Family secrets made her a target...

Can her ex provide a holiday haven?

When Lauren Wexler’s fugitive brother arrives on her doorstep, he has just moments to pass her evidence before his pursuers start shooting. Now Lauren needs her US marshal ex’s protection. She left Chris Blackwell to shield his reputation, but her family’s secrets are darker than she knows. With the truth revealed, can their Christmas wishes for safety and love still come true?

LAURIE ALICE EAKES dreamed of being a writer from the time she was a small child. Now, with her dreams fulfilled, she is the award-winning and bestselling author of over two dozen historical and contemporary novels. When she isn’t writing full-time, she enjoys long walks, live theater and being near her beloved Lake Michigan. She lives in Illinois with her husband and sundry cats and dogs.

Also By Laurie Alice Eakes

Love Inspired Suspense

Perilous Christmas Reunion

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Perilous Christmas Reunion

Laurie Alice Eakes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08659-2

PERILOUS CHRISTMAS REUNION

© 2018 by Laurie Alice Eakes

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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A crack of gunfire reverberated from the trees.

“Get inside,” Chris shouted.

Lauren was already running. The door was two-inch-thick solid oak with a steel core. Lauren slammed it and threw the two dead bolts into place.

She flung herself to the floor. “Who’s shooting at us?”

“Maybe you tell me.” Chris sank onto the edge of the leather sofa. “Your brother?”

“But—” Lauren leaned against the breakfast bar, her heart racing. “That wasn’t you shooting at Ryan?”

“I never saw Ryan.”

She swallowed. “He took off when the shooting started.”

Chris gazed at her with narrowed eyes, then glanced toward the steps to the bedrooms above, and back to her. “You know, if you harbor a fugitive, you’re an accessory—”

“He isn’t here.” Lauren flung her arms wide. “Go look for yourself, if you don’t believe me. I should have known you’d come here. Your first thought was that Lauren would protect her brother.” She blinked hard against hot moisture in her eyes.

“You’ve always put your brother first.”

But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloak forbid not to take thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. For if ye love them which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that love them. And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank have ye? for sinners also do even the same. And if ye lend to them of whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? for sinners also lend to sinners, to receive as much again. But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil. Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.

—Luke 6:27–36

For Sandra Robbins: Without your generosity of time and patience, this book never would have happened.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

Dear Reader

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Lauren Wexler spied the man the instant he stepped from beneath the shadowing tree branches and into the clearing. Moonlight reflecting off snow lit him like a stage spotlight, highlighting the chiseled bones of his face and dark hollows of his eyes, his long form more skinny than lean.

Heart thudding hard enough to make her sick to her stomach, Lauren left the picture window and flung open the door. A gust of wind seized it from her hand, sending it slamming back against its stopper and flames hissing and roaring in the stove. Knowing the gusts from the coming storm would snatch away her words, she stepped onto the deck and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ryan Delaney, I told you not to come here.”

“Lauren, you’ve got to help me.” He started racing toward her, his footfalls crunching through the ice-topped snow. “Please.”

“I can’t.” She stepped over the threshold and reached for the door handle.

Ryan might be her older brother, but he was also a wanted man.

“You need to turn yourself in.” She started to close the door.

Ryan had nearly reached the deck. “But, Lauren, they’re going to—”

A shot rang out from the nearby trees, and Ryan landed on the deck’s bottom step, hand scrabbling at the ice-coated wood.

“Ryan!”

Wounded or making himself a lower profile for the shooter?

“Ryan?” She called his name again.

“Help me.” He tried hauling himself up the treads, but slipped back to the piled snow at the foot of the steps. “Help me.”

He must be wounded. She couldn’t leave him there in the cold, in danger. But she could get shot herself if she went to him.

Criminal or not, he was her brother, her half brother to be precise, and needed help.

Crouching below the deck rails to make herself a more difficult target, she crawled to the steps. Lying flat, she reached down the steps to grasp Ryan’s hand. “Can you crawl up the steps? I can—”

Another gun blast reverberated over the frozen lake and leafless trees. This time, she heard the buzz of a bullet not far enough over her head for comfort. Her heart stuttered.

Ryan grasped her wrist. “Go back inside before they...hurt you.”

“Who?”

“Get inside...now.” Ryan squeezed her hand, then scrambled to his feet and pounded across the lakeshore to the woods on the other side of the clearing. Even the clouds beginning to obscure the moonlight could not blot out the dark stain on the snow where Ryan had lain, nor the patches left in his wake.

He was injured and running for his life, leading the shooter away from her.

After he’d pressed something small and hard into her hand.

She shoved the plastic rectangle into her pocket and stared after her brother’s retreating form. She wanted to follow, to bind up his wound. She knew locking herself in the house made more sense. Sending away a fugitive brother was one thing. Sending away a wounded fugitive brother without offering aid first was quite another.

Two more shots in rapid succession decided her action. She started to rise enough to creep back into the house.

“Freeze! Deputy US Marshal.” The voice rang through the night, shooting into Lauren’s heart like one of the flying bullets.

Deputy US Marshal. Of course, they were hunting Ryan. Thousands of marshals existed. He could be any of them. It didn’t have to be him.

Heart racing, Lauren charged toward the still-open door. Bullets whizzed past her head. One slammed into the doorjamb, the other soared into the house’s interior. Lauren dived for the floor of the deck and rolled behind the woodpile.

More gunfire exploded.

This time not from the trees.

A whimper escaping her lips despite her best efforts, Lauren curled into a fetal position behind the cords of wood stacked at the end of the deck. She shivered so hard from cold and fright she feared her chattering teeth would chip. If someone didn’t shoot her, she was going to die from exposure. If only she had stayed in the house, closed the shutters, pretended she hadn’t seen her brother racing across the lakeshore...

“Drop your weapons.” Nearby, the authoritative voice cracked like breaking icicles—cold, sharp, familiar.

Silence fell. Lauren uncurled enough to peek around the end of the woodpile. She saw nothing but the trampled and stained snow where Ryan had run. She heard nothing but wind in the trees and the creak and crack of ice on the lake. Perhaps danger had moved on and she could return to the warmth of her house. Unable to feel anything but the warning tingle in her face, fingers and toes, Lauren crawled from behind the piled wood and started to rise.

Gunfire and shouts erupted across the clearing, one from the far side where Ryan had vanished, the other close at hand. Too close.

Before her shocked senses reacted, strong hands grasped her arms and dragged her back behind the woodpile. More gunfire. Louder. Closer. The man holding her grunted. One of his hands released. The other held tight, compelling her down, down, against the snow-coated wood. The logs rumbled and began to roll.

Lauren wrenched herself to one side, avoiding the avalanche. The man holding her wasn’t so fortunate. He landed hard, a deadweight with wood piling atop him.

A deadweight.

Lauren prayed he hadn’t been shot or killed, not for her sake. He’d had to rescue her because she was out trying to save her brother. If she hadn’t gone after Ryan, this wouldn’t have happened. Whether marshal or miscreant, she must help this man who had probably saved her life.

Conscious she was an easy next target, Lauren began to toss logs aside to get to the man beneath. He was going to be crushed. He was going to die. He might have been dead before the wood cascaded upon him. He had fallen against the cords of fuel immediately after the last gunfire.

Anxiety over the horror she might encounter didn’t stop her. In the event he still breathed, she couldn’t leave him there. She couldn’t take the time to call for help. Once she knew one way or the other, she would contact the emergency responders.

“Don’t let him be dead. Please, God, don’t let this man be dead.”

Removing another log, she saw he wasn’t crushed at all. Logs had tumbled in a pyramid over him, forming a hollow beneath. But he was injured. Blood marred the pristine snow, just as she’d feared. He had been shot.

The last of the wood sailed out of her hands and landed with a kerchunk atop its fellow sawed logs. Lauren got her first sight of the prone man from head to toe. He was tall and athletic, the latter obvious even through his bulky winter clothing. A rip in that clothing showed Lauren where the bullet had struck, yet no blood seeped from the hole. Instead, it matted his short dark hair.

For a moment, she stared at the hole in his coat. Then she touched it. No, the fabric was not absorbing any liquid. The wound was dry.

His head was another matter. If he’d been shot in the head, his situation could be dire. She needed to look, discover the extent and cause of the damage.

Not that she was much of a medic. Her skills lay in software engineering, not skull fractures.

Before inspecting the fallen man’s head wound more closely, Lauren checked for a pulse. Beneath his down coat, his skin was warm, his neck a little rough with a day’s growth of whiskers. But his pulse was strong. He was only unconscious.

And likely smothering in the snow. Somehow, she had to get him up and out of the frosty night before he died of hypothermia.

“Before we die of hypothermia.” Lauren spoke between teeth clenched to stop their chattering. “Sir, can you hear me? Sir?” She shook his shoulder.

He groaned.

“Sir, I need you to wake up and get into the house. I’m not strong enough to carry you.”

She was a small woman, and he was nearly twice her size.

“I can help you.”

Briefly, she recalled something about not moving someone with a head injury in the event their spine was involved. Moving the victim could cause more damage. Yet staying out in the cold would definitely cause damage—permanent damage, like death. Given the choice, she decided to do what she could to move him.

She curved one hand around the back of his neck and gripped his uninjured shoulder with the other to roll him onto his side. He groaned again and strong fingers inside leather gloves gripped her wrist.

“The other way.” He spoke in a raspy murmur, yet the voice was familiar—that authoritative ring, that masculine timbre.

Her heart squeezed at the idea of who this might be chasing down her brother, saving her from gunmen, making breathing difficult and speaking even harder. “You have a hole there. I didn’t want to grab the shoulder where you were shot and cause more harm.”

“Kevlar vest.” He took a deep breath and moaned.

Despite the softness of his words, she knew for certain who had saved her from a gunshot wound. Christopher Blackwell, the man she’d never expected to come near her again after how she’d treated him. And she was sure he wouldn’t have if her brother were not a fugitive and Chris weren’t a deputy US marshal.

If Chris weren’t a deputy US marshal, they would be married, not estranged.

As though nothing unpleasant had ever lain between them, he continued to speak. “Bullet didn’t go through, but hurts like...crazy. And my head...” He raised one hand toward his temple.

Lauren caught his wrist. “Don’t. You’re bleeding. You’ll ruin your gloves.”

She could play this we’re-just-strangers-caught-in-a-weird-situation-together game as well as he could.

“And I’m going to need them.”

He was right about that. Wind gusted off the lake, and clouds thickened across the moon.

The chattering of Lauren’s teeth increased too much to disguise, and she wished blood wasn’t smeared over her hands so she could free her hair from its nighttime braid to serve as a sort of cloak for her ears and shoulders.

“We c-can’t stay out-t here any l-longer.” She shuddered with the next blast of damp wind. “How can I best get you up?”

“Can you get one arm beneath me? You’re just a little thing, but even a bit of a boost should help get me going in the right direction.”

He had always referred to her as being “a little thing.” The memory stabbed her like an icicle to the heart. Slipping her arm around him, feeling the power of his body, the heat through his coat, would be like an entire eave’s worth of icicles piercing the wall of her chest—the barricade she’d erected around her emotions.

But her exposed skin had long ago begun to tingle, and if she didn’t want frostbite, she needed to get him up and into the house.

“Okay, ready?” Her face turned toward the woods, where the branches had begun to lash the darkening sky, Lauren slipped one arm beneath Chris’s shoulders. Her hand touched cold snow and colder metal, as she curled her fingers around the bulky muscle of his upper arm. Not until she heaved with all her strength did she realize the metal must belong to his gun. It had either slipped from his holster when he fell, or he had been holding it, ready to fire. Or...

She jerked her hand away. “Did you shoot my brother?”

Chris started to sigh in exasperation. Pain shot through his back, bruised, no doubt, from the bullet that had slammed into his vest, so he settled for a quick puff through his clenched teeth. “I did not shoot your brother. It’s quite likely the other way around.”

“Ryan would never shoot at either of us. Besides, he has never carried a gun.” Lauren spoke with the harsh defense of her brother she always had, though she knew he operated outside the law more often than not.

The same sort of defense that had driven a tractor trailer–sized wedge between Chris and Lauren five years ago.

Remembered anguish roughened Chris’s tone when he responded. “He stole one from the courtroom deputy today.”

“But that—”

“Save it, Lauren. Someone has been out here shooting, and they may be circling around for a better shot.”

“Someone shot Ryan.” She scrambled to her feet. “He fell. He was bleeding.”

If he was wounded, Chris had a better chance of capturing him. Maybe Ryan would be back in custody by no later than tomorrow, Christmas Eve, and no one else would have to sacrifice their holiday to continue the pursuit.

“Your head is bleeding pretty badly yourself.” Lauren’s tone softened. “Do you still need me to help you up?”

“No, ma’am.” Chris grabbed a stick of kindling from the disordered cords of wood and used it as a crutch to haul himself to his feet. He swayed, feeling as though each gust of wind from the oncoming storm could blow him over.

Lauren touched his arm. “Let me help you inside before you fall down.”

“I’m all right.” He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t bring himself to read anger or disgust with his work in her beautiful face.

“Sure, you’re all right. You always wobble when you’re standing still.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm, though she wrapped her arm around his waist. “Put your arm around my shoulders and we’ll get into the house before we turn into snowpeople...or get shot.”

“If I fall again, I’ll drag you down with me.”

He regretted the words the instant he said them. They were too much of a reminder of her words when she broke their engagement.

With the way people think, if my family falls, my credibility may go down with them, regardless of how innocent I am. And I would drag your career as a marshal with me.

“I’m sorry.” Chris slung an arm over her shoulders more as an apology than because he needed her physical support.

She said nothing. Head bowed, she trekked through the snow more slowly than he liked with at least one gunman possibly still lurking in the trees biding his time for—what? A better shot at the deputy marshal, if it was Ryan who had done the firing? For Ryan to reappear, if this was a separate gunman? Chris hadn’t seen Ryan, or anyone other than Lauren. He had seen only the muzzle flashes, heard the shots echoing from the trees and across the frozen lake.

Chris fought the urge to run. He wasn’t sure he could, and Lauren wore ridiculous slipper things on her feet that would probably make her fall at a faster gait. They didn’t have far to go along the length of the deck. Their footfalls made nearly no sound in the powdered snow blown across the boards. In contrast, the wind through the bare tree branches sounded like torrential rain. Ice along the shoreline cracked with the onslaught of rising waves. Although the first flakes of snow heralded the coming storm, Lauren no longer shivered. Chris understood why—maybe. Lauren’s nearness warmed him, and she might feel the same, despite the coldness that had frozen communication between them when he’d changed career paths.

The fifteen feet to the door felt like fifteen miles. So close to Lauren, Chris caught her scent, sweet and delicate like orange blossoms. He tried not to breathe. He tried not to remember how being near her had once made him feel.

They reached the house. Through the open door, heat from the wood-burning stove poured over them like hot syrup, along with the fragrance of bacon and fresh bread and sugar cookies.

“I’ll just grab my first-aid kit.” She called out her intent without looking back, then raced for the bathroom.

Chris closed and bolted the door, then headed for the stove with its radiating heat. It needed another log to really be effective. With a gunman probably still outside somewhere, he should close her shutters and—

He clapped his hand to his side. His gun. It wasn’t in its holster. He had removed it to fire back at the rifleman in the trees long enough for Lauren to get to safety. Riflemen in the trees. More than one shooter. He had made the rookie mistake of thinking all he heard behind him were echoes. Apparently another man had been behind him, shooting him in the back, and he had fallen, logs burying him and crashing into his head so hard he feared he lost consciousness for a minute or two. He must have dropped the gun when he fell.

Cautious, all too aware the fugitive was likely still armed from his daring escape from the courtroom that morning, Chris opened the door. Wind threatened to snatch it from his hand. He muscled the door shut behind him and paused to listen.

If anyone still lurked in the trees, the wind masked any sound they made. Scudding clouds and waving branches disguised anything else moving in the shadows. But he dared not leave his weapon in the snow. He might want it. Judging from how the night was going, he would need it.

Still dizzy from the blow to his head, his upper back throbbing with every breath, Chris braced one hand against the side of the house to traverse the fifteen feet to the woodpile at the end of the deck. He was partially sheltered there by the house and the stacked cordwood. No one raced along the lakeshore or across the frozen water. But those trees could hold any kind of menace.

He dropped to a crouch and began to hunt for his weapon amid the disordered logs. Nothing. No glint of waning moonlight on steel. No unmistakable dark shape against the snow. The place where he had fallen was clear of wood. Blood from his head wound was a dark stain against the white. Yet no gun lay amid the wreckage.

He guessed what had happened to it. Lauren had stopped while investigating his injuries and accused him of shooting her brother, most likely because she had found his weapon.

“Chris?” Lauren called from the doorway.

“Stop.” He turned and held up his hand, palm toward her.

She stopped on the threshold. “Do you need my help?”

“I need your help all right.” His insides as cold as the lake, Chris stalked toward the door. “You can help by telling me what you did with my gun.”

Lauren stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“My gun.” He gestured toward the ground where he’d been lying. “My weapon. It isn’t here.”

TWO

Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and grasped her elbows to stop herself from shaking—from cold or in response to the fury on Chris’s face, she wasn’t quite sure. “I know your gun was there. I felt it when I was helping you get up, but I didn’t take it.”

Chris pressed one hand to his head, where blood still trickled along his hairline, then bent to roll aside a log at the same moment a crack of gunfire reverberated from the trees.

“Get inside,” Chris shouted.

Lauren was already running for the open door. Chris caught up and grabbed her hand. Her moccasins slipped on the doorsill, and she landed on her knees. Chris edged past her, then bent to catch hold of her arms and haul her to her feet. A sharp hiss of breath through his teeth reminded Lauren he was injured, and she freed herself from his grip so she could slip her arm around his waist and propel him through the door.

It was two-inch-thick, oak with a steel core, meant to withstand a Michigan winter or the worst summer storm. Lauren slammed it and threw the two dead bolts into place. The storm shutters were already closed, save for the one over the front window. Chris lunged for that one and banged it shut. A moment later, another shot cracked, muffled by the cabin’s thick walls, but the walls weren’t so thick Lauren missed the thud of a bullet striking the window frame.

“What are they doing?” She flung herself to the floor below the level of the window. “Who is shooting at us?”

“Maybe you can tell me.” Pallor emphasizing the deep blue of his eyes, Chris sank onto the edge of the leather sofa. “Your brother?”

“But—” Lauren stood and leaned against the wall, her heart racing as though she had just finished swimming across the lake “—that wasn’t you shooting at Ryan?”

“I never saw Ryan. Where did he go?”

“He took off when the shooting started.”

Chris gazed at her with narrowed eyes, then glanced toward the steps to the bedrooms above and back to her. “You know, if you harbor a fugitive, you’re an accessory—”

“He isn’t here.” Lauren flung her arms wide, nearly knocking a poinsettia off a low table. “Go look for yourself, if you don’t believe me. I know that’s why you’re here. I should have known you’d come here first.”

“I was on my way to see my family when the news hit.”

“And your first thought was that Lauren would protect her brother.” She blinked hard against hot moisture in her eyes.

“You’ve always put your brother first.”

She spun on her heel, numb with cold from her wet moccasins, and stalked into the kitchen. “I never put Ryan first, but you will never understand that I can’t stop loving him just because he might associate with criminals.”

“‘Might associate with’?” Chris’s voice was far too quiet.

Lauren understood what that meant. He grew quiet when he was angry. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Her family had come between Chris and her having a happy future together. Now Ryan was interfering with Chris’s Christmas with his mother and sister.

And she had just said that Ryan might associate with criminals, as though he wasn’t one himself. She never could accept that her big brother was something other than the kind and loving young man who had built her a tree house and cleaned her bloody hands and knees when she was learning to ride a bike.

“Ryan ran into the woods when the shooting started.” As an olive branch, her information was poor, but it was all she had to offer.

“Do you have any form of communication here?” Chris’s question was his only response. “I get no signal on my mobile.”

Despite the heavy storm shutters, she was all too aware of a gunman likely lurking outside the house. Without a word, she fetched the satellite phone and handed it to Chris, then she located the first-aid kit she had dropped on the faded Oriental rug in the center of the living room. She could doctor Chris’s head wound until he got assistance from EMTs. Needing warm water to cleanse the wound, she returned to the kitchen. With the open floor plan, she wouldn’t be able to avoid hearing Chris’s call, but if he wanted privacy, he could go into the bathroom, one of the bedrooms or even retreat upstairs.

Yet he made no phone calls. One hand holding a square of clean linen cloth beneath the kitchen tap, Lauren glanced over her shoulder. Chris perched on the edge of the sofa with the phone in his hand, his mouth set in a grim line.

“What’s wrong?” She flicked off the water.

“No signal. I guess I have to risk going outside.”

“You shouldn’t have to. I have an antenna.” Their eyes met across the breakfast bar, and she corrected herself. “I had an antenna.”

“Cloud interference?”

“The weather isn’t bad enough for that yet.” Despite the heat of the woodstove, a chill raced down Lauren’s arms. When she read the accusation in Chris’s gaze, steady upon her face, the shivers penetrated through her body to her core. She would rather face an arctic storm outside than remain beneath the scrutiny of those beautiful blue eyes. Yet she could not look away or he would think she was trying to hide something.

“Did you disable the antenna because you were expecting your brother?” He asked the question she had anticipated.

She flattened the palms of her hands on the white quartz countertop so they wouldn’t shake. “Do you really think I climbed on the roof to disable the antenna?”

“I think you didn’t answer my question.” His tone was as cold as Lauren felt—a rival to the oncoming storm—cold enough to make something inside her snap.

“I did not disable the antenna.” She threw the cloth she’d been wetting into the sink. “I did not plan to give my brother shelter.” She grabbed the frying pan with her ruined dinner congealing inside and threw that into the sink with a satisfying clatter of cast iron on stainless steel. “I did not shoot at you, steal your gun or make the woodpile collapse on top of you. I arrived here two hours ago to avoid the press that seems to be forgetting it is nearly Christmas and some of us would like a peaceful time to remember the season and the birth of Jesus in peace. I came here to avoid the press so I didn’t forget about goodwill toward men.” She rounded the breakfast bar and yanked open the door to the stove to add more wood. “I was not in Chicago for my brother’s trial, so I did not aid and abet his escape.” A log slipped from her hands and hit the floor a hairbreadth from her toes. “I cannot prove the negative, so you will simply have to believe me or not. Frankly, at this moment, goodwill toward men does not include you, as far as I’m concerned.” She wrestled the log into the stove and latched the door before she dared face a too-silent and, she presumed, outraged deputy US marshal.

She faced a man with one arm clamped to his side and his other hand flattened to the wound on his head, as he rocked with silent laughter.

“I’m glad I amuse you.” Burdened with the knowledge she had just made a fool of herself, she trudged back to the kitchen and found another clean cloth. “Your head is bleeding again. Let me clean it up and get a bandage on it.” The running water masked anything he might have said. By the time the cloth was wet and she returned to the living room, Chris had stopped laughing. The light had left his eyes, and his jaw, solid and square, was set in renewed anger, or maybe just pain—set enough so he didn’t seem inclined to speak.

Lauren took a deep breath. “I apologize for losing my temper. I simply—” She broke off, not willing to diminish the apology with excuses about how much she hated false accusations. “Please forgive me. My temper is my thorn in my flesh.”

“I know.” Their eyes met again. From only two feet away, the impact struck Lauren like a physical blow to her chest, to her heart.

He had always laughed at her temper, those infrequent outbursts after she was pushed too far. At least he had laughed until the last time when she had sent him away in a flood of outrage, a spate of words designed to drown any affection he felt for her.

She held up the wet cloth like a shield. “Let me cleanse that wound for you. Do you think it was from a bullet too?”

“A log struck me. I doubt I’d be awake if it had been a gunshot wound.”

“I suppose not.” She brushed aside his hair, cut short no doubt for his job, but so thick it tended to wave anyway, so dark a brown it was nearly black, far darker than her own burnished chestnut. “It’s not deep. I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

“That’s fortunate, since we can’t seem to get an ambulance or sheriff here.” He held up the useless sat phone.

“I could have stitched it.”

“Without anesthesia? No thanks.” He shuddered.

“You mean the big bad deputy marshal can’t take a little pain?” She meant the words to be teasing; they sounded snarky.

In truth, they were mean. He must be in serious pain from the blow to his back, vest or not, but hadn’t complained about it. His head must hurt, as well. Again, he hadn’t complained.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No need to apologize for that.”

“Which means I need to apologize for something else.” She affixed a couple of butterfly bandages to the wound, covered them with a larger adhesive-edged pad and stepped back to inspect her work. “It’ll do.”

“Thank you.” He gave her a half smile. “Now that I’m patched up, let’s go back to talking about your brother.”

She stiffened. “I do not need to apologize for helping my brother. I did nothing but go to him when he fell at the bottom of the steps, to offer him aid if he was seriously injured. He wasn’t hurt that badly, apparently.”

“That’s all?” Chris’s gaze burned into hers.

“Yes, that’s—” Her hand dropped to the pocket of her jeans.

In all the terror of being shot at, not to mention the shock of seeing Chris after five years, she had forgotten about the flash drive Ryan had pressed into her hand.

Lauren paled, emphasizing the depths of her wide, dark eyes. Chris regretted his harshness, yet she needed to see the consequences of helping her brother evade the law. He might not be able to love a woman who could not support his chosen profession, but he remembered enough of his former affection for her to want to keep her free to live her life as she wished to.

“What is it?” Chris demanded.

“I...don’t know. Maybe nothing.” She pulled something from her pocket and held it out to him.

The dull black plastic of a flash drive lay stark against her pale skin.

“What is it?” Chris repeated.

“Ryan gave it to me before he got up and started running again, right before the shooting.”

“And when were you going to tell me?”

“As soon as I remembered it.”

Chris arched one brow in skeptical inquiry.

“I was a little distracted over being shot at.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “I have no idea what’s on it. I have no idea why he gave it to me, but you probably have more use for it than I do.”

“I probably do.” Chris started to reach for it, thought of fingerprints and snatched a piece of gauze from the first-aid kit.

“It already has my fingerprints on it, and Ryan was wearing gloves,” Lauren pointed out.

“I don’t need to add my fingerprints to what might be there.” Chris wrapped the flash drive in gauze and slipped it into his pocket.

“Should I get my computer so you can see what’s on it?” Lauren asked.

Chris studied her face for a moment, trying to look beyond the distraction of her beauty to discover if she was being sincerely cooperative or playing some kind of game. He couldn’t forget his missing service weapon, nor the fact that Ryan had come straight to her, as Chris had suspected he would. He couldn’t forget that Lauren had put her criminal family before him five years earlier.

With her final words—I love you too much to let my family drag down your new career, but I can’t give up the only family I have—ringing in his ears, Chris made a decision.

“I’d rather give it to the nearest US marshal’s office to look at.”

“Even if it holds a key to where Ryan has gone?”

“Good point, but I can wait until I get my own laptop out of my SUV. It’s parked along the highway.”

Lauren gave him an exasperated glance. “My computer is about five feet from you. You’re welcome to use it.”

And have some special encryption erase the drive the instant he inserted it?

“You.” She flung up her hands. “Do you think I’ll destroy the data on that thing by some technical sleight of hand?”

“You are a computer whiz, aren’t you? The successful computer-security entrepreneur?”

“I am,” she said without conceit, “and I am also a law-abiding citizen with some compassion. Since you’re hungry, I can make us some dinner.”

Chris’s eyes widened. “You read minds?”

“I hear growling stomachs—yours and mine. Come sit at the breakfast bar while I cook.”

Chris tried to rise. Pain shot through his back, and a groan slipped from his lips before he could suppress it.

“You need a doctor.” Lauren grasped his upper arm on the unwounded side. “Let me help.” She tugged.

With her help and some gritting of his teeth, he managed to get his legs beneath him enough to fight the softness of the sofa and stand. “I don’t need medical help, but we do need to get that flash drive to law enforcement tonight. If you have any ideas how we will do that, you have better resources than I do.”

As if to emphasize his words, a gust of wind howled around the corner of the house, and icy pellets chattered against the windows.

“There’s a Jeep and a snowmobile in the garage.” Lauren gathered up her first-aid kit and headed to the kitchen.

“Of course you have a four-wheel drive vehicle and a snowmobile.” Relief filled Chris as he perched on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Either would work if we knew someone wasn’t out there taking potshots at us.”

“‘Someone’? You mean my brother.”

“I mean someone after your brother—or you.”

“Me?” About to pick up the frying pan from the sink, she spun to face him.

“You made contact with Ryan. Ryan was about to accept a plea bargain in court when he chose to run instead.” Chris took in Lauren’s blank look and wondered if being CEO of her own company had turned her into an excellent actress or if she truly didn’t understand. He explained, “Ryan has information the government wants, information that can bring down a whole lot of bad guys. They want to stop him from talking. He thinks his life is threatened. If others believe Ryan told you something, your life is in danger, as well.”

“I see.” Lauren folded, held upright with her elbows on the breakfast bar and her face in her hands.

Once upon a time, Chris would have rounded the counter and offered her comfort. Now he sat gazing at her, tongue-tied, mind spinning to find something to tell her. All he seized upon was “I’ll do my best to protect you.”

Except his weapon was gone, possibly taken by her because Ryan had warned her of danger.

“You’ve already got hurt pushing me out of the way of a bullet.” Her voice was muffled by her hands.

“Maybe my presence alone will be a deterrent. Injuring a deputy US marshal is asking for more attention and trouble than these guys want.”

“That’s good, with you hurt and all.”

“I’m all right. Breathing hurts, but isn’t excruciating. I think that’s a good sign. If I may use one of your guest rooms until the weather improves...” He trailed off, not sure how to ask for something that made him seem like he was welcome.

“You can use either room upstairs.” She turned her back on him and began to scrub the frying pan. “You’ll probably find some of Ryan’s clothes in the one at the top of the steps. They’re old, but they won’t have holes in them.”

“Thanks.”

Wearing the clothes, even castoffs, of a man he was pursuing seemed vaguely unethical. But not taking advantage of dry clothes would be foolish.

He climbed the steps running along one wall of the living room and entered the bedroom at the top. It didn’t look recently lived in. The bed was neatly made, the shutters closed, the curtains drawn. Though someone had cleaned away dust, the room smelled closed. Not musty, but stale. Were this a normal visit, Chris would have flung open the windows despite the cold and inhaled the glorious freshness of pine trees and the tang of wood smoke. But he didn’t dare so much as look at the lake or glance to see how badly the snow was falling. Instead, he opened the door to the en suite bathroom and removed his many layers so he could examine the damage to his back with the aid of the mirror. Getting Lauren to look would be easier than twisting around, but no way would he ask that of her. It wasn’t appropriate. It wasn’t necessary. He had a terrible bruise. Ice would benefit him.

Goose bumps rose on his skin at the idea of an ice pack. The fire’s heat didn’t reach the upper floor, and Lauren must have the propane furnace turned low to conserve fuel.

He found T-shirts and flannel button-downs in the dresser. They fitted a little too well. The jeans in another drawer proved too short, so he settled for a pair of sweatpants to get out of his own soaked trousers. He drew the line at wearing another man’s socks, but he located a pair of fleece-lined moccasins in the closet. He shoved his cell phone and wallet with his deputy US marshal credentials into the pockets of the sweatpants, then glanced around for anything else he might need if he and Lauren had to evacuate the house in a hurry.

His boots. With the snow, he would need boots. In their wet state, however, they might take too long to pull on. His good snow boots were in his Jeep. He hadn’t taken the time to change into them. He’d been too anxious to see if Ryan had gone to his sister.

He’d been too apprehensive about seeing Lauren again to remember his dress boots weren’t effective in more than an inch or two of snow.

Back downstairs, Lauren stood at the stove, turning bacon in a pan. “I have frozen waffles and eggs, if you want those. Or bread for a sandwich. I was going to make BLTs before the shooting started.”

“That sounds good.” Chris hesitated in the opening to the kitchen. “Can I toast the bread or something?”

“Thanks. And slice the tomatoes?”

“Sure.”

They worked in silence punctuated by the sizzle of bacon in the pan and the howl of the wind outside. A log shifted in the stove, the toaster sprang with golden-brown slices and still they said nothing. Lauren took the toast and tomatoes from Chris and piled on bacon and lettuce. Still neither of them spoke.

Then Lauren opened the refrigerator. “What do you want to drink? I have three kinds of pop, milk and orange juice.”

“Can I trouble you for coffee?” Chris carried the plates of sandwiches to the small round table by the stove. “I need to warm up and stay awake.”

“For what?” She began to run the coffee carafe beneath the tap. “You look like you need sleep.”

He shouldn’t care that she noticed his fatigue.

“I presume Ryan has a key to this house?”

“He does not.” She set the carafe on the hot plate.

Chris watched her graceful movements, the sureness of each scoop and pour without scattering grounds across the countertop as he always did. She was smart and good at just about everything she tried—except for loving him.

He shook his head. “You expect me to believe you never gave a key to your big brother?”

“I expect you to believe the truth.” She turned from the counter and filled two glasses with water. “Let’s eat while it’s warm.”

They settled at the table, thick sandwiches and a bowl of apples between them. The table was so small their knees nearly touched. It was a table meant for playing board games. The dining table was across the room, in the shadows away from the warmth of the fire. That warmth eddied around them like an invisible cocoon holding them in the same place—a place full of memories of other meals shared at a similar table, of rainy days spent playing Scrabble or Monopoly at his mother’s house.

If he hadn’t needed fuel, Chris might have pushed away and retreated to the room upstairs. He didn’t need reminders of that blissful summer in another cabin at another lake, before his father had died and he changed careers.

The crunching of teeth on toast and crisp bacon sounded like an army tramping over crusty snow.

Last week’s warmer weather had given the snow an icy surface, a natural warning if anyone approached the cabin.

The howling wind and occasional rattle of a snapping tree branch suggested no one in his right mind would prowl outside. Getting inside wouldn’t be easy without a key to the many locks on the doors.

Not easy, nor impossible.

“Why is this house built like a fortress?” Chris asked.

Those locks, heavy doors and solid shutters raised his law-enforcement antenna.

Lauren shrugged as though every house was built with so many reinforcements. “It wasn’t built like a fortress. I had the doors changed to steel-cored and the shutters installed after those murderers escaped in New York and broke into summer cabins. I don’t want anyone trashing this place when I’m not here, and I want to feel safe when I am.”

“It’s a good place for a man on the lam to hide.” Chris probed the wound of her brother. “Where else would Ryan go?”

“Not here for long. I told him he isn’t welcome.” Lauren selected an apple from the bowl, then returned it and rose to go into the kitchen. “Do you take your coffee black?”

She didn’t remember. Oddly, that annoyed him.

“A splash of cream, if you have it. Black, if all you have is skim milk.”

“Please. Who insults good coffee with skim milk?” She warmed half-and-half in the microwave, poured it into two coffee-filled mugs and carried them to the table before she spoke again. “Ryan handles commercial real estate in Colorado. How could he be a drug smuggler in Texas? Besides that, I’ve seen his tax returns. He doesn’t need the money.”

“He’s too rich to break the law?” Chris didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “That isn’t a very convincing defense.”

“The evidence is circumstantial. No one ever caught him with drugs in his possession.”

“If he isn’t guilty, Lauren, why didn’t he accept the plea bargain? And why did he run?”

Lauren stared into her coffee for so long Chris thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she wrapped her hands around the mug commemorating a ten-year-old Christmas and gave him a direct look. “Prison scared him to death. He’s not a fighter, even if some of his activities may be on the wrong side of the law. The idea of being separated from fresh air and open spaces scares him. The nights he’s spent in jail while awaiting arraignment and bail still give him nightmares.”

“He’s not a fighter?” Chris stared at her, his own hands wrapped around a mug proclaiming Peace on Earth and Goodwill toward Men.

“He wouldn’t even fight with me when we were children.”

“Then how did he manage to overpower a courtroom security guard, steal his gun and evade capture this morning?”

Lauren gnawed on her lower lip.

Chris drank his coffee. It was high quality, as was everything surrounding Lauren Wexler since she had turned a school computer science project into a prosperous business. He could wait her out. Patience came with his job.

Across from him, Lauren sipped at her coffee, set down the mug, then picked it up immediately to sip some more. When Chris tried to hold her gaze, she turned her head toward the end of the great room, where the door led to the deck overlooking the lake. For a heartbeat, Chris thought she was simply avoiding his scrutiny. Then he heard the crunch of footfalls on the deck, the rattle of the door handle followed by a resounding thud. The door shuddered under the impact of someone trying to break into the house.

THREE

Chris reached for his weapon. He had forgotten it wasn’t there. It had vanished somewhere during the moments when he and Lauren had headed for the house the first time. Or it had vanished with Lauren, and she had stashed it away somewhere when she said she was collecting the first-aid kit. Either way, the gun was gone. He had no way to protect Lauren or himself while someone slammed hard enough against the back door to make it shudder in its frame.

Chris glanced around the room for some sort of weapon. Other than chunks of wood too short and thick to use as clubs, nothing presented itself to him.

“Where is my gun?” Chris demanded, not expecting an answer.

“I don’t know.” Lauren gripped the edge of the table. “I felt it beneath you near the woodpile—”

“Ryan Delaney,” a man shouted outside the door, “open this door if you know what’s good for you.”

“Don’t—”

“Ryan isn’t in here,” Lauren shouted back before Chris could get out his warning for her to remain quiet.

“Come out, Delaney, if you want to keep your sister alive,” another man yelled.

“He’s not—”

Chris grasped Lauren’s hand and headed for the steps. “You can’t argue them into believing your brother isn’t here.”

“Wait.” Lauren held back. “I should get my cell phone. I’ll need it when we reach the road and have service.”

“No time.” Chris pounded up the steps, Lauren sprinting behind him in her moccasins. He hesitated for a moment at the landing, remembering the configuration of the house outside, and steered them toward the far bedroom.

Below, a window smashed. In moments, the men would manage to batter through the shutters.

Chris and Lauren dived into the bedroom. Once inside, he closed and locked the door, then started to drag the heavy chest of drawers across the room. His injured shoulder gave out, and his hand slipped from the edge, throwing him off balance. He stumbled and would have fallen, tripping on the edge of the throw rug, but Lauren’s arm encircled his waist and held him upright, held him close.

For a heartbeat, the contact felt right, natural. Then he got his feet under him again and shook off her touch. “Help me push this.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted and marched around to the other end of the dresser.

“Please.”

She shoved the chest toward him. He pulled. Together, they slid the solid oak piece across the rug to block the door.

A crash and thud below warned the men had entered the house. Their shouts of “Where are you, Delaney?” confirmed Chris’s fears.

Lauren bowed her head. “God, please help Ryan if he is out there.”

“Help him what?” Pain and frustration sharpened Chris’s tone. “Help him avoid capture? Help him get to Canada to elude justice?”

“If my brother is guilty, I don’t expect him to elude justice.” Lauren’s tone was as icy as the sleet outside as she raised her head, but the glow of a night-light on one wall didn’t provide enough illumination for Chris to read her expression.

“‘If’? Lauren, he’s a fugitive. And now—” Chris broke off.

No sense in repeating the same arguments. She would never believe her big brother capable of armed transport of narcotics with the intent to sell. She had always thought the sun rose and set on Ryan, who did not in the least deserve her adulation, except that he had always treated her like a princess when the rest of her family neglected her.

“Do you think an innocent man would have thugs like these after him?”

Footfalls thudded on the steps.

“That chest won’t hold them for long.” Lauren’s face was pale, her pupils dilated.

“It only needs to hold them long enough for us to get out the window.”

“Out the window? But we’re not dressed for this weather.”

“We’re not bulletproof either.” Chris snatched up an afghan from the foot of the bed. “Wrap this around you.”

“You—”

“I’m fine.”

He wouldn’t be for long in this kind of cold, but a little frostbite sounded better than facing these men unarmed.

“We can get into the attic from here. If we open the window, they’ll think we left that way while we’re still inside.”

“We’d be trapped if they decided to hang out here, but misdirecting is a good idea. We can try to make them think we went into the attic. Can you pull that ladder down?” Chris strode across the room to the window and flung back the shutters. Sleet pinged against the glass, a substance nearly as deadly as the men bellowing and banging throughout the house. Neither of them wore outdoor clothing. Nonetheless, he shoved up the sash and leaned out. Pellets of ice struck his skin like a thousand frozen hypodermic needles. He winced where the wood had battered his scalp what felt like hours ago. “How far down from the garage roof to the ground?”

“Ten feet.”

“Can you get yourself down that far? With the snow, the landing shouldn’t be too rough.”

“I’ll be all right if you will.”

Chris hoped and prayed she was right. He didn’t want to see her hurt, especially with someone following them.

Following.

“Let’s go, then,” Chris said.

With ease, they stepped over the low windowsill and onto the garage roof. Their footfalls crunched through the sleet-covered snow, no doubt leaving a trail the men could follow without light. No help for it. They were committed to their route now.

“I’ll go first.” Before he could stop her, Lauren flopped onto her belly and eased herself over the lip of the roof.

A thud and gasp followed her escape. Chris didn’t waste time asking if she was all right. He mimicked her movements, landing in a snowdrift that wasn’t as soft as it looked. Winded, pain shooting through his shoulder and head, he lay motionless for a heartbeat—then two—all too aware of Lauren gasping beside him, but unable to talk for several moments and ask her if she was hurt.

And above them, a gunshot split the night.

“They’re going to get into that room soon.” Chris hauled himself to his feet and reached to help Lauren up. “Let’s get inside the garage.”

“I’ll drive. I know the terrain.” Lauren grasped his hands and hauled herself to her feet.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met and held in the snow-brightened night. Then Lauren jerked her hands free and spun toward the garage’s back door.

Lauren shoved open the rear door of the garage. “We have to take the snowmobile.”

“Why not the Jeep?” Chris asked.

“The key is in my purse inside the house. I should have grabbed it. I didn’t think—”

“No time for that now. We’ll take the snowmobile.”

On a hook beside the entrance to the house hung a key to the snowmobile. If ever she needed proof Ryan was in serious danger, it was the presence of the key and vehicle on runners. Ryan would have taken the snowmobile if he’d had the time. He knew she never locked the garage and always kept the key handy in the event a hunter or winter hiker got lost, injured or snowbound and needed to reach shelter. So typical of her nature—risk someone stealing the contents of her garage if leaving the attached building open might save a life.

Cold slipping through her limbs to freeze her stomach into a ball of ice, Lauren tossed aside the tarp covering the snowmobile and started to straddle the seat.

“Wait.” Chris rested a restraining hand on her shoulder. “The minute you fire this up, they are going to hear it. We need to be ready to fly out of here.”

“It’s already facing the door and can handle a few feet of concrete.”

“But the door’s electric, isn’t it?”

“There’s an override switch since I can’t get the remote out of the Jeep without the keys.”

“Where?”

Lauren indicated the door to the house. “Beside that.”

As though poised to sprint, Chris balanced on the balls of his feet for a moment—a moment during which more shouts and crashes reverberated from inside. From the sound of it, the men were wrecking her house, her beautiful, private haven that had ceased being a sanctuary the instant someone shot at her and Ryan.

Her heart twisted. No time to worry about that.

Chris sprang off the balls of his feet and headed for the override switch. “Fire up the machine when I flip this switch, and head for the door. The instant it’s high enough, get outside.”

“But you—”

“I’ll catch up with you.”

She hoped he could make the dash and leap with his wounded shoulder and head. She hoped she could drive with her fingers numb from cold. The afghan wasn’t much help, though better than nothing.

“Go.” Chris flipped the switch.

The door motor whirred to life. Lauren leaped aboard the snowmobile, released the brake and shoved the key into the ignition. The engine roared. She released the choke, and the machine surged forward toward doors not quite high enough. Her numb fingers fumbled with the brake, stopping her momentum seconds before she slammed into the steel garage door. In front of her, the panel seemed to creep up at half its normal rate. If the men hadn’t heard the engine fire yet, they would figure it out soon enough, or find her and Chris’s footprints on the garage roof, or...

“Calm down.” Chris’s voice was deep and calm behind her.

He had swung his leg over the snowmobile seat without her realizing it.

“You’re going to hyperventilate.”

He wrapped his arms around her. The action was necessary to keep him aboard once they started forward, yet the contact felt like comfort.

She prayed for protection and mercy on them both, especially Chris. Once they headed out, his back would be vulnerable to gunshots, and he had left his Kevlar vest in Ryan’s room.

No wonder he hadn’t argued about her driving.

“I should have opened this door by hand.” Despite him telling her to be calm, Chris’s voice now held an edge.

Behind them, the door to the house opened and someone shouted, “They’re getting away.”

“Go, go, go!”

Lauren didn’t need Chris’s shout in her ear to release the brake and send the machine sailing beneath the half-risen door. They ducked just in time. The bottom edge caught the frame of the windshield. No worries. They were through.

“Go down the drive,” Chris shouted. “And keep your head as low as you can.”

But they couldn’t take the most direct route to the road. A monstrous black truck stood sideways across the course.

And behind them, gunfire exploded over the roar of the snowmobile’s engine. They swayed to the side to balance against the sharp turn needed to avoid crashing into the truck. And a bullet barely missed them, hitting the frame of the windshield. It bent but didn’t break.

Lauren’s heart stopped for so long she feared it had broken. “We’re trapped.”

“Head for the woods,” Chris called into her ear.

His voice, firm, decisive, settled her heart to a fast but regular rhythm. She nodded and focused on the glare of light on the snow. That light pinpointed their direction, but then, so did the roar of the engine. Unless the men after Ryan, and now them, had a snowmobile as well, she and Chris might find shelter in the woods.

Had Ryan, after he had been to the cabin?

Her throat closed at the idea of her big brother freezing to death in the snow and trees, the sleet and wind. He had too likely chosen to follow their father’s path, whose business practices Lauren never trusted to be legal except on the surface. Yet Ryan had been a rock to her when her parents split up, when she was afraid of her own shadow, when she chose computer science as a career path rather than social work as her grandmother had once hoped or business as her father wanted. Ryan had encouraged her to follow her dreams.

Lord, save his life tonight and forever.

It was a familiar prayer for her brother, stronger now than ever.

Ahead of her, her headlight beam caught the hulking pillars of trees. She steered between them, and another bullet crashed into the windshield from a weapon powerful enough the blast shattered the safety glass.

“Don’t stop.”

Lauren didn’t need Chris’s command to keep going, despite icy pellets and wind now dashing full in her face without the benefit of wearing goggles. She squinted against the impact and kept the machine moving, taking a turn between two trunks so close together Chris had to clamp his legs hard against the sides of the seat to not smash his knees. He didn’t complain. He understood what she was doing.

“Good job.” His approval was like a breath of warm air pushing back the cold.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid her. That bullet had shattered her windshield, not the shield around her heart that had once loved this man with his arms encircling her.

“Where are we going?” She turned her head long enough to project her query to Chris—and cried out.

A solitary light blazed through the trees. A moment later, she caught the roar of another snowmobile.

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