Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver
carpet. At first he’d thought she had been drinking and had passed out again. He’d smelled the brandy. But then he’d seen that her eyes were open. And he’d detected another smell, a bitter, coppery tang that rose from her red blouse…
He had shouted her name and dropped to his knees. She had still been warm. He’d called 911. He’d done CPR. He hadn’t even noticed the blood that slicked his hands and spattered his shirt.
Thank God Chantal hadn’t been there. The number of times Sylvia had left their daughter with her parents while she indulged herself had been another source of arguments between them, but on that day he had been grateful for her selfishness.
His hand curled into a fist against the window frame. Sylvia had had her faults—he’d known that when he’d married her—but she had been the mother of his child. He had loved her once. When had it gone wrong? What could he have done differently?
There was a featherlight touch on his shoulder. “John, you shouldn’t be on your feet.”
He opened his eyes and looked at Dana. The grisly image of his wife’s death faded. Instead, he saw a blond angel and caught the scent of flowers. “I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry for upsetting you. If there’s anything I can do…”
For the first time he saw that the caution was gone from Dana’s gaze. In its place was compassion.
Did she trust him now? He hadn’t meant to tell her about Chantal. He’d done his best not to get personal. The less involved he got with Dana, the fewer complications when he left.
But the drawing she’d shown him had taken him off guard. When he’d seen the cat with the distinctive, impish face, he hadn’t been able to stop the leap of pleasure he’d felt. Although it had been a rough sketch, the fluid lines that characterized D. J. Whittington’s work were unmistakable. Her illustrations were as full of life and laughter as her stories. After the bleak existence he’d been living, the sight of that drawing had transported him back to a better time, a happier time, and he’d spoken before he’d thought.
Chantal would be thrilled if she knew that he was face-to-face with her favorite author. She would be tickled pink to discover he had held the real live Mortimer Q. Morganbrood on his lap.
But how could he tell her? Would he ever get the chance?
And now that he knew who his beautiful rescuer really was, how could he continue to lie?
Damn it, Dana didn’t deserve this. No one did. What kind of man was he turning into? He should end this now, turn himself in before he hurt anyone else.
But then he thought of Chantal with Sylvia’s parents. Would they be reading her favorite books to her at bedtime, or would they be filling her head with stories about her evil daddy? Would the children in the town point at her and call her names? Would she grow up the way he had, always trying to prove everyone wrong to atone for a father’s sins?
He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty window. He couldn’t afford the luxury of a conscience. He’d use whatever—and whoever—he could in order to see this through. Another day to recover his strength, a head start on his pursuers, that’s what he needed from Dana. And if playing on her sympathy would serve his purpose, then that’s what he would do.
“Thanks, Dana. You’re right, I shouldn’t be on my feet.”
She smiled without hesitation. Fitting herself against his side, she drew his arm over her shoulder and turned him around. “Come on, then. I’ll help you back to the couch.”
After the perpetual dusk of the previous day’s storm, the sunrise seemed overly bright. It glared from the fresh snow that covered the frozen lake, it ignited the tops of the pines. It jabbed through the frost on the windows like a searchlight. It also silhouetted John’s broad shoulders and found gleaming chestnut highlights in his hair.
With another day’s worth of beard, he appeared rougher than ever, yet when Dana looked at him now, she saw the echo of his smile as he’d talked about his daughter. His features no longer seemed harsh to her, and his strength no longer seemed threatening.
Was she nuts? Was her self-imposed isolation sending her round the bend? Why else was she sorry to see the sunshine?
John wasn’t some stray she could take in and coddle. He had a life to get back to. So did she. The sooner they got this over with, the better, right?
He raked his hair off his forehead and turned away from the window. “I have to get going.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I’m fine.”
And he was, she knew. His movements were smoother today, and he was much steadier on his feet. “The road is about two miles south,” she said. “Just keep the lake on your left and follow the lane.”
John leaned down to run his palm along Morty’s back as the cat threaded himself around his ankles. “Now that the weather has cleared, I shouldn’t get lost again.”
“You don’t have to walk. The snowplow should swing through in a few hours,” she said, watching his large hand move along Morty’s fur. How could he have once made her nervous? For a physically powerful man, he was incredibly gentle. “Once the lane’s plowed, I could drive you to your car. Or you could wait until the phones are back up and call for a tow truck.”
He gave Morty one last caress and straightened. “Thanks, but I can’t stay any longer. Once I get to the highway, I’ll hitch a ride to the nearest gas station and get a tow from there.”
“I understand.” She smiled. “If I had a child like Chantal, I’d be anxious to get home to her, too.”
“She’s the reason for everything I’m doing,” he said.
The vehemence in his voice startled her. It shouldn’t have, though. Throughout yesterday evening, he hadn’t wanted to talk about his job or his home, but his daughter was one topic he didn’t mind sharing. Dana had no doubt whatsoever that he loved his child fiercely.
Was that why she found him so attractive?
There, she’d admitted it. Yes, she found him more than attractive. His outlaw good looks alone would have caught the notice of any red-blooded woman, but it was the sensitive—and vulnerable—man inside that really appealed to her.
Here was a man who knew what love and commitment were, she thought. He wouldn’t disappear when the going got rough, the way Hank had. John would be willing to go to any lengths for those he loved….
She jerked her thoughts back from that useless direction. Her imagination was getting the better of her again. How could she think she could know a man after only a day in his company? She had spent four years with Hank, and she’d been wrong about him, hadn’t she? Why would her judgment be any better now?
John picked up his shoes from in front of the hearth and carried them to the door.
“Wait,” she said. “You can’t go like that.”
He paused. “What?”
“The snow’s too deep for sneakers.” She hurried over to take her coat from its peg. “I can get a pair of my cousin’s boots from the lodge. He’s about your size—”
“Dana…”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble. I have to go over there later, anyway, to check the heat since I skipped yesterday.”
“Dana, no,” he said. “You’ve done more than enough.”
“But those running shoes aren’t meant for conditions like these.”
He shoved his feet into the sneakers. “They got me here, they’ll get me back to the road.”
“At least let me give you a hat.” She hung her coat up and stretched to take a knitted cap and a pair of padded snowmobile mitts