Someone left a dead canary in Abbe Shea’s mailbox.

She didn’t need three guesses to figure out its meaning. The lifeless yellow bird--a baby bird--was the mafia’s way of warning her what happens to the children of people who ‘sing.’

Forty-eight hours later, she was still trembling like an addict needing a fix.

Damn it, she’d kept her silence for five months now--she hadn’t told a soul that she’d witnessed her fiancé’s murder . . . or that she could identify the shooter.

Shouldn’t that prove something? Did these people actually think she’d risk her daughter’s life?

In addition to front-page newspaper headlines, every television station in the country carried hourly reports on the Texas Rangers’ apprehension and arrest of Lucca Ziggmorelli, a key member of a Las Vegas crime family. The charges were drug trafficking and money laundering.

Abbe knew he was guilty of much, much more.

And that made her a liability--to the Ziggmorellis, and even worse, to her own daughter.

She took a final walk through her grandmother’s house where she’d been living for the past five months, her gaze touching on items that brought both good memories and ones that made her cringe. She was leaving so much behind. But it couldn’t be helped. Mama and Grandma were gone now--Grandma taken home to Jesus, and Mama . . . well, that was a mystery. Abbe had no idea if her mother was alive or dead, and her regret was keen. There were so many things that she wanted to say, to apologize for.

How had life gotten in such a mess? She’d thought she could start over here in Texas, in the small town of Hope Valley where acceptance was unconditional and people actually spoke to one another when they passed on the street.

She should have known better.

She should have known that one of the first places they would look for her was her mother’s hometown.

“ Jolene?” she called. “Sweetie babe, we need to hurry up, now. It’s time to go.”

The three-year-old streaked through the living room, short blond pigtails bouncing, a fluffy white puppy hopping at her heels. The teacup Maltese, Harley, skidded on the hardwood floor and tumbled onto the rug.

“ I gots to find Lambie-pie,” Jolene wailed. “Her’s lost.” Abbe breathed deeply, trying to still the nerves clawing at her stomach. Jolene hardly made a move without her stuffed lamb, so how could it have gotten lost?

“ The last time I saw her, she was sitting on your potty chair.”

Jolene’s little jaw dropped, and her eyes went round. “Oh! I forgetted. Her had to go tee-tee.” With that announcement, Jolie dashed toward the bathroom. Neon pink lights flashed from the soles of her tiny Sketchers each time they connected with the thin wool, cabbage rose patterned carpet. The puppy raced after her, clearly delighted with the blinking shoes.

Jolene had taken the news of their pending trip in stride. She was a happy, agreeable child, always ready for an adventure. Abbe couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her little girl. That energetic cherub was her absolute heart.

Now, realizing that the Ziggmorelli family had found them so easily, especially the manner in which they’d let that be known, Abbe was totally spooked.

And that meant they needed to disappear. Go somewhere safe. To someone who could help keep them safe.

Her hands shook as she retrieved a manila folder from the bottom drawer of her grandmother’s Bombay chest and stuck it in her suitcase. The information in that file was something she didn’t want falling into the wrong hands.

Compiled by a private investigator over a period of thirty years, it was a detailed dossier on Grant Callahan, his hometown of Shotgun Ridge, Montana, and the people who lived there. Reading through the mountain of papers five months ago, she’d gleaned that the small community of Shotgun Ridge was as far removed from the dirty hands of organized crime as was possible.

And ever since she’d found the file on her father’s computer and read it, she hadn’t been able to get Grant Callahan out of her mind. According to the report, he was retired from the U.S. Army’s Special Forces, and dedicated to the horse breeding farm he owned with his two brothers, but he still accepted assignments on occasion.

She’d made a call yesterday from a pay phone in town to the mayor of Shotgun Ridge, Ozzie Peyton. He’d come through for her just as the dossier had promised. As for Grant Callahan, if the man could infiltrate foreign countries and rescue kidnapped executives, he could surely help her.

At least she hoped so. She’d been naïve in the past, so trusting and gullible, accepting all the nice things money could buy, and never questioning where that money came from.

God, she’d made mistakes. She’d floated through life as though it were her own personal fairy tale, fallen in love, given birth to a beautiful little girl. Then, in a single day, all the security she’d ever known had been yanked out from under her in the most hideously, terrifying way--and she’d had to grow up in a hurry.

Looking back, she realized that she’d been taken care of most of her life--by her mom, then by her adoptive father, Stewart Shea, then by her fiancé, Tommy Donato.

Now she was on her own, and all the scary decisions were solely on her shoulders.

Abbe hoped to God she was making the right ones.

Because her daughter’s life was at stake.

With urgency pressing against her chest, she loaded the rest of their suitcases into the car, coaxed Harley into his pet carrier, then corralled Jolie and Lambie Pie, and strapped them into the car seat. They were traveling light--two cases each, plus a box of Jolie’s toys, some photo albums, and her knitting supplies. She was limited to how much baggage they could take due to weight restrictions of the plane. She’d gone to the airfield earlier that day and calculated her fuel based on what she’d packed. She’d also gone over the aircraft inch by inch, sweeping it for any signs of tampering or a tracking device, praying she’d know one if she saw it

Jolene fell asleep before they even reached the main highway, and Abbe appreciated the silence. Her mind was whirling, her nerves were shot, and somehow she had to pretend that neither one of those were the case. Moms were supposed to be strong, to never let their children see their fears. Most moms, anyway. Her own had been just the opposite.

Abbe took the turnoff to Hope Field, the county airstrip where she kept her B58 Beechcraft Baron, glad that she hadn’t let her pride persuade her not to keep the plane--a gift from her father. Pulling her Jeep next to the Baron, she took her sleeping daughter out of the car seat and transferred her to the one in the back seat of the airplane, leaving the cockpit door open while she went back for the puppy, then loaded their luggage into the cargo hold.

The cell phone in her purse rang, and a rush of adrenaline shot straight to her head. Annoyed with herself, she checked the caller ID.

Her father.

Her adoptive father.

She’d been waiting for him to return her phone call, but now she was suddenly nervous. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d left Las Vegas five months ago.

“ Hello, Pop.” Her voice was flat, with just the barest hint of a tremble.

“ I got your message,” Stewart Shea said in a deceptively gentle voice, a slight trace of his Irish roots creeping into his tone. “I suppose you’ve seen the news?”

“ Who hasn’t? The local stations here in Texas are liable to wear out the tape by playing it so often.” She speared her fingers through her hair, surprised when her hand hit bare skin at her nape. She still wasn’t used to the trendy short style Donetta Presley-Carmichael had given her two weeks ago.

“ We need to talk about--"

“ I received a special delivery from the Ziggmorellis,” Abbe interrupted. “And it wasn’t pretty.” The image of that morbid calling card in her mailbox made her skin crawl. “Tell those bastards Jolie is innocent. She’s only a baby--she didn’t see anything. She can’t hurt them. Baby birds don’t sing!”

Stewart swore. “They left a canary on your doorstep? A baby one?”

She’d known he would understand exactly who and what she was talking about. “In my mailbox. Call them off, Pop.”

“ Abbe, Gil Ziggmorelli runs his organization different--”

“ I don’t care if he dances naked on the supper table, I just want him to rein in his henchmen and leave me and Jolene alone. Can you tell him that, Pop?” She felt weary and scared, caught up in something she hadn’t chosen, didn’t want any part of. “Gil and his family have nothing to fear from me. Does he honestly think I’d admit to even knowing any of those Mafioso goons?” Too late, she realized her words had insulted.

Pop was one of those goons.

Recently retired--or so he’d said. She wasn’t sure if she could believe him, no longer even knew who he was. A lump of pain and betrayal formed in her throat. He’d lied to her all her life, letting her believe his work was top-level security in an obscure government agency when all along . . .

The sounds of heavy traffic and horns honking filtered through the phone line. How many times had she seen Pop walk a ways down the Vegas strip and conduct business over his portable phone? She heard the snick of a lighter, the deep inhalation of breath.

“ I thought you quit smoking.” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended.

“ Tough habit to break.”

“ You went three years!” He’d thrown away his last pack of Camels the day Jolene was born.

“ Listen to me, Abbe. If you hadn’t called, I would have made the first move. You need to lay low for a while--“

“ I’m way ahead of you . . . Pop? Can I trust you?” Odd thing for a daughter to ask. Deep down she didn’t think he would ever betray her. But a cynical voice inside her, one created by the recent hard truths of life, told her to be wary. Unable to trust the one person who’d been her closest family member for so many years made her feel as though she was flying through a fog bank with no instruments or landing gear.

“ You ought to know that you can trust me, punkin’.”

The anguish in his voice sounded so sincere. She nearly told him where she was going, what she planned to do, but at the last minute she changed her mind.

Maybe she could trust Pop. But she couldn’t trust the kind of company he kept--the type of people who kept the fire arms, wire tap, and tracking device manufacturers in business.

“ Just call someone and relay my message, okay?”

“ Oh, you better believe I will.” The ice in his voice frightened her. She’d only heard him use that tone once in her life--when she was barely a teen and had pressed him to tell her about his secret spy work. He’d evaded her questions, but when she’d persisted, his temper had erupted. She’d never asked again.

“ Regardless of what’s happened between us, Abbe, you’re my girl. Gil Ziggmorelli will know I raised you right. And if he doesn’t, I’ve got enough clout and respect to make that known.”

She wondered if that was still true. When she’d left Vegas, there had been some muscle-flexing going on between the Ziggmorelli and Shea families.

Which was partly the reason Lucca Ziggmorelli had murdered Tommy.

“ Tell me where you’re going,” Stewart said, gently now.

“ I-I can’t take the chance, Pop.” Oh, God, she wanted to. Despite the breach in their relationship, she still loved him. He wasn’t ‘blood’ family, but he was the only family she had. “If I could grant . . . grant you a wish, Pop, what would it be?” He was silent for a moment, and she gripped the small cell phone, wondering if he’d picked up on her clue or if he thought she was one step away from the booby hatch.

“ I’ve got a shotgun load of wishes, punkin’. The most important one is that you be safe and happy. I think I know my kid, though, which means I don’t need wishes. You’ll be okay.”

He understood. Was he surprised, she wondered? That she’d chosen Grant Callahan and Shotgun Ridge to run to?

She checked her watch. Time was ticking away and she was standing out here in the open.

“ Okay, Pop. I gotta go now. Take care.”

“ You, too, punkin’”

Abbe pressed the end button on her cell phone, stared at it for a moment, then walked a few feet and tossed it into the trash barrel that rested in the patchy grass at the edge of the asphalt. She didn’t know if a person could tap a cellular telephone, but if the possibility existed she wanted to get a head start before anyone tried to track her.

Her body shuddered, even though the heat waves radiating from the airstrip’s asphalt had to be eight degrees. She imagined this was probably what a fox experienced as he waited to hear the hoarse bay of hunting hounds echoing across the distant terrain.

From the book Shotgun Ridge
by Mindy Neff
Harlequin Books
ISBN 0-373-83616-3 - November 2004
Copyright by Mindy Neff

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