Page 4 of Can She Get Home for Christmas?

“Okay?”

She nodded. He could have gone to a lot of trouble to fake it, but it looked legit—as far as she could tell in the headlights of his SUV and the driving snow.

“What were you doing out here?” he asked, repeating Patton’s question.

“Trying to get to my parents’ house for Christmas,” she clipped out.

He looked up at the falling flakes. Instead of commenting on her decision, he said, “The guy wasn’t expecting anyone to crash his party. Not on a night like this. We need to get out of here, before he reloads and comes back.”

She shuddered, looking toward the ruined windshield and the bullet holes in the side of his SUV. “Can you drive it?”

“I hope.” He peered down the hill where her car had taken its fateful ride. “Maybe we’d better get the food.”

She had decided to trust him. Now she reared back. “What?”

###

Jax made a sound low in his throat, mentally kicking himself for giving something away. “You were going home for Christmas. You were bringing food to your parents, weren’t you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How would you know that?”

“It makes sense.”

When she continued her ten-mile stare he added, “My agency sent me because I know things.”

Her jaw jutted out. “Whatthings?”

He wasn’t going to tell her about his psychic abilities. Not now. Maybe never if he could help it. He settled for: “I knew something bad was going to happen here tonight. That’s why I was on the road in this weather.”

“How?”

“Working the probabilities,” he answered, wishing the conversation had not gone in this direction. He could see she wanted to keep asking questions, but he said again. “We need to get away from here. Do you want me to lock your car?”

When he saw her hesitating, he wanted to demand that she trust him. But trust wasn’t something you could order up. Finally, after a few seconds hesitation, she fumbled in her purse and pulled out a key ring.

Jax took it and started down the hill, half walking and half sliding through the snow piling up on the ground.

“That went well,” he muttered to himself as he fought to stay upright, following her tire tracks, which were rapidly disappearing under a blanket of white.

Of course he hadn’t been straight with her. Samantha wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her the truth.

But he’d left his lair as soon as he realized she was in trouble.

Samantha. He hadn’t known her name until she’d told him—which was one of the maddening aspects of his talent. He’d been seeing flashes of her life for days, but he hadn’t been able to drag her name into the vision. If he had, he would have rushed over to her house and warned her. Instead he’d been reduced to patrolling this stretch of highway, looking for her Ford Focus. Too bad he hadn’t been able to see the big Black Dodge SUV that was also out tonight, but his impressions had been coming from Sam—not the killer. When he’d closed his eyes and gotten into a delta brain wave state, he’d been able to see her clearly—her blond hair, her pretty little nose, her blue eyes fringed with surprisingly dark lashes. He’d seen worry in those eyes—and also determination. He would have liked to enjoy figuring out who she was. But fear had always been in the back of his mind as he’d watched her. He knew she was heading for a dangerous confrontation, and if he didn’t get there in time, she would get scooped up by the killer who had been prowling this stretch of highway.

He slid the final few feet to her car, banging against the cold metal. When he had steadied himself, he unlocked the door, looked at the stuff in the back, and pulled out the two carry bags of food. He also saw a duffel, which he knew held the clothing she’d planned to wear at her parents’. When he hefted it, he found it wasn’t heavy. He hoisted it over his shoulder, locked the car, and started up the hill. The return trip was a lot more difficult than the slide down. More snow had fallen, and every step threatened to send him tumbling back the way he’d come. He had to turn his feet sideways and use them as wedges against the incline. It was slow going. When he got within a few yards of the top, Sam slid down and took one of the food bags. Together, they staggered the rest of the way to his SUV, where he slung everything into the back.

To his relief, the engine turned over. But he was concerned about the fusillade of bullets into the car.

“What?” she asked when she caught his grim expression.

“Let’s pray that none of his slugs hit the radiator or the gas tank.”

Chapter 3

Jax eased off the shoulder, made a U-turn and started back to his base of operations, leaning forward a little as he peered through the broken windshield. The rounded holes with their halos of ruined glass and the radiating cracks didn’t help his visibility.

Sam had been staring at the holes. Now he saw her slide him a sideways glance, obviously not completely comfortable with him.

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