Blaze loaded Maisy’s belongings into the bed of his pickup truck. Three lidded plastic totes. Two duffel bags and a few boxes of books. The entire contents of what was left of her life amounted to less, materially, than his personal collection of fishing gear.
She’d given up everything in her quest to find justice for Luciano’s victims, and it both filled and pained Blaze’s heart. He needed to make sure she got the chance to complete her mission.
He pulled a heavy tarp over her things and secured it, then joined her in the cab. “You okay?” he asked. He couldn’t imagine how tough it must’ve been, seeing the place again so soon, especially in that condition. Her expression as she’d packed had said plenty. She was angry and afraid, but more than that, Maisy was tired. It was written on her face, but she was too darn stubborn to admit it or lean on him for support. He just didn’t understand why.
“Not going to lie,” she said. “Being here wasn’t great.” Her voice shook as she spoke, and Blaze longed to fold her into his arms.
Instead, he started the engine and shifted immediately into gear, getting out of there as quickly as possible. In case whoever tossed the place returned.
“I’m glad to have my stuff back, but I’d hoped to find some kind of clue that would help us track the killer. Instead the whole cottage was trashed and the trip was a 50 percent bust.”
Blaze turned to her as she stared dejectedly through the window. “The crime scene tape was broken, so we can assume officials had already done their job before it was overturned. Most likely, whatever clues the shooter left behind were already collected before the home was sealed.”
“Maybe,” she muttered. “Hopefully that wasn’t done by a member of the crime scene to destroy or cover up the evidence.”
Blaze tried to smile or muster any level of encouraging expression and failed miserably. He couldn’t blame Maisy for her lack of faith in the system. Not when a man dressed as a marshal had killed her friend and guardian. It wasn’t fair that she’d been through so much. Had given up so much. And he hated that she was only six weeks from delivering her first child, and she only had one tiny box of baby things. She should have a whole nursery set up by now, and a closet full of clothes. The pregnancy should’ve been celebrated, not hidden, and his family should have smothered her with love and attention so she could laugh about it with him each night. Maisy and their baby should be safe. Not on the run.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“I’m fine, Blaze,” she said, drawing his attention to her. “I hate that look, so do me a favor and don’t use it on me.”
“What look?” he asked, straightening his spine and doing his best impression of someone handling the situation better than he was. “I was thinking. That’s all.”
“You were thinking that you pity me,” she said, “And I don’t want it. So, knock it off.”
He bit the insides of his cheeks, fighting the urge to argue and knowing she wouldn’t listen anyway. They’d both get all wound up, throwing their misplaced frustrations and anger at one another until someone said something they didn’t mean and couldn’t take back. They’d both regret their parts immediately and miserably afterward. He and Maisy had had a few of those explosive debates in their heyday. Each had ended in explosive makeup sex and hours of profuse apologies. The possibility of makeup sex was clearly out of the question. He’d be lucky if Maisy ever let him touch her again after he’d gotten her pregnant and left her alone for half a year. He definitely couldn’t argue with her right now. He had enough regrets already and wasn’t in the market for more.
She kept her attention focused through the window at her side, stroking her bump, comforting the child inside her.
Blaze longed to do the same. Wanted to caress the place where his baby grew and touch the woman who’d once stolen his heart. A woman who’d yet to give it back. But he kept his hands to himself, certain she thought he’d touched her enough already. “It’s empathy,” he said, finally, unable to let her think he pitied her. “I’m saddened by what you’re going through because I care about your happiness, and I think it sucks that you’re stuck in this psychopath’s storm. You gave up everything because of him, including your freedom. For months. And now that you’ve made it to the finish line, he’s pulled the rug and set you back at the beginning. On the run all over again. Scared. Unsure who to trust. I don’t pity you, Maze. I’m angry for you.”
She turned heated hazel eyes on him. “I know who I can trust. You. And I know you’ll get me through this, whatever it takes. You’ll keep me safe until I can do what I set out to do. Be the voice that Natalie, Clara and all Luciano’s other victims no longer have.”
The return drive passed in a flash of trees and small-town blurs outside his window. Maisy was quiet until a dime store appeared in the distance just outside the West Liberty city limits. “Do you think they have a restroom?” she asked. “I could use a break, and probably a bottle of water.”
“It’s worth a try if you need one,” he said, pulling the truck into a long, narrow lot, glad for the opportunity to meet at least one of her needs. If the business didn’t have a public restroom, he’d use his badge to temporarily change the policy.
He snagged a spot near the door and gave the place a long, careful look. The building was large, some sort of renovated warehouse or repurposed pole barn, not uncommon outside the city limits. A vinyl sign hung from the rooftop with the words Now Open scripted in red.
He scanned the area carefully before unlocking the truck doors and heading around to help Maisy down from the cab.
Thankfully, the ladies’ room was clearly marked at the back of the building, and Blaze didn’t have to pull rank on a retail worker. On the off chance anyone stopped here to ask about Maisy, it wouldn’t be good for employees to remember she’d been with him.
Blaze lingered outside the closed restroom door, an aisle of baby things stretching before him. A smattering of shoppers perused the selections. Blaze’s feet pulled him forward without conscious intent, into the foreign, brightly colored world. Images of happy children stared back from every baby-based product imaginable, and many he’d never imagined. The brands, sizes and options in diapers and formula were infinite and intimidating. There was a section of special laundry soaps, medicines with droppers and little silicon finger puppet–style toothbrushes for cleaning babies’ gums.
His gut tightened, and his skin prickled with fear and enthusiasm. This was his future. All these things he’d never seen before were about to become his everyday normal. A growing bud of panic gave way to an unexpected rush of joy as that beautiful truth settled in. He was going to be a father.
In six weeks.
He read labels and dragged his fingertips across lace bonnets and terry-cloth bibs. Tiny shirts with adorable sayings like Daddy’s Little Princess had images of shiny crowns. Blue overalls with cartoon chicks were embroidered with the words Chick Magnet. It was all too tiny and cute. There were booties printed to look like athletic shoes and cowboy boots.
He wanted to buy it all.
“First time?” a man asked, both startling and horrifying Blaze.
He blinked unfocused eyes, shocked that he’d allowed a stranger to get so close without him knowing. “Sorry. What?” He smiled apologetically as he assessed the man. Harmless. Young. His unbuttoned uniform shirt tagged him as a local mechanic.
The guy grinned. “New dad?” he asked. “You’ve got that look. I’m on number four. I can help you choose a diaper. How old’s your kid?”
Blaze shook his head. “No, not yet. Thank you.”
The man puckered his brows.
“Excuse me.” Blaze rushed back to the restrooms, unsure how long he’d been in the aisle, lost in thought.
The ladies’ room door was open when he arrived. The single-occupant unit empty.
A flood of panic ripped through him. “Maisy?” he said, turning to scan the store in search of her wild red curls. “Maisy?” He hurried along the rear wall, peering down each aisle into the faces of strangers. “Maisy!”
“Blaze?”
He spun in place, heart hammering painfully against his ribs.
Maisy waved tentatively back from several feet away. He hadn’t recognized her, dressed in his bulky jackets, her hair stuffed into his ball cap.
Relief hit like a baseball bat as he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her.
“Are you okay?” she asked, hugging him loosely, and with only one arm.
He laughed, embarrassed as he stepped back and scrubbed a hand over his mouth.
“You look a little bewildered.” She frowned awkwardly, a crooked smile on her lips.
“I’m fine,” he said. Hooking a hand on his hip and pulling himself together. “Where were you?”
“Shopping. I thought I should change my look, so I don’t have to masquerade as a pregnant man until the trial ends.” She dragged a palm over his motorcycle jacket in illustration.
“Right.” Blaze peeked into the plastic shopping basket in her grip. Hair dye, makeup and glasses cluttered the bottom of the little carrier. “Sounds like a plan. May I?” He tugged the thin metal handles, and Maisy released the basket.
She slipped her arm around his as they made their way to the checkout counter. “Thanks. I could’ve carried it myself, but I appreciate the gesture.”
His racing heart settled easily under her touch. “How about we agree you’re as strong as an ox, but I’ll do the lifting anyway for the next six weeks? It’ll make me feel useful.”
“Only if you never compare me to an ox again.”
“Y’all find everything all right?” a portly middle-aged woman asked from behind the counter. She wore a blue vest with the store logo and half glasses over small brown eyes. A name badge identified her as Theresa.
“Yes, thank you,” Maisy said, releasing Blaze in favor of winding both arms over her bump.
Blaze set the basket on the counter.
“When are you due?” Theresa asked, cheerfully scanning the selections. “Boy or girl?”
“Soon,” Maisy said. “We’re keeping the gender a surprise.”
The clerk’s eyes widened, and she belted out a laugh. “Well, I don’t hear that much these days. Folks like to plan every little second of their lives. Good for you. Enjoying the moments as they come.” She totaled the bill and dropped the final item into a bag.
Blaze offered her a few bills and waited for change.
“Well, good luck with everything,” she said. “You sure are one nice-looking family. Bring that baby back around here when I can meet it.”
“Will do,” Blaze promised, chest puffing with pride as he lifted the bags and led Maisy back to the truck.
MAISY SET THE blow-dryer onto Blaze’s bathroom countertop and stared at the reflection before her. Gone were the long red curls. Present was a blunt, poker-straight, shoulder-length bob with heavy bangs in a deep mocha brown she hated. She’d followed the guidance of an online makeup tutorial to generate a dramatic smoky-eye look and enhance her cheekbones. Her full pink lips were painted in matte crimson instead of the neutral gloss she’d used since high school.
“I look like a pregnant hooker,” she told the alternate version of herself looking back at her through cat-eye glasses. Then she pressed the tip of an eyebrow pencil into the skin near her upper lip. “Right down to the fake beauty mark.”
Thankfully, she still had her own clothes. A simple, long-sleeved red T-shirt and maternity jeans.
“Maze?” Blaze called, rapping softly on the semiopen door.
“Nope.” She turned to wait as Blaze peeked inside. “There’s no one by that name in here.”
His lips parted as he stepped into the threshold and leaned against the doorjamb. “Whoa.”
“Yeah.” She turned back to the mirror. “At least Luciano’s henchmen won’t recognize me. I barely recognize myself.”
Blaze locked eyes with her reflection. “You look like a hot librarian. Or a naughty schoolteacher.”
Maisy turned to face him, dragging the glasses to the tip of her nose. “Well then, how about a ride to the station before I give you detention?”
Blaze flashed a wicked grin before peeling himself away from the jamb. “Yes, ma’am.”
THE POLICE STATION was busy as they made their way to an office near the back.
A pretty blonde with blue eyes and graphite-smudged fingers popped up to greet them. “Detective Winchester.” She reached for Blaze, eagerly shaking his hand, before turning her attention to Maisy. “I’m Sarah. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Hi,” she answered, reluctant to share her name. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me on such short notice. I understand you usually go home by now.”
“It’s no problem,” Sarah assured. “I’m glad to help. Have a seat.”
Maisy sat opposite Sarah and rested her hands on the table.
Sarah stared openly a moment before blushing. “Sorry,” she said, looking immeasurably guilty. “It’s just that you don’t look anything like the picture on the news. I hope you don’t mind. Lucas filled me in.”
Maisy looked to Blaze, hoping his brother knew what he was doing by sharing her identity with the sketch artist.
Blaze offered a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Well, that was the goal,” Maisy said, answering the woman’s comment about her appearance. “It’s a little much, right?” She waved her hands in a small circle around her hair and face.
Sarah laughed. “You’re obviously beautiful either way, but this is a great cover. The bump was a brilliant touch.”
“The bump is real,” Maisy said, wrapping her arms around her middle.
Sarah’s brows rose. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. Most don’t.”
“Well, congratulations?” Sarah offered.
Maisy grinned, feeling the warmth of her well-wishes spread through her.
Blaze rocked back on his heels. “Thank you.” He set a hand on Maisy’s shoulder, his thumb stroking the fabric of her jacket.
Sarah’s jaw dropped. “No. You two? Really?”
Maisy laughed, a shock of pleasure and electricity coursing through her. “True story.”
“Winchester!” A man’s voice boomed outside the door.
Blaze pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned. “Sergeant,” he returned, spinning toward the door.
Maisy twisted in her seat for a look through the open doorway, but she didn’t recognize any of the faces outside.
“Will you two be okay without me?” Blaze asked, moving toward the door. “I want to brief Sergeant Maxwell on the situation and talk to the marshals if they’re here.”
Maisy smiled. “I’m sure we can manage on our own awhile.”
“Go for it,” Sarah said. “I’m going to need at least thirty minutes.”
Blaze nodded, stepping into the hallway. He smiled at Maisy before pulling the door shut behind him.
“So the rumors are true,” Sarah said, grinning as she lifted her pencil to the paper. “Blaze Winchester is officially off the market.”
“Oh no.” Maisy blanched. “It’s not like that between us anymore. Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen him since they took me into protective custody. He didn’t even know about the baby until I showed up on his doorstep.” She bit her lip, hating the unnecessary overshare. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Right now we’re just... I don’t know. Trying to stay alive, I guess.” She laughed to alleviate the awkward moment she’d created, but only felt more uncomfortable.
Sarah leaned over her sketch pad, still waiting to make the first line. “I hate to break the news, but that man is clearly lost for you. I know you’re in a tough place right now. A crazy crime boss is trying to kill you and all that, but I work with these guys all day. Every day. And that bright-eyed detective who just strode out of here isn’t the same man I’ve watched mope and skulk around for the past six months. That guy right there—” she pointed to the door, as if Blaze was still visible through it “—he’s a man who just found his way home.”
Maisy’s heart swelled nonsensically. She didn’t know Sarah, or have a clue how well Sarah knew Blaze, but she really liked the woman’s opinion. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, hoping she was right.
“You can take it to the bank,” she said. “Now, what do you say we get the safe house shooter’s face all over the news and shut Luciano down?”
Maisy beamed. Exactly what she was there for.
She and Sarah worked diligently until the sketch of Clara’s shooter was nearly perfect. Maisy marveled at the way Sarah’s hand moved confidently over the page, adding lines and curves, then dragging skilled fingertips across the work, blending to create depth, shade and shadow. The result was remarkable and could easily be mistaken for a black-and-white photograph.
Maisy’s abdomen tightened unexpectedly, and she grunted in response to the sudden pain.
“Maisy?” Sarah asked, eyes wide with instant concern.
“False contractions,” she answered softly, puffing short, labored breaths. She stretched onto her feet as the pain subsided, then paced the small room in slow, even strides, smoothing her palms against the hardened sides of her middle. “Sorry. I’ll just walk it off.”
Sarah offered an understanding smile. “Braxton-Hicks can be the worst,” she said. “So painful and such a tease. You’ll be praying for the real thing in a month or so, and these jokers will get your hopes up for nothing.”
Maisy laughed. “I can’t wait for that.” Praying for labor would mean the trial was over and she’d survived.
Another sharp pain cut the relief short, and Maisy gritted her teeth.
“Do you need a break?” Sarah asked. “There’s a restroom in a little alcove a few doors down from here. A water fountain and snack machines, too. Across from Detective Winchester’s office. Out this door and to the left. You can’t miss it. Go stretch and breathe.”
Maisy bobbed her head, inhaling long and slow through her nose as she straightened her spine. She released the air through open lips. “Okay. I won’t be long.” She hooked her purse over her shoulder, then gritted her way through another punch of pain.
“I’ll finish up, then come and check on you,” Sarah promised. “Remember, go left. Right is the way back to the main lobby, and the door will lock behind you if you leave.”
Maisy turned left, then checked over her shoulder to be sure there wasn’t any miscommunication amid the pain.
Sarah gave a thumbs-up, and Maisy shuffled away, eyes locked on a blue-and-white sign identifying the restrooms and vending area.
Blaze’s office door was open, but the room was empty.
The hall ended in a bullpen of sorts, lined in desks and filled with people in uniforms, suits and street clothes. Voices rose into a cloud of noise, punctuated with ringing phones and the click-clack of a dozen hands on keyboards. She suppressed the pinch of fear rising in her. Everyone in sight appeared to be official in one way or another. Even a man dressed as a homeless person had a badge on a chain around his neck.
You’re safe, she told herself as she hurried into the ladies’ room, cringing and breathing like a lunatic.
She jammed a wad of paper towels under running water, then squeezed out the excess before pressing the cool compress to her forehead. She wiped her temples, then repeated the process, holding the towels against the back of her neck.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Maisy bowed her head farther, balancing the towels and avoiding eye contact.
The scent of men’s cologne sprang her upright.
“No.” Terror choked the word as she looked Clara’s shooter in the eye.
He grabbed her in one swift move, pulling her to him with powerful arms. A broad, leather-gloved hand clamped over her lips, and he lowered his mouth to her ear. “We’re walking out of here,” he whispered. “And you aren’t going to fight me on it, or I will hurt your baby. Got it?”
Maisy sucked in a ragged breath, nodding wildly and fumbling for her purse.
The man’s icy blue eyes met hers in the mirror, and she stilled as her fingers reached their goal. “Think of that baby,” he said, the words filled with warning and resolve. “Don’t be a hero.”
He turned her toward the restroom’s exit with a forceful jerk, then shoved her forward. “Down the hall and to the right. We’re leaving through the back door.”
Maisy whimpered, then groaned, bending slightly forward with the sound.
When he attempted to wrench her upright, she pulled the Taser from her purse and pressed the trigger.