Time to Run

by Marliss Melton

  She was wearing the nightshirt she’d bought in Memphis. She didn’t have a drop of makeup on her clean-scrubbed face, and her eyes looked puffy and red-rimmed in the lamp glow. For some reason, she was more appealing to him than ever.

  “You okay?” he asked, his back still to the door.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she explained.

  With an excess of testosterone still in his bloodstream, it was not a good time. He wanted vengeance and sex, and he wasn’t too picky as to which came first.

  But Sara had been through hell because of him. The least he could do was put her mind at ease. “Let me shower,” he stalled. Snatching fresh boxers and his sweatpants from his duffel bag, he headed for the bathroom.

  A cold shower helped to settle some of his inner seething. He left his sodden clothes in the laundry closet and returned to the living room in his sweatpants. At the same time, Sara emerged form the kitchen bearing two steaming mugs.

  “Chamomile tea,” she said, her gaze skittering over his naked chest. “It’s been in the cabinet for a while, but I don’t think tea goes bad, does it?”

  Her nervous question had him plucking a T-shirt from his duffel bag. He jammed his arms through the sleeves and tugged it down to accept the mug she passed him. He never drank tea, except in Asian restaurants. “Thanks.”

  He sat on the end of the couch, unnerved when Sara eased down next to him. She smelled like soap and sun-dried cotton. She sipped her tea, strangely quiet, considering she’d said she wanted to talk.

  He took a swallow. “How’s Ken doin’?” The boy had cried for hours, which was one of the reasons why Chase had left the house. It’d reminded him of his mother crying.

  “I slipped him some Dramamine,” she confessed, with a self-deprecating grimace. “I guess I’m a bad mother.”

  “You’re not,” Chase assured her. He emptied his mug, burning his throat to distract himself from her proximity. She had no idea how tightly wound he was. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?” he asked. The faster they ended this discussion, the safer she’d be.

  “Actually, I just wanted to thank you,” she told him, unexpectedly

  “What the hell for?” he growled. He blamed himself for the whole fiasco.

  “For not going back. I know you wanted to.” Her green-gray eyes shone with faith—faith he didn’t deserve since he was still considering it. The night wasn’t over yet.

  “Tell me again what happened,” he demanded, needing to make up his mind. She’d sketched an outline of the events for Linda Mae’s benefit, but who knew what details she might have left out?

  With a sigh, she relayed their reasons for returning to the ranch in the first place. She retold how they’d surprised the skinheads who were searching the house for the rifles. As she mentioned her distress at leaving Kendal behind, her eyes filled with tears.

  Fuck, he wanted to comfort her, but then he’d have to touch her. “I want you to tell me if those bastards hurt you,” he insisted, watching her closely. “Don’t cover up for them.”

  “Les and Timmy jostled me around a little,” she conceded, dashing the moisture from beneath her eyes, “but no harm done. And Will just talked to me. God, did he give me the creeps!”

  It gave Chase the creeps to hear the skinheads’ names on her lips. She should never have experienced what she’d gone through today. Kendal, either. It was Chase’s fault that they’d wound up smack-dab in the middle of a racial conspiracy.

  He threw himself off the sofa to prowl around the living room. “This is all my fault,” he admitted, hating himself.

  Her eyes flashed like a prelude to a summer storm. “Don’t you dare blame yourself, Chase McCaffrey. We were leaving, remember? It’s our fault that we came back.”

  “I should never have brought you here, to a place like this,” he qualified.

  “What do you mean a place like this? There’s nothing wrong with this place.”

  “It’s common,” he retorted. “There’s nothing here but work to be done and backwards-thinking people like Linc and his cronies.”

  “You’re here,” she countered. “And there’s nothing backward about you.”

  That pulled him up short. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.” How could she say that when she knew what he did for a living? He was as backward as a treed possum.

  “I’m not,” she said, defending him vehemently. “You’ve made all the difference to me and my son. Tonight you could have started World War III, but you walked away. That’s not backward, Chase. That’s heroic.”

  Huh? He stood there wondering if he’d heard her right, but then his hearing was beyond perfect.

  She jumped off the couch, and he backed up, terrified of being tested in the state that he was in. She stopped squarely in front of him with her hands clasped.

  The smell of her made him light-headed.

  “Thank you,” she repeated gently. “That’s all I really wanted to say. That, and I’m sorry about Jesse.”

  He flinched as she went up on her toes, pressing a warm, soft kiss on his cheek.

  The reminder that his dog was dead kept him from taking advantage. If that happened, she’d find out just how unheroic he could be.

  He watched her turn away. She collected both their mugs and took them to the kitchen. Passing him one last time, she cast him a sweet, sad smile. It did nothing to ease his lust.

  Once she was safely out of range, Chase threw himself down on the couch and scowled.

  He’d never been accused of heroism before.

  It had a way of humbling a man.

  Reaching for the lamp, he snapped off the light. Surrounded by darkness, he instantly missed the loyal company of his dog. His chest hurt, but the tears refused to come.

  Frances Yates cut through the wedge of cantaloupe with the side of her fork and lifted the morsel to her mouth. Since her daughter’s disappearance, she’d lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose. Her doctor had chided her just yesterday, but, honestly, how was she supposed to maintain an appetite when something awful had befallen Sara and her only grandson, Kendal?

  Marvin, who sat across from her, his back to the golf course of their retirement community, seemed to be experiencing the same struggle.

  When the doorbell rang, it came as a relief to have to get up from the table. “Another well-wisher,” Frances shouted to Marvin, who was deaf. She rose painstakingly to her feet, careful to watch her equilibrium.

  Marvin dabbed his chin with a napkin, getting up to follow her down the hall.

  Frances opened the door, expecting to be greeted by a flower arrangement or a familiar face, projecting sympathy. Nearly everyone within their gated community had dropped by to offer encouragement and consolation. It took Frances a second to recognize her son-in-law, looking less than fastidious. His navy blue jacket was wrinkled, and his hair was windblown.

  The only reason he would have come to Florida in person was to deliver terrible news. “Oh, heavens, no!” Frances cried, putting a hand to her chest and stumbling against her husband, who’d followed her to the door. “They were found,” she guessed.

  Bartholomew’s dark eyes narrowed as he took in her dismay with strangely apathetic eyes. Those same eyes scrutinized Marvin, whose hand curled protectively around Frances’s frail arm. “No,” he said, looking past them, into the foyer.

  “What’s going on?” Marvin shouted.

  “I don’t know,” said Frances, remarking Garret’s peculiar behavior. “Please, come in.” She gestured toward the living room, and Marvin stepped back so that his son-in-law could duck under the lintel and enter their dwelling.

  Garret took a seat on Marvin’s favorite reading chair, his posture rigid. His dark eyes darted here and there as if looking for something.

  Marvin helped Frances lower herself onto the sofa and took the seat next to her. “Do you have news for us?” she pressed. He’d spoken to them via phone forty-eight hours after Sara and Kendal’s disappearance, but not since then, though the
y’d left a number of messages.

  “No,” he said, in a flat voice. “None. The authorities are questioning whether it was an abduction, after all.”

  “What else would it be?” Frances asked in confusion. “Perhaps their abductor wasn’t looking for money.” Perhaps he merely wanted to abuse them and kill them and dump their bodies elsewhere. “Oh, dear,” she moaned, suffering a dizzy spell that was made all the worse by her vertigo.

  Bartholomew regarded her dispassionately. “I should be going,” he announced, coming abruptly to his feet.

  “But you just got here,” she protested. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she offered, thinking she ought to have asked earlier.

  “No. Thank you.” He headed straight for the door. “I came to see how you were holding up,” he muttered with his back to them. “Sorry that I don’t have better news for you.”

  Frances and Marvin both struggled to their feet, chasing Garret to the door to see him off. He was already down the steps, heading toward a nondescript rental car. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” Frances called, lifting a hand in farewell.

  He didn’t even turn to acknowledge it.

  She watched him wrench his car door open, stoop to climb inside, then roar away.

  “Strange,” she murmured, pondering his odd behavior.

  “What did you say?” Marvin asked.

  “Didn’t you find his behavior strange?” she asked him, loudly.

  “Yes,” he agreed with a disapproving frown. “He behaved as if he expected to find Sara and Kendal here.”

  An arrow of insight pierced Frances’s consciousness, speeding her heart. A sudden dizzy spell had her groping for her husband, who caught her in his arms. Heavens, had Bartholomew been implying that Sara and Kendal ran away?

  Oh, thank God! For if they had, then they were still alive!

  But why hadn’t Sara come to them if she needed help?

  Venturing onto the front porch, Sara discovered that the rain had moved on, trailing cooler weather behind it. With no fall clothing to put on, she hugged herself for warmth, even as she watched Chase drag a plywood contraption along the grass that edged the driveway, leaving lines in the heavy dew.

  What is he up to? she wondered.

  The door creaked open behind her, and she turned to see a puffy-eyed Kendal greet the new day. His gaze went first toward the hump of earth beneath the pecan tree where Jesse lay. But then he spotted Chase setting the structure on its base by the curve in the driveway. “What’s he doin?” he asked.

  A giant bull’s-eye had been painted on a sheet of plywood with the stain Chase was using to coat the house. “Maybe he wants to practice shooting,” Sara suggested.

  Together, they watched him retrace his steps. His gaze caught and held Sara’s and her pulse quickened with awareness and admiration for his heroism.

  “Mornin’,” he called, snatching up a rifle that was hidden in the grass. He turned his back on them, aimed his gun at the target, and fired eight shots in quick succession, hitting the center of the bull’s-eye every time.

  Sara and Kendal gawked in amazement.

  And then Chase was crossing the driveway toward them. “Your turn,” he called to Sara, giving her a familiar, challenging look.

  She shook her head. “Oh, no.”

  “Come on down,” he invited, absolutely serious. “You’re not goin’ to Dallas till you know how to protect yourself.”

  They were planning to leave for Dallas later today. That didn’t leave much time.

  “Why can’t we just stay with you?” Kendal demanded, wresting Chase’s attention.

  The question rocked Sara briefly on her heels. If that were an option, then it would probably be her first choice, she realized. “We can’t, honey,” she answered on Chase’s behalf. “Chase has to go back to his job, you know that.”

  “Why can’t he quit?” the boy cried, on an emotional note. Without waiting for an answer, he spun around and flew into the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Sara winced. “Sorry,” she said to Chase, who frowned at Kendal’s outburst. “There have been so many changes. He’s just looking for some solid ground.”

  “You want me to explain the terms of my enlistment to him?” he offered.

  “Maybe that would help,” Sara agreed. Curiosity got the better of her. “What, uh, are the terms?” she asked.

  “I reenlisted three months ago, while I was overseas. I have four years left till retirement,” he said, with a grim set to his jaw.

  Four years! The chilly breeze licked over Sara’s bare arms. What were the odds of a sniper’s getting killed in that span of time?

  “Come on down here,” he invited again.

  “No,” she said, eyeing the rifle. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “It’s a lightweight semiautomatic buck rifle that Linc used to hunt with.” He hefted it to show her how light it was. “You won’t have any problem handlin’ it.”

  “It’s just not my thing to shoot people,” she said without thinking.

  He went perfectly still. “It’s not my thing either, Sara,” he retorted, with a flicker of anger in his eyes.

  She hadn’t meant it like that, and yet, what he did for a living put a gulf between them—though it wasn’t so much what he did as where, and for how long.

  “I need to feel better ’bout sendin’ you off alone,” he explained. “Please, just do this for me.”

  Well, when he put it that way, she really didn’t have much choice, did she?

  With a sigh of surrender, Sara descended the steps and followed him across the driveway to the place where he’d shot those eight bull’s-eyes, at least twenty-five yards from the target.

  “This rifle can shoot up to a mile,” Chase informed her.

  “Mmmm,” Sara hummed, pretending to be impressed.

  “This is how you release the magazine to chamber a new one,” he added, handling the gun with daunting competence. “This rifle will give you eight consecutive rounds per clip. Here’s how you empty the magazine.” He showed her. “Go ahead and take it out.”

  Feeling as inexperienced as a baby, Sara released the empty magazine. He took it, handing her a new one. “Slide it in till you hear a click. This here’s the safety,” he continued, touching the lever by her thumb. “Keep it on till you plan to shoot.”

  No problem.

  “You ready?”

  “Not really.”

  Ignoring that, he positioned her into the proper front-and-back stance. He lifted the butt of the rifle against her right shoulder. “Bend your elbows. Loosen up your shoulders; I don’t want any tension in ’em.”

  It was his proximity that was making her tense. If he touched her much more, the rest of the lesson was going to be a complete waste of time.

  “Sight down the barrel and center the crosshairs on the bull’s-eye. You doin’ that?”

  “Yes,” she said, shutting one eye and squinting through the lens with the other.

  He bent down to inspect her aim. “Go ahead and release the safety. Then squeeze the trigger.”

  Tamping down her awareness of him, Sara flicked the safety off and squeezed the trigger.

  Boom! The rifle kicked, ramming against her shoulder and sending her flying back into Chase’s arms. “You didn’t say it was going to do that!” she accused, whipping her head back to glare at him.

  He chuckled at her outrage. “So, now you know,” he said reasonably. “Try again. I think you hit a squirrel.”

  With a groan for her shoulder, she readied herself a second time.

  “Check your stance.”

  Sara widened her stance before sighting down the barrel again. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger.

  Boom! She staggered back a couple of steps.

  “You got to keep your eyes open,” Chase chided, with a smile in his voice.

  “I can’t do this,” she said, not referring so much to shooting the rifle as to standing
so close to him and not melting into his arms.

  “Sure, you can,” he argued, unaware of her private dilemma. He positioned her back in the proper stance. “This time keep your eyes open.”

  Sara blew out a breath, widened her stance belatedly, and peered through the scope to fire again. Boom! “I missed.”

  “Try again.”

  Boom!

  “I think I hit something.”

  “Yep, the ground. One more time.”

  Sarah whimpered. Her shoulder felt bruised where the rifle butted it. Boom!

  “Maybe you need some help,” he conceded, stepping closer. With that short notice, he fitted his larger body, front to back, against hers.

  Sara’s senses screamed. This is going to help?

  “Ready?” He murmured the question in her ear, sending a rush of anticipation through her.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Focus on the target.”

  She could scarcely see out of her heavy-lidded eyes, yet alone pinpoint the center of the bull’s-eye. All she could focus on was Chase’s warmth, his cedarlike scent, and the zipper of his jeans pressed intimately against her backside.

  “Pull the trigger.”

  She did, with a burst of excitement similar to the onset of an orgasm.

  Boom! Crack!

  She heard the bullet rip into the target. By then she’d been driven too deep into Chase’s arms to care. She had no idea where the gun went, only that it disappeared. Chase caught her chin, angling her lips toward his. And suddenly he was kissing her with so much focused hunger that her rational faculties ground to a halt.

  There was a reason why she ought not to welcome the heat of his palms burning a path toward her breasts. She couldn’t remember what it was. Desire pooled with a warm gush, accompanied by a desperate craving for more.

  She twisted in his arms, crowding closer, hips pressed to the unyielding column of his zipper.

  A single, rational thought penetrated her sensual haze: Kendal might be watching out the window.

  What message would it send to see his mother kissing Chase like there was no tomorrow? The wrong message. The message that she and Chase had a future together.

  Didn’t Kendal realize that Chase was ephemeral? All it took for Chase to disappear was for Uncle Sam to crook a finger. It had been just like that in the past, with Chase gliding in and out of Sara’s life, ever elusive.