Christmas On The Run. Shirlee McCoy

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СКАЧАТЬ 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,” СКАЧАТЬ