by Wilde, Lori
It was better this way. Keegan had no business in Wren’s life, and she certainly had no place in his. If he could indeed term his pitiful existence a life.
Jamming his hands deeper into his pockets, Keegan trailed the dark, flat ribbon of road stretching out before him. The ankle-deep snow laced above the ice below accentuated his loneliness, heightened his feelings of desolation.
Why did his heart ache clean through to his bones? Why did he feel as if he’d just lost the one thing in his life that had made him human again? In the eighteen months since Maggie and Katie’s murders, he’d become a feral animal living to find and punish his enemy. Nothing had deterred him from his goal.
Until Wren.
Wren.
A miracle.
A Christmas gift from heaven.
His last chance at salvation, and he’d blown it. He couldn’t let go of his anger and release himself from his vow of revenge.
Why? Because if he relinquished his rage, what would sustain him? Wren’s love? How could she love him? He was nothing but a shell of his former self. An embittered ex-cop who wanted nothing more to do with home, family, and commitment.
Soon enough, she would realize he wasn’t worth loving. That he’d been all used up. Then she’d leave him, and he’d be worse off than where he started—in monstrous emotional pain but without the sharp edge of his anger to keep him from falling apart.
“Think about Heller,” he told himself. “Focus on catching the man. You’re so close. Forget Wren Matthews.”
But he could not. Not even when he squeezed his eyes tightly closed. What was he doing stumbling around out here in the darkness? What the hell did he expect to find?
Keegan wrapped his hand around the Magnum, seeking comfort, but for once the sturdy metal failed to lift his spirits.
“Concentrate,” he told himself. “You’ve got a mission to complete. Remember what Heller did to Maggie and Katie. He must pay.”
Killing Heller won’t bring them back. The words floated starkly through his mind.
No, but it would go a long way in easing his pain.
Keegan gritted his teeth and recited the rhetoric that had kept him putting one foot in front of the other for so long.
Really? Since when did hate ever relieve suffering? Hatred only generates more hate.
That concept stopped him cold.
Keegan stood alone on the desolate country road, wind whipping past his ears, snow bunching beneath his feet. Fence posts loomed out of the shadows like misbegotten soldiers. Accentuating his isolation, heightening his loneliness.
During the past six months, Keegan had been able to turn off his conscience, to ignore any and all niggling doubts about the correctness of his motivation. But ever since he’d encountered Wren, the hardness in his heart had started to dissolve. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized what the last few days with her had actually meant to him.
The welcoming smiles she lavished, the nourishing food she prepared, the tenderness she showed him served to cleanse a small piece of his sullied soul.
Wren was light and life. When he thought of her, his heart filled to bursting. Wren. Sweet, innocent, insecure because of her limp.
It disturbed Keegan that she allowed a small physical imperfection to color her opinion of herself. She had no reason to be insecure. She was a wonderful woman. Strong and brave. Quiet and wise. If only he could make her see that.
He reached up to finger the scarf around his neck. The scarf she’d knitted for him. Wren had given him her love, and he’d refused her offering, out of fear.
What was he so afraid of? Living? Loving? Getting hurt? Keegan sucked in his breath as his emotions warred.
Love or hate? Revenge or clemency? Darkness or daybreak?
Cold air invaded his lungs, and they ached with the effort of breathing. The vein at his temple throbbed. He could not continue to juggle both passions. He either loved or he hated. He was either angry or merciful. Vengeful or lenient. In that moment, Keegan knew he had to make a choice.
Wren Matthews or Connor Heller.
Behind him lay salvation, ahead eternal damnation.
Fresh snow drifted from the sky and rested on his collar. Keegan turned his face upward.
“Give me a sign,” he spoke softly to the heavens, praying for the first time since the fire had obliterated his life. “Show me what to do.”
He waited in the silence, his hands clenched at his sides.
Nothing happened. What had he expected? A lightning bolt?
His nose and ears tingled with cold. His toes felt heavy inside his boots. His pulse pushed against his veins in a restless rhythm.
Would there be an answer? A sign? If not on Christmas, then when?
Listen. Listen with your heart. The words flew into his mind.
Keegan cocked his head, strained his ears.
The wind whipped and whistled. In the distance, he saw the glow of Wren’s Christmas lights winking merrily into the darkness, calling him back to her warm shelter.
And then he heard something.
Faint. Distant.
But something.
What? It was too far away to identify. He frowned and concentrated on the sound.
Music.
Keegan swiveled and looked about him. How could there be music? There were no houses, or cars, or people. No radios or televisions or MP3 players or phones. Nothing but fresh snow, bare trees, and empty fields.
Still, he heard it and the music gradually grew louder until he could identify the song.
“Away in a Manger.”
Sung by a woman.
His wife’s voice, quirkily out of tune. Just the way she sang in church.
No!
Keegan clamped his gloved hands over his ears. But the sound grew louder still until it was a roaring hum inside his head.
“What!” he cried out and dropped to his knees, his face peering up at the sky. “What does it mean?”
Then from the drifting snow flurries, he saw something emerge. A gently glowing white light that flickered and expanded until he recognized the slender form of his dead wife, smiling at him.
“Maggie,” Keegan whimpered. He must be hallucinating. Was the fever back? Was he going insane?
He buried his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. The pain searing his heart was almost unbearable.
“She loves you, Keegan.”
He opened his eyes, but Maggie was still there, the flowing white gown she wore swirling around her in a gauzy haze.
“Who?” he croaked.
“Wren. You could love her too, if you let yourself.”
“But...how can I?”
“Let go.”
“Let go of what?” He beseeched her.
“Anger, hatred, revenge.”
“But what about Heller?”
“It’s too late for me and Katie, don’t let it be too late for you, Keegan.”
Shivers traversed his spine. “Tell me what to do,” he begged.
“Love,” she replied.
The word reverberated in his brain. The sound resonated like a tuning fork, sending vibrations throughout his body.
Love.
“Wren needs you, and you need her. Don’t worry about me and Katie. We’re happy now, and safe. We want you to be happy, too.”
“I never meant to let you down,” Keegan said, tears slipping down his face.
“Keegan, forgive yourself. Go. Love again.”
And suddenly a sensation unlike anything he’d ever experienced rushed over him. Peace. Serenity. Tranquility. Every muscle in his body relaxed in response to the gentle heat suffusing his body.
Keegan felt weightless, unfettered, free. The sound of Maggie’s voice grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared, leaving his body pulsating with raw energy.
“Maggie?” He rubbed his eyes and stared at the spot where she’d stood, but nothing was there. Had Maggie’s spirit truly been here or had his imagination concocted the whole thing? D
id it matter? The message remained the same.
Love.
Had he been holding on to revenge for Maggie’s and Katie’s sake, or for his own purposes? Had he been deluding himself all along?
Keegan knew the answer. Vengeance was selfish. It destroyed. Only love and forgiveness could make him whole. And he knew where to find that acceptance. All he needed to do was reach out for the woman he loved.
Wren.
And he did love her, with an intensity that far surpassed anything he’d ever felt for Maggie. He’d loved his wife, yes. But it had been a soft and gentle sort of love, not this all-consuming need that engulfed him whenever he thought about Wren.
His body had never ached for Maggie the way it ached for Wren. Never thirsted the way he was thirsting now for the forgiveness only intimate sharing could bring. Never needed love the way he needed it now.
He got to his feet and withdrew the Magnum from its holster. The gun was a symbol of his hatred. Swallowing hard, he grabbed the pistol by the barrel and flung it far.
Feeling as if a gigantic burden had been lifted from his shoulders, Keegan turned and trotted across the field.
14
“Jingle Bell Rock” played from the radio. Upbeat and lively. A chilling contrast to what was happening.
Wren sat rooted to a chair in the middle of the kitchen floor, her eyes fixed on the drunken man dancing around the room. Heller had her Santa Claus apron tied around his head. He looked demented.
In one hand, Connor Heller carried a can of gasoline, in the other a whiskey bottle. He had a lit cigarette pinched between his thick lips. His eyes glistened with a bright, evil sheen. He’d scarfed down three loaves of cranberry-walnut bread and the crumbs clung to his dirty beard.
“Ain’t this fun?” he slurred, sloshing whiskey on his shirt as he leaned in close to her. The apron tails bobbed gaily about his thick shoulders.
Beneath his shirt, she could see the delineation of a handgun tucked in his waistband. Dread rose in her throat, hot and caustic, but she didn’t dare let this animal know exactly how much he frightened her.
She said nothing.
He pushed his face next to hers. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” Wren snapped, “this is a regular laugh a minute.”
He threw back his head and let loose with a guffaw. “Boy howdy, you are more fun than Winslow’s first woman. She just wanted to tremble and cry.”
Suddenly, Wren understood Keegan’s need for revenge. This filthy animal deserved to be imprisoned for the rest of his natural life. Anger overrode her common sense. She sucked in her breath and told Heller exactly what was on her mind.
“You should be locked up forever.”
“No prison can hold me,” Heller bragged. “I’ll just escape again. That is, if they ever catch me.”
“You’re scum!”
Wren was a little surprised at her own vehemence, but her rage knew no bounds. For the first time in her life, she had found someone she truly cared about, but Keegan had been so damaged by what this creep had done to his family that he could not return her devotion.
She understood it, but it grieved her nonetheless. If Keegan hurt, then she hurt. At this point, it didn’t even matter if Heller burned down the house with her in it. What was life without the man she loved?
And love him she did, with a consuming passion. It didn’t matter that they’d known each other only a few days. She knew all she needed to know about him. They were kindred spirits, linked by pain and suffering. Two people who were battered and bruised but could heal each other if they but tried.
You’ll never get the chance to find out. Connor Heller’s going to kill you.
Wren looked into that maniacal face and knew the truth. She was about to die. Alone. Frightened. And without ever telling Keegan how much she loved him.
Heller’s giggling accelerated as he took another slug of whiskey.
Oh, dear God, the man was insane!
Her gaze scanned the kitchen, searching for a weapon. A large cast iron skillet hung on the rack above the stove. It was ten feet away. Could she make it to the stove before he drew his gun and shot her?
“You know,” she said, remaining outwardly calm while internally her mind raced off in a million splintered directions. “It is Christmas.”
“Yeah?” He shook his head, and her apron slid to one side.
“If you kill me on Christmas then I doubt you’ll get anything but coal in your stocking.”
He paused, looking at her as if she were nuts and then laughed nervously. “You trying to tell me that you believe in Santa Claus?”
“No,” she said. “I believe in miracles.”
“That’s good, ‘cause it’s gonna take a miracle to save your hide tonight, crip.”
Crip. His word echoed Blaine Thomas’ long-ago accusation. Who could love a cripple?
She’d show this low-life who was crippled!
Rage commingled with determination. She wasn’t about to sit like a helpless victim being harangued by this bully while the man she loved trudged alone out there in the ice-encrusted darkness. Whatever it took, she would fight for her life and then she would fight to secure Keegan’s love. Wren gritted her teeth, heaved herself from the chair, and lunged for the stove.
Her unexpected action threw Heller off guard. He reached to grab her only to discover his hands were full. Surprise flitted across his face but Wren, on the move, barely noticed.
Heller growled.
Wren didn’t glance behind her. She couldn’t afford to see how close he stood. Instead, she reached forward and grasped the lip of the iron skillet with her fingers.
She felt him grab her flannel nightgown in his fist. He jerked her backward just as she got a firm grip on the skillet’s handle. Like a tennis player executing the perfect backhand, Wren rounded on the convict and slammed him a stunning blow on the side of his head.
Heller grunted and dropped to his knees.
Wren wasted no time on triumph. She spun on her heels, dashed for the door, and struggled to wrench it open. The thing wouldn’t budge.
He’d locked it.
Undo the lock, Wren.
Her breathing came in hard, erratic spurts. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp. She heard Heller stagger to his feet, and her pulse leapt in her throat, sending a heated rush of blood through her body and spurring her onward.
Go, go, go.
In her headlong haste, she barely perceived the loud clattering noise. A gun? The iron skillet? She cringed. What was Heller doing?
Something splashed behind her. She smelled gasoline.
No!
A dry flicking sound, like an empty lighter unable to spark.
Fear crowded her throat.
Whoosh!
She looked over her shoulder. Her kitchen floor danced with flames, and a trail of fire was running straight for her. Heller stood behind the blaze, grinning wickedly, blood streaking down the side of his face. Wren got the door open at last and flung herself outside into the frigid night, slipping on the stairs as she did.
Knocked off her feet, she grasped the railing at the same time her mouth dropped open in horror.
Heller’s shriek of maniacal laughter reverberated throughout the night. Wren regained her balance and limped across the yard.
“Burn, baby, burn!” Heller shouted.
Wren realized she should run, but she stood and stared in horror.
Her house was on fire.
* * *
A frantic urgency built in Keegan’s chest.
Wren needed him. Desperately.
How he knew this, he would be hard-pressed to say, but he knew something was wrong. It was as if they were joined by some bizarre psychic link, and after what had happened to him out there in the field when he’d spoken to God and received an answer from Maggie, Keegan wasn’t about to take his premonition lightly.
But Wren’s house lay half a mile in the distance and already his breathing was labored. Cursi
ng this weakness. Keegan gritted his teeth and pushed himself onward.
Wren.
He could think of nothing but her. From her kind, encouraging smile to her sweet lavender scent. He recalled the way her skin had felt brushing against his when she’d shaved his face. He remembered the melodious sounds of her laughter. He could not forget the lengths she’d gone to in order to make this a special Christmas for him.
And he’d thrown it back in her face.
All thoughts of revenge had disappeared. To hell with Heller. Wren needed him, and he wasn’t about to let her down the way he’d disappointed Maggie. God had given him a second chance, and he was grabbing at it with both hands.
If nothing else, Heller had taught him that. It had been an awful way to learn a hard lesson, but Keegan would never again take a woman’s love for granted.
He trudged across the field, head down, coat collar up against the wind. When he got back to the farmhouse, he was going to take Wren into his arms, kiss her gently and apologize.
The Christmas lights winked brighter as he drew closer. Keegan lifted his face. Fear rippled over him, fear that was even more compelling than on that awful night eighteen months earlier.
He smelled the smoke before he saw the flames.
“No!” he screamed the words ripping from his throat in a horrible deja vu. He was caught in some hideous nightmare. There simply could not be another fire. He could not, would not, lose someone else he loved.
Heller.
There could be no other explanation.
Ignoring the pain in his lungs, the aching in his legs, Keegan ran, his knees pumping high, his heart pounding with terror.
The footprints he’d discovered in the snow yesterday morning had belonged to Heller. Deep in his gut he’d known it yet denied it. It seemed too coincidental, but it had to be true. While he’d been hunting Heller, the murderer had been hunting him.
“Wren!” Keegan shouted and prayed that this time, he would not be too late.
* * *