have easily resulted in a tragedy tonight, something he was sure his captain would point out after learning of the situation.
The EMTs entered the store, and he heard the officers tell them where Joey had been shot and how long he’d been out. Fiona heard them, too, her expression turning distant as she listened to the conversation.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?”
Considering the man had held a gun to Fiona’s head, Nate really couldn’t care less if he recovered. Knowing Fiona wouldn’t appreciate that response, he merely nodded. “Most likely,” he said. “He got hit in the shoulder, and there wasn’t enough blood for the bullet to have clipped an artery. He’ll be just fine once they get him patched up, and then he’ll get to enjoy all the comforts of the city’s fine facilities.”
She frowned, clearly not buying his casual reply. “He passed out,” she said, raising a brow as if daring him to deny that fact.
Nate shrugged. “It hurts like hell to get shot. Maybe the pain got to him.”
Her face softened when she looked up at him. “You’ve been shot before?”
He inwardly winced, cursing himself for letting that slip. She was looking at him with stars in her eyes again, and he couldn’t bear to mislead her.
“It was my fault,” he told her, needing her to understand. “I was a rookie, and I got caught up in the excitement of making a bust. I didn’t wait for backup, and I walked right into it.”
Her mouth formed a perfect O while she raised her eyebrows. “Where were you shot?”
“In a run-down crack house off Westheimer, over in the projects.”
She gave him a mock glare, her lips twitching as she fought off a smile. “I meant where were you physically injured.” She ran her gaze over his body, searching for a clue. His skin tingled in response, and he found he liked having her eyes on him.
“Grazed my leg,” he said, patting his left thigh. He’d been exceedingly lucky—the perp had been high, which had affected his aim.
“Wow,” she murmured. “Does it still bother you?”
He shook his head. “Not really. It aches a bit, now and then, but only when there’s bad weather coming.”
Fiona gave him a mischievous smile. “You sound like a grandpa.”
Nate narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in an exaggerated sneer. “Just stay off my lawn,” he said, raising his fist in a weak shake.
Fiona laughed at that, her features relaxing for a moment. Warmth spread through his chest at the sight, and he grinned back at her. She deserved a laugh after her night, and he was absurdly proud to have been the one to lighten her mood.
The clicking sound of gurney wheels locking into place told him the EMTs had loaded Joey and were getting ready to leave. Fiona heard it, too, the smile fading from her face while she listened to the men roll out the door.
“So what happens now?”
Steve chose that moment to join them, and he spoke before Nate could reply. “We need to take you down to the station and get your statement.” He held up his arm, indicating Fiona should precede him out the door. “If you’ll come with me, please.”
She frowned slightly. “What about the store owner? I need to call him and let him know what happened here.”
Steve pulled out his notepad and passed it to Fiona. “My partner is staying here to keep the scene secure. You can give him the owner’s number and he’ll call.”
She nodded while she scribbled down a number, but Nate could see the wrinkle between her brows and knew she still wasn’t fully comfortable.
“Why don’t I come along?” he offered. Fiona’s expression lightened, and her apparent relief at his continued company made him want to puff out his chest.
Trying to hide his satisfaction, Nate turned to Steve. “If your partner has things under control here, I could give my statement, as well.”
Steve nodded. “Sounds good. Want to follow us back to the station?”
“Sure.” Nate addressed his next remark to Fiona. “I can drop you back here when we’re done, so you can get your car.”
A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I’d appreciate that.”
As Nate watched her walk away with Steve, he was forced to admit his motives weren’t entirely altruistic. She needed a ride back to her car, to be sure, but it was the perfect excuse to spend time with her.
And he intended to make the most of it.
* * *
Fiona wrapped her hands around the plastic coffee cup, trying to soak up the weak heat leaching through the sides. She couldn’t stop shivering, despite the warm mugginess of the room. Houston winters weren’t terribly cold, but the heater in this aging municipal building seemed to have only one setting—thermonuclear. It was enough to make the place feel like a muggy swamp. Under normal circumstances, she’d feel bad for the officers forced to work in this humidor. Now, though, she was grateful for the warmth and the coffee, even if it did taste like stale pencil shavings.
On a certain level, she’d always known that working the night shift at a convenience store was a dangerous job. Despite the fact that she spent most of her shift alone, studying at the counter, the clientele who did frequent the store weren’t exactly the most upstanding citizens. To be fair, she saw quite a few shift workers, honest people who stopped in on their way to or from work. Generally speaking, though, those who came around were dancing on the thin edge of trouble.
To her mother’s way of thinking, it had never been a question of if she’d ever get robbed, but when. Christine Sanders had been furious and terrified when Fiona had told her about the job. “I won’t let you work there,” she’d said, drawing herself up in the hospital bed with shaking, painfully thin arms. “I forbid it.”
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Fiona replied, returning to the bedside with a damp washcloth. She gently laid the cloth across her mother’s forehead, and the lines of pain etched into Christine’s face softened a bit. “It won’t be that busy—hardly anyone needs gas at two in the morning. Besides, I need this job for my research. You don’t need to worry.”
“I do worry.” Her mother’s eyes were bright blue, burning with fever and fear. “Those places get robbed all the time, and they’re going to see you, a pretty young woman working alone. You make an easy target, Fi.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, smoothing back the thin, wispy strands of hair that hadn’t succumbed to the chemo treatments. “Are you saying you don’t think I can be intimidating?” She narrowed her eyes in a fierce scowl, but her mother only smiled sadly.
“You should pick a different research topic. One that doesn’t have you working in the middle of the night.”
It was a familiar refrain, one her mother had said countless times before. As always, Fiona was at a loss for how to respond. She’d tried several times to explain her research project—studying the effects of
