Time to Run (7 page)

"Kendal, keep your head down," Sara advised her son.

Welcome to the Wild West,
she thought, with an inappropriate urge to giggle, as she and Kendal scrunched down in their seats.

Time slowed to a crawl.

"Was someone s'posed to be here?" Kendal whispered.

"I don't think so," Sarah admitted. It flashed through her mind that Garret had guessed her destination and set a trap for her, but she dismissed the thought as paranoid. The police would have been waiting for them if that were the case.

Chase emerged from the house scowling. He whistled for the dog, a sound that must have carried for miles.

"House is clear," he said, opening her door for her. "It was just a squatter hopin' to lay claim to an empty building. He left a mess behind, though. Come on in. We'll get our stuff later."

They filed out, trailing Chase up the porch steps. Ceramic pots of every shape and size littered the porch. Some previous occupant had liked to garden. Chase's mother? she wondered.

Chase pushed the door open. A musty odor greeted them as they stepped into a dark interior. "Electricity's turned off," he explained. He pulled heavy drapes away from the window, and light flooded in.

Sara's eyes widened. The main room boasted a stone hearth, exposed beams, a large sofa, hardwood floors, and a rust-and-cream-colored rug. "Oh, this is nice," she said, noting the gold-framed mirror and faded prints on the once-white walls.

"Kitchen's over here," Chase said, turning away.

Following him, she noted the dated cabinets and orange Formica countertops, littered with empty wrappers. Chase hadn't exaggerated to say that the squatter had left a mess behind. Dirty dishes filled the sink, and the garbage overflowed, making Kendal pinch his nose.

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.