Shirlee McCoy - Christmas On The Run

“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.

“It’s a long story. I don’t have time to tell it. I left you a note. Read it. Decide what you want to do about it, if you want to do anything, but right now I have to get to my son.”

“Your son?” he asked, and she heard the hidden question, the words he didn’t say.

“Mine and Josh’s.”

His face went blank, every bit of anger and annoyance seeping from his eyes.

He hadn’t known.

Of course he hadn’t. Just like with everything else, Josh had lied about telling his brother about the baby.

“He said he told you,” she said into the awkward silence, and his jaw tightened.

“Josh said a lot of things that weren’t true.”

“I know.”

“So maybe you could have made sure his family knew about the baby instead of believing him.” He started walking away, and she should have done the same, but she felt the desperate need to make him understand, because she needed his help. She needed it more than she’d ever needed just about anything else.

“I didn’t have contact information for your parents, and I only found contact information for you after Josh died.”

He just kept walking.

“I sent you a note when he passed away. You sent a signed card with no indication that you wanted anything to do with me.”

He stopped short. “I know what I sent. I figured you were like every other woman he’d ever dated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing anymore. He’s gone. You’re here, and you’re telling me I have a nephew. 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.