Maverick Christmas

But unlike everyone else who’d tried lately, she seemed quite capable of managing his sons. He’d checked on them several times this afternoon, and their complaints had assured him they were being well cared for.

Danny had said Mrs. Atwater was bossy and made him practice his reading. And Davy had whined that she made him wear his snow pants when he went outside to play and gave him fruit for his afternoon snack instead of the candy and soda he’d wanted.

Even more impressive, Chrysie had sounded calm on the telephone when he’d asked her about the boys. That in itself put her in a whole new class as far as his experience with sitters was concerned.

Not that the sexy Mrs. Atwater was perfect. Last night’s tree-falling incident had proved that the woman was wound a tad too tightly for Josh’s liking. But what the hell. Josh was desperate for someone to watch the boys on a daily basis, and she might be the ideal solution.

That is, if she checked out. Before he could ascertain that, he’d need to find out exactly what had brought her to Aohkii, Montana.

THE AFTERNOON HAD been every bit as stressful as Chrysie had expected. The boys were incorrigible, constantly pushing the limits. It was clear they’d never been disciplined appropriately. She’d love to point out to Josh McCain all the ways he was failing his sons, but she didn’t dare. The less interaction she had with the sheriff, the better.

She glanced at the clock above the kitchen counter. Six-thirty, and he wasn’t back yet. For the minute, both Davy and Danny were under control, wolfing down sloppy joes as though they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Jenny and Mandy were taking their usual small bites and dawdling between each mouthful.

“Can I have more?” Danny asked.

“You surely can.”

“Me, too,” Davy said, shoving the rest of his food into his mouth. “Daddy’s sloppy joes aren’t this good.”

“Sloppy joes, floppy joes, up your nose,” Danny said as she refilled his plate.

Mandy giggled as if he’d said something remarkably witty. Jenny ignored him. At five, she was not nearly as impressed with the boys’ antics as her three-year-old sister.

“Davy kicked me under the table,” Jenny complained.

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“I was just swinging my foot and your leg got in the way.”

“Stop swinging your foot at the table,” Chrysie ordered.

“My dad lets me.”

“I’m not your dad,” she said, glancing out the window as she heard an approaching vehicle. She all but shouted her relief when she saw it was the sheriff’s black pickup truck.

A minute later Chrysie opened the back door, and both boys jumped from their chairs as if shot from cannons and raced to smother their father in hugs. She wasn’t sure if that was their usual greeting or if they were just thrilled to be rescued from her.

The sheriff removed his black Stetson and raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair, smoothing the strands the hat had mussed. “Something smells good.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Atwater made sloppy joes. And they’re really good. She doesn’t put those yucky onions in them like you do, Daddy.”

“Guess I’ll have to get her recipe.”

Davy climbed back in his chair. “Can my daddy have some, too?”

“If he’d like. There’s plenty,” Chrysie said. She didn’t consider that much of an invitation, but apparently it was all the sheriff needed. He shrugged out of his parka and hung it on one of the coat hooks near the door.

He was not the kind of man a woman could just ignore, she admitted as she felt his dark, piercing gaze follow her as she grabbed an extra plate from the cupboard.

He took the only available spot—the chair at the end of the table opposite hers. She filled the plate and set it in front of him. “You can have water, milk or coffee,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s all I can offer.”

“Milk sounds good.”

She poured him a glass, then joined them at the table, though her appetite had vanished. Apprehension did that to her, and there was no way she could not be anxious as long as a man with a badge was in her house.

Jenny ran the fork around her plate, using the prongs to make a design in the sauce, before looking at Chrysie with pleading eyes.

“May I be excused?”

Chrysie stared at her daughter’s half-full plate. “You didn’t eat much.”

“I’m full.”

“Me, too,” Mandy said.

“Okay, you can take your plates to the sink. But it’s a long time until breakfast.”

Both girls wiped their faces and hands on their napkins, then cleared their dishes from the table. With them gone, the boys clamored all the louder for Josh’s attention, both talking at once, trying to top each other’s stories. They thrived on his attention, devouring it the way they’d gulped down their food.

That need for approval and affirmation could well be at the root of much of their truculent behavior, especially if they’d been neglected or had experienced a major emotional trauma in their past.

“Sounds as if you guys had a busy afternoon,” Josh said.

“Yeah, but we didn’t have any fun,” Danny complained. “Too many rules.”

“Yeah, too many rules,” Davy agreed, mimicking as always.

Danny cleaned his plate for the second time, then jumped down from his chair and started back to the living room, where the girls were. Davy followed him.

“Whoa!” Josh said. “You heard Mrs. Atwater. Take your plates to the sink. Rules of the house.”

Danny turned and stared at his dad as if he’d asked him to grow wings. “We don’t have to do that at home.”

“We might just start it.”

The boys muttered under their breaths but surprisingly complied without more argument. Once the plates were deposited, Danny shoved Davy and ran from the kitchen. Davy took off after him for payback.

Josh shook his head. “Guess I need to work on their manners.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Chrysie agreed.

“I really appreciate your helping out with them. I could have canceled the meeting today if it came to that, but the D.A. wouldn’t have been too happy about it. He really wants to nail old Jake Mahoney.”

She nodded but didn’t respond, hoping that would put an end to the conversation.

Josh cleaned his plate, then gulped down the rest of his milk. Apparently the boys got their appetite from him.

“I guess you probably heard about Jake,” Josh said.

“No.”

“He’s pretty much the talk of the town these days. He seemed nice enough until he came unglued and shot and killed a couple of the hands working with him.”

“He must have had some provocation.”

“Claimed the guys were horsing around and not pulling their share of the load. Shocked everyone who knew him until we found out Jake had been committed to a mental hospital down in Mississippi a few years back for attacking his father with a knife. Don’t know what those shrinks were thinking letting him out.”

“You can’t blame the psychiatrists or psychologists for this.”

“Yeah? Who would you blame?”

“There can be any number of factors….” She stopped midsentence—before she said too much.

“Sorry,” Josh said. “I guess murders aren’t the best topic for dinner conversation. Fortunately we don’t have many around here. If we did, that wouldn’t leave me a lot of time for running the Double D.”

“Is that your ranch?”

“Yeah. I changed the name of it after I took custody of Danny and Davy. Before that it was called Timber Trails. Don’t know where that name came from. I bought the land from some actor out in California who’d bought the ranch but never lived on it.”

“I guess ranching isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Probably no one’s cup of tea. This is more a strong-coffee or cold-beer world. People either love it or hate it. So what brings you out here, Chrysie? You don’t seem like a woman with ranching in your blood.”

So it was Chrysie now. This morning it had been Mrs. Atwater. She liked it better when he used her last name. This way it seemed they were friends, and she definitely didn’t want him to get that idea.

“I don’t plan on ranching.”

“So what are you planning to do?”

“Raise my daughters.”

“Do their grandparents live in—where was it you said you were from? Texas?”

“No.” Chrysie gathered the rest of the dishes from the table and carried them to the counter, then started to fill the sink with soapy water. Surely he’d take the hint and leave.

He didn’t. Or else he ignored it. He followed her to the sink. “You wash and I’ll dry.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s the least I can do after you watched the boys for me all afternoon.”

She dipped her hands into the bubbles. “I was returning a favor. Now we’re even.”

“I doubt that. The boys are a lot more work than a battery jump.”

Josh grabbed the dish towel from the counter and took a freshly rinsed plate from her hand. The seemingly meaningless exchange shot her apprehension level straight up.

“I know they’re not the best-behaved kids in the world,” Josh continued. “I try, but I hate to be too hard on them. And I’m not a natural at the discipline thing, like you seem to be. I figured if I didn’t get that tree straight enough to suit you, you’d take me out behind the woodshed for a switching.”

“I don’t spank.”

“Well, there goes that fantasy.”

Her cheeks burned at his teasing, and she got so rattled she almost let the plate she was washing slip from her fingers. She gritted her teeth, furious with herself that she could show any weakness with a man who held so much potential for disaster. She glued her gaze to the sink and the few remaining dishes.

Josh dried the last fork, then scanned the kitchen. “This house is nice.”

“It’s quite comfortable,” she agreed.

“Twice the size of mine. I’m planning to build a bigger place when I get the time, but I’ve been concentrating on getting the ranch fixed up first.” He slapped his right hand on the tile counter. “I like this tile, too. I know Buck’s current foreman has his own place, a small ranch about twenty miles north of here, but I hadn’t heard Buck was renting out his cabin. How did you find out about it?”

“I asked around town, and someone at Humphries Bar and Grill mentioned it was empty and that the Millers might be willing to rent it.”

“How did you ever land in Aohkii to start with?”

“I read about the town in a travel magazine,” she said, sticking to the story she’d concocted on her first day here. “I was looking for an inexpensive place to settle where there were four seasons and a safe environment for my girls, and this seemed like it.”

“A travel magazine, huh? Which one?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Too bad. I’m sure the locals would love to read that article.”

It was clear from his tone and the way he was looking at her that he didn’t buy her story. “Where did the twins live before you took custody?” she asked, determined to move the focus of the conversation away from her.

“New Orleans.”

“That’s a long way from Montana.”

“Another world. Have you ever been there?”

“I went to Mardi Gras once when—” She stopped. Every time she opened her mouth, she gave something away. “When I was in my early twenties, before the girls were born.”

“They’re cute girls.”

“They’re my life.”

“I can tell.” He turned his gaze to the rhubarb pie. “You’re a pretty amazing woman to manage Danny and Davy and still find time to bake.”

“Evelyn Miller made the pie.”

“It looks great. Bet it would be good with a cup of coffee about now.”

Sure. Her and the sheriff having coffee and pie in the cozy kitchen while their children played together in the living room and a quiet snow fell just outside the frosted windows.

“No coffee for me,” she said. “But you’re more than welcome to half the pie. I’ll cut it and wrap it in foil while you get the boys into their coats and boots.” She could not possibly make it any plainer that it was time for him to leave.

Instead of walking away, Josh stepped closer. “Is everything okay?”

Her insides shook. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. I just get the impression that something’s bothering you.”

Dread swelled until she could barely breathe. She had to play this cooler, seem more like a woman with nothing to hide. She should have invited him to stay for pie and coffee, but then that might have led to even more mistakes.

“I’m fine, Sheriff, just tired.”

She found herself holding her breath until he’d turned and left the room. She made him a pie doggie bag, then went to tell the boys goodbye.

“Are we coming back here tomorrow?” Davy asked.

“Not tomorrow,” Josh said.

“Then who’s going to watch us?” Danny asked.

The concern in his young voice got to Chrysie, but there was too much at stake here for her to consider anyone except Jenny and Mandy.

“Don’t worry,” Josh assured his sons, “I’ll make certain you’re in good hands. Now go hop in the truck and buckle up.”

Chrysie stepped to the door and breathed in a huge gulp of the cold air as the boys raced to the truck. Unfortunately Josh didn’t race away with them.

“If you need anything, Chrysie, anything at all, just give me a call.”

She swallowed hard and shivered, chilled by the cold wind and the realization of how badly she wished she could open up to someone. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself.

Even now, she’d have to start thinking about moving on. Aohkii was no more the refuge she’d hoped for than any of her other stops had been. Safety for her and her daughters was never more than an illusion.

CHRYSIE ATWATER HAD managed to do what few women in Josh McCain’s life ever had. She’d kept him awake and thinking about her most of the night. But it wasn’t Chrysie’s good looks and great body that had caused the insomnia. Not the way her short blond hair curled around her cheeks, either. It wasn’t even about the way her jeans rode her hips, low and tight so that the back pockets seemed to be cradling her cute little butt.

It was none of that, he assured himself. It was only that she was the first person in a long time who’d handled his sons for an entire afternoon without seeming ready for the loony bin. More important, in spite of the boys’ complaints about her last night, over breakfast this morning they’d both asked if they could go back to her house after school. She hadn’t offered her services, of course, but that didn’t worry him. His powers of persuasion with the opposite sex were legend.

But so were his instinctive hunches, and Chrysie’s behavior last night had raised a couple of bright red flags. She’d been far too quick to change the subject when he’d tried to ask her about herself.

And then there was that story of reading about Aohkii in a travel magazine. Aohkii was so little it wasn’t even on most maps. The town’s only claim to fame was Ted Greely’s collection of rodeo buckles, and he hadn’t ridden a bronc since he’d been thrown and kicked in the head down in Wyoming.

Josh dropped to the worn leather chair in his office, punched a few keys on his computer and brought up the Web site for the national law enforcers’ listing of missing persons. No use to type in Chrysie Atwater. People on the run never used their own name.

He considered possibilities as the Web site continued to load. He couldn’t see Chrysie as a hardened criminal, but she might have taken her daughters and escaped an abusive husband. Women did that all the time, though frankly Chrysie didn’t seem the type to run from anything.

But then, this might be a case of kidnapping by the noncustodial parent. He could see her taking matters into her own hands if a judge had given her husband custody of the girls. But why move here? And what was she using for money?

Josh typed in the parameters for the search. Within the last three years, since he was pretty sure Mandy was no older than that. A mother and her two children, approximate ages between two and six years. That should do for starters.

He hit the search key and waited. The list that came up seemed endless. He added a new criterion: disappeared from Texas.

The modified list was still long but more manageable. He skimmed quickly, hoping for a recognizable image of one of the three. None of the pictures triggered any kind of recognition—not until he was almost through the list. Even then, the actual picture didn’t show a lot of similarity to the girls, but the computer-generated likeness to predict what the older girl might look like today showed a distinct resemblance to Jenny Atwater.

Last seen with their mother, Dr. Cassandra Harwell. Josh studied the grainy photo of the woman. Her hair was dark and cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain business suit with a tailored blouse. She was paler and much thinner than Chrysie, almost gaunt.

Yet there was something about the photo that reminded him of Chrysie. Maybe the eyes. And the mouth, upturned slightly as if she were forcing a smile. Chrysie had smiled that same way last night.

Reluctantly Josh hit the accompanying hot key for more information.

Sara Elizabeth and Rebecca Marie Harwell, disappeared November 6, 2003, from Houston, Texas. Believed to be in the company of their mother, Dr. Cassandra Blankenship Harwell, a child psychologist in Houston.

Dr. Harwell was wanted for questioning in the shooting death of her husband Jonathan Harwell and was considered a prime suspect in his murder.

Chapter Three

The information sent a couple of shock waves to Josh’s brain. He’d heard of man killers who looked like innocent babes before, but he’d never expected to run into one at the local civic center. But if it turned out Chrysie and the missing doctor from Texas were one and the same, he’d not only run into her but had left Danny and Davy in her care.

The heat in his office kicked on, and Josh shrugged out of his jacket as he skimmed the sparse facts. Jonathan Hawthorne Harwell, a Houston attorney, had been found murdered in his bed. His wife and their two children had gone missing four days after the crime. Dr. Harwell had withdrawn one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, the full amount of her personal checking and savings accounts.

A low whistle escaped Josh’s lips. Dr. Cassandra Harwell was one tough shrew. He looked at her picture again. Not the typical face of a born killer, but she did look a little uptight—kind of the way Chrysie had looked the other night when she’d lit into him about the crooked Christmas tree.

But not the way she’d looked serving up plates of sloppy joes and washing dishes in her cozy little kitchen. Definitely not the way she’d looked when she’d stood at the back door to tell them goodbye. Her vulnerability then had really gotten to him. Of course, she could have been playing him.

He studied the picture again. Different color and hairstyle. That was easy enough to accomplish. Chrysie was shapely where the woman in the picture was too thin, but a few added pounds could explain that.

And there were some very definite similarities. The shape of the face was the same and the features were similar. Little turned-up nose, full lips. And something about the eyes. The similarities didn’t justify tearing out to the Millers’ ranch to make an arrest, but when you considered the two children were exactly the right ages, there was ample evidence to warrant further investigation.

If Chrysie was the missing psychologist, it would explain her Texas accent and the way she knew so much about handling the boys. It would also explain why she could be a stay-at-home mom. She could still be making it on the one-twenty if she’d lived as cheaply the past three years as she was now.

He should be feeling at least a hint of excitement at the possibility of arresting a fugitive practically in his backyard. Instead he felt more as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. His muscles tightened as he picked up the phone and dialed information for the phone number for the Houston Police Department. With any luck, he’d find the listing was a mistake and that Dr. Cassandra Harwell had been located months ago.

He had a very strong hunch that this was not his lucky day.

DETECTIVE JUAN HERNANDEZ hung up the phone and lumbered down the hall to his new partner’s office. Her door was open, so he walked in. Angela Martina was sitting at her desk, her breasts pushing ever so slightly against the soft cotton of her yellow blouse as she shuffled through the photos of last night’s shooting on the east side of town.

“Lousy photos,” she said. “I may have to start taking my own.”

He looked at the photo she’d just thrown to her desk. It looked fine to him. “I just got a call from a sheriff in Aohkii, Montana,” he said.

She didn’t bother to look up. “What’s his problem?”

“He was calling about Cassandra Harwell.” He knew that would get her attention. Jonathan Harwell and Angela’s older sister had been partners in a law firm before he was murdered.

Angela tossed the photo she was holding back to the desk and stared at Juan from beneath her mascara-coated lashes. “Has Cassandra been spotted in Montana?”

“Probably not. Said he had some strangers in town and he was checking them against known felons.”

“I don’t guess the strangers are a woman with two small children?”

“He said there were some children. He’d check and see if they matched the ages of the Harwell kids.”

“Did he give you a description of the woman?”

“No, only said she didn’t much favor the online photo of Cassandra Harwell.”

“So why did he call?”

“You know those Montana guys. What else they got to do up there besides cozy up to a sheep?” He laughed at his own joke. Angela didn’t.

“What did you tell him?” she asked.

“To check out the kids. If the woman had two girls that looked anywhere near the ages of the Harwell kids, he should get us a set of fingerprints from the woman and keep an eye on her until we checked them out.”

“Did he agree to cooperate?”

“Yeah. Said no problem. He seems on top of things, but I don’t look for anything to come of this. I can’t see Cassandra in Montana. More likely she’s down in Mexico somewhere. No reason to be freezing her ass off up there.”

Angela drummed her bright red nails on her desk. “If it’s Cassandra, someone from the department will need to go up there and fly her back. Frankly I would love to see some snow. It’s hard to get in the mood for Christmas shopping when I’m still running the air conditioner.”

“Well, don’t make any plane reservations just yet. This is a really long shot.”

“Just keep me posted.” Angela turned her gaze back to the photos.

Juan lingered. “You want to get some breakfast and then go question the usual suspects on the east side?”

“Not if we have to go to that greasy hole-in-the-wall where we went last time.”

“They make good breakfast tacos.”

“I want a bagel. And give me a few minutes. I have to make a phone call before we go.”

He started to drop into the straight-backed chair near her desk to wait.

“A private phone call.”

He grinned and left, though he’d love to hang around and listen. Angela was single and the hottest number on the force. He could imagine what a private phone call from her would sound like. Not that he’d ever get one. She’d made it clear she didn’t date police officers. He guessed that meant she wouldn’t sleep with him either.

He walked back to his office, once again thinking about the sheriff’s call. Be one great boon if it was Cassandra Harwell who’d shown up in Aohkii, Montana. He was as eager as ever to get his hands on the murdering bitch—for reasons that had nothing to do with her husband’s death.

JENNY GATHERED a handful of snow and hurled it in her mother’s direction. The snowball splattered against the leg of Chrysie’s jeans. “Okay, kid, you’re going to get it now.”