Thin Ice (34 page)

He took it without further protest—confirming how tired he was.

Once in the foyer, he turned to her. “After I sleep and shower, I'm going to be hungry. Do you think you'll be up for dinner tonight?”

“Yes.”

He grinned. “A decisive woman. I like that.”

“I learned long ago that when you have your sights set on gold, you can't be tentative.” She rested her hands against his solid chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers the most comforting reassurance the nightmare was over. “And you, Lance McGregor, are gold.”

His blue eyes softened, the tender look sending a tingle to her fingertips that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of
frostbite. “I think that may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” He took her hands and folded them in his. “While we're setting up dates, hold February 14 for me too, okay?”

“Valentine's Day?” She tilted her head and smiled. “Funny. You don't strike me as the sentimental type.”

“I never was before. You bring out the romantic in me. Shall we consider it a date?”

“I'll pencil it in.”

“Write it in ink.” He looped his arms around her waist. “In fact, write me in every day for as far out as your calendar goes—because I have plans for us. An exclusive arrangement, in fact. Interested?”

“Just show me where to sign.”

“Why don't we seal the deal in a more personal way?”

He bent toward her, and she rose on tiptoes to meet him, this man who had entered her world in the midst of tragedy, who'd fought to find the answers she needed, who'd salvaged her battered heart and helped her believe that better days were ahead.

His lips closed over hers then, and as joy chased away the darkness, she knew her season of weeping and mourning was at last drawing to a close. For with Lance by her side, she would find healing—and hope.

And on one bright tomorrow in the not-too-distant future, it would be her time to laugh—and to love.

Five Months Later

“Nervous?” Lance popped a chip in his mouth and grinned at Christy. Rhetorical question. She'd been as antsy as a kid waiting to see Santa Claus since she'd arrived at his apartment ten minutes ago.

She wiped her palms down her shorts and adjusted the plastic wrap covering the oversized bowl of potato salad she'd made for his family's Fourth of July shindig.

“Do I look nervous?”

“A tad.” He picked up another chip. “But you also look gorgeous. Nice outfit.” He gave her hemp sandals, white shorts, and soft blue top a leisurely—and appreciative—perusal.

“Meeting the family is a big deal.” She smoothed a hand over her wavy hair, pulled back for the occasion with a red, white, and blue ribbon.

“You'll love my parents—and they'll love you. You already know Mac, and if you like him, you'll like the runt.”

The tension in her features dissipated slightly. “I'm glad Finn was able to come.”

“Me too. I think Mac and Lisa's wedding gave him the incentive to buckle down with the physical therapy. That, and the invitation to share best man duties with me on Saturday.”

“How did he seem when you stopped at Mac's last night to say hi after your SWAT callout?”

“Okay. Better than okay, actually. He's thinner than he should be, but his eyes aren't as haunted as they were a few months back, and he's walking great. He still has a slight limp, but it's a lot less noticeable than it was a few weeks ago when I flew up to see him.”

“His recovery has been amazing.”

“I agree, given the initial prognosis.”

“I think prayer had a lot to do with it.”

“No arguments there.”

“I'm glad he decided to stick around St. Louis for the rest of his recovery too. Being near family will help.”

“Yeah. It took a little arm twisting by me and Mac, but Finn finally caved after we promised not to hover. Like we have time to do that, anyway.” He plucked another chip from the bag in his hands.

She cocked her head. “You heard my excuse for being nervous. What's yours?”

His hand froze in midair. “I'm not nervous.”

“Ha. You only stuff your face with empty calories when you're worried or stressed or hyper. What's up?”

The lady had him pegged.

Not surprising, since they'd spent every spare minute of their free time together over the past five months.

Dropping the chip back in the bag, he bought himself a few seconds by crimping the top and brushing some wayward grains of salt off his T-shirt.

Punt . . . or be honest?

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Touched the gold band tucked in one corner. His plan to steal away with her once the fireworks started tonight at Lisa's house and propose under a canopy of sparkling lights had sounded romantic in theory.

But they'd have more privacy here—and there'd be no pesky mosquitoes to contend with, like there would be out in the country. Plus, he'd be able to see her clearly. To watch the reaction in those amazing green eyes. To kiss her in the air-conditioned comfort of his apartment.

With the mercury expected to hover in the mid-nineties by dinner, the latter was no small consideration.

“Lance?” She sent him a curious glance.

He waved a hand toward the couch. The one that had been on back order for months and had arrived yesterday after Lisa began badgering the store. He couldn't have cared less about the delay . . . but since it was the only piece of furniture in the place that could accommodate two people, the timing seemed providential. “Let's sit for a minute.”

Distress tightened her features, and she clenched her fingers. “Are you about to give me some bad news?”

“No. Sorry. I didn't meant to scare you.” He took her hand and tugged her onto the couch beside him. “You've had enough bad news to last a lifetime. This is just the opposite—I hope.”

She exhaled. “Now it's my turn to apologize. I didn't mean to overreact.”

“You had reason to.” He stroked a finger across the faint white line on her temple, the only visible remnant of the horror she'd faced that cold February night. It was fading—but slowly . . . like her traumatic memories.

“Things are getting better, though.” She sent him a reassuring
smile. “The nightmares are diminishing, and I'm sleeping better. I consider that great progress. Now tell me your news.”

The ball was back in his court.

His palms grew damp, and he could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Had the air conditioner in here stopped working?

She squeezed his fingers. “Are you sure everything's all right?”

Just do it, McGregor. You've
conducted raids in enemy territory, led high-risk rescue operations,
and put your life on the line during dozens of
missions. This should be easy.

Except it wasn't.

Because something a lot more important than his physical life hinged on the outcome of these next few minutes.

Christy's expression grew speculative, and one side of her mouth twitched. “Would you like me to guess what this is about?”

Man, he was blowing this big time if she was offering to preempt him.

“No. I'm getting to it.” He fished around in the pocket of his jeans again. Closed his fingers around the ring and pulled it out. Took a deep breath.

Her gaze dropped to his white knuckles for a moment. Lifted.

He swallowed, trying to remember the script he'd been practicing for weeks. “I want you to know these past few months have been the best in my life.”

“Mine too.”

Those little gold flecks in her jade irises began to glitter, like they always did when she was excited—and, as usual, he lost his train of thought. Hard as he tried, he couldn't remember a word of the rest of his speech.

A wave of panic washed over him. Could he backpedal? Revert to the fireworks plan so he could practice his spiel some more?

He studied her expectant face.

No.

He was too far in to bail.

He'd have to improvise.

Tightening his grip on her fingers, he plunged in. “So . . . here's the thing. I never thought a lot about getting married. It was always a step I assumed I'd take someday, when life slowed down. Except it never did . . . and someday never came. To be honest, I didn't worry much about that. I figured if it was meant to be, the right woman would eventually come along.”

Keep breathing, McGregor.

“Then one day, out of the blue, she did. And odd as it may sound, I knew almost from the moment we met that you were the one. These past few months of getting to know one another have only reinforced what I realized from the very beginning.” With one final squeeze of the ring, he opened his fingers to reveal the marquis-shaped diamond.

Christy let out a small gasp—of delight, he hoped.

One of them started to tremble.

Maybe they both did.

“As my brothers would be the first to tell you, I'm not great with words. But here's the simple truth—I love you with all my heart, and I always will. I want to spend every day of the rest of my life with you. I want to sit with you on a porch and watch our children play. I want to wake up next to you each morning and go to sleep each night with you beside me. I want to grow old in your arms. You are the best gift God ever gave me, and I'll try as hard as I can to be the kind of husband he'll look at on judgment day and say, well done, good and faithful servant. So Christy . . . will you marry me?”

Her eyes began to shimmer, and her answer came out in a whisper—but with no hesitation. “Yes.”

He slipped the ring on her finger—and though the fireworks
planned for tonight wouldn't begin for hours, sparklers and pinwheels and rockets set off a joyous celebration in his heart.

She stared at the stone for another few seconds before lifting her chin. “It's beautiful, Lance.”

“I'd have bought you the Hope diamond if I could.”

“I don't need flashy jewelry. Just your love.”

“You've got that—for always.”

“And you have mine. All those things you said . . . I feel exactly the same way. You bring joy and sunshine to my days, and I can't imagine the rest of my life without you.” She touched the ring, blinked away her tears, and gave him a solemn look. “But I do have one question.”

He braced at her serious tone. “Okay. Shoot—metaphorically speaking.”

“You're not going to change your mind and become a priest, are you?”

A chuckle bubbled up from deep in his chest, erupting into a hearty laugh. “Not a chance.”

Grinning, she scooted closer and draped her arms around his neck. “Actions speak louder than words.”

“Oh, trust me. I have lots of action in mind.” He tugged her even closer, until their lips were a breath apart. “Gold medal quality.”

Her eyes twinkled into his. “Then let the games begin.”

And with no further discussion, they did.

I
t was a terrible night to die.

Father Daniel Pruitt cringed as another boom of thunder shook the ground beneath his older-model Taurus. This weather wasn't fit for man nor beast.

Priests, however—different story. Being available 24/7, no matter the whims of Mother Nature, was part of the job description. That's why the archdiocese paid him the big bucks.

Right.

Setting his brake, he peered through the pelting rain toward the hospital. In better days, Joe Larson would have offered one of his quiet smiles at that wry joke. He knew, as did all the parishioners at St. Michael's, that priesthood was a vocation, not a job, for their pastor. That Father Pruitt considered it a sacred privilege to be there for his flock during life's biggest transitions.

And death was a huge transition.

Especially when the person dying was alone—except for God.

Father Pruitt gauged the distance from the car to the front door of Faith Regional and sized up the black umbrella on the seat beside him. The folding model was better suited to fending off April showers than April monsoons.

No way around it—he was going to be uncomfortably damp for hours.

With a resigned sigh, he tucked his sick-call kit and book of prayers inside the inner pocket of his raincoat. Positioned the umbrella. Opened the door.

His pants legs were soaked before his feet hit the ground.

Ducking his head—and keeping a firm grip on the umbrella as the blustery wind tried to wrench it from his grasp—he jogged toward the entrance as fast as his sixty-five-year-old arthritic knees allowed.

The door whooshed open as he approached, and he scurried inside, moving from darkness to the perennial day of the rarefied hospital world.

At this late hour, the reception desk was deserted, all the volunteers long gone and in bed—the very place he'd been until the urgent call came in sixty minutes ago.

And based on what the nurse had said, there would be no more sleep for him this night.

He continued to the bank of elevators. One opened the instant he pressed the up button, and ten seconds later the doors parted on the third floor.

A woman at the nurses' station looked up as he approached. Holly, according to the ID pinned to her scrub top. The nurse who'd summoned him.

“Father Pruitt?”

“Yes.” He halted across the counter from her, his sodden umbrella shedding drops of water on the floor.

“Sorry to make you come out in this storm, but after Mr. Larson took a sudden turn for the worse, he insisted. In fact, he became quite agitated about it. Since he's left directions for no mechanical ventilation and it's hard to predict timing with end-stage COPD, I thought it best to call you. I hope you didn't have a long drive.”

“Twenty-five miles.”

She winced. “Too long on a night like this.”

True. Motoring through the Nebraska cornfields between Tilden and Norfolk was pleasant enough on a sunny day, but the trek through dark countryside while battling wind and rain had seemed endless.

The nurse pulled out her cell, checked the window, and exhaled. “It's going to be one of those nights. Thunder has a way of unsettling patients.” Finger hovering over the talk button, she nodded down the hall. “Last door on the right. Mr. Larson asked us to hold off on morphine until after he talked to you, so just press the call button once you're finished.”

“Thanks. I will.”

She was already talking on her cell, heading the opposite direction from Joe's room.

Trying to ignore the wet fabric clinging to his legs, Father Pruitt made his way down the corridor. Most of the rooms he passed were dark; Joe's was dimly lit. Hand on the knob, he paused for a moment of prayer, then entered and closed the door behind him.

As he approached the bed, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the floor, Joe didn't stir. Hard to believe this gaunt figure was the same man he'd visited here three days ago, when they'd both assumed his lung infection would follow previous patterns and clear up.

But it didn't take a medical professional to know there would be no reprieve this time. Above the nasal cannula delivering oxygen to lungs that had finally succumbed to the man's sole vice—chain smoking—Joe's cheeks were sunken and shriveled. His disease had followed the classic pattern: shortness of breath, fatigue, weight loss, infections, heart failure . . . and now his uneven respiration completed the pattern, affirming the truth of the nurse's comment.

The end was, indeed, near.

Father Pruitt removed the sick-call kit and prayer book from his pocket, hung his coat over a chair, and moved beside the bed.

“Joe.”

No response.

Perhaps his faithful parishioner hadn't been able to hang on to consciousness after all.

Nevertheless, there were rites to perform.

He opened the worn sick-call kit, running a finger over the threadbare edge. How many times had he been called upon to perform this ritual over the past four decades? Too many to count. But tonight . . . tonight it was more difficult than usual.

Once again he looked at the dying man. During the dozen years he'd tended parishes in three small towns that dotted the cornfield-quilted land, he'd never met a kinder, more humble person. Joe might not have much in a material sense to show for a lifetime of labor in the corn processing facility, but he'd always given generously to his church and to those in need. And along the way, he'd also become a trusted friend.

Saying good-bye wouldn't be easy.

All of a sudden, Joe's eyes flickered open. “Father.” The greeting was no more than a wisp of air.

Father Pruitt grasped the gnarled fingers that had seen more than their share of hard work over the past seventy-two years. “I'm here, Joe.”

“I . . . need you . . . to do . . . a favor . . . for me.” Each gasping word was a struggle, and pain contorted the man's features.

“Anything.”

“After I'm . . . gone . . . letter in my . . . nightstand . . . at home . . . Will you . . . mail it?” He tightened his grip, his gaze intent.

“Of course.”

An odd request, though. Joe had lived alone in his tiny, two-bedroom bungalow for decades—and despite their friendship, he'd never mentioned relatives or talked about anyone with whom he might have corresponded.

“Need to . . . confess . . . and . . . last rites.”

“I brought everything.”

Gently Father Pruitt retracted his hand and removed the
stole, kissed it, and put it around his neck. After setting the vial of blessed oil, pyx, and crucifix on the swivel-armed table beside the bed, he opened his small, worn book to the prayers of anointing.

“The peace of the Lord be with you always.”

“And with . . . your spirit.”

Father Pruitt read the next prayer and transitioned to confession in lieu of the penitential rite. This would be short. Unlike most of his parishioners, for whom confession was a hard sell these days, Joe took advantage of the sacrament every six months. Even then, the man had only minor transgressions to report.

Bowing his head as he always did during a recitation of sins, Father Pruitt waited for Joe to begin.

The room fell silent save for the other man's labored breathing, and at last he lifted his chin. Joe was watching him, eyes filmed with moisture.

“This is . . . bad . . . Father.” Anguish darkened his blue irises.

Father Pruitt touched the fingers Joe had clenched around the edge of the sheet. “When we approach God with a contrite and sincere heart, no sin is too great to be forgiven, my friend. And both I and God have heard it all. Nothing you can say will shock either of us.”

But as it turned out, that was a lie.

Because as Joe recited his confession in a halting, thready voice . . . as the meaning of the letter the dying man had asked him to mail became clear . . . Father Pruitt wasn't just shocked—he was stunned.

Somehow he managed to say the familiar words of absolution. To anoint Joe's forehead and hands. To recite the Lord's Prayer with him. But as he concluded the rite, as Joe drifted out of consciousness for the last time, his mind was spinning.

How could you know a man for years and never suspect he carried such a devastating secret?

He pondered that through the long hours of darkness as he kept vigil beside the bed—and was still pondering it as faint lines of pink streaked the horizon and Joe's breathing slowed. Stopped.

For several minutes, he remained seated, in case Joe's spirit hadn't yet departed the earthly realm.

But at last, filling his own lungs with air, Father Pruitt pulled himself to his feet and rested his hand once more on Joe's motionless fingers. Studied the kindly face, now at rest, all lines of pain erased. Bowed his head and uttered one final prayer.

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

Maybe his brothers were right.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Gripping his mug of coffee, Finn McGregor pushed through the door of the cabin, into middle-of-the-night darkness. The April air was chilly, but the brush of coolness against his clammy skin eased his jitters a hair.

Funny how the notion of spending four quiet weeks in a secluded cabin had seemed inspired ten days ago but now felt so wrong.

Just as Mac and Lance had predicted.

He huffed out a breath. Okay, staying in St. Louis until he'd fully wrestled his demons into submission might have been smarter—except he had a decision to make, and trying to do that with his two overprotective big brothers in hover mode had been impossible.

Melting into the shadows of the rustic porch, he took a sip of the strong brew and did a sweep of woods unbrightened by even a sliver of moon. The blackness was absolute . . . yet it didn't raise his anxiety level one iota. Darkness had often been his
friend. A significant tactical advantage in certain circumstances, in fact. Like the night his unit—

Hoo. Hoo

His hand jerked, and he bit back an oath as hot coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug and burned his fingers.

Shaking off the liquid, he gritted his teeth.

Spooked by an owl.

How dumb was that?

Good thing Mac and Lance weren't here. He could picture them, arms folded in that intimidating pose all the McGregor men had mastered, reminding him that hanging out alone in the middle of nowhere might not be the best game plan at this stage of his recovery.

Too bad.

He was here now, and he wasn't going back—not yet, anyway. Not after two nights. His McGregor ego would never let him admit defeat this fast.

However . . . if the quiet and solitude were still too oppressive in a few days, he might make the hour-and-a-half drive back to St. Louis. Despite its remote feel, this part of the Mark Twain National Forest wasn't all that far from the bright lights of the big city he'd called home for the past nine months.

More than likely, though, he just needed a few days to acclimate. The stack of books he'd brought with him should keep him occupied. And he might chop some wood with that ax he'd found in the shed. Nothing beat manual labor for exorcising restless energy.

He lifted the mug and took a swig. Once he settled in, adjusted to the slower pace, and—

“AAAAHHHHH!”

Finn choked on the coffee as a woman's distant scream ripped through the night.

What the . . . ?!

Still sputtering, he pushed off from the wall, adrenaline surging, every muscle taut.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

Fifteen

The owl hooted again.

Twenty.

Yards from where he stood, the underbrush rustled—a foraging rodent or raccoon, no doubt. Nothing sinister.

Thirty seconds.

The forest remained quiet.

Throttling his paranoia, he exhaled and forced his brain to shift into analytical mode.

Fact one: The sound had been distant, and somewhat indistinct.

Fact two: His cabin was surrounded by a national forest more populated by deer than people. As far as he could tell based on the single narrow dirt road off the main drag he'd passed en route to the cabin, he had only one relatively close human neighbor.

Fact three: This was rural Missouri, not downtown St. Louis or some crime-ridden—

“AAAAHHHH!”

The not-so-pretty word he'd managed to hold back when the owl hooted spilled out.

It
was
a woman's scream. He was
not
being paranoid. This was
not
a tray dropping in the base cafeteria that just
sounded
like an explosion.

This was the real deal.

Another scream propelled him into action. Moving on autopilot, he grabbed his compact Beretta, Ka-Bar knife, and a flashlight from the cabin, left behind the cell phone that didn't work around here anyway, and raced through the woods, every ounce of his dormant training kicking back in.

Several more terrified screams kept his direction true as he zigzagged through trees in early leaf-out stage, the winter-scoured forest floor hosting little undergrowth that would impede his progress.