The Christmas Target Page 11

  “I’d say that the last is the worst.”

  He nudged his coffee into her hand, and she took a sip. They’d done all of this dozens of times before. Walking together, talking, sharing coffee. It felt different this time. Maybe because he was there to protect her, and she knew it. Maybe because they were on her home territory, close to all the things that she longed for deep down where it mattered most—home, family, love.

  “You’re right. I hate breaking her heart over and over again.”

  “You’re not breaking it,” he reminded her as he pushed open the lobby-level door. “Losing Henry is.”

  “Semantics, Chance. It all boils down to the same thing. I have to keep reminding her of the one thing she’d love to forget.”

  “Is there another choice? Could you live with yourself if you lied to her? Let her think that Henry was alive? Kept building her expectation that she was going to see him again?”

  She’d thought about that a lot the last couple of days.

  She’d asked herself whether or not lying would bring Beatrice comfort or if it would just bring more pain. In the end, she’d decided to stick with what she knew—honesty.

  It’s what Beatrice would have wanted if she hadn’t had Alzheimer’s, and it was what Henry would have expected from his only grandchild.

  “Right now, I don’t know what I could live with. I only know what my grandmother would want—honesty.”

  “Then don’t feel bad about giving it to her.”

  He took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, pulling her hair out from under the collar. “How about we go get something to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You haven’t been hungry in four days.”

  “Are you counting?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how head injuries are,” she said as he tucked strands of hair behind her ear and eyed the bump on her temple. She knew how it looked—green and purple and yellow but better than it had been yesterday and the day before that.

  “How are the stitches?” he asked, moving around her and parting the hair near her nape. She hadn’t bothered looking at the stitches. They itched, and she knew they were healing. That had been enough information to go on.

  “Fine.”

  “You’re going to have a pretty little scar, Stella.”

  “It’ll be the perfect complement to all the big ugly ones.”

  “Your scars aren’t ugly. Nothing about you could ever be ugly.” He let her hair drop back into place as he adjusted the coat again. She could feel the warmth of his hands near her skin.

  And she just stood there and let it all happen.

  She didn’t brush his hand away or tell him to stop fussing.

  She didn’t explain that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

  She didn’t offer a word of protest when his lips brushed hers. A sweet, gentle kiss, and she wanted more because this was Chance and they’d known each other forever, had been there for each other over and over again.

  If that wasn’t love, she didn’t know what was.

  But the sweetness of love had always come with the bitterness of loss. She didn’t know if she could take what she wanted and not suffer for it. She didn’t know if she could lose Chance and survive it.

  * * *

  Kissing Stella was the best thing he’d ever done and probably the biggest mistake he’d made in a long time, but Chance wasn’t about to apologize for it. He knew what he wanted. He’d known for a long time. After spending four days thinking about what could have happened if he hadn’t shown up at Beatrice’s house at just the right time, he’d decided that he’d be a fool to keep skirting around the thing that was between them.

  “Chance—” Stella began as he stepped back.

  “If you’re going to say I shouldn’t have done that, forget it.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Then what were you going to say?”

  “That...” She shook her head.

  “Tell you what, Stella. For once, how about you just be honest with both of us?”

  “You want honesty?” She started walking, his coat still around her shoulders. “I’m terrified.”

  “Of loving me?”

  “Of losing you.”

  “Who says you have to?”

  “Life? Experience? I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved, Chance. Everyone.”

  “Do you wish you hadn’t loved them?” he asked, his heart breaking for her, but his mind clear and sharp and focused. He knew what she needed to hear. Not a bunch of platitudes. The truth, and this was it—love always had risk, and it was always worth it.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what’s to fear?”

  “I don’t want to be hurt again.”

  “Neither do I. But when I weigh the risk versus the benefit, I’m all for giving it a try,” he responded as they walked past a Christmas tree that had been set up in the lobby. Colored lights twinkled in the branches and brightly wrapped packages were piled beneath it. A few people were hanging ornaments. Others sat on benches and in chairs, talking and laughing as carols continued to be piped through the intercom.

  “You’re braver than I am.”

  “And yet, we both face danger every day.”

  “You know what I mean, Chance,” she said quietly, stopping short in front of the doors. “Even if I weren’t afraid to risk my heart, the timing isn’t right. My grandmother—”

  “Is very happy to know that you’ve found someone who cares about you. Do you really think she wants to leave you alone when she’s gone?”

  Her expression tightened, her lips pressing together.

  “I’ll take your silence as a no, so how about you stop trying to use Beatrice as an excuse?”

  “Fine.” She shrugged, walking again, her shoulders stiff and straight, her head high.

  He followed her into the sunny day, the crisp, cold air cutting through his flannel shirt. He’d strapped his holster beneath it, his Glock loaded and ready.

  He opened the SUV door for her, and he wanted to kiss her again, taste the cold winter air on her lips.

  Not the time.

  Not when they were both upset.

  He closed the door and rounded the vehicle, someone at the edge of the lot catching his eye.

  Not a man. A woman. Medium height. Light brown hair. Familiar. But the sun was so bright behind her that he couldn’t see her face.

  She was watching. He felt that.

  He wanted to know why.

  He opened the door, leaned in.

  “See that woman over there?”

  Stella nodded. “I noticed her when you closed the door.”

  “She’s watching us. I’m going to ask why.”

  “Hold on.” She grabbed his hand, her fingers cold, her skin rough from years of climbing, shooting and training. “I think it’s Karen,” she whispered as if she was afraid the woman would hear.

  “She was here earlier,” he said. He’d looked through the bag she’d been carrying, and she hadn’t been happy about it.

  Twenty-two, a nursing student, a hospital volunteer. Active in church. Young and happy and kind. Maybe she thought she was above suspicion.

  She was wrong.

  He’d done a little digging, found out that she’d moved to town with her father two years ago. No one had actually been able to tell him why.

  He figured this was as good a time as any to ask.

  “I’m going to talk to her, see why she’s still hanging around.”

  “She does volunteer here,” Stella pointed out.

  “She has classes. She should be at school.”

  “You looked at her college schedule?”

&
nbsp; “Trinity did.”

  “I’m not going to ask how she managed that.”

  “Me, neither, but she printed it out, and I know where Karen should be. I want to know why she’s here instead.”

  “Looks like she’s coming this way,” Stella responded.

  She was right, Karen was walking across the parking lot. Hurrying, really, her narrow frame encased in a long wool coat. She could be carrying a dozen weapons beneath it, and that bothered Chance.

  A lot.

  “Stay in the car,” he said, closing the door and turning to face Karen.

  She was smiling.

  Of course. He had yet to see her without a wide grin and a cheerful expression.

  “Hi, Chance!” she called. “I thought that was you and Stella. I guess I was right.”

  “I thought you left a couple of hours ago,” he responded, and her smile fell away.

  “I did, but my afternoon class was canceled, and I figured I’d get a few more volunteer hours in. Is that a problem?”

  “Just a curiosity.”

  She laughed. “I like what I do. Is that so curious?”

  “Not at all.” Simple. To the point. Let her do the talking and see where she went with it.

  “I want to do mission work overseas. There are several orphanages supported by our church, and I’d like to use my nursing degree to help there.”

  “That’s charitable of you,” he said.

  Apparently, that wasn’t the response she wanted. She frowned.

  “It’s not about charity. I just have a heart for orphans. Everyone thinks I’m too young to know what I really want. My father wants me to find a nice guy, get married, spend my life trying to...”

  Her voice trailed off, and her cheeks went bright red.

  “Anyway, I just came over to say hi to Stella.” She leaned down, waved through the closed window.

  Stella waved back but didn’t get out of the vehicle.

  Either she was tired or she was cold or she was as worried as Chance was that someone would take a potshot across the parking lot.

  “I’m coming by tomorrow to clean Beatrice’s room and get things ready for her, okay?” Karen yelled through the glass, and Stella gave her a thumbs-up.

  “She might be released early in the morning. It’s what she wants,” Stella responded, her voice muffled by the glass.

  “I can’t make it until the evening. I have college singles group at church at seven. I can stop by your place at five and paint her nails. I’ll bring her a sandwich from the diner. She’ll like that.”

  “Sounds good. If plans change and she isn’t released—”

  “I’ll bring everything to the hospital. See you then.” Karen walked away, not giving Chance a backward glance.

  He slid behind the steering wheel and started the SUV, watching in the rearview mirror as Karen walked into the hospital. “She’s an interesting kid.”

  “She’s a hard worker.”

  “I know a lot of hard workers who work hard at being criminals.”

  “You don’t really think she had anything to do with the attack, do you?” she responded, reaching forward to adjust the heat. Her hand was white from cold, her knuckles red.

  She did her own volunteering.

  She hadn’t mentioned it, and he hadn’t asked, but he knew. She spent one morning a week in the NICU, holding premature babies while Beatrice attended occupational therapy and craft classes for dementia patients. She’d scrubbed her skin raw to keep from spreading germs.

  He grabbed her hand, and she went completely still, her eyes wide in her pale face. She had fine lines near the corners of her eyes and a tiny scar near her left ear. He’d been there when she’d been hit by shrapnel. He knew exactly how she’d looked as blood seeped from the wound while she ran for a helicopter, an injured child in her arms.

  They’d saved the kid, but he’d lost a couple of years off his life thinking she’d been severely injured.

  “You need some lotion,” he said, running his thumb across her knuckles.

  “I need answers more,” she responded. “So how about we go by the house? I want to look around. When we’re done, we can stop and get Beatrice more of her favorite chocolates.”

  “It might be better if you take a nap once you get to the house.”

  “No way. Now that my head is clearer, I want to walk through the woods, see if there’s anything that will spark my memory and help me figure out who was out there with me.”

  “You said there might have been two people.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you still think that?”

  “I don’t know what I think. I just know that I have to keep searching until I find what I’m looking for.”

  “There’s a lot I could say about that,” Chance murmured as he backed out of the parking space.

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe what you’re looking for is right in front of you?”

  She shook her head, strands of bright red hair sliding across her cheeks. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Maybe it should be. God gives us each a certain amount of time. If we’re not careful, it will run out, and we won’t have gone after what we really wanted.”

  “My grandfather always used to say that.” She smiled, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes.

  “I wish I’d had a chance to meet him. From what I’ve heard, he was a great guy.”

  “Did you know he was a pastor?” she asked, her eyes still closed as she seemed to be drifting in some long-ago place, some sweet memory. Her lips were curved, her face soft.

  “Yes.”

  “He really believed that God would make something wonderful out of what happened to my family, and he never stopped telling me that I lived because God had great work for me to do.”

  “You didn’t believe him?”

  “I had a hard time believing that a God who had great plans would take my whole family from me and then expect me to still keep on going toward whatever wonderful thing was in store.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “But your grandfather was right. Your family is gone, but dozens of other families are together because of the work you do and the passion you have for it. I know that’s cold comfort—”

  “No.” She opened her eyes. “It isn’t. I’m older now. I can accept that the tragedy I lived through brought me to a place where I could help other people. I just find it hard to believe that I’m ever going to find the kind of peace that my grandparents had. An easy, nice, lovely life with all kinds of ordinary miracles—babies and kittens and Christmases filled with happiness and laughter.”

  “Those things are all around you, Stella,” he said, because he thought that she’d missed them too often, so busy pursuing the next rescue, the next big victory, that she’d forgotten to look for the little ones.

  “Maybe.” She turned on the radio, frowning as a carol filled air. “More Christmas songs.”

  “It is the most wonderful time of year,” he joked, but Stella didn’t seem amused. She sighed, smoothing her hair and rubbing the back of her neck.

  “For some people. For me, it just brings back a lot of bad memories.”

  “You could change that. You could make some good ones.”

  She said something, but he didn’t hear the words. He was glancing in the rearview mirror, eyeing the truck that had just sped out from a side road.

  Black. Shiny. Looked like a newer model, and it was coming fast.

  “What’s going on?” Stella asked, twisting in her seat and looking out the back window. “That looks like trouble.”

  “And that’s an understatement,” he muttered, because they wer
e out in the middle of nowhere, the truck speeding toward them, tinted windows keeping him from seeing how many people were in it. The road stretched straight out in front of them, a steep tree-covered hill to the right, a slush-filled ditch to the left. Too deep to try to drive through. He’d bottom out the SUV.

  “There’s a driveway about a mile from here,” Stella said, her voice tense, her hand gripping the back of the seat as she watched the truck career toward them. “On the left. Very hard to see. Look for a giant spruce and a white mailbox. Turn hard when you see it. There’s a small bridge that goes over the ditch.”

  He stepped on the accelerator, focusing his attention on the road and on keeping a distance between the SUV and the truck.

  “He’s still coming,” Stella murmured, pulling her phone from her pocket and calling for help.

  That was great.

  Except the truck was closing in, and he could see the barrel of a rifle poking out the window.

  “Get down!” he shouted as he caught sight of the spruce and the mailbox. He could see a hint of wood planks. Not much of a bridge, but he yanked the wheel to the left, the SUV skidding sideways and bouncing onto wood, then dirt and grass.

  The truck sped past, tires squealing as it tried to brake, glass shattering in the back of the SUV. The guy had taken out the back window.

  “Keep going!” Stella yelled. “He’s turning around.”

  Chance didn’t need the warning. He was already stepping on the accelerator, speeding toward a distant house and, hopefully, a place to take cover.

  NINE

  “Do you know what’s on the other side of the house?” Chance asked, his voice razor-sharp. He was calculating risk, formulating a plan, doing everything he’d done hundreds of times before.

  Stella was doing the same.

  It was what they’d been trained for, and she didn’t feel panic as much as she felt adrenaline flooding through her, clearing the last cobwebs from her concussed brain.

  “A field. Probably not enough coverage, though,” she responded, her gaze on the truck. The driver had skidded to a stop and turned around, searching for the entrance to the driveway. Going too fast. He’d have to slow down if he was going to find it.