serious. “I really need my dad.”
“I’ll help you find him.” She’d feel better if she could take a look at that arm, which the girl held gingerly. A sprained wrist? A fracture? The doctor in her was itching to find out. The dad couldn’t be far. “Leave it to me. I have three sisters, so I’m really good at hollering. What’s his name?”
“Dr. Kramer. I— Well, I guess it’s okay to tell you my name. It’s Macie.”
“It’s good to meet you, Macie. I’m Chelsea. Tell you what, I’ll holler and we’ll follow your tracks back to him, all right?”
“But I don’t want to go back. It makes me sad.” Macie stayed right where she was, sorrow shining in her blue gaze. “It’s cuz my mom is here.”
“I’m sorry.” Sympathy hit Chelsea so hard, it left her weak. Tears burned behind her eyes. “My mom is buried here, too. I know just how you feel.”
* * *
Michael Kramer pressed his gloved hand against the gray marble as if to will what remained of his regret through the cold stone. Icy flecks of snow beat against his face as he fought not to remember his failings as a husband.
“The storm’s worsening, Macie.” He adjusted the wreath of plastic poinsettias, already dotted with snow. “We’d better get home before the roads close.”
No little girl’s voice answered. Probably because his daughter was no longer standing behind him. There was nothing but the impression in the snow of her two booted feet. Why hadn’t he noticed earlier? Frustrated with himself, he frowned, crinkling his brow. And how many times had he told her not to wander off? He launched to his feet, searching the thick veil of falling snow. No sign of her.
“Macie!” The wind snatched his voice. Snow beat against his coat hood, drowning out all other sounds. Blindly, he swiped snow off his face, noticing the scoop mark in the snow from a child-size mitten. No need to panic. Sunshine, Wyoming, was a safe place for kids, not like Chicago where he’d grown up. She had to be around here somewhere.
“Macie!” He tried again. Still no answer, at least none that he could hear in the rising storm. Not that she wouldn’t be easy to find. Just follow the trail.
Her boots cut a visible path into the snow and darkness, roughly heading toward the parking lot. If she’d wanted to leave, she could have just told him. Frustrated, he fisted his hands, teeth chattering in the cold. His daughter was grieving, too. It wasn’t easy for him to deal with emotions. Diana, when she’d been alive, had told him that often enough. He feared that made him a terrible father.
A flash of pink penetrated the swirling snow. Macie’s coat. What was she doing on the ground and why was someone kneeling over her? He took one look at the bulky navy coat bending over his fallen daughter and the worst thoughts leaped into his mind. Protective fury roared through him. He grew ten feet and his fist closed around the navy coat wearer.
“Get away from her.” He hauled the kidnapper to his feet. No one—no one—was going to hurt his daughter.
“Hey! Let go of me.” A rather bossy woman yanked her arm out of his grip. “What’s wrong with you, buddy?”
A woman? He blinked, the scene coming clear to him. His daughter sitting up, cradling her arm. Macie was hurt. Tears stood in her eyes. Was it this woman’s fault? “What are you— I mean, who are you? What’s going on here?” he boomed.
“You must be Macie’s dad. Good thing you came along. Awesome, right, Macie?” She cast him a quelling look and he felt like an idiot grabbing her like that. The girl was lost. Clearly the woman had been trying to help.
Great. Jump to the wrong conclusion, Michael. Just add it to his long list of idiocies around women. The flare of adrenaline crackling through his blood calmed. Now what did he do? Apologize? Explain that he wasn’t a terrible father? All he could see was Macie still on the ground, clutching one arm, pale, shivering and obviously hurt.
“I fell, Daddy.” Her lower lip quivered. “It was the curb’s fault. That’s what Chelsea said.”
Chelsea, huh? He bypassed the woman, catching a glimpse of big blue eyes glaring up at him. Her sweet oval face was framed by a hint of light-chestnut-brown hair and topped with a red hat. He ignored the hitch in his chest that made him want to take better notice of her and knelt in front of his daughter. Macie looked fragile and tiny, and his heart seemed to break—but that was impossible because as everyone told him, he didn’t have a heart. “Were you daydreaming again? Telling yourself stories?”
“Kinda.” She winced. “The snow could be hiding a princess’s castle.”
“Next time, stay with me, got it?” He gentled his voice, although it still came out gruff. Tenderness wasn’t his strong suit either.
Macie nodded. Twin tears trailed down her too-white cheeks.
His poor baby. “C’mon, let’s get you in the car.”
“No. Chelsea says I need an X-ray.” Macie sniffled. “You know why I don’t like the emergency room, Daddy?”
Yeah, he knew. He squeezed his eyes shut to hold in the pain. The past flashed like a mosaic—the receptionist bursting into his office with news of an urgent phone call, the mad dash to emergency, seeing Diana still and slight looking in death. His nurse kept Macie in the waiting room. After hearing the sad news the child had sat utterly still, frozen in a room of chaos.
He opened his eyes. Only a second had passed, but it felt like an eternity. “Let me take a look.”
“No!” She jerked away, the movement causing pain. More tears fell. “It’ll get better. I know it will.”
He knew the sound of desperation. He heard it every day in his office, when family members had to face a tough diagnosis. As a specialist, he gave out bad news as a matter of course. He’d had to harden himself so the sadness wouldn’t take him down. He had patients to think about, he had to stay uninvolved and rational so he could guide them through a tough and trying time.
He gave thanks that his child was healthy, unlike the others he treated, and wiped at her tears. “Come with me, baby.”
“No! I won’t go where Mom died.” His beautiful daughter hiccupped, upset by memories, which were hard for him, too.
At a loss, he opened his mouth and closed it. He wasn’t cut out to be a single father. He wished he were able to do a better job.
Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him. He felt the woman’s—Chelsea’s—glower as she stomped closer. He hadn’t noticed she’d left, but when he spotted two knit blankets folded up in her arms, it touched him.
“She needs to be kept warm.” Her blue eyes met his, full of concern, and was that a hint of censure? Or wariness? Her gaze turned kind as she brushed snow off Macie’s hat. “If we leave you out here any longer, you are going to turn into a snowman, well, a snowgirl, and that would be bad because then you’d melt away.”
“Not if I moved to the north pole.” Macie hiccupped, in an effort to hold back her pain. “I could make a house there.”
“True. You could live in an igloo. It could be cool.” Chelsea rolled her eyes,
