Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

Tyrell reached for her hand, clasped it in both of his.

“She’s resourceful.”

He swallowed hard, squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath. “But she’s still a child.”

“The FBI suspects the couple is on the way to St. Louis?”

“It’s only a suspicion. They could be anywhere now.”

The anxiety in his expression and his voice matched Jama’s own, and she knew she had to make another attempt to be strong-something at which she had failed so far today.

“You know,” Jama said, “so many times these past years as we’ve grieved over Amy, Fran has reminded me not to look back at what could have been, because that’s wasted energy.”

He nodded. “Mom’s always said that.”

“And the unproductive remorse only interferes with the optimism that needs to be the driving force of our lives.”

“That sounds great in theory, but it doesn’t work when my niece may be in the hands of desperate people. I want to call out the National Guard.” Tyrell punched the palm of his hand and got up to pace.

“Was there any suggestion about what we can do to help search?”

“None,” he said. “Prayer is our only option.”

“We can do that, and we can spread the word to churches in River Dance.”

“If we do that, someone is sure to let it slip to Mom, and even Dad, and I worry about how that will affect his recovery.”

“So do I, but don’t you think prayer is more important right now than silence?”

Tyrell nodded, reached for Jama, enfolded her in his arms and held her close. She tried hard to stop her trembling. He didn’t need to know how frightened she was. And how much comfort she felt in the circle of his strong arms.

Doriann skittered behind a tree at the edge of the woods and stood listening for a moment before peering around the trunk. The old barn looked as if it had been punched in the roof by a giant fist, and both ends of the peaked roof leaned toward the broken middle. The siding had once been red, but years of weather had washed it to gray-pink.

Doriann had her jacket zipped up to her neck, and her hood covered her hair-she’d made sure to tuck every red, wet strand underneath the muddy cloth. She wasn’t taking any chances.

Clancy hadn’t stopped cussing and raving since he and Deb left the river, but it was hard for Doriann to hear anything now because the barn stood half a field away from where she hid. She needed to hear. What were they planning to do? Were they really going to sleep in there?

Doriann studied a stand of bushes halfway between the tree and the barn. It was the only cover she would have if she tried to get closer. She studied the building, and saw cracks in the weather-worn wood. Could Clancy or Deb see through those? Would they even think about looking?

The left end of the barn didn’t look so bad.

Clancy’s voice suddenly rose again. For sure, he and Deb wouldn’t be peeping through the cracks to see if anyone was there if he wasn’t even bothering to keep his voice down. And so Doriann ran across the open field, past the brush, all the way to the left corner of the barn. As quietly as possible she dropped to her knees while Clancy ranted a drugged tirade. Tirade? Yes, that was the word.

“That brat was my ticket to freedom,” Clancy said.

“You’re free now, aren’t you?” Deb asked.

“I’m being hunted like an animal.”

“So what are you going to do, go find another doctor’s kid to kidnap?” Deb asked. Her voice was quieter than before, not so harsh. Maybe Clancy had her as scared as Doriann.

“No, I want that doctor’s kid. That doctor’s just a man. He’s not a god. He looks through people as if they don’t even exist. I’ve seen too many others just like him.”

“People who’ve looked at you like that?” Deb asked.

Silence for a minute, then, “How far to River Dance? We’ll get the stuff there.”

“How? We don’t know anybody there, and you don’t just walk into a drugstore and buy-”

“You didn’t answer me,” Clancy said. “How far to River Dance?”

“How should I know?”

“You saw the road signs, didn’t you?”

“We’re maybe about four or five miles away, my guess, but nobody’s going to sell us anything.”

“They’ll sell us wine. At least we’ll take the edge off with a couple of bottles. Hide out someplace where nobody will be looking. Stay underground, out of sight for a while. We could hit a drugstore later, or a doctor’s office.”

“With what? Your gun’s in that swamp, you moron!”

There was a loud smack and a grunt, and Doriann could imagine more of Deb’s teeth flying across the barn floor.

“Don’t call me a moron!” Clancy shouted. And then he called Deb a lot of names that Doriann had never heard before.

Deb didn’t argue.

“You want to know what happened to my last partner?” Clancy asked.

No answer.

Doriann wondered if he’d knocked Deb out. What if he’d killed her?

Jama had every confidence in Dr. George’s ability to care for Monty. Nevertheless, she walked into the recovery room with her stethoscope around her neck, more as something to focus on than to utilize.

When she saw Monty lying, eyes closed, most likely still half-under the anesthesia, she was glad for his grogginess. If he were alert, he would pick up on her anxiety.

“So,” Monty said without opening his eyes, “remember your promise?”

She couldn’t prevent a smile. He could still recognize each of his kids by the sound of their footsteps.

His eyes opened then. “You promised that as soon as we got me taken care of, I could interfere-”

“I remember. You’re amazingly lucid under the influence of anesthesia.”

“I’ve been told I metabolize that stuff quickly.”

“Who told you that?”

“Can’t remember.”

“The last nurse who took care of you in surgery?”

“Could be,” Monty murmured.

“Such as the time you had the stroke and didn’t tell anybody?”

“Stop stalling. What’s going on between you and my new ranch foreman?”

Jama grinned and kissed him on the forehead. “Nothing right now. You got sick, and we dropped everything else.”

“So Tyrell isn’t harassing you?”

Jama hesitated. “Well…”

“I told him not to, and he’s usually pretty good about minding his father.”

“I know. But he’s worried about you right now, and he’s not thinking straight. Our concern is for you today.” For a moment, Jama saw Tyrell’s dark blue gaze in his father’s eyes, and she saw the challenge in them. Monty’s concern warmed her, saddened her and stirred her gratitude as she thought about what might have been.

“You telling me to butt out?” Monty asked.

“Would I tell you that?”

“No, you’d just sidestep my questions until I really did have a heart attack. Do you believe in long engagements?”

“I never gave the subject much thought.”

“Maybe you should.”

All Jama could think of right now was Doriann. Monty’s beloved granddaughter.

“Your mom and I had six years of engaged bliss.”

Jama loved it when Monty referred to Fran as her mom. As if she really were.

Then his words registered. “Six? Now here’s something rare-a story I haven’t heard.”

“Long engagements are wonderful-even though the engaged couple doesn’t usually see it that way. I sure didn’t when I proposed to Fran. She accepted with the condition that we wait until we had both completed high school.”

In spite of everything, Jama laughed. “You were in seventh grade?”

“Ninth. Our parents insisted we complete two years of higher education before we spoke our vows.”

“So you waited.”