by Debra Cowan
She raised a trembling hand to his face and felt something sticky and warm at his temple. Her breath jammed in her throat and her thoughts froze.
"No, no," she gasped. "Mace?"
Somehow, on sheer instinct, she wiggled out from under his limp weight, refusing to accept what her mind was telling her.
She edged along the floor, barely aware of her movements, and reached into the hall to flip the switch. Light slanted into the living room and she turned, her chest aching. Please be all right, Mace.
Mace lay where she had left him—limp, motionless, his gun still in his hand. Sweat slicked her body; chills burrowed under her skin. She scooted closer, an image of her father flashing into her brain.
Blood pooled on the floor, around his head.
This was Mace, not Dad. Devon massaged her temple, trying to calm the edge of hysteria. "Mace, get up."
He didn't move. He had probably hit his head when he fell. He had to be all right. Dread bit at her and pain stabbed behind her eyes, a fierce, wicked throb that she hadn't experienced since the early days after Dad's murder.
"No…" She moaned, pressing her hands tightly against her eyes, trying to banish the pain, the images that flowed like poison into her brain.
Blood, dark scarlet, thick, everywhere. Dad with a gaping hole in his head. She touched him, so cold and still. She turned him over. His face changed and his gray eyes became Mace's blue ones, staring sightlessly up at her.
"No," she sobbed, trying to resist the memories, the blackness that reached for her, urged her mind to fade into the numb, cooling void that beckoned.
"Mom?" Her voice crackled in the stillness.
"Devon?" Mace croaked. "Dev…" At the faint rusty sound, she looked up, and the present came back in a rush.
He shifted on the floor, then groaned.
Her father writhed on the floor.
She closed her eyes, trying to shove away the image.
In a flash, she recalled what had happened. It was real, here, now. Mace had been hurt—shot.
And she was huddled in the corner of the living room, knees drawn up, her arms wrapped tightly around them to cocoon herself. Exactly as Mom had found her after Devon had seen Dad.
Horror streaked through her. She had to help Mace. She couldn't hide like she had before.
She scooted across the floor to him. Trembling, she touched him. His face was cold, yet his neck was warm.
She reached for a pulse, but her fingers shook so badly that she could feel nothing. Leaning next to him, she stroked his back over and over. "Mace, can you hear me?"
His face became fuzzy and gunshots echoed in her brain.
Two men stood behind her father. Twin shots popped and Dad pitched forward. His strong, lean body crumpled on her mother's white tile.
Devon wanted to hold him, but there was so much blood. She realized she was stroking Mace's face. Mace. Hold him…
She leaned down, buried her face in his neck and inhaled the familiar musky scent of him. The same scent she still wore from their lovemaking this morning, the scent that bonded their bodies together as strongly as their hearts.
Emergency. Call 9-1-1. From somewhere deep inside came the urging.
For a moment, she breathed him in, her arms tightening around him. The migraine still pounded in her temples, blurring her vision. Or was that because of the tears she now felt sliding down her cheeks?
Fear nipped at her, but she fought it off. This wasn't Dad. It was Mace. And he was alive. For now.
She locked on those words even as memories of her father's murder seared across her brain, urging her to give in to the darkness that would shelter her from the pain of seeing Mace this way.
It would be so easy to let go, to curl up on the floor, huddle into herself like she had when Dad had been shot. But Mace needed her.
Mace. Without even realizing she'd moved, she found the phone in her hand. Blood trickled down the side of his face, dripped onto the floor. She stared, mesmerized—terrified—at the blood seeping from his head onto her gleaming wooden floor.
"What is your address?" A voice crackled in her ear and Devon jerked.
"Where are you? What is your name?" Woodenly, she gave the required information, holding back the sobs that swelled in her chest like a rolling tide.
He was so pale, so still.
He hadn't moved since he'd called out to her. The operator repeated the address and Devon confirmed it.
"Please come," she whispered. "Please help him."
* * *
Mace had protected her with his own life. The realization swamped her. Devon sat quietly under the ministering hands of the physician on call at Mercy Hospital's emergency room.
She was barely aware of the light he shone into her eyes, of the gentle hands that moved impersonally over her.
"Shock," he pronounced.
She wanted to move, wanted to go to Mace, but she had been told to wait while another doctor examined him. At least that's what she thought she'd been told.
She had ridden in the ambulance with him, holding tightly to the side of the vehicle as it swerved its way through the streets to Mercy Hospital.
She remembered nothing of the ride. She'd retreated into that cool, numbing void, surfacing only when Mace moaned or shifted on the stretcher.
He had protected her with his life. He did the same every day for people he didn't even know. She had never realized that until now, and even so, she could summon no emotion about it.
It was as though she were locked in a buffered, soundproof box—where no sound, no feeling, no emotion could touch her. How badly was he injured? He was still unconscious. She had no idea how long it had been since those horrible shots had rung out in the stillness of her house. It felt like days.
Her skin was gritty with dust, clammy with fear. Mace hadn't regained consciousness since that moment in the house when he'd called to her and roused her from the threatening blankness of her mind.
O'Kelly, who'd shoved through the emergency-room doors only seconds after Mace was brought in, waited next to Devon in the cubicle. "Can I get you something?"
She knew he'd asked the question at least four times, so finally she shook her head. What was taking so long? When would they let her see Mace?
She vaguely remembered that Carol Lockwood had been here, but she had left with a promise to return later.
"Devon?"
Something stirred inside the pleasant cocoon where she'd insulated herself—a spark of light, a flare of warmth. She turned her head and stared blankly for a second. "Mom?"
Marilee Landry reached her daughter and gathered her close. Devon's arms closed around her. A tightness in her chest loosened and tears started to flow.
"Oh, Mom," she said in a choked voice. "He's in there. Mace is in there."
"It's okay, honey." Marilee's voice shook, but she held Devon hard. "It's going to be all right."
Devon was aware that the doctor and O'Kelly stepped back and shut the curtain that separated her from the next cubicle. She heard a masculine voice ask, "How's that arm, O'Kelly?"
"Pretty good, Doc."
Her mom held her and soothed her. In a few minutes, Devon raised her head. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Marilee assured her briskly, smoothing down the wrinkled material of Devon's T-shirt. Fear pinched at her features, but Devon could see the effort she was making to be calm. "Detective O'Kelly filled me in and everything is just fine."
Devon nodded, feeling disoriented and unable to process with full understanding all that her mother was telling her. She wanted to see Mace.
"Marilee? Devon?"
A familiar feminine voice carried softly to Devon and she raised her head. "Micki."
Mace's aunt slipped inside the curtained space and walked over to her. Marilee stepped back, allowing Mace's aunt to hug Devon.
Devon clung to her for a few seconds. "I'm so sorry, Micki."
"What on earth for?" The woman's blue eyes, so like Mac
e's, zeroed in on Devon. She stroked Devon's hair away from her face and eased back enough to allow Marilee into the small, tight circle.
"What if he…" Devon couldn't finish. She couldn't feel, couldn't reassure any of them.
Micki rubbed her back. "The doctor will be out soon and then we'll know. Mace is tough. He'll be fine."
Devon searched the other woman's eyes, hoping fervently she was right.
Micki turned to the curtain. "Boys, she's okay."
Devon's eyes widened. "Sam? Linc?"
Mace's younger brothers crowded into the doorway. Three years separated the oldest and youngest Garrett brothers, but these younger two were even huskier than Mace. Sam, also a policeman, had dark hair and blue eyes like Mace, while Linc, the doctor, had hair more of a sandy brown and eyes that were a crystal gray. Both stood an inch or two shorter than Mace's six foot four.
Sam approached her first, his eyes glowing with the same friendliness and understanding they always had, despite the fact that she'd broken up with Mace. "How are you, Devon?"
She nodded, still wrapped up in the shock of seeing Mace shot, feeling the heavy weight of his body on hers.
Linc was reserved, but polite. "You doing okay?"
"Yes."
He gestured toward the next room. "They'll be finished with him in a minute. I'll step inside and see what I can find out."
"Thank you."
She watched as Mace's younger brother disappeared beyond the curtain. It seemed Mace had been right about Linc. He had never understood her fear, while Sam had understood perfectly.
Sam dragged out a chair from the corner and straddled it, sinking down to wait. Aunt Micki edged up to one side of Devon's bed and Marilee took the other. When O'Kelly peered through the curtain, Sam motioned for him to enter.
"We can all wait together."
O'Kelly's concerned gaze rested on Devon, but she couldn't seem to reassure him. Please, please let Mace be all right.
Sam pushed through the curtain. "You can see him in a few minutes."
"How…"
Her throat was raw and tight with the need to ask questions. How she wished that she could drift away into numbness, but she felt every breath like a knife prick in her chest.
"The bullet creased his head, dug out some flesh. That's why there was so much blood. But he's a hard-headed son-of-a-gun so he's going—"
"—To be all right." A slender, older man stepped into the crowded cubicle, gray brows arching at Linc. "Giving out the diagnosis on my patient, Dr. Garrett?"
Sam said dryly, "Devon, this is Dr. Corrigan."
"Hi, Devon." The doctor came toward her, his eyes softening with kindness. "Mace is going to be fine. He has a concussion and we want to keep him for a while."
"How long?" She wanted to see him, tell him she'd been a fool for wasting so much time.
He patted her knee. "Overnight, at least. Possibly longer, depending on how he does tomorrow."
"The bleeding—has it stopped?"
At her mom's question, Devon's heart clenched. She didn't want to think about all of his blood staining her floor. Blood he'd spilled for her.
The doctor nodded. "Yes. The wound should heal nicely, but there will be a scar. As Dr. Garrett was telling you when I walked in, the profuse bleeding was due to the fact that it was a head wound."
Devon's swallowed. "I want to see him."
"He's been asking for you."
The doctor helped her down from the bed and led her next door.
She halted in the doorway, her breath jamming in her throat. The scene before her was exactly like last year, when she'd thought Mace had been injured and instead it had been O'Kelly.
Mace lay on the bed, eyes closed, a white bandage above his left ear glaring against the darkness of his skin and hair. Blood streaked his cheek and several spots darkened his T-shirt, but his chest rose and fell evenly.
Devon's knees sagged and she gripped the door frame for support. He shifted on the bed and turned his head, his blue eyes focusing on her.
"Dev?" he croaked, lifting a hand toward her.
She went to him, grasping his hand tightly and bringing it to her lips. Tears stung her eyes. "Oh, Mace."
"I'm okay, babe. I'm okay." His voice was thready and his eyes fluttered shut.
Panic flared through her. "Mace—"
"Sorry." He gave a wan smile. "My head hurts like the devil."
She wanted to smile, but could only stare at him.
Concern darkened his eyes and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Tell me you're all right, babe."
"I'm all right." She repeated the words, but they were hollow, just as she was.
Fear flared in his eyes. Fear? Devon started at the realization. She should reassure him, make the fear disappear the way he tried to do for her, but she couldn't. There was nothing left inside.
"Stay with me?"
"All the way." She nodded and sank down in a chair beside the bed.
* * *
Her own fear didn't surprise her. The rage did.
Devon sat with Mace as everyone filed into the room. He joked feebly with O'Kelly and Sam, listened intently to the instructions that serious Linc gave him and lapped up the attention lavished on him by Marilee and Micki.
Since her father's death, Devon had been afraid—of the nightmares, of Mace's job, of life itself. She hadn't thought she could be more scared than she already was.
But when she'd seen Mace lying on the floor of her house, his head covered in blood…
Terror had lashed her like a cruel master. The nightmares about Dad had come crashing back and she had been paralyzed. If Mace had died, it would've been because he was protecting her.
How could she have lived with the guilt, the sense of responsibility? She understood now what Mace must have suffered over her father in the last year.
Another realization pushed through, just as strong, just as insistent. Mace had been shot, exactly as she'd feared he would be. And they had both made it through. She had handled it.
After he'd been shot, his voice had drawn her back from the brink of the black, emotionless world she'd wanted to drift into. A fierce protectiveness she'd never felt before had opened up inside her.
"Devon?" Her mother's voice penetrated her thoughts. "Can I see you for a minute?"
Devon frowned, glancing down at Mace's hand in hers.
She didn't want to leave him.
"Just for a minute, honey." Marilee stroked a stray hair from Devon's cheek. "It's important."
"Go on, babe. I'm fine." Mace squeezed her hand, giving her a smile.
She hesitated, then brushed a quick kiss across his lips before following her mother out into the hallway.
Marilee hugged Devon tightly. "I'm so glad you're both all right."
"Me, too." Devon returned the hug, unable to suppress a shudder. "That was a little too close for me."
Her mother squeezed her again in silent agreement. "I can see things are different between you and Mace, honey."
"Yes."
"What are you going to do about it?"
Devon stared at her mom. "What do you mean?"
"Don't let him go again," Marilee said fiercely.
Though surprised, Devon still held on to caution. "It's not that simple, Mom."
"It is. Don't let fear tear the two of you apart like I let it do to me and your dad."
"But what if I can't handle it—"
"You can. I know you can, and Mace knows it, too."
"But—"
"You love him, Devon. Don't let anything else be more important than that. I made that mistake and I'll always regret it. You did it once. Don't do it again."
"It's not that, Mom."
"Then what?"
"He's never said anything about giving us another chance." Frustration wound through her and she pulled away from Marilee, rubbing her suddenly cold hands. "He doesn't trust me and I can't blame him."
"A blind man can see he's crazy in love with you
! You work on the trust part." Marilee grasped Devon's arms. "Don't throw it away, honey. Don't walk away from him. Do whatever you have to do to handle his job. Join a support group, see a therapist, talk to Mace, but don't make the same mistake I did."
"I don't want to."
"Then fight for the two of you. Right now, you're the one with the strength to do it."
Strength? Her mother thought she had strength? She did, Devon realized. Physical and emotional. She hugged her mom. "Thanks. Thanks so much."
She was tired of the fear, tired of living her life on other people's terms. Especially those of Joe Martressa, who had undoubtedly, somehow, been responsible for Mace's injury.
The rage unfurled in her belly, a hot, slow lick of fire that she didn't recognize at first. But soon it burned through her so strongly that she shook.
The trial would be her chance to exact revenge, her chance to face up to the demons of her past, to defiantly refuse to let Martressa call the shots anymore.
She'd let her life be drowned by fear. No more. Her small seed of strength had grown in the last weeks. With Mace by her side, she wouldn't be so easily broken.
Devon wanted her life back, her life. And she wanted Mace in it.
* * *
"Who was that secretary's connection?" Mace demanded groggily.
"It could've been anybody in Martressa's organization."
"And who shot me?"
Devon stepped into the bath of the private room to which the nurses had moved Mace and listened to him and O'Kelly. Mace's partner was the only other visitor in the room. Everyone else had left, with plans to return later.
Mace and O'Kelly probably thought she couldn't hear them, but strangely, she could hear everything, from the faintest hint of Mace's breath to the moans of pain he wouldn't voice.
"Who was it?" Mace rasped in a gravel-rough voice.
"Karen Ross won't give up a name."
"Yes, she will," Mace growled. "I'll talk to her."
"Everyone we know as a direct link to Martressa is being watched like a hawk."
"Hey, the guy's reach could extend anywhere."
In the last few minutes, Devon had heard enough to know that the police still had no clues about who'd shot Mace.
O'Kelly moved about the room, but it only seemed to magnify his voice. "We've asked. None of Devon's neighbors noticed anyone hanging around."
