Perilous Christmas Reunion Page 3

  As if to emphasize his words, a gust of wind howled around the corner of the house, and icy pellets chattered against the windows.

  “There’s a Jeep and a snowmobile in the garage.” Lauren gathered up her first-aid kit and headed to the kitchen.

  “Of course you have a four-wheel drive vehicle and a snowmobile.” Relief filled Chris as he perched on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Either would work if we knew someone wasn’t out there taking potshots at us.”

  “‘Someone’? You mean my brother.”

  “I mean someone after your brother—or you.”

  “Me?” About to pick up the frying pan from the sink, she spun to face him.

  “You made contact with Ryan. Ryan was about to accept a plea bargain in court when he chose to run instead.” Chris took in Lauren’s blank look and wondered if being CEO of her own company had turned her into an excellent actress or if she truly didn’t understand. He explained, “Ryan has information the government wants, information that can bring down a whole lot of bad guys. They want to stop him from talking. He thinks his life is threatened. If others believe Ryan told you something, your life is in danger, as well.”

  “I see.” Lauren folded, held upright with her elbows on the breakfast bar and her face in her hands.

  Once upon a time, Chris would have rounded the counter and offered her comfort. Now he sat gazing at her, tongue-tied, mind spinning to find something to tell her. All he seized upon was “I’ll do my best to protect you.”

  Except his weapon was gone, possibly taken by her because Ryan had warned her of danger.

  “You’ve already got hurt pushing me out of the way of a bullet.” Her voice was muffled by her hands.

  “Maybe my presence alone will be a deterrent. Injuring a deputy US marshal is asking for more attention and trouble than these guys want.”

  “That’s good, with you hurt and all.”

  “I’m all right. Breathing hurts, but isn’t excruciating. I think that’s a good sign. If I may use one of your guest rooms until the weather improves...” He trailed off, not sure how to ask for something that made him seem like he was welcome.

  “You can use either room upstairs.” She turned her back on him and began to scrub the frying pan. “You’ll probably find some of Ryan’s clothes in the one at the top of the steps. They’re old, but they won’t have holes in them.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wearing the clothes, even castoffs, of a man he was pursuing seemed vaguely unethical. But not taking advantage of dry clothes would be foolish.

  He climbed the steps running along one wall of the living room and entered the bedroom at the top. It didn’t look recently lived in. The bed was neatly made, the shutters closed, the curtains drawn. Though someone had cleaned away dust, the room smelled closed. Not musty, but stale. Were this a normal visit, Chris would have flung open the windows despite the cold and inhaled the glorious freshness of pine trees and the tang of wood smoke. But he didn’t dare so much as look at the lake or glance to see how badly the snow was falling. Instead, he opened the door to the en suite bathroom and removed his many layers so he could examine the damage to his back with the aid of the mirror. Getting Lauren to look would be easier than twisting around, but no way would he ask that of her. It wasn’t appropriate. It wasn’t necessary. He had a terrible bruise. Ice would benefit him.

  Goose bumps rose on his skin at the idea of an ice pack. The fire’s heat didn’t reach the upper floor, and Lauren must have the propane furnace turned low to conserve fuel.

  He found T-shirts and flannel button-downs in the dresser. They fitted a little too well. The jeans in another drawer proved too short, so he settled for a pair of sweatpants to get out of his own soaked trousers. He drew the line at wearing another man’s socks, but he located a pair of fleece-lined moccasins in the closet. He shoved his cell phone and wallet with his deputy US marshal credentials into the pockets of the sweatpants, then glanced around for anything else he might need if he and Lauren had to evacuate the house in a hurry.

  His boots. With the snow, he would need boots. In their wet state, however, they might take too long to pull on. His good snow boots were in his Jeep. He hadn’t taken the time to change into them. He’d been too anxious to see if Ryan had gone to his sister.

  He’d been too apprehensive about seeing Lauren again to remember his dress boots weren’t effective in more than an inch or two of snow.

  Back downstairs, Lauren stood at the stove, turning bacon in a pan. “I have frozen waffles and eggs, if you want those. Or bread for a sandwich. I was going to make BLTs before the shooting started.”

  “That sounds good.” Chris hesitated in the opening to the kitchen. “Can I toast the bread or something?”

  “Thanks. And slice the tomatoes?”

  “Sure.”

  They worked in silence punctuated by the sizzle of bacon in the pan and the howl of the wind outside. A log shifted in the stove, the toaster sprang with golden-brown slices and still they said nothing. Lauren took the toast and tomatoes from Chris and piled on bacon and lettuce. Still neither of them spoke.

  Then Lauren opened the refrigerator. “What do you want to drink? I have three kinds of pop, milk and orange juice.”

  “Can I trouble you for coffee?” Chris carried the plates of sandwiches to the small round table by the stove. “I need to warm up and stay awake.”

  “For what?” She began to run the coffee carafe beneath the tap. “You look like you need sleep.”

  He shouldn’t care that she noticed his fatigue.

  “I presume Ryan has a key to this house?”

  “He does not.” She set the carafe on the hot plate.

  Chris watched her graceful movements, the sureness of each scoop and pour without scattering grounds across the countertop as he always did. She was smart and good at just about everything she tried—except for loving him.

  He shook his head. “You expect me to believe you never gave a key to your big brother?”

  “I expect you to believe the truth.” She turned from the counter and filled two glasses with water. “Let’s eat while it’s warm.”

  They settled at the table, thick sandwiches and a bowl of apples between them. The table was so small their knees nearly touched. It was a table meant for playing board games. The dining table was across the room, in the shadows away from the warmth of the fire. That warmth eddied around them like an invisible cocoon holding them in the same place—a place full of memories of other meals shared at a similar table, of rainy days spent playing Scrabble or Monopoly at his mother’s house.

  If he hadn’t needed fuel, Chris might have pushed away and retreated to the room upstairs. He didn’t need reminders of that blissful summer in another cabin at another lake, before his father had died and he changed careers.

  The crunching of teeth on toast and crisp bacon sounded like an army tramping over crusty snow.

  Last week’s warmer weather had given the snow an icy surface, a natural warning if anyone approached the cabin.

  The howling wind and occasional rattle of a snapping tree branch suggested no one in his right mind would prowl outside. Getting inside wouldn’t be easy without a key to the many locks on the doors.

  Not easy, nor impossible.

  “Why is this house built like a fortress?” Chris asked.

  Those locks, heavy doors and solid shutters raised his law-enforcement antenna.

  Lauren shrugged as though every house was built with so many reinforcements. “It wasn’t built like a fortress. I had the doors changed to steel-cored and the shutters installed after those murderers escaped in New York and broke into summer cabins. I don’t want anyone trashing this place when I’m not here, and I want to feel safe when I am.”

  “It’s a good place for a man on the lam to hide.” Chris probed the wound of her brothe
r. “Where else would Ryan go?”

  “Not here for long. I told him he isn’t welcome.” Lauren selected an apple from the bowl, then returned it and rose to go into the kitchen. “Do you take your coffee black?”

  She didn’t remember. Oddly, that annoyed him.

  “A splash of cream, if you have it. Black, if all you have is skim milk.”

  “Please. Who insults good coffee with skim milk?” She warmed half-and-half in the microwave, poured it into two coffee-filled mugs and carried them to the table before she spoke again. “Ryan handles commercial real estate in Colorado. How could he be a drug smuggler in Texas? Besides that, I’ve seen his tax returns. He doesn’t need the money.”

  “He’s too rich to break the law?” Chris didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “That isn’t a very convincing defense.”

  “The evidence is circumstantial. No one ever caught him with drugs in his possession.”

  “If he isn’t guilty, Lauren, why didn’t he accept the plea bargain? And why did he run?”

  Lauren stared into her coffee for so long Chris thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she wrapped her hands around the mug commemorating a ten-year-old Christmas and gave him a direct look. “Prison scared him to death. He’s not a fighter, even if some of his activities may be on the wrong side of the law. The idea of being separated from fresh air and open spaces scares him. The nights he’s spent in jail while awaiting arraignment and bail still give him nightmares.”

  “He’s not a fighter?” Chris stared at her, his own hands wrapped around a mug proclaiming Peace on Earth and Goodwill toward Men.

  “He wouldn’t even fight with me when we were children.”

  “Then how did he manage to overpower a courtroom security guard, steal his gun and evade capture this morning?”

  Lauren gnawed on her lower lip.

  Chris drank his coffee. It was high quality, as was everything surrounding Lauren Wexler since she had turned a school computer science project into a prosperous business. He could wait her out. Patience came with his job.

  Across from him, Lauren sipped at her coffee, set down the mug, then picked it up immediately to sip some more. When Chris tried to hold her gaze, she turned her head toward the end of the great room, where the door led to the deck overlooking the lake. For a heartbeat, Chris thought she was simply avoiding his scrutiny. Then he heard the crunch of footfalls on the deck, the rattle of the door handle followed by a resounding thud. The door shuddered under the impact of someone trying to break into the house.

  THREE

  Chris reached for his weapon. He had forgotten it wasn’t there. It had vanished somewhere during the moments when he and Lauren had headed for the house the first time. Or it had vanished with Lauren, and she had stashed it away somewhere when she said she was collecting the first-aid kit. Either way, the gun was gone. He had no way to protect Lauren or himself while someone slammed hard enough against the back door to make it shudder in its frame.

  Chris glanced around the room for some sort of weapon. Other than chunks of wood too short and thick to use as clubs, nothing presented itself to him.

  “Where is my gun?” Chris demanded, not expecting an answer.

  “I don’t know.” Lauren gripped the edge of the table. “I felt it beneath you near the woodpile—”

  “Ryan Delaney,” a man shouted outside the door, “open this door if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Ryan isn’t in here,” Lauren shouted back before Chris could get out his warning for her to remain quiet.

  “Come out, Delaney, if you want to keep your sister alive,” another man yelled.

  “He’s not—”

  Chris grasped Lauren’s hand and headed for the steps. “You can’t argue them into believing your brother isn’t here.”

  “Wait.” Lauren held back. “I should get my cell phone. I’ll need it when we reach the road and have service.”

  “No time.” Chris pounded up the steps, Lauren sprinting behind him in her moccasins. He hesitated for a moment at the landing, remembering the configuration of the house outside, and steered them toward the far bedroom.

  Below, a window smashed. In moments, the men would manage to batter through the shutters.

  Chris and Lauren dived into the bedroom. Once inside, he closed and locked the door, then started to drag the heavy chest of drawers across the room. His injured shoulder gave out, and his hand slipped from the edge, throwing him off balance. He stumbled and would have fallen, tripping on the edge of the throw rug, but Lauren’s arm encircled his waist and held him upright, held him close.

  For a heartbeat, the contact felt right, natural. Then he got his feet under him again and shook off her touch. “Help me push this.”

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted and marched around to the other end of the dresser.

  “Please.”

  She shoved the chest toward him. He pulled. Together, they slid the solid oak piece across the rug to block the door.

  A crash and thud below warned the men had entered the house. Their shouts of “Where are you, Delaney?” confirmed Chris’s fears.

  Lauren bowed her head. “God, please help Ryan if he is out there.”

  “Help him what?” Pain and frustration sharpened Chris’s tone. “Help him avoid capture? Help him get to Canada to elude justice?”

  “If my brother is guilty, I don’t expect him to elude justice.” Lauren’s tone was as icy as the sleet outside as she raised her head, but the glow of a night-light on one wall didn’t provide enough illumination for Chris to read her expression.

  “‘If’? Lauren, he’s a fugitive. And now—” Chris broke off.

  No sense in repeating the same arguments. She would never believe her big brother capable of armed transport of narcotics with the intent to sell. She had always thought the sun rose and set on Ryan, who did not in the least deserve her adulation, except that he had always treated her like a princess when the rest of her family neglected her.

  “Do you think an innocent man would have thugs like these after him?”

  Footfalls thudded on the steps.

  “That chest won’t hold them for long.” Lauren’s face was pale, her pupils dilated.

  “It only needs to hold them long enough for us to get out the window.”

  “Out the window? But we’re not dressed for this weather.”

  “We’re not bulletproof either.” Chris snatched up an afghan from the foot of the bed. “Wrap this around you.”

  “You—”

  “I’m fine.”

  He wouldn’t be for long in this kind of cold, but a little frostbite sounded better than facing these men unarmed.

  “We can get into the attic from here. If we open the window, they’ll think we left that way while we’re still inside.”

  “We’d be trapped if they decided to hang out here, but misdirecting is a good idea. We can try to make them think we went into the attic. Can you pull that ladder down?” Chris strode across the room to the window and flung back the shutters. Sleet pinged against the glass, a substance nearly as deadly as the men bellowing and banging throughout the house. Neither of them wore outdoor clothing. Nonetheless, he shoved up the sash and leaned out. Pellets of ice struck his skin like a thousand frozen hypodermic needles. He winced where the wood had battered his scalp what felt like hours ago. “How far down from the garage roof to the ground?”

  “Ten feet.”

  “Can you get yourself down that far? With the snow, the landing shouldn’t be too rough.”

  “I’ll be all right if you will.”

  Chris hoped and prayed she was right. He didn’t want to see her hurt, especially with someone following them.

  Following.

  “Let’s go, then,” Chris said.

  With ease, t
hey stepped over the low windowsill and onto the garage roof. Their footfalls crunched through the sleet-covered snow, no doubt leaving a trail the men could follow without light. No help for it. They were committed to their route now.

  “I’ll go first.” Before he could stop her, Lauren flopped onto her belly and eased herself over the lip of the roof.

  A thud and gasp followed her escape. Chris didn’t waste time asking if she was all right. He mimicked her movements, landing in a snowdrift that wasn’t as soft as it looked. Winded, pain shooting through his shoulder and head, he lay motionless for a heartbeat—then two—all too aware of Lauren gasping beside him, but unable to talk for several moments and ask her if she was hurt.

  And above them, a gunshot split the night.

  “They’re going to get into that room soon.” Chris hauled himself to his feet and reached to help Lauren up. “Let’s get inside the garage.”

  “I’ll drive. I know the terrain.” Lauren grasped his hands and hauled herself to her feet.

  For a heartbeat, their eyes met and held in the snow-brightened night. Then Lauren jerked her hands free and spun toward the garage’s back door.

  * * *

  Lauren shoved open the rear door of the garage. “We have to take the snowmobile.”

  “Why not the Jeep?” Chris asked.

  “The key is in my purse inside the house. I should have grabbed it. I didn’t think—”

  “No time for that now. We’ll take the snowmobile.”

  On a hook beside the entrance to the house hung a key to the snowmobile. If ever she needed proof Ryan was in serious danger, it was the presence of the key and vehicle on runners. Ryan would have taken the snowmobile if he’d had the time. He knew she never locked the garage and always kept the key handy in the event a hunter or winter hiker got lost, injured or snowbound and needed to reach shelter. So typical of her nature—risk someone stealing the contents of her garage if leaving the attached building open might save a life.