The Marine Finds His Family. Angel Smits

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      The fleeting thought of her parents was like a speed bump and she nearly stumbled. Righting herself, she leaned on the wall of a darkened building to catch her breath. She just wanted to find a hole and crawl into it.

      Tammie had no idea what to do next. No clue how to get her life back. She’d tried confronting Dom. But that’s what had caused him to turn on her in the first place, made him destroy everything she’d worked so hard for. She’d tried going to the authorities to ask for help. What a joke. She had no real proof. No clout. Nothing. They’d told her there was nothing they could do.

      Despite the frightening warning she’d been given by his buddies, she’d filed a report anyway. But it hadn’t done any good.

      A copy of that police report was nestled between her book’s pages, as well.

      She’d done everything she could think of, only to lose over and over again to him.

      And so she’d finally run.

      And he’d followed. Always finding her. Always destroying what little she’d managed to build.

      Belatedly, she’d figured out that he found them whenever she registered Tyler for school. She couldn’t take him out of school—she wouldn’t do that to him—yet changing cities and schools every couple of months was damaging and a waste. His education had definitely suffered and that had been another reason to give him up until she could figure out how to fix her situation—and keep Tyler safe.

      Her throat ached, clogged with tears of frustration and loss.

      She just wanted to go home. All the places she’d lived over the past year flashed behind her closed eyelids. The tiny bungalow she’d bought in Florida hurt the most to think about. Her studio. Tyler’s bedroom full of his toys. Her room with the soft mattress and her favorite blue decorations. She even missed the leaky pipe in the bathroom.

      All of it gone.

      Anger replaced the threatening tears. She wanted it back. All of it.

      She’d do whatever she could to get it back.

      Slowly, wiping her eyes on her shoulder, Tammie stood away from the wall. She took a deep breath and started walking again. One way or another, she was going home.

      When she rounded the corner where the diner sat, the bright lights of the block eased her fears. The diner. The liquor store. The pawnshop...

      She’d met the owner of the pawnshop when he’d come into the diner a couple weeks ago. Nice, older guy. Tipped good.

      Stepping inside the brightly lit store, Tammie noticed that the pawnshop was huge. Every last corner was filled with pieces of furniture, electronics galore, some odd stuffed animal heads on the wall and cases of jewelry. She’d never seen anything like it. Tammie ignored most of it, especially the jewelry cases—it would hurt too much. Instead, she walked purposefully to the cases at the back. Five hundred and forty-six dollars wouldn’t buy her a new gun. It wouldn’t buy her a big gun.

      But it would buy her a working one.

      Her hands shook as she held the cold metal...thing in the palm of her hand.

      “You know how to shoot that, lady?” the kid behind the counter asked.

      “Not yet,” was all she said.

      She knew she was taking a risk, filling out all the paperwork, but if Dom were following her—maybe he’d think twice knowing she was armed.

      Her resolve and anger slipped into place and she calmed. Carefully, she counted the precious bills out onto the counter, leaving herself with barely enough money to eat until she got paid on Friday.

      She headed out into the artificially lit night toward the diner. She’d be early—again—but Cora didn’t mind her crashing in the tiny break room, as long as she was ready and on her feet in time for the rush.

      She hefted her backpack, its newly added weight comforting. She was ready.

CHAPTER FOUR

      DJ PULLED WYATT’S truck over to the curb and killed the engine. The worn streets and should-be-condemned houses reminded him too much of an Afghan village he’d been to once. A lifetime ago. Despite the Texas heat, he shivered and stared at the house beyond the wire fence.

      A good hundred years old, it was probably an old farmhouse that the urban sprawl had engulfed. It didn’t look like the rest of the block. Older. Worn.

      The porch ran downhill and a coonhound rested on the uneven boards. DJ climbed out and crossed the street. He opened the gate, and the hound lifted its head. DJ didn’t hear a growl or see much other movement. A good sign.

      He’d worn his fatigues and driven the big black truck today on purpose. He wanted Cora—was that her name?—to be able to figure out who he was. Tyler seemed to like the old woman and her coonhound—Rufus? Yeah, that was his name. Rufus. Tyler had said they’d been really good people.

      DJ knew the dog wasn’t a threat. Tyler had told him that and had given him info on the dog treats the hound liked best. His pocket was packed with a bagful. So far the dog hadn’t moved except to swish an ear at the fly that buzzed him.

      “Hello?” DJ called, hoping someone would step out and greet him. Yeah, right. He’d more likely get his head blown off. Slowly, he took a couple of steps. Waited. Another two steps.

      “That’s far enough,” an old woman’s voice called from an open window.

      “Cora?” he called out.

      “Yeah. Who’s askin’?”

      “DJ. DJ Hawkins.” He had nothing to lose at this point. This woman was a good person according to Tyler. She’d helped Tammie hide from whatever or whomever she was running from. She’d been the one to find Wyatt and help Tyler get to him. She cared, and for that DJ respected her. “I’m looking for Tammie Easton.”

      “Yeah? Well, she ain’t here.”

      Despite the negative responses, DJ felt as if he was making progress. “Well, I know she was a friend of yours. Do you know where she might be?”

      “Why should I tell you?”

      He knew what he wanted to say. Should he? What the hell. “Tyler wants his mother back.” He took a step forward. “And I agree.” Well, mostly he did, but admitting that part wouldn’t get him any answers.

      The elderly woman who stepped out onto the tilting porch wasn’t even five feet tall. The shotgun she held in her hands looked huge in comparison and was aimed straight at his chest. Not the first time he’d stared down the barrel of a gun. A trickle of sweat sneaked down his back.

      Tyler had said Cora would know who he was. If Tammie was here, he hoped she’d recognize him and speak up. Preferably before the shotgun got seriously involved.

      “Afternoon, ma’am.” He knew he’d have to draw on every ounce of his Southern charm and manners. Cora was old-school. Slowly, the tiny woman made her way down the steps, the gun barrel СКАЧАТЬ