Читать книгу Sarah's Secrets - Lisa Childs, Lisa Childs, Livia Reasoner - Страница 10

Death hung in the air. The medicinal smell of it pervaded the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit. The bright lights in the hall illuminated the dread on the pinched faces of those who waited for word of it.

Death.

Royce Graham shrugged out of his rain-darkened overcoat, ran an unsteady hand over his wet hair and stepped close to a man who leaned against the corridor wall. “Father.”

The older man turned. He’d aged since Royce had seen him last. Lines rimmed the thin, compressed lips. His hair had slipped from silver to white. “You came.” Surprise lit the faded blue eyes.

“You called.”

“He wants you.”

A breath hitched in Royce’s chest. His father didn’t want him, wouldn’t have called for him unless he’d been asked. The rejection wasn’t new, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “Why?”

“He’s dying, Royce.” A grimace twisted the man’s stern face.

Royce curled his fingers into his palm, so he wouldn’t reach out. He had no comfort to offer his father while Donald Graham watched his best friend die, at least, none the old man would accept.

“I’m sorry. What happened?” He figured a heart attack. These men lived on power and thrived on high-stress business dealings.

“He was shot.” Donald Graham’s voice cracked, and impotent rage surged into his eyes. “Someone shot him.”

“Who?”

A ragged sigh slipped through those thin lips. “He surprised someone breaking into his den. He never saw who, but the bastard shot him and cleaned out his safe—money, will, everything.”

Donald ran a trembling hand through his white hair. “I told him again and again to get a security system, especially after the break-ins at the company. He could probably have worked a deal when we upped security there. The cheap fool.”

Despite the brevity of the situation, Royce’s mouth tipped up with wry amusement. His father expected people to do as he told them. “So, he can speak?”

Annoyance narrowed Donald’s eyes. “I told you he asked for you. I don’t know why. He’ll tell only you what he wants. Get in there. The doctors say he doesn’t have much time.”

Royce’s heart beat slow and heavy with dread. Bart McCarthy had always been a strong presence in his life. His godfather. “Where?” He gestured toward the door beside his father. “In there?”

Donald nodded and took the overcoat from Royce’s arm. “He wants to talk to you alone.” Bitterness laced his father’s words.

Royce stepped around him and pushed open the door. Machines beeped and made wheezing noises as Bart McCarthy gasped for each breath. Tubes connected to his frail body: IVs, oxygen…

Royce had once feared this man, until he’d learned his loud bark concealed his generous, loving nature. Now pity softened Royce’s heart. And something else. He blinked hard. “Bart.”

Misted green eyes peered up at him. A voice rasped out. “You came.”

Royce approached the bed, his wet rubber soles squeaking against the pristine tiles of the ICU floor. “What’s with the surprise?” He forced his mouth into a grin. “You had the old man call. I didn’t dare disobey.”

And he’d wanted to come. He’d wanted to see this man again. But he didn’t want it to be for the last time.

“Smart a…”

“Hey, don’t waste your breath on insults. You need to save it. You need to fight.” He curled his fingers around the steel railing on the side of the bed.

Pride lit the green eyes. “Fight…”

Royce nodded. “You fight this. I want to know what happened last night.”

When Bart opened his mouth, Royce held up a hand. “But you shouldn’t get worked up.”

The pride burned brighter. “I got shot…but I…shouldn’t…get worked…up?”

Royce’s laugh didn’t rise above the cacophony of the life-saving machines. “There’s some of that McCarthy spirit. Now, are you going to tell me what happened last night, so I can track down the SOB who shot you?”

A wiry gray brow rose above those lively eyes. This man wasn’t gone yet. “Tracking…”

Royce’s pulse quickened. “That’s what I do. Tell me everything you saw, Bart.”

“Too dark. Didn’t see anything…”

Frustration burned in Royce’s throat. He wanted whoever had done this to the old dragon.

“I have to…ask you…”

A cough wheezed out of his godfather’s frail chest, rattling the skeletal body and the tubes and wires connected to it.

Royce winced and tightened his hands around the railing till his fingertips tingled. “Whatever you want, it’s yours. Ask me.”

“Find…”

The lids fluttered over the pale eyes, consciousness slipping away from him.

“What? Who?”

Thin fingers closed over his hand, biting with a fierce grasp. “Find Sarah…”

Royce turned his hand over to clasp Bart’s, but his godfather’s fingers slid away. “Bart?”

“Sarah…”

A murmur rose from the bed. “Sarah Mars…”

SARAH’S HEELS clicked against the new subfloor as she walked the maze of stud walls. Closing her eyes, she could envision how it would be when the builder finished. Hers. Something for her, not given to her, not inherited, not on loan. Hers alone. As only her son was.

But she shared him now, as she should have years ago. A sigh slipped through her lips.

“Something not right, Mrs. Hutchins?”

The contractor hovered nearby with respectful interest in Sarah’s opinion. A woman. And an out-of-towner. Those were the only people who respected her. Strangers.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Hard to envision the finished product—”

“No, it’s not.” She patted the woman’s arm. “It’s perfect.”

A smile creased the young woman’s face. “I’m glad you think so. There’s a long way to go yet.”

Sarah waved a hand in dismissal. “I understand and appreciate you taking this job so far from home. Why don’t you head back down now for the weekend since your workers have already left? I’ll check in with you some time next week.”

The blond head bobbed. “Have a nice weekend, Mrs. Hutchins.”

Sarah held in her next sigh until the woman’s pickup backed from the driveway. Nice weekend? She hoped so. She would enjoy her son’s soccer game. She enjoyed every minute with her growing boy. But when she was alone…

She shivered despite the warm caress of the spring air. She turned to leave, her heel catching on a protruding nail. Grasping the stud wall prevented a fall, but a sliver drove in beneath her nail bed. A breath of pain hissed through her lips. “Just got that manicure, too.”

She glanced at the rose-colored nails and the rings glinting in the late-afternoon sun. He was dead now. As a widow, she could continue to wear his rings, to perpetrate that lie of her marriage.

Tears burned behind her eyes, and her heart contracted with pain. She missed him, her dear friend. But he’d never been truly her husband. She hadn’t felt a man’s passionate touch in many years.

She closed her teeth over the jagged end of the sliver and tugged it free. Blood dripped from her hand to the new floorboards.

Although the townspeople believed it, there was no proverbial blood on her hands. In fact, they’d be surprised if they knew who had really married whom for the money. Money had been little compensation for what she’d lost—loving, supportive parents, their hearts so big they’d first adopted one child and then a few years later, another. Her. They’d given her and her older, adopted “brother” a home. Family. But for Jeremy, that was all gone now. After taking one life, her brother had taken another, his own. And just a few years later, a plane crash had taken her parents, leaving her a single mother with no emotional support…only the life insurance money. So when as a young nurse she’d seen a patient struggling financially as well as physically, she had offered her help and been labeled a gold digger for her efforts. But that was the past. And where was the sense in looking back? Sarah had never found it.

Whatever mistakes she’d made, she couldn’t change them now. Whatever tragedies she’d endured, she couldn’t alter fate as much as she wished she could. She had to concentrate on the future. And her son.

If she dwelled on the past, she would open that folder her friend and business partner Evan Quade kept locked in a safe-deposit box, protected from her son’s curiosity and her own interest. If they wanted her to know who they were, they’d come looking for her. But after twenty-eight years, she didn’t expect them any time soon.

Being careful of her impractical heels, she stepped down a couple of concrete steps and walked across the cement slab that would be the garage.

Heat shimmered off the silver hood of her Mercedes as the late-spring sun shone bright in a clear sky. From behind a stand of trees with new leaves, Lake Michigan rushed to the sandy shore.

Jeremy would have so much fun here as he made his awkward passage from early adolescence to adulthood. A passage she prayed he traversed with more grace and caution than she had. But if she hadn’t…

No, no looking back, except to count her blessings, of which Jeremy was the biggest.

A wave of stale air crashed against her as she pulled open the car’s driver’s door. She should have left the window down. Someday she’d learn to plan ahead.

She slid onto the warm leather seat and reached for the keys she’d dropped in the console. Her nails scratched paper. She lifted a creased note, unfolded it, and read the printed message aloud, “We have your son!”

ROYCE HOPED he had the right woman this time. Finding Sarah Mars, the real Sarah Mars, hadn’t been easy even for an experienced “tracker” like him. He’d had pathetic little to go on.

Bart McCarthy had slipped into a coma. His family, gathered in the corridor with Royce’s father, had had no information on Sarah Mars. Bart’s son, grandson and ex-granddaughter-in-law had never heard the name before. And neither had Royce’s father, Bart’s business partner. So who was she?

Not any of the other women he’d found in the last few days. His gut had told him no. Not the one. Not yet. But when he’d pulled up information and a grainy newspaper photo of Sarah Mars-Hutchins, something had clicked for him. Her. Despite the poor quality of the photo, she’d even looked familiar. And standing on this ball field in Winter Falls, Michigan, had his instincts screaming. She was near.

Listening to his instincts while working for the Milwaukee Police Department had brought him to the attention of the FBI after he’d solved a high-profile case before they had. To save face, he’d always suspected, they had hired him away from Milwaukee PD. But he’d never really fit in at the Bureau. He hadn’t liked handling the media, and he’d hated the internal politics.

He’d had other, more painful reasons for calling it quits. But what he told the public was that he’d finally realized he could only work for himself. Maybe he was more like his old man than he’d thought.

He winced. No way.

The sun glinted on a man’s blond hair then reflected off the badge on his chest. Despite the shade of his dark glasses, Royce brought his hand to his brow to peer closer, not believing his eyes.

“Dylan!”

Dylan Matthews thrust a cell phone into his shirt pocket. Tension creased his forehead. He stared at Royce for a couple of seconds until a smile broke free. “Royce Graham!” He waved an arm in a gesture for Royce to come closer.

With trepidation Royce eyed the kids running around the field behind Dylan. They chased a soccer ball, kicking at it and tripping over each other. Cautious steps brought him to the edge of the excitement and next to his friend.

“Never thought I’d see you here.” They spoke in unison, then laughed and clasped hands.

Royce shook his head, not able to mesh the bitter narcotics officer he’d known in Detroit with this uniformed sheriff. “You’re a sheriff? I can’t believe I recognized you. Must have been when you were looking harassed. You can’t tell me a problem cropped up in this happy little town.”

Dylan snorted. “You’d be surprised. But what brings the Tracker here?”

Royce groaned. “Very little sleep and a genuine deadline.” His heart flipped, and he squeezed his eyes shut to the image of Bart lying helpless in ICU. Would Sarah bring him out of the coma?

“Of course you’re looking for someone. You’re always looking for someone or something, but usually in some godforsaken foreign country. You couldn’t be here on vacation. I doubt you’ve ever taken one.”

Although Dylan’s words were spoken mildly, Royce reeled. Had he become the aggressive, ambitious man his friend described? Had he become his father?

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “This is different. It’s personal.”

Dylan’s gaze swung from his intense surveillance of the soccer players to Royce. “Yeah, you look like hell.”

Royce’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Thanks a lot.” Then he stumbled back as the group of kids surged toward them.

“What next, Coach? Sheriff?”

Because he had to muffle a laugh, he missed Dylan’s orders. The kids scrambled off to do his bidding. One tall blond kid stood nearly a head above the others. “He yours?”

A wistful sigh escaped Dylan’s lips. “In a manner of speaking.” And the lines creased his forehead again. Worry.

Despite his press for time, Royce wanted to help. He hadn’t seen Dylan in a long time. But a dying man hung to life by a thread. Royce was that thread, he and the hope that he could find Sarah.

“I am looking for someone, Dylan. It’s really important that I find this person.”

“Here?”

Royce nodded. “That’s what the rumor is.” And a lot of rumors circulated about Sarah Mars-Hutchins. She had to be the one.

Dylan snorted again. “Rumors. You’ve been in town long enough to hear them?” He flicked his gaze over Royce again. “You don’t blend in with the tourist crowd. Wonder why no one mentioned your questions.”

Royce shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m good at my job?”

Dylan laughed. “Yes, you are. That’s why Detroit PD hired you a few times.”

Royce managed a tired grin. “I’m just a consultant now.”

Dylan snorted. “You’re full of it. So who are you looking for?”

Before Royce could answer, brakes screeched as a Mercedes slammed to a halt in the parking lot. A woman catapulted from the car, not even closing the door. On high heels she stumbled across the lawn, her gaze focused on the players. She staggered to the far end of the playing field, clutching her arms around her midriff. Her chest expanded against a silk blouse as she drew in a breath.

“What’s the matter with her?” With a shoulder, Royce nudged Dylan only to find his friend’s gaze already on the woman.

“She’ll be all right. She’s the strongest person I know.” Dylan’s voice vibrated with pride. Was this his wife? A wedding band encircled the third finger on the sheriff’s left hand.

When Royce turned back, the woman had resumed her approach. Only now she traversed the lawn with her head held high, a picture of grace and serenity. The breeze blew wisps of glowing red hair across her pale cheek.

His gut clenched over her ethereal beauty. “Whew…”

If not for the dome light burning in the Mercedes and the door standing open, he wouldn’t have believed his tired eyes had witnessed any anxiety from her.

He had his own problems. He couldn’t get involved, but he had to know. “Who is she?”

A sigh gusted from Dylan, and her name carried on the end of it. “Sarah.”

SARAH’S HEART struggled to find a normal rhythm. Despite Dylan’s assurances, via cell phone, that her son was safe, she hadn’t believed it. She knew about the lies people told to protect someone.

Tears swam in her eyes, blurring him from her vision. Panic washed over her again, stealing away the composure she’d managed to summon. She had to touch him, had to make sure he was real. Heedless of the scrambling boys, she rushed into the game.

Intent on the ball with his head down, he never noticed her until she threw her arms around him. “Jeremy, you’re safe! Thank God!”

He tried to squirm free. “Mom! I almost had that goal!”

“Sorry.” A sob threatened her apology. She wrapped her arms tighter around his thin frame, grateful she could hold her son.

When his bright blue gaze focused on her face, the irritation faded. “Mom? You okay?”

She nodded and reluctantly released him, edging backward toward the sidelines. “I’m fine. Play. Go ahead. Make a goal.”

He stared at her for another minute until the other players urged him back into the game. Except for a couple of troubled glances her way, Jeremy played with joyful abandon tempered with competitive skill. He romped with his friends on the soccer field, his head above theirs. Her tall, proud son.

She had to pull herself together. He had enough to live down with her as his mother. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, stifling the urge to drag him from the field to safety. But where would she find that?

Shaking legs carried her toward Dylan. She blinked away the tears. A man stood shoulder to shoulder with the sheriff. Despite his dark glasses, she burned from the scrutiny of his stare but willed the blush away. No doubt he’d seen her mad scramble from her car and into the midst of the game.

Who was he? The wind tousled overly long strands of his dark blond hair. She didn’t remember him from other practices or games. Was he a weekend father who neglected his son?

Her mouth tightened with distaste and she dismissed him, turning to Dylan. Yet her flesh still burned. How could she be so aware of this man? A stranger? Was he the one who’d left the note?

Dylan’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Are you okay, Sarah?”

She opened her mouth but didn’t trust her voice since his concern undermined her tenuous composure. She nodded.

“Where’s the note?”

She glanced again to the stranger. He wore a black polo shirt over faded jeans. Nothing about that stamped him as an outsider, but she knew he wasn’t from Winter Falls. A week or more growth of beard, darker blond than his hair, clung to his strong jaw. He was unkempt. She shivered.

“Sarah?” Dylan squeezed her shoulder and followed her gaze. “Oh. Sarah, this is Royce Graham. He’s an old friend. Royce, this is Sarah Mars—uh, Hutchins.”

No relief rippled through her stomach. Maybe Dylan called him a friend, but she gleaned that she never would. His hard-looking mouth stayed in an uncompromising line, no smile of welcome softening the firm lips. Yet, his name struck some distant chord of memory.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hutchins.” He didn’t extend his hand to her but kept them both shoved in his jeans pockets, tightening the worn material across his lean hips.

She nodded and dismissed him again by turning back to Dylan. “I left it in the car, in the console, where I found it.”

“At the new-home site?”

She nodded again.

“Who was there?”

“Just the builder and I. I stayed for a while by myself, and I’d left the car doors unlocked. Although I didn’t see anyone drive up, the stud walls are up, and I was inside. With the waves drowning out any sound…” She had been distracted, too, with maudlin thoughts about the past. Nothing good ever came of looking back.

Her gaze slid to the soccer field. Jeremy lifted his head from the game, stared at her for an assessing moment and then waved. With a trembling hand, she waved back. “Thank God he’s okay. This must just be some sick, practical joke.”

A deep voice rumbled out of the chest pressing against the black polo shirt. “I know this is none of my business…”

She turned to the stranger. “No, it’s not.”

“Sarah.” Dylan sighed. “Royce is more than a friend, he’s a pro. We might need him.”

Her gaze flickered over his unshaven face and the hair that flirted with the collar of his shirt. Other women might consider his surfer look sexy. Not her. Nor did she consider him trustworthy. But she’d learned to trust Dylan. She owed him. She bit back another smart retort as the chord struck her memory again, and she recognized the name.

Due to the days’ growth of beard, the face had changed somewhat. He didn’t wear the suit and the short haircut, but he was the FBI agent publicly canonized for his work in finding missing children. A shiver raised the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. How had he known?

But he wasn’t with the FBI anymore. He had his own agency and all the notoriety that went with it. She’d seen him recently on the news, dark-blond hair slicked back with rain, overcoat hiding his clothes. He had just rescued a kidnapped businessman from desperate rebel fighters in some third-world country.

Dylan sighed again. “I’m sorry, Royce. You’re here for a job. Something personal. I can’t impose. Just stay here a minute while I grab the letter from Sarah’s car.”

She fought the desire to scramble after Dylan’s long strides. She didn’t want to be alone with Royce Graham. Despite his fame, he was still a stranger, and she was too vulnerable while her emotions overflowed. Anxiety. Relief. Anger. Joy. She could hardly identify each as it rolled through her heart and her head. The force staggered her, and she stumbled back.

Strong fingers closed over her elbow, burning through the thin silk of her blouse. “Careful now, you almost fell. Are you okay, Sarah?”

The sound of her name in his husky voice brought on a shiver. Then she stiffened. With Dylan gone from hearing, it wasn’t Mrs. Hutchins but Sarah that he called her.

“I’m fine.”

A sigh slipped through his lips, his breath feathering through her bangs. She glanced up to find him close, his head bent to hers. In his dark glasses, mirrored images of her stared back. Pale face. Wide, horrified eyes.

Pride had her bristling against the image and him. “I told you I’m fine.” Shaking her arm didn’t dislodge his firm hold.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am, you’re not.”

Intending to pry him loose, her fingers closed over his. Warm, rough skin slid under her palm, sending tingles up her arm, inciting her anger. “Let go of me.”

“No.”

Her head snapped back. No one talked to her like that, no matter how much respect the rest of the world had for him. “Who do you think you are?”

“The only thing keeping you from falling on your face. You’re shaking.”

She couldn’t deny the obvious, or hold onto her anger. He’d done nothing to incite it. “Yes, I am.”

“This note really rattled your cage.”

Caged was how she lived her life now, keeping her emotions in check. Until now… “You don’t have children of your own, do you, Mr. Graham?”

“No!” He cleared his throat after his sharp retort then sighed, his warm breath caressing her skin with the scent of butterscotch. “And I don’t intend to.”

She nodded. “That’s good that you know that now, before it’s too late and an unwanted child is brought into the world.” As she’d been. A throwaway. Until the Marses had adopted her.

He lifted a dark-blond brow above one of the lenses of his sunglasses. “You’re not talking about your son. I saw you wade into those kids and hug one. I couldn’t see which one, but—”

“No!” She drew in a quick breath. “I love my son very much. That’s why this note…”

“What does it say?”

Her fingers still lay over his on her elbow. She squeezed them, taking a moment’s comfort in his warmth and strength. Turning her head, she gazed over the soccer field where Jeremy’s golden hair glowed in the afternoon sunshine.

Her heart clenched, fear rippling through her veins again as it had when she’d read that note. “It says, ‘We have your son.’”

His hold on her elbow tightened as if he expected her to faint at his feet. “But they don’t. He’s one of the kids on the field.”

She nodded, a sob of relief threatening to escape her throat, and swallowed hard. “Yes, he’s safe.”

“For now.”

She shivered and tugged her arm free of his grasp. “Why would you say something so awful?”

He ran his fingers along the unshaven length of his jaw. “I’m being realistic. I’ve had some experience with situations like this.”

She stared into his face, wishing she could see behind the dark lenses to what lay in his eyes. “Yes, Dylan called you a pro.”

And she knew why but saw no reason to stroke his probably oversize ego by admitting it.

He nodded, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I used to work for the FBI Crimes Against Children Division.”

Despite the warm caress of the sun, she shivered. Crimes against children. What he must have witnessed…. Memories of one of his earlier interviews flashed through her mind. His grim face, his admission of how the child was found. Dead. Was that why he didn’t want any of his own?

She again longed to stare into his eyes. But she fought the ridiculous urge to comfort him. Nothing about him begged for comfort. A haircut and a shave, maybe…

“So what does your experience tell you about this?” she asked.

He rolled a shoulder. “Usually the kidnapping of a child involves a parent, a vengeful ex.”

Her lips twitched, but no humor tickled her. All she enjoyed was a moment’s satisfaction in proving him wrong. For some reason she imagined few people ever did. “I’m a widow, Mr. Graham.”

His face didn’t soften with sympathy. She expected no condolences and wasn’t surprised when he brushed off her admission.

“There are more than ex-spouses. Ex-lovers get vengeful, too. Kidnappings are usually personal, at least in this country they are.”

She slid her hands over her upper arms, trying to dispel the chills. She didn’t know this man. And his inference of an ex-lover showed he knew nothing of her. “That’s not the case. It must be someone’s sick idea of a joke.” She had almost convinced herself of that.

Then he spoke her greatest fear aloud. “Or something or someone inadvertently thwarted their kidnapping attempt.” She followed the angle of his head to witness Dylan striding toward them.

A sigh hitched in her throat. “He didn’t change from his uniform today. Must not have had time.” Had that been enough to frighten off a would-be kidnapper?

Fortunately for her and Jeremy, Dylan had been around this time. As her son’s uncle and his soccer coach, Dylan maintained a presence in their lives. But he had his own life, a very stressful one at the moment.

So what happened when she and Jeremy were alone? If the threat was not a joke but very real, who would protect them then?