Christmas on the Run Read online

  Go, go, go!

  Her brain shouted the command to her tired legs. She’d been running at her top speed for too long, trying to keep far enough ahead to finish what she’d begun. Now she was tired, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t quit. She unzipped her pocket as she ran, yanking the bag out with trembling hands. If she were cutting a gemstone, she’d have taken a deep breath, tried to still the shaking before she continued, but she didn’t have time to calm her nerves.

  Dallas’s porch light was off. Just like always. One light shone through a window in the upper level. Also just like always. No Christmas lights or decorations. She’d noticed that. Even though all his neighbors had them. Everything was just the way it had been every morning for as long as she’d been running past his place. But something felt off today, the air edged with electricity. She reached the porch stairs, the bag in her hand, her heart beating frantically.

  Her watch beeped a warning. One minute gone. She’d practiced this. She knew exactly how long she had before her pursuers arrived, but she’d set her watch anyway. Always thinking ahead. Always planning. Always trying to control things. Josh had told her that hundreds of times. It hadn’t been a compliment. Those things had caused conflict in her marriage, but they’d also gotten her through really difficult situations.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  She darted to the door, shoved the bag through the mail slot and ran back the way she’d come, lungs heaving, sweat cold on her forehead and cheeks. She glanced back at the path. Still nothing. She was almost in the clear. She just had to keep moving.

  Across the road, a dark shadow moved out from behind an old tree. Her heart thumped, one hard terrible jolt of acknowledgment. They’d been a step ahead of her after all, and now they knew that she’d tried to pass information to someone.

  “What were you doing?” the man said.

  Fear shivered through her, made her legs tremble so much she had to stop. Right at the edge of the yard. Nothing separating her from him but a few feet of paved road.

  “Back off, buddy.” She bit the words out, making sure they dripped with confidence.

  “What were you doing?” he asked again, his tone conversational rather than accusatory.

  “Running.” Her watch beeped again, and she jumped.

  Two minutes gone.

  Not that it mattered. She’d been caught, and now she had to escape.

  She dodged to the left, but he must have anticipated the move, because he was there, blocking her path. Taller by nearly a foot. Muscular. Quick.

  She’d grown up fighting. She could still fight when she needed to.

  She swung hard with a right hook.

  He grabbed her wrist, pulling her arm down with so little effort she knew she’d never escape him.

  Not before his buddies made it to her place, found a way in and took her son.

  She swung again. This time with her left fist, wildly. She had no plan but to free herself. She connected with his shoulder and heard him mutter something before he pulled her right arm up behind her back. Almost to the point of pain—but not quite.

  She stepped toward him, using her body as a weapon, her shoulder aimed for his solar plexus as her watch beeped again.

  * * *

  Dallas Morgan didn’t know who the woman was. He didn’t know what she wanted. He did know that she’d been running past his house every morning for three weeks. He’d seen her on his security monitor, racing along so close to his front yard that the camera, which had been set up to turn on when there was movement at the edge of the grass, caught her grainy image. Twice she’d jogged to his porch and back, always looking at her watch while she did it. The watch that was beeping.

  A warning?

  He glanced at the front of his house, expecting an explosion, a fire, something that would make any one of his enemies very happy. And he did have enemies, most of them in foreign countries or in prison. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t get to him—maybe the scrawny runner was working for one of them.

  “Cool it!” he commanded as she tried to hook a leg around his, pull him off balance and free herself.

  “Let me go,” she growled, wrestling against his hold. His instinct was to do what she’d asked. She was shorter, lighter and weaker than he was, and from the age of twelve on, he’d been taught good manners, good morals and fair rules of combat.

  Those things flew out the window when it came to protecting family or staying alive. He tightened his grip. Not enough to be painful, but enough to make her think long and hard about continuing the fight.

  “Tell me why you’ve been running by my place every morning for three weeks, and I will,” he said, and she stiffened.

  “Dallas?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I...am.”

  “Because you didn’t expect to be caught?”

  “Because things don’t usually turn out that great for me.”

  “Me being out here is great?” He released his hold and took a step back, trying to see her face in the predawn light. Gaunt. Deep hollows beneath high cheekbones. Dark shadows beneath light-colored eyes. That was about all he could see.

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  “I put something through the mail slot. That will explain.”

  She started jogging, heading away from the house. He could have let her go, but there was something about her that worried him, a kind of desperate energy he often saw in clients who were looking for help.

  He snagged the back of her running vest, pulling her to a stop. “Save me a trip to the house. Tell me now.”

  “I’m Carly Rose,” she said, as if the name should mean something to him.

  “If this is a test, I’m going to fail it, because I’ve never heard the name before.” He cut to the chase. She obviously knew him. She’d obviously been casing his house. He wanted to know why. He wanted to know who had sent her. He wanted to move on with his day, because he had a boatload of physical therapy to get through before he returned to HEART. Five weeks recovering from a torn meniscus, and he was almost cleared to return to work.

  He was counting the days, because the house was too quiet, the days too long, the nights even longer with nothing to occupy him.

  “Kelley,” she added, then he knew, and a half dozen memories of his brother filled his mind.

  “Josh’s widow,” she continued, as if he might be too dense to put it all together.

  “I get it.” He released her vest, stepped back. She wasn’t anything like what he’d have expected. Josh had always gone for blonde, voluptuous. Fake. “What do you want?”

  “To leave.” She glanced toward the dead-end street. He’d chosen the house because of the privacy and the park that butted up against the yard. Plenty of room to run, hike and bike.

  “You looked me up for a reason.”

  “I...need your help, but I can’t explain. There isn’t time.” Her watch beeped again, and she took off, sprinting into the street and heading toward the end of the road.

  He should let her go. Josh had only ever been trouble. Even before they’d entered foster care, before they’d been adopted, before he’d stolen from the only two people who had ever loved them, Josh had been all about getting what he could however he could from whomever he could. Dallas had some regrets about their relationship, but not enough to make him want to connect with his widow.

  So, yeah, he should let Carly Rose Kelley go, but he was at loose ends, and Christmas was coming. His parents did their best to get his mind off the season. For the past six years, they’d invited friends and family over to their place for a loud and loving Christmas exchange. Dallas always attended, and then he’d return home to his silent, empty house that should have been filled with the excited squeals of the twins, his
wife, maybe another child or two.

  Lila had wanted a big family.

  He liked to pretend he’d have agreed to that. He wasn’t sure, though. He’d never thought he’d be that great of a husband or father. He hadn’t planned to be, either, but then he’d met her, and he’d fallen hard and fast. They’d married four months after they’d met, and she’d been pregnant three months later.

  If they’d lived, the twins would be turning seven on Christmas Eve.

  He shoved the thought and the memories away. He needed distractions this time of year. Carly was the perfect one.

  He could still see her, slowing as she reached the end of the street, apparently less frantic now that she’d put some distance between them. There was another entrance to the park in that direction. Maybe she was heading there.

  Whatever the case, he planned to follow. At his own pace, because even if he lost sight of her, he could find her again.

  That was what he’d spent the past several years doing—finding people, helping them, bringing them home. Something moved in his periphery, and he swung around, saw a guy walking toward him, coming from the same direction Carly had, sauntering like he had nothing but time on his hands. Except he looked sweaty, his hair plastered to his head.

  “Morning,” he said as he passed, without looking in Dallas’s direction. He also stayed near the center of the street, far enough from the houses to keep motion-detecting security lights from being triggered. And he seemed to be following the same path as Carly. Minus the trip to Dallas’s porch.

  “Cold morning for a walk,” Dallas said, and the man stiffened.

  “Yeah. It is.” He put on a little speed, increasing his pace just enough for it to be noticeable.

  “You going anywhere interesting?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just thinking that if you’re following the lady, you might want to stop.”

  “Mind your own business, buddy,” the guy growled.

  “It’s my business when a woman is running alone and she’s being followed,” he responded.

  “You want trouble?” The guy turned, his eyes blazing. The sun had finally drifted above the horizon, the gold-gray light glancing off mud-brown hair and dull blue eyes.

  “I’m not going to walk away from it if it comes calling,” Dallas replied. Poking the pig. That was what his father called it. It was something Dallas always seemed compelled to do. Something that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.

  This time was no different.

  The guy moved fast, reaching under the hem of his jacket, the motion smooth and practiced. Dallas had seconds to react, to throw himself sideways, pull his Glock. And then the world was exploding into chaos—a woman screaming, a hundred memories filling his mind as he found his mark and fired his first shot.

  TWO

  She screamed.

  She couldn’t stop herself.

  And then she ran faster, racing away from the man with the gun, the one who’d been following her.

  Racing away from Dallas. He was in danger because of her. She could try to deny it. She could tell herself all kinds of pretty lies, but if he’d been shot, it was because she’d dragged him into trouble. She glanced over her shoulder, stumbling as she reached the transition between pavement and park path.

  Nothing in the street. No sign of Dallas. No guy with a gun. Lights had come on in a few houses, and she could hear sirens in the distance. Someone had called the police. She could stay and tell them what she’d seen. She could talk to them about the gemstones she was supposed to be cutting, the threats against Zane. She could put her faith and trust in fallible human beings and an overburdened criminal justice system.

  Or she could keep going and leave Dallas to face the consequence of her decisions. She could let him talk to the police, explain what he’d seen, what she’d said.

  And while he was doing that, she could be packing and leaving town.

  But if he’d been shot...

  She stopped, eyeing the empty street, the lit houses, the rising sun glinting off winter-bare trees. Nothing moved, and she took a step back the way she’d come, because she couldn’t just abandon Dallas. No matter how much she might want to.

  She stopped in front of his house, scanning the yard, looking for signs that he’d been injured. She found what might have been a splotch of blood on the pavement, another drop of it a few inches away. But there was no one lying bleeding on the ground. There was nothing but the gold-gray light of dawn, the chilly winter breeze and the sound of screaming sirens.

  She found more blood on the grass, and she followed the trail of it around Dallas’s house and across the field that separated his property from the park. The police would arrive soon, and she shouldn’t be there when they did. She’d blown it. She’d made that first cut in the stone and she’d gone too deep, pushed too hard. There was nothing to do when that happened but scrap the old plan and come up with a new one.

  But she couldn’t leave until she knew Dallas was okay. This was her fault, her trouble coming to call on him.

  She should have thought about that before she’d taken the chance, but she’d been desperate to keep Zane safe, and Dallas had seemed like the kind of guy who could hold his own in a battle. On paper, he’d even looked like a hero. Not that she believed in those. The fantasy of a white knight riding to her rescue had died about three months after she’d married Josh, right around the time she’d seen a florist receipt on the floor of their closet. For his mother.

  She’d believed the lie because she’d wanted to, but she’d never again believed he was everything he’d pretended to be.

  But those were thoughts for another time.

  Right now, she needed to find Dallas and make sure he was okay. Once she did that, she’d do what she should have a month ago. Plan B: leave town, her life, her career. Leave Jazz.

  Zane would be devastated. Especially with Christmas coming. It was his favorite holiday. He loved all the traditions. More than anything, he loved having his little family together. Not this year, though. This year Jazz was going to be with her fiancé’s family, starting new traditions. Zane had cried when he’d found out. He’d cry more when he realized that he was never going to see his aunt Jazzy again.

  But he’d be alive. He’d be safe.

  That was what mattered.

  She pushed through a thicket and found herself on the trail she’d run in on. No blood there, and the earth was too packed for footprints to be visible. She crouched, searching the ground for any sign that Dallas had been there. The sirens stopped abruptly, and she knew the police had arrived. They were probably questioning whoever had called in the report of gunfire. It wouldn’t be long before they found the blood. They might call in a K-9 unit and extra manpower, and she’d be out in the woods, ready to be found and questioned.

  Don’t go to the police. Don’t tell anyone.

  She hadn’t gone to the police, but she had tried to tell someone, and now the police were closing in. The people who’d been following her had to know it.

  Fear zipped through her, the metallic taste of it filling her mouth. While she was tromping around in the woods looking for Dallas, the people who’d been threatening her could be knocking on the door at her place, making up some excuse for entering the premises.

  “Dallas?” she called quietly, the word barely carrying on the morning air.

  There was no response. She hadn’t really expected there to be.

  The blood, the silence. He was injured. Or worse.

  And it was her fault.

  “Dalla—”

  A hand slapped over her mouth, and she was pulled back against a rock-solid chest, her arms pinned to her sides by someone much larger and stronger than she was. She’d learned to fight the same way she’d learned to
run, because she’d had no choice. It was that or be used and abused and tossed onto the side of the road like garbage.

  She went lax, her weight dropping against her attacker’s arm.

  When that didn’t loosen his grip, she went for his instep, shifting her weight and stomping down hard.

  “Stop,” he hissed in her ear. “It’s Dallas, and there’s some guy with a gun wandering around out here. You want him to hear us?”

  She shook her head, and his hand slipped from her mouth.

  “Are you hurt?” she whispered, trying to turn, but his arm was still locked around her, and she couldn’t move.

  “Quiet,” he said, his lips nearly touching her ear, his warm breath tickling the hair near her temple. She could feel the heat of his body through her vest and T-shirt, the strength of his muscles against her arms and abdomen. It had been a long time since she’d been physically close to a man, and if his grip hadn’t been viselike, she’d have jerked away immediately.

  “He’s gone,” Dallas finally said, releasing his hold and stepping away from her.

  “Who?” she asked, turning so they were facing each other. He was taller than she’d thought. Much taller than Josh had been. Probably six-two or -three.

  “You tell me,” he responded, his eyes an odd green-blue that seemed to glow in the dim morning light.

  “How would I know?” she asked.

  “You said you needed my help, Carly. Two minutes later some guy I’ve never seen before took a potshot at me. You knowing something about him seems like a logical conclusion.”

  She couldn’t deny it, and she couldn’t waste time discussing it. “I need to go.”

  “So you said, but here you are, still hanging around in the park.”

  “I was looking for you. I thought you were hurt, and I was worried that...”

  “What?”

  “That you’d been shot and it was my fault,” she admitted.

  “Why would it be your fault?” he asked, circling the conversation back around to get the information he wanted. But she didn’t know who the guy with the gun was. If she did, she’d have gone to the police long ago.