Time to Run Page 7

  “Did the baby have it, too?” Sara asked, horrified.

  “No, but she was born too early ’cause my mama was so sick.”

  Sara searched for the bottomless grief Chase must have felt at the time. His face was a mask. “How old were you when they died?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “Fourteen when the baby went. Fifteen when Mama died.”

  She thought of Kendal, who’d looked at her in terror yesterday. I don’t want you to die. Surely Chase had felt the same way about being abandoned, left with a stepfather who’d been less than fatherly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, feeling tremendous compassion for Chase the boy.

  “Your turn,” he countered almost angrily but not threateningly. “What did Garret do to make you leave?”

  Sara swallowed, willing the past to stay where she’d left it. She let out a huff of air. “He controlled everything—all of my free time. He cut me off from my friends and family. Made me use his credit cards instead of cash, so that he could keep tabs on my spending. He took away my driver’s license when I got in an accident. Nothing I did ever met his expectations. When he strangled Kendal’s rabbit, that was the last straw.”

  Chase’s expression reflected disgust and sympathy. “Did he hit you?” he asked her bluntly.

  “No.” Garret’s blows were always mental and emotional, which in some ways was worse than physical because they left no trace; left her wondering whether what had happened was possibly her fault; made her think that she could try harder the next time and he wouldn’t react the same way.

  She’d wasted eleven years of her life wondering if the invisible scars were really there.

  But now that she was far away, and her perspective was clearer, the abuse was so blatant that she could never go back into that environment again.

  Chase raised his hand, and Sara barely caught herself from flinching. He hesitated just a second then lightly cupped her jaw and stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. It was a gesture of comfort. Sara’s nerve endings tingled with disproportionate pleasure.

  It would be a mistake to lean on Chase any more than she already had. Garret had taught her not to trust what seemed to be. How could any man be as solid and considerate as Chase seemed to be?

  “I thought I’d cook the sausages tonight with stewed tomatoes and zucchini,” she volunteered, testing him.

  He glanced in puzzlement at his watch. It was early afternoon. “You hungry already?” he asked her.

  “No,” she answered, succumbing to a smile. “It’s just . . . never mind.”

  He crossed his arms and frowned at her. “I didn’t bring you here to cook for me either,” he added, chastising her again. “But I ain’t gonna turn down a home-cooked meal if you’re offerin’ one up,” he added wryly.

  “I’m offering,” she reassured him. She even looked forward to it.

  “Okay then. What time?”

  “Six o’clock?”

  “I’d best get crackin’, then.” With a grimace for his thumbnail, he left the kitchen, taking the bag of ice with him.

  At six-twenty, the setting sun put a golden patina on the scarred surface of the kitchen table. Three plates stood empty in front of the table’s three occupants.

  “I’m all done, Mom,” Kendal declared, putting down his emptied milk cup. “Can I go outside and play?” He’d been waiting all day to catch crickets at dusk and put them in the box he’d filled with grass and twigs.

  Sara glanced at Chase, who was sopping up the remainder of his tomato sauce with bread. Catching her eye, he glanced at Kendal. “Keep an eye out for bobcats,” he recommended. “They like to come out right before sunset.”

  “I will,” Kendal promised. After taking his plate to the counter, he pushed through the screen door, letting it slam behind him. “Sorry!” he said, reappearing on the other side.

  “Chase doesn’t need another thing to fix,” Sara chided, before Chase had a chance to rebuke him. She was conscious of the SEAL’s thoughtful gaze as he chewed his last bite of bread.

  “Sorry,” Kendal said again before darting away.

  “Thanks for the meal,” said Chase, pushing his plate away. “You’re a fine cook.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say in response to his compliment. She’d intentionally cooked a meal she’d never made before. There was room for improvement in her book, having burned the ends of the sausages. Standing up, she hesitantly began to collect their dishes.

  “There’s no rush,” he told her, and she immediately sat down again.

  Silence fell between them, but it wasn’t awkward or tension-filled. Chase eased back in his chair. “Wish you could relax with me,” he admitted unexpectedly.

  “I am relaxed,” she protested. But she wasn’t, not really. She was too aware of everything about him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the way he’d held his fork with his left hand. She hadn’t realized he was left-handed.

  “You should maybe know that little things don’t bother me,” he offered, “like a screen door slammin’ shut or a corner of a sausage gettin’ burned. There’s bigger things to stress about than that.”

  “I agree,” she said fervently. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . . trained to worry, I guess.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said, his gaze warm on her flustered face.

  “Sorry,” she said, before realizing that she’d done it again.

  He smiled faintly, but then his gaze shifted toward the living room, and she knew that every one of his five senses had just kicked into alert mode.

  “What is it?” she whispered, straining her ears. Was that a rumbling sound she detected?

  He shot out of his chair and moved soundlessly into the other room. Sara followed with caution, curious to identify what she was hearing. Through the big window at the front of the house, she spied an older-model El Camino, stalled on the curve in the driveway, half-concealed by prairie grass. The once-white car had a headlight missing. Rather than approach the house, it remained where it was, idling menacingly.

  “Go get Kendal,” Chase said on a very serious note.

  Sara didn’t question him. It was obvious from his demeanor that he felt the vehicle was a threat. She raced out the back door, wondering wildly if Garret had found her already. Only he’d never in his life drive an old beater like that. “Kendal!” she called with quiet urgency.

  She found him on his knees by the barn wall, cupping an insect in his hands. “Honey, you have to come in right now.”

  “Why?”

  She grabbed his elbow and hauled him to his feet. “Because Chase says so, that’s why.”

  She found Chase exactly where she’d left him. The car still loitered. Every few seconds, its motor revved as if the driver were issuing a threat.

  “Who could it be?” Sara whispered, keeping a protective arm around her son.

  “Don’t know exactly,” Chase replied.

  The cold quality of his voice had her glancing at him. This was Chase the warrior, she realized, with a shiver. The focus in his eyes had turned them arctic, a far cry from the Caribbean blue they’d been just moments before.

  “I want you two to step into the hall, away from the windows,” he instructed. “Go on.”

  “What are you going to do?” Sara asked, drawing Kendal with her as she backed up.

  “Scare ’em off,” he said.

  Be careful. He was out the door in an instant. She watched through the living room window as he leapt athletically over the porch rail and dashed toward his car, keeping his head low. He stuck his key into the passenger door and unlocked it. Diving inside, he withdrew his gun from beneath the seat. She’d almost forgotten it was there. Thank God he’d kept the car locked.

  He checked the SIG briefly, snapping off its safety. In one fluid movement, he leapt up and fired over the top of his car toward the interlopers.

  From where she stood, Sara couldn’t see if he’d hit the other ca
r or not. But a short while later, she thought she heard the El Camino backing up.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” Kendal whispered, trembling in her arms.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe the squatter wants to get back in. Chase’ll scare them off.”

  Chase pushed through the front door just then, strapping a holster over his shirt. Obviously, he meant to carry the gun on his person.

  Seeing her look of dismay, he added, “It’s safer on me than it is in the car.” He stalked past them, shouldering his way into Linc’s study. He drew the blinds, then flicked on the overhead light, pausing before the gun cabinet to consider its contents.

  Sara was quick to guess his thoughts. “You think they’re after the guns?” she asked, braving the musty odor of the room to join him.

  “Just a hunch,” he said, giving the doors a shake, but the lock held. “Be right back,” he said, abandoning them to stride through the house and out the rear door.

  “Sure is a lot of stuff in this room,” Kendal commented, bending to peer at the piles of magazines. “National Socialist Movement Catalogue,” he read carefully as he picked one off the top of the pile.

  Socialist? Sara turned to take it from him. “Oh, my goodness.”

  The catalogue sold every type of Nazi paraphernalia imaginable, from sound recordings of Hitler’s famous speeches, to T-shirts proclaiming white supremacy, to Nazi flags. She put it down with disgust. “Don’t touch any more,” she warned her son.

  Chase reappeared bearing a metal filing saw. Working it into the crack between the cabinets, he sawed away at the lock while Sara took closer stock of the room. “Chase,” she hedged, hoping it wouldn’t make him angry, “your stepfather was a white supremacist.”

  “I know.” He put the saw on the desk and pulled the cabinet open, plucking out a rifle. Handling it with casual precision, he checked it for ammunition.

  “Honey, why don’t you play in Chase’s old room for the rest of the evening,” Sara suggested to Kendal.

  “Oh, Mom!” Kendal protested, sounding truly put out. “I wanted to catch some crickets.”

  “There’s plenty in the closet to play with,” she insisted. She’d peeked in there this morning, seeing collector’s cards, old comic books, and toy cars.

  “Fine,” he relented, stomping down the hall to disappear into the next room.

  Sara went to stand next to Chase as he took out the next rifle. “This isn’t anyplace for a child,” she said quietly.

  His hands stilled. “Never was,” he retorted. “Not after Linc moved in.”

  “Maybe you should call the police,” she suggested, postponing what she really had to say.

  “I will,” he promised. “Don’t need a bunch of cops gettin’ a look at you right now.”

  “We should probably leave then.” There. She just came right out and said it, even though a large part of her quailed in protest. Leaving Chase meant putting herself in the real world, alone. It meant vulnerability, and a loneliness that she didn’t anticipate.

  Chase put the gun back in the cabinet. With a sigh, he turned to face her. “I told you, it’s not safe to use public transportation. Let me fix up the truck. I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

  “How long will it take to get it running?” she asked him, turning toward the window.

  “I don’t know,” he said almost irritably. “Couple days, at least. In the meantime, I’ll keep this room locked.”

  Sara nodded, relieved that leaving right away was impossible, anyway. Besides, Chase still needed her help here.

  “Do you think those people are going to come back?” she asked, peeking through the blinds.

  He’d reached for another gun. “Most likely.”

  “Maybe you should leave those guns outside for them to take.”

  He went perfectly still. “I don’t put guns in the hands of terrorists,” he replied.

  “Of course not.” She realized that she had spoken thoughtlessly. Chase had made a career out of beating back terrorism. He wasn’t the type to give in to bullies. She ran a sweeping gaze over the room. “I just can’t believe all of this.” There were actually Americans who believe in the supremacy of the Aryan race. “It seems so un-American.”

  “Pretty fucking unbelievable,” Chase muttered, opening the chamber of the rifle in his hands. “Sorry,” he added, shaking pellets into his palm.

  “Loaded,” Sara commented with dismay.

  He dropped the pellets into his pocket and reached for the fourth rifle. Watching him manipulate the machinery with such practiced ease drove home the differences between them. She was from a privileged background. He’d had to fight for everything he had. It was inevitable that they would go their separate ways soon.

  “I’m going to see what Kendal’s doing,” she said, heading for the door with a heavy heart.

  With a mutter of disgust, Chase replaced the pamphlet on Linc’s desk and rotated his stiff neck. It was nearly dawn. He’d stayed up all night, puzzling through the propaganda that littered the room, unable to shake his suspicion that the guns in the cabinet were intended for some ultimate battle.

  According to the trifold pamphlet he’d just read, Linc and his cohorts were members of the Fists of Righteous Americans, a subgroup of the National Socialist Party. They’d gone to the trouble of publishing brochures to increase their ranks—although, in order to become an officer, you had to be a direct descendent of one of the first white pioneers to settle in Oklahoma. Every member had to shave his hair right down to the scalp.

  The FOR Americans advocated violent removal of the dark-skinned immigrants—Mexicans, blacks, and Arabs— who “usurped the white man’s hard-earned positions in the job market, corrupted the language, and lowered the standards in schools.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Chase growled, pushing to his feet. He prowled around the cramped office, pausing before a plaque that declared Linc Sawyer honorary member of the FOR Americans. A swastika symbol was etched beneath his name. Linc hadn’t been an officer because he’d hailed from Kansas.

  Chase faced the room with a scowl. Obviously, he needed to alert the authorities, but not until Sara was safely launched for Dallas, and he wasn’t in any special hurry to launch her, either. While she was certain that Garret would not uncover the secret of her birthmother, Chase was not so cavalier.

  On the other hand, given the fervor of the skinheads to get their hands on their guns, this wasn’t the safest place for mother and son to stay. All he wanted for them was a respite from their troubles, peace of mind. But he couldn’t give her that, not with the skinheads posing a menace.

  Obviously, Chase needed to get Linc’s truck running so that she could be on her way, leaving him here to face his demons. How ironic was it that, even dead, Linc was messing up his life?

  “Fucker,” he muttered, considering the guns. No way in hell was he going to let them fall into the hands of Linc’s close-minded friends. He’d disassemble every one of them if necessary. But until he found the time for that, he’d hide them.

  Kendal was hiding again. “Kendal!” With a sigh of exasperation, Sara pushed through the screen door at the rear of the house and called her son.

  The roar of a sit-down mower muted her cry. Chase cruised into view, cutting a swathe through the prairie grass at the driveway’s edge. Catching sight of her, he cut the motor and rolled to a halt. Sara approached him, fighting to keep her gaze from dropping to his gleaming, sun-kissed torso. In deference to the heat, he’d shucked his shirt, leaving him naked from the waist up. Though the house was slightly cooler, she wished enviously that she could do the same.

  “Have you seen Kendal?” she asked, raking the open space for any sign of him.

  Chase seemed more intent on remarking the streak of ash that grimed her cheek. “You been playin’ in the fireplace?” he asked her.

  “Sweeping,” she corrected him. “Where’s Kendal. I told him to play inside this morning.”

  “You can’t keep a boy indoo
rs, Sara,” Chase admonished gently. “Ken’s over there by the tree line.” He gestured with his head.

  Sara stood tiptoe to peer over the grass that was as yet uncut. “What’s he doing over there?” she asked anxiously.

  “Bein’ a boy, I reckon,” Chase replied.

  She looked back at him and sighed. “You think I’m overprotective, don’t you?”

  “It ain’t gonna hurt to let him wander a ways,” he drawled.

  “I’m worried about those squatters coming back,” she explained.

  Chase smiled faintly. With the gun peeking out of the waist of his camo pants, he looked infinitely capable of defending them. “Don’t be.”

  She glanced at Kendal one last time, giving her cheek a self-conscious swipe. “Will you keep one eye on him?” she asked.

  “You bet.” Chase’s warm, blue gaze lingered on her flushed face. “Take it easy in there, will you?” He glanced at the porch where the carpet was slung over the porch rail.

  “I’m having fun,” she assured him, surprised that she was actually telling the truth. Who would have thought that sweeping out a hearth choked with ashes, beating a rug, and scrubbing oak floorboards could be enjoyable? “How about you?” she asked. “Are you going to cut the whole field?” She cringed for the sunflowers standing in full bloom.

  “Just edgin’ the driveway for now,” he told her. “Gotta get more gas before I mow the field.”

  She nodded her understanding. “You want some lemonade?” she asked him.

  Before he had the chance to answer, Kendal emitted a wail, then another one. With a gasp, Sara started toward him.

  Chase leapt from the mower and sprinted ahead of her. As Sara chased him across the field, struggling through the tall grass, possibilities raced through her mind: Kendal had been bitten by a snake; stung by a bee; twisted his ankle.

  By the time she caught up to Chase, Kendal had stopped crying, although it was probably his fear of angering Chase that had him biting his lip. To Sara’s consternation, she saw bright red blood dripping from Kendal’s left hand. “What happened?” she gasped.

  “He’s usin’ tools that he doesn’t know how to use,” Chase retorted grimly. “Take your shirt off,” he added, helping Kendal to pull it over his head, “and wrap it around your finger.”