Running Scared by Lisa Jackson

to give him a hug, but he shrugged her off.
    “Don’t. Don’t treat me like a little kid.”
    “You are—”
    “I’m fifteen! I can get a driver’s license in less than a year!” He took a step away from her. “Too old to be kissed and hugged by my mom.”
    She wanted to protest. A part of her cried out inside, but she didn’t say a word and tried not to look hurt. He was right. He was growing up, growing away from her. He probably did need a father. But not the man in Boston. Never him.
    Houndog, tennis ball firmly in his mouth, rounded the corner, jumped up on Jon’s legs wildly, his bark muffled before he dropped the ball on the floor. The pup’s tail wagged furiously as he stared up at the boy, almost daring Jon to toss it again. Jon didn’t notice, just shifted his backpack to his other shoulder.
    Kate tried one more time. “Look, Jon, I didn’t mean to bug you about your dreams, but—”
    “Just stop, okay?” His jaw worked in anger and he plowed a hand through his hair.
    “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, as much to convince herself as him. Inside she was falling apart. Was it possible? After all these years? Could Jon’s father have found out about him? The safe little shell she’d built around them was cracking.
    Finally Jon saw the dog whining at his feet. In one swift motion, he shot the ball down the hall again. “I don’t think so, Mom. Everything’s not gonna be okay. I don’t want to scare you, but I think we’re in for some heavy sh—stuff around here.”
    “You do?” Her heart knocked crazily.
    He nodded. “It’s starting. Today.”
    “What?” She swallowed back her fear.
    His eyes narrowed as he stared through the open window again, to the distant mountains and the black clouds that rolled across the sky. The smells of dry grass, dust, and faded wild flowers filtered into the room, and far away a tractor engine rumbled, but Jon, looking into a distance only he could see, seemed unaware of the noises and odors. Absently he rubbed a hand over the muscles of his other forearm.
    Kate felt cold as death.
    “The danger,” Jon said slowly in a voice that was an eerie whisper. “It’s coming.”
    “Oh, God, no.” This time he hadn’t tried to soften the blow by calling it trouble. This time he had admitted the peril, the unnamed danger that was stalking him.
    He swallowed hard, then looked at her, his gaze bright and focused again, as if he were back in the moment. But his grim expression didn’t change. “It’s coming, Mom,” he repeated hoarsely, “and there’s no way to stop it.”

Chapter 3
    Daegan jammed on the brakes and his truck slid to a stop near the dusty front porch of the cabin. “Fixer upper,” as the real estate ad had boasted, was more than a little optimistic. “Rustic” was a lie. The place was shot to hell. From the looks of it, old man McIntyre hadn’t lifted a hammer, paintbrush, screwdriver, or pair of pliers in years. The cabin was small, with a sagging roof, broken steps, boarded-over windows, and a view of some of the driest acres Daegan had ever seen. The barn hadn’t fared much better. Never having been painted, the old structure had suffered from the elements—sun, wind, and rain contributing to the silvering of the siding and the missing shingles.
    “Perfect,” he grumbled to himself as he surveyed the rest of the ranch.
    A pump house, machine shed, chicken coop, and old windmill with missing blades completed the landscape that was nearly devoid of vegetation. No shrubbery or flowers, just a solitary pine tree giving some shade to the house and breaking up the expanse of sagebrush, berry vines, and dirt. Broken-down cars were scattered between the buildings, and tires had been propped against the side of the house or tossed into a nearby corral.
    No wonder it had been cheap.
    He didn’t really give a damn about the grounds, the house, or anything else. He’d lived in worse. He had to remind himself that he was