“Be kind,” her mother admonished, turning in her seat and smiling, her beautiful red hair curled, a pretty green Christmas ribbon woven through it.
Matching hairstyles. Stella and Eva had ribbons, too. Even tiny little Bailey had a bow in her fuzzy hair.
That kind of made Stella proud.
She loved her family. Even Eva.
“Okay, you can touch it,” she said, and her sister smiled with Daddy’s dark brown eyes, and then the world exploded in heat and flames and horrible screams.
She was screaming, too. Screaming and screaming, her throat raw, her head pounding. Someone calling her name over and over again.
Stella woke with a start, bathed in sweat, pain throbbing somewhere so deep inside she wasn’t sure where it came from or how to get rid of it.
“Shhhhh,” someone said, hands brushing across her cheeks, wiping away the tears that always came with the Christmas dream.
Christmas nightmare.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, realized she was hooked to something. An IV?
Was she in the hospital?
Suddenly the fog cleared, and she knew where she was, what had happened.
“Nana!” She shoved aside blankets, tried to get to her feet, but those hands—the warm, rough ones that had wiped her tears—were on her shoulders, holding her still.
“Slow down, Stella.”
Chance.
She should have known, should have recognized the hands, the deep voice.
“Where’s my grandmother?” she asked.
“In ICU. Stable.” He was leaning over her, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his tie dangling loose, his gaze steady and focused.
He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, the kindest man she’d ever known. She tried really hard not to think about that when they were working together.
Right now, they weren’t working.
For a moment, it was just the two of them, looking into each other’s eyes, everything else flying away. If she let herself, she could drift into sleep again, let herself relax knowing that Chance was there. She wouldn’t let herself. Her grandmother needed her.
Stable. That’s what Chance had said.
It was a good word, but she wanted more. Like conscious, talking. Fine.
“I need to see her.”
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere or see anyone.”
“I’m seeing you,” she retorted, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain jolted through her skull, and she would have closed her eyes if she hadn’t been afraid she’d be in the nightmare again.
“You’re funny, Stella. Even when your skull is cracked open,” he responded, his hand on her back. He smelled like pine needles and snow, and she realized that his shirt was damp, his hair mussed.
Not perfect Chance anymore.
Except that he was—the way he was supporting her weight, looking into her eyes, teasing her because he probably knew she needed the distraction. All of it was perfect, and that made it really hard to remember all the reasons why she and Chance hadn’t worked out.
All the reasons?
She could only really think of one—she’d been a coward, too afraid of being disappointed to risk her heart again.
She shoved the covers off, turned so her feet were dangling over the side of the bed. She was wearing a hospital gown. Of course. Her feet bare, her legs speckled with mud and crisscrossed with scratches. She could have died out in the woods. If Chance hadn’t shown up, she probably would have.
If she’d died, what would have happened to Beatrice? She knew the answer. Beatrice would have died, too.
It didn’t make sense.
The town she’d grown up in was quiet and cozy. Movie theaters, shopping centers, a bowling alley and an ice-skating rink. The nice-sized hospital she was in had been built in the sixties and had a level one trauma center. People hiked and biked and ran, and they generally died of old age or disease. Not murder.
She frowned.
Was that what all this had been? Attempted murder? It didn’t seem possible. Not in Boonsboro. Trouble didn’t happen there. At least, not the kind that took people’s lives. Not usually. Not often. One of the worst things that had ever happened in town was the accident that had killed Stella’s family. It had been the worst tragedy since the old Harman house had gone up in flames at the turn of the nineteenth century. Four children died in the fire. Two adults. The grave plot was still tended by someone in the family, but Stella had never paid much attention to it. She’d had her own family to mourn, her own graves to tend.
She shoved the thought and the memory away, pushed against the mattress and tried to stand. Failed.
“Need some help?” Chance slid his arm around her waist, and she was up on her feet before she realized she was moving.
The room was moving, too, spinning around her, making her sick and woozy. Maybe Chance was right. She wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere.
In for a penny. In for a pound.
That’s what her grandfather had always said.
She was already standing. She might as well try to walk.
She took a step, realized she was clutching something. Chance’s belt, her fingers digging into smooth leather, her shoulder pressing into his side. He was tall and solid, not an ounce of fat on his lean, hard body. He could hold her weight easily, but she tried to ease back, stand on her own two feet, because it’s what she’d always done. Even when she was married. Even when she should have been able to rely on someone else, she’d taken care of herself, handled her own business, stood alone more than she’d stood beside Daniel.
“There is no way you’re going to make it. You know that, right?” Chance said.
“Sure I am.” She grabbed hold of the IV pole and took a step to prove him wrong. Took another one to prove to herself that she could do it. Her legs wobbled, but she didn’t fall. She made it to the door and put her hand on the jamb for support, the hospital gown slipping from one shoulder.
Chance hitched it back into place, and she knew his fingers must be grazing the scars that stretched from her collarbone to her shoulder blade. She didn’t feel his touch. The scars were too thick for that, the skin too damaged.
His gaze dropped to the spot where his fingers had been, and she knew he wanted to ask. Not how she’d gotten them. He knew the answer to that. He did background checks on every HEART operative. No, he wouldn’t ask how she’d gotten them. He’d ask if they hurt, if there was something he could do to take the pain away, if the memories were as difficult to ignore as the thick webbed flesh.
He’d asked those things before, and he’d told her how beautiful she was. Not despite the scars. Because of them. They made her who she was, and he wanted to know more about how they defined her.
She hadn’t answered the questions, because getting close to someone meant being hurt when they left. She’d been hurt enough for one lifetime, and she didn’t want to be hurt again. If that made her a coward, so be it.
“How about I get you a wheelchair?” Chance said, his breath tickling the hair near her temple, his hands on her shoulders. Somehow, he was in front of her, blocking the doorway, and she wasn’t even sure how it had happened.
She was worse off than she’d thought.
But she still needed to see Beatrice. For both of their sakes.
“Okay,” she agreed, because she didn’t know how she’d make it to the ICU any other way.
“And how about you sit and wait while I do it? I don’t want you to fall while I’m gone.” He was moving her backward, his hands still on her shoulders.
She could have stood her ground. But her legs were shaky, and when the back of them hit the bed, she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her.
“Careful.” He helped her sit, his tie bru
shing her cheek as he reached for the blanket and pulled it around her shoulders. Yellow. That’s what color the tie was. With a handprint turkey right in the center of it. Only a guy like Chance could wear a tie like that and still lead the most prestigious hostage rescue team in North America.
“Nice tie,” she murmured.
He crouched so they were eye to eye, smiled the easy smile she’d noticed the first day they’d met. The one that spoke of confidence, kindness and strength.
“A gift from my niece for Thanksgiving. I promised I’d wear it to my next meeting.”
“And you always keep your promises.”
For a moment, he just stared into her eyes. She could see flecks of silver in the dark blue irises. He had the thickest, longest lashes she’d ever seen, and when they’d dated, she’d told him that.
“I try,” he finally said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t leave the room without me. They still haven’t found the guy who attacked you, and I don’t want to take chances. Boone is outside the ICU, making sure your grandmother is protected. You’re my assignment.”
“I’m your what?” she asked, but he’d already straightened and was heading out the door, pretending that he hadn’t heard.
If she’d had the energy, she would have followed him into the hall and told him just how likely it was that she was going to be anyone’s assignment. She’d been taking care of herself for years. Daniel had been part of an elite Special Forces unit and had been gone more than he’d been home during their marriage. When he was home, he’d been distant and unapproachable. She’d loved him, but their three-year marriage had been tough. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she wasn’t sure if it would have survived.
She’d wanted it to, but she and Daniel had both had their demons. They’d only ever fought them alone. That didn’t make for a good partnership. She knew that now. Maybe because she’d spent the last few years fighting beside and with Chance.
“Not the time,” she muttered. She had more important things to think about. Like the fact that the police hadn’t found the man who’d attacked her.
Men?
She still wasn’t certain.
If she had her cell phone, she’d call the local sheriff’s department for an update, but she’d left it at the house. There was a phone beside the bed and she picked up the receiver, tried to remember the sheriff’s number. Her mind was blank, her thoughts muddled. She dropped the phone back into the cradle and grabbed her pajamas from a chair near the window. Someone had folded them neatly. Her galoshes sat beneath the chair, side by side.
Chance?
She could picture him folding the clothes, setting the boots in place. Everything precise and meticulous.
She walked into the bathroom. It took a second to pull the IV from her arm, took a couple of minutes to wrangle herself into the pajamas. Her hands were shaky, her movements sluggish, but she didn’t want to be running from the bad guys in a too-big hospital grown.
Running?
She’d be fortunate if she could crawl.
Damp flannel clung to her legs and arms as she splashed cold water onto her face and tried to get her brain to function again. No dice. She was still woozy and off balance. A concussion? Had to be. She lifted the gauze that covered her temple, eyeing the wound in the mirror. The bump was huge and several shades of green and purple. No stitches. Just a long gash that looked like it had been glued shut.
She had a bandage on the back of her head, too. She didn’t bother trying to see. She felt sick enough from the effort she’d already put in.
Someone knocked on the bathroom door. One hard, quick rap that made her jump.
“Hold on,” she called, grabbing the handle and pulling open the door.
Chance was there.
He didn’t look happy.
As a matter of fact, he looked pretty unhappy.
“Why am I not surprised?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her pajamas and then jumping to the IV pole.
“You’d have done the same,” she responded.
“True, but that doesn’t mean I approve. You have a concussion. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ll rest better after I see my grandmother.”
“You won’t rest. You’ll be out hunting down your attacker unless someone is there to stop you.” He took her arm, the gentleness of his touch belying the irritation in his eyes.
“No one would dare try,” she responded, jabbing at him like she always did. Usually, he jabbed right back, but this time he just shook his head.
“How about we not test that theory, Stella? Because I have better things to do with my time than babysit someone who won’t follow the rules.”
“I hope you’re not talking about me.”
“I told you. You’re my assignment. Or rather, keeping you safe is.”
“Since when?”
“Since about two nanoseconds after you collapsed on your way to my car. Sit.” He gestured to the wheelchair that was near the bathroom door.
“I’m not a dog.”
“Trust me. I am very, very aware of that.”
She was suddenly self-conscious in her wet pajamas. But this was Chance. He’d seen her looking a lot better, and he’d seen her looking a whole lot worse. They’d crossed a river together once, emerging on the other side soaked to the skin and shivering with cold.
Yeah.
This was Chance. There was nothing he didn’t know about her and no situation he hadn’t seen her in.
She blushed anyway, dropping into the wheelchair so quickly that pain exploded through her head.
Her eyes teared but she didn’t close them.
If Chance realized how much pain she was in, he’d insist that she get back into bed. Truth? She didn’t think she’d have the energy to fight him. She felt so tired, she thought she could close her eyes and sleep forever.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Chance muttered, grabbing the blanket and tossing it over her legs.
“Did you ever think it was?”
“No,” he replied, pushing the chair out into the hallway.
There was too much noise there, too many lights—her head spun with all of it. She had to see Beatrice, though, and then she needed to talk to the sheriff. She didn’t have time to give in to pain or to lie in bed feeling sorry for herself.
Someone had attacked her.
She had to hold on to that, had to keep it in the front of her mind so that she stayed focused on the goal—find the guy, figure out his agenda.
Maybe he’d been a vagrant, wandering through the woods, startled by a woman suddenly appearing.
Maybe, but it didn’t feel right. The entire thing felt too coincidental.
“Have you spoken with the sheriff?” she asked as Chance wheeled her into the elevator. “I know you said that they didn’t find the perp, but I’m wondering if they found anything else.”
“They traced the guy to an old logging road that runs through the woods behind your property. They’ve cast tread marks that he probably left behind. Other than that, they’ve come up empty.”
“That’s not the news I wanted.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he was a vagrant.” She tossed the theory out, because Chance was as likely to see the strengths and weaknesses in it as she was. More likely. He wasn’t concussed, and he wasn’t sitting in a wheelchair with bandages on his head.
“Someone just moving through who was squatting out in the woods and panicked when you showed up?”
“It’s possible, right?”
“Anything is possible, Stell. That doesn’t make it likely. Right now, I don’t have enough information to speculate, but if I were going to guess, I’d guess the attack wasn’t random.” The elevator door opened, and he wheeled he
r out.
“You’ve got a reason for that. Care to explain?”
“You said there were two perpetrators.”
“Possibly two,” she corrected.
“I’ve never known you to make a mistake. If you say there might have been two, it’s because there probably were. If that’s the case, a squatter who panicked seems unlikely.”
“Squatters don’t always live alone.”
“It sounds like you want to believe the attack was random.”
“Don’t you?”
“I want to believe the truth. For right now, I’m keeping an open mind. Sheriff Brighton is still on the scene with half a dozen men. He said he’ll stop by the hospital when he’s finished. We’ll know more then.”
“Did they—”
“Stella, this isn’t your case. It’s not your mission. You are the victim, and you’ve got to let the local police handle the investigation.”
“I plan to, but I’d like to talk to Cooper—”
“You and the sheriff are on a first-name basis?”
“We went to school together. I want to talk to him.”
“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to do that. After you rest. The doctor said three or four days in bed.”
She snorted, then wished she hadn’t. Pain shot through her skull and her ears rang.
Up ahead, double wide doors opened into the ICU unit. Several nurses sat at a desk there.
Stella scanned their faces, trying to see if she knew any of them. She volunteered at the hospital once a week. It kept her sane, helped her focus on something besides her own problems and her own sorrow. She probably knew half the nurses who worked there, but her vision was too blurry, everything dancing and swaying as she tried to focus.
“Stella!” one of them cried, rushing around the counter and running toward her.
Not a nurse. A volunteer.
The uniform came into focus. The name tag. The pretty brunette. Karen Woods. A nursing student at the local college and the person who stayed with Beatrice when Stella had to be away from home for more than a few hours.
The Christmas Target Page 4
