The Mighty Quinns: Mac. Kate Hoffmann
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fit in the car.
He couldn’t remember when life wasn’t like this, when his father wasn’t angry and abusive and when his mother wasn’t terrified. They were running from something—or someone—dangerous. Whoever or whatever it was, it was always just a few steps behind them.
“I—I’m not sure where they are,” Luke murmured.
He knew just one truth. They were gone and he was all alone in the world—all alone against some invisible threat that still stalked him. They’d left St. Louis two days ago, on the run again. He wasn’t even sure where they were now. Colorado? Utah? They’d been headed to Oregon, but that’s all he’d been told.
“Where do you live?”
“I can’t remember,” he insisted.
“Son, I don’t think—”
“I don’t know,” Luke said. “Can I leave now?”
“No, you can’t leave. We need to find a relative,” the officer said, “or you’re going to have to go into the foster care system. You don’t want to do that, do you?”
In truth, the option sounded good to him. He’d be safe, hidden among strangers. Luke wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to survive on his own. He had no money, nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat. “It’s okay,” he said. “You can send me there.”
“No relatives? No one who might want to take you in?”
Luke shook his head, then slipped off the edge of the gurney. “I’m hungry. Can I get something to eat?”
The officer stood up. “Let me see what I can find,” he murmured.
Luke circled the gurney and found a dark corner where he could think. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d been Lukas Parrish. But since leaving St. Louis he was Lukas MacKenzie. “M-A-C-capital-K-E-N-Z-I-E,” he murmured to himself. His father had made him spell it over and over again until it came naturally. There had been other names in other places. He had no idea which one to use. He knew that Parrish wasn’t his real last name, either. Before Parrish it had been Cartwright, and before that, Phillips. If he thought about it hard enough, he could come up with ten or fifteen different names. Since MacKenzie was the last name his father had told him to use, that was the name he’d given the police.
Pulling his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms over his head, wrapping his body into a tight ball. The tears stung his eyes and Luke finally surrendered to his fears. A string of curses burst from his lips and he felt a surge of anger toward his parents. How could they do this to him?
This was all his fault. He should have been brave and convinced his mother to leave his father. He should have kept her safe. They could have made a good life for themselves. But his father was a selfish, obsessive man. He hadn’t been happy unless he controlled every facet of his family’s lives. He’d always said it was for their safety, but Luke knew better. His father would never have let his mother go.
He saw a policewoman approach and he avoided her gaze, knowing there would be more questions.
“How are you doing, Luke?” she asked in a kind voice.
“Not so good,” Luke murmured. “Am I going to foster care soon?”
She pulled something out of her pocket and held it out to him. It was the little tin box of treasures that he kept with him. Luke wasn’t sure where the box had come from, but he’d always had it. No matter where they moved, his mother helped him find a proper hiding place for it, a spot that his father wouldn’t find. Luke wasn’t sure why it meant so much them. He assumed that the contents of the box must be important.
“Is this yours?” the officer asked.
Luke nodded and he took the box from her outstretched hand. “Can you find a photo of your mother in there?”
Luke sorted through it and held up a shot of the two of them together taken in a photo booth at a seaside amusement park. He’d been young, but he remembered that day—the warm sand and the salty sea breeze. The gulls that swooped down from the sky to finish the remains of Luke’s and his mother’s sandwiches.
“This is her?” the policewoman asked.
Luke nodded.
“Do you have a picture of your father?”
“He doesn’t like photos.”
She held out a small wallet-sized album. “What about these people? They look older. Are they your grandparents?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure who they are.”
“And these wedding bands? And this watch? Who does this belong to?”
Luke shrugged. “They’ve always been in the box. I don’t know.”
The rest of the treasures were things he’d added—a seashell, a piece of pink quartz, an old Indian head nickel. Had his father known of the box, the contents would have been pawned long ago.
“We’re going to make a copy of this photo and see if we can track down your parents,” she said. “And if you remember anything else, you give me a call, all right?” She handed him a business card. “That’s my home number.”
“I don’t think they want me,” he said. Tears filled his eyes and spilled out onto his cheeks. Though he tried to stop them by sheer force of will, nothing he thought or did seemed to control his grief. She rubbed his back until he stopped crying, then handed him a wad of tissues.
“I can’t believe that’s true,” she said.
Maybe he was wrong. But until he was sure, he’d follow his father’s rules. The rules would keep him safe. His name was Luke MacKenzie. But his friends called him Mac.
“WHO ARE YOU? Where’s Buddy? I need to talk to Buddy. When will he be back?”
Luke MacKenzie grabbed a rag from the floor of the airplane hangar and wiped the grease from his hands. As he approached the counter, he studied the woman who had burst through the door just a few seconds before.
Her dark hair was windblown and the color was high on her cheeks. His gaze dropped to her lush lips and perfect white teeth. Her expression, though tense with anger, did nothing to diminish her natural beauty. In truth, he hadn’t met anyone quite so beautiful in a very long time.
Mac grinned lazily and walked up to the counter. “Which one of those questions would you like me to answer first?” he asked, leaning closer to her.
Her scowl deepened. “Where’s Buddy?”
“He’s in the hospital having his hip replaced.”
The news seemed to take her by surprise and he detected a slight blush creeping up her cheeks. “Oh,” she murmured. “He did tell me that. When is he going to be back?”
“About three weeks,” he said. “Maybe a month.”
“And who are you?”
“Luke MacKenzie,” he said. “They call me Mac.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out. To his surprise, she took and shook it firmly. Mac held on for a few moments longer, enjoying the feel of her slender fingers resting in his palm.
“Mr. MacKenzie, I—”
“Just Mac,” he insisted, giving her hand another squeeze.
She straightened her spine and met his gaze, then slowly tugged her hand from his. “Well, Mr. Just Mac, let me give you the 411 because obviously Buddy didn’t fill you in before he left. The next time Charlie Clemmons shows up and wants you to haul that ridiculous Marry Me, Emma banner all over the sky, you’re supposed to tell him no!”
“And your name is...”
“Emma,”