Perilous Christmas Reunion

TWO

Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and grasped her elbows to stop herself from shaking—from cold or in response to the fury on Chris’s face, she wasn’t quite sure. “I know your gun was there. I felt it when I was helping you get up, but I didn’t take it.”

Chris pressed one hand to his head, where blood still trickled along his hairline, then bent to roll aside a log at the same moment a crack of gunfire reverberated from the trees.

“Get inside,” Chris shouted.

Lauren was already running for the open door. Chris caught up and grabbed her hand. Her moccasins slipped on the doorsill, and she landed on her knees. Chris edged past her, then bent to catch hold of her arms and haul her to her feet. A sharp hiss of breath through his teeth reminded Lauren he was injured, and she freed herself from his grip so she could slip her arm around his waist and propel him through the door.

It was two-inch-thick, oak with a steel core, meant to withstand a Michigan winter or the worst summer storm. Lauren slammed it and threw the two dead bolts into place. The storm shutters were already closed, save for the one over the front window. Chris lunged for that one and banged it shut. A moment later, another shot cracked, muffled by the cabin’s thick walls, but the walls weren’t so thick Lauren missed the thud of a bullet striking the window frame.

“What are they doing?” She flung herself to the floor below the level of the window. “Who is shooting at us?”

“Maybe you can tell me.” Pallor emphasizing the deep blue of his eyes, Chris sank onto the edge of the leather sofa. “Your brother?”

“But—” Lauren stood and leaned against the wall, her heart racing as though she had just finished swimming across the lake “—that wasn’t you shooting at Ryan?”

“I never saw Ryan. Where did he go?”

“He took off when the shooting started.”

Chris gazed at her with narrowed eyes, then glanced toward the steps to the bedrooms above and back to her. “You know, if you harbor a fugitive, you’re an accessory—”

“He isn’t here.” Lauren flung her arms wide, nearly knocking a poinsettia off a low table. “Go look for yourself, if you don’t believe me. I know that’s why you’re here. I should have known you’d come here first.”

“I was on my way to see my family when the news hit.”

“And your first thought was that Lauren would protect her brother.” She blinked hard against hot moisture in her eyes.

“You’ve always put your brother first.”

She spun on her heel, numb with cold from her wet moccasins, and stalked into the kitchen. “I never put Ryan first, but you will never understand that I can’t stop loving him just because he might associate with criminals.”

“‘Might associate with’?” Chris’s voice was far too quiet.

Lauren understood what that meant. He grew quiet when he was angry. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Her family had come between Chris and her having a happy future together. Now Ryan was interfering with Chris’s Christmas with his mother and sister.

And she had just said that Ryan might associate with criminals, as though he wasn’t one himself. She never could accept that her big brother was something other than the kind and loving young man who had built her a tree house and cleaned her bloody hands and knees when she was learning to ride a bike.

“Ryan ran into the woods when the shooting started.” As an olive branch, her information was poor, but it was all she had to offer.

“Do you have any form of communication here?” Chris’s question was his only response. “I get no signal on my mobile.”

Despite the heavy storm shutters, she was all too aware of a gunman likely lurking outside the house. Without a word, she fetched the satellite phone and handed it to Chris, then she located the first-aid kit she had dropped on the faded Oriental rug in the center of the living room. She could doctor Chris’s head wound until he got assistance from EMTs. Needing warm water to cleanse the wound, she returned to the kitchen. With the open floor plan, she wouldn’t be able to avoid hearing Chris’s call, but if he wanted privacy, he could go into the bathroom, one of the bedrooms or even retreat upstairs.

Yet he made no phone calls. One hand holding a square of clean linen cloth beneath the kitchen tap, Lauren glanced over her shoulder. Chris perched on the edge of the sofa with the phone in his hand, his mouth set in a grim line.

“What’s wrong?” She flicked off the water.

“No signal. I guess I have to risk going outside.”

“You shouldn’t have to. I have an antenna.” Their eyes met across the breakfast bar, and she corrected herself. “I had an antenna.”

“Cloud interference?”

“The weather isn’t bad enough for that yet.” Despite the heat of the woodstove, a chill raced down Lauren’s arms. When she read the accusation in Chris’s gaze, steady upon her face, the shivers penetrated through her body to her core. She would rather face an arctic storm outside than remain beneath the scrutiny of those beautiful blue eyes. Yet she could not look away or he would think she was trying to hide something.

“Did you disable the antenna because you were expecting your brother?” He asked the question she had anticipated.

She flattened the palms of her hands on the white quartz countertop so they wouldn’t shake. “Do you really think I climbed on the roof to disable the antenna?”

“I think you didn’t answer my question.” His tone was as cold as Lauren felt—a rival to the oncoming storm—cold enough to make something inside her snap.

“I did not disable the antenna.” She threw the cloth she’d been wetting into the sink. “I did not plan to give my brother shelter.” She grabbed the frying pan with her ruined dinner congealing inside and threw that into the sink with a satisfying clatter of cast iron on stainless steel. “I did not shoot at you, steal your gun or make the woodpile collapse on top of you. I arrived here two hours ago to avoid the press that seems to be forgetting it is nearly Christmas and some of us would like a peaceful time to remember the season and the birth of Jesus in peace. I came here to avoid the press so I didn’t forget about goodwill toward men.” She rounded the breakfast bar and yanked open the door to the stove to add more wood. “I was not in Chicago for my brother’s trial, so I did not aid and abet his escape.” A log slipped from her hands and hit the floor a hairbreadth from her toes. “I cannot prove the negative, so you will simply have to believe me or not. Frankly, at this moment, goodwill toward men does not include you, as far as I’m concerned.” She wrestled the log into the stove and latched the door before she dared face a too-silent and, she presumed, outraged deputy US marshal.

She faced a man with one arm clamped to his side and his other hand flattened to the wound on his head, as he rocked with silent laughter.

“I’m glad I amuse you.” Burdened with the knowledge she had just made a fool of herself, she trudged back to the kitchen and found another clean cloth. “Your head is bleeding again. Let me clean it up and get a bandage on it.” The running water masked anything he might have said. By the time the cloth was wet and she returned to the living room, Chris had stopped laughing. The light had left his eyes, and his jaw, solid and square, was set in renewed anger, or maybe just pain—set enough so he didn’t seem inclined to speak.

Lauren took a deep breath. “I apologize for losing my temper. I simply—” She broke off, not willing to diminish the apology with excuses about how much she hated false accusations. “Please forgive me. My temper is my thorn in my flesh.”

“I know.” Their eyes met again. From only two feet away, the impact struck Lauren like a physical blow to her chest, to her heart.

He had always laughed at her temper, those infrequent outbursts after she was pushed too far. At least he had laughed until the last time when she had sent him away in a flood of outrage, a spate of words designed to drown any affection he felt for her.

She held up the wet cloth like a shield. “Let me cleanse that wound for you. Do you think it was from a bullet too?”

“A log struck me. I doubt I’d be awake if it had been a gunshot wound.”

“I suppose not.” She brushed aside his hair, cut short no doubt for his job, but so thick it tended to wave anyway, so dark a brown it was nearly black, far darker than her own burnished chestnut. “It’s not deep. I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

“That’s fortunate, since we can’t seem to get an ambulance or sheriff here.” He held up the useless sat phone.

“I could have stitched it.”

“Without anesthesia? No thanks.” He shuddered.

“You mean the big bad deputy marshal can’t take a little pain?” She meant the words to be teasing; they sounded snarky.

In truth, they were mean. He must be in serious pain from the blow to his back, vest or not, but hadn’t complained about it. His head must hurt, as well. Again, he hadn’t complained.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No need to apologize for that.”

“Which means I need to apologize for something else.” She affixed a couple of butterfly bandages to the wound, covered them with a larger adhesive-edged pad and stepped back to inspect her work. “It’ll do.”

“Thank you.” He gave her a half smile. “Now that I’m patched up, let’s go back to talking about your brother.”

She stiffened. “I do not need to apologize for helping my brother. I did nothing but go to him when he fell at the bottom of the steps, to offer him aid if he was seriously injured. He wasn’t hurt that badly, apparently.”

“That’s all?” Chris’s gaze burned into hers.

“Yes, that’s—” Her hand dropped to the pocket of her jeans.

In all the terror of being shot at, not to mention the shock of seeing Chris after five years, she had forgotten about the flash drive Ryan had pressed into her hand.

Lauren paled, emphasizing the depths of her wide, dark eyes. Chris regretted his harshness, yet she needed to see the consequences of helping her brother evade the law. He might not be able to love a woman who could not support his chosen profession, but he remembered enough of his former affection for her to want to keep her free to live her life as she wished to.

“What is it?” Chris demanded.

“I...don’t know. Maybe nothing.” She pulled something from her pocket and held it out to him.

The dull black plastic of a flash drive lay stark against her pale skin.

“What is it?” Chris repeated.

“Ryan gave it to me before he got up and started running again, right before the shooting.”

“And when were you going to tell me?”

“As soon as I remembered it.”

Chris arched one brow in skeptical inquiry.

“I was a little distracted over being shot at.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “I have no idea what’s on it. I have no idea why he gave it to me, but you probably have more use for it than I do.”

“I probably do.” Chris started to reach for it, thought of fingerprints and snatched a piece of gauze from the first-aid kit.

“It already has my fingerprints on it, and Ryan was wearing gloves,” Lauren pointed out.

“I don’t need to add my fingerprints to what might be there.” Chris wrapped the flash drive in gauze and slipped it into his pocket.

“Should I get my computer so you can see what’s on it?” Lauren asked.

Chris studied her face for a moment, trying to look beyond the distraction of her beauty to discover if she was being sincerely cooperative or playing some kind of game. He couldn’t forget his missing service weapon, nor the fact that Ryan had come straight to her, as Chris had suspected he would. He couldn’t forget that Lauren had put her criminal family before him five years earlier.

With her final words—I love you too much to let my family drag down your new career, but I can’t give up the only family I have—ringing in his ears, Chris made a decision.

“I’d rather give it to the nearest US marshal’s office to look at.”

“Even if it holds a key to where Ryan has gone?”

“Good point, but I can wait until I get my own laptop out of my SUV. It’s parked along the highway.”

Lauren gave him an exasperated glance. “My computer is about five feet from you. You’re welcome to use it.”

And have some special encryption erase the drive the instant he inserted it?

“You.” She flung up her hands. “Do you think I’ll destroy the data on that thing by some technical sleight of hand?”

“You are a computer whiz, aren’t you? The successful computer-security entrepreneur?”

“I am,” she said without conceit, “and I am also a law-abiding citizen with some compassion. Since you’re hungry, I can make us some dinner.”

Chris’s eyes widened. “You read minds?”

“I hear growling stomachs—yours and mine. Come sit at the breakfast bar while I cook.”

Chris tried to rise. Pain shot through his back, and a groan slipped from his lips before he could suppress it.

“You need a doctor.” Lauren grasped his upper arm on the unwounded side. “Let me help.” She tugged.

With her help and some gritting of his teeth, he managed to get his legs beneath him enough to fight the softness of the sofa and stand. “I don’t need medical help, but we do need to get that flash drive to law enforcement tonight. If you have any ideas how we will do that, you have better resources than I do.”

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 brother. “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?”