the love of Christ.
The mother and daughter could have passed for angels had he not seen the pistol in the woman’s hands and the fear in her eyes the night before.
The woman stooped down and cradled her daughter’s face between her hands then said something to her that made the little girl burst into a big smile.
Mitch cursed and prayed they were leaving for good as they hurried around back to their SUV.
Kaylie scanned the dirt road as she drove toward the small town she’d passed through the night before. She needed coffee, food, and a plan.
She could find the first two in Twin Branches, but the third one stumped her.
“I’m hungry,” CeCe said from the back seat.
“Me, too, baby,” Kaylie said. “We’re going to get something to eat in town.”
“I wanna go back to the ranch,” CeCe said. “Did you see the horses?”
“Yes, I did.” Nerves twisted Kaylie’s stomach. The horses were beautiful. But keeping livestock on the land meant that someone would most likely come out to take care of them.
“Can I ride one of the horsies?”
She doubted that would happen. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“That means no,” CeCe said with her infamous stubborn pout.
Kaylie tossed a smile over her shoulder. “That means we’ll see. First, we’re going to get a big breakfast, then pick up some groceries.”
“You mean we really are gonna stay at the ranch?”
Kaylie swallowed hard at the unbridled hope in her daughter’s voice. “For a little while maybe.” Unless the owner comes by and catches us squatting.
“Can I get a kitty, too?”
Kaylie laughed. “Breakfast and groceries first. We’ll have to talk to Santa about the kitty.” And wait until we’re not running for our lives.
“Okay, but I wants pancakes with chocolate chip eyes.”
“Sounds good,” Kaylie said as she entered the town square. With its old-fashioned storefronts, small grocery store, boot store and diner boasting homemade barbeque, Twin Branches could have been any other little hole-in-the-wall town in Texas. Still, there was something charming and quaint about it that made Kaylie relax.
Two women strolling their babies crossed the street to a park in the center of town, an elderly man and woman held hands as they entered the diner, and two men in overalls sat on the front porch of the general store playing checkers over a whiskey barrel.
A discount store was beside the diner, and she made a note to check it out for disguises for her and CeCe in case they needed to change their appearance.
She parked in front of the diner, tugged a baseball cap over her head, then tossed CeCe a cap. The two of them joined hands and hurried to the door.
Still
, she kept glancing over her shoulder, scanning the street and diner as they entered, praying no one was following them.
Mitch snuck into the farmhouse, irritated that he felt as if he was a thief in the night and that he was violating the woman’s privacy when she was the one who’d broken into his house.
He glanced around the kitchen and living room, noting everything looked as he’d left it. Sheets draped over furniture, bare kitchen counter, curtains drawn. For the first time, he saw the place as his wife had.
Dusty, rundown, in need of a good cleaning and decent furniture.
Although Sally had wanted to gut the place, he’d insisted the wood floors and crown moldings were timeless.
He wondered what the stranger in his house thought. And if she was coming back.
He hadn’t seen her lugging her suitcase to the car when she’d left.
Which meant she’d return for them any minute.
He had to hurry.
Grumbling beneath his breath, he climbed the steps to the second floor, his boots pounding. He paused at the top of the stairwell to look in his son’s room and saw the bed was made, although that damn doll with the ratty dress and scraggly orange hair lay on the pillow as if it had found a home.
Hell, yeah. They’d be back. The kid would have taken the doll with her if they were leaving for good. Just what were the woman’s plans?
Something tugged at his heart, emotions he didn’t want to feel, and he cursed and strode to the master bedroom—his room. Sally had hated the outdated curtains and antiques, but he’d admired the craftsmanship of the four-poster shaker-style bed. Besides, a painting of mustangs hung above the bed, a reminder of his passion for ranch life, open spaces and taming wild horses.
He’d expected to find peace and tranquility here but instead had lost everything. Now the ranch just felt plain lonely.
The woman had made the bed up and put her suitcase on top of the chaise in the corner. He bypassed it and checked the bathroom, the faint scent of lavender swirling in the air, a feminine smell that sent a jolt of awareness through him.
