Christmas On The Run. Shirlee McCoy

saw a guy walking toward him, coming from the same direction Carly had, sauntering like he had nothing but time on his hands. Except he looked sweaty, his hair plastered to his head.

      “Morning,” he said as he passed, without looking in Dallas’s direction. He also stayed near the center of the street, far enough from the houses to keep motion-detecting security lights from being triggered. And he seemed to be following the same path as Carly. Minus the trip to Dallas’s porch.

      “Cold morning for a walk,” Dallas said, and the man stiffened.

      “Yeah. It is.” He put on a little speed, increasing his pace just enough for it to be noticeable.

      “You going anywhere interesting?”

      “What’s it to you?”

      “Just thinking that if you’re following the lady, you might want to stop.”

      “Mind your own business, buddy,” the guy growled.

      “It’s my business when a woman is running alone and she’s being followed,” he responded.

      “You want trouble?” The guy turned, his eyes blazing. The sun had finally drifted above the horizon, the gold-gray light glancing off mud-brown hair and dull blue eyes.

      “I’m not going to walk away from it if it comes calling,” Dallas replied. Poking the pig. That was what his father called it. It was something Dallas always seemed compelled to do. Something that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.

      This time was no different.

      The guy moved fast, reaching under the hem of his jacket, the motion smooth and practiced. Dallas had seconds to react, to throw himself sideways, pull his Glock. And then the world was exploding into chaos—a woman screaming, a hundred memories filling his mind as he found his mark and fired his first shot.

       TWO

      She screamed.

      She couldn’t stop herself.

      And then she ran faster, racing away from the man with the gun, the one who’d been following her.

      Racing away from Dallas. He was in danger because of her. She could try to deny it. She could tell herself all kinds of pretty lies, but if he’d been shot, it was because she’d dragged him into trouble. She glanced over her shoulder, stumbling as she reached the transition between pavement and park path.

      Nothing in the street. No sign of Dallas. No guy with a gun. Lights had come on in a few houses, and she could hear sirens in the distance. Someone had called the police. She could stay and tell them what she’d seen. She could talk to them about the gemstones she was supposed to be cutting, the threats against Zane. She could put her faith and trust in fallible human beings and an overburdened criminal justice system.

      Or she could keep going and leave Dallas to face the consequence of her decisions. She could let him talk to the police, explain what he’d seen, what she’d said.

      And while he was doing that, she could be packing and leaving town.

      But if he’d been shot...

      She stopped, eyeing the empty street, the lit houses, the rising sun glinting off winter-bare trees. Nothing moved, and she took a step back the way she’d come, because she couldn’t just abandon Dallas. No matter how much she might want to.

      She stopped in front of his house, scanning the yard, looking for signs that he’d been injured. She found what might have been a splotch of blood on the pavement, another drop of it a few inches away. But there was no one lying bleeding on the ground. There was nothing but the gold-gray light of dawn, the chilly winter breeze and the sound of screaming sirens.

      She found more blood on the grass, and she followed the trail of it around Dallas’s house and across the field that separated his property from the park. The police would arrive soon, and she shouldn’t be there when they did. She’d blown it. She’d made that first cut in the stone and she’d gone too deep, pushed too hard. There was nothing to do when that happened but scrap the old plan and come up with a new one.

      But she couldn’t leave until she knew Dallas was okay. This was her fault, her trouble coming to call on him.

      She should have thought about that before she’d taken the chance, but she’d been desperate to keep Zane safe, and Dallas had seemed like the kind of guy who could hold his own in a battle. On paper, he’d even looked like a hero. Not that she believed in those. The fantasy of a white knight riding to her rescue had died about three months after she’d married Josh, right around the time she’d seen a florist receipt on the floor of their closet. For his mother.

      She’d believed the lie because she’d wanted to, but she’d never again believed he was everything he’d pretended to be.

      But those were thoughts for another time.

      Right now, she needed to find Dallas and make sure he was okay. Once she did that, she’d do what she should have a month ago. Plan B: leave town, her life, her career. Leave Jazz.

      Zane would be devastated. Especially with Christmas coming. It was his favorite holiday. He loved all the traditions. More than anything, he loved having his little family together. Not this year, though. This year Jazz was going to be with her fiancé’s family, starting new traditions. Zane had cried when he’d found out. He’d cry more when he realized that he was never going to see his aunt Jazzy again.

      But he’d be alive. He’d be safe.

      That was what mattered.

      She pushed through a thicket and found herself on the trail she’d run in on. No blood there, and the earth was too packed for footprints to be visible. She crouched, searching the ground for any sign that Dallas had been there. The sirens stopped abruptly, and she knew the police had arrived. They were probably questioning whoever had called in the report of gunfire. It wouldn’t be long before they found the blood. They might call in a K-9 unit and extra manpower, and she’d be out in the woods, ready to be found and questioned.

      Don’t go to the police. Don’t tell anyone.

      She hadn’t gone to the police, but she had tried to tell someone, and now the police were closing in. The people who’d been following her had to know it.

      Fear zipped through her, the metallic taste of it filling her mouth. While she was tromping around in the woods looking for Dallas, the people who’d been threatening her could be knocking on the door at her place, making up some excuse for entering the premises.

      “Dallas?” she called quietly, the word barely carrying on the morning air.

      There was no response. She hadn’t really expected there to be.

      The blood, the silence. He was injured. Or worse.

      And it was her fault.

      “Dalla—”

      A hand slapped over her mouth, and she was pulled back against a rock-solid chest, her arms pinned to her sides by someone much larger and stronger than she was. She’d learned to fight the same way she’d learned to run, because she’d had no choice. It was that or be used and abused and tossed onto the side of the road like garbage.

      She went lax, her weight dropping against her attacker’s arm.

      When that didn’t loosen his grip, she went for his instep, shifting her weight and stomping down hard.

      “Stop,” he hissed in her ear. “It’s Dallas, and there’s some guy with a gun wandering around out here. You want him to hear us?”

      She shook her head, and his hand slipped from her mouth.

      “Are you hurt?” she whispered, trying to turn, but his arm was still locked around her, and she couldn’t move.

      “Quiet,” he said,