that the kid actually thought mushy veggies and jarred meat were yummy.
As Heather wiped his messy face, he scrunched his nose in disapproval, then squealed after he was clean. Next he drank from a bottle, tipping it himself.
When Justin looked curiously at Michael, Heather followed the boy’s gaze. Michael shifted in his chair, wishing the scrutinizing would end.
Finally, it did.
She placed Justin back in the portable crib, which apparently doubled as a playpen. A handful of toys followed him into the little cage.
It wasn’t a very fancy cage, Michael noticed. Although clean, it appeared old, possibly purchased from a secondhand store.
“Tell me the rest of the story,” he said, suddenly feeling bad for the kid. He remembered surviving on hand-me-downs, at least until his wealthy uncle had showed up.
Heather drew a breath. “I wanted to say goodbye to Reed in person. To see him before he vanished. He told me that once he and Beverly took off, he wouldn’t be able to contact me again.”
So she’d arranged a bogus trip to L.A., Michael thought. Allowing him to believe she was attending a conference. “You weren’t supposed to keep in touch with Reed to begin with. You promised me that you’d cut him out your life, that you’d stay away from him.”
“I know, but I couldn’t. Not this time.”
Not anytime, he realized. She’d been secretly conversing with Reed all along.
“When I arrived in L.A., all hell broke lose. I went straight to my brother’s downtown loft and found Beverly there, crying over Reed. He was on the floor, unconscious. He’d been severely beaten. A warning from Beverly’s father to stay away from her.”
Justin made a humming sound as he stacked colorful blocks. When they fell, he laughed and clapped, unaware of the distress in Heather’s voice.
“I tried to dial 911,” she went on to say. “But Beverly begged me not to, even though Reed was a bruised and bloodied mess. I didn’t know what to do.” She paused, as if recalling her terror. “Then Beverly asked me to help her get him out of town. To tend to his injuries.”
“And that’s what you did?”
“Yes, but the ordeal didn’t stop there.”
“What ordeal?”
“We ended up on the run.”
“From who? Beverly’s father?”
“Yes.” She looked up and met his gaze, her voice haunted. “Her father isn’t an ordinary man. He’s—”
Frustrated, Michael moved to the edge of his seat. “He’s what?”
“An L.A. crime boss. We were on the run from the West Coast Family.”
As her words registered, Michael’s heartbeat blasted his chest. “You mean the mob?” The guys who ran racketeering and extortion rings? Smuggled drugs? Pumped their enemies full of bullets?
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “The mob.”
Two
“I was trapped,” Heather said, praying Michael would understand. “I couldn’t contact you. I couldn’t risk a phone call.”
“You mean to tell me that Reed couldn’t have scrambled your location, kept the mob from tracing the call?”
“Yes, but that wouldn’t have been enough. The conversation still could have been bugged, even if the eavesdropper couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.”
“So?”
“So we had no idea what they’d do. The mob doesn’t normally take hostages or harm innocent people, but this was different.”
Unconvinced and much too macho, he squinted at her. “You were afraid they’d hurt me?”
“Or threaten someone close to you. Try to find out how much you knew.”
His eyes narrowed even more. “They could have done that anyway.”
“There’d be no need. Not unless they suspected you’d been in touch with me. That you were involved somehow. Maybe even helping Reed.”
“So you let me suffer? Wonder where you were? Why you’d left?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was the only thing I could do to ensure your safety.”
He didn’t respond, so she continued. “My brother was in severe danger. Not only was he trying to go straight, to end his affiliation with the mob, he’d fallen in love with the boss’s daughter. That’s a fatal combination.”
“Where is Reed?” Michael asked.
Heather stole a glance at the baby, who amused himself with a musical pony. “He’s still on the run.”
“But you’re here, with his son.”
“Yes.” She studied the pony. Reed had purchased it for Justin just weeks before he’d been born. It was the only toy the child owned that hadn’t come from a thrift store.
There was another lullaby pony, she thought. Buried near a cabin in Oklahoma.
“Tell me about Justin’s mother.”
She reached for the bitter coffee Michael had brewed and took a sip, hoping to calm her quaking hands. She still dreamed about the other pony. Still cried sometimes in her sleep.
“Beverly wasn’t doing well. She had a difficult pregnancy. I was concerned about the delivery, if there would be complications.”
“Were there?”
“No. It was fine. A long labor, but fine.”
Heather thought about the leather-wrapped bundle Reed had buried. The Cherokee prayers he’d chanted would remain forever in her mind, in her heart.
“But soon after Justin was born, Beverly became ill. She assumed it was stress. We were constantly on the move, and that took its toll on everyone.”
How many states had they passed through? How many nights had they slept in their vehicle? Washed up at gas stations and launderettes? Jumped from campsite to campsite, living on the fish Reed caught? “Beverly got a cough that wouldn’t go away. But no matter how fatigued she was, she refused to see a doctor.”
“Why? Because she was afraid of drawing attention to herself?”
“Yes.” She could still see Beverly, pale and tired, letting Heather care for her son on the days she couldn’t manage him. “Reed did everything he could to convince her to see a doctor. But she was determined to get well on her own. To try homeopathic remedies.”
Michael’s voice turned hard. “What in the hell was Reed planning
