Protective Instincts. Shirlee McCoy
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You should find a late model Jeep with a blown tire somewhere nearby. There’s a photo of it on my cell phone.”
The officer nodded, but didn’t look as though he was any closer to letting Jackson out of handcuffs.
“I don’t suppose that it occurred to you to do what the pastor of this church did when he heard gunfire—call for help?”
“It occurred to me, but I was occupied with trying to keep myself from being crushed by a Jeep.”
That got a smile out of the guy. “Fair enough. I’ll call in an APB on the Jeep, see if we can find it and our guy. Want to show me that photo?”
“Want to get me out of these cuffs?”
“Sure, but don’t get the idea you’re going anywhere. I have some more questions for you.” Jackson nodded his agreement and stood still while the handcuffs were being removed. What he really wanted to do was go into the church and make sure Raina and Samuel were okay.
As he handed the officer his cell phone, he glanced at the building. Its pretty white siding and colorful stained glass gleamed in the darkness. A beautiful little building that had probably been standing for generations, but that didn’t mean it was safe. One thing Jackson had learned in his time in the military and with HEART—the places that should be safest were often the most dangerous of all.
* * *
It had been nearly four years since Raina had last stepped foot in River Valley Community Church. She hadn’t stopped attending because her faith had been shaken after Matt and Joseph died. She hadn’t stopped because her best friend had invited her to a new church in town. One that had lots of young people and plenty of upbeat music and was designed to make people feel good about their lives and their faith.
She’d stopped attending because it had been too hard to keep going.
Too hard to sit in a pew and listen while Pastor William Myer preached. Too hard to listen to his wife play the piano Raina had once played. Too hard to be there and not remember the years she and Matt had served together.
Too hard, and she’d been too weak, too sad, too destroyed by what had happened. Too overwhelmed by her guilt and her inability to forgive God and herself.
She touched the vestibule wall, remembering the way she and Matt had laughed as they’d painted sunny yellow over the mud-brown that had been there since the 1960s. They’d wanted to see the old church shine again, and they had. Matt would say that was a blessing. To Raina it was just another memory that she’d rather forget.
Water ran in the sink, the door to the church’s only bathroom still firmly closed. She wanted to knock and make sure that Samuel was okay, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate it. He hadn’t seemed to want her help, hadn’t wanted to talk. He’d been traveling for thirty-six hours, and he was tired and ill. Stella had said he’d been running a 103-degree fever, and that the wound on his stump was seeping and infected. All those things needed to be dealt with, but first Raina had to get him home.
That’s where she’d wanted to go.
Straight back to the house. But Stella had had to make a call, then she’d asked if there was anything on the other side of the woods. The next thing Raina had known, they’d been heading for the old church.
She touched the wall again, a million memories flooding her mind and her eyes. It had been a while since she’d cried over what she’d lost, and she didn’t plan to cry now, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the dream that had woken her. The hot African sun and the little boy crying for help.
The vestibule door opened, cold fall air drifting in and carrying the scent of wood fires and wet leaves. Her favorite time of year, but it seemed as if she’d missed every moment of every fall for the past four years. As if she’d just drifted through the seasons without even noticing the leaves changing color, the snow dusting the ground, the first tulips of spring.
She turned, letting the cold moist air kiss her cheeks and ruffle her hair. She expected Stella to walk through the open door, but the figure that moved into the vestibule was tall and masculine. Her heart jumped as she met Jackson Miller’s eyes. Even in the midst of her terror, even half-frozen and desperate, she’d known who he was. She’d recognized the sharp angles of his face, the scar that sliced through his eyebrow, the broadness of his shoulders. She’d dreamed about him dozens of times, relived her captivity and her rescue every day for months.
Yes. She’d have known Jackson anywhere, anytime, in any situation.
“Everything okay in here?” he asked, his Southern drawl as warm as sunlight on a summer morning. It had been months since she’d heard it, but she hadn’t forgotten the thick twang, or the way it reminded her of home and safety and freedom.
“Yes.” She looked away from his searching gaze. “I’m just waiting for Samuel.”
“You’ve been waiting a long time.”
“He’s sick and exhausted. Everything takes longer under those circumstances.”
“I guess so.” He knocked on the door. “Hey, Sammy! You about done in there?”
“He doesn’t—” She was going to say speak much English, but Samuel poked his head out of the bathroom, his face and hair wet.
“I am finished.”
“What’d you do, kid? Take a bath?” Jackson stepped into the bathroom and came back out with a handful of paper towels. He dabbed at Samuel’s head and his face, swiped water off the back of his neck, pausing for just a moment at a ridge of scars just below Samuel’s hairline. When the young boy tensed, Jackson moved on, finishing the job with quick, efficient movements that Raina envied.
She could have been the one helping. She probably should have been the one. After all, she’d be Samuel’s caregiver for the next year. She felt awkward, though. As if losing Joseph had caused her to lose every bit of maternal instinct she had.
“Good enough!” Jackson proclaimed with a smile that eased the hardness from his face. “We have to stay here a few more minutes while the police officer collects some evidence. You want to sit down?”
He didn’t wait for Samuel to reply, just scooped him up with his crutch and placed him on a pew at the front of the sanctuary. The young boy looked surprised, but didn’t protest. Maybe he was more used to men than women. Or maybe he just sensed the difference between Jackson and Raina—one was relaxed and open, the other tense and closed in and scared.
She had to get over it.
No one had twisted her arm or begged her to help Samuel. She’d come up with the idea all on her own, because she owed him her life. She hadn’t been able to forget that, hadn’t wanted to. The problem was, she didn’t know how to care for a young boy. Not anymore. She knew it, and Samuel seemed to know it.
That was a shame, because she’d really wanted to hit it off with him, to make him feel comfortable and at home.
What she hadn’t wanted was to think about Joseph every time she looked into Samuel’s face, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. They looked nothing alike, but when she looked into Samuel’s eyes, she was reminded of Joseph. When she touched his arm, she thought of her son.
“You should probably sit down, too,” Jackson said quietly. “You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” She met his eyes, felt something in her heart spring to attention. He was as handsome as she’d remembered. As tall. As muscular. He was exactly what she’d have imagined if someone had told her there was a team of people who’d devoted their lives to rescuing the kidnapped, the lost, the wounded from dangerous situations.
“Fine doesn’t mean you’re not going to fall over faster than Grandma Ruth during a summer revival meeting.”
“Your grandmother faints during revival meetings?” she asked, plopping down next to Samuel because her legs were feeling a little