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Clay sliced a hand toward the kid. “Take off.”
Eddie slid behind the wheel and turned the key; the powerful engine rumbled. Clay noted the way Eddie lifted his chin in order to keep Kathryn framed in the rearview mirror as his drove off.
“I need your help,” Kathryn blurted, at the same instant Clay stepped toward her.
“What—”
“They took Matthew. My baby. He’s gone.”
Clay furrowed his brow. His first thought was that she and Mason had some sort of custody dispute going over their son. “Who took him?”
“I don’t know.” She jerked the phone off her jeans, flipped open its cover and jabbed buttons. Her hand trembled so badly the phone shook when she handed it to him. “Johnny and Reece Silver said you could help. You have to help.” Her voice shuddered as badly as her hands and her words tumbled over each other. “Matthew needs his medicine. They left it. He could reject his kidney. They said you can help me. They left the phone.”
Struggling to makes sense of her jumbled words, Clay looked down at the phone’s display. His lungs stopped working the instant he began to read. His gaze whipped up to meet hers. “When did you get this?”
“Two hours ago.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I overslept. Woke up sick. I could barely make it to Matthew’s room. He was gone. Abby tracked them downstairs, but lost his scent. He’s gone. They took Matthew.”
Dread clamped a vise on Clay’s chest as he pictured the compelling little boy with sparkling brown eyes and a plastic deputy’s badge pinned to his T-shirt. He knew all too well what could go wrong during a kidnapping. Which was the last thing Kathryn needed to hear.
“How far did Abby track Matthew’s scent?”
“Just to the bottom of the staircase. They shut her in Matthew’s room when they took him. She’s limping. I think they kicked her.”
Clay rescanned the text of the ransom message, hoping to find something that might dull his initial fear for the boy’s well-being.
He didn’t.
“They’ll call soon, won’t they?” Kathryn asked, her voice reedy with terror. “Tell me how to get Matthew back. He needs his medicine. I’ll do whatever they say. Give them anything they want. I have to get him back.”
“They’ll call, but I’m not sure when,” Clay said while his thoughts veered to his parents. His father had been the number two man at the U.S. Embassy in Bogota, his mother the ambassador’s executive assistant. The rebels who’d snatched them had believed the U.S. would put pressure on the Colombian government to release jailed compatriots. A patient group, the rebels had waited two weeks to make initial contact. The hostage negotiator brought in by the State Department had told Clay that kidnappers knew every minute they delayed contact made those left behind more desperate. More afraid. More willing to pay.
And so Clay had waited for the call, then after that for his parents’ safe release while his mind replayed the instant the rebels ambushed his parents’ car while he was at the wheel. To Clay, it didn’t matter that he’d taken a bullet during the attack—he’d been a cop, he should have sensed the danger closing in, should have protected his family. Should have done something. He knew he would never be rid of the guilt nor the mistrust of his own instincts that prompted him to turn in his badge. And there was no way in hell he’d risk Matthew’s life by letting Kathryn rely on those faulty instincts.
“I can help you only so far.” Closing the phone’s cover, he offered it to her. “You need someone who knows how to deal with kidnappers. That isn’t me.”
From under the brim of his hat he watched her face, saw fury flare in her eyes so white-hot it could have sparked a pasture fire.
“Damn you, Clay Turner, I know I meant nothing to you.” She tore the phone out of his hand with the intensity of an erupting volcano. “But if you think I’ll let you turn your back on me a second time when my son’s life is a stake, think again.”
He said nothing for a moment. How could he when her words sliced to his core?
“I’m not turning my back,” he countered levelly. “While I worked for the State Department, I had some training on what to do right after a kidnapping occurs. Which is how to keep things calm until someone who knows what they’re doing arrives on the scene. The best way I can help you is to put you in touch with a hostage negotiator I know. A man who does this for a living. His name is Forbes. Quentin Forbes. He’s the best there is. He knows kidnappers in and out. Knows how to negotiate—”
“I don’t want to negotiate,” Kathryn hissed. “I want to pay the million dollars. I’ll pay whatever they want as long as I get Matthew back.”
The desperation in her voice tightened the knots in Clay’s gut. Another lesson Forbes had hammered into his head was that to pay too much too soon was to make kidnappers think they could squeeze more money out of the family. That doing so sometimes resulted in the extortion of a second ransom for the same victim. And prolonged the heart-wrenching wait. Not to mention they had no proof of life, which would be the first thing Forbes would demand.
Clay scrubbed a hand over his jaw, his callused fingertips scraping across the scar on his right cheek. The scar was visual proof of how cold-blooded a kidnapper’s determination could be. Better to let Forbes deal with Kathryn on the issue of negotiating the ransom, Clay decided. With everything. Considering his own track record, the farther he stayed from this, the better chance Matthew had of getting out alive.
“Whether or not to negotiate the ransom amount is something you can talk over with Forbes. He’ll also advise you on what to say and what not to say when the kidnappers call.”
The wind picked up, slapping strands of her dark hair against her cheeks. It seemed to Clay that she swayed beneath its force. Her face was white as death now, the gleam of shock in her eyes subsiding as realization set in.
Knowing the fire that had pushed her this far was fading fast, he gave thought to taking hold of her arms and shoring her up in case her legs gave out. Suspecting she would prefer a rattlesnake bite to his touch, he opted to tug his cell phone out of his shirt pocket.
“Forbes can help get Matthew back safe,” he repeated. “You can trust me on this.” And she could. After all, he had always been honest with her. Brutally so.
“It’d probably be best if you talk to Matthew’s father first,” Clay added. “Better if you both decide what to do about Forbes.” And if the unthinkable happened, she wouldn’t have to live with the hellish guilt that the sole responsibility for her child’s death lay with her.
She shook her head. “I tried to call Devin. He’s in Tibet, shooting a movie. I couldn’t get a good connection. It might take hours to get through to him.” She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “I can’t just wait and do nothing. If the man you know, this…”
“Forbes. Quentin Forbes.”
“Forbes.” Dropping her hand, she looked up at Clay, her eyes dark pools of anguish. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is Matthew. Clay, they might kill my baby.”
“No.” Because he could no longer stop himself, he reached out, played a hand down her arm. It had to be ninety degrees, yet her flesh was ice-cold. “They don’t want to hurt him. They only want you to believe they will. The kidnappers want money,” he continued. “Keeping Matthew unharmed is their only guarantee of getting it. Hang on to that, Kat.”
Nodding, she looked away. Clay watched as she raked her fingers through her hair, leaving it a dark, rumpled frame around her ashen face. He remembered, perfectly remembered, the silky softness of that hair against his hands.
Again, he felt the hard knot of regret for how callously he had treated her. For all that he’d given up. Thrown away. Lost.
When Kathryn remet his gaze her eyes were expressionless, her face as calm as carved stone. “Call him, Clay. Call your Mr. Forbes.”
“All right.” Clay’s chest tightened. He would do everything he could to save Kat’s son. Just as he’d done all he could to try to save his parents.
Beneath his hand, he felt Kathryn shudder. Until Forbes arrived, Clay knew he was the only man who could help her.
And the last man who should.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER LEAVING a message for the negotiator, Clay swung up into the saddle on Kathryn’s mare, then held out a hand to her. When he saw her hesitate, he felt a quick, nasty slice to his heart that he struggled to ignore.
Hard to do when on its heels came a flash of memory: Kat at eighteen, slim and leggy, with black hair to her waist, a young woman not entirely aware of her effect on him. Granted, her schoolgirl crush had her chasing after him for years, but one look at her that summer and he’d let himself be caught…not captured. Still sowing his wild oats, he’d refused to admit there was more to the relationship than the lustful, sweaty need of a man for a woman. Yet, when he reported back to work in Houston, Kat had stayed on his mind. And still he denied his feelings, telling himself he had time to get a handle on things.
Time ran out when she phoned and told him she was pregnant. He’d headed for Layton, his emotions warring. Age-old emotions of the rounder he’d been with those of the man whose heart was trying to lead him for the first time.
But when he arrived in Layton, Kathryn had miscarried. And the pale young woman lying in the hospital bed no longer gazed at him with love shining in her eyes, but with hurt and indifference.
So he kept his uncertain feelings to himself, took her to the friend’s house where she wanted to stay, then left when she told him to go.
And tried to put her out of his mind. Which was something he’d done pretty well, until his parents died and all the guilt and regret flooded over him.
Clay’s thoughts jerked from the past when Kathryn slid her hand into his.
With ease that came from a lifetime of climbing onto a horse, she fit her left foot into the stirrup and settled in front of him in one smooth move. The scent of her hair filled his head. When her backside nestled into his thighs, he felt his insides jolt, like a boulder teetering off a cliff.
Ah, hell. The last thing he needed was a reminder of the heat that had always arrowed straight to his loins whenever they touched.
Thinking of Matthew in a kidnapper’s clutches, Clay set his jaw, reined the mare around and moved off.
After reaching Cross C property, they left the mare to graze and approached the house from the rear where a flagstone terrace spilled out of tall French doors. Yellow mums sat amid the wrought-iron furniture; the clear water in the swimming pool glittered like diamonds beneath the bright sun.
“Did you notice if any doors were unlocked this morning?” Clay asked while studying the house. “Any windows open?”
“I didn’t check the doors.” Kathryn dragged her fingers across her damp forehead. “If a window had been open, I probably would have noticed, but I’m not sure.”
“What about Willa? Did she hear anything last night or early this morning?”
“She’s not home. Willa spends every Wednesday night at her daughter’s house in Dallas.”
“Every Wednesday?”
“Yes. She’s done that for as long as I can remember.”
“Is there any other live-in help?”
“No. Pilar Graciano comes in daily and helps Willa.” Kathryn met his gaze. “You might remember her or her husband, Nilo. Matthew went with Nilo and his son, Antonio, to string fence.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips. “Yesterday. It was just yesterday morning.”
When her world was still on an even keel, Clay thought. “Did Pilar come to work this morning?”
“No. She had to take Antonio to the dentist.”
Interesting, Clay thought, that the kidnapper struck the one night of the week Willa was gone. He wondered if the kidnapper knew the maid wouldn’t show this morning. Forbes would want to give everyone privy to that kind of info a hard look.
Thinking of the negotiator reminded Clay how out of his league he was. But until Forbes returned his call, he could at least look around and at the same time keep Kathryn busy. Giving her as little time as possible to think about the uncertain fate of her child was the best thing he could do for her.
“Kat, I need you to walk me through everything you did this morning, starting from when you woke up. Retrace your steps.”
“I looked for Matthew everywhere. Even the outlaw tunnel.” She closed her eyes. “I didn’t find anything.”
Clay gripped her elbow, turned her to face him. She looked afraid. Vulnerable. “You were searching for Matthew. We need to see if we can find a trace of himself the kidnapper might have left. Something that may lead us to him. To Matthew.”
“All right.” Her lips trembled. “He needs his medicine. We have to find him, Clay. We have to.”
“We will,” he said. And hoped to hell that when they did, Matthew was still alive.
BY THE TIME Kathryn finished walking Clay through the house, it was late afternoon. Now, she stood in Matthew’s bedroom, her arms wrapped around her waist while she stared out the window at the distant stables and barn. Beyond them sat two houses. Nilo and Pilar Graciano and their son resided in the larger of the two. Johnny Sullivan lived next door to them.
Behind the houses land stretched toward the horizon. Matthew was out there. Somewhere. Scared. Wanting her. Needing her. Crying for her.
She closed her eyes. The helplessness—the awful knowing she could do nothing to lessen her child’s terror—wrapped around her like a suffocating strait-jacket. She felt ill from the fear burning inside her. A horrible, all-consuming fear that she was destined to stand at this window for the rest of her life, wondering what had happened to her child.
“So, after you talked to Reece Silver and Johnny, you changed clothes,” Clay said. “Then rode over to find me.”
“Yes.” Kathryn turned. Clay stood across the room, studying the cork board on the wall above Matthew’s desk. Pinned to the board were drawings of odd-shaped horses sketched in a rainbow of crayons. A snapshot of Matthew, grinning ear to ear while propped in the crook of Devin’s arm, was pinned in the board’s center.
She studied Clay, his profile tough, contained, grim. Being with him, having him here when he’d been gone from her life for so long made everything seem even more surreal. Yet she knew his presence was the only thing keeping her sane.
“Do you think Mr. Forbes will call soon?” she asked.
“If he doesn’t, I’ll try him again.” Clay moved to the braided rug beside the bed, crouched and rubbed Abby’s head. The dachshund’s tail worked like a metronome set on high.
“Kat, when did Willa leave for Dallas?”
“Before supper. Matthew and I made pizza….” Her voice caught as she pictured her son’s mischievous grin while he formed pepperoni slices into a happy face. She couldn’t bear the thought that she might never see him grin again. Laugh again.
“After that?” Clay prodded.
She clamped down on emotion. “We watched TV. Later I put Matthew to bed.”
“Then what?”
“I checked the doors.” She paused, thinking. “Poured my glass of wine, then went to bed and read. I couldn’t keep my eyes open so I turned off the light after about ten minutes.”
Clay cocked his head. “You said, ‘I poured my glass of wine.’ Do you always have wine before you go to bed?”
“Yes.” She’d needed something to help her relax when she learned Devin was having an affair with his then leading lady.
“Who knows you always have a glass of wine before bed?”
“I guess Willa. Before we arrived, I asked her to add a couple of bottles of Merlot to her shopping list. She said it was too bad Sam got sick before he had time to stock the wine cellar he’d had built in the basement.”
“Where’s the bottle you filled your glass with last night?”
“The living room. In the cooler behind the bar.”
“Was last night the first time you’d drank from that bottle?”
“No, I opened it the first night I was here.”
“Since you’ve been back, have you woken up sick any other morning?”
“No. Clay, why do you want to know about the wine?”
“Because you said you felt sick this morning and overslept.” He gave Abby a final rub of her ears, then rose. “I don’t think you picked up a bug. More like someone laced your wine.”
Kathryn’s mouth went dry. “That would mean whoever took Matthew knows my habits.”
“And a lot more. If I’m right, the kidnapper knew Willa would be gone. With you drugged, the threat of exposure was minimal. Then there’s Abby.”
Kathryn looked down at the doxie. “What about her?”
“You said she was limping, like she’d been kicked.”
“Yes. You don’t think she was?”
“No. One reason is how she greeted me when I got here. She’d never seen me before, but she trotted over and licked my hand. It’s logical to think she acted the same way when the kidnapper showed up. If Abby knew him, she would have been more welcoming. And if they wanted to keep her quiet, why kick her?”
