Fugitive Father Read online

  Sleeping with the enemy?

  It was completely dark in the barn when Ellie opened her eyes. The temperature had dropped with nightfall, and she was shivering. But it wasn’t the cold that had awakened her. Noah was up and moving around stealthily.

  “What are you doing?” she challenged him.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  And then she understood what was happening. He was covering her with a blanket of hay—to keep her warm.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she whispered.

  “Sure I do. I don’t keep you healthy, I don’t find my son.”

  She had discovered him being considerate, and he was embarrassed about it. His concern was touching and at the same time disturbing. How could she go on regarding him as the enemy when he insisted on protecting her?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  If setting has anything to do with it, Jean Barrett claims she has no reason not to be inspired. She and her husband live on Wisconsin’s scenic Door Peninsula in an antique-filled country cottage overlooking Lake Michigan. A teacher for many years, she left the classroom to write full-time. She is the author of a number of romance novels.

  Write to Jean at P.O. Box 623, Sister Bay, WI 54234.

  Books by Jean Barrett

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  308—THE SHELTER OF HER ARMS

  351—WHITE WEDDING

  384—MAN OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

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  Fugitive Father

  Jean Barrett

  To my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins, who is always there for me. Thanks, Pattie.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Ellie Matheson—She was desperate to escape from the compelling man who held her hostage.

  Noah Rhyder—The fugitive would go to any lengths to recover his son, even if it meant seducing the woman he had kidnapped.

  Joel Rhyder—The little boy’s silence worried Ellie.

  Brett Buchanan—Was the rich, handsome bachelor all that he seemed to be, or did he guard a shocking secret?

  Peaches—The surly bodyguard was dangerous.

  Lew Ferguson—The police detective’s relentless determination to punish Noah Rhyder was abnormal.

  Sandra O’Hara—The caseworker was more interested in Brett than in Joel’s welfare.

  Hamish Bolling—The superintendent of the St. Louis homicide division sensed there was something wrong about the case.

  Ginger Zukawski—The larcenous blonde was willing to cut a deal.

  Chapter One

  How do you tell a five-year-old child his father has been convicted of murder and is on his way to prison?

  For the first time in the three years she’d been caring for temporary wards of the court in her home, Ellie Matheson regretted her role. Her foster training had prepared her to deal sympathetically with every variety of abuse and neglect, but this was different. Vastly different.

  “Must be here somewheres. All I got to do is find it, and the treasure’ll be mine.”

  With the phone still in her lap, Ellie watched young Joel Rhyder crawl along the floor, his fingers searching for the hidden catch that would release the secret panel in the wall beside the fireplace.

  “Presto! I’m rich!”

  His small hand had located the catch. The concealed door popped open, revealing in the deep recess behind it a pirate chest loaded with games and toys. Joel was as familiar with them as he was with the other imaginative attractions she had provided for her young charges in the crowded parlor—the puppet theater, the curving slide that descended from the second floor to the first, and the castle dollhouse occupying one corner. There was no area of Ellie’s house that Joel hadn’t explored. He had been with her all through the sensational trial.

  He knows, she thought. He senses that phone call is going to drastically change his life, and he doesn’t want to hear it. That’s why he’s playing so hard, why pretending is so important.

  She couldn’t postpone it. They were on their way. Difficult though it would be, she had to tell him.

  “Joel.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come on over here, sweetheart. I need to talk to you.”

  He hesitated, his reluctance evident in the way his hands clutched the lid of the chest. But he was too well-mannered to refuse her. “Okay.”

  He got slowly to his feet and crossed the parlor, planting his sturdy figure in front of the chair where she sat.

  “There’s been a final decision, Joel,” she told him carefully, looking directly into his vulnerable face with its solemn, dark eyes. “That’s what the phone call just now was all about. The judge awarded custody of you to your uncle. Remember how all those words were explained to you?”

  He turned his head, eyeing the pair of artists’ easels in the bay window. One of them was an adult size at which Ellie worked at every opportunity, the other a much smaller version for any youngster who wished to join her.

  “Can we paint some pictures on the easels?”

  “No, not today.”

  His attention wandered to the massive fern on its stand. “Let’s give the fern a drink.”

  “We already did that this morning. We’d drown it if we gave it any more. You have to listen to me, Joel.”

  “What?”

  “About what I just said,” she appealed to him patiently. “Do you understand it?”

  “I’m going to live with Uncle Brett.”

  His restless hand reached out and fingered the necklace she wore, stroking the clay-baked beads that were her own creation. She waited for him to ask about his father. Surely this time he would want to hear about him. Ellie didn’t know how he felt about Noah Rhyder. From the start Joel had refused to discuss him, and she had wondered whether his silence was some form of self-protection.

  “Joel?” she softly prompted him.

  He went on playing with the strands of beads, refusing to meet her gaze. He was not going to ask about his father.

  She couldn’t do it, Ellie realized. She couldn’t force the sensitive subject on him. The situation was too brutal, and she was a coward about it. Someone else, maybe his uncle or the caseworker, would have to tell him whatever might be necessary for him to know about his father. It wasn’t her place to get involved in those kinds of explanations anyway. She was never supposed to offer anything but care and comfort.

  He finally looked at her, and asked in a shy little voice, “Why can’t I live with you?”

  The earnest expression on his face tugged at her painfully. She had made the mistake of learning to care for him too much. “Because your Uncle Brett wants you to stay with him.”

  “You could come with me.”

  “Then I wouldn’t be here for the other kids when they need me.”

  “There aren’t any.”

  “Not now, but there probably will be when I get back from my vacation.”

  “Will you come and see me?”

  She couldn’t promise him that, not without Brett Buchanan’s approval. “I’ll try.”

  He was thoughtful for a few seconds. “Can I take Hobo with me?”

  Hobo was one of the puppets from the cardboard theater. He’d become attached to the sad-faced tramp clown.

  “I think Hobo would like that. We’ll put him with your other things.” Ellie got to her feet and moved toward the stairs. “You can help me pack them so you’ll be ready when your uncle gets here. Then afterward you and Hobo can ride the slide down from the big bedroom.”

  “Hobo doesn�
��t like the slide. It scares him.”

  “I didn’t know that. I guess that’s why he never uses it.” The whimsical descent from the second floor delighted most of her charges, but Joel had avoided the slide during his stay with her. The result of a bad experience on a playground, perhaps.

  Twenty minutes later, Ellie sat with the boy on the front porch swing while they waited for the arrival of Brett Buchanan. Joel’s suitcase was beside him, Hobo in his lap. She observed him with concern as he absently played with the puppet. He was very quiet now. There was a forlorn look about him that made her long to put her arms around him and hold him close. She resisted that urge. It would only make his parting from her more difficult. All she could do was hope that his uncle had some kind of parenting instinct. Joel was going to need everything Brett could give him.

  Seconds later a dark luxury sedan slid into her driveway and pulled up behind her aging van. Brett’s driver and bodyguard was at the wheel, a surly, pugilist type who went by the unlikely name of Peaches. Brett was in the back seat of the sedan. He emerged, accompanied by a woman. Ellie felt Joel stiffen at the sight of his tall, broad-shouldered uncle. When she looked down, there was an anxious expression on his face.

  “You like your Uncle Brett, don’t you?” she murmured.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “It’s going to be all right, Joel,” she assured him

  She took him by the hand and picked up his suitcase. Together they went down the porch steps to meet the arrivals in the driveway.

  Brett Buchanan had all the charm and physical appeal of his murdered father, Howard, a state senator who’d been the victim of his son-in-law’s rage. By all reports, Joel’s mother, who’d died last year after a lingering illness, had shared her brother’s blond good looks.

  Brett was familiar to Ellie. He had been here twice before to visit his nephew. He’d petitioned the court from the start to have Joel with him. But Noah Rhyder’s defense had strongly opposed that measure, so Joel had been placed with Ellie for the length of the trial.

  However, the attractive redhead at Brett’s side was a stranger. She came forward and introduced herself to Ellie. “I’m Sandra O’Hara from Family Services, Ms. Matheson.”

  She had a dazzling smile and a low, throaty voice. Ellie glanced with puzzlement at the credentials she displayed. “The other caseworker who was handling Joel…”

  “Her load got too heavy, so Joel was assigned to me. There will be some follow-up down the road, but mostly I’m here to officiate the transfer of Joel to his uncle. It’s just a formality.” She turned brightly to the boy. “Your suitcase looks awfully heavy. Why don’t I help you put it in the car?”

  Ellie wasn’t very good at hiding her emotions, particularly when they involved the children in her care. The concern on her face must have been evident as she watched Sandra O’Hara coax Joel in the direction of the car, because Brett turned to her with a soft, “He’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure of that”

  She smiled at him gratefully. “I know you will.”

  “Starting right now, as a matter of fact. We’re heading straight to Lambert from here and a flight to North Carolina. I’ve rented a place there in the mountains. A big place with all kinds of land around it and everything to keep a little boy occupied.”

  She knew he could afford it. The family had always been prominent here in St. Louis, and by all accounts Brett Buchanan was wealthy in his own right

  “I want to give Joel a fresh scene, somewhere far away from everything that’s happened.”

  Ellie approved of his plan. “He needs a chance to recover and, as you say, away from all the unhappy associations here…Anyway, it sounds good.”

  She watched Sandra O’Hara trying to get friendly with Joel near the car, where the stoic Peaches remained at the wheel. He was shy with her, unresponsive. By contrast, the woman hadn’t stopped smiling since her arrival, a perpetual smile that got on Ellie’s nerves a little.

  “You should know that Joel hasn’t been told anything about the outcome of the trial,” Ellie confided to Brett. “He hasn’t asked at all about his father.”

  He nodded grimly. “Well, until he does…”

  “I know, but sooner or later he will want an explanation. He’s an intelligent, imaginative child, and it worries me that—” She broke off with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to advise you on how to handle him.”

  “I don’t mind. In fact,” he said impulsively, “why don’t you consider paying us a visit in North Carolina? You could help me with this adjustment period for Joel. You’re good with him. I get the feeling kids find it easy to confide in you. Adults too, probably I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Ellie laughed self-consciously. “Maybe. I have been accused of being a mother-earth type, whatever that means. I think it’s because of my painting. People tend to get that sort of thing all mixed up with what they’re convinced is the bohemian in you.”

  “Now there’s an argument for North Carolina,” he tempted her, his rich voice a complement to his elegant looks. “I can promise you all kinds of exceptional views to paint.”

  “I am going to paint mountain scenery, but in the opposite direction. I’m heading for the Ozarks first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She could afford to rent a cabin there for a week or so now that she would be receiving the check for Joel’s care. But she didn’t mention that to Brett, maybe because she feared it would sound mercenary, as though she were profiting from the boy’s tragedy. It was foolish of her, however, to feel any guilt She needed the income from her foster work since she couldn’t rely on what her art earned her. Not yet, anyway.

  “Well, look, just in case you change your mind…” He produced a pen and a small notebook from an inside pocket. She watched him scrawl several lines across one of the pages, which he tore out of the book and extended toward her. “Here’s the address for us in North Carolina. I’d like you to have it.”

  Ellie didn’t have the heart to tell him that joining them in North Carolina was out of the question, and probably not a good idea in the first place. She accepted the offered sheet out of politeness, glancing at the address he had provided.

  “Uh, one thing, though,” he added. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that address strictly confidential. I’m sharing it with only a few essential people. There’ve been too many headlines already over this nightmare. I don’t want the media bothering us out there.”

  “I understand,” she promised him, knowing what he must be suffering over the loss of his father.

  Sandra O’Hara interrupted their exchange. “The suitcase is on board. If you plan on dropping me back at my office before you make that flight…”

  “Right.” Brett moved toward the car.

  Sandra paused beside Ellie, murmuring a low, “I couldn’t help hearing what he was saying to you. Hon, the guy is gorgeous and a rich bachelor into the bargain. How could you have turned him down? I’d have jumped at an invitation like that.”

  Ellie didn’t think the redhead deserved an answer. Her suggestion was inappropriate under the circumstances. Nor did she feel the woman would understand that men as smooth as Brett Buchanan didn’t interest her in that way. Her ex-husband had cured her of that.

  Excusing herself, Ellie went to say goodbye to Joel. He clung to her when she bent down to hug him. She could feel herself getting dangerously emotional.

  “Take good care of Hobo,” she instructed him softly.

  Brett came to shake hands with her, leaving her with a last, tantalizing, “North Carolina in the fall—with the mountains a blaze of color. Think about it.”

  Seconds later, Joel waved to her from the back seat as the sedan pulled away with its four occupants. Ellie stood at the curb, waving back, until the car was out of sight.

  Doing her best to accept the separation, she turned and started back toward the porch. The next-door neighbor, on her way to her evening shift at the hospital, called a friendly greeting
from the open window of her compact.

  “Have fun in the Ozarks, and don’t worry about the newspapers and your mail. I’ll take them in for you. See you when you get back.”

  Then the compact, too, vanished up the street, and the neighborhood was suddenly very quiet and empty. Ellie gazed at her narrow, old-fashioned house with its high peak that always seemed slightly lopsided. The home didn’t qualify as a genuine Victorian. It was too late for that, more of a World War I vintage. But she had treated it like a painted lady, tinting the walls a blue-green, the trim and shutters raspberry, the accents ivory. Vibrant hues were vital to her, both in her work and in her environment. Her ex, David, used to complain all that color hurt his eyes. But Ellie had always loved the house, modest though it was.

  At this moment, however, the place didn’t look cheerful and welcoming. It looked lonely. It missed Joel.

  And you, she told herself, have to stop all of this. Good thing you’re getting out of here for a bit. The Ozarks. First thing in the morning. Which meant she had packing to do and a van to load before it got dark.

  Ellie moved resolutely toward the house. It wasn’t until she was back in the parlor that she realized she still had the page from Brett Buchanan’s notebook in her hand. She glanced again at its contents. Then she laid the paper on the fireplace mantel and forgot about it. She wouldn’t be needing the address in North Carolina.

  WE’LL APPEAL THE VERDICT.

  That’s what his lawyer had promised him just before they led him away in cuffs following the judge’s sentencing. The words were supposed to convey hope, but Noah knew better than that