The Christmas Target. Shirlee McCoy
deep gash to the temple and one on the back of her head.”
“And she probably thinks she’s going to be up running a marathon tomorrow.”
True. That was Stella. To a T.
“Where’s Simon?”
“Sent him down to the creek to see what the ruckus was about. Looked like the medics were carrying a gurney in. I’m assuming they’ve got to carry someone out. The grandmother?”
“We found her in the creek. She wasn’t breathing.”
“Pulse?”
“Yeah.”
“Then she’s alive, and we’re going to pray she stays that way.” Boone pulled out his cell phone, texted something, then slid it back in his pocket. “I told Simon you were on your way. You go do what you need to do for Stella and her grandmother. We’ll keep you in the loop, and we’ll play nice with the local PD.”
“You’d better. I don’t think you’ll like prison food.”
Boone snorted, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it up for Chance to see.
A bag of homemade cookies.
Typical of Boone. The guy never stopped eating.
Any other time, Chance might have smiled.
Right at that moment, all he could do was think about the tears that had been sliding down Stella’s cheeks. He’d never seen her cry. Not on the worst missions. Not when she’d been exhausted or tired or injured. Not when things had seemed hopeless or the person they’d been looking for had been found too late.
Not even at her grandfather’s funeral.
Never.
Not once.
Because Stella didn’t cry.
Except that she did, and he’d seen it, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget that.
Boone opened the bag and took out a cookie. Unflappable. Just like always. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and he’d keep doing it, but first, he’d eat.
“I always come prepared. Tonight, it’s a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies,” he said. “I’ll share, but only because my wife told me I have to.”
“You can tell her that you tried, but I’m not in the mood for cookies.”
“Worrying won’t change anything. You know that, right?” Boone bit into the cookie, his gaze as direct as his comment.
“That won’t stop me from doing it. Keep your nose clean, Boone. I’m heading out.” Chance jogged back to the creek, every nerve in his body on high alert. He hadn’t expected trouble. He’d found it.
Now he was going to deal with it.
A dozen people were standing near the creek—police, park rangers, paramedics. Simon stood next to Stella, his hand on her shoulder, not holding her up but pretty close to it.
He met Chance’s eyes, mouthed, She’s done.
“I am not,” Stella bit out, her body shaking beneath a blanket someone had tossed over her shoulders. “Done.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Simon countered as paramedics lifted Beatrice onto a backboard. She’d been swaddled in blankets and had an IV in her hand, but she was breathing, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. That was an improvement, and it gave Chance hope that she might recover.
“My opinion is the only one that matters,” Stella muttered, but she didn’t seem interested in the argument. She was watching as the medics strapped Beatrice to the board and lifted her.
“Careful,” she warned, as if the team needed to be reminded.
They ignored her.
Which was surprising since she had blood dripping down the side of her face and more of it seeping from beneath her hair. She was also pale as paper, her skin completely leached of color. Chance would have thought every available medic would be hovering around, cleaning her wounds and getting her ready to be transported. She must have refused treatment, insisted that the attention be given to her grandmother.
Now her grandmother was on the move, and Stella looked like she planned to follow.
“I don’t think so,” he said, grabbing her arm.
“You don’t think what?” she asked, trying to pull away.
He didn’t have to put much effort into keeping that from happening. Which concerned him. A lot. “That you’re going to walk back to the house.”
“I don’t think you have a choice in the matter.”
“Sure I do. Just like I had a choice when I didn’t drag your butt back to the house. I let you decide then. This time, I decide.”
“This is not the time to go macho on me, Chance,” she growled. “I’m in no mood.”
“And I’m in no mood scrape you off the forest floor. So, how about we stop arguing and get this done? Your grandmother needs to get to the hospital, and you’re slowing things down.”
She pressed her lips together, and didn’t say another word as an EMT urged her to sit down, then cleaned both wounds.
“This one looks okay,” the EMT said, pressing gauze to Stella’s temple, “but you’re probably going to need stitches to close the other one.”
“I’ve had worse,” Stella muttered, brushing the young woman’s hands away and holding the gauze in place herself. “Has the ambulance left with my grandmother?”
“Yes,” the EMT admitted. “She’s in a very critical state and needed to be transported immediately. We’ve called another one for you.”
“There’s no need for another ambulance. I’ll drive myself. My grandmother might be confused, and I really need to be there with her.”
If she hadn’t been dead serious, Chance would have laughed.
“Ma’am,” the EMT said before Chance could, “you’re in no condition to drive.”
Stella must have agreed, because she eyed Chance with a look he’d seen many times before. It was the one that said she needed him, but she didn’t want to. The one that said she couldn’t do it alone, but wished she could.
He understood the look and the feelings behind it.
“I’ll give you a ride,” he offered before she could decide whether or not to ask, and she smiled. A real smile that softened her face and made her look sweet and young and vulnerable. It surprised him, because she hadn’t directed a smile like that at him since they’d broken up. He’d forgotten how powerful it was; forgotten how it made his pulse race and his heart pound.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“You know I’d do anything for you, Stella,” he said, and meant it.
Her smile faded, and she was just staring into his eyes, looking wounded and tired and a little too fragile for Chance’s peace of mind.
Finally, she shrugged. “You’re the first guy to ever say that to me.”
Odd considering that she’d been married for years. Her husband had died serving his country, and she’d mentioned once or twice just how proud she’d been of him.
That was about as much information as she’d given.
Even when Chance had asked.
Even when they were dating.
“Then you haven’t had the right guys in your life,” he responded, keeping his tone light.
She wasn’t herself.
That was obvious.