The Toddler's Tale

He noticed the way Chelsea took one of the coffee cups and put it in the other woman’s hands, as if the mother were a little child who couldn’t do it by herself.

Max handed Chelsea a sandwich.

“It’s chicken salad,” she said, peeling off the wrapper and passing it to the woman. “It looks good. Please, eat something while I talk to Max for a minute. All right?”

The other woman eyed her hesitantly before nodding.

Chelsea darted an anxious glance in his direction. If he read her message correctly, she wanted a private conversation with him. Intrigued by her solicitous behavior with the other woman, he helped her arrange the tarp over the mother’s head and shoulders.

When they had walked a few feet away he whispered, “I can’t hear Betsy.”

“She cries on and off. It’s killing me to think of that precious infant alone down there, so I can only imagine how Traci must be feeling.” The wobble in Chelsea’s voice sounded real. It appeared she had blood in her veins, after all. Who would have believed it?

“The thing is, I can’t tell if her daughter keeps falling asleep then waking up, or if she’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. But there’s another problem just as serious.” He heard a slight hesitation. “You have to help me with it before the search and rescue people get here. I—I promised Traci.”

His brows knit in a frown. “What other problem? What are you talking about?”

“After the history between us, I realize you pretty well despise me. I can handle that. But I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t back me up in this one thing.”

“Go on.”

She shivered from the lack of warmth in his tone. “I— I need a favor from you. For Traci’s sake, do you think we could put our differences aside long enough to discuss it like two civilized adults?”

His gaze roved over her features. “It depends.”

“Please, Max. This isn’t easy for me.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t remain immune to the throb of emotion punctuating her speech. She might be playacting, but if that was the case, she was doing a damn good job of it.

“Traci’s terrified about something.”

“I am, too,” he admitted. “Betsy’s in a lot of trouble.”

“So is Traci.”

“All right. Tell me what’s going on.”

Finally she felt she had his attention.

“For one thing, I don’t believe Traci is her real name. Max, she doesn’t live next door. The truth is, she’s from Bellevue, Washington, and has been running away from a life-and-death situation.” Without wasting words, Chelsea told him as many facts as she could.

He doubted she was aware that her hands had gripped his arm with surprising strength. Imploring green eyes lifted to his.

“We have to hide her before the media people hear about this over the police band and come to video the rescue. If her real name is mentioned, or pictures are shown over the news, her husband will know exactly where to find her.

“I was thinking if you could break into that vacant house, we could hide her inside and pretend she lives there. As soon as you get access to a phone, you could contact the realtor and tell them you need the place for police business. I’ll pay the rent for the use of the house.”

Max was stunned.

It wasn’t the wild story as much as the fact that it was Chelsea Markum, of all people, begging him to help her hide Traci from the television crew she worked with. Hell. She was even willing to use her own money to cover the expense of breaking into the vacated premises next door.

None of it added up. The star of “Tattle Today TV” he’d locked horns with for over a year had to be pulling something.

THE LONGER she was forced to wait for a response, the greater Chelsea’s fear grew that Max wasn’t going to cooperate. If he refused to help, then she would have to protect Traci herself.

“Forget I asked,” she murmured in a dull voice, and started to turn away, but he grasped her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him.

“Tell me about the rest of your plan.”

Relieved that he was still willing to talk about it, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

“You could give the police phony names and ages. Tell everyone she’s a widow who’s so upset over her daughter’s predicament, she’s too overcome with grief to be interviewed. I’ll do my part by explaining that the mother asked me to stay by the little girl and try to keep up her spirits.”

“What else?” He bit out the question. “I might as well hear the rest of it.”

“Well, there are several things. You need to ask a couple of police officers you trust to supply food and bedding and sneak it into the house. They’ll have to guard the entrances so that no reporters will be able to get inside to film her. I’ll pay for all the expenses and any hospital bills.”

Lord.

Max released her arms to rake a hand through his hair while he digested the unexpected twists and turns of a situation Chelsea Markum normally relished exploiting.

It was incredible enough that she would put her own selfish interests aside in an effort to protect Traci from her deranged husband.

But for Chelsea to inveigle Max’s help in deliberately shielding the terrified young mother from the press, when Chelsea was probably its most ardent, relentless proponent, was so far out of character as to be ludicrous.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that if she was willing to pay money from her own bank account to accomplish her objective, she had to have a hidden agenda somewhere.

No doubt when the crisis was over and, God willing, Betsy was safely rescued, Chelsea would do one of her sensational reports on “Tattle Today TV.”

It would be a real scoop, all right, revealing the true names and events in a situation no one else in the press had caught wind of. Her ratings would skyrocket, a coup Max was loath to aid.

What better way for her to get back at him for kidnapping her from the Lord ranch so she couldn’t get Camille and the baby on film.

On the other hand, if everything Chelsea had told him about Traci’s situation were true, then he shared her fear. The rescue attempt would be dangerous enough without the threat of an out-of-control husband arriving on the scene, capable of blowing everyone away. Domestic violence ending in murder happened every day somewhere in America. Chelsea hadn’t exaggerated about that.

But before he decided to go along with the rather devious yet brilliant scheme only a mind like Chelsea’s could have conceived, he needed verification from Traci that Chelsea hadn’t lied to him.

She grasped his arm. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but this is one time when I’m begging you to listen. Forget who I am and think of Traci’s pain. She’s so terrified, I didn’t think I would ever get her to open up to me. Now that she has, we can’t destroy her fragile faith in us, not when she has nothing to live for but her little girl.”

He took a deep breath. If he didn’t know better, he would swear she wanted to help and had no ulterior motive. But this wasn’t the time to try to analyze her psyche.

While he’d been talking to Chelsea, he hadn’t heard a peep come out of the child. If hypothermia were to set in now, the chances of the little girl surviving much longer were slim at best.

“If I do help her, I’m going to need a lot more information.”

He saw the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the becoming sleeveless dress before she let go of his arm, visible evidence of emotions held barely in check. Again he questioned what was at the bottom of this unprecedented display of concern.

Still reacting to the feel of her hands on his body, he walked to the other woman and got down on his haunches once more.

Traci cowered when he drew close to her. Her reaction was similar to the kind he’d encountered with other female victims in abusive relationships of one sort or another when he’d been on the police force.

Now that Traci knew he’d been told the truth, he could see she was frightened of his reaction. Chelsea hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said Betsy’s mother was fragile.

“Traci? You heard Chelsea discussing your situation with me. She’s told me enough that I want to help you.”

The younger woman lifted tear-filled eyes to him. “You won’t tell the police where I am and force me to go back to my husband?”

He swallowed with difficulty. “No. But first I need more background information. Is Traci Beal your real name?”

After a long hesitation she shook her head. “I made it up.”

“Then I need to know your legal name.”

“Why?”

“It’s important if I’m going to protect you.”

“I was Anne Morrison before my marriage.”

“All right. For the time being, we’ll continue to call you Traci.”

Chelsea gave her an encouraging smile, which Traci returned.

“Now, what’s your husband’s full name?”

“Nathan Stanhope. But he’s always gone by Nate.”

“Age?”

“Forty.”

“Tell me about his background, how he earns his living, that sort of thing.”

She kneaded her hands. “He was an only child. His mother died of cancer when he was twelve, and after his father was killed in a bus accident, he received an inheritance. As soon as the estate was settled, he bought a cabin outside Bellevue.

“We met while I was attending Washington State University. He was my political science teacher. After we married, he resigned from the faculty and said we were going to live at his cabin. At least that’s what I thought it was.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s built a secret bunker underneath it where he stores everything. When I questioned him, he got angry and told me it was just a basement. But since he’s always talking about a nuclear holocaust, I realized he’d made a bomb shelter.”

“Does he have other extended family or close friends who would be helping him look for you?”

She shook her head. “No. After we got married, I found out he didn’t like to associate with other people. He said they lied about everything, so we were going to have to live on our own and have nothing to do with them.”

Judging by the look of horror he saw reflected in Chelsea’s eyes, she felt as sickened by that revelation as he was.

“Give me a full description of him.”

“Nate’s six feet tall…lean, with dark blond hair that comes just down to below his ears. He has a short beard and mustache, and light blue eyes.”

“What about glasses?”

“He wears them for reading. They’re steel-rimmed.”

“Any distinctive birthmarks or tattoos?”

“No.”

“What about his car?”

“He drives an eighty-nine light green Chevy van.”

“When did he start keeping you a prisoner?”

“The day we got married.”

Max didn’t like the profile emerging on Traci’s husband.

“Where was your baby born?”

“At the cabin.”

“No doctor to help?”

“No. He said we were going to do everything the natural way.”

Little by little the color had left Chelsea’s face.

“How did you get away from him?”

“Last week some people in a truck camped near our cabin. It was late at night. Nate got so angry, he took his rifle and went outside to warn them off the property without remembering to lock the door. I’d been waiting for a chance like that. As soon as he was out of sight, I grabbed the baby from her crib and ran. When I got tired, I hid in some thick bushes.

“As soon as it was light, I started running again and met this nice old couple who were out camping. They fed us and drove us as far as Portland. We’ve been hitchhiking ever since.”

Max didn’t have to ask her why she hadn’t gone to the police for assistance. Women like Traci never did. Her husband had tyrannized her for too long. She had no faith that anyone could help.

“What about your family?”

“The aunt who raised me died before I got married.”

“Is there anyone you were close to before your wedding? A good friend your husband might have reason to suspect is helping you now?”

“Not really. He didn’t like my friends, so I didn’t see them anymore.”

“I still want their names and addresses. It’s for their protection. I’m going to need directions to find your cabin, too.”

He pulled his little notebook out of a back pocket. When she’d given him the information, he helped her to her feet. “Now comes the hard part, Traci. That siren in the distance means the police and paramedics will be driving up any minute to begin Betsy’s rescue. They’ll be followed by television reporters who want to take pictures and interview you.

“We’re going to have to hide you in order to keep your identity a secret so your husband can’t track you down. The best place for that would be the house next door. The only thing is, you won’t be able to talk to your little girl while we’re getting her out of the pipe.”

As Traci’s face started to crumple, Chelsea clasped the young woman’s hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay here every second and talk to her, sing to her, just as if I were her mother. She won’t be alone. I swear it. Will you let me do this favor for you, Traci? I want to do it.”

Max gritted his teeth. Why do you want to do this, Chelsea Markum?

The other woman bit her lip, then nodded.

Chelsea embraced her. “Quick! Go with Max.”

“Betsy? It’s Mommy!” Traci cried. “Chelsea’s going to stay with you for a little while, but I’ll be right next door, honey. I love you, baby!”

When the child made a whimpering noise, Max felt exquisite relief. The sirens were getting louder. He pulled Chelsea aside.

“You and I are going to have to tell the same story. When you’re questioned, just say that we were both leaving the Lord ranch when you discovered you were having car problems. I offered to give you a lift to a garage, and en route to Reiser we came across Traci.”

“That sounds perfect. But what shall I call the baby? I can’t use her real name without giving everything away.”

“I’m not worried,” he muttered. “The Chelsea Markum I know has always landed on her feet.” Turning to Traci, he held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s make a run for it while we can.”

CHAPTER THREE

IF MAX hadn’t referred to Chelsea as the black widow of television earlier, she might have taken those words as a backhanded compliment.

Forcing herself not to watch his hard-muscled frame as he pulled Traci toward the house, she reached for the cup of coffee he’d brought her. The liquid had cooled enough to drink the contents in a few swallows.

By the time the siren had stopped and she could hear doors opening and closing behind her, she’d arranged the tarp around her head and shoulders to provide a little more warmth. With night coming on, she could tell the temperature had already dropped a degree or two.

She hated to think of Traci’s little girl down there in the dark. She was only fourteen months old. What if she’d broken an arm or leg in the fall? Maybe she was bleeding. Chelsea felt sick in the pit of her stomach.

When footsteps sounded, she whirled. Four uniformed policemen and a similar number of firefighters in full gear approached her at a vigorous pace.

“Thank goodness you’ve arrived! Over two hours ago a toddler fell down in the excavation right below me. She’s trapped in a pipe. You’ve got to get her out!”

Chelsea didn’t recognize any of the men staring at her, but the malignant glance the police captain flashed her sent a message that needed no translation.

“Ms. Markum. How is it you arrived here first? Where’s Max Jamison? The dispatcher told us he called it in.”

Don’t let this man’s rudeness get to you, Chelsea.

She pulled the edges of the tarp a little tighter, as if to cloak herself with an invisible shield. “He’s next door with the mother and needs two policemen over there right away. I was asked to wait here so I could show you where to start looking for her daughter.

“Mr. Jamison and I were both leaving the Lord ranch when my car wouldn’t start. He offered to give me a lift into Reiser for help. When we turned down this road, the mother ran out to us. Look, Captain, he’s already been down there and says everything’s ready to collapse. If the little girl has crawled somewhere else, she could be killed by falling debris!”

There was no change of expression. “What’s the tot’s name?”

Some men possessed a surly manner by nature. Chelsea didn’t know if the captain fell in that category or if she was the one who brought out this boorish behavior in him.

“I don’t know. The mother was so hysterical, he couldn’t coax more than a sentence or two out of her.”

“Did he actually see the child?”

“No.” Chelsea struggled to keep her voice level. “But when he climbed down in there, he heard her through the pipe. She cries on and off.”

Petrified because Betsy hadn’t made any sounds for the last couple of minutes, Chelsea moved closer to the edge. “Sweetheart? It’s Chelsea and Mommy! We love you! Do you want me to sing another song? Would you like that? Sweetheart?” she cried louder.

While she listened for a response from the child, she heard the captain give orders to start the rescue operation. Relieved that two of the officers were told to head for the house, she concentrated on maintaining a connection with Betsy.

“Can you say mama? Come on, honey! Say mama for me so the nice men will know where to find you!”

By now the firefighters had been to their truck for equipment. A couple of them had climbed inside the framework with heavy-duty flashlights. Their progress must have disturbed some kind of roost because several free-tailed bats flew out, startling her.

Chelsea had forgotten how prevalent they were in this area. Though the creatures played a role in insect control, she couldn’t abide them, and prayed there weren’t any near Betsy.

“Sweetheart? Come on and talk to Chelsea! Come on! I know you can do it! Say mama! Mama!”

In a minute she heard whimpering, then another round of infant tears, which were enough to break her heart all over again.

The last firefighter to descend saluted Chelsea before he followed his partner into what at this point was a black hole.

Swallowing hard, she listened as the men talked baby talk to Betsy. Their voices sounded kind and loving. No doubt some, if not all of them, were married with families.

Her eyes smarted when she thought how brave they were to risk their lives for someone else’s little girl. Any one of them could easily be at home with a nice, safe day job.

In the background she could hear the captain on the patrol car radio. He was too far away for her to make out actual conversation. The other officer was busy setting up road flares near the vehicles and fire truck.

It wouldn’t be long before every radio and television reporter would be out here, seizing on any angle for a story that would boost their ratings. Without help, Traci and her child couldn’t hope to withstand the media.

For the first time since Chelsea had come to Austin to take the job at Tattle Today, she was seeing this situation from the victim’s perspective. She wasn’t sure she liked what she saw.

COME ON, Michael. Pick up.

On the sixth ring Max was ready to click off when he heard his friend’s voice answer with a rather terse hello.

“Michael?”

“At last! Where are you, Max? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“My cell phone died on me. I didn’t have a moment to call you until just now. How’s Garrett?” Michael’s brother, Garrett, had been shot the previous night at the remote cabin on his ranch where Vince Eckart had tried to kill his ex-wife, Camille.

“I just talked to him on the phone. He feels like the devil, but he’s going to be okay. Thank God the bullet got him in the shoulder instead of the heart. It’s because of me he was hurt at all. I should never have let him leave the cabin. He’s a rancher, not a former cop.”

Max inhaled sharply. “Don’t do that to yourself, Michael. Everyone’s lives were at stake last night. Any one of us could have taken a bullet. No one is to blame. Do you hear me? Let’s just be glad Eckart died before he could kill anyone else.”

“You’re right. It could have been worse.”

“It could have turned into a bloodbath, and you know it. Since we’ve been assured Garrett’s going to recover, what else matters?”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is.”

“All right,” Michael agreed, though he didn’t sound convinced. “So what about you? What have you done with the menace from Tattle Today? Jake told me he saw you toss her over your shoulder and take off hell-bent for your truck with a wicked smile on your face. I hear her camcorder took a direct hit. Apparently it was a sight forever emblazoned in his memory.”

At the time, no one had enjoyed the experience more than Max. He’d taken particular pleasure in carting her away from the crime scene Neanderthal style. She’d had it coming for a long, long time.

But life had a way of dealing you a double whammy when you were least expecting it. Since they’d discovered Traci at the abandoned excavation, Max knew things had changed. It was possible the black widow had another side to her. For several reasons he was no longer laughing.

“Max?” his friend prodded. “Don’t tell me she jumped out of the truck and got away from you?”

“She tried. I have the claw marks to prove it.” In fact she’d fought him with some moves that made her difficult to subdue. Whoever had trained her had done a good job. But he had no weapon against her feminine grace, which was far too seductive for his liking.

He gritted his teeth. Though she had a glaring flaw he couldn’t abide, it didn’t make him blind to certain truths. Like the fact that Chelsea Markum was a raving beauty.

For a long time now he’d been fighting that image of her. There’d been too many occasions in the last year when they’d tangled with each other, and he’d enjoyed it too much. Every incident had left him a little more affected in ways he didn’t want to explore.

Lately he found himself anticipating their confrontations whenever he had the job of keeping her away from people or places he’d been assigned to guard. But today marked a first—he’d held that breathtaking body in his arms, all five feet nine inches of her.

In truth he admired the immaculate care she took of herself, the elegant clothes she wore. He noticed details like her perfectly manicured nails, the scent of her French perfume, the flowery fragrance of her short, stylishly cut auburn hair.

Just now in the rain, the silky strands had taken on the patina of deep, rich Spanish mahogany. Her matching brows framed dark-lashed crystalline green eyes, and in his opinion, her flawless skin and features made her more beautiful than any movie star.

Since she craved attention, it was too bad she hadn’t pursued a career in film. Instead, she’d offended so many people with her aggressive, indomitable desire to ferret out a story, he wondered if she had many friends.

“What did you do with her?” Michael’s question broke his reverie. “How soon can I expect her to show up at the clinic with a new camcorder, ready to poke her nose into the Maitlands’ business? Does she know about Chase’s disappearance?”

“Not yet.”

“We can be thankful for that, at least,” Michael muttered.

After the gentle, protective, nurturing way she’d been behaving with Traci, Max almost lost it when he thought of her reverting to form once this ordeal was over.

He let out a deep sigh. “Michael, I’m calling for a different reason.”

There was a pause. “Is something wrong? Did Chelsea damage your truck or something? Because if she did—”

“No, no.” He broke in before his friend’s anger took over. At this point Michael had zero tolerance for Chelsea. And who could blame him? Ever since Chase had been found abandoned on the steps of Maitland Maternity Clinic the previous fall, Chelsea had harassed the clinic and the Maitland family, trying to find out who had parented the mysterious baby.