Chapter 2
TWO
Detective Dawson Graham white-knuckled his steering wheel as he turned onto the rutted road leading to the train depot parking lot.
He’d driven most of the way through town with his lights and sirens on, but had killed both about a mile back.
If Lilia was hiding out, as Peyton suspected, she might not react well to unexpected police presence.
Of course, Peyton was a cop too. But that was different. She was family.
His headlights swept across a familiar blue truck.
Peyton’s. The old Ford still sported a dent on the rear bumper and a Sam Houston State University bumper sticker.
Seeing it sent a swirl of emotions through Dawson.
He remembered the day she'd bought it. On her eighteenth birthday.
She'd saved every penny from working at the local coffee shop, counting and recounting her money until she finally had enough for a down payment.
The smile on her face when the salesman handed her the keys had been breathtaking.
Pure joy. Unfiltered hope for the future.
He also remembered watching that same truck pull out of the courthouse parking lot five years ago, taillights disappearing into traffic. The day their divorce was finalized. It was so vivid, he could recall the feel of the drizzle on his face and the hollowed-out sensation in his chest.
Dawson shoved the memories aside and killed his engine.
Icy air smacked him in the face. Discarded paper and leaves blew across the potholed asphalt, and an itch between his shoulder-blades had him assessing the abandoned service station with suspicion.
He wouldn’t be surprised to discover several people were holed up inside, seeking shelter from the cold.
Although he’d arrived without his lights and sirens, in his experience, druggies and other petty criminals could smell a cop from miles away.
Most of them would steer clear. A few might like a chance to even a score.
Dawson had no intention of letting that happen.
To him, or to Peyton. It’d been reckless of her to agree to meet her cousin here, especially in the dead of night, and more so given Lilia’s penchant for trouble.
But Peyton had always had a soft spot for Lilia.
The two women had been raised together by their grandmother, Nana Grace, and were more like sisters than cousins.
Now that Nana Grace was gone, Lilia was one of the last family members Peyton had left.
Keeping one eye on the service station, Dawson approached Peyton’s vehicle. His senses were so focused on potential threats that it took him several paces to realize she wasn't in her truck. His gaze swept the shadows in the parking lot. No sign of her.
The chain-link fence rattled, drawing his attention to the opening.
Something flapped against the metal. Dawson closed the distance and reached for the item caught on the fence.
A scarf. It was too dark to tell the color.
Blue? Maybe red? He lifted the wool to his nose and drew in a breath. Jasmine. This was Peyton’s scarf.
His anxiety ratcheted up. She’d gone in alone.
Peyton might be a touch reckless, but she was no fool.
If she hadn’t waited for him, there’d been a good reason.
Something was very wrong. Dawson unholstered his handgun and then pulled his cell phone from his pocket.
He dialed dispatch and requested backup.
He’d barely gotten the words out when a gunshot split the night air.
Terror for Peyton sent his pulse skyrocketing.
He shoved his phone into his pocket and moved through the gap in the fence, weapon up, shoulders low.
Training overrode panic. Clear the corners.
Use cover and keep to the shadows. Broken glass and bits of rock crunched under his cowboy boots as he moved farther inside.
Adrenaline threatened to narrow his vision.
He slowed his breathing to counteract it.
Please, God. Please don’t let me be too late.
Peyton had been part of his life since he was sixteen years old.
She'd been his first love, his wife, the mother of the son they'd lost. There was grief, disappointment, and sadness—a canyon of hurt between them that still kept him up at night.
That sometimes made him angry. He'd stood in a church and vowed before God to love her for better or worse, and meant it.
He'd kept his word. And she'd walked away. From them. From him.
Dawson didn’t think Peyton could break his heart any more than she already had, but if he found her dead…
He’d never be the same.
The sound of a struggle reached his ears.
Dawson rounded the corner of a shipping container and saw them.
Two figures locked in combat near the base of a railcar.
Even in the dim moonlight, he recognized Peyton's smaller frame.
She was fighting—twisting, striking—but the man had brute strength and clear combat skills on his side.
He threw Peyton against a railcar. She bounced off it like a rag doll, slipping to the ground.
“Police! Freeze!” Dawson's voice cut through the night.
Metal sparked inches from Dawson’s head, the metallic clang echoing in his ears.
He dove behind the shipping container as another bullet embedded itself where he’d just been.
Heart pounding, he lifted his head to catch the flash of a muzzle near a concrete barrier next to the woods.
A second assailant. Dawson raised his gun and returned fire.
He swung his gaze back to the first attacker and Peyton.
The man was gone. Crashing sounds in the nearby brush indicated he’d taken off into the woods.
Dawson rose to a crouch, his gun held at the ready.
He waited for one breath. Two. The gunman hiding behind the concrete barrier remained silent.
Had he run away too, like his comrade? Chances were the answer was yes, but it would be foolish to jump to conclusions.
Keeping to the shadows, he circled around the back of the container before taking cover beside the rail car. Peyton wasn’t visible.
“Peyton?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.
“I’m here.” A shadow shifted from underneath the rail car. “Are they gone?”
“I think so.” Dawson waited a few more seconds before closing the distance between him and Peyton.
Sirens wailed in the distance, uncoiling some of the tension in his muscles.
Backup was close. He crouched next to Peyton’s side.
The scent of her jasmine perfume tickled his senses and threatened to toss him into the past. Shadows kept her features hidden.
Still, relief cascaded through him. She was alive. Breathing.
Dawson removed his cell phone from his pocket. He flipped on his flashlight, covering it with his hand to dim the glow. “How badly are you injured?”
“I’m fine. I almost had him too.”
Her tone was layered with enough irritation that it made his lips quirk.
But any amusement faded as his flashlight caught the soft lines of her face.
Blood darkened the strands of her chestnut-colored waves, and welts in the shape of fingers marred the creamy skin at her neck.
Bits of grit and dust from the gravel coated her clothes. Her jeans were torn on the left knee.
If hearing her voice on the phone had been a gut-punch, seeing her was a full-body blow.
Dawson’s heart stuttered. Emotions he couldn’t put words to tumbled through him, but overriding all of them was the instant desire to comfort her.
To draw her into his arms and carry her to safety.
He battled against it, but wasn’t able to stop his fingers from gently grasping her chin and tilting her head to get a better look at the cut. “You’ve got a nasty head wound.”
“He knocked me off the stairs, and I dropped my weapon.” Peyton lifted her handgun.
“I retrieved it after he threw me against the railcar. While you were exchanging gunfire with the other guy, I got off a shot of my own. It didn’t seem to slow him down, but he stumbled.
I might’ve winged him.” She started to get up.
Dawson pushed to his feet and extended a hand. Peyton waved off his help, choosing to use the railcar instead. The rejection was slight, but it burned all the same. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
The question came out rougher than he'd intended, and a spark of annoyance flared in her hazel eyes. “I heard a woman scream. Lilia.”
And of course she'd run in without backup, because that was Peyton.
Always moving toward the people who needed her, regardless of the cost to herself.
It was one of the things he'd loved most about her. In this case, it’d nearly gotten her killed.
But discussing the recklessness of her actions would only put her on the defensive, so instead, he focused on the case. “Did you see her?”
“No, I heard whimpering from inside the train car.” She took a step toward the stairs and nearly crumpled to the ground.
Dawson reacted instinctively, his arm wrapping around her slender waist. Even in the dim light, her complexion was pale. Freckles sprinkled on her nose, normally faded in the wintertime, stood out in stark relief. “You need to sit down.”
“I’m fine.” She sucked in a deep breath and pushed away from him before straightening her shoulders. “Just a bit of dizziness. That’s all.”
She wasn't fine. Not even close. But the set of her jaw told him pushing would only make her dig in harder. Some things hadn't changed. Peyton had always been complicated and infuriatingly stubborn. Incredibly brave too.
A sudden wail emanated from inside the railcar.
It cut off, and then whimpering followed.
Dawson hurried to the metal staircase, Peyton on his heels, moving far faster than he would’ve thought possible given her head injury.
He shone his flashlight into the darkness.
Nothing but rusted metal. He’d have to go inside.
Gun raised and flashlight up, he navigated the steep stairs.
He swept the light across the small space.
In the rear was a pile of discarded boxes.
The whimpers were coming from there. They sounded human.
His boots shuffled against the dusty floor, and motes danced in the beam.
Peyton’s hand touched his back. Like him, she had her gun raised.
Her breathing was shallow, but her expression was determined.
“Knoxville Police Department, make yourself known.” Dawson’s voice reverberated off the metal. A sharp cry followed.
And suddenly, he knew.
His steps quickened. Dawson tossed aside the cardboard.
A baby—only a few weeks old—lay strapped in a carrier, wearing a pink snowsuit. Her tiny fist was pressed against her mouth, her dark eyes wide under the brim of a knitted cap. A small backpack sat next to her.
Behind him, Peyton inhaled. Shock seemed to render her motionless.
Then the baby looked at Dawson and wailed.