Thin Ice

by Irene Hannon

  She was on her couch. Pale light was peeking in at the edges of her blinds. Flames were flickering in her fireplace. And she was cuddled up next to Lance . . . whose weary eyes and stubbled chin told her he’d been beside her, keeping vigil while she slept, since they’d arrived home from the ER at three in the morning.

  She willed the last vestiges of sleep to disperse and tried to pry herself away from his side.

  “Uh-uh.” He held fast. “I’ve been waiting all night to do this. My patience is gone.”

  Then, without giving her a chance to anticipate or prepare or get nervous, he dipped his head and gave her a kiss that was tender, careful, and restrained . . . but also simmering with a barely leashed passion, a promise of things to come, that set her heart racing.

  When at last he drew back, she let out a slow, unsteady breath. “That was some first kiss.”

  “And way overdue.” He cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “I lied a minute ago. I’ve been waiting much longer than all night to do that. And there’ll be a lot more of those once you’re back to normal. How are you feeling?”

  “Swept off my feet?” She smiled up at him.

  “Nice to hear. But I was referring to your physical condition.” His own smile faded as he searched her face. “I wish you’d spent a few more hours in the hospital. You’re too pale.”

  “I’m fine, Lance. A bad chill that didn’t qualify even as mild hypothermia, a few assorted bruises, and a touch of frostbite. The hot chocolate you fixed after we got back was much more effective than another warmed IV. Not to mention the body heat you provided.” She snuggled closer. “You can warm me up anytime.”

  He tipped his head. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Maybe. That’s allowed now that the case is over, isn’t it?”

  “Allowed—and encouraged.” A yawn snuck up on him. “Sorry.”

  The man’s dead on his feet, Christy. Send him home.

  She squelched her selfish impulses—the ones clamoring for her to urge him to stay. “Don’t apologize. You need to get some sleep.”

  “I have to admit, a few hours of shut-eye would be welcome. Will you be okay here by yourself?”

  “Yes. I plan to spend a large part of the day planted in front of the fire. Staying warm is my top priority—along with giving thanks that this whole nightmare is over.” She crimped the afghan in her fingers and released a shaky breath. “I still can’t believe how this played out. That Neven was behind it. I tried so hard to be nice to him in high school, and he repaid me by destroying my family?” A shudder rippled through her.

  Lance twined his fingers with hers, the warmth of his touch taking the edge off her soul-deep chill. “Psychopaths aren’t wired to react like rational, compassionate human beings, Christy. But he won’t have a chance to hurt anyone else ever again.” He stroked one finger along the edge of the bandage slanted across her temple. “Speaking of hurting, this is nasty. I can’t believe you gouged out a chunk of skin with your fingernails on purpose. It was almost deep enough to need stitches.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “I thought blood would make the ruse more realistic. I wanted Neven to believe I was really injured so he’d come out on the ice.”

  “I can’t speak for him, but it freaked me out.”

  “I’m sorry for that. And for this.” She laid a hand next to the scratch she’d inflicted on his cheek.

  He covered her fingers with his. “Don’t be. Having you go ballistic was the answer to a prayer. I knew then you’d faked the fall.” He yawned again, his expression rueful. “I must be getting soft—or old. I used to be able to go a lot longer than this without getting tired.”

  “Lance McGregor. Soft. Old.” She pretended to ponder that. “Nope. Not computing. But high-stakes drama can be draining, especially if there’s emotional involvement.”

  “Guilty on that score—and not ashamed to admit it. Shall I demonstrate the extent of my involvement?” He waggled his eyebrows.

  She chuckled. “Later. Right now, you need to sleep. I’ll walk you to the door.” She stood and held out her hand.

  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.

  Epilogue

  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.”
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  “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.

  It 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.”