Time to Run Page 6

  Muttering under his breath, Chase carried the garbage can through the rear exit.

  “Barn’s out this way,” he called through the screen door. “There’s the truck I told you about.”

  She glimpsed a vintage Chevrolet, parked in the shadows of a two-story barn, and tried to picture herself behind the wheel.

  “Bedrooms are on the other side of the house,” Chase said, herding them toward a hallway.

  The odor of must and stale liquor kept them from venturing inside the first room.

  “This was Linc’s study.” Chase braved the stench to throw back the curtains and wrestle the windows open, one of them with the broken pane that she’d noticed out front.

  The sunlight revealed a room crammed with books, magazines, and pamphlets. A gun cabinet took up one entire wall. From what Sara could see through the grimy glass, it housed an arsenal of rifles. “Gracious,” she said, drawing Kendal closer.

  Chase regarded the cabinet with a frown. He shook the lock that kept the cabinet shut, felt above it for a key, then turned to Linc’s desk to sift through the drawers, but he came up empty-handed.

  “What’s inside the other rooms?” Kendal asked, enjoying the suspense.

  “More work,” Chase muttered. He visibly braced himself before opening the second door.

  Right away, Sara realized that the room had once been his.

  A narrow bed took up one wall. Mismatched furniture lined the other three. Even with blinds filtering the sunlight, she caught sight of half a dozen wooden sculptures.

  “Look, Kendal,” she called, drawn to inspect the carvings more closely. “Did you make these, Chase?” she asked in amazement.

  He remained at the doorway with an odd expression on his face. “Whittled,” he confirmed.

  Sara ran a finger over a replica of a squirrel, realistically carved, right down to the mischievous gleam in the agate-chip eyes. “Who taught you to do this?”

  “My grandfather,” Chase admitted. “I’m surprised Linc kept all this stuff,” he said gruffly.

  “How could he have thrown it away?” She and Kendal moved around the room, admiring the other carvings—a bear, an eagle on a tree branch, and a beaver with a hatch-marked tail.

  “Can we stay here, Mom?” Kendal pleaded.

  Sara glanced at Chase. “We will, honey, until Chase gets the truck running.”

  “This here’s the main bathroom,” Chase called from across the hall. “Needs work,” he added.

  Sara peered past him, taking in the yellow tiles, rusty fixtures, and ceramic bowls.

  “This was my mother’s room,” he added, recapturing her attention as he opened the last door.

  Sara stepped into a room with cream-colored curtains, double bed, antique armoire, and family photos in gilded frames. The patchwork quilt drew her deeper. Its pastel roses had faded, but its charm had not.

  She turned to smile at Chase, but the door stood empty. Chase was gone. His mother’s death—the details of which weren’t known to her—obviously still bothered him.

  Sara stepped over to the family portraits to inspect them. The young woman featured in several of the black-and-white photographs had to be Chase’s mother. Her complexion was darker, but her nose and eyes were identical to his. Chase bore more resemblance to his father, a strapping man with light-colored curls and a winning smile. Heavens, was that baby in his lap Chase?

  Studying the bright-eyed cherub she could see that it was. A wondering smile touched her lips.

  “Mom,” Kendal cried, wandering in with moccasin boots up to his thighs. “Look at me!”

  “You need to ask Chase before you help yourself to his things,” Sara cautioned. Hearing his voice out front, she hurried for the front door.

  “Jesse, what’d you find, boy?”

  The dog panted and danced at his feet, but unless Chase could read his mind, there was no telling what had gone on between the dog and the squatter.

  Sara pushed through the door as Chase deposited their possessions on the porch. “I’m going into town,” he said, brusquely. “Need to get the power turned on before nightfall. I’ll get us some food and cleanin’ supplies, too.”

  “Shouldn’t we go with you?” she asked, worried that the squatter might come back.

  “Jesse’ll keep watch. I just need a minute . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, but she could tell that this homecoming had rattled him.

  It put a strangely tender feeling in her chest to discover that he was human. “I’ll help you,” she heard herself offer. “You’ve done so much for me and Kendal. Let me help you clean this house up.”

  He contemplated her with a frown. “It’s gonna be a lot of work,” he warned. “You’re probably not used to that.”

  “I don’t mind,” she reassured him.

  He glanced at the cracked pots on the steps. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll be back before it gets dark,” he promised. “Stay inside with the dog and keep the door locked.”

  She withdrew into the house. From behind the screen door, she watched him execute a swift U-turn, bypass the fallen limb, and roar down the driveway, kicking up dust.

  Turning to regard the house’s dark interior, Sara felt immediately that there were eyes on her—ghosts or people? she wondered, securing the inner door as Chase had advised.

  Standing in line at the grocery store, Chase felt like he was fifteen years old again, buying food ’cause his mama was too sick to get out of bed.

  He shifted uncomfortably, glancing to his left and right. So far, no one had recognized him. Broken Arrow had grown to almost unrecognizable proportions, but the landmarks were the same, like the old grain elevator, visible for miles. The two-story buildings on Main Street housed the same businesses, including Tim & Louie’s barbershop, a family law firm, the same dentist’s office. The city’s growth was more to the south of the tracks, extending into what was once pastureland.

  The breadth of his shoulders and his beard might buy him anonymity, but only for a while.

  Lining up goods on the checkout belt, Chase asked himself if he’d bought enough food for three people, along with every scrubbing agent in the cleaning aisle. He figured he’d need all of it to combat years of neglect.

  He hadn’t brought Sara here to clean for him, though. A gently bred lady like her wasn’t supposed to get on her hands and knees and scrub. But Linc’s drinking had obviously gotten the better of him. The place was a pigsty. Cleaning it up in the leave time that was left to him would be a chore.

  Which was why he’d accepted Sara’s offer to help. Besides, who knew if Linc’s old truck was even running. Could take him a while yet to fix her up.

  “Chase McCaffrey, is that you?” exclaimed a woman pushing an empty cart into the store.

  Heads turned. Chase winced. It’d taken less than an hour for him to be recognized. He sent a wry smile at Linda Mae Goodner, his mother’s best friend and closest neighbor. Her blond curls had faded to silver; her blue eyes had receded in the soft folds of her face, but her welcoming smile was still as sincere.

  Abandoning his groceries, he eased out of the aisle to greet her.

  “Oh, Chase!” she cried, going up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She was the one soul in Oklahoma with whom he’d kept in touch, sending a yearly letter. “Just look at you, darlin’! How big you’ve grown!” she exclaimed, holding him at arm’s length. “I was hoping you’d come back and claim your property,” she added, her eyes sparkling happily.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, feeling fifteen again and unsure.

  “How long are you stayin’?” she demanded, as friendly and curious as ever. “I don’t suppose the Navy’s ready to give you up yet.”

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “I’ll stay long enough to fix the place up. Plan on rentin’ it out.”

  Linda Mae grimaced. “Well, at least ol’ Linc had the good sense to leave it to you, though I was hopin’ you’d come home to stay this time.”

  Never, Chase thought. “How’s Mr.
Goodner?”

  “Same old cowpoke he always was. Why don’t you come over for supper tonight? He’d love to see you.”

  Chase glanced back at the cash register. “I just bought food for tonight,” he hedged. “But I’ll be sure and stop by sometime.”

  “You’d better,” she warned, giving his cheek a pat. “It’s so good to see you again. Your mother would be so proud. Do visit soon,” she added, letting him go. “We’ve lots of catching up to do.”

  Feeling curious eyes on him, Chase went back to pay for his purchases. His anonymity was gone. He’d bet the contents of his wallet that by tomorrow morning, everyone he’d ever known would have heard that he was back in Broken Arrow.

  Mrs. Goodner was as informative as the local newspaper, which meant that Sara—Serenity—would need to keep a low profile for as long as she stuck around.

  “Kendal!” Sara called her son’s name louder, only to be answered by silence. “Kendal?” With growing consternation, she abandoned the kitchen, which she’d been tidying, to peek into Chase’s old bedroom, but Kendal was gone, and so was the dog.

  Don’t panic, she told herself, hurrying to the front door. She found it unlocked. Kendal had come this way before her. “Kendal!” she shouted from the front porch. Her voice sounded small in the open space. The sweet smell of prairie grass was a welcome contrast to the stuffy odor of the house.

  “I’m here,” came the answering call from the vicinity of the pecan tree. “Come and see, Mom!”

  The urgency in his voice had her running down the steps and down the driveway. She finally made him out, hunkered in the shade of the tree’s heavy boughs.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him. At the same time, she saw what had captured his attention. There were three—no, wait—four headstones jutting out of the tall grass. “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, drawing up short.

  “I figured out one of ’em,” said Kendal, parting the grass on the one nearest him. The inscription read, Jeremiah Blackbird, 1923-1983. “This is Chase’s grandpa,” he revealed excitedly. “He was a Creek Indian, and he taught Chase how to tame bobcats.”

  “Really,” said Sara, wondering when Chase had imparted that tall tale.

  “But I don’t know who this is,” said Kendal, stepping toward a headstone that was yellowed with lichen.

  Aaron McCaffrey, 1947-1976, Sara read. “I think that’s Chase’s father,” she guessed, noting the common last name. She pictured the golden-haired man in the family portrait.

  “And then there’s a small one,” Kendal added, pointing out a tiny, marble headstone buried in the grass.

  Sara bent down to read it. The cherub sitting at the base of the marker and the single name, Blessing, confirmed that this was the burial spot for a child. Feb-April, 1984. Heavens, had Chase had a baby sister?

  With a sense of premonition, Sara turned toward the last headstone. Parting the grass that grew up around it, she read, Marileigh Sawyer, 1947-1985. The last name was different than Chase’s, but she knew this was his mother.

  “Who is Mary—” Kendal stumbled over the name.

  “Marileigh,” Sara guessed, pronouncing it merrily. “It’s got to be Chase’s mother.”

  Kendal looked up at her sharply. “Why did they all die?” he asked, sounding scared.

  “I don’t know, honey,” Sara answered, putting a hand on his narrow shoulders. “Sometimes it just happens.” Looking at the four headstones, she was reminded of the tattoo on Chase’s left arm. He carried them with him wherever he went, she realized, with a chill.

  Kendal looked up at her, his eyes luminescent in the shadows. “I don’t want you to die,” he whispered.

  Goose bumps sprouted all over her body. “I’m not going to die, sweetheart,” she reassured him. “Not for a long time. Why would you say that?” she added, prompted by something in his expression.

  He shook his head, unable to answer, her.

  “Are you thinking of Mr. Whiskers?” she guessed.

  Kendal swallowed hard. “His eyes bulged out when Daddy strangled him.”

  “Oh, honey,” she murmured. She put a protective arm around him, furious with Garret for branding that terrible memory into Kendal’s consciousness. “That’s all behind us now,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek against his shorn hair. At least she hoped it was. They regarded the headstones at their feet. “Come on. Let’s go inside where Chase told us to stay.”

  Kendal broke away, calling for the dog as he ran for the door.

  Petty Officer Marcelino Hewitt looked up to see Captain Garret leaving work for the day. It was his first day back since the disappearance of his wife and son. The man had lasted just three hours.

  Hewitt had never liked Captain Garret much, mostly because he’d caught Miss Sara looking sad when she thought no one could see her. But he’d have to be heartless not to feel for the JAG today. The captain’s black tie was askew. He stood more stoop-shouldered than ever, a frown on his narrow face. Obviously, he was overwrought by the tragedy.

  “Have a good day, sir,” Hewitt offered gently, handing the man his cell phone. “And . . . and I’m so sorry to hear about Miss Sara and your son,” he added, forcing himself to issue condolences. According to the Sunday paper, they’d mostly likely been kidnapped.

  He found himself the focus of Captain Garret’s black-as-ink eyes. “You knew her on a first-name basis?” the man inquired quietly.

  There was something threatening about the question. Hewitt took a small step back. “She . . . she asked me to call her Miss Sara,” he reassured the man swiftly.

  “Really? But then, you were both here all day together. You must have become quite friendly.”

  Hewitt didn’t know what to say to that. Clearly the man was out of his mind with grief.

  “Was she friendly with anyone else?” he continued. “A man with a beard, perhaps?”

  It wasn’t grief that Hewitt saw in the man’s eyes. It was something far colder than that, something calculated.

  “A beard, sir?”

  “Do you have trouble hearing, petty officer?” Garret inquired.

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever seen her with a bearded man?” the lawyer repeated.

  Hewitt felt like he’d taken the witness stand and was being interrogated. He searched his memory. The only bearded man that came into the Trial Services Building was Chief McCaffrey, the Navy SEAL who verbally harassed him while his blue eyes gleamed with wicked humor. “No, sir,” he replied, knowing the chief would never have to resort to kidnapping to get himself a woman.

  “No? Why the hesitation, Petty Officer . . .” He had to look down at the name tag, “Hewitt?”

  Chief McCaffrey not only knew Hewitt’s last name, he also knew his first—Marcelino, which he’d teased him about, of course. “No reason, sir.”

  “I see,” the captain answered. His mouth drooped with disappointment. Without another word, he turned and stalked through the exit, straight into a downpour.

  Chapter Six

  The thumping on the roof abated suddenly, causing Sara to pause as she swept the kitchen floor. She’d elected to work indoors, while Chase tackled the exterior. She was able to select her own tasks, as Chase had placed no expectations on her whatsoever. Exposing the innate charm of the bungalow was its own reward, making every chore a pleasure.

  The screen door yawned open, and Chase came in with a scowl on his face, holding his thumb.

  He went straight to the sink and stuck it under running water. Sara propped the broom against the counter and stepped closer to assess the damage.

  “Hammered it,” he said shortly.

  His thumbnail was already purple. With a grimace of sympathy, Sara turned toward the freezer and pulled out an ice tray. She whipped a plastic bag from a drawer and filled it, handing it to Chase, who dried his thumb with a paper towel. “Thanks.”

  They stood there a moment, taking stock of each other. Chase’s shirt was damp with sweat. Sara was perspiri
ng lightly herself, in the absence of air-conditioning. Among the long list of items to be fixed was the central air.

  Chase looked around, taking in the work that Sara had already accomplished. He opened a cabinet she’d emptied earlier, throwing away items that were broken or unusable. She’d wiped it out and put the dishes back in, stacking them neatly.

  “You’ve been workin’ hard,” he commented, opening the next cabinet over, where she’d ordered the cans and spices, some of which Linc or the squatter had left behind. In defiance of Garret, she’d lined the cans up smallest to biggest. What a pleasure that had been!

  She gave a start of surprise when Chase caught her wrist and scrutinized her reddened palm. His sure but gentle grip left a burning ring on her skin. “I thought I bought you gloves,” he chastised.

  She tugged, and he immediately let her go. “Maybe I don’t want to wear gloves,” she countered, surprising herself.

  He cocked his head at her tone. “Suit yourself.”

  “I like to feel what I’m doing,” she explained.

  “Don’t want you gettin’ blisters,” he retorted. “I didn’t bring you here to work for me.”

  They stood no more than a yard apart, their breath coming in and out at the same time. She could have asked him then, Why exactly did you bring me here? It wasn’t just to give her the truck so she could drive herself to Texas, was it?

  There were memories in this house that haunted him. He didn’t want to be alone.

  “Will you tell me something?” she asked him.

  “What?” His regard turned wary.

  “Will you tell me how your mother died?”

  He just looked at her, pulse throbbing at the base of his neck. “You want to talk about the past?” he challenged quietly.

  She got the feeling that she would have to be just as candid about her own history, which she’d rather forget. “Maybe it would help,” she conceded.

  “Hanta virus, probably,” he said, keeping his answer short. “It swept through the Midwest in the late eighties but it wasn’t identified until the nineties, after several people died. Comes from contact with rat droppings. She used to sweep the barn.”