Time to Run (16 page)

At the knock on her office door, Betsy Bartlett, Head Administrator at the Refugee Center, Norfolk, looked up from the federal forms she was perusing. Her secretary hovered in the presence of a stranger, whose angular features and thin mustache struck Betsy as vaguely familiar. He wore the uniform of a Navy officer. "Yes, Amber?"

"This is Mr. Garret," Amber began.

"Captain," he corrected her in a doleful voice.

"Sara's husband," Amber explained, although Betsy had just guessed that for herself.

"Captain Garret!" she cried, pushing immediately to her feet. She rounded the desk with both hands extended. "Please allow me to extend my condolences," she said, thinking of Sara and how much she'd been missed. "It just hasn't been the same without Sara here."

The captain's handshake was limp and faintly damp.

"What can I do for you?" Betsy asked, releasing him. Surely he was beyond despair at having lost, not just his wife, but his son, also.

"I'd like to collect Sara's things," he explained, his eyes too murky to impart any emotion in particular.

"Of course," Betsy answered, thinking of the few personal items Sara had left on her desk. "Would you care to follow me?" With a professional smile, she escorted Captain Garret out of the administrative offices and down the hall to the teachers' workroom, a large area shared by seven English instructors.

"This was Sara's desk," she said, stopping at a cubicle that was kept neat and tidy with only a few knickknacks, gifts from grateful immigrants—pencil holders and notepads, magnets, and a paperweight. "The police were here earlier this week," she divulged, "Looking for pictures of Kendal. They never did find any."

Captain Garret's eyes were glued to Sara's computer. "Could I have a look at her files?" he requested.

"Her files?" Betsy repeated, thinking it an odd request.

His head rotated in her direction. "I don't believe my wife is dead, Mrs. Bartlett," he told her. "If there's any way to find her alive, then no stone ought to be left unturned."

Oddly, Betsy's first instinct was to protect Sara's privacy. "I'm afraid her account is password protected. There's no way to access it."

"Your IT administrator has access," the captain insisted smugly.

Betsy sighed. That was true. And if there was any possibility that Sara's whereabouts might be made known by opening her personal files, it was her legal obligation to do so. "Charles," she called across the room, to a man working under another desk. "Do me a favor and get Sara's account running on this computer," she requested.

The heavyset man plodded over and squeezed his backside into the desk chair. Powering up the computer, he typed in his administrative password to open Sara's account. "There you are," he said, rising.

"We'll give you some privacy," Betsy offered, withdrawing.

Making her rounds throughout the center, she returned to the workroom several minutes later and was immediately struck by the difference in Captain Garret's demeanor. Gone was the long, mournful face. He was bent over the desk, gaze intent, fingers flying over the keyboard as he composed an e-mail, of all things.

Seeing her out of the corner of his eye, he promptly sent the letter, and before she could chastise him for taking liberties, he emptied the highlighted items in the open folder. "Captain Garret!" she called, bustling over. "What on earth are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" he countered, standing up to loom over her. "My wife's e-mail isn't anyone's concern but mine."

"Well—" He had her stymied there. "I hope you found something of interest," she said, falling back on her concern.

"Not particularly." But the gleam in his dark eyes said otherwise. "Thank you all the same, Mrs. Bartlett," he replied. "Have a good afternoon." Swiveling on highly polished shoes, he strode from the room, leaving behind the personal items he'd supposedly come to collect.

"Well!" Betsy stared after him, utterly bemused.

Pouring herself a bowl of cereal in her mother's miniscule kitchen, Sara heard a key slide into the lock at the door. It was just past six in the morning, the time when Rachel returned home from the hospital where she worked as a night shift delivery nurse. Her cat, a Russian Blue named Mosby, sprinted to the door to greet her.

With Kendal sleeping on the couch between them, Sara and her mother greeted each other wordlessly. Rachel deposited her purse on the coffee table and scooped up her cat as she crossed the room. "You're up early," she commented in a hushed voice.

"How was work?" Sara asked.

"Eventful." With a tired sigh, Rachel eased onto one of the two seats at the tiny dinette table. The window beside her overlooked the narrow plot of land in Willow Woods Trailer Park. "Eleven babies were born last night. Must be the full moon."

Sara transferred her bowl of cereal to the table to sit across from her. "Goodness, it must be."

"Trouble sleeping?" Rachel asked her, with a searching look.

"Not really. Back at the ranch, there was a rooster that woke me up at the crack of dawn every morning. I guess I'm still in the habit." As she chewed her cereal, hearing it crunch between her teeth, she was conscious of her mother's close regard.

During the first forty-eight hours of their reunion, all they did, it seemed, was stare at each other. Sara had been astonished to discover how much she resembled her birth-mother, right down to the second toes on their feet, toes that were slightly longer than the first.

They'd bonded on sight, unconditionally, in a way that bordered on psychic. But with seventeen years between them, their relationship was more sisterly than that of parent and child.

"What's on your mind, Sara?" Rachel asked her gently. "You're not still worried about being a burden to me, are you?"

Sara had mentioned that misgiving within minutes of her arrival. She sent Rachel a fleeting smile and shook her head. "No," she admitted. "It's a couple of things."

"Like what?"

"Like the school that Kendal is supposed to attend. It's huge," she added, with a tug of dismay. "He's shy around large groups. I feel like he's going to be swallowed whole."

Rachel nodded her understanding. "And what else?" she prompted.

Sara rubbed her forehead. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do," said her mother coaxingly.

"I miss the ranch," Sara admitted. "It was peaceful there—not that it's awful here or anything. It's just... there was so much open space, so much quiet." And the trailer park where Rachel lived was just off the beltway, where the traffic circling the city of Dallas created a muted roar that never went away.

"And you miss Chase," Rachel guessed, prompting a startled look from Sara. Never once had she hinted of any deeper feelings for Chase than gratitude.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked, aghast.

Rachel smiled a little smile. "Only if you've been in love before."

Sara balked at the word
love.
She couldn't love a man who, in a week's time, might be on the other side of the world annihilating terrorists. "Missing him is pointless," she said, endeavoring to convince herself. "Even if I went back, he'd leave, and I'd still miss him."

"But you'd be living in his home. And you'd have hope that you'd see him again."

Perhaps she would, four years from now, when his enlistment was over. Then again, maybe not, given the memories that had kept him away in the first place.

Rachel's gaze shifted, taking on a faraway look. "You know, I thought that it would ruin your father's life if he learned that he'd gotten me pregnant. All he ever talked about was going away to college. I didn't want him quitting school to take care of me, so I didn't tell him. I wanted him to live his dreams. And to this day, I regret not giving love a chance. Sometimes it overcomes amazing odds."

Sara's heart contracted. "Do you think Chase would rent the ranch to me?" she asked, saying aloud the thought she'd been pondering lately.

"Why don't you ask him? Maybe he doesn't want you completely out of his life."

Hope buoyed her spirits. "But what about you?" she asked with worry. "I don't want you to feel like we're abandoning you."

"Oh, Sara," Rachel replied, her eyes soft with love. "Your adoptive mother raised you right. You have such a good heart. What matters most to me," she replied, reaching across the table to grasp her hand, "is your happiness. Do you think I could be happy keeping you here, knowing that you and Kendal are miserable?"

"We'd make pretty lousy housemates," Sara agreed. Especially Kendal, who'd done nothing but mope and carve obsessively at his hunk of cedar.

"Call him," Rachel encouraged with a tired smile.

"I will," Sara promised, experiencing a sudden case of the jitters. What if he turned her down? "Later," she added, "after I think about the best way to word it."

"Okay," said Rachel, sounding satisfied. "On that note, I'm going to bed." She rose to her feet and stretched.

Sara noted the wrinkles and stains on her nurse's uniform with respect. "Hey, Mom," she said, using that term for the first time ever.

Rachel sent her a startled look.

"Thank you," she said.

"Oh, baby, you don't have to. That's what moms are for." With suspiciously bright eyes, Rachel turned toward the rear of the trailer, leaving Sara clinging to hope.

Hearing a car come barreling up the driveway, Chase had to smile. He could tell that it was Hannah—Special Agent Lindstrom—who'd called his cell phone half an hour ago to say that she'd arrived at Tulsa Airport, and could he give her directions to the ranch?

Pushing his way out onto the front porch, he grinned at the sight of her behind the wheel of a cherry red Mustang, a rental car. Hannah had a thing for Mustangs. They were a reflection of her personality: American-made, with powerful engines and a love for speed.

As she parked behind his car, Chase closed the space between them. She'd barely killed the engine before she was out of the door, throwing her arms around him.

He actually staggered back a couple of steps. Hannah was almost as tall as he was, with short, flame red hair. She could shoot a gun as well as any SEAL he knew and face down danger with a smirk on her face. Flamboyant and fearless, she was the perfect match for the six-and-a-half-foot Luther Lindstrom, lieutenant junior grade in Chase's platoon, and the most decent guy he'd ever worked with.

"Westy! Oh, my God, this place is so you!" Hannah exclaimed, pausing long enough to take in the house, the barn, and the big pecan tree, where her gaze snagged briefly on the headstones.

And then she was looking him over through dancing, green eyes. "Button-up shirt, jeans, big buckle, and the ubiquitous cowboy boots. Welcome home, Westy! This goatee is
so
much better than the Grizzly Adams look," she declared. She looked him straight in the eye. "How was Malaysia?" she asked, not having seen him since before he left on assignment last year.

"Hot, sticky, and crawling with lowlife scum. I'm sorry I missed your wedding," he added, with real remorse.

"I'm sorry we couldn't wait for you to get back," she replied.

"So what's it like, working for the FBI?" he inquired, flicking a glance at her juniper green pantsuit. She managed to look professional and sexy all at the same time, not that he was looking.

"Great!" She pivoted to collect her briefcase. "I'm on Valentino's field team, so I travel a lot, but never overseas, which keeps Luther happy. Right now we're setting our sights on a diamond smuggler," she added, slinging the strap of the briefcase over her shoulder.

"You're sure you've got time to catch a bunch of skinheads?" he asked her. If he were Luther, he'd be chafing to have his wife to himself.

"The Boss has given me a week to check this out," she reassured him. "And by that, I mean Valentino, not Luther. He wanted me home yesterday."

"This'll all be over in a week," Chase said grimly. "Come on in the house."

"Oh, my God, this is so quaint," Hannah exclaimed as she stepped into the cool living room—the central air had been serviced just this morning. Her gaze flitted over the couch, with its freshly laundered cushion covers, the gleaming hardwood floor, and the big bay window that Sara had scrubbed to a shine.

"Thirsty?" Chase inquired, turning toward the kitchen. He pulled open the pristinely clean refrigerator and poured them two tall glasses of lemonade.

"Thanks," said Hannah, chugging hers down as she checked out the kitchen.

Chase's cell phone rang. With a cartwheeling sensation in his stomach, he recognized the number. "Excuse me a sec," he said.

"Sure." Hannah turned her back on him to survey the land through the kitchen window.

Chase strode into Linc's study, which held nothing in it now but a desk, empty gun cabinet, and an armchair in the corner. "Hey," he said, answering the call from Sara.

"Hi," she said, sounding hesitant. "How's it going?"

"Good. Can't talk much now," he admitted. "Hannah's here."

"Oh," said Sara. He'd told her yesterday that the FBI was getting involved in the quest to catch the skinheads, and, for that matter so was he.

"What's on your mind?"

"Maybe it should wait," she said uncomfortably.

He could sense her indecision as surely as if he were feeling it himself. "No, tell me," he urged, hoping it wasn't about Kendal, who'd withdrawn into his shell again, according to Sara.

He overheard her indrawn breath before she asked very quickly, "Is there any way you'd consider renting me the ranch?"

The walls around him seemed to jump closer. Chase slid his butt onto the edge of the desk to anchor himself. "You want to live here?" he asked, feeling a strange mix of astonishment and hope.

"I think Kendal would be happier in a small-town environment," she explained. As she spoke, he detected a throbbing note in her voice that betrayed a certain amount of desperation. "I mean, I totally understand if you don't want us there. You don't have to say yes, Chase, I just thought I'd ask."

Sara at the ranch.
It wasn't the first time he'd considered the idea. "But..." He caught himself.