from the wealthiest Denver families—but as Marcia had put it: “Until they came to Father Mike, they were trouble with a capital T.”
And that was exactly what Gabe Wilder had appeared to be. Trouble. She could see the anger and recklessness in the way he handled the ball. But she could also see a passion for the game. And it fascinated her. He fascinated her.
Suddenly he’d turned to face her. “What are you staring at?”
Nicola recalled that she’d swallowed hard and finally managed to blurt out, “You.”
Bouncing the ball, he’d moved a few steps closer.
“Why?”
A part of her knew that she shouldn’t even be talking to him. She should be weeding. But she hated gardening and basketball looked like it would be so much more fun.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Because you’re great at basketball.”
He turned and sent the ball whooshing through the hoop. Then he turned back to her. “You know how to play?”
“No.” Basketball was not on Marcia’s list of approved activities. Painting lessons, piano, ballet—those were.
To her utter amazement and delight, he’d sent the ball twirling on the tip of his finger. “I could teach you.”
“No, I—I couldn’t …” She knew very well that her stepmother hadn’t brought her here to play basketball with one of the center’s boys. But something in his eyes was tempting her, daring her.
“Why not?” he asked.
Why not indeed? It wasn’t as though her stepmother was here watching her. And she did want to play. So much.
He bounced the ball again. “Look,” he’d said, impatience clear in his tone. “I got friends coming in an hour. Want to shoot a few or not? “
Nicola could still recall the tingling sensation that had streamed through her whole body as she’d raced through the garden gate and onto the court.
“Ready?” Gabe had asked.
And when she’d nodded, he’d tossed her the ball.
After that, she’d played basketball with him every Saturday morning for an hour before his friends Nash and Jonah had shown up. That was always when Father Mike had come out to call her back into the center.
When Marcia had discovered what had been going on, she hadn’t been pleased. Basketball was a boys’ game. But Nicola hadn’t ever regretted those Saturdays. Gabe had teased her, tormented her and endlessly critiqued her game. But she’d learned. Playing basketball had been her first rebellion against the kind of woman Marcia wanted to mold her into. In an odd way, she owed Gabe Wilder, she supposed. If it hadn’t been for him, she might never have found the courage to take a stand in high school and try out for the basketball team.
Who knew? If it hadn’t been for Gabe, she might not have rebelled against Marcia’s and her father’s wishes even further and become an FBI agent.
Having finally reached the top of the church steps, Nicola stepped into a portico that partially shielded her from the force of the wind. She hadn’t seen Gabe Wilder for more than fifteen years—in spite of the fact that her last act on leaving the St. Francis Center for Boys had been to say a quick prayer to St. Francis that she would.
Some prayers went unanswered, and some bad boys couldn’t be saved.
She’d just reached the door of the church when she heard it. A crash? It was muffled by the wind, but Nicola was certain she’d heard something. Glass shattering? She recalled the picture in the Denver Post of the statue of St. Francis standing in its supposedly shatter-proof glass dome.
As she pulled out her gun, she ran her flashlight over the door and saw that it stood ajar. After slipping through the narrow opening, she paused again. There was illumination that wasn’t coming from her flashlight. Candles. She spotted the blur of light at the front of the church to her left.
She’d barely taken two steps up the center aisle when she heard another noise. This time there was no doubt about it—glass shattering.
After pocketing her flashlight, Nicola raised her gun and raced forward. As she neared the front of the church, she thought she spotted movement near those candles on the side altar. Then she saw it—a shadowy silhouette standing in front of the altar, its hands outstretched.
“Stop.” She gripped her gun with both hands as she cut around the front row of pews. “FBI. Raise your hands.”
A body rammed into her and she fell, landing backside first on the floor, then sliding into the first row of pews. Her head cracked against the wood and for a second, all she saw was stars.
“Stop.” She scrambled to her feet and raced down the aisle after the fleeing shadow. Without breaking stride, she raised her gun again and steadied it with her other hand. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
He kept on running.
She fired her weapon just as the darkness swallowed the shadow. Sprinting after him, she reached the front door of the church just in time to hear the motor of the SUV rev up. Then it lurched forward.
She ran out onto the front steps. As the wind whipped her breath away, she gripped her gun in both hands and took aim, but the tail lights dimmed as the vehicle gained speed. Then even those vanished into the falling snow.
A mix of anger and disappointment welled inside of her as she lowered her weapon. More than anything, she wanted to fight her way back to her car. But there was no way she could give chase. Not in this kind of weather. Even in that SUV, Gabe Wilder would be a lucky man if he could drive down off the mountain without spinning into a ditch.
But at least this time, she had proof that he’d been at the scene of the crime. He was connected to the thefts all right. She had to fill her father in. Pulling out her cell phone, she glanced at the time. Nine-fifteen—barely ten minutes since she’d left her car.
And the signal was dead. She looked back at the open door of the church. Hopefully, there was a landline inside. Wilder might deny being here, but she’d have more than a gut feeling when she talked to her father this time, and he’d have to listen to her.
And Gabe Wilder would have some explaining to do. She’d identified herself as FBI and he hadn’t stopped.
Suddenly, Nicola frowned. Of course, she could only accuse Gabe Wilder of leaving a crime scene if there’d been a crime.
Hunching her head against the wind, she fought her way back to the open church door. Once inside, she pulled it shut, locked it and reholstered her gun.
She located a light switch, but nothing came on when she flipped it. Not surprising. The storm must have knocked out the power lines. That had to be why it was so cold. The moment she turned her flashlight on, she could see her breath in the frigid air.
She hurried toward the side altar. The statue of St. Francis was still there, standing on the narrow altar completely enclosed in a glass case just as it had appeared in the photo. So that hadn’t been what she’d heard breaking.
Then
