The Kid Who Stole Christmas (8 page)

She found herself in makeshift living quarters, rather like a small, sparsely furnished motel room. There was a single bed on one side—neatly made, she noticed—as well as a nightstand and a chest of drawers. In the middle of the room sat a small table with two chairs. The opposite side was dominated by a large comfortable-looking armchair, behind which stood a reading lamp. That and the bedside lamp went on with the same switch Rick had turned on next to the now-closed door, bathing the room in a warm glow. Against the far wall, a little electric space heater purred to life, as well.

Though the furniture was old-fashioned, everything was clean and well taken care of, giving the little place a cozy, homespun ambience. In Shannon’s opinion, it needed a few plants and some pictures on the walls. A window would also be nice. But under the circumstances, she decided to keep that opinion to herself.

“Nice,” she said simply.

“Better than some places I’ve been in,” Rick agreed.

He removed his snow-dampened coat and hung it on a peg near the door, then motioned for Shannon to do the same and hung hers up carefully, as well. He then had a seat at the table. Shannon joined him. Rick looked at her curiously.

“Well?” he asked.

Where to begin? Shannon wondered. “Who are you, Rick Hastings, and what are you doing working as a Santa Claus for Lyon’s Department Store?”

“Who am I? That’s a question I’ve been asking myself for the last three years,” Rick replied, returning her appraising gaze. “I’m not entirely sure I know the answer yet. But I’m getting close. Why do you care, Shannon O’Shaughnessy?”

She smiled. “I did say I liked the direct approach, didn’t I?” Shannon thought it over for a moment, and decided to be equally direct. “You don’t have a corner on the pain market, okay? Maybe I think I can help you. Maybe I think you can help me. I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “Maybe it’s just good old-fashioned Christmas spirit. I followed you all the way down here in the cold, didn’t I? That should tell you something.”

“It tells me you’re serious,” Rick observed. “But about what remains to be seen. Didn’t you say you wanted to talk about Leo?”

“I do,” Shannon agreed. “Pop seems to think Leo is just fine. He’s probably right. And I agree with him that this affair isn’t worth going to the police and risking another war with the Bayers, either now or once Leo is home.” She crossed her arms on her chest in a defiant gesture. “But I’m not going to just sit around. I want to find Leo and get him back. If possible, without handing over the Arnie shipment.”

Rick was smiling slightly. “Why tell me this?”

“You know the Bayers and how they operate.” His surprised expression pleased her. “Pop made a few calls after you left. He has contacts everywhere. But since I’m kind of going behind his back on this, I thought maybe you could give me some idea about where to start looking.”

“I see,” Rick said. He was gazing at her, obviously deep in thought. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. “I can tell by the determination in those pretty green eyes of yours that you mean business, so I guess I’ll have to level with you.”

“Level with me?” she asked, confused.

“I don’t intend to sit around and wait, either. I had already planned to go looking for Leo, as well as make sure that shipment ends up at Lyon’s. But make no mistake,” he told her in a quiet voice. “I
am
at war with the Bayers.”

Shannon frowned. “Why do I get this feeling there’s more to your involvement in this than meets the eye?”

She was astute, all right. Rick knew he would have to tread very carefully from now on, lest she ruin everything. But the path he was on now was very well traveled, and came easily to him.

“You probably get that feeling because it’s true,” Rick admitted. “And you’re also right about it having something to do with why I’m working at Lyon’s.”

“I thought it might.”

“Being a Santa is the perfect cover. I can be with the kids, and in the meantime keep track of the shipment.”

“I see,” Shannon said. But she didn’t.

“Don’t get me wrong, though,” Rick added quickly. “I do need the money. The advertising blitz didn’t come cheap and Arnie the Arachnid is being run on a very tight budget at the moment. I’m barely getting a salary.”

Shannon’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand. Are you telling me you’re an employee of the Arnie campaign?”

“Yes. I’m in Denver to watch over your shipment of Arnies,” Rick explained. “There was word the Bayers were covertly trying to figure out where and when it would arrive. Since, as you noted, I am well acquainted with their ways, I came to interfere with any plans they might have had to sabotage the shipment. I had no idea they’d stoop to kidnapping, though.”

Although this was far too much for Shannon to take in on such short notice, there was one thing she couldn’t help grasping. In fact, she even reached out and grasped Rick’s arm.

“Are they here?” she whispered, her eyes wide as she looked around to indicate the warehouse.

He laughed at her reaction. “Not yet.”

“When?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

Shannon let go of his arm and leaned back with a sigh of astonishment. “Whew! At the risk of perpetuating an age-old stereotype, I could do with a wee nip. Care to pop over to the local and join me?” Then she glanced at him and asked hesitantly, “Or am I putting temptation where I shouldn’t?”

Rick laughed. “As I said, my situation isn’t nearly as dire as you seem to think. You’re on.” He stood up and retrieved their coats, holding hers open for her. “Drink isn’t responsible for my troubles, though there was a time when it could have been a contender, I suppose.”

“Then what is responsible?”

“Three people,” Rick replied.

“Nathan Bayer and Angela I can guess. Who’s the third?”

“Me.”

Chapter Seven

S
hannon didn’t find the walk back toward the nearest pub nearly as cold, dark and scary, with Rick by her side. In fact, there was something cozy about the night now. She tentatively touched her gloved hand to his, and he surprised her by taking it. This was different from holding her hand while leading her through a dark warehouse. This was a gesture of warmth and companionship. When she glanced at his face, the small smile she saw there confirmed that he felt the same way.

The place Shannon had in mind was a boisterous watering hole directly across from Union Station called the Wynkoop Brewing Company. It had been among the first of what was now a wave of brew pubs sweeping the nation, so named because the proprietors brewed and served their own fresh beer right on the premises. Shannon liked the stout she could get there, which reminded her of a trip she’d taken to Ireland in her college days.

At this hour and particularly during this season, the pub was packed, loud and deliciously festive. Just the ticket to drive the chill from their bones and ease the telling of what Shannon thought might be a painful story for Rick.

It was also a great spot to lose oneself in the crowd, which they quickly did. After flagging down a server, they managed to squeeze themselves into a cranny far enough away from the main bar to allow a relatively quiet conversation. As Shannon had expected, Rick did seem more at ease here than he had in his little place at the warehouse.

So did she. For all its unusual ambience, it had been too intimate there by half. She sipped her stout, which looked and tasted more like sweet, black coffee than beer.

Rick had ordered the same. “Good,” he said after a sip.

“So,” Shannon prompted, “I believe you were about to tell me the story of your life?”

“That would only bore both of us to tears. I was born, raised and attended school in Arizona. It’s a nice place, if you like sun, the desert and lots of quiet. But for the most part, the only people who find any of it truly fascinating are anthropologists, New Agers and white folks pretending to be Native Americans.”

Shannon laughed. “A cynic. I like that in a man.”

“Don’t get me started,” Rick warned. “I can do an hour on Elvis impersonators alone. But seriously, there isn’t much to tell on that end. How about you? Colorado girl?”

“Sort of,” she replied. “I was born in Nebraska. But after my parents divorced, my mother moved us here.”

“How old were you?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Eight, the same as Leo.”

Rick drank his beer, mulling over this fact. “And about the same as Chelsea was when Angela divorced me.”

“I thought so,” Shannon told him, nodding. “That seemed to be the age of the little girl who was the hardest for you to be around today. But also the one who seemed to have helped you the most.”

He studied her face. “And so that’s why you decided you might be able to help me?” he asked, obviously doubtful.

“Well, I don’t know, Rick,” Shannon replied, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm from her tone. “I was yanked away from my father at about the same age as your little girl, and grew up hearing a daily tirade about him and his evil ways. That might just give me some insight into your situation, don’t you suppose?”

Rick realized that he had been so caught up in his own problems that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him. Shannon had been offering her help almost from the moment they met. She was right, of course. He didn’t have a corner on the pain market.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

Shannon blew out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t have any cause to be snippy with you. It’s just that hearing you talk about what happened to you has brought back some bad memories of those times.”

They were both quiet for a moment. It was then that they appreciated their surroundings, for the way other conversations filled in the awkward silence in their own.

“Did you listen?” Rick finally asked.

“To the stories my mother used to tell about my father, you mean?” Shannon guessed.

He nodded.

“Well, I didn’t have much choice, really. After all, she
is
my mother, and I was something of a captive audience.”

“And did you tell any stories about him, yourself?”

Rick said this so quietly that Shannon wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. She looked at him, but he was staring into his glass of stout, as if he might find some kind of answer in its black, velvety depths.

“I didn’t repeat anything I heard her say,” Shannon told him. “But I...I did believe her about some things. When I grew up, I found out what a liar she had been. But when I was little, and I saw how angry she was, I couldn’t help blaming Daddy. It’s one of the biggest regrets of my life that he died before I made up with him.”

Rick looked into her eyes again, and saw that regret clearly in them. He reached across the table and took her hand. “Maybe you’re right about us helping each other.”

“Do you think so?”

“Just talking about it with someone who really understands is making me feel better,” he said. “So let me ease your pain a little if I can. You may have blamed your father, but I’d bet my life he never blamed you in return.”

“No?”

“No,” Rick assured her. “I don’t blame Chelsea. I may not understand the things she’s done and said, but deep down inside, I know she doesn’t mean to hurt me. I still love her and I always will. I’m sure your father felt the same way.”

“Thanks, Rick,” she told him.

“Anytime.” He touched his glass to hers and they both had another warming sip of stout. “How’s your relationship with your mother now?” he asked.

“Strained,” Shannon admitted. “To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever really gotten to know her. She just never has had all that much time for me.”

“Why not?”

“Business, mostly,” Shannon replied with a sigh. “When we first moved here, she was in retail sales, but she worked her way up the ladder. She recently retired from a position as the main clothing buyer for a chain down in Florida. I got my start at Lyon’s through one of her contacts, in fact.” She smiled wryly. “Mom had a lot of contacts.”

Rick had a pretty good idea what she meant. “Was one of them responsible for her moving here and divorcing your dad?”

“Exactly. I’m pretty sure she’d been seeing him for some time before the divorce. I don’t know him very well, either,” Shannon said. “Like Leo, I was basically raised by nannies. My mother and stepfather were both too busy with traveling and their careers.”

“Not too busy to jerk your father around concerning his visitation rights, though, I’ll bet,” Rick said. “I think that’s the worst part. I lived for Chelsea. To Angela, I think she’s a possession to be controlled, a big doll she can dress up and teach to be just like her.” He scowled. “And she’s doing a pretty good job of it.”

“The truth will out, Rick,” Shannon said, trying to reassure him in turn. “Someday, Chelsea will find out what a liar her mother is, too.”

His expression remained bleak. If only she knew just how far along Angela’s conversion of their daughter really was. But there were things he could barely stand to think about, let alone speak of, even to this warm, lovely woman. Besides, it was too dangerous. In a few more days, maybe there would be blue sky above him again. But right now, there were still storm clouds hovering.

“I haven’t really had much contact with the Bayers,” Shannon continued. “We hardly run in the same social circles. But I’ve seen pictures of Angela in the newspaper. She’s a very stunning woman.”

“In her case, beauty really is only skin-deep,” Rick said with obvious disgust. He was glad to allow anger to replace his self-pity. “It probably sounds like sour grapes, or something, but really, you can’t imagine how awful Angela is, Shannon. I haven’t the words to describe her.”

If she was involved in this dirty little scheme to take over the Arnie shipment, Shannon was fully prepared to believe anything he said about the woman. But it didn’t seem like a very productive thing to talk about. Venting anger only did so much good; beyond that, it was better to take a look at the source of that anger.

“There must have been something you liked about her once, though,” Shannon said. “After all, you got married and had a child, and then raised that child together for eight years.”