By now Amy’s heart was beating so fast it scared her, and when her car didn’t immediately start, she thought she might pass out. But the engine caught on the next try, and within minutes Amy was doing a sedate thirty miles an hour—she was terrified of getting stopped for speeding—and heading for the highway that would take her away from Mobile.
She still couldn’t believe it had happened. Never before, in all the time since the divorce, had Mrs. Witherspoon left her alone with Calista. Amy had begun to believe it might never happen, yet she had never given up hope.
“Mommy?” Calista said from the backseat. “Are we goin’ to the store?”
“No, sweetie. We’re going on a vacation.”
“A ’cation?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is Daddy coming?”
“Nope. Just you and me.”
“Okay,” Calista said happily.
Amy smiled, even though inside she was a mass of nerves. She kept looking in the rearview mirror, but so far she saw nothing suspicious. It had only been ten minutes since she’d left Cole’s house. Mrs. Witherspoon probably hadn’t been able to free herself yet, so Amy doubted if Cole knew what had happened. With any luck, it would be hours before he did.
God knew Amy was due a little luck.
Calm down, she told herself.
Just calm down and drive.
A mile later she approached the entrance ramp to I-10 West. Moving into the left lane, she increased speed as she entered the freeway. She wouldn’t be able to stay on the interstate long because that would be the first place the authorities would look. But she needed to get a ways out of Mobile before she transferred to secondary roads, so she was taking a calculated risk. She figured the least amount of time she had before Cole called out the dogs was thirty minutes. To be safe, she would then have to move to the smaller highway she had mapped.
Thirty minutes.
Amy stepped on the accelerator and began to pray.
Chapter One
The large blue-and-purple sign loomed on her right, as Amy rounded a bend in the two-lane road.
WELCOME TO MORGAN CREEK, TEXAS
Home of Hathaway Bakery
POPULATION 5,445
Amy was already driving slowly because the road was so narrow, with big ditches on either side. Now she braked to a stop and stared at the sign.
“Hathaway Bakery?” She frowned. Was it possible? Was this Lorna’s hometown?
Lorna Hathaway.
Amy hadn’t thought of her first college roommate in years. Lorna Hathaway. She had been so nice, so down to earth. If she hadn’t casually mentioned her family’s business, Amy would never have guessed Lorna came from money. The two girls liked each other immediately and had quickly become friends. But then, at the end of her freshman year, Lorna left Florida State where she’d only enrolled because of her boyfriend and his football scholarship. When the romance soured, she moved back to Texas, transferring to the University of Texas in Austin. Gradually, the girls had lost touch.
Amy looked at the sign again.
Morgan Creek.
Home of Hathaway Bakery…
Somehow, coming upon the sign this way seemed to Amy to be a sign itself. She’d been driving now for eleven straight hours, and she was exhausted, but she’d been uneasy about stopping again. Bad enough she’d had to take a chance on stopping last night. Thank God it had worked out okay. At least, she hoped it had.
She’d chosen a local motel in rural Louisiana. Even though she didn’t think Cole could possibly track her down via such a small, out-of-the-way place, she was grateful that the underground network had provided her with Louisiana license plates that she’d put on at the first opportunity. Still, Cole knew what kind of car she drove, and he could provide the authorities with pictures of both her and Calista. Amy wished she had been able to switch cars—something that was possible through the network—but only when you knew ahead of time when you would be leaving so the arrangements could be made. Unfortunately, Amy hadn’t known, so she’d had no choice but to use her own car.
Amy was banking on the belief that Cole would imagine her heading for Florida, where she’d grown up and where her widower father still lived. She hoped the first search would concentrate on that area and give her an edge. Even so, this morning she had awakened Calista while it was still dark, and they were on their way again by six.
No sense taking any chances. She wanted as many miles between her and her ex as she could possibly get, because new identity or not, if anyone could track them down, it was Cole.
Hearing a sound from the backseat, Amy turned around and saw Calista stretching and rubbing her eyes.
Amy’s heart swelled with love. “Hi, sweetie. Did you have a good nap?”
Calista’s forehead knitted into a frown. “Mommy, I hungree.” Her bottom lip quivered.
Amy dug into her tote and unearthed a Ziploc bag filled with Cheerios. She handed it back to her daughter. “Here you go, pumpkin.”
Calista folded her chubby arms across her body in a familiar pose that signaled impending mutiny. “I want French fries and a hambugger,” she said, her frown turning into a thundercloud.
Any other time she’d heard her daughter mangle the word hamburger, Amy would have been amused. Right now she was too tired and too scared to find anything amusing. All she wanted was a safe place to stay. Somewhere she and Calista could get decent food and a clean bed without fear of being found.
“Honeybun, I don’t have a hamburger, but as soon as I find a place to stop, we’ll get one, I promise.”
Calista started to cry, simultaneously struggling to free herself from her car seat.
Amy wanted to cry, too. Instead, she dropped the bag of Cheerios on the seat next to Calista and, forcing herself to ignore her daughter’s tears, headed down the road toward Morgan Creek.
What she would do when she got there, Amy wasn’t sure. She only knew she couldn’t keep driving indefinitely. She and Calista needed a break or else one or both of them was headed for a meltdown.
Five minutes later she saw the first signs of habitation. Once in the town proper, Amy drove slowly. By the time she’d gone through two stop lights, she’d passed half a dozen storefronts, one bank and two steepled churches—one red brick, one white frame. Spying a service station in the next block on the right, she suddenly knew exactly what she was going to do. She headed for the station. She needed gas, anyway.
The August heat blasted her as she exited the car. By the time she’d extricated Calista from her car seat, Amy’s T-shirt was sticking to her.
While the attendant filled her gas tank—Amy had almost forgotten there were still full-service stations in existence—Amy took Calista into the rest room. After washing their hands and faces, Amy combed Calista’s hair, as well as her own, then applied fresh lipstick. With Calista in tow, Amy headed into the main building to hunt down a phone book.
“Sure thing, sugar,” the dark-eyed woman behind the counter said to Amy’s enquiry. Reaching under the counter, she produced a slim, dog-eared directory. “Who would you be lookin’ for?”
Amy was taken