Time to Run (8 page)

Hewitt had never liked Captain Garret much, mostly because he'd caught Miss Sara looking sad when she thought no one could see her. But he'd have to be heartless not to feel for the JAG today. The captain's black tie was askew. He stood more stoop-shouldered than ever, a frown on his narrow face. Obviously, he was overwrought by the tragedy.

"Have a good day, sir," Hewitt offered gently, handing the man his cell phone. "And ... and I'm so sorry to hear about Miss Sara and your son," he added, forcing himself to issue condolences. According to the Sunday paper, they'd mostly likely been kidnapped.

He found himself the focus of Captain Garret's black-as-ink eyes. "You knew her on a first-name basis?" the man inquired quietly.

There was something threatening about the question. Hewitt took a small step back. "She ... she asked me to call her Miss Sara," he reassured the man swiftly.

"Really? But then, you were both here all day together. You must have become quite friendly."

Hewitt didn't know what to say to that. Clearly the man was out of his mind with grief.

"Was she friendly with anyone else?" he continued. "A man with a beard, perhaps?"

It wasn't grief that Hewitt saw in the man's eyes. It was something far colder than that, something calculated.

"A beard, sir?"

"Do you have trouble hearing, petty officer?" Garret inquired.

"No, sir."

"Have you ever seen her with a bearded man?" the lawyer repeated.

Hewitt felt like he'd taken the witness stand and was being interrogated. He searched his memory. The only bearded man that came into the Trial Services Building was Chief McCaffrey, the Navy SEAL who verbally harassed him while his blue eyes gleamed with wicked humor. "No, sir," he replied, knowing the chief would never have to resort to kidnapping to get himself a woman.

"No? Why the hesitation, Petty Officer ..." He had to look down at the name tag, "Hewitt?"

Chief McCaffrey not only knew Hewitt's last name, he also knew his first—Marcelino, which he'd teased him about, of course. "No reason, sir."

"I see," the captain answered. His mouth drooped with disappointment. Without another word, he turned and stalked through the exit, straight into a downpour.

The thumping on the roof abated suddenly, causing Sara to pause as she swept the kitchen floor. She'd elected to work indoors, while Chase tackled the exterior. She was able to select her own tasks, as Chase had placed no expectations on her whatsoever. Exposing the innate charm of the bungalow was its own reward, making every chore a pleasure.

The screen door yawned open, and Chase came in with a scowl on his face, holding his thumb.

He went straight to the sink and stuck it under running water. Sara propped the broom against the counter and stepped closer to assess the damage.

"Hammered it," he said shortly.

His thumbnail was already purple. With a grimace of sympathy, Sara turned toward the freezer and pulled out an ice tray. She whipped a plastic bag from a drawer and filled it, handing it to Chase, who dried his thumb with a paper towel. "Thanks."

They stood there a moment, taking stock of each other. Chase's shirt was damp with sweat. Sara was perspiring lightly herself, in the absence of air-conditioning. Among the long list of items to be fixed was the central air.

Chase looked around, taking in the work that Sara had already accomplished. He opened a cabinet she'd emptied earlier, throwing away items that were broken or unusable. She'd wiped it out and put the dishes back in, stacking them neatly.

"You've been workin' hard," he commented, opening the next cabinet over, where she'd ordered the cans and spices, some of which Linc or the squatter had left behind. In defiance of Garret, she'd lined the cans up smallest to biggest. What a pleasure that had been!

She gave a start of surprise when Chase caught her wrist and scrutinized her reddened palm. His sure but gentle grip left a burning ring on her skin. "I thought I bought you gloves," he chastised.

She tugged, and he immediately let her go. "Maybe I don't want to wear gloves," she countered, surprising herself.

He cocked his head at her tone. "Suit yourself."

"I like to feel what I'm doing," she explained.

"Don't want you gettin' blisters," he retorted. "I didn't bring you here to work for me."

They stood no more than a yard apart, their breath coming in and out at the same time. She could have asked him then,
Why exactly did you bring me here?
It wasn't just to give her the truck so she could drive herself to Texas, was it?

There were memories in this house that haunted him. He didn't want to be alone.

"Will you tell me something?" she asked him.

"What?" His regard turned wary.

"Will you tell me how your mother died?"

He just looked at her, pulse throbbing at the base of his neck. "You want to talk about the past?" he challenged quietly.

She got the feeling that she would have to be just as candid about her own history, which she'd rather forget. "Maybe it would help," she conceded.

"Hanta virus, probably," he said, keeping his answer short. "It swept through the Midwest in the late eighties but it wasn't identified until the nineties, after several people died. Comes from contact with rat droppings. She used to sweep the barn."

"Did the baby have it, too?" Sara asked, horrified.

"No, but she was born too early 'cause my mama was so sick."

Sara searched for the bottomless grief Chase must have felt at the time. His face was a mask. "How old were you when they died?" she asked, shaking her head.

"Fourteen when the baby went. Fifteen when Mama died."

She thought of Kendal, who'd looked at her in terror yesterday.
I
don't want you to die.
Surely Chase had felt the same way about being abandoned, left with a stepfather who'd been less than fatherly. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, feeling tremendous compassion for Chase the boy.

"Your turn," he countered almost angrily but not threateningly. "What did Garret do to make you leave?"

Sara swallowed, willing the past to stay where she'd left it. She let out a huff of air. "He controlled everything—all of my free time. He cut me off from my friends and family. Made me use his credit cards instead of cash, so that he could keep tabs on my spending. He took away my driver's license when I got in an accident. Nothing I did ever met his expectations. When he strangled Kendal's rabbit, that was the last straw."

Chase's expression reflected disgust and sympathy. "Did he hit you?" he asked her bluntly.

"No." Garret's blows were always mental and emotional, which in some ways was worse than physical because they left no trace; left her wondering whether what had happened was possibly her fault; made her think that she could try harder the next time and he wouldn't react the same way.

She'd wasted eleven years of her life wondering if the invisible scars were really there. But now that she was far away, and her perspective was clearer, the abuse was so blatant that she could never go back into that environment again.

Chase raised his hand, and Sara barely caught herself from flinching. He hesitated just a second then lightly cupped her jaw and stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. It was a gesture of comfort. Sara's nerve endings tingled with disproportionate pleasure.

It would be a mistake to lean on Chase any more than she already had. Garret had taught her not to trust what seemed to be. How could any man be as solid and considerate as Chase seemed to be?

"I thought I'd cook the sausages tonight with stewed tomatoes and zucchini," she volunteered, testing him.

He glanced in puzzlement at his watch. It was early afternoon. "You hungry already?" he asked her.

"No," she answered, succumbing to a smile. "It's just ... never mind."

He crossed his arms and frowned at her. "I didn't bring you here to cook for me either," he added, chastising her again. "But I ain't gonna turn down a home-cooked meal if you're offerin' one up," he added wryly.

"I'm offering," she reassured him. She even looked forward to it.

"Okay then. What time?"

"Six o'clock?"

"I'd best get crackin', then." With a grimace for his thumbnail, he left the kitchen, taking the bag of ice with him.

At six-twenty, the setting sun put a golden patina on the scarred surface of the kitchen table. Three plates stood empty in front of the table's three occupants.

"I'm all done, Mom," Kendal declared, putting down his emptied milk cup. "Can I go outside and play?" He'd been waiting all day to catch crickets at dusk and put them in the box he'd filled with grass and twigs.

Sara glanced at Chase, who was sopping up the remainder of his tomato sauce with bread. Catching her eye, he glanced at Kendal. "Keep an eye out for bobcats," he recommended. "They like to come out right before sunset."

"I will," Kendal promised. After taking his plate to the counter, he pushed through the screen door, letting it slam behind him. "Sorry!" he said, reappearing on the other side.

"Chase doesn't need another thing to fix," Sara chided, before Chase had a chance to rebuke him. She was conscious of the SEAL'S thoughtful gaze as he chewed his last bite of bread.

"Sorry," Kendal said again before darting away.

"Thanks for the meal," said Chase, pushing his plate away. "You're a fine cook."

She wasn't sure what to say in response to his compliment. She'd intentionally cooked a meal she'd never made before. There was room for improvement in her book, having burned the ends of the sausages. Standing up, she hesitantly began to collect their dishes.

"There's no rush," he told her, and she immediately sat down again.

Silence fell between them, but it wasn't awkward or tension-filled. Chase eased back in his chair. "Wish you could relax with me," he admitted unexpectedly.

"I am relaxed," she protested. But she wasn't, not really. She was too aware of everything about him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the way he'd held his fork with his left hand. She hadn't realized he was left-handed.

"You should maybe know that little things don't bother me," he offered, "like a screen door slammin' shut or a corner of a sausage gettin' burned. There's bigger things to stress about than that."

"I agree," she said fervently. "I'm sorry, I'm just... trained to worry, I guess."

"Don't apologize," he said, his gaze warm on her flustered face.

"Sorry," she said, before realizing that she'd done it again.

He smiled faintly, but then his gaze shifted toward the living room, and she knew that every one of his five senses had just kicked into alert mode.

"What is it?" she whispered, straining her ears. Was that a rumbling sound she detected?

He shot out of his chair and moved soundlessly into the other room. Sara followed with caution, curious to identify what she was hearing. Through the big window at the front of the house, she spied an older-model El Camino, stalled on the curve in the driveway, half-concealed by prairie grass. The once-white car had a headlight missing. Rather than approach the house, it remained where it was, idling menacingly.

"Go get Kendal," Chase said on a very serious note.

Sara didn't question him. It was obvious from his demeanor that he felt the vehicle was a threat. She raced out the back door, wondering wildly if Garret had found her already. Only he'd never in his life drive an old beater like that. "Kendal!" she called with quiet urgency.

She found him on his knees by the barn wall, cupping an insect in his hands. "Honey, you have to come in right now."

"Why?"

She grabbed his elbow and hauled him to his feet. "Because Chase says so, that's why."

She found Chase exactly where she'd left him. The car still loitered. Every few seconds, its motor revved as if the driver were issuing a threat.

"Who could it be?" Sara whispered, keeping a protective arm around her son.

"Don't know exactly," Chase replied.

The cold quality of his voice had her glancing at him. This was Chase the warrior, she realized, with a shiver.

The focus in his eyes had turned them arctic, a far cry from the Caribbean blue they'd been just moments before.

"I want you two to step into the hall, away from the windows," he instructed. "Go on."

"What are you going to do?" Sara asked, drawing Kendal with her as she backed up.

"Scare 'em off," he said.

Be careful.
He was out the door in an instant. She watched through the living room window as he leapt athletically over the porch rail and dashed toward his car, keeping his head low. He stuck his key into the passenger door and unlocked it. Diving inside, he withdrew his gun from beneath the seat. She'd almost forgotten it was there. Thank God he'd kept the car locked.

He checked the SIG briefly, snapping off its safety. In one fluid movement, he leapt up and fired over the top of his car toward the interlopers.

From where she stood, Sara couldn't see if he'd hit the other car or not. But a short while later, she thought she heard the El Camino backing up.

"What's going on, Mom?" Kendal whispered, trembling in her arms.

"I don't know, sweetheart. Maybe the squatter wants to get back in. Chase'll scare them off."

Chase pushed through the front door just then, strapping a holster over his shirt. Obviously, he meant to carry the gun on his person.

Seeing her look of dismay, he added, "It's safer on me than it is in the car." He stalked past them, shouldering his way into Linc's study. He drew the blinds, then flicked on the overhead light, pausing before the gun cabinet to consider its contents.

Sara was quick to guess his thoughts. "You think they're after the guns?" she asked, braving the musty odor of the room to join him.

"Just a hunch," he said, giving the doors a shake, but the lock held. "Be right back," he said, abandoning them to stride through the house and out the rear door.

"Sure is a lot of stuff in this room," Kendal commented, bending to peer at the piles of magazines.
"National Socialist Movement Catalogue,"
he read carefully as he picked one off the top of the pile.