“DO WHAT WE TELL YOU OR YOUR SON WILL DISAPPEAR...”

Master gemstone cutter Carly Rose Kelley will do anything to keep her son safe...but with blackmailers insisting she forge priceless antique stones, she needs help. With Christmas days away, the desperate widow has only one hope—the brother-in-law she never met. Hostage rescue specialist Dallas Morgan never knew about his nephew or his estranged late brother’s wife. Now their lives are in his hands. But the sweet child and vulnerable woman remind Dallas of the family he once had and lost. And he can’t afford distraction. Now that they’re trapped in the sights of ruthless blackmailers, nowhere is safe...but Dallas won’t let anyone stand in the way of him saving Carly and her little boy.

Something was going on. Something that was putting a six-year-old kid in danger. Dallas wanted to find out what, and he wanted to know exactly how Carly had gotten involved in it.

“We need to speak with the police.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“If they find out I’ve gone to the police, they’ll take my son. I’ll never see him again.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“Yes.”

Somewhere in the deepest part of the shadows, a twig snapped. He grabbed Carly’s hand and dragged her into thick undergrowth.

Someone was out there with them.

A phone buzzed, the sound a discordant note in the eerie silence. He gestured for Carly to turn the thing off but she was staring at the screen.

“We need to go,” she said, trying to dart past him.

There was something about the tension in her face that made him glance at the text she’d opened, the photo it contained. A kid staring out from behind a window, his dark curly hair a lot like Carly’s.

“They’re going to take Zane. I’ll never see him again,” Carly said, her voice trembling. “They’re outside of my house, watching him.”

Dear Reader,

In the silence of cold winter nights and the hush of snowy winter days, I often find myself thinking about Christ’s birth, about the way it must have felt to be Mary or Joseph or the shepherds in their fields. None of those people were rich or beautiful or well liked by the world. They were poor and humble and even despised.

The Christmas story is told so often, depicted so frequently, that it is easy to become immune to it, to forget how miraculous the birth of Christ was, how life changing, how world changing. The message of His birth and life and resurrection is not one of divisiveness and hate, but one of love. This Christmas season, I hope you have a chance to slow down and look around, to see with fresh eyes the beauty of the world you live in. Take a walk through an icy forest, explore snow-covered paths or—if you live in warmer climates—stand on the beach and look at the vastness of the ocean and the sky. He is there with you, my friend, in all that great and wild beauty, and in the smallest, darkest place in your heart.

Blessings,

Shirlee McCoy

Aside from her faith and her family, there’s not much SHIRLEE MCCOY enjoys more than a good book! When she’s not teaching or chauffeuring her five kids, she can usually be found plotting her next Love Inspired Suspense story or wandering around the beautiful Inland Northwest in search of inspiration. Shirlee loves to hear from readers. If you have time, drop her a line at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.

Christmas on the Run

Shirlee McCoy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Lord, your love is as high as the heavens. Your faithful love reaches up to the skies. Your holiness is as great as the height of the highest mountains. You are honest as the oceans are deep. Lord, you keep people and animals safe. How priceless your faithful love is! People find safety in the shadow of your wings.

—Psalms 36:5–7

To you. I hope, as you read this dedication, you smile.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

Extract

Copyright

ONE

Feet pounding, lungs heaving, sweat dripping down her temples, Carly Rose Kelley raced along the paved path that led deep into Rock Creek Park. Up ahead, an ancient metal bridge traversed the Little Patuxent River, its solid beams rusted red from years exposed to the elements, its joists gleaming dully in the predawn light. The bridge was a remnant of a railroad that had been defunct for decades—tough, old, used up, but somehow still fighting to survive.

Exactly like Carly.

Except she wasn’t old. She’d be thirty-three in five days. And it wasn’t her life she was fighting for. It was Zane’s.

Zane—gift from God. An unexpected one. She and Josh hadn’t wanted kids. They’d both had too much baggage, they’d traveled more than they were home and they’d had goals that hadn’t included slowing down to care for a child.

But Zane had come along anyway.

Carly would do anything for him, but she wouldn’t be blackmailed, she wouldn’t be bullied and she wouldn’t be forced to go against her moral code. She could keep her son safe and still do the right thing. She would keep him safe.

God, please help me keep him safe.

She reached the bridge, the old metal shaking under her feet as she pounded across it. She knew they’d be behind her, that in a minute or two or three, she’d hear metal clanging as they crossed the tributary.

She didn’t look back.

There’d be nothing to see, just a couple of shadowy figures trailing behind her, making sure she knew she was being watched. All day, every day. All night. It seemed that everywhere she went, they were there. Zane was their bargaining chip: Do what we tell you, or he’ll disappear one day and you’ll never see him again. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or even next year, but one day, he’ll leave the house and he won’t come home.

She shuddered, the sick dread she’d been feeling for two months welling up.

Call the police and he dies. Tell anyone, and you’ll never see him again.

Do what we say, and everything will be fine.

She didn’t believe the last part, but she’d been cooperating because of the photos of Zane at day camp, at school, at music lessons. They’d been slipped under her door at work, emailed to her, dropped in the mail slot at the beautiful brownstone she’d bought in DC. She’d installed a security camera, but all she’d caught was the image of a person with a hat pulled low over his eyes, walking up her porch steps like he belonged there.

Yeah. She’d been cooperating, biding her time, trying to come up with a plan that would keep her son safe. After the first phone call, she’d lain in bed every night for nearly three weeks, praying and begging and trying not to cry, because she’d escaped poverty, crime, a heroin-addicted mother and a career-criminal father only to come to another place of danger and insecurity. She’d known that crying wouldn’t help, so she hadn’t shed a tear. She’d focused on solving the problem and escaping the situation. She’d managed it as a teenager. She could manage it now. That was what she’d told herself during the long dark hours before dawn. The way she’d seen things, she’d had only two options to keep her son safe—go to the police and hope for the best, or go into hiding, giving up everything she’d worked so hard for. She’d been leaning toward the latter option, because she’d rather give up everything than risk Zane’s life.

Then she’d remembered the box that she’d carried from one rental house to the next for the past five years. She hadn’t had any use for the stuff inside, but she’d thought that Zane might want it one day. Her husband Josh’s birth certificate. His adoption decree. An antique pendant he’d grabbed from his mother’s jewelry box before he’d left home for good—or, rather, been kicked out because he’d stolen five thousand dollars from his parents to buy drugs and alcohol. He hadn’t been proud of it, but he’d figured it was his parents’ fault. They could have been more patient, more understanding, more aware of how it felt to be an unwanted tween adopted by a couple who’d never had kids.

That was what Josh had said.

Typical of him—he hadn’t taken responsibility for anything.

By the time he and Carly had met, he’d changed his surname back to what it had been before he was adopted, and he’d put that part of his life behind him. He’d wanted nothing to do with his parents, but he’d idolized his older half brother, Dallas. According to Josh, Dallas had made every effort to fit in with his adoptive family. He’d done well in school, gone to college and joined the military. He’d also turned his back on his own blood. The brothers hadn’t had any contact with each other for years, but Josh had followed Dallas through friends. A year before Josh died, Dallas had left the navy and joined an elite private hostage-rescue team called HEART. An old high school friend had told Josh all about it, and Josh had told Carly. He’d also bragged to anyone willing to listen that Dallas was a hero who traveled all over the world to find the missing and to bring victimized people home to their families.

Yeah, Josh really had loved his brother.

Too bad he hadn’t loved Carly. He’d cheated on her, lied to her, taken money from their accounts and used it to buy expensive gifts for other women. Those were things she’d found out after he’d died, and they were things she’d never tell Zane. As far as she was concerned, Josh had been as much of a loser as her parents had been. Just another disappointment in a long list of them, but...

He’d left that box with everything she’d need to get in touch with someone who might be able to help her.

Dallas Morgan.

Decorated war veteran.

Hostage-rescue negotiator. Sharpshooter. Sniper.

If she could contact him without setting off an alarm with the people who were manipulating her, she just might be able to stop them.

Please, God, please, she prayed silently as she raced along the path, the antique pendant, Josh’s birth certificate and a handwritten note sealed in a plastic bag and zipped into the small pocket of her running pants. The path veered to the right, and she followed it, catching glimpses of Christmas lights through the trees. This time of year, everything seemed to glow. Houses, stores and streetlights were all decorated for the season.

The beauty of those things always made Carly long for the kind of family she could go home to. The kind of family that exchanged gifts and baked cookies, that sang Christmas carols and attended Christmas Eve service together. This year, more than ever, she wanted that. Not the family she’d grown up with. A family that would stand beside her. One that would be just as determined and desperate to keep Zane safe as she was.

Up ahead, the path was dark, curving through thick tree growth. Dallas’s place was five miles away. If she cut through the woods, she’d get there more quickly and avoid some of the dark stretches, but that would make the people following her suspicious.

She was a creature of habit. She couldn’t deny it. She’d grown up in chaos; now she liked order, predictability and routine. She left for work at the same time every day. She picked Zane up at school at the same time every afternoon. She went to church every Sunday, grocery shopping every Monday, to the library every Tuesday evening, out with friends exactly once every other week. They knew it.

They knew a lot.

But they didn’t know her. If they did, they would have found someone else to do the job, because there was no way she planned to follow through. She had too much integrity, and she was too devoted to the preservation of antique jewelry. Twenty gemstones in four months. That was what they wanted. Polished and cut with antique methods that very few people in the country were familiar with.

Carly was very familiar with them. Some people called her an expert. She called herself a lifelong student. She’d apprenticed under a man who’d made studying and perfecting those methods his life’s work. Now it was hers. Aside from working as a museum conservator, she freelanced as an antique-jewelry restoration specialist. She could fix Great-Grandma’s Victorian earrings, Aunt Marie’s broken mourning ring. She could cut and polish new stones and make them match old ones almost exactly.

She did it to pay the bills and because she hated to see a piece tossed into a drawer or thrown into a scrap pile. With every job she did, she provided documentation that included the date of restoration, the modern gemstones that she’d cut and placed into the piece, and the methods that she’d used. Over the years, she’d worked with high-end jewelry shops and for some very wealthy people. She’d also worked for museums and private collectors. She had a reputation, and that reputation must have put her in the sights of the people who were manipulating her.

But she wasn’t a forger. She would not pass her work off as someone else’s.

She also wouldn’t replace the very expensive and intrinsically valuable gemstones in the Smithsonian collection she was restoring and preserving with her handiwork.

That was what they wanted.

They hadn’t said it, but the stones they’d provided her with, the instructions they’d given her for cutting those stones, made it clear that she was re-creating many of the gemstones from Ida May Babcock’s gift to the Smithsonian. The oil magnate heiress had died six years ago. She’d had no children, no husband, no connections except for a pet cockapoo that had died three years after her. She had had a will and a handful of distant relatives who’d all wanted a piece of her estate. It had taken six years and hundreds of thousands of dollars for her executor to make certain that the will was honored—her wealth and real estate to charities, her art, jewelry and vast collections of antiques to the Smithsonian. Carly had been chosen to itemize the jewelry collection, put together a conservation plan and restore any pieces that needed it.

She’d been thrilled to take the job. Zane was getting older, and her years of traveling the country working contracted jobs had to end. Zane needed stability. He needed neighbors and teachers who knew him from one year to the next. He needed a group of friends that he’d grow up with. He needed everything she’d never had.

But, more than anything, he needed to be safe.

She shuddered, picking up speed as she reached the darkest section of the park. Trees pressed in on either side, the soft rustle of leaves in the winter breeze the only sound.

She ran to the edge of the paved path and turned left onto packed earth. She could hear her feet pounding against the ground, her breath panting out in the same even rhythm. She couldn’t hear her pursuers. That was good. It meant they were keeping their distance. Just like always. She’d use that to her advantage. She didn’t need to focus on the pace of the run or on the rhythm of her steps. She’d been this way dozens of times before. She knew the path and the park. She didn’t know who was following her. That was a question she asked herself every day. Who? Why?

Someone at the museum?

Someone who knew the value of the jewelry she was working with?

Maybe. She didn’t know, and she hadn’t dared try to figure it out. She’d felt hunted for weeks, stalked by a nameless, faceless entity. And she wanted it over. Now. Not tomorrow or next week or next month. If Josh’s brother wouldn’t help, she’d pack her bags and leave in the dead of night. She’d go somewhere she’d never been before, and she’d start a new life doing something that had nothing to do with old jewelry.

Of course, that would mean leaving her life behind.

Leaving Jazz behind.

Jazz. Her best friend from college. The person who’d shown up on her doorstep the day after Josh died and who’d arrived again two weeks before Zane’s birth and announced that she planned to stay until after the baby was born. It had ended up being much longer than that. Jazz had been working on establishing herself as a children’s book author. She’d needed an affordable home, and Carly had needed someone she trusted to watch Zane while she worked. It had been a perfect arrangement. They were as close as sisters. Jazz was the only aunt Zane had ever known and would ever have. The thought of disappearing and never contacting her again was sickening.

But Jazz was getting married on New Year’s Eve. She’d have a great life. Even if Carly and Zane disappeared from it forever.

At least, that was what Carly had been telling herself. It was what she wanted to believe. She couldn’t stomach the thought of Jazz mourning them any more than she could stomach the thought of living life without her best friend.

Carly shoved the thoughts way, forcing herself to sink into the rhythm of the run. Frigid November air seeped through the layers of her running gear, freezing sweat onto her skin and making her shiver. Behind her, a twig snapped, and she almost looked back.

Almost.

She didn’t want them to see her fear, though. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Her lungs burned, her legs trembled as she sprinted through the park. She’d planned everything, timed it all perfectly. She just had to stick to the plan and keep the goal in mind. She had to focus her energy on getting to Dallas’s house and delivering the message she’d brought for him.

Up ahead, bright lights twinkled through the trees, beckoning her toward the well-established neighborhood Dallas lived in. His house was a 1930s brick bungalow on a double lot just yards from the park. He had a mail slot in the front door, large shrubs blocking the view of the side yards. If she ran fast enough and timed it right, she could be up on his porch, sliding the plastic bag into his house, before the people behind her made it off the path.

If...

That was what scared her. She’d been running for years. She knew how to pace herself, and she knew how to go all out for the finish line. But something could go wrong. Life had taught her that early, and it had taught her well.

She sprinted off the trail and around a small pond, the sun lingering below the horizon, the water glass-like in its stillness. She reached the paved path, ran between old houses that had probably been built long before the park existed, turned onto the road that cut through Dallas’s neighborhood. She glanced back as she reached the edge of Dallas’s yard. The road was empty. Just as she’d known it would be.

Go, go, go!

Her brain shouted the command to her tired legs. She’d been running at her top speed for too long, trying to keep far enough ahead to finish what she’d begun. Now she was tired, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t quit. She unzipped her pocket as she ran, yanking the bag out with trembling hands. If she were cutting a gemstone, she’d have taken a deep breath, tried to still the shaking before she continued, but she didn’t have time to calm her nerves.

Dallas’s porch light was off. Just like always. One light shone through a window in the upper level. Also just like always. No Christmas lights or decorations. She’d noticed that. Even though all his neighbors had them. Everything was just the way it had been every morning for as long as she’d been running past his place. But something felt off today, the air edged with electricity. She reached the porch stairs, the bag in her hand, her heart beating frantically.

Her watch beeped a warning. One minute gone. She’d practiced this. She knew exactly how long she had before her pursuers arrived, but she’d set her watch anyway. Always thinking ahead. Always planning. Always trying to control things. Josh had told her that hundreds of times. It hadn’t been a compliment. Those things had caused conflict in her marriage, but they’d also gotten her through really difficult situations.

Hurry, hurry, hurry!

She darted to the door, shoved the bag through the mail slot and ran back the way she’d come, lungs heaving, sweat cold on her forehead and cheeks. She glanced back at the path. Still nothing. She was almost in the clear. She just had to keep moving.

Across the road, a dark shadow moved out from behind an old tree. Her heart thumped, one hard terrible jolt of acknowledgment. They’d been a step ahead of her after all, and now they knew that she’d tried to pass information to someone.

“What were you doing?” the man said.

Fear shivered through her, made her legs tremble so much she had to stop. Right at the edge of the yard. Nothing separating her from him but a few feet of paved road.

“Back off, buddy.” She bit the words out, making sure they dripped with confidence.

“What were you doing?” he asked again, his tone conversational rather than accusatory.

“Running.” Her watch beeped again, and she jumped.

Two minutes gone.

Not that it mattered. She’d been caught, and now she had to escape.

She dodged to the left, but he must have anticipated the move, because he was there, blocking her path. Taller by nearly a foot. Muscular. Quick.

She’d grown up fighting. She could still fight when she needed to.

She swung hard with a right hook.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her arm down with so little effort she knew she’d never escape him.

Not before his buddies made it to her place, found a way in and took her son.

She swung again. This time with her left fist, wildly. She had no plan but to free herself. She connected with his shoulder and heard him mutter something before he pulled her right arm up behind her back. Almost to the point of pain—but not quite.

She stepped toward him, using her body as a weapon, her shoulder aimed for his solar plexus as her watch beeped again.

* * *

Dallas Morgan didn’t know who the woman was. He didn’t know what she wanted. He did know that she’d been running past his house every morning for three weeks. He’d seen her on his security monitor, racing along so close to his front yard that the camera, which had been set up to turn on when there was movement at the edge of the grass, caught her grainy image. Twice she’d jogged to his porch and back, always looking at her watch while she did it. The watch that was beeping.

A warning?

He glanced at the front of his house, expecting an explosion, a fire, something that would make any one of his enemies very happy. And he did have enemies, most of them in foreign countries or in prison. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t get to him—maybe the scrawny runner was working for one of them.

“Cool it!” he commanded as she tried to hook a leg around his, pull him off balance and free herself.

“Let me go,” she growled, wrestling against his hold. His instinct was to do what she’d asked. She was shorter, lighter and weaker than he was, and from the age of twelve on, he’d been taught good manners, good morals and fair rules of combat.

Those things flew out the window when it came to protecting family or staying alive. He tightened his grip. Not enough to be painful, but enough to make her think long and hard about continuing the fight.

“Tell me why you’ve been running by my place every morning for three weeks, and I will,” he said, and she stiffened.

“Dallas?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I...am.”

“Because you didn’t expect to be caught?”

“Because things don’t usually turn out that great for me.”

“Me being out here is great?” He released his hold and took a step back, trying to see her face in the predawn light. Gaunt. Deep hollows beneath high cheekbones. Dark shadows beneath light-colored eyes. That was about all he could see.

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“I put something through the mail slot. That will explain.”

She started jogging, heading away from the house. He could have let her go, but there was something about her that worried him, a kind of desperate energy he often saw in clients who were looking for help.

He snagged the back of her running vest, pulling her to a stop. “Save me a trip to the house. Tell me now.”

“I’m Carly Rose,” she said, as if the name should mean something to him.

“If this is a test, I’m going to fail it, because I’ve never heard the name before.” He cut to the chase. She obviously knew him. She’d obviously been casing his house. He wanted to know why. He wanted to know who had sent her. He wanted to move on with his day, because he had a boatload of physical therapy to get through before he returned to HEART. Five weeks recovering from a torn meniscus, and he was almost cleared to return to work.

He was counting the days, because the house was too quiet, the days too long, the nights even longer with nothing to occupy him.

“Kelley,” she added, then he knew, and a half dozen memories of his brother filled his mind.

“Josh’s widow,” she continued, as if he might be too dense to put it all together.

“I get it.” He released her vest, stepped back. She wasn’t anything like what he’d have expected. Josh had always gone for blonde, voluptuous. Fake. “What do you want?”

“To leave.” She glanced toward the dead-end street. He’d chosen the house because of the privacy and the park that butted up against the yard. Plenty of room to run, hike and bike.

“You looked me up for a reason.”

“I...need your help, but I can’t explain. There isn’t time.” Her watch beeped again, and she took off, sprinting into the street and heading toward the end of the road.

He should let her go. Josh had only ever been trouble. Even before they’d entered foster care, before they’d been adopted, before he’d stolen from the only two people who had ever loved them, Josh had been all about getting what he could however he could from whomever he could. Dallas had some regrets about their relationship, but not enough to make him want to connect with his widow.

So, yeah, he should let Carly Rose Kelley go, but he was at loose ends, and Christmas was coming. His parents did their best to get his mind off the season. For the past six years, they’d invited friends and family over to their place for a loud and loving Christmas exchange. Dallas always attended, and then he’d return home to his silent, empty house that should have been filled with the excited squeals of the twins, his wife, maybe another child or two.

Lila had wanted a big family.

He liked to pretend he’d have agreed to that. He wasn’t sure, though. He’d never thought he’d be that great of a husband or father. He hadn’t planned to be, either, but then he’d met her, and he’d fallen hard and fast. They’d married four months after they’d met, and she’d been pregnant three months later.

If they’d lived, the twins would be turning seven on Christmas Eve.

He shoved the thought and the memories away. He needed distractions this time of year. Carly was the perfect one.

He could still see her, slowing as she reached the end of the street, apparently less frantic now that she’d put some distance between them. There was another entrance to the park in that direction. Maybe she was heading there.

Whatever the case, he planned to follow. At his own pace, because even if he lost sight of her, he could find her again.

That was what he’d spent the past several years doing—finding people, helping them, bringing them home. Something moved in his periphery, and he swung around, saw a guy walking toward him, coming from the same direction Carly had, sauntering like he had nothing but time on his hands. Except he looked sweaty, his hair plastered to his head.

“Morning,” he said as he passed, without looking in Dallas’s direction. He also stayed near the center of the street, far enough from the houses to keep motion-detecting security lights from being triggered. And he seemed to be following the same path as Carly. Minus the trip to Dallas’s porch.

“Cold morning for a walk,” Dallas said, and the man stiffened.

“Yeah. It is.” He put on a little speed, increasing his pace just enough for it to be noticeable.

“You going anywhere interesting?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Just thinking that if you’re following the lady, you might want to stop.”

“Mind your own business, buddy,” the guy growled.

“It’s my business when a woman is running alone and she’s being followed,” he responded.

“You want trouble?” The guy turned, his eyes blazing. The sun had finally drifted above the horizon, the gold-gray light glancing off mud-brown hair and dull blue eyes.

“I’m not going to walk away from it if it comes calling,” Dallas replied. Poking the pig. That was what his father called it. It was something Dallas always seemed compelled to do. Something that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.

This time was no different.

The guy moved fast, reaching under the hem of his jacket, the motion smooth and practiced. Dallas had seconds to react, to throw himself sideways, pull his Glock. And then the world was exploding into chaos—a woman screaming, a hundred memories filling his mind as he found his mark and fired his first shot.

TWO

She screamed.

She couldn’t stop herself.

And then she ran faster, racing away from the man with the gun, the one who’d been following her.

Racing away from Dallas. He was in danger because of her. She could try to deny it. She could tell herself all kinds of pretty lies, but if he’d been shot, it was because she’d dragged him into trouble. She glanced over her shoulder, stumbling as she reached the transition between pavement and park path.

Nothing in the street. No sign of Dallas. No guy with a gun. Lights had come on in a few houses, and she could hear sirens in the distance. Someone had called the police. She could stay and tell them what she’d seen. She could talk to them about the gemstones she was supposed to be cutting, the threats against Zane. She could put her faith and trust in fallible human beings and an overburdened criminal justice system.

Or she could keep going and leave Dallas to face the consequence of her decisions. She could let him talk to the police, explain what he’d seen, what she’d said.

And while he was doing that, she could be packing and leaving town.

But if he’d been shot...

She stopped, eyeing the empty street, the lit houses, the rising sun glinting off winter-bare trees. Nothing moved, and she took a step back the way she’d come, because she couldn’t just abandon Dallas. No matter how much she might want to.

She stopped in front of his house, scanning the yard, looking for signs that he’d been injured. She found what might have been a splotch of blood on the pavement, another drop of it a few inches away. But there was no one lying bleeding on the ground. There was nothing but the gold-gray light of dawn, the chilly winter breeze and the sound of screaming sirens.

She found more blood on the grass, and she followed the trail of it around Dallas’s house and across the field that separated his property from the park. The police would arrive soon, and she shouldn’t be there when they did. She’d blown it. She’d made that first cut in the stone and she’d gone too deep, pushed too hard. There was nothing to do when that happened but scrap the old plan and come up with a new one.

But she couldn’t leave until she knew Dallas was okay. This was her fault, her trouble coming to call on him.

She should have thought about that before she’d taken the chance, but she’d been desperate to keep Zane safe, and Dallas had seemed like the kind of guy who could hold his own in a battle. On paper, he’d even looked like a hero. Not that she believed in those. The fantasy of a white knight riding to her rescue had died about three months after she’d married Josh, right around the time she’d seen a florist receipt on the floor of their closet. For his mother.

She’d believed the lie because she’d wanted to, but she’d never again believed he was everything he’d pretended to be.

But those were thoughts for another time.

Right now, she needed to find Dallas and make sure he was okay. Once she did that, she’d do what she should have a month ago. Plan B: leave town, her life, her career. Leave Jazz.

Zane would be devastated. Especially with Christmas coming. It was his favorite holiday. He loved all the traditions. More than anything, he loved having his little family together. Not this year, though. This year Jazz was going to be with her fiancé’s family, starting new traditions. Zane had cried when he’d found out. He’d cry more when he realized that he was never going to see his aunt Jazzy again.

But he’d be alive. He’d be safe.

That was what mattered.

She pushed through a thicket and found herself on the trail she’d run in on. No blood there, and the earth was too packed for footprints to be visible. She crouched, searching the ground for any sign that Dallas had been there. The sirens stopped abruptly, and she knew the police had arrived. They were probably questioning whoever had called in the report of gunfire. It wouldn’t be long before they found the blood. They might call in a K-9 unit and extra manpower, and she’d be out in the woods, ready to be found and questioned.

Don’t go to the police. Don’t tell anyone.

She hadn’t gone to the police, but she had tried to tell someone, and now the police were closing in. The people who’d been following her had to know it.

Fear zipped through her, the metallic taste of it filling her mouth. While she was tromping around in the woods looking for Dallas, the people who’d been threatening her could be knocking on the door at her place, making up some excuse for entering the premises.

“Dallas?” she called quietly, the word barely carrying on the morning air.

There was no response. She hadn’t really expected there to be.

The blood, the silence. He was injured. Or worse.

And it was her fault.

“Dalla—”

A hand slapped over her mouth, and she was pulled back against a rock-solid chest, her arms pinned to her sides by someone much larger and stronger than she was. She’d learned to fight the same way she’d learned to run, because she’d had no choice. It was that or be used and abused and tossed onto the side of the road like garbage.

She went lax, her weight dropping against her attacker’s arm.

When that didn’t loosen his grip, she went for his instep, shifting her weight and stomping down hard.

“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.

Behind them, the woods were filling with voices as the police hunted for the person who’d left the blood trail. He’d need to check in with them. If he didn’t, his boss, Chance Miller, would want to know why he hadn’t. As a member of the hostage-rescue team, Dallas had an obligation to follow protocol. Even when he wasn’t on duty.

“Sometimes we don’t get what we want,” Carly panted. “Sometimes we get what we don’t want. Zane is Josh’s son. He’s your nephew. And he needs me. I have to go home.”

“You left him alone?”

“Of course not! He’s only six!”

“There are plenty of people who leave kids younger than that at home alone.”

“I’m not one of them. He’s with my friend, and... I’m worried.” They’d reached the end of the dirt path and pounded onto a paved one, their steps in sync, their breathing almost synchronized, her gasping breaths matching his steadier ones almost perfectly.

She was obviously a long-distance runner, but he doubted she was a sprinter. She was slowing, the speed zapping her energy. He slowed with her, his body humming with adrenaline as he scanned the woods to either side, looking for a glint of metal, a subtle movement. The perp would be a fool to stick around when the police were so close, but people were often willing to be fools if the cause was important enough, what they stood to gain big enough.

“You’re worried about the guy with the gun,” he said.

She nodded but didn’t speak, every bit of her energy pouring into muscles that he could see trembling.

She was done, but she’d keep going. Whatever was driving her—her son, her fear, her need to escape Dallas—forced her to continue. He grabbed her arm again. Gently, because his adoptive father, Timothy Morgan, had taught him how real men were supposed to treat women. It had taken him a couple of years to learn the lesson, to understand that true strength lay in gentleness, calmness, kindness. Once he’d learned it, he hadn’t forgotten. Sometimes, though...sometimes he reverted to the troubled inner-city kid who’d walked into the Morgans’ suburban home carrying nothing but a plastic bag filled with old clothes.

She jerked away, stumbling as she accidentally stepped off the pavement and onto icy grass.

“Stop,” he said as gently as he’d grabbed her arm. His work gave him plenty of practice calming frantic people. He’d dealt with parents who’d lost kids, spouses who’d lost partners, people desperate to find friends, neighbors, lovers. He knew how to keep his voice steady and his approach soft.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. There were no tears in her eyes or on her cheeks, but she was on the verge of losing it.

“Eventually, you’ll have to.”

“Not until I’m home.”

“What’s your address?” he asked, studying her face, trying to find some hint of who she was, what she really wanted. All he saw was a woman who shouldn’t have been his brother’s widow. She was too young, too tired, too skinny. Too desperate. Josh’s widow should have been full figured, smiling, made-up and fake. She wouldn’t have had a care in the world, and she sure as anything wouldn’t have had a son.

“I told you, I made a mistake contacting you,” she panted.

“I’m sure you remember my response.”

“I don’t have time to play games, Dallas.”

“Neither do I. You said you needed my help. I plan to give it.”

She shrugged, rattling off an address in DC. He knew the neighborhood. It was part of a revitalization project designed to beautify the city. Not far from HEART, and filled with young professionals who loved the hustle and bustle of city life, young families who enjoyed the community vibe, older men and women who were on their own and loving it. It was the kind of neighborhood he and Lila had planned to live in until they’d found out she was pregnant. Then they’d chosen a cute house in the suburbs halfway between his parents and hers. They’d decorated the nursery yellow because Lila hadn’t wanted to know the gender of the babies. He tried not to think about that or about the way she’d looked when she’d picked him up from the airport that last night—her belly softly rounded and pressing against the pink sweater she wore. She’d been six months pregnant and glowing with it. He’d told her that she’d never looked more beautiful.

He released Carly’s arm, pulled out his cell phone and sent a text to his boss, shoving aside all the old memories and focusing on the present. That was how he’d survived the first year, and it was how he continued to survive.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

Only Dallas hadn’t been ready to let Him take anything, and he’d spent most of the past few years trying to get over the anger and bitterness the loss had caused.

Chance replied to his text, promising to send someone over to Carly’s place to keep an eye on things. He also asked for an explanation.

Later was all Dallas offered. Something was going on. Something that was putting a six-year-old kid in danger. He wanted to find out what, and he wanted to know exactly how Carly had gotten involved in it. Maybe she was an innocent bystander who’d been pulled into something, or maybe she was responsible for the trouble she’d found herself in.

Either way, he planned to keep the kid safe.

If there was a kid.

He slid the phone back in his pocket, made certain his Glock was hidden beneath his jacket and reached for Carly’s arm again.

She sidestepped him. “Who were you texting?”

“My boss.”

“Why?”

“He’ll send someone to your place. We need to speak with the police.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“They threatened to take my son,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

“The police?”

“No.”

“Then who?” He knew he sounded impatient—because he felt impatient. He didn’t play games, didn’t keep secrets. He was a straight shooter and honest, almost to a fault.

“If I knew that, I’d have called the police the first time I was contacted.” She started moving again. In the wrong direction. Heading for her vehicle, he assumed.

“We need to talk to the police,” he repeated, not following her, because he knew she wouldn’t go far. She needed his help more than she probably needed just about anything. She’d admitted as much when she’d given him her address.

She made it about a hundred feet before she stopped, turning around to face him, her dark ponytail swinging in a wide arc as she moved. “If they find out I’ve gone to the police, they’ll take my son. I’ll never see him again.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“Yes.”

“They’ll have to get through some very well-trained people to get to him, Carly. Come on.” He held out his hand and was surprised when she moved toward him. “We’ll talk to the police, and then I’ll bring you home.”

“I can bring myself home,” she muttered, but she’d reached his side, her eyes vibrant green against her tan skin. He could see that clearly now. Just like he could see that her running vest was navy blue rather than black. The world was waking, the sun bringing color to life—light brown grass, gray-black pavement, and the dark brown freckles on Carly’s cheeks, threads of red and gold in her dark hair. She tucked a loose strand back into her ponytail holder, white scars crisscrossing a couple of her knuckles, her fingernails short and chipped. She worked with her hands, he’d guess, but he wasn’t sure what kind of manual labor would afford her a place in a posh neighborhood in DC.

“What’s your friend’s name?” he asked, wondering if she lived with a boyfriend who paid the bills. It wasn’t a very nice thought but was more in line with what he’d have expected from any of the girls Josh had dated when he’d lived at home.

“Jazz,” she responded.

“He play in a band or something?”

“She is an author. Jasmine Rothschild. We went to college together. She moved in after Zane was born, because I needed the help and she needed a place to stay.”

“You said your son is six?”

“Yeah.”

The twins would have been nearly seven.

If Zane was his nephew, there was a very real possibility that Lila and Carly had been pregnant at the same time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, wasn’t even sure he was supposed to feel anything. It sure didn’t change what had happened.

He scowled, his knee aching as he walked. They weren’t far from the neighborhood, but the woods were thick on either side of them, the dawn light only deepening the shadows of the forest. They’d walked past the same trees a few minutes ago, and he’d felt nothing. Not even a twinge of nerves. Now the woods had gone silent. No chipmunks or squirrels or tiny birds flitting from tree to tree. The breeze had stopped and the leaves weren’t rustling, but somewhere in the deepest part of the shadows, a twig snapped.

He grabbed Carly’s hand, feeling thick calluses on her fingertips but silky skin on her palms.

She didn’t jerk back, didn’t attempt to pull away.

“What is it?” she whispered as he dragged her off the path and tugged her down into thick undergrowth.

He leaned close, whispering in her ear, “Stay down and stay quiet.”

She didn’t respond, and he took that as agreement.

Someone was out there with them. And not the police. They’d have announced themselves by now.

He shifted, easing out from behind the brush and scanning the area. Staying low because, as far as he knew, the guy was still out there and still armed. Hopefully, he’d be too afraid to fire a shot and risk attracting police attention.

A phone buzzed, the sound a discordant note in the eerie silence.

He turned, gesturing for Carly to turn the thing off. She had it in her hand, was staring at the screen, her face leached of color.

“We need to go,” she said, jumping up and trying to dart past him.

“I don’t think so,” he muttered, but there was something about her expression, the tension in her face, in her muscles, that made him snatch the phone from her hand and glance at the text she’d opened, the photo it contained. A white wicker table and chairs, bright red mums near a back door. A kid staring out from behind a window, his dark curly hair a lot like Carly’s, his eyes...

Pale blue. Just like Josh’s had been.

Dallas’s pulse jumped, his mind racing with the possibility that Carly was telling the truth, that Zane really was his nephew.

She snatched the phone back, tucking it into her vest pocket, her hands shaking.

“They’re going to take Zane. I’ll never see him again,” she said, her voice trembling.

“No. They aren’t.”

“They’re outside my house, watching him.”

“So are my coworkers,” he responded, the hair on his nape standing on end, his skin crawling. A warning that he needed to heed. Someone was watching them. Someone was watching Zane. Someone who was very clearly trying to manipulate Carly.

They could go back and talk to the police. They should go back and talk to the police, but getting to Carly’s place was suddenly just as important. Yeah, someone from HEART was already there, but Dallas wanted to get a closer look at Carly’s son, see if his eyes really were the same color blue as Josh’s.

“What are you involved in? Drugs? Organized crime?” he growled, stepping back onto the path, his Glock in hand. Let the perp see that. Let him think twice about attacking.

“I’d starve to death before I did something illegal to earn money,” she responded, her tone just as harsh as his had been.

“Someone is stalking your house, taking photos of your son. Seems like a warning to me.”

“It is, but not because I’m involved in something I shouldn’t be.”

“Then what do they want?” He started running again, heading away from the police, away from his house. She had to have parked in the west lot, five or six miles from his place. A long run, but she’d had her agenda.

Now he had his. He wanted to meet Zane. He wanted to look in the boy’s eyes, see if Josh was reflected there.

“They want me to use old-school techniques to create polished stones out of rough-cut gems.” She was panting, running hard to keep pace with him, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

“They want you to cut gemstones?”

“Yes.”

“Because?”

“It’s what I do. I’m a museum conservator, and I specialize in restoring antique jewelry. I’m one of a handful of people in North America who know and use Victorian-and Georgian-era stone-cutting methods.”

That explained her scars and calluses. It didn’t explain why someone was taking photos of her son.

“And?”

“Someone wants me to make replicas of some gemstones in a collection I’ve been working on for the Smithsonian.”

“That isn’t necessarily illegal.”

“Not if they want replicas for personal enjoyment, but if that’s what these people want, then why not just pay me to do it?”

“I’m assuming you’ve thought of a few answers to that.”

“There’s only one answer, Dallas. They’re going to replace the originals. The gemstones I’m cutting are worth a tenth of what the originals are. On average, we’re talking the difference between five and fifty thousand dollars. If they’ve gotten a metalworker to make facsimiles of the original settings, they’ll be replacing fourteen pieces of jewelry worth one point five million dollars with forgeries.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through to get you to cooperate. It might have been easier to find someone willing to do the job for a price.”

“There are only a few people in North America who can do what I do with enough expertise to make new cuts look old.”

They’d reached the west entrance of the park, still running hard, his knee throbbing in protest, the muscle in his thigh cramping. He didn’t slow his pace, though. Carly was heading for a black minivan parked beneath a streetlight. It looked like a family vehicle, the kind of thing suburbanites everywhere drove.

She unlocked the doors, jumping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine before he got his door open. He jumped in and yanked it closed as she took off.

Maybe she’d hoped to leave him behind.

But even if she could have, he’d have found her again. The story she’d told was interesting, and maybe it was true.

He’d find out, and while he was at it, he’d get a good look at the kid in the window, because sometimes pictures lied, sometimes memories did—and sometimes what a person wanted to believe made him see things that weren’t really there.

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