Snowbound Cinderella. Ruth Ryan Langan
“Bosnia, Kosovo, and half a dozen other towns all over eastern Europe.”
“Then you’ve seen firsthand all the things that the rest of us only saw on the nightly news.”
“I’ve seen enough.” He opened the cabin door and stood aside to let her lead the way inside. “More than enough.”
As she stomped snow from her boots she glanced over, and noticed that the bleak look had returned to his eyes. And the frown line was there between his brows.
In an effort to lift his spirits she said, “If you’ll bring the milk from the shed, I’ll make hot chocolate.”
“It’s a deal.” He turned away, eager to escape.
Jace took his time trudging through the snow to the shed. The violent scene with the hawk had triggered an explosion of memories. Of burned-out buildings, and towns under siege. Of the sound of distant gunfire that went on night and day. Of old men and women scavenging food and water and firewood. Of entire families forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs, leaving their homes, their histories behind in search of peace.
Of Ireina. The bomb.
He had thought a visit to this mountain cabin would be a return to normalcy. That he could simply put the past behind him and get on with his life. What he hadn’t counted on was the fact that he carried so much baggage. The past was still with him, here in his mind. Haunting him. Taunting him. And the least little spark could set off a firestorm of memories. Some pleasant. A few poignant. All painful.
He paused outside the shed and studied the snowdrifts that reached almost to the roof. Suddenly in his mind he was transported back to that small village outside Bosnia…
In an unexpected downpour, he and his crew had taken refuge in a deserted shed. They huddled around a small fire they’d started on the dirt floor. They had looked up in alarm at the high-pitched whine that signaled an approaching missile. Before they could react, a side of the building was blown away. And with it, their driver. As the rest of the shed slowly collapsed around them, they scrambled free and piled into their truck, keeping one step ahead of the advancing army of terrorists.
The driver—a man from a nearby village—had been young. No more than eighteen. He had taken the dangerous job of driving the news crew in order to help feed his family. He’d had a pretty little dark-eyed girlfriend who had collapsed in grief when she’d heard the news of his death. Jace had learned later that she was carrying the driver’s baby; they’d planned to marry. But the war and chaos in their country had prevented them from seeing it through.
That night, as Jace fed the news to the networks, he had been completely poised—his face, his voice, devoid of the emotions churning inside him. He was, as always, the complete professional. Looking back on it he realized he’d never permitted himself to give voice to his grief, choosing instead to push himself to work even harder, to block the feelings.
It was only one of the hundreds of instances in which he’d suppressed his emotions on the job. It was the only way he knew how to survive. But he was only now beginning to realize what a terrible price he’d paid for his stoicism. Though he still couldn’t bring himself to speak of them, the scenes of all that carnage haunted him. And something as simple as an attack by a hungry hawk could bring the memories flooding back, casting a pall on the day.
He ran a hand through his hair and realized he was sweating. He hadn’t really left any of it behind. He’d brought it all home with him. And he feared it might remain with him for a lifetime.
By the time Jace returned to the cabin, Ciara had added a fresh log to the fire and had set her boots nearby to dry.
As he placed the carton of milk on the counter, she noticed that he had carefully composed his features. But, though he was no longer frowning, there was no warmth in his eyes. Whatever memories he carried, they hadn’t been resolved, she thought. They’d merely been tucked away.
Like her, he’d come here to be alone—to think, to bleed, to resolve. And then, hopefully, to move on. But like her, he was forced to snatch what little time he could find alone, to do just that. She wished, for both their sakes, that the snow would melt quickly, so that each of them could find the solitude they sought.
Jace stepped outside and retrieved the rusty generator that he’d hauled from the shed.
“You have a choice to go with the hot chocolate—” she poured milk into a pan and set it over the fire “—plain toast or cinnamon toast.”
“That’s it? No sandwiches? No soup?” He closed the cabin door and slipped out of his parka and boots.
Ciara grinned. “You can have whatever you’d like. As for me, I wouldn’t want to spoil my appetite for that fabulous dinner you’re going to make.”
“You’re not going to let me forget about that, are you?” He spread newspapers over the floor, then knelt and began disassembling the motor.
“Not a chance.” She set bread over the coals, turning it often until it was evenly browned on both sides. “After all, it isn’t every day I have a reporter willing to feed me.”
He glanced over, enjoying the way her hair had escaped from the ponytail to dip provocatively over one eye. “Oh, I bet there are plenty of reporters willing to take you to dinner.”
“Sure. And they’re all after something. A scoop about a fling with my leading man. A feud with my director. A catfight with some other actress.”
He couldn’t resist saying, “Not to mention those reporters who would just like to get you into bed.”
Instead of disagreeing, she surprised him by nodding. “That too. So they can brag about it the next day. You wouldn’t believe how many sharks there are out there who feed on celebrities.”
At the tone of her voice he looked up. “Sounds like you’ve been bitten a time or two.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been bitten. But I’ll never give them the satisfaction of seeing me bleed.”
“So you came up here to bleed in private.”
“Yeah.” She thought about it a minute. “I guess I did.” She looked over. “How about you? Any blood left in those veins?”
“Very little. I practically bled to death before I made it here.”
She was surprised, and more than a little touched, by his admission. It had to be difficult for a very private man like Jace Lockhart, who wasn’t accustomed to sharing much of his life with others.
“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
He nodded. “The walking wounded.”
She crossed the room and knelt beside him, placing the toast and hot chocolate on a tray between them. She nodded toward the generator. “Do you really think you can fix that thing?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never thought of myself as a mechanic. But in a jam, I’ve been forced to repair a motorcycle engine, a truck’s driveshaft, and the broken wires on my sound equipment. Not to mention the time I had to defuse a bomb.”
“A…bomb?” Her hand went to her throat. “Where?”
“Myelinore. A town so small it isn’t even on a map. I was following the trail of a group of terrorists who had blown up a U.N. truck and had taken a survivor as hostage.”
“Why?”
“Because they wanted to get world attention.”
“No. I meant, why did you follow them? Why didn’t you just report the incident and let somebody else do the tracking?”
“Oh.” He gave that quick grin that always did strange things to her heart. “I was the only one around. If I hadn’t followed them, they’d have gotten clean away. And the man they’d taken hostage was a friend of mine who had a wonderful wife in Paris, along with two small children. I figured I’d never