Shirlee McCoy - Running for Cover

“You didn’t think to call the police?”

“For all I knew, she’d been in an accident of some sort and didn’t need help.”

“So, you walked around the house and…?”

“I didn’t see any reason to be concerned.” But he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was wrong or to forget the look of stark terror in Morgan’s eyes. “I was going to leave, but decided to check on the owner one more time. Before I got to the door, she ran out. Next thing I knew, two men were shooting at us.”

“And you fired back.”

“One shot.” He repeated the answer he’d given before, knowing he’d probably be asked the same thing a hundred times before the night was over.

“Have you been back in the gallery since you fired the shot?”

“I was never in the gallery.”

“I see.”

Before she could explain what she thought she saw, another squad car pulled into the parking lot. The door opened and a tall, dark-haired man got out. He wasn’t alone. Morgan sat in the passenger seat, huddled beneath a blanket, a coffee mug cupped in her hands. She met Jackson’s gaze, offering a smile that turned into a grimace of pain.

“You should be on your way to the hospital,” he said as he walked to the vehicle, ignoring the deputy’s sputtered protest.

“She will be,” the man offered before Morgan could reply. “I’ve already called an ambulance, but Morgan wanted to make sure you were all right while we waited for it. I’m Sheriff Jake Reed.”

“Jackson Sharo.”

“From New York?” The sheriff’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side, studying Jackson.

“That’s right.”

“You’re here for the Sinclair wedding?”

“Right again.”

“Jude told me you were coming. Said you were partners when you worked homicide in New York. I’m surprised you’re not hanging out with him. This being his last night as a bachelor and all.”

“That’s exactly what I’d be doing if I hadn’t run into trouble.”

“I guess what I’m asking is how you ended up at Morgan’s gallery tonight.”

“I’m happy to tell you, but you might want to get some men out looking for the perps before you waste time listening to my story.”

“I’ve already taken Morgan’s statement and issued an APB based on her description of the suspects. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear your story.” If the sheriff was annoyed by Jackson’s comment, his tone and expression didn’t show it.

“You want the long or short version?”

“Either will work.”

“I was working on a case and missed my flight out of New York last night. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get another flight, so I drove down here. I got into town a few hours ago and realized I’d left Jude and Lacey’s gift in New York. After Jude’s rehearsal dinner, I decided to drive around town to see if I could find a place to buy one.”

“So that’s the short version?”

“Yeah.” The long version was something Jackson didn’t plan to share. He had wanted to find a gift for his friend, but he’d also needed space. Seeing Jude’s family together had reminded Jackson of his own family and the loss that had torn them apart. It was that more than anything that had driven him to his solitary search for a gift. If he’d been the kind to believe that God intervened in the business of men, Jackson would be tempted to think that He’d put him in just the right place at just the right time to save Morgan’s life.

“Tell me what happened when you got here,” the sheriff said, interrupting Jackson’s thoughts.

Jackson gave him as many details as he could, his gaze drawn to the squad car and the woman inside it. She looked vulnerable, her eyes hollow and empty. Jackson had gone into police work to help people like her. He’d left it because he’d failed when it counted most. The truth was a hard knot in his chest. He cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his mind of the past as easily. “That’s as much as I know. I think the rest of your answers will have to come from Morgan.”

“All right. Thanks. Are you staying with Jude?”

“Yes.”

“Leaving after the wedding tomorrow?”

“I’d planned to do some fishing and head back to New York Sunday morning.”

“Then I’ll let you get back to what you were doing, but I’ll want to ask a few more questions before you leave town. How about we meet after the wedding reception?”

“Sure.” Not that he had a choice in the matter.

“You have a business card?”

“In my wallet. Your deputy still has it.”

“Here you go, Mr. Sharo.” She dropped it into Jackson’s outstretched palm.

“And my gun?”

The sheriff nodded, and the deputy returned that to Jackson, as well. That meant he could do exactly what the sheriff had suggested and get back to the wedding gift hunt.

It was probably what he should do. It was even what he wanted to do, but Jackson knew he couldn’t. Quitting the police force hadn’t changed his desire to serve and protect. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t leave until he was sure Morgan would be all right. “You said you called an ambulance?”

“Should be here in a few minutes.”

“A few minutes or an hour, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to the hospital,” Morgan said as she eased out of the squad car, leaving the blanket and coffee cup behind.

“I think we discussed this already,” the sheriff said. “You need to be checked out at the hospital. We’ve got a victim’s advocate there who will talk to you and help you through the process.” His tone was implacable, but Morgan didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m not a victim.” Despite the argumentative tone, her voice trembled, and Jackson wondered how long it would be before her tough facade crumbled and she crumbled with it.

“Sheriff Reed is right. You need to let the doctors take a look at your injuries.” He put a hand on her shoulder, letting it fall away when she flinched.

“I don’t need a doctor to tell me I’ve been beaten. And I don’t need a victim’s advocate to tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“Then what do you need?”

Jackson’s question must have surprised her. She met his gaze, her almond-shaped eyes surrounded by thick black lashes that contrasted sharply with light-colored irises. “To go back a decade and say no when my ex-husband asked me to marry him.”

“You think your ex-husband had something to do with what happened tonight?”

“Something to do with it? He had everything to do with it. The men who were here were searching for something of Cody’s. A disk. They said Cody told them that I had it. That he’d given it to me before he went to prison.”

Her ex-husband was in prison?

And she owned an art gallery in Lakeview, Virginia.

And her first name was Morgan.

Surprised, Jackson studied her face. Bruised and swollen, it barely resembled the photo of Morgan Alexandria that he’d seen months ago when Jude Sinclair had asked him to investigate the ex-wife of a man he’d put into prison. Barely resembled but did. Dark black hair. Vivid, silvery-blue eyes. Exotic beauty that had stuck in his mind long after he’d seen the photo. Maybe if he hadn’t been so caught up in escaping his thoughts and his guilt, Jackson would have put two and two together when he’d first arrived at the gallery.

And maybe he wouldn’t have rung the doorbell.

Seen Morgan’s battered face.

A God thing?

His sister would have said so.

Maybe, just maybe, Jackson believed it.

An ambulance pulled into the parking lot, cutting off further conversation.

“Looks like your ride is here, Morgan,” the sheriff said quietly. “I’m going to check things out around here. Then I’ll come by to see how you’re doing.”