Single With Twins. Joan Elliott Pickart

bending low, one hand flat on the old man’s back to propel him forward.

      They had to get to that building across the street, Mack’s mind hammered. Go, go, go. Ten more feet. Five. Move, move, move. Almost there now…three feet left and they would be safe and—

      A bullet slammed into Mack’s left shoulder, the force of the impact causing him to fall onto his back in the dirt. White-hot pain rocketed through his entire body as a black curtain began to descend over him.

      No! his mind yelled. He’d seen the friendly hands reach out and pull the old couple into the building. He had been one stride away from escaping the danger in the street.

      And now he was going to die? Here? In the dirt? He was only thirty-seven years old, and he was going to die in a village in a remote part of a country that half the people in the world had never even heard of, or gave a damn about?

      He was going to die alone, knowing that when the final words were spoken over him, no one would cry?

      No-o-o!

      Then everything went black.

      Chapter One

      Two months later

      Heather Marshall leaned back in the chair in front of the computer and rotated her head, attempting to relax the tightened muscles in her neck. She gave up relief as a lost cause and directed her attention to the row of numbers on the monitor.

      Nodding in satisfaction, she pressed the save button, then exited the program. A moment later she turned off the computer and sighed as blessed silence fell over the bedroom, the hum from the machine stilled after another day of work.

      She got to her feet and glanced longingly at the double bed that beckoned to her to crawl between the cool sheets.

      “I’ll be back,” she said to the bed, pointing one finger in the air.

      Leaving the cramped bedroom, she walked down the short hall to the living room, her destination the kitchen where she would pack the girls’ lunches for school the next day. The brown bags would be waiting to be grabbed from the refrigerator as the twins prepared to make their usual last-second dash to catch the school bus.

      When she was halfway across the living room, a quiet knock sounded at the front door, causing Heather to stop and glance at her watch.

      It was nearly ten o’clock, she thought, frowning. Who on earth would be knocking at her door at this late hour? There must be an emergency with one of her friends in the neighborhood.

      Heather hurried to the door, then hesitated as she gripped the doorknob.

      Slow down and think, she told herself. Granted, the people in the dozen houses on her short block looked after one another, were like a family of sorts, but that didn’t erase the fact that this section of Tucson was not the pride and joy of the chamber of commerce.

      The small homes were old, the people who lived in them were low-income, struggling-to-get-by folks, just as she was. It was a high-crime area and only a dope would fling open the door at ten o’clock at night without knowing who was on the other side.

      She went to the front window and peered through the drapes, clucking her tongue in disgust as she saw that the light had burned out—again—leaving her tiny front porch in total darkness. There was definitely something faulty in the wiring in that socket that caused the bulb to burn out within a few days of being replaced.

      The knock was repeated.

      Heather went to the door. “Who is it?”

      “Mrs. Marshall?” a man’s voice said. “Heather Marshall? I realize that it’s late but I saw your lights on and…I was wondering if I might speak to you? It’s really very important.”

      Heather narrowed her eyes and planted her hands on her hips.

      “Are you selling something?” she said. “At ten o’clock at night? I’m not interested, thank you.”

      “No, no, I’m not a salesman,” the man said. “Look, my name is Mack Marshall. I’ve been trying to locate you for weeks and now that I have I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to speak with you. Did you catch my last name? It’s Marshall. We’re related…kind of. I’ll explain everything if you’ll open the door.”

      Marshall? Heather thought, frowning. Mack Marshall? And he was claiming to be related to her? That was nuts. Her husband, Frank, hadn’t had any relatives. No one. Like her, he’d been alone in the world, just one more thing he’d claimed meant they were to be together.

      “You have the wrong Marshall,” Heather said. “My husband has no family. Good night, Mr. Marshall. I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

      “Wait,” the man said. “Your husband’s name was Frank. This is obviously as much of a surprise to you as it was to me, but I’m Frank’s half brother. I didn’t even know he existed until a few weeks ago. Then I discovered he died nearly seven years ago, but that he left a wife and children. I’ve been searching for you ever since. Please, Mrs. Marshall, won’t you let me speak with you?”

      Frank had a half brother named Mack? Heather thought incredulously. Was this some kind of scam? Oh, that was silly. What was this Mack Marshall person going to scam her out of? Her millions?

      Mmm, she thought, pressing one fingertip to her chin. What to do? What to do? Mack Marshall had piqued her curiosity, that was for sure. It wasn’t every day—well, night in this case—of the week that a long-lost relative popped up out of the woodwork.

      Why hadn’t Mack Marshall known until now that he’d had a half brother? And by the same token, why hadn’t Frank been aware of Mack’s existence?

      Mmm. The safest thing to do would be to tell this Mack guy to come back in the morning, when she wouldn’t feel as vulnerable as she did now when it was pitch dark outside.

      Right, Heather thought dryly. That would result in a long night of tossing, turning and the piling up of unanswered questions regarding the mystery now standing on her porch.

      “I give up,” she said, then opened the door a crack to peer out.

      Darn, she thought. That decisive action had accomplished nothing more than to give her a glimpse of a tall person barely silhouetted in the darkness.

      “I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?” The man said. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Marshall. I’ve waited this long to talk to you so I’ll come back in the morning, if that’s all right. It certainly wasn’t my intention to make you uneasy about letting me into your home. Is there a time tomorrow that would be good for you to speak with me?”

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Heather said, flinging open the door. “Come in. But, I swear, if you’re selling something, you are out of here.”

      “Fair enough,” the man said, stepping into the living room. “I really appreciate this.”

      Heather closed the door, then turned to look up at Mack Marshall.

      This man, she thought, feeling her heart do a strange little two-step, could not possibly be related to Frank. This man was without a doubt the most ruggedly handsome, well-built specimen of the male species she’d ever seen in her twenty-seven years on this earth.

      Oh, mercy, look at the square cut of his jaw, the straight blade of his nose, lips that were perfectly proportioned to his other features and…hair. Hair that was thick and black and needed a trim, and eyes that were so dark she could hardly discern the pupils.

      His broad shoulders filled out the pale blue dress shirt opened at the neck, and his long, long legs were encased in nice-quality gray slacks, and—

      Nope. No way. This Mack Marshall, or whoever he really was, couldn’t possibly be Frank’s brother, half or otherwise. Frank had been hardly taller than her own five-foot-six, and he’d gained weight just looking at a piece of cake, resulting in a large bulge that covered his belt within