Her Mistletoe Protector Page 20

  Then she sprinted out the front door and toward the opposite end of the row of shops. What store had that other delivery truck been stopped behind? She pictured the design on the truck. Pastries.

  Taking a guess, she slipped inside a drug store, running until she reached the back.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” A man in a cashier’s smock held up a hand to stop her as she charged into the door marked “Employees Only.”

  “Sorry.” She didn’t stop to hear his response. She went straight to the back door. She paused there, slowly peeking around the edge of it.

  She spotted the black sedan parked haphazardly beside her car. A man jumped from the vehicle and ran in through that same delivery door and into the hardware store. It was only a matter of moments before they found her and killed her. She couldn’t let that happen.

  The other delivery truck wasn’t far away. Only a few feet. The driver had packed up and was climbing into the front. That truck seemed her only hope at the moment.

  She crept outside, concealed behind a Dumpster. If she ran, she might make it onto the back of the truck before the driver realized what was happening. She had to. It was her only chance.

  Staying low, she slunk toward the truck. The engine started. She didn’t have much time. If she was going to make a move, it had to be now.

  Lord, help me.

  She lunged toward the back door. Her hand connected with the handle.

  It opened. Praise God, it opened.

  She swung into the back of the truck, colliding with a rack full of prepackaged donuts and cupcakes. She closed the door just as the man in black exited the hardware store.

  She was going to get away, she realized.

  But her heartbeat didn’t slow as she wondered if her brother and nephew would be so fortunate.

  * * *

  Christopher Jordan ran a hand over his face, weariness from a long, hard week of work compounding until a pulsing headache thumped at the back of his head. He’d worked too late—again. Now darkness surrounded his car as he drove the hour back to his house.

  He really should buy a place closer to work. But this house had lots of memories for him, and he couldn’t give those up yet. He needed those memories now. He needed good memories to push out all of the bad ones.

  He turned off the highway, and the streets became quieter, darker. Just like his soul, he thought. Ever since he returned from war, he hadn’t felt like himself.

  Just how was he going to remedy that?

  Good memories, he thought. He just needed to hold on to the good. That, along with his faith in God, would help to pull him through his inner turmoil.

  Finally, he turned onto his street. All he could think about was getting home for the weekend, being alone and not doing anything for as long as humanly possible—which meant until Monday came and it was back to work again.

  He knew his stress was from more than just his work. He’d only been back from the Middle East for three months, and memories of the place still haunted him. Every night, nightmares jolted him awake. Too many images stained his mind. It seemed as if they’d been imprinted on his soul, and for the rest of his life he’d carry the burden of his time deployed.

  He’d gotten out of the military, taken a job as a training specialist at the private security contracting firm Iron, Incorporated, also known as Eyes. He taught tactical training, such as sharpshooting and use of force to law-enforcement groups that came to Eyes for instruction. Eyes worked with both local law-enforcement communities, as well as the Department of Defense, in training personnel, developing programs and equipment, and for other special assignments.

  He’d taken the job in hopes of repairing some of the damage his psyche had suffered. He’d thought he was stronger than all of this. But the deaths of those around him had begun to take their toll on him, and now he wondered if he’d ever be the same.

  He’d poured himself into work at his new job, hoping to erase the pain. But it was always there, cold and achy and throbbing.

  The two-story house that his grandfather had left to him came into view. The place was out in the middle of nowhere. Some would call it isolated. Christopher called it breathing room. He slowed as he turned into his driveway, his headlights skimming the front of the house.

  His foot pressed on the brakes. Was that something on his porch? In his rocking chair?

  In the dark, he could hardly tell. Something was out of place, but whatever was on the rocking chair only appeared to be a shadow.

  He should have left the porch light on, he supposed, but he hadn’t thought about it when he left home this morning. Now all of his instincts were on alert. Could it have to do with his SEAL team bringing down the leader of that terrorist group? Had their names been leaked? They’d all be logical targets in the aftermath of the terrorist group’s demise.

  But especially Christopher. He’d been the one to pull the trigger.

  He reached under the front seat and pulled out the gun he kept there. He carried it with him at all times as a part of his job.

  Slowly, cautiously, he got out of his car. Yes, there was definitely something on his porch. Or was it...someone?

  He crept toward the steps. The bitter cold air filled his lungs, heightening his awareness even more. Who would be hanging out on his porch at night? Had one of the terrorists found him?

  With his other hand, he fingered the phone in his pocket. Should he call for backup? No, not yet. They’d only think he was paranoid, only push him harder to get more counseling for PTSD. The last thing this soldier wanted to do was talk about his feelings, especially with a stranger.

  He scanned the usually welcoming porch again. The railing still looked intact. Even the strands of evergreen that he’d draped there, complete with red Christmas bows, were in place. He didn’t see anyone lurking behind the bushes or peeking around the corner of the house.

  With the skill of a trained fighter, he climbed the steps, his gun pointed at the figure on his porch. He couldn’t see a face. The person appeared to be hiding underneath a coat—arms, legs, face and all.

  He cocked his gun, all of his instincts on alert, each of his muscles poised for action. “You have three seconds to show yourself before I fire.”

  The figure flinched, and a mad fluttering of limbs ensued. Finally, a head popped up. Familiar eyes stared at him, wide with fear. The facts hit him one by one. Honey-blond hair. Oval face. Slim build. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but he instinctively knew they were blue.

  The woman raised a slender hand. “Please, don’t shoot. It’s me.” Her voice sounded soft, lyrical—and desperate.

  “Ashley?” He lowered his gun, disbelief washing over him. It couldn’t be. No, not Ashley. Not his ex-fiancée, the woman whose heart he’d broken when he’d called off their engagement. Their parting had been one of the most painful conversations he’d ever had, and still when he thought about it today, an ache formed in his chest. He’d had to make a decision between his career or a family. His country had needed him, so he’d chosen his career. He tried to live without regret; he thought he was stronger than that. But whenever he allowed himself to think about Ashley, regret was the very emotion that tried to creep into his mind. He’d loved that woman at one time. Times had changed, though; he had changed.

  She nodded slowly, raw emotion lining her eyes. She pulled the white, wool coat around her more tightly as the wind picked up again, sweeping dry leaves across the porch. The sound tightened his nerves.

  “Christopher.”

  Instinctively, he stepped closer. He’d both dreamed and had nightmares about this moment for so long. During those dark moments on the battlefield, he’d wondered what it would be like to see Ashley again.

  And never had he imagined it like this. Not him with a gun in his hand and her with a look of absolute vulnerab
ility straining each of her lovely features. No, in his moments when he’d faced death, he’d imagined Ashley forgiving him, smiling, picking up where they’d left off. He knew that would never happen. Even if there weren’t any hard feelings between them, Christopher knew he was too broken and damaged to be in a relationship right now.

  He remembered their last conversation and paused, unsure how to greet her. Not with a hug. Not with the way things had ended. A handshake seemed too formal when considering their past relationship. Instead, he settled for putting his gun away and making an effort to relax his shoulders.

  He and Ashley had met at a mutual friend’s house on New Year’s Eve more than a decade ago, and it had been a textbook case of love at first sight. Not only had he instantly thought she was beautiful, but her smile, her love for life, her hope for the future had hooked him. She’d pulled him out of the shell he easily sucked himself into—most people didn’t see it because he’d hidden it well with easygoing small talk. But Ashley had always seen right through him. She had a way about her that made him open up.

  Their two years together were filled with easy, effortless moments. Relationships like that didn’t happen often. Six months before the wedding, he’d called things off.

  Ashley brushed a hair out of her face and licked her lips. Her eyes implored him. “I’m sorry to show up here, but I didn’t know where else to go.” Her voice sounded tight and strained.

  He reached toward her, compassion and concern pounding through his veins, but his hand dropped midway. “Are you okay?”

  She hesitated and then shook her head. Those wide, pleading eyes met his again. “I need your help.”

  He stared at her another moment, thoughts and emotions colliding inside him. His help? What could he possibly help her with? Whatever it was, his gut told him it was serious. “Let’s go inside. Get you out of the cold.”

  As she stepped closer, Christopher wanted to soak her in, to absorb all the changes in her over the past several years. But he couldn’t do that. It was no longer his right.

  He unlocked the door, noticing that she was shivering uncontrollably. From the cold? Or from something deeper?

  He flipped the light on in the entryway and dust bunnies floated across the wooden floor. Perhaps he’d neglected housekeeping more than he should have. He offered an apologetic grin. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I would have straightened up some.”

  She stepped inside, her face grim with...sorrow? Fear? Grief? His grin slipped. With a hand on her back, he led her into the living room where boxes still waited along the walls for him to unpack.

  She shivered again. “Believe me. I wasn’t expecting to be here. I only came here because I was desperate.”

  The brutal honesty of her words stung. She’d made it clear when they last talked that she never wanted to see him again. Christopher couldn’t blame her. Things had ended badly. He’d made the best decision possible at the time. But in hindsight, he’d wondered if it was the worst decision ever.

  He didn’t have time to think about what could have been now. Instead, he led her to the couch, one that had been left here by his grandfather. This was probably the same sofa that had been here back when he and Ashley were dating, when they used to come over and play dominoes with his granddad. “Have a seat.”

  She lowered herself and folded her arms across her chest. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, and trembles still claimed her muscles. Her gaze pulled on his. “I’m in trouble, Christopher. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  His jaw flexed under the weight of her words, but he nodded. “Go on.”

  “My brother and nephew have been kidnapped, and you’re the only one who can help.”

  Copyright © 2013 by Christy Barritt

  ISBN-13: 9781460321980

  HER MISTLETOE PROTECTOR

  Copyright © 2013 by Laura Iding

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