The Colonel's Daughter (18 page)

With a throaty groan, Jamison pulled away from her and adjusted his tie. Feeling at a loss without his arms around her, Michele turned to follow Jamison’s gaze, troubled by his apparent rejection. A military policeman came into view in the yard outside the window.

Jamison hadn’t wanted the men guarding the Logan home to see them together. Her initial confusion turned to appreciation for her chivalrous hero. Jamison had a strong sense of propriety and put her honor before his own desire.

“Did he notice us?” she asked.

“We’re safe.” Jamison’s lips twitched in an adorable way that made her want to kiss him again. “It’s Stiles, and he’s making his rounds. I checked earlier. No one was there when I pulled you close.”

She sighed contentedly, enjoying his nearness and the familiar way they had stepped back in time. “If we’re going to be on display, perhaps it’s time to do the dishes.”

Jamison raised his brow teasingly.

She poked him in the ribs. “Consider it payment for your dinner.”

“And well worth the meal, but didn’t I hear something about cookies?”

She laughed. “I told you I baked for the Hughes children. Leftovers are in the jar by the stove.” Pointing him in the right direction, she watched as he slipped off his jacket and hung it over the chair.

He grabbed two cookies and then turned back to her. She laughed again as he shoved one in his mouth and winked good-naturedly as if in appreciation of both her and her baking.

Lost in the moment, Michele thought only of Jamison and the future they could have together. Then she looked down and saw the gun on his hip.

Her levity deflated, knowing the complications that still stood between them. If only Jamison would leave the military and law enforcement and move into another line of work.

“Did you...” She ran water in the sink, grateful for something to focus on instead of his questioning gaze. “Did you always want to be a special agent?”

He let out a breath and dropped the cookie on the counter. His eyes searched hers as if trying to determine the underlying meaning to her question.

“I told you my mother died when I was young and that my dad raised me.”

She nodded. “You mentioned he didn’t know how to parent.”

Jamison shrugged. A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I was sugarcoating the reality of our relationship. My father thought the world owed him everything. If he didn’t get what he wanted, he took it.”

She turned off the water and reached for a paper towel. “I...I don’t understand.”

“He was a thief, Michele. We lived on the run, hiding out in fleabag motels, sometimes in whatever car he was able to steal.”

“What about the police?”

“They had bigger crimes to handle in most cases. Plus, my dad could sense when the cops were closing in. He’d wake me in the middle of the night so we could hightail out of town.”

“How did you attend school?”

“Sometimes he’d take a job, and we’d stay in one place long enough for me to get ahead in my studies. Luckily, learning came easily. When we moved on, he’d tuck my textbooks in the car with me, and I’d work on my own.”

Michele felt for the little boy who always had to run away from life. Her own childhood had been filled with stability and love. “But you mentioned throwing the discus in high school.”

He nodded. “I needed to complete my senior year in order to get a college scholarship. My dad had a job at the plant in town at that time. The foreman complained he wasn’t pulling his fair share of the weight. Dad got mad, picked a fight and came home bloodied and beaten.”

Her hand rose to her throat.

“My father was determined to teach the guy a lesson. He had gasoline in the trunk of his car and expected me to go back to the factory with him later that night.”

She was afraid to hear what happened.

“I told him I wouldn’t do it. We argued.” Jamison’s face twisted as if he were seeing his father again. “He took off in his car like a madman. I raced after him.”

Michele moaned, anticipating the outcome.

“I ran for ten blocks across town to where he worked. By the time I got there, he had already poured gasoline on lumber that was piled against the corner of the building.”

Jamison drew his hand to his chest. “The acrid smell filled my lungs. Dad had a lighter and screamed for me to stay away from him. He said he hated me and who I had become. I tried to reason with him, but he kept saying I was a failure and would never succeed in life.”

Michele wished she could wipe away the pain she saw on Jamison’s face.

“I stopped in the middle of the street, not knowing whether to rush him and try to pull him away or to just keep talking.” He shook his head. “I made the wrong decision that night.”

“Oh, Jamison.”

“He struck the match. There must have been gasoline on his hands. It had spilled onto his clothes.”

Closing the distance between them, Michele wanted to pull him close, but Jamison needed to keep talking.

“I tried to get to him in time.” His voice was husky with emotion.

“You did the right thing. You weren’t to blame.”

Jamison shook his head. “I never wanted to be like him. When I was a kid, he forced me to steal so we could eat. Produce from a farmers’ market. Bread from a bakery. Meat from a mom-and-pop grocery store. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to earn his love.”

“You were only a child.”

“The army was my way out. Talking to the chaplain, hearing about Jesus’s love allowed me to ask forgiveness and put all that behind me. Until ten months ago, when I thought I could talk a gunman down, that he’d listen to reason, just as I thought my father would the night he died in the fire.”

Michele remembered all too clearly that deadly day on post.

“I rushed forward to save the shooter because that’s what I should have done for my dad. But I made a mistake that almost killed Dawson. I was thinking like a kid, instead of a special agent.”

“Oh, Jamison, the reason I left ten months ago was that I couldn’t love a man who always put himself in danger. You can leave the military. There are other jobs that don’t require you to carry a gun.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a guy who runs away like my father did. I have to stay and work through my problems. That’s the only way I can live with myself.”

She took a step back. “But you said you made a mistake.”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“Don’t you see?” Tears stung her eyes. “I understand what you’re going through because I made a mistake that cost my brother his life.”

Jamison’s face softened and his voice was low when he finally spoke. “The difference between us, Michele, is that I’ve forgiven myself.”

Which was something she could never do.

Frantic to hold on to to their fragile relationship, she reached for him. “If you care about me, you’ll walk away from the military so we can be together.”

His eyes narrowed. “You sound like my father. He put me between his love and what I knew in my heart was right. I won’t run away. That’s not who I am. The military taught me to be a better man than my father.”

Why couldn’t Jamison understand? “You can be that better man with me.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

A sword pierced her heart, and she gasped at the pain. They were worlds apart. He was the kid who still had to prove himself to his father, and she was the sister who couldn’t forgive herself for her brother’s death. Neither of them would give up the past to forge a new future together.

A lump formed in her throat. Jamison gazed into her eyes, and she saw that he, too, realized the terrible divide that hung between them, a divide too broad and too deep to cross.

Only she didn’t know how she could ever say goodbye to the man she loved. If only something would change his heart.

The phone rang. The shrill tone cut through that divide, bringing them back to the moment, to the reality that one woman had died and two other lives hung in the balance.

Michele reached for the phone. She turned toward the window and glanced outside. The moon had disappeared behind the clouds.

“Colonel Logan’s quarters, Michele speaking.” She reverted to the greeting she had used growing up when her home was happy and life was good.

“I can see you.”

Michele’s heart exploded in her chest.

“I’m coming after you, Michele.”

The blood drained from her head. She felt light-headed and nauseated.

“You’ll be the next to die.”

“Michele?” Jamison’s voice. Insistent. Demanding. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t respond. All she could do was stare into the darkness where the killer waited.

Jamison followed her gaze. “He’s out there.”

Drawing his gun, he pulled open the back door and raced into the night.

The killer’s maniacal laughter filled the phone. “Before I kill you, I’ll kill Steele.”

Jamison ran across the backyard. He was that kid, long ago, running to save his father, only tonight he was trying to save her.

“Jamison!” she screamed, racing through the doorway. This time, Dawson and the military police weren’t going to take the hit. This time, Jamison would be the one to die.

The night was hot and humid and filled with sounds that intensified the fear hammering at her heart.

“Jamison!” she screamed again.

A bullet whizzed past her, striking the brick wall just a fraction of an inch from her head.

The sound of a second shot cut through the night.

Dazed, she took a step back. Jamison screamed her name. Before she could react, his arms were around her, pulling her to the ground.

A third round exploded.

Jamison gasped. Wet warmth ran down Michele’s back. The coppery smell returned, overpowering her.

Without turning to see the blood, Michele knew the terrible truth. Jamison had been hit.

SIXTEEN

“I
’m all right,” Jamison insisted as the medic finished the triage. The ambulance sat parked in the middle of Michele’s backyard surrounded by crime scene experts searching for clues.

Fort Rickman was on lockdown. Military police were canvassing the area, going door to door, and checking every nook and cranny where a man could hide.

“You’re one lucky guy,” Dawson said, leaning over the stretcher where Jamison lay.

“It’s a flesh wound.”

“You need stitches.”

“The medic bandaged me up, Dawson. I’m fine.”

“You’re headstrong and not thinking straight. You never should have run into the night.”

“Michele told you?”

“She’s angry, Jamison, and fed up with you. She’s holed up in the house, refusing to see anyone.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

Dawson shook his head. “I wouldn’t tonight. Give her time. The medics prescribed a sleeping pill. From what Mrs. Logan said, she hasn’t slept the last two nights.”

Jamison knew she was exhausted.

“Not that any of us have slept.” Dawson stated the obvious. “Look, Jamison, you should have called for backup. McGrunner and Stiles were on the sidewalk in front of the house.”

“By the time I contacted them, the killer would have been long gone.”

“And you wouldn’t have taken a hit.”

“It’s minor.”

“You’re one stubborn fool.” Dawson’s cell rang. He stepped away to take the call.

Mrs. Logan came out of her quarters and walked straight to where Jamison lay.

“How’s Michele?” he asked as she neared.

“She’s resting. I suggest you wait until tomorrow to talk to her.”

“Are you sure, ma’am?”

Mrs. Logan nodded. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

So much would happen in the morning. Once her father was home, Michele would be free to head back to Atlanta.

“Stanley called,” Mrs. Logan continued. “His plane had landed to refuel so he and Michele had a chance to talk. Hearing her father’s voice helped. She promised me she’d try to sleep.”

Mrs. Logan’s gaze was warm as she looked down at Jamison. “You saved her life. I can never thank you enough for being such a hero. If...if you hadn’t pushed her to the ground...” She shook her head. “I would have lost my daughter as well as my son.”

“I’m not a hero, ma’am.”

“Maybe you don’t think so, but I do. I’ll see you in the morning at the airfield.” Turning, she retraced her steps and entered her house.

Dawson neared, smiling. “Good news. We’ve got him.”

Jamison felt a surge of relief. “Who? Where? How?”

“A sergeant, trying to leave post. The front gate security guards found a gun in his glove compartment. A 9 millimeter. The bullets in the chamber matched the caliber of slugs we dug out of the brick wall.”

“Had the gun been recently fired?”

“Roger that. Plus, he had gunpowder residue on his hands. His name’s Kenneth Cramer. Claimed he was out on one of the training ranges doing an impromptu target practice. He’s part of the First of the Fifth’s rear detachment. Seems he wanted to deploy to Afghanistan with the brigade, but he had a medical profile at the time. Guess who made the decision to keep him at Fort Rickman?”

“Major Hughes?”

“Bingo. Now that the unit’s coming home, he decided to take his anger out on the major by killing his wife.”

Jamison saw a hole in the theory. Namely, why had he come after Alice Rossi? “Is there a connection between Cramer and Sergeant Rossi?”

“We’ll find one.” Dawson rubbed his hand over his tired face. “It’s over, Jamison. We can all breathe a sigh of relief.”

“Do me a favor. Keep the guards posted on the Logan home.”

“There’s no reason, buddy.”

“Maybe not, but it would make me feel better.”

Dawson shrugged. “Okay. Until morning.”

“The chief won’t want the information about apprehending the killer to go public until ballistics confirms the bullets were fired from Sergeant Cramer’s gun.”

“Of course. But I’m sure we’ve got our man.”

Jamison wasn’t convinced.

Dawson started to walk away, then turned to look back at Jamison. “One more thing. You don’t always have to be the hero.”

Jamison glanced at the brick quarters. Mrs. Logan had thanked him for saving Michele, yet he’d been reckless to run from the house into the killer’s path.