arm beneath me? You’re just a little thing, but even a bit of a boost should help get me going in the right direction.”
He had always referred to her as being “a little thing.” The memory stabbed her like an icicle to the heart. Slipping her arm around him, feeling the power of his body, the heat through his coat, would be like an entire eave’s worth of icicles piercing the wall of her chest—the barricade she’d erected around her emotions.
But her exposed skin had long ago begun to tingle, and if she didn’t want frostbite, she needed to get him up and into the house.
“Okay, ready?” Her face turned toward the woods, where the branches had begun to lash the darkening sky, Lauren slipped one arm beneath Chris’s shoulders. Her hand touched cold snow and colder metal, as she curled her fingers around the bulky muscle of his upper arm. Not until she heaved with all her strength did she realize the metal must belong to his gun. It had either slipped from his holster when he fell, or he had been holding it, ready to fire. Or...
She jerked her hand away. “Did you shoot my brother?”
Chris started to sigh in exasperation. Pain shot through his back, bruised, no doubt, from the bullet that had slammed into his vest, so he settled for a quick puff through his clenched teeth. “I did not shoot your brother. It’s quite likely the other way around.”
“Ryan would never shoot at either of us. Besides, he has never carried a gun.” Lauren spoke with the harsh defense of her brother she always had, though she knew he operated outside the law more often than not.
The same sort of defense that had driven a tractor trailer–sized wedge between Chris and Lauren five years ago.
Remembered anguish roughened Chris’s tone when he responded. “He stole one from the courtroom deputy today.”
“But that—”
“Save it, Lauren. Someone has been out here shooting, and they may be circling around for a better shot.”
“Someone shot Ryan.” She scrambled to her feet. “He fell. He was bleeding.”
If he was wounded, Chris had a better chance of capturing him. Maybe Ryan would be back in custody by no later than tomorrow, Christmas Eve, and no one else would have to sacrifice their holiday to continue the pursuit.
“Your head is bleeding pretty badly yourself.” Lauren’s tone softened. “Do you still need me to help you up?”
“No, ma’am.” Chris grabbed a stick of kindling from the disordered cords of wood and used it as a crutch to haul himself to his feet. He swayed, feeling as though each gust of wind from the oncoming storm could blow him over.
Lauren touched his arm. “Let me help you inside before you fall down.”
“I’m all right.” He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t bring himself to read anger or disgust with his work in her beautiful face.
“Sure, you’re all right. You always wobble when you’re standing still.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm, though she wrapped her arm around his waist. “Put your arm around my shoulders and we’ll get into the house before we turn into snowpeople...or get shot.”
“If I fall again, I’ll drag you down with me.”
He regretted the words the instant he said them. They were too much of a reminder of her words when she broke their engagement.
With the way people think, if my family falls, my credibility may go down with them, regardless of how innocent I am. And I would drag your career as a marshal with me.
“I’m sorry.” Chris slung an arm over her shoulders more as an apology than because he needed her physical support.
She said nothing. Head bowed, she trekked through the snow more slowly than he liked with at least one gunman possibly still lurking in the trees biding his time for—what? A better shot at the deputy marshal, if it was Ryan who had done the firing? For Ryan to reappear, if this was a separate gunman? Chris hadn’t seen Ryan, or anyone other than Lauren. He had seen only the muzzle flashes, heard the shots echoing from the trees and across the frozen lake.
Chris fought the urge to run. He wasn’t sure he could, and Lauren wore ridiculous slipper things on her feet that would probably make her fall at a faster gait. They didn’t have far to go along the length of the deck. Their footfalls made nearly no sound in the powdered snow blown across the boards. In contrast, the wind through the bare tree branches sounded like torrential rain. Ice along the shoreline cracked with the onslaught of rising waves. Although the first flakes of snow heralded the coming storm, Lauren no longer shivered. Chris understood why—maybe. Lauren’s nearness warmed him, and she might feel the same, despite the coldness that had frozen communication between them when he’d changed career paths.
The fifteen feet to the door felt like fifteen miles. So close to Lauren, Chris caught her scent, sweet and delicate like orange blossoms. He tried not to breathe. He tried not to remember how being near her had once made him feel.
They reached the house. Through the open door, heat from the wood-burning stove poured over them like hot syrup, along with the fragrance of bacon and fresh bread and sugar cookies.
“I’ll just grab my first-aid kit.” She called out her intent without looking back, then raced for the bathroom.
Chris closed and bolted the door, then headed for the stove with its radiating heat. It needed another log to really be effective. With a gunman probably still outside somewhere, he should close her shutters and—
He clapped his hand to his side. His gun. It wasn’t in its holster. He had removed it to fire back at the rifleman in the trees long enough for Lauren to get to safety. Riflemen in the trees. More than one shooter. He had made the rookie mistake of thinking all he heard behind him were echoes. Apparently another man had been behind him, shooting him in the back, and he had fallen, logs burying him and crashing into his head so hard he feared he lost consciousness for a minute or two. He must have dropped the gun when he fell.
Cautious, all too aware the fugitive was likely still armed from his daring escape from the courtroom that morning, Chris opened the door. Wind threatened to snatch it from his hand. He muscled the door shut behind him and paused to listen.
If anyone still lurked in the trees, the wind masked any sound they made. Scudding clouds and waving branches disguised anything else moving in the shadows. But he dared not leave his weapon in the snow. He might want it. Judging from how the night was going, he would need it.
Still dizzy from the blow to his head, his upper back throbbing with every breath, Chris braced one hand against the side of the house to traverse the fifteen feet to the woodpile at the end of the deck. He was partially sheltered there by the house and the stacked cordwood. No one raced along the lakeshore or across the frozen water. But those trees could hold any kind of menace.
He dropped to a crouch and began to hunt for his weapon amid the disordered logs. Nothing. No glint of waning moonlight on steel. No unmistakable dark shape against the snow. The place where he had fallen was clear of wood. Blood from his head wound was a dark stain against the white. Yet no gun lay amid the wreckage.
He guessed what had happened to it. Lauren had stopped while investigating his injuries and accused him of shooting her brother, most likely because she had found his weapon.
“Chris?”
