Fugitive Read online

“You’re selling yourself short, Laney.” He nudged her chin up, and her stomach flipped as she looked into his eyes. “You’ve never been fickle or indecisive. If you’re thinking about keeping the house, there’s a good reason for it.”

  “If there is, I can’t think of one. I haven’t thought about this place in years. I hated it when I was here. I’ve got no reason at all to keep it.”

  “It’s a beautiful house on a stellar piece of land, and your family has lived here for generations. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If it were me, I’d want it.” He touched the handrail. “Not because of what it was when I was in it, but because of what it represents.”

  “That’s what you said about my mother. That she might have tried to contact me because she was hoping to be part of what this house represents again.”

  “Yeah, but if Mildred wanted it, it would have been because she thought it meant power and prestige. I’d want it because of what it could be. A place for kids and family and friends to gather. A place full of laughter and happiness.” He smiled, and her heart melted for him, every memory of every dream that he’d ever shared with her filling her heart until she thought she’d drown in it.

  Her pulse pounded behind her eyes, her throat tight and raw with a hundred things she wanted to say but couldn’t. She’d wanted so much when she was kid, and Logan had wanted the same. Family and love and home. They were four years apart in age, eons apart in experience, but in that one way they had been exactly the same.

  It seemed that they still were.

  “Give yourself a little time to decide if the bad memories that you have are enough to chase you away from something that could be great,” he continued quietly, “I’d better get out of here. The sun is already going down, and the temperature is going to drop when it does. I’ll go out the back door. Lock up when I’m gone, okay?”

  She followed him to the kitchen, shoving packages of crackers and cookies into his backpack. She grabbed coffee from the supplies she’d brought and shoved it in there, too.

  “Do you still have the gun?” she asked as he opened the back door, the setting sun turning his dark hair chestnut.

  “Yes.”

  “And ammunition?”

  “Stop worrying, Laney. I’ll be fine.” He flashed his smile again, and she wanted to cry as the door closed.

  She walked to the window that looked out over the backyard, watching as he made his way toward the woods that abutted her property.

  Keep him safe, Lord. She prayed silently, the house settling around her, every creak and groan reminding her that she was alone.

  She knew what she needed to do. Start packing things up. Whether she sold the place or not, it needed to be done. She couldn’t live there surrounded by her parents’ things.

  She pulled her hair into a high ponytail, opened one of the cherrywood cupboards and stared at her mother’s fancy white china. She’d broken one of the plates once and had been dragged screaming up to the attic and was locked in for hours. Darkness had come. Shadows had filled the storage area. She’d been maybe five or six and absolutely terrified.

  She hated the memory and the china, but did she really hate the house?

  Maybe not.

  She glanced out the back window one last time, and then slowly tossed every bit of china into the trash.

  TEN

  Logan heard the engine first.

  Not a car. Too rough for that.

  He eased to the ground, taking cover behind a fat spruce as he scanned the area. Nothing close by. But something was coming.

  Darkness shrouded the woods, casting long shadows through the trees. He waited, listening as the engine died and the forest fell silent.

  He saw the light next.

  He watched it bounce through the trees about a half mile from his position.

  It had been years since he’d explored the Mackey property, but he tried to map it out in his head and imagine the area where the lights had appeared. A country road bisected the woods, and he thought that might be where the lights had come from. Snowmobiler, maybe?

  Logan wanted to believe it.

  But didn’t.

  He’d walked at least a mile already, and the light was between him and Laney’s house.

  Not good.

  Logan jogged back the way he’d come, his heart thudding painfully, his mind shouting that he was failing again, that by the time he made it back to the farmhouse, the person with the light would already be there.

  Laney might be dead before he reached her.

  He shoved the thought away, not allowing himself to dwell on it.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to remember the way she’d looked when they’d been standing in the foyer, her face soft and open and filled with emotion. Their shared dreams had been in her eyes, and he’d had to leave or he might have started wondering what it would be like to work toward those dreams together instead of separately.

  No more love. No more entanglements. That had been his motto since Amanda’s death. He’d refused to get close enough to anyone to risk his heart, to risk another failure.

  But he was close to Laney, their shared past serving as a foundation that seemed sturdy enough to build just about anything on.

  The engine roared to life again, and Logan cocked his head to the side, listening as it faded away.

  He should have been relieved, but he felt tense and anxious, his nerves alive with adrenaline. He scanned the forest again and caught sight of a single light slowly weaving through heavy pine boughs.

  It was not moving toward the road, but toward Laney’s house.

  He wanted a cell phone, an ATV, a way to warn her or a way to beat the threat to her.

  He didn’t have either, so all he could do was run.

  * * *

  The first few months after William’s death, Laney had been lonely, the empty house echoing the throbbing pulse of her grief. It hadn’t taken long, though, to get used to being alone. She’d found that she enjoyed the silence, the space, the freedom from the emotional connection that marriage demanded.

  She’d loved William; she really had. He’d been everything she’d ever wanted in a husband—kindhearted, even tempered, a good friend. He’d filled a void in her heart that had been empty for so many years, she’d barely realized it needed filling until she’d met him.

  So what if her heart hadn’t skipped a beat every time he walked into a room? They’d had mutual goals and faith and affection for one another, and it had been enough. More than enough.

  After his diagnosis, he’d told her that she’d been his one true love. He’d said it again and again during the months of chemo and radiation. She hadn’t known if it was true. She’d thought that maybe he’d just wanted that kind of love before he died.

  She hadn’t ever wanted it.

  And she knew that she never would want it.

  That kind of love could only lead to disappointment. True and deep and lasting.

  She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  Somehow, though, as she sat in the silent parlor and looked through the offers Chris had left, she felt lonely. She yearned for someone to be sitting beside her, going over the information with her, listening as she listed all the reasons why she really should sell the property.

  Someone?

  Logan.

  She could admit it to herself.

  He was an old friend, part of her childhood, so it made sense that she’d want him around as she decided what to do with her inheritance.

  She didn’t need him around, though.

  She refused to ever need anyone the way she’d once needed parents who loved her.

  The china set that she’d thrown in the trash can was the first step to moving on fr
om the nightmare she’d lived as a kid. She needed to take the next.

  She just wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be.

  Or maybe she did.

  The easiest thing to do, the best thing, would be to start cleaning and organizing. She could plan everything else as she went. Maybe after she’d removed the century’s worth of Mackey stuff from the house, selling it wouldn’t feel so much like betraying family.

  Family?

  Ha!

  As if she’d had that.

  She rubbed the bridge of her nose as the teakettle whistled. A cup of hot tea with plenty of sugar. That would cure a multitude of troubles. That’s what the head waitress at the diner she’d worked at during college had said. Probably, she was right. A little warmth. A lot of sugar. That would help.

  Knowing that Logan was safe. That would help, too.

  She glanced at the clock as she poured hot water over a tea bag. He’d been gone a half hour. He should be close to the gas station by now.

  She was tempted to get in her car and drive there just to make sure that he had made it.

  As a matter of fact, she didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t. There were a few things she could pick up from the store. Milk. Eggs. Chocolate. Blankets. Water. If she happened to drop a few of those things at the old gas station, who would know? She’d just have to be careful. Make sure she wasn’t followed.

  She grabbed her purse, flicked off the foyer light, then thought better of it and turned it back on. The last thing she wanted to do was return to a dark house. The place was too quiet as it was, the silence thick and heavy.

  She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, the floorboards sagging beneath her feet. She’d have to hire contractors to do some of the work around the house. A little upkeep, and the place would look fantastic. She could buy a rocking chair for the porch. Better yet, a hanging swing. In the spring, she’d get baskets of flowers to hang from the porch eaves.

  No. She wouldn’t because she was selling the house. Just like she’d planned from the very beginning. Sell it and use the money to buy a smaller property in Seattle. A modest 1920s Craftsman-style bungalow that she could make into her own. Maybe she’d get a dog or a couple of cats or both.

  A soft sound drifted through the darkness—the crunch of snow underfoot. Not hers. She stopped, cocking her head to the side and listening.

  “Hello?” she called, hoping it was Logan returning. He’d probably realized it was too cold to be walking and had turned around...

  She didn’t see the shadow move and didn’t know it had come to life until she hit the ground, lungs wheezing with the effort to breathe, her screams nothing more than whimpers of air whispered into the coldness.

  “You want to die tonight?” The question ruffled the hair near her ear, and she shook her head, unable to force words past her throat.

  “Then you’re going to do exactly what I say.”

  She nodded, breathless and numb.

  Logan had warned her. He’d told her to stay in Seattle. She hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to believe that she was really in any danger. Maybe she’d dug her own grave.

  “Into the house.” He yanked her to her feet, his hand so tight on her wrist, she thought the bone might break.

  “What do you want?”

  “I ask the questions. You answer. That’s the way the game is played.” He shoved her, and she fell into the wall, her head slamming against old plaster, stars dancing in front of her eyes.

  “What questions?” she asked, her mouth cottony with fear and her heart racing with it.

  Please, Lord, help me.

  “I told you! I ask the questions.” He slapped her hard, the sudden sharp pain clearing her head. Ski mask. Gloved hands. Tall, hulking figure. A stranger shoving her backward into the house, and she was helpless to stop him.

  Don’t panic. Think!

  She looked into cold black eyes and saw her own death in them, but she didn’t say a word. She didn’t move. Didn’t barely breathe as she waited for his game to continue.

  “Good girl,” he crooned, the ugly cadence of his voice making her skin crawl. “Let’s go where it’s a little more comfortable.” He shoved her again, and she nearly fell into the parlor.

  She caught her balance on the wall, hating the gasping sound of her breath and the way her hands shook. She turned to face her attacker, backing away as he moved in close.

  “You have a friend I need to talk to,” he said, his black eyes staring into hers. If he had pupils, she couldn’t see them, and that scared her almost as much as his ski mask. “Logan Randal. You know the name, right?” A gloved knuckle raked down her cheek, the cold leather chilling her.

  “Yes.”

  “He visited you in your husband’s cabin.”

  He knew about her, but she didn’t have to admit anything. “No.”

  “Yes.” He slapped her again, and she stumbled back and saw the gleam of the fireplace poker.

  All she had to do was get to it.

  She clung to the plan as she struggled to her feet. She’d been beaten before. Viciously. The bruises were always hidden by long sleeves and long pants. She knew how to take a blow, but this guy wasn’t her father or her mother. He didn’t have punishment on his mind. He’d kill her once he got the information he wanted, and she had no intention of letting that happen.

  “He visited you in the cabin. You gave him a ride off the mountain. Where did you take him?”

  “To a hotel,” she said, stepping away. One step, two, three. How far before she backed into the hearth?

  “Where?”

  She gave the exit number, the hotel name, the truth, because Logan wasn’t where she’d left him, and it wouldn’t matter if her attacker went there.

  “What happened to him after that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying.” Another slap. Her ears rang with it, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. She didn’t dare touch her cheek.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then how about we take a little drive? Go to that hotel and ask the manager when Randal checked out?” He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into flesh, the feverish gleam in his eyes making her knees week.

  She knew the look. She had seen it dozens of times before in her mother’s eyes.

  Malice. Sick enjoyment.

  If she left the house, she’d never return. If she allowed herself to be driven away, she’d disappear. Just one more missing person.

  “Move!” He yanked hard, digging his thumb into her wrist bone, grinding down until tears burned behind her eyes.

  She didn’t let them fall, willing herself to ignore the pain the way she had when she’d been a helpless kid trying to forget that her parents seemed to hate her.

  She wasn’t a kid anymore.

  She wasn’t helpless.

  He dragged her further away from the parlor, the fireplace, the poker.

  Do something!

  She turned into him and dug her thumb into his pupil-less eye. He swore, his grip loosening as he shoved her hand.

  She yanked away and lunged for the poker, her hand closing around cool metal and her heart thundering as she swung with all her might.

  ELEVEN

  Distraction.

  Exactly what Logan needed and exactly what Laney’s wild swing of the fireplace poker offered. She put her strength in it, but her attacker yanked her arm forward, throwing her off balance and stopping the poker’s momentum.

  Now!

  Logan dove into the room, slamming into the masked man and knocking him sideways.

  Laney screamed.

  “Run!” he shouted, but he didn’t know if she listened because he was too busy avoiding swinging fists to notice.

>   He grabbed the guy’s collar and twisted it until he cut off air.

  “You’re choking me.”

  “You think I care?”

  “I can’t breathe!” The guy gagged, but Logan just kept twisting.

  Eventually, the masked man got the message.

  He slumped, his arms and legs still.

  “That’s better.” Logan rolled him onto his stomach, grabbed his arm and yanked it up hard enough to hurt but not quite hard enough to break. “Who sent you?”

  “None of your business, jailbird.”

  “I think it is.”

  “And I think you’re out of luck. You can’t call the cops on me. You can’t do much but stand here threatening to break my arm.”

  “I can do a lot more than that, punk.” Logan pulled the gun he’d been carrying since he’d left the cabin and pressed it to the man’s temple.

  “Logan...” Laney’s voice trembled, but he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. Not until the guy was trussed up like a turkey and helpless to fight. “Get me something to tie him up.”

  “Will duct tape work?” She moved closer. Bruises stained her left cheek, and Logan thought that maybe a quick jerk of her attacker’s arm might teach him what it meant to be helpless and hurt. He resisted the urge. He might not be an officer of the law, but he still felt like one and still believed in the things he’d stood for when he’d been deputy sheriff.

  “It should. Go on and get it, okay?” he said, his voice gentle, his tone easy. She looked terrified, and he needed her to know that things were under control. That she was safe. That he planned to keep her that way.

  She nodded and ran from the room.

  He pressed the gun a little tighter to her attacker’s head, then felt the guy still, maybe afraid for the first time since he’d entered the house.

  “I wouldn’t mind blowing your brains out. You know that, right?” He kept his voice low and his grip on the guy’s wrist tight.

  “You’re a cop.”

  “I was one. I’m not anymore.”

  “Then you’re just too much of a coward to pull the trigger.”

  “You want to bet on it? Tell me who sent you.”