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The Christmas Target
Shirlee McCoy


Christmas Under FireSecurity and rescue specialist Stella Silverstone returns home for the holidays to care for her ailing grandmother—and finds herself the target of a killer. Only the unexpected arrival of the rescue-team leader temporarily pulls her from the crosshairs. Once, Stella hoped Chance Miller would become more than her boss. But the widow's tragic past keeps her from giving him her heart—or embracing the Christmas season. Now with danger lurking in every corner of her grandmother's old Victorian home and family secrets hiding in the shadows, Stella is safe nowhere but with Chance. Only he can show her the joys of Christmas and the beauty of love…if he can keep her alive.







CHRISTMAS UNDER FIRE

Security and rescue specialist Stella Silverstone returns home for the holidays to care for her ailing grandmother—and finds herself the target of a killer. Only the unexpected arrival of the rescue-team leader temporarily pulls her from the crosshairs. Once, Stella hoped Chance Miller would become more than her boss. But the widow’s tragic past keeps her from giving him her heart—or embracing the Christmas season. Now with danger lurking in every corner of her grandmother’s old Victorian home and family secrets hiding in the shadows, Stella is safe nowhere but with Chance. Only he can show her the joys of Christmas and the beauty of love...if he can keep her alive.


“Are you worried?” Chance asked.

“About Beatrice? Yes.”

“About everything,” he responded.

Stella turned away, not wanting to look into his beautiful eyes. She knew what she’d see there. The same compassion and understanding she saw when he was questioning clients or reassuring a victim. He had a way of making people open up to him.

She didn’t like opening up to anyone. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable. She hated being on the receiving end of pity.

“You need to trust me to handle things the way they need to be handled,” Chance said. “You’re not the only one who’s worried. I don’t want to see anything happen to you or your grandmother, and I can’t do my job effectively with one hand tied behind my back.”

“I’m not tying anything. I’m setting boundaries.”

“Boundaries that are going to get you killed.”


Aside from her faith and her family, there’s not much SHIRLEE McCOY enjoys more than a good book! When she’s not teaching or chauffeuring her five kids, she can usually be found plotting her next Love Inspired Suspense story or wandering around the beautiful Inland Northwest in search of inspiration. Shirlee loves to hear from readers. If you have time, drop her a line at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.


The Christmas Target

Shirlee McCoy






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed. In your strength you will guide them to your holy dwelling.

—Exodus 15:13


To Marge Garrison. My favorite breakfast buddy.

I sure miss you!


Contents

Cover (#u413bfc70-2bca-5680-9714-bf5531fed23d)

Back Cover Text (#ufad5a893-d748-5590-ad00-438c63d7a870)

Introduction (#u4beb7b7a-432f-5324-8ff6-45bd28b5a13a)

About the Author (#u944ad32c-ac3d-5d58-bbfb-947b74b095f0)

Title Page (#u7b0ab883-7d93-5347-977f-d72de04cc860)

Bible Verse (#u27c7ac1e-f064-5730-ab89-2a03fa0dad0c)

Dedication (#ua8d2d1de-7ce0-5f30-822f-0913bd59a70d)

ONE (#u53ccfd0d-dd20-5708-84d3-1307a90350d1)

TWO (#u9cbcdf61-fd08-55b4-80b4-d8c5c73b27c5)

THREE (#uedb4abfb-12a5-5641-9d91-6a0306a2504a)

FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#ucb1e6b50-696d-5f56-a03f-6a546eb0fe2c)

Stella Silverstone woke like she often did—bathed in sweat, heart beating frantically, her body screaming for her to run or fight.

She did neither.

She wasn’t on a hostage rescue mission in the middle of Vietnam. She wasn’t in Egypt, walking through the slums, searching for a missing child. She was just outside of Boonsboro, Maryland, caring for her grandmother because her grandfather was gone.

He’d been eighty-three when he’d taken his last breath. Stella couldn’t say that his life had ended too soon, but she would have happily traded a few years of hers to have him back. Henry Radcliff had been a keeper. That’s what Stella’s grandmother had said at the funeral. She was right. Henry had been a great guy. A wonderful husband, a loving father, a protective and caring grandfather.

Now he was gone, and Stella had to take his place in Beatrice’s rambling old Victorian, helping her grandmother do everyday chores that suddenly seemed to be too much for her—laundry, cooking, dry mopping the hardwood floor, paying bills and sending thank-you cards. A year ago, Beatrice could have handled all of that and more. Now she seemed confused, frustrated and a little scared.

That scared Stella.

Which was probably why she’d woken in a panic.

That and the fact that Christmas was only three weeks away.

Her least favorite day of the year.

She shivered, glancing at the glowing numbers on the bedside alarm clock. Nearly 5:00 a.m. Her boss, Chance Miller, and a few members of HEART would be converging on the house in a couple of hours. The hostage extraction and rescue team had bimonthly meetings at headquarters. Meeting outside of that secure environment went against protocol. The team coming to Boonsboro should have been out of the question. Stella had tried to argue with the plan. She could have easily found someone to watch Beatrice for the day while she made the three-hour trip to DC.

Chance had insisted that they do things his way. He knew what he wanted, and he always went after it. When Stella had protested, he’d told her that he wasn’t interested in her opinion. Then he’d said goodbye and hung up. If he’d been anyone else, Stella would have seen that as rude, but Chance was never rude. He was almost never wrong, and Stella had been just tired and distraught enough to let things go his way without a fight.

He hadn’t gloated, hadn’t pointed out that he’d finally won one of their many arguments. He’d just emailed notes for the meeting, told her that he’d update her on a few potential clients and asked if there was anything she needed him to bring when he came.

She’d wanted to be angry with him for insisting on doing things his way. Mostly because she’d spent the past year trying really hard to convince herself she and Chance were past tense. Their brief relationship had burned out faster than a candle in a rainstorm, and she didn’t want to relight it.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

For a while, that had been really easy to believe. The two had been butting heads for nearly as long as they’d known each other, but there was something very real beneath the constant bickering, some indefinable thing that always made her want to jump to Chance’s defense, make certain he was okay, watch his back. She knew he felt the same about her. He proved it every time he did something like this—planning a meeting around her schedule and her life.

Truth? Chance wanted to bring the meeting to Boonsboro because he was worried about her. He’d never say it. He didn’t have to. Stella knew it.

Just like she knew that she wanted him there, because she needed someone she could lean on. For just a minute.

She was tired.

Beyond tired.

Her grandfather’s death from a sudden heart attack had been shocking, but finding out that her grandmother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s had pulled the rug out from under every plan Stella had ever made.

Three years. That’s how long her grandparents had known about the diagnosis. Three years that they’d kept it secret because they hadn’t wanted Stella to give up the job she loved. That’s what Beatrice’s best friend, Maggie, had said. Stella had wanted to know about the medicine she’d found in the bathroom cabinets, the post-it note reminders plastered all over the house, the forgetfulness and confusion that Beatrice seemed to be suffering from.

Of course, the nurse in Stella had already known what all those things meant. She just hadn’t wanted to believe it. Maggie and Beatrice had been friends since elementary school, and Stella had known that her grandmother’s friend would have the answers she needed.

She just hadn’t expected those answers to hurt so much.

And they did.

It hurt to know that Nana was losing her memories. It hurt to know that the vibrant, cheerful woman who’d raised Stella was going to become a shell of the person she’d once been.

It also hurt to hear that her grandparents had thought she loved and valued her job more than she loved and valued them. But then, why wouldn’t they think that? She’d spent so much time away that she hadn’t seen the signs and symptoms of Alzheimer’s until her grandfather was gone.

It was a regret she’d live with for the rest of her life. If she’d spoken to them on the phone more than once a week, asked the right questions, delved a little deeper into their lives, maybe she would have realized the truth long before Granddad’s death. Then she could have told Henry that she’d give up her work at HEART for Beatrice.

So far, it hadn’t come to that.

She had given up her apartment in DC, moved back to the huge old Victorian that Beatrice had inherited from her parents decades ago. Stella had even tried to resign from HEART. Working as a member of one of the most well-respected hostage rescue teams in the world took time and energy that she needed to devote to her grandmother.

Chance had refused to accept her resignation. She’d been working for the company since he and his brother Jackson founded it, and he had told her that the team couldn’t run without her. That was an exaggeration. They both knew it, but Stella loved her work. She didn’t want to give it up. She wasn’t even sure who she would be without it. She’d built her entire life around HEART.

Now she was trying to rebuild it around her grandmother.

Chance had made it very clear that he’d support her in any way he could. He’d assigned her paperwork and research, report writing and about six other things that were menial compared to the high-risk jobs she’d been taking before Granddad’s death.

Just until you and your grandmother get back on your feet, and you will, Stella. It’s just going to take some time.

She could still hear his voice, see the compassion in his dark blue eyes. He’d come to the funeral. Of course he had. Chance always did the right thing. Always.

Stella wasn’t sure why that made her feel resentful. Maybe because she often found herself doing the wrong thing. Or maybe because he’d done so many right things the few times they’d dated, and she’d still managed to chase him away.

She stood, her toes curling as her feet hit cold wood.

No sense lying in bed fretting about things she couldn’t change. She’d be better off making a pot of coffee and finishing up the last of the three hundred thank-you notes she’d been writing out since Granddad’s funeral. Keep busy. It had been her motto for as long as she could remember. Especially this time of year.

Wind rattled the old wooden panes and whistled beneath the eaves, the sounds nearly covering another more subtle one. Floorboards creaking? A door opening?

Beatrice?

Had she woken already?

Stella stepped into the dark hall, not bothering with the light. She’d walked through the drafty house thousands of times during the years she’d lived there. She’d memorized the wide hallway, the landing, the stairs and the banister. She knew how many doors were on each side of the hallway and which ones creaked when they opened.

Beatrice slept in the room at the far end of the hall, and Stella went there, knocking on the thick wood door. When Beatrice didn’t answer, she turned the old crystal knob and stepped into the room.

“Nana?” she whispered into the darkness, shivering as cold air seeped through her flannel pajamas.

Cold air?

She flicked on the light, her heart stopping when she saw the empty bed, the billowing curtains.

She yanked back gauzy white fabric, nearly sagging with relief when she saw the window screen still in place, the mesh flecked with fat snowflakes.

“Nana!” Stella called, throwing open the closet door. Just in case. Her grandmother had gotten lost walking through the house recently. One day she hadn’t been able to find the kitchen. Another day, she’d stood in the hallway, confused about which room she slept in.

“Nana!” Stella yelled it this time, the name echoing through the house as she ran out of the room. She could hear the panic in her voice, could feel it thrumming through her blood. She never panicked. Ever. But she felt frantic, terrified.

“Beatrice!” She yanked open the linen closet, the door to the spare room, the bathroom door.

She thought she heard a faint response. Maybe from the kitchen at the back of the house.

She barreled down the stairs and into the large foyer.

The front door was closed, the bolt locked. Just the way she’d left it. She could feel cold air wafting through the hallway, though, and she spun on her heel, sprinting into the kitchen.

The back door yawned open, the porch beyond it covered with a thin layer of snow. She thought she could see footprints pressed into the vivid white, and she shoved her feet into old galoshes, ran outside.

There! Just like she’d thought. Footprints tracking across the porch and down into the yard. She should have called for help. The practical part of her—the part that was trained as a trauma nurse, who knew protocol and statistics and the necessity of using the brain instead of the heart during stressful times—understood that. The other part, the part that only cared about finding Beatrice as quickly as possible, was calculating just how far an eighty-one-year-old with Alzheimer’s could go in the time it took to make a phone call and get the police involved.

Pretty far.

Especially when going just a couple of hundred yards would mean entering thousands of acres of forest.

“Nana!” Stella screamed, sure that she saw a shadow moving at the back edge of the yard. The woods began there—deep and thick, butting up against the state forest, crisscrossed with tributaries of the Patuxent. An easy place to get lost and hurt. Especially if a person was elderly and frail, and probably not dressed for the weather.

Stella ran toward the trees, hoping the shadow she’d seen had been her grandmother. Praying, because that’s what Beatrice would have wanted her to do. It’s what Henry would have expected her to do. Granddad had been a retired preacher. After watching his son take over the pulpit, he’d planned to spend time going on mission trips, traveling with his wife, enjoying the fruit of a life well lived. He’d ended up raising Stella instead.

He’d never complained about that.

He’d never accused God of unfairness, never said he’d been given a rough shake.

He’d believed that everything happened for a reason, and that good could be found in the most trying circumstance if a person took the time to look for it. He’d been an eternal optimist, because he’d believed that God’s will trumped all else.

Stella was a pessimist. Mostly because she believed the same thing.

She reached the edge of the yard and found footprints in the snow there, nearly covered by a fresh dusting of white. She should have grabbed her cell phone on the way out. She should have grabbed a coat. A flashlight. Warmer clothes.

Rookie mistakes, but she was committed now. She couldn’t let Beatrice get any farther ahead. She plunged into the thick foliage, branches catching on her hair and tugging at her skin. She thought she heard a car engine, was sure she heard voices coming from the front yard.

No one should be anywhere near the house. They were too far from town for random strangers to show up and none of Beatrice’s friends would be out at this time of morning.

Stella would have checked things out, but she had one goal—finding her grandmother.

“Nana!” she shouted.

To her left, branches snapped, and she turned, certain Beatrice would be there.

“What are you doing out—”

Someone lunged from the darkness. Not an eighty-one-year-old; this person moved fast, flying toward Stella, swinging something at her head.

She had a second to react, one heartbeat to duck. The blow glanced off her temple, sent her reeling. She fell into a tree, slid to the ground, but all she could think about was Beatrice. Out in the woods. Near the creek.

She scrambled up, blocked another blow. Dizzy from the first, disoriented, fighting because she’d been trained to do it. Blood in her eyes, sliding down her cheeks, blinding her in the swirling snow. Nana, Nana, Nana, chanting through her head.

She landed one blow, then another. She felt something behind her—someone. No time to duck, just searing pain, and she was falling into darkness.

* * *

Something was wrong. Chance Miller felt it the way he felt the frigid air and the falling snow. He rounded the side of the huge old house, Simon Welsh at his side, Boone Anderson still at the front door, ringing the bell. For the tenth time.

There was no way Stella had slept through the noise.

She didn’t sleep. Not much. When she did, she slept lightly, every noise waking her. He’d learned that during long flights across the Pacific Ocean and long journeys in foreign countries. She also didn’t like being surprised. Ever.

And his early morning visit?

It was a surprise.

Stella was expecting him later in the day, but he’d been worried about the coming snowstorm. If it hit the way the meteorologists were predicting, driving later in the morning might have been a problem. He’d decided to leave DC before the snow began to fall. If he got stuck in Boonsboro, no problem. But he’d been worried enough about Stella that he didn’t want to postpone seeing her.

She’d been too quiet lately, and quiet wasn’t her style. Usually she was loud and decisive, more than willing to explain exactly how she thought things should go.

As a matter of fact, he’d expected her to yank open the door as soon as the bell rang and ream him out for arriving before he was scheduled.

She hadn’t, and he figured that could only mean one thing.

Trouble.

It whispered on the cold wind, splashing down in the heavy flakes that fell on his cheeks and neck. Light streamed out from a door that yawned open, the yellowy glow splashing across the back porch. He could see the interior of the house, the bright kitchen, the white cupboards and old wood floor.

He didn’t bother walking inside.

No way had Stella left the door open. Not intentionally. Not unless there’d been an emergency that had sent her running from the house.

He eyed the snow-coated ground, crouching to study what looked like boot prints. Not large, and he’d guess a woman had been wearing them. There was another print a few inches away, a different type of shoe. Something without tread and nearly covered by a fresh layer of snow.

“What’d you find?” Simon asked.

“Footprints. Two sets. Heading toward the woods.”

“Stella’s?”

“I think so, and maybe her grandmother’s.”

“Looks like she might have left this way,” Simon said, moving up the porch stairs and peering inside. “You want me to check things out, or do you want to split up and search the yard and woods?”

The newest member of the team, Simon had worked for SWAT in Houston before joining HEART. He had keen instincts and the kind of work ethic Chance appreciated. He also had the same driving need to reunite families that everyone on the team possessed.

He didn’t know Stella, though.

Not well, and he couldn’t know just how serious this situation was becoming. Stella didn’t leave doors open. She didn’t take chances. She played by the rules, and she expected other people to do the same. Something had sent her running, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was.

Who it was.

Her grandmother.

“If Stella were inside, she’d be out on the porch giving us a piece of her mind. She’s left for some reason, and I’m worried that reason might be her grandmother.”

“She’s prone to wandering?”

“She has Alzheimer’s, so it’s a good possibility.” Chance took a penlight from his pocket, flashing it into the yard. Snow fell in sheets now, layering the ground in a thick blanket of white. Soon it would cover whatever tracks the women had left. Once that happened, finding them would be nearly impossible.

Please, God, help us find them before then, he prayed silently as he moved across the yard, his light bouncing over white snow and sprigs of winter-dry grass.

A few yards out, it glanced off what looked like another footprint. Chance moved toward it, studying the ground more carefully, finding another footprint and another one.

“This way,” he said, not bothering to see if Simon was following. He would be. They knew how to run a mission. No reason to go over all the variables, discuss a plan. With the temperature below freezing, there was no time to waste.

Frantic people made errors in judgment. Like leaving a house in a snowstorm without letting anyone know they were going. Not that Chance would ever use the word frantic to describe Stella. She was one of the most clearheaded people he knew.

If she’d panicked, there had to be a good reason. Her grandmother wandering around in the snow fit the bill. He’d met Beatrice twice. She’d seemed sweet, kind and very fragile.

If she was out in the cold, she’d need medical attention. If the snow continued to fall and her footprints were covered, he and his team would need help searching the woods that surrounded the property.

So, maybe, Stella wasn’t the only one who’d panicked.

Maybe he’d been panicking, too. Acting on emotion rather than clear thinking. Not a good way to proceed.

“Change in plans,” he said, stopping short and motioning for Simon to do the same. “Call 911. Let’s get the local authorities in on this.”

“You want me to call it in as a missing person?”

“Yes. I’m going to see how far I can follow the tracks. Get Boone and follow after you’ve made the call.” He jogged across the yard.

The boot prints were faint but obvious. Stella had left the house recently. He wasn’t sure about Beatrice. He’d only seen one print that he thought was hers, and it had been left earlier. He hoped not too much earlier. He and Stella had their differences, but he only ever wanted the best for her. The best thing for her right now would be for her grandmother to be okay.

She’d be devastated if something happened to Beatrice, and Chance would be devastated for her. Stella was special. She had depth and character and just enough stubborn determination to keep Chance on his toes. Of all the women he’d dated, she was the only one he hadn’t wanted to walk away from.

He’d done it because it was what she had wanted.

Or, at least, what she’d said she’d wanted.

There were plenty of days when he regretted letting her go. He never mentioned it, and she never asked, but he’d have rekindled their relationship if she’d given any indication that she wanted to.

Pride goeth before the fall.

How many times had his father said that?

Too many to count, but Chance was still too proud to crawl back to a woman who’d sent him away. That was the truth. Ugly as it was. So, they were stuck in a pattern of butting heads and arguing and caring about each other a little more than coworkers probably should.

A little more?

A lot more.

“Stella!” he called, pushing through thick foliage. Someone had been there ahead of him. Branches were broken, the pine boughs cleared of snow. The thick tree canopy prevented snow from reaching the ground, but he could see depressions in the needles that covered the forest floor.

He followed them, stepping through a thicket and walking onto what looked like a deer trail. Narrow, but clear of brambles and bushes, it would be the path of least resistance for anything or anyone wandering through the woods.

“Stella!” he called again. “Beatrice!” he added. He could imagine the elderly woman wandering through here, finding the open path and heading in whatever direction she thought would lead her home.

A soft whistle echoed through the darkness.

Boone and Simon, moving into the trees behind him.

He didn’t slow down. They’d find their own way.

Cold wind bit through his heavy coat, and he wondered if Stella had dressed for the weather. If she’d left in a panic, would she have bothered?

He jogged along the path, the dark morning beginning to lighten around him. The sun would rise soon, warming the chilled air. But soon might be too late, and he felt the pressure of that, the knowledge of it, thrumming through his blood.

Somewhere ahead, water burbled across rocks and earth.

A deep creek or river?

He thought he heard movement and ducked under a pine bough, nearly sliding down an embankment that led to the creek he’d been hearing.

He stopped at the edge of the precipice, flashing his light down to the dark water below. A shallow tributary littered with large rocks and fallen branches, it looked easy enough to cross once a person got down to it.

He aimed the beam of light toward the bank, searching for footprints or some other sign that Beatrice or Stella had been there.

Just at the edge of the water, a pink shoe sat abandoned on a rock.

Not Stella’s. She never wore pink.

“Beatrice!” he called. He needed to phone Simon and give him the coordinates. They could begin their search from there, spread out along the banks of the creek and work a grid pattern until they found the missing women.

“Beatrice!” he yelled again.

Someone dove from the trees, slamming into him with enough force to send them both flying. He twisted, his arms locked around his assailant as he fell over the edge of the precipice and tumbled to the creek below.


TWO (#ucb1e6b50-696d-5f56-a03f-6a546eb0fe2c)

Stella had to take her attacker down. She knew that, and it was all she knew. Everything else—the darkness, the cold, the blood—they were secondary to the need to survive and to find Beatrice.

She’d been a fool, though.

She should have waited longer. Instead, she’d rushed out when she’d heard the man calling Beatrice’s name. Now she was trapped in a vice-like grip, tumbling down, unable to stop the momentum.

Unable to free herself.

She fought the arms clamped around her waist. Blood was still seeping from the cut on her temple and a deeper wound on the back of her head. Sick, dizzy, confused—she knew the symptoms of a concussion, and she knew the damage could be even worse than that. Brain bleed. Fractured skull. She’d been hit hard enough to be knocked unconscious. She needed medical help, but she needed to protect Beatrice more.

She slammed her palm into her attacker’s jaw, water seeping through her flannel pajamas. The creek? Had she come that far?

Had her grandmother?

Fear shot through her, adrenaline giving strength to her muscles. She slammed her fist into a rock-hard stomach.

“Enough!” a man growled, his forearm pressing against her throat, his body holding her in place.

“Not hardly!” she gasped, bucking against his hold.

Suddenly he was gone, air filling her lungs, icy water lapping at her shoulders and legs as she gasped for breath.

She thought maybe she’d imagined him, that the head injury was causing hallucinations, or that she was hypothermic and delirious. Then a hand cupped her jaw, and she was looking into Chance Miller’s face.

He looked as shocked as she felt.

“You’re in DC,” she said, surprised at how slurred the words sounded, how difficult they were to get out.

“No,” he said, his arm slipping under her back as he lifted her out of the water. “I’m here.”

She thought she heard a tremor in his voice, but that wasn’t like Chance. He always held it together, always had himself under control.

“Always perfect,” she murmured.

“What?” he asked, and she realized they were moving, that somehow he was carrying her up the bank and away from the creek. Snow still fell. She could feel it melting on the crown of her head, sliding into the cut on her temple. None of it hurt. Not really. She just felt numb and scared. Not for herself. For her grandmother.

She had to concentrate, to stay focused on the mission. That was the only way to achieve success. She’d learned that, or maybe she’d always known it, but it had kept her alive in more than one tough situation.

“Put me down.” She shoved at Chance’s chest. “I have to find my grandmother.”

“Boone and Simon will find her. You need medical help.”

“What I need,” she said, forcing every word to be clear and precise, “is to find my grandmother. Until I do that, I’m not accepting help from anyone.”

“We’ve already called the local authorities. They should be here soon. They can conduct the search while an ambulance transports you to the hospital.”

“I’ll just transport myself back. So how about we make this easy and do things my way for a change?”

“We do things your way plenty. This time, we’re not.” He meant it. She could hear it in his voice. She could feel it in the firmness of his grip as he carried her through the snowy woods.

And he was right.

She knew he was right.

She needed medical attention.

She needed help.

But she couldn’t go to the hospital. Not while Beatrice was still lost in the woods.

“Chance, I can’t leave without her. I can’t.” Her voice broke—that’s how scared she was, how worried. Her grandmother was out in the cold, and someone was out there with her. Someone who’d attacked Stella.

More than one person?

She thought so, thought she’d been hit from behind, but she couldn’t quite grasp the memory.

Chance muttered something, then set her on her feet, his hands on her elbows as she found her balance. It took longer than she wanted, the world spinning and whirling, the falling snow making her dizzy. Her stomach heaved, and she swallowed hard. No way was she going to puke. If she did, it would be over. Chance would carry her back to the house and send her off in an ambulance.

Focus on the mission.

“Something is going on,” she said, afraid if she didn’t get the words out, she’d forget them. “Someone is out here.”

“We’re out here,” he said, turning on a penlight and flashing it across the creek bed. Something pink sat near a rock a few yards away.

“Not just us. Someone attacked me.”

He stilled, the light holding steady on that pink thing, his gaze suddenly on Stella. “Who?”

“I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. One person. Maybe two.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“Did he speak? Say anything to you?”

“No.”

“How long ago was that?” He strode to the object, lifted it.

Her grandmother’s slipper.

Stella had bought them for Beatrice three Christmases ago, knowing her grandmother would love the faux fur and sparkly bows. Funny that she could remember that, but she had no idea how long she’d been out in the snow.

“That’s my grandmother’s,” she said, that thickness back in her throat again.

“Stella,” he said, the calmness in his voice the exact opposite of the panic she felt, “how long have you been out here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Were you unconscious at any point?” His gaze drifted from her eyes to the bleeding cut on her head.

“Yes.”

“So it could have been longer than fifteen minutes?”

“Yes. Now how about we stop talking about it and start looking?”

“Okay,” he said. Just that, but she felt better hearing it.

Because of all the people she knew, Chance was the one she trusted most to get things done.

His light illuminated the shadowy bank at the far side of the creek. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the forest was tinged with grayish light. No sign of Beatrice that Stella could see, but, then, her eyes didn’t seem to be working well, everything shifting in and out of focus.

In the distance, sirens wailed.

Help coming too late?

Please, God. Not too late.

The prayer was there. Just on the edge of her thoughts, and she tried to follow it with more words, more pleas, but her mind was spinning, her thoughts scattering. Her stomach heaved, and she was on her knees retching into dusty snow and pine needles.

“It’s okay.” Chance crouched beside her, his cool palm on the back of her neck, his coat dropping around her shoulders. She felt him tense, knew he’d realized that she had another head wound. Double the potential for severe injury, and he’d be calculating the risk to her versus the risk of leaving the creek while Beatrice was still wandering around in the snow.

If they went back to the house, Beatrice would probably die before anyone found her.

The temperature was below freezing, the snow falling faster and heavier. And Beatrice’s slipper had been in the creek. Which meant she’d been in the creek, too.

“I want you to wait here,” Chance said quietly. “I’ve already texted our coordinates to Boone and Simon. They’ll be here soon. One of them will wait with you until the medics get here.”

Not a question.

Not a suggestion.

He really thought that she was going to wait at the edge of the creek while Beatrice wandered through the snowy forest.

She struggled to her feet, following him as he stepped across the burbling water. He didn’t tell her to go back. He didn’t waste time or energy arguing with her. It was one of the things she’d always liked about Chance—he didn’t spend time fighting battles when he had wars to win.

“There’s a print there.” His light settled on an impression in the muddy bank. “Let’s see how many more we can find.”

He started walking parallel to the creek, and she followed, her heart beating hollowly in her ears, her legs weak, her body still numb.

Voices carried through the woods, men and women calling out to one another. A search party forming, but Stella could only think about taking one step after another, following the tracks that Chance’s light kept finding. Bare feet pressed into the muddy earth. Bare feet in below-freezing temperatures.

Stella was shivering uncontrollably, and she had Chance’s coat. Beatrice probably had nothing but her cotton nightgown and the gauzy robe she put on each morning when she got out of bed.

She tasted salt on her lips and realized hot tears were mixing with icy snow. She never cried around other people. Ever. She was crying now, because she’d already lost her grandfather, and she wasn’t sure she could bear losing her grandmother, too.

She swiped the tears away, tried to clear the fog from her mind at the same time. She had to think. She had to imagine being in Beatrice’s shoes, walking outside, making her way to the creek. Had someone been with her? Maybe the person who’d attacked Stella?

Or had she gone off by herself? Maybe reliving some long-ago day? A trip to the creek with Henry, a picnic in the moonlight? Had some memory sent her wandering?

Had she—

“There!” Chance shouted, the word sending adrenaline coursing through Stella again.

He sprinted forward, and she followed, tripping over roots and rocks, trying desperately to see what he was seeing.

There! At the edge of the creek! White against the dark ground and glistening water. Gauzy fabric, a thin pale leg peeking out from it.

“Nana!” Stella sprinted forward, grabbing her grandmother’s hand as Chance lifted her lifeless body from the water.

* * *

They’d always been a good team.

Always.

Worst-case scenario, best-case, didn’t matter. Chance and Stella knew how to move in sync. He wasn’t sure that was going to save Beatrice. Stella’s grandmother was as limp as a rag doll, her skin icy cold. No respiration. Pulse—thready and weak.

“She’s not breathing,” he said, laying Beatrice on flat ground and checking her airway.

“Nana?” Stella said, giving her grandmother’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Can you hear me?”

Beatrice remained silent, her face bone-white.

“Let Boone know where we are so the medics can find us more quickly. She needs help now. Not ten minutes from now.” Stella wrapped Beatrice in his coat and began CPR. No chest compressions. Just rescue breaths that made Beatrice’s chest rise and fall.

He made the call quickly, his gaze on the trees that edged close to the creek. The morning had gone silent, nothing moving in the shadowy pre-dawn light. It wasn’t a safe stillness. It wasn’t a good silence. Something was off—the air subtly charged, the shadows seeming to shift and undulate. He pulled his Glock from the holster, stepping away from Stella and her grandmother. Behind him, voices drifted through the trees—the medics moving toward the creek as he moved away from it.

Stella didn’t ask him where he was going or what he was doing. She was either so focused on her grandmother she hadn’t noticed or she sensed what he did—someone watching.

The woods had lightened imperceptibly, black trees now brown-gray, white snow flecked with green pine needles and fallen leaves.

He used his penlight anyway, training it into the heart of the forest, flicking it across thick tree trunks and winter-brown bushes. He didn’t want to go too far. Even with help close at hand, he was worried about leaving Stella and her grandmother. Both were in bad shape. Stella, at her best, could take down almost any well-trained fighter. But she wasn’t at her best. Not even close.

He reached the top of a shallow embankment, the snow thicker there, the trees sparser. His light bounced across a fallen log, illuminating a hint of bright pink that peeked out from behind it.

The other slipper. He didn’t move closer. He’d spent years in Afghanistan and Iraq, working as part of one of the top ranger teams in the army. He didn’t talk about those days, but he’d lived them. They’d been the best preparation in the world for the kind of work he did with HEART.

Always cautious.

Always meticulous.

Always weighing risk versus benefit.

Until there was nothing to do but act, and then he’d do whatever was necessary to get out alive with his comrades.

The slipper?

It looked like one of the dozens of booby traps he’d seen just sitting out in the open, waiting for someone to pick it up. He flashed the light to the left and right of it, searching for wires or leads. Nothing. Not that he’d really expected there to be anything. Booby traps didn’t happen all that often in the good old USA, but he was paranoid, and he believed what Stella had said. Someone’s out here.

Her words had explained the gash on her temple, the blood that stained the collar of her pajama top and matted her dark red hair. She needed the medics almost as badly as her grandmother did. Maybe just as badly. He’d seen people die of head injuries like hers. He knew how dangerous they could be. If she’d been a different kind of person, he’d have carried her back to her grandmother’s house and made sure she was in an ambulance heading for the hospital, but Stella knew her own mind, she made her own decisions. He’d have done the same if he were in her position—insist on being part of the search. So, he’d let her call the shots.

But he wasn’t going to let her get hurt again.

Someone’s out here.

Yeah. She was definitely right about that.

He crouched near the slipper, his light trained on the ground beyond it. He studied the layer of pine needles and dead leaves, found what he thought were depressions in the surface. He followed the trail with his light, surprised to see what looked like a path through the trees. Not a deer trail this time. It looked man-made, the ground clear of shrubs and undergrowth.

Stella’s attacker had gone that way. He was certain of that. He was also certain that whoever it was wouldn’t be returning. Not now. Too many people crisscrossing the woods, too many lights flashing above the creek. Only a fool would risk capture by sticking around.

He saved the coordinates of the trail and holstered his Glock. He’d pass the information on to the team, let them figure out where the path led. Once he made sure Stella and Beatrice were safe, he’d return. By that time, local law enforcement would have already scoured the area, but he’d take a look anyway. It was what he did. Double-check. Look where others might not. Sometimes, a second or third or fourth pair of eyes would uncover something that no one else had.

If the police came up empty, Chance was going to make sure he didn’t. Right now, he had a lot more questions than answers, and he didn’t like it. Had this been a random act? An opportunistic crime? Or had it been planned?

Stella had worked a lot of missions. She’d made a lot of friends, and she’d made a few enemies. It was possible one of them had followed her to Boonsboro.

He frowned, turning back toward the creek.

She’d have been an easier target in DC. She lived alone there, in an apartment on the top floor of an old brownstone. He’d been to her place twice, and he’d lectured her both times. Not enough security. The doors were flimsy. The locks were a joke.

She’d told him to mind his own business, but that was Stella. She liked to do things her way. When it really mattered, though, she knew how to follow protocol and work as part of a team.

He moved toward the creek, retracing his steps, following the sound of voices and the flashes of lights through the forest. He thought he heard Stella, her voice about as familiar as his own. They’d known each other for a long time. Long enough to know each other well.

And to care about each other deeply.

He’d seen her crying while they searched for Beatrice. He wasn’t going to mention it. Not to her. Not to anyone on the team. Stella was indestructible and unflappable. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think.

The air changed, and he knew he wasn’t alone, that someone was just out of sight, hidden by the heavy boughs of a giant conifer. He didn’t pull his firearm. Anyone who wanted to take a shot at him would have already done it. A shadow separated itself from the trees, the gray edge of dawn highlighting red hair and a tall, narrow frame.

Despite his height, Boone Anderson moved quietly, his footfalls silent on the pine needles. “Find anything?” he asked.

“One of Beatrice’s slippers and a path through the woods.”

“We going to follow it?”

“You and Simon can. Let the local PD know what you’re doing and where you’re heading.”

“You’ll be at the hospital?”

“Someone has to be.”

“Stella can usually take care of herself.”

“She’s in bad shape. I don’t think she’ll be doing much of anything for a while.”

“How bad?” Boone cut to the chase. No extra questions. No speculating. He was a straight shooter. He did his job and he did it well, but his heart was with his family—his wife, his new baby, the daughter he’d lost years ago and had recently been reunited with.

“Probably a lot worse than she’s going to admit. A pretty deep gash to the temple and one on the back of her head.”

“And she probably thinks she’s going to be up running a marathon tomorrow.”

True. That was Stella. To a T.

“Where’s Simon?”

“Sent him down to the creek to see what the ruckus was about. Looked like the medics were carrying a gurney in. I’m assuming they’ve got to carry someone out. The grandmother?”

“We found her in the creek. She wasn’t breathing.”

“Pulse?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she’s alive, and we’re going to pray she stays that way.” Boone pulled out his cell phone, texted something, then slid it back in his pocket. “I told Simon you were on your way. You go do what you need to do for Stella and her grandmother. We’ll keep you in the loop, and we’ll play nice with the local PD.”

“You’d better. I don’t think you’ll like prison food.”

Boone snorted, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it up for Chance to see.

A bag of homemade cookies.

Typical of Boone. The guy never stopped eating.

Any other time, Chance might have smiled.

Right at that moment, all he could do was think about the tears that had been sliding down Stella’s cheeks. He’d never seen her cry. Not on the worst missions. Not when she’d been exhausted or tired or injured. Not when things had seemed hopeless or the person they’d been looking for had been found too late.

Not even at her grandfather’s funeral.

Never.

Not once.

Because Stella didn’t cry.

Except that she did, and he’d seen it, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget that.

Boone opened the bag and took out a cookie. Unflappable. Just like always. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and he’d keep doing it, but first, he’d eat.

“I always come prepared. Tonight, it’s a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies,” he said. “I’ll share, but only because my wife told me I have to.”

“You can tell her that you tried, but I’m not in the mood for cookies.”

“Worrying won’t change anything. You know that, right?” Boone bit into the cookie, his gaze as direct as his comment.

“That won’t stop me from doing it. Keep your nose clean, Boone. I’m heading out.” Chance jogged back to the creek, every nerve in his body on high alert. He hadn’t expected trouble. He’d found it.

Now he was going to deal with it.

A dozen people were standing near the creek—police, park rangers, paramedics. Simon stood next to Stella, his hand on her shoulder, not holding her up but pretty close to it.

He met Chance’s eyes, mouthed, She’s done.

“I am not,” Stella bit out, her body shaking beneath a blanket someone had tossed over her shoulders. “Done.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Simon countered as paramedics lifted Beatrice onto a backboard. She’d been swaddled in blankets and had an IV in her hand, but she was breathing, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. That was an improvement, and it gave Chance hope that she might recover.

“My opinion is the only one that matters,” Stella muttered, but she didn’t seem interested in the argument. She was watching as the medics strapped Beatrice to the board and lifted her.

“Careful,” she warned, as if the team needed to be reminded.

They ignored her.

Which was surprising since she had blood dripping down the side of her face and more of it seeping from beneath her hair. She was also pale as paper, her skin completely leached of color. Chance would have thought every available medic would be hovering around, cleaning her wounds and getting her ready to be transported. She must have refused treatment, insisted that the attention be given to her grandmother.

Now her grandmother was on the move, and Stella looked like she planned to follow.

“I don’t think so,” he said, grabbing her arm.

“You don’t think what?” she asked, trying to pull away.

He didn’t have to put much effort into keeping that from happening. Which concerned him. A lot. “That you’re going to walk back to the house.”

“I don’t think you have a choice in the matter.”

“Sure I do. Just like I had a choice when I didn’t drag your butt back to the house. I let you decide then. This time, I decide.”

“This is not the time to go macho on me, Chance,” she growled. “I’m in no mood.”

“And I’m in no mood scrape you off the forest floor. So, how about we stop arguing and get this done? Your grandmother needs to get to the hospital, and you’re slowing things down.”

She pressed her lips together, and didn’t say another word as an EMT urged her to sit down, then cleaned both wounds.

“This one looks okay,” the EMT said, pressing gauze to Stella’s temple, “but you’re probably going to need stitches to close the other one.”

“I’ve had worse,” Stella muttered, brushing the young woman’s hands away and holding the gauze in place herself. “Has the ambulance left with my grandmother?”

“Yes,” the EMT admitted. “She’s in a very critical state and needed to be transported immediately. We’ve called another one for you.”

“There’s no need for another ambulance. I’ll drive myself. My grandmother might be confused, and I really need to be there with her.”

If she hadn’t been dead serious, Chance would have laughed.

“Ma’am,” the EMT said before Chance could, “you’re in no condition to drive.”

Stella must have agreed, because she eyed Chance with a look he’d seen many times before. It was the one that said she needed him, but she didn’t want to. The one that said she couldn’t do it alone, but wished she could.

He understood the look and the feelings behind it.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he offered before she could decide whether or not to ask, and she smiled. A real smile that softened her face and made her look sweet and young and vulnerable. It surprised him, because she hadn’t directed a smile like that at him since they’d broken up. He’d forgotten how powerful it was; forgotten how it made his pulse race and his heart pound.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Stella,” he said, and meant it.

Her smile faded, and she was just staring into his eyes, looking wounded and tired and a little too fragile for Chance’s peace of mind.

Finally, she shrugged. “You’re the first guy to ever say that to me.”

Odd considering that she’d been married for years. Her husband had died serving his country, and she’d mentioned once or twice just how proud she’d been of him.

That was about as much information as she’d given.

Even when Chance had asked.

Even when they were dating.

“Then you haven’t had the right guys in your life,” he responded, keeping his tone light.

She wasn’t herself.

That was obvious. He didn’t want her to regret their conversation or be embarrassed by it.

He took her arm, helped her to her feet. “Do you have a spare key to the house? Boone and Simon might need to get inside.”

“I left the door open.”

“There are police everywhere. Someone might have closed it.”

“There’s probably a key in the flower box outside the kitchen window. If you want to look for it, I can—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Whatever it was, the answer is still no. We’re getting out of these woods, and I’m driving you straight to the hospital. No stops for anything.”

“You’re awfully bossy when I’m hurt,” she muttered. There was no heat in her words and no real complaint.

“Awfully worried,” he corrected, taking her elbow and helping her up the embankment.

“Don’t be. I’m fine.”

“You always are. Until you aren’t, and then I have to ride to the rescue,” he replied, baiting her the way he had a hundred times before. He knew how she’d react. Her back would go up, her chin would lift, and she’d march to the house like she hadn’t been knocked unconscious and nearly frozen.

It almost worked out that way.

“I’ve rescued you more times than you’ve ever rescued me,” she said.

Just like he knew she would.

Then she shrugged away from his hold, marching forward with just enough energy to convince him she might actually be okay.

They made it through the trees and out into the yard, white snow swirling through the grayish light. He could see how pale she was, see how much she was trembling. She was cold or in shock or both, and he had about two seconds to realize that baiting her hadn’t worked out the way he’d wanted before her steps faltered.

Just a little hitch in her stride, a soft sigh that he barely heard, and she was crumbling to the ground so quickly Chance barely had time to catch her.


THREE (#ucb1e6b50-696d-5f56-a03f-6a546eb0fe2c)

She was in the car again, the beautiful book her grandparents had given her for Christmas in her hands.

“Don’t touch it,” she snapped at Eva. Her sister was only four, and she liked to ruin things—paintings, drawings, schoolwork. Eva was always scribbling on them.

“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 brushing 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 her 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.

She should have recognized her immediately.

She probably would have if the world had been standing still.

“Are you okay?” Karen had reached her side and was leaning toward her, the smell of her perfume mixing with antiseptic and floor cleaner and making Stella’s head swim. “I was working on the pediatric floor and heard Beatrice had been admitted. What happened?”

“She—”

“Tell you what,” Chance interrupted. “How about we hash it all out after Stella sees her grandmother?”

Karen frowned. “Of course. I was just so relieved to see her, I wasn’t thinking. I was going to visit Beatrice, but there’s a guy outside the door who says she can’t have visitors. I told the nurses, but they said you want him there, Stella.”

“I do,” she responded, the words echoing hollowly in her ears. She felt light-headed and sick, and she wanted to grab Chance’s hand, hold on tight so she didn’t float away.

“Why? Are you worried that Beatrice wandered off? Do you think she’s getting worse? I heard she left the house without a coat or shoes.” Karen’s words came in quick staccato beats that slammed into Stella’s head and made her want to close her eyes.

She liked Karen.

The young woman was smart and helpful, and she’d been wonderful with Beatrice, but right at the moment, Stella wanted to tell her to go away.

She needed to think.

She couldn’t do that with someone talking nonstop, asking questions she had no answers for.

“Karen,” she began, but Chance’s hand settled on her shoulder, his thumb sliding against her neck, and she lost what she was going to say. Felt herself just give it over to him, because he was there, and he could handle it and she was more than willing to let him.

She’d think about what that meant later.

When she wasn’t so tired, so scared, so concerned.

“It seems like you’ve heard a lot of information in a very short amount of time,” he said, his tone conversational and light.

* * *

Chance waited for the young woman to respond. Karen Woods. That’s what her name tag said. He’d seen her before. Probably at the funeral. He remembered the brown hair and the big smile. If she remembered him, she didn’t let on. Just offered a quick shrug.

“The entire hospital is buzzing with the news. Beatrice and her husband helped fund the pediatric wing. They’re a big deal here.”

Stella looked like she was trying to think of a suitable response, her brow furrowed as if she couldn’t quite come up with the words.

Chance figured no response was necessary.

“Big deal or not, Beatrice isn’t to have any visitors unless they’re approved by the police or by Stella. You know that, right?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“It’s not about stupidity. It’s about knowledge. Were you informed?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll understand that Stella is going to have to say goodbye for now. She wants to see her grandmother, and—”

“I’m not invited?” Karen smiled, but there was something hard in her eyes. “No need to hit me over the head with it.”

“I’m not trying to. I just want to make certain we’re all clear on the rules.”

“Because you’re so big on them,” Stella murmured, and he smiled.

She was right.

But that was why they got along so well.

“Only when they matter. We’ll see you when we come out,” he said, pushing the chair past Karen.

He wasn’t asking permission, and he didn’t wait for a response. He wanted Stella to see her grandmother, and then he wanted her back in the hospital bed.

She was two shades too pale, red hair falling lank against her neck and cheeks. Her hand trembled as she tucked a strand behind her ear, and he wanted to turn the chair around and go straight back to her room.

He knew Stella, though.

She’d find her way back.

With or without him.

Family was everything.

She’d told him that dozens of times when they were on a mission together. She’d proven how much she meant it when she’d tried to give up her job to take care of her grandmother. Chance hadn’t been able to let her go. She was too valuable a team member. And the team was its own sort of family.

He pushed her through the hallway of the ICU, Karen following along behind despite the fact that he’d made it really clear that she wasn’t going in Beatrice’s room. She looked well-meaning enough, but there was a glimmer in her dark eyes that bothered him. A little bit of excitement that shouldn’t be there. He’d seen it before—some otherwise harmless person determined to get the juiciest bit of gossip and spread it to the four corners of the earth.

He imagined she had a nice little group of friends that she’d love to give all the details to. She’d be the star, have her five minutes of fame because she’d brushed shoulders with a couple of people who’d almost died.

She wasn’t getting any information from him, and he doubted Stella would share anything. Not if she was thinking clearly.

Several closed doors lined the hall. Boone was in front of one, sitting in a chair, his legs stretched out, the bag of cookies in his hand. He’d eaten half. Chance was surprised he hadn’t eaten them all.

“I see you finally made it up here,” he said, his gaze on Stella. “You look like death warmed over, Silverstone.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. It was a hint that you should go back to bed.” His gaze shifted to Karen, and he frowned. “Are you here to try to kick me out again, Karen?” he asked, and the young woman blushed.

“I wasn’t trying to kick you out. I just didn’t understand why you were sitting here.”

“I told you why,” he said with typical Boone patience. The guy was almost never bothered by anything or anyone. “Next thing I knew, hospital security was trying to kick me to the curb.”

“I know, but—”

“Karen,” Stella cut in. “I appreciate you wanting to visit with Beatrice. Tomorrow will probably be a better day.”

It was a dismissal, and Karen seemed to get it.

Finally.

She patted Stella’s shoulder. “Of course. If you need anything, you know how to reach me. I have classes tomorrow and Friday, but I’m free Saturday and Sunday if you want me to clean the house and do some shopping.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I can also stay here with Beatrice, if you need me to.”

“I think we’ve got everything under control.” The words were kind and a lot more patient than was typical of Stella.

“Okay. Great. Good. Like I said, you know how to reach me.” Karen hurried off, and Stella sighed.

“She means well,” she said, and Chance wasn’t sure if the words were a reminder to herself or information for him and Boone.

“It didn’t feel like it when security was trying to strong-arm me out of here,” Boone muttered, pulling a cookie from the bag. “I nearly lost these babies fighting for my right to stay.”

“I’m sorry she called security on you, Boone.”

“Not your fault.” He stood, brushed crumbs from his lap. “If you two are going to be in there for a few minutes, I’m going to run and get coffee. Maybe see how the cafeteria food looks. You want anything?”

“Juice. Orange. And a black coffee,” Chance responded. He’d drink the coffee, and hopefully he could convince Stella to drink the juice. She still looked shaky, and that worried him. She also looked thinner than she had the last time he’d seen her. A month ago. Maybe a little longer than that. She’d come to DC to pick up a computer system that she could use for work.

She’d said she was fine, that her grandmother was fine, that things were going well. He’d heard a lot that she hadn’t said. Or maybe he’d just assumed that things weren’t as easy as she claimed, that life wasn’t quite as fine as she was making it out to be, because that’s the way Stella was.

She didn’t need help.

She didn’t want it.

Everything was always okay and fine and good.

When a guy got too close, when he asked too many questions, she backed off and walked away.

He’d watched it happen over and over again.

He’d experienced it firsthand.

She wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted more than an easy and light relationship. She didn’t want to share her soul. That’s what she’d told him on their last date when he’d asked about her family, about the accident that had taken them from her.

I don’t go out to dinner with a guy so I can share my soul with him. Sharing a meal is good enough.

He’d told her that he only ever wanted to be with someone who could share every part of herself.

That was it.

A bad ending to a story that should have had a great one. He and Stella had a lot in common. They clicked in a way he’d never clicked with any other woman. He could have made a life with her, but he wasn’t going to insist. He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t going to do anything but give her exactly what she’d said she wanted.

“You want anything, Stella?” Boone asked, calling her by her first name. Something he almost never did.

That seemed to shake her out of whatever stupor she’d fallen into.

She frowned, locking the brake on the wheelchair and getting to her feet. “Just to see my grandmother.”

“You go do that. I won’t be long,” Boone continued, meeting Chance’s eyes. “I’ll call Simon and let him know what’s going on here.”

“See if he’s got anything new from the local police.”

“And ask when the sheriff is going to get here. I want to speak with him.” Stella took a wobbly step toward the door.

“Take it easy,” Chance said, taking her arm before she could face-plant into the door.

“If I take it any easier, I’ll be prone in a bed.”

“That’s where you should be.”

“Not yet.” She opened the door and stepped into the quiet room.

A heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm, and the soft hiss of an oxygen machine filled the room. From what Chance could see, Beatrice’s vitals were normal. Or close to it. Her oxygen level was low, but the mask over her face should help with that.

Stella leaned over the bed rail and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Nana?”

When Beatrice didn’t respond, Stella lifted her hand, studied the gnarled joints and short nails. “She used to love having her nails done.”

“Did she?” Chance pulled a chair over to the bed and nudged Stella into it.

“She thought it made a woman feel feminine. She always wanted me to have mine done, too, but I was never a girly girl, and I hated it. One year, we had matching nails for Christmas. Hers were green with little red Christmas trees. Mine were red with little green Christmas trees. Christmas morning, I realized she’d bought us matching outfits, too. Long red skirts and white blouses with high collars. I think she was going for a Victorian vibe.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“I guess the Victorian theme didn’t go over well with you.”

“No.” She smiled at the memory. “But I wore the outfit to church anyway. Becky Snyder never did let me live that down. I heard about it every other day for my entire high school career.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t shut Becky down.” That was another thing Chance had watched happen over and over again. Stella knew how to put people in their places and how to keep them there. She also knew how to lift them up when they needed it, offer support when no one else could. It made her fantastic at her job, and it drew people to her. No matter how many times she tried to push them away.

“Why would I? I never cared what anyone else thought. Beatrice was happy. That made me happy.”

“I’m sure your grandmother wouldn’t have been happy if she’d known you were being teased.”

“She knew. We used to laugh about how ridiculous Becky was for bringing up something so last year. And about how silly she was to think that someone who’d survived what I had would be bothered by her opinion.” She smiled at the memory.

“Your grandmother was a smart lady.”

Maybe she’d heard the past tense. Maybe she’d realized just how much of herself she’d just shared.

Whatever the case, her smile faded, her gaze shifting to Beatrice’s face. “I hope she weathers this. She’s already frail, and her memory isn’t good. Sometimes older people don’t recover from—”

A siren split the air, the sound shrieking through the silent ICU.

Stella jumped from the chair, swayed.

Chance just managed to grab her waist, holding her upright as her grandmother bolted into a sitting position.

“What’s happening?” she cried, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

Good question.

Chance wanted an answer as badly as she did.

“I don’t know, but I plan to find out. Stay here,” he said, looking straight into Stella’s eyes.




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