The Lawman's Christmas Wish. Линда Гуднайт
Amy agreed. With a smile and a wave, she gathered her bag of groceries and exited the store, nearly bumping into Reed Truscott, the local chief of police.
“Oops, excuse me,” she said, sidestepping the tall, lean lawman.
He stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “How you doing, Amy?”
“Good. Yourself?”
He shifted in his boots, glanced across the quiet street and cleared his throat. The police chief obviously had something on his mind.
“Look, Amy, we need to talk. About this situation between us—”
She held up a hand, stop sign style. There was no “situation,” and if he asked her to marry him again—check that—if he demanded she marry him, she would stomp his toe. Of all the men who’d offered proposals, this was the one that bothered her most.
“Don’t even think it, Reed. And do not say it. Whatever it is.”
Whirling, she stalked off down the sidewalk. As she went, she heard him grumble, “Frustrating woman.”
Well, it was frustrating to her, too. After Reed’s first, arrogant, pushy proposal on the night of Ben’s death, of all the inappropriate times, Amy had avoided any hint of personal conversation. She liked Reed Truscott, but she didn’t pretend to understand his tight-lipped, overly macho attitude.
After picking up her two boys from the church preschool, Amy headed home, listening to their sweet chatter. As she pulled into the drive of her aging two-story clapboard and killed the SUV motor, an odd feeling came over her. She frowned at the blue house and then gazed around the yard, shrouded now in the hazy, dying light. Everything seemed all right. The red front door she’d painted herself beckoned cheerfully from its white, arched frame. Evergreens frosted with snow hugged the concrete steps swept clean this morning. And yet, her skin crawled in the oddest manner. Something didn’t feel right, and after having a gun held to her head a few weeks ago, she’d learned to listen to that little voice inside. God was trying to tell her something.
Slowly, she exited the SUV and glanced around before getting Dexter and Sammy out of their car seats. She’d pull into the detached garage later. First, she had to check things out.
Four-year-old Dexter hopped down from the vehicle and bounded for the back door.
“Dexter, wait. Let Mama go first.”
The dark-haired boy stopped and looked back at her, clearly puzzled by his mother’s tone. Hoisting three-year-old Sammy and his ever-present stuffed dog onto one hip, she grabbed the groceries and her purse, balancing everything as she crossed the yard to enter through the back way, directly into the kitchen.
Stepping upon the single-stepped porch, her heart bumped. The back door stood ajar.
Had she failed to close it well this morning? The house was old and out of square. Some of the doors, including the back one, needed to be replaced and didn’t fit properly—one more project that had ceased with Ben’s death.
Easing Sammy to the ground, she scanned the yard and house again but saw nothing. Last night’s snow revealed no footprints. Everything appeared normal except the open door.
Calling herself overcautious, she pushed the door wider and waited. After hearing or seeing nothing, she led the way into the kitchen.
“Oh, no!” The gasp tore from her throat.
Her house looked like a war had broken out and she’d been defeated.
Cabinet contents littered the floor. Jumbled drawers hung open like slack-jawed dogs. And the open refrigerator hummed incessantly, milk and juice spilling out in dripping puddles. Amy’s hands fisted at her sides. Whoever did this had been searching for something. And she knew exactly what.
“Mom?” Dexter tugged on her jeans. Dark gray eyes, so like his father’s, were as round as Frisbees. Above the tiny cleft in his chin, his bottom lip quivered. “Someone broke our stuff.”
“It’s okay, baby.” Though of course, it was not okay. “Sammy, get away from that shattered glass.”
The barely three-year-old, too small to comprehend the disaster, had dragged his stuffed pal, Puppy, straight into the broken, jumbled, sticky mess. She took his hand and tugged him back to her side. “Stay here by Mommy.”
Grappling in her jeans pocket for the cell phone, Amy punched in a number. Her fingers shook.
On the second brrr, a strong, male voice barked, “Police department. What is your emergency?”
“Reed?”
“Amy?”
Regardless of his inopportune marriage proposal, she trusted Reed Truscott with her life. “What’s wrong?”
She drew a shaky breath, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice. “Someone broke into my house.”
Reed hissed. She could practically see his lips drawn back and the tight expression on his face. “Are you okay?”
“We just walked in. This very minute.” In spite of her determination to stay calm in front of the boys, Amy’s voice began to shake along with her knees. “Everything’s a wreck.”
In the background, over the phone, she heard a drawer open and keys rattle. Chief Truscott was already moving. “Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.” The flip phone quivered against her ear.
“Whoever did this—”
Reed’s sharp tone interrupted. “Have you been in any of the other rooms?”
Goose bumps rose on her arms. Her house was a two-story. “No.”
She glanced down the hall leading from the kitchen to the side office. The normally comfortable space seemed ominously long and dark. Her gaze went to the small alcove off the dining room that housed the staircase to the second floor. Was that a squeak overhead?
Lord Jesus, protect us. Protect my boys.
Cradling the phone between her chin and shoulder, she grasped Dexter and Sammy by the shoulders.
“Take the boys and get out.” Reed’s usually calm tone tensed. “Do it now, Amy. Get out of the house.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. Someone could still be inside.
“Amy? Do you hear me?”
“I’m going.” If her knees would hold her up.
“I’ll be there in five.” The security of Reed’s voice was lost as the line went dead.
Hurrying now, aware that her children could be in danger, Amy shuffled her sons out into the cold gray of a late November Alaska.
“Get in the car.”
Ever alert to her surroundings, she opened the back door to the red SUV, hoisted Sammy and Dexter inside and quickly slammed the door. Car seats could wait.
More jittery than she wanted to be, she bolted around to the driver’s side and hopped in. Her fingers trembled as she jabbed the key into the ignition, turned the switch and popped the locks. She leaned her head back against the seat and sighed but didn’t close her eyes.
If someone was still in the house, she needed to know. If not for the boys, she would have searched the rooms herself and beaned the rats who’d invaded her safe and happy home.
But she had the boys to think about, and they came first—always.
As if he’d read her mind, Dexter leaned through the console. A tear trickled down his cheek. “I want Daddy.”
Sammy heard the tremor in his big brother’s voice. His small head poked through the space, too. Tears streamed down his round, baby face. “I want Daddy, too. Where’s Daddy?”
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