A Stranger's Touch (24 page)

Whatever doubts she had, she’d set aside. Stafford believed. And she believed in Stafford. Even when he didn’t believe in himself.

He’d offered her his strength, his compassion, his soul. In return, she’d left him stranded in the middle of nowhere. And if he did encounter Davie’s abductor, a suspected cop killer...

Maggie gathered the sweat-dampened hair from her face, knotted the mass at the back of her head, and licked the tears from the corners of her mouth. Before she could
think
any more, she put the vehicle in drive and pulled a U-turn.

She parked by the house, in the same place as before, and got out. A hint of smoke hovered in the air. Not the sweet, rustic odor of a wood fire—but the foul, pungent stench of a burning building.

She flipped open her cell, mouthed a silent
thank you
for the signal that greeted her, and called 911. After giving the dispatcher her best guesstimate on location, she ended the connection.

A voice called out through the trees. Instinct brought Maggie to a stop. Chest drumming with the fury of a heavy metal band, she crouched and continued counterclockwise around the dwelling, hoping to surprise the person from behind.

It was a woman she heard—shaky at first, then loud, faint for a few sentences, then ear shattering.

Maggie hung close to the wall, perspiration dripping between her shoulder blades, cold as ice water in the darkening breeze. Step by step she moved closer. In between the woman’s cries, a male voice interjected—strong and unwavering.

Stafford.

Her heart stuttered, knowing he was near. She inched away from the structure and zeroed in on him, looking outwardly calm but knees slightly bent—poised and ready for action. Then she did a double take.
The psychic had four legs.

Excitement spiked through her. Angling to her right, she saw a figure standing directly behind Stafford. A small boy huddled against him, his thin arms wrapped around the big man’s knees. She couldn’t quite see the child’s face. And there was no need. She knew with her whole being the boy was Davie. And that Stafford was using his body as a shield to protect her son.

Warmth enveloped her, from her head right down to her toes. She stepped out further and Stafford’s eyes met hers. The whiff of a smile floated across his lips then he looked back in the direction of the voice, keeping her presence a secret.

Smart move.

Maggie shifted again, until she could see the person that held Stafford’s attention. A woman stood on the porch, a mere breath on the wind, bone-thin and colorless. Something about her reminded Maggie of a ghost...fading a little bit at a time.

“Marshall, come here,” she ordered.

“We’ll both come,” Stafford told her, his hands open to show he had no weapons.

The woman reacted, raising her arms. It was then Maggie saw the rifle. In an instant, her own gun was out of its holster, the safety off. She aimed it, ready to pull the trigger.

“It’s all right,” Stafford said, his gaze still on the suspect but holding one hand outstretched, pleading with Maggie not to fire.

Alerted to another’s presence, the woman swung around in a lazy arc, as if she were moving through heavy water. The shock of recognition overpowered Maggie’s police training and she lowered her guard. “Linda?”

The abductor looked at her full on, her eyes glazed. Now that Maggie saw her clearly, she realized it wasn’t her ex-husband’s girlfriend—but an older, sadder version of her.

“Everything’s fine,” Stafford assured the woman, as smooth and comforting as a shrink.

“Please, don’t take my baby. Don’t take him away again.”

Stafford inched forward. “Marshall will always be with you.”

“Are you taking him back to heaven?”

Brows knotted together in confusion, Stafford stared at the woman. But Maggie understood. She let herself see Stafford as Davie’s abductor did—his male beauty, the way the light kissed him as if he glowed from within. In the woman’s twisted mind, Stafford was some kind of angel, come to take her child away a second time.

“It’s okay,” Maggie said, finding a calm voice from deep within. “The angel is here to help you. And your son.”

A small, dark head peeked around Stafford’s leg. “Mommy.” Davie wriggled in the psychic’s grasp.

“Everyone, stay right where you are,” Maggie shouted, through the knot of fear wedged in her throat.

Her son stopped struggling and retreated behind Stafford, as the woman stepped off the low porch and fell to her knees. “Mommy’s here, darling. Mommy’s right here.”

While the abductor focused on her son, Maggie began her approach, her gun pointed at the ground. As she drew closer, she saw the woman wasn’t holding the rifle properly. It dangled at her side, her hand nowhere near the trigger.

Was it still dangerous? Plenty. And another problem roared just a few yards away.

A ball of fire blasted through the side door of the house. Beyond it, more flames crackled, the clamor of a thousand twigs all snapping at once. Heat pulsated against Maggie’s skin, making her feel like a Sunday roast in a red-hot oven. Some kind of accelerant had to be at work for the fire to have spread this fast.

She coughed and sputtered. What little breath she had, came out in small, strangled puffs. Eyes burning, head bent, she fought her way toward the dazed woman, who seemed oblivious to the danger around her.

Maggie took possession of the rifle then holstered her own weapon. She grasped the woman’s arm and led her away from the burning building, feeling as if she were guiding a sleepwalker. When they reached the deserted play set, the suspect lowered herself onto one of the swings, without protest.

For the first time in her short career, Maggie felt like a cop, buzzed on danger, ruled by adrenaline. She couldn’t imagine going back to the ho-hum routine of directing traffic.

Until she saw her son. Stafford stepped aside and there he was.

Maggie ran to Davie and gathered him into her arms. He smelled of peroxide, leather, smoke—and she was ready to bottle the scent and sell it as perfume. She held him tight, calming his sobs, releasing her own. This was the moment she’d dreamed of, the moment she feared would never come. She didn’t want to let go.
Ever.
She held him, rocked him, and kissed his cheeks. He was here. He was safe. And they were together again.

A strangled cry killed the moment. The woman, docile a second before, scrambled to her feet and ran back into the burning house. With the psychic in hot pursuit.

“Stafford!”

He turned to Maggie, his eyes bright as the fire. He nodded once then disappeared into the smoke and flame.

Chapter Twenty

A
scream crammed Maggie’s throat. She sprinted toward the house, the smoky air scraping her windpipe like sandpaper.

A wall of heat smashed into her chest. She stopped and Davie rammed her from behind. All she wanted to do was go in after Stafford, to help him, to make sure he got out alive. But she couldn’t leave her child for fear that he’d follow her into the blaze. So she stayed put, protecting Davie, her eyes focused on the spot where she’d last seen Stafford.

Seconds passed.
Minutes.
Where were the emergency crews she’d called? She listened for their sirens and heard nothing. Except for the fire, groaning and cackling as it fed itself with deadly greed.

A sharp crack pierced her ears as part of the roof broke away and crashed into the main floor. She pulled Davie back and watched, her knees limp, her stomach queasy.

Through the flames, she caught a movement. Maggie held her breath. But there was no sign of Stafford, only fire and smoke, both mindless assassins. She cursed them and their soul-crushing injustice.

Did finding Davie mean losing Stafford?

Then she saw him, emerging from the other side, carrying Davie’s abductor in his arms.

Maggie’s heart thrashed against her ribcage, fighting for more room. Heat pulsed through her body, warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. As Stafford escaped from the building, Maggie took Davie’s hand and circled to intercept.

Stafford placed the woman on a bed of cool grass, removed his leather jacket and propped it, pillow-like, under her head. His long hair, singed at the ends, lashed his neck as he coughed into the shoulder of his shirt.

Black streaks marred his face, angry burns made a checkerboard of his hands. Maggie reached out and touched his arm as another coughing fit shook through him.

He shrugged her off. “I’m fine. Help her.”

He was far from fine. But she couldn’t argue that the woman needed more attention. With her eyes closed, Davie’s abductor looked hollow and sad, just as Maggie had felt these last days. She relived the blinding desperation, the searing guilt. This woman had taken her son, and probably killed a fellow officer, without any understanding of the pain she’d caused.

Maggie wanted to hate her. She fisted her hands to dredge up the emotion but could feel only pity. She put her first aid training to good use as the sirens approached.

* * *

“Angela Varga. That’s the woman’s name,” Officer Connelly informed Maggie. “And it looks like she’ll make it.”

Maggie exhaled, tension vanishing with the breath. No matter what kind of pain she’d endured at Angela’s hands, she didn’t want the woman’s death.

Filling her lungs, Maggie smelled the lingering odor of burning wood, now dampened by a fleet of fire fighters. Apparently, every police officer and emergency crew in Yellowknife had responded to her call.

“A tragic case,” the apple-cheeked officer continued. “She lost her family—parents, husband, kid—all within a couple of years. Not surprising she went off the deep end.”

Maggie supposed so. According to the doctor on the scene, the woman had been hospitalized in Calgary. Angela suffered a complete mental breakdown after her son’s death at the Children’s Hospital from cystic fibrosis.

“She has one remaining family member.”

And Maggie knew exactly who. “A sister. Linda.”

“You’ve met her?”

“She dated my ex.”

Connelly tapped a pen against his clipboard. “That makes sense. We called the sister on route and she kept apologizing. Angela used to ask about her boyfriend’s son—where he went to school, what he looked like. Linda had no idea where the questions would lead.”

Maggie sympathized. At one time, she may have resented her replacement, but she was sure Linda had no part in Davie’s abduction.

She gave the small hand in hers a squeeze and looked down at her son. She hadn’t been able to pull herself away from him, even while the ambulance crew checked him over. They’d given him a quick examination with Maggie’s promise that she’d take him to a hospital as soon as she tied up the loose ends here. Apart from his new hair color and lack of food, he seemed fine. Just in case, the crew
had given him an extra inhaler.

“That pretty much finishes things for us,” Connelly told her as she filled out her name and contact information on his form. “But I’m still unclear about how you knew where find your son.”

“That was Stafford.”

“Who?”

“The tall guy.” She scanned the crowd, ready to point him out. “Where’d he go?”

“He got a ride back to town with the ambulance driver.”

Disappointment squirmed in her gut. He hadn’t waited for her. The man who’d been her rock had left without so much as a wave.

And why not? She hadn’t waited for him. She’d gone into hysterics, denied his abilities, then run off without giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Mom, can we go now?”

Maggie crouched beside her son, wrapping her arms around him. “Absolutely. I bet you’re tired.”

“Hungry,” the boy corrected, but followed the one-word answer with a yawn.

“We’ll grab something to eat then get you checked over at the hospital.”

“Aw, mom, I’m okay.”

She stroked his black hair. “So you keep saying. You don’t mind if I make sure, do you?” She couldn’t stop touching him. It was as if she had to convince herself he was real, that they were together at last. And this time, she was going to cherish every minute. She wasn’t going to be her father.

Davie’s crooked smile gave her heart a kick. Much the same as the mystery man in her life. The stranger who’d become her ally...her lover.

“We’ll catch up with Stafford in town. See if he wants to come out for dinner with us.”

“You can try,” the sergeant said, his head coming up from his notes. “I overheard him talking to the emergency workers about getting a plane out of here, pronto.”

Maggie felt her mask give way. She tried to keep her composure as she shook the sergeant’s hand. She walked to her car, her arm wrapped around her son’s shoulders, biting back tears.

Chapter Twenty-one

M
aggie held up a fist. It had been two days since she’d last seen Stafford. She’d spent the night in Yellowknife then started back for Calgary.

Driving with a little boy, who was hungry every twenty miles and had to pee every ten, made it slow going, but she had no other commitments than to see her child safely home. And to see the man who’d made sure that it could happen.

Still, she paused outside of Stafford’s door, ready to knock
,
wondering if he’d toss her on her butt in a snow bank.

Overly dramatic, perhaps. It was almost October now, and still no snow on the ground. But it was cold as hell. She might have to knock to avoid hypothermia.

As she made her decision, the door opened and Stafford appeared—his hair damp and unruly, like he’d just stepped out of the shower. Well-worn jeans hung low on his hips, a dark T-shirt hugged his torso. Maggie licked her lips and tried to breathe.

His familiar scent filled her with need—to hold him, to kiss the burns that marred his hands. His musky cologne was imprinted in her memory. It conjured up two words.
Stafford
and
Home
.

“Are you going to use that to slug me?” he asked, his voice cool.

She lowered her hand and hid it behind her back. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”