Duplicate Daughter. Alice Sharpe
Katie retrieved the shotgun and moved out of the bedroom, closing the door. She went back through the house, turning off many of the flickering lanterns, bathing the house in darkness except for the fireplace, which filled the living room with leaping shadows. She stood by the front door and listened. When had she heard the last shot? How long should she wait before going outside and looking for Nick? What if he’d been wounded or…or worse.
Her hand rested on the doorknob as she pressed her head against the wood. What should she do? Indecision was a new sensation for her. Usually, she reacted first and celebrated—or regretted—later. But never before had she been even marginally responsible for someone else. Someone innocent. Someone like Lily. And so far on this endless day, she’d done the impulsive—and wrong—thing almost one-hundred percent of the time.
Except she hadn’t thrown herself into Nick’s arms when he’d looked at her that way; she hadn’t even let him know she wanted to. She’d been mature and reasonable when he massaged her shoulder, when he turned her to face him, when he said her name and it sounded like the beginning of a song. She hadn’t allowed a single emotion to bubble to the surface.
And maybe that was the biggest mistake of the night.
Her headache was back with a vengeance.
NICK STAYED CLOSE to buildings and snow-covered vegetation as he crept toward the sound of gunfire. There were two weapons at play; one sounded like a single-fire revolver, the other an automatic of some kind.
So, who in the world would be conducting a gunfight outside his house in the middle of the night during a snowstorm? And what were the chances this nocturnal shoot-out wasn’t connected directly or indirectly to Katie Fields’s arrival in Frostbite?
Was she in danger? Had she put Lily in danger?
He shoved thoughts of Katie and Lily aside. It was imperative he put a stop to whatever was going on out here before it erupted into his house. Keeping his head down, he waited until more shots rang out before moving across a patch of exposed snow, zigzagging as he’d been taught so many years before, catching his breath as he found a tree to hide behind. He heard one man yell, another swear. The labored sound of heavy breathing seemed very close by and he chanced another look.
Two men stood a hundred feet to his right, facing each other. They fired at the same time. One bullet hit its mark and the man closest to Nick fell to the snow. The other gunman turned and, slogging through the snow, ran back into the shadows.
Nick’s fingers were so cold they were stiff as they clutched the rifle. He should have put on gloves. He was stunned that he’d forgotten such a basic necessity. These thoughts zipped through his mind as he stared at the fallen man.
Taking a roundabout approach, he made his way to the dark shape lying in the snow. As he came within a few feet, he heard more rapid fire. He was under attack! As bullets whizzed behind him, he tumbled forward in the snow, the rifle held out at the side, scrambling to his knees to take cover behind the wounded man, shooting into the brush near the dock from where the shots came.
The injured man groaned. Nick couldn’t risk even the smallest of flashlights to check for wounds. He used his frozen hands and felt something warm and sticky on the man’s chest.
Time was critical. Did he have an injured good guy, an injured bad guy or what?
He shook the victim’s shoulder and got more groans. Obviously, the wound was too extensive to make this man much of a threat. Nick would get him into the house; to leave him out here would be to leave him to die from exposure.
He rose to a stooped position. In the moment of stillness that followed, he heard the crunch of someone approaching through snow. Breathing suspended, he searched the landscape.
Another shot and a bullet sliced through his jacket sleeve. Nick returned fire and a dark shape detached itself and fell forward from a bank of trees.
Nick stood slowly, shakily. It had been well over ten years since he’d fired a gun at another human being. He used the small flashlight he always carried in his pocket to examine the fallen man in front of him. Blood seeped through his jacket. His face was covered with fallen snow.
Nick then moved to the other man, rifle ready. This guy was lying on his face. A 9mm Glock had fallen beside his hand and Nick picked it up carefully, thumbing on the safety, dropping it into the deep pocket of his down jacket.
He could feel no pulse, but his hands were so cold it was hard to know for sure. Since his sympathies at this point favored the first wounded man, who at least hadn’t shot at him, Nick retraced his steps, shining his flashlight. The injured man flung up an arm in a defensive gesture—a good sign. Nick stooped to help him stand, supporting most of his weight. Helping the victim manage the deepening snow quickly became an arduous chore made more difficult as the poor guy lost consciousness.
When Nick finally gained the front porch, he pounded on the door. There wasn’t time for finesse. He yelled, “Katie? Let me in.”
She had apparently been hovering against the door, for the moment his hand hit the solid wood, it flew inward. She seemed to size up the situation in a heartbeat. Throwing her shoulder under the man’s other arm, she helped Nick get him inside and onto a leather sofa. For a small woman, she was strong, though Nick did notice her limp was back.
Sweeping a lap blanket off one of the chairs, he gave it to Katie with the instructions, “Apply pressure to his chest. There’s another injured man outside. I’ve got to get to him before he freezes.”
His gaze followed hers as it dropped to his arm. A rent in the sleeve leaked white down.
“Nick, what’s going on?”
“Gunfight at the OK corral,” he said. Seeing the bewilderment in her eyes, he added, “Two men are trying to kill each other. And me. I’ll be right back.” He turned when he reached the door to find Katie leaning over the man on the couch, pressing the blanket against his chest. Her complexion had turned a pea-soup green.
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