Forever Grace (10 page)

Annabelle spotted her approach and squealed a greeting from behind the deck railing. Grace lifted a hand in response and pasted on a smile. With a monumental effort, she pushed away her conversation with Luc. As well intentioned as her friend might be, he had no idea how close to the edge she teetered right now, or how little it would take to push her over.

Tell Sean McKittrick her story and turn into a puddle of hysteria at his feet?

Not in a million years.

GRACE HELD OUT UNTIL SEVEN
o’clock that evening before she caved to the urge to check on Sean. With flashlight in hand for her return trip, she left Josh to oversee the screening of a Disney movie and slipped out the side door, headed toward the path through the woods.

All day, a part of her had been preoccupied with their neighbor. She’d assured herself repeatedly it was neighborly concern and nothing more. After all, he’d been pretty doped up when she’d left him—what if he’d tried getting up in that condition, and he’d fallen again? Or worse? Daylight was far enough gone that she should have been able to see a light on in his cottage by now, but there wasn’t so much as a glimmer through the trees.

Checking in on him one last time just made sense.

Besides, she reminded the inner voice that snorted at her, she needed to return the key she’d forgotten in her pocket—and the shotgun and shells he’d insisted she carry home last night. All perfectly valid reasons for a trek through the woods at dusk.

Right
, the voice responded.
Because wanting to see him again couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the idea of having another adult in your life right now, even if it’s just as a neighbor. And certainly nothing to do with Luc’s suggestion that you talk to him. Tell him…

She tripped over a root and stopped in the middle of the path, shotgun clutched in one hand, flashlight in the other, staring through the trees at Sean’s darkened cottage. Enough, she told herself. She’d been over this a hundred times since her conversation today, and her reasons remained for not wanting to tell Sean her tale of woe.
Valid
reasons.

The inevitable pity would be the worst part. It had been hard enough having Sean feel sorry for her this morning, when she’d told him about Julianne being in a coma. Any more sympathy than that, and she had no doubt she would come completely undone. The very possibility made her gut tighten, and not in a pleasant way.

She’d never been the damsel-in-distress type. She’d made it a point to ensure she could look after herself better than most, and she wasn’t about to give that up now. No matter how tempting it might be to fold herself up into a pair of strong arms and let someone else deal with the whole mess.

Blinking back a prickle of tears, she scowled, then straightened her spine and pushed along the remainder of the path to the clearing that marked Sean’s property. No pity, no talking, nothing beyond a final check on a neighbor and then back to her own life.

And as for the dream?

Her mouth twisted, half in a grimace, half in a rueful smile. As pleasant as that might have been, she really did have more important things to worry about right now. Not least of which was what she’d do if she found her neighbor expired on his floor. She skirted the cottage—including the poison ivy patch—and picked her way quietly up the steps to the porch. Then she stopped in her tracks.

The door she’d closed earlier stood half ajar.

What the…?

Her gaze lifted from the handle to the dark beyond it. She looked over her shoulder at the SUV sitting empty in the driveway. Goosebumps prickled across her skin. Had Sean gone out somewhere? Come back? Neglected to close the door behind him? Another, more sobering possibility struck.

Oh, hell…had he wandered off into the woods and gotten lost?

For a second, panic glued her feet to the porch. She’d have to call 911. There would be a search party. Television cameras. Publicity. Barry would see. He’d come for them, and he’d find them, and—

And maybe,
her inner voice pointed out with exaggerated reasonableness,
he never left the cottage at all. Maybe he’s just fine, and you should stop being so ridiculous and just go check.

She took a deep breath, relaxed her grip on shotgun and flashlight enough that her fingers stopped screaming at her, and nudged the door fully open with the toe of one boot.

“Sean?” she called softly. “It’s Grace.”

Silence met her.

She stepped inside.

“Sean,” she called again, a little louder. “Are you awake?”

Alive?
her voice added.

She shushed it so she could listen. No response. The frisson of unease trickled down her spine again. Damn.

She wiped her boots on the mat and then tiptoed through into the kitchen. She laid the shotgun on the counter, wincing at the clatter of the strap’s buckle against ceramic tile. Still nothing. Her chest tightened.

She peered into the gloom. Shape by shape, she identified the items in the living area beyond the kitchen. The dining table with its benches, the couch and oversized coffee table, a wood stove, a recliner, a rocker. And there, just off the living room, the door to Sean’s bedroom, firmly closed as it had been when she left him.

Her gaze traveled the kitchen, which bore no sign of use in her absence. No way should he have slept this long. Unless he’d woken, taken more pain meds, and gone back to bed again, because heaven knew he had to be worn right out after yesterday. She nodded to herself. That must be it. He was sleeping, and she should just leave him be.

But still she hesitated.

Because what if he wasn’t? What if something had gone wrong, and he was…

Dead
, her inner voice whispered most unhelpfully.

Grace sighed. She wouldn’t rest tonight if she didn’t check on him. Just a quick peek in to make sure he still breathed. If she was quiet, he wouldn’t even wake up.

Leaving the gun and flashlight on the counter, she tiptoed across the living room, took a deep breath, and slowly, carefully, turned the knob.

Sean jolted awake, his body bathed in sweat, covers pushed aside, the air cold on his skin. Something had woken him, but what? He lay still, staring at the heavily shadowed ceiling, but heard nothing. He turned his head to the window and the trees beyond. He was back in his own cottage, but how—? He frowned. He seemed to recall making his way back from Grace’s, but that had been in the morning, and it was almost dark now. Or was it almost light? Had he slept a day, or a day and night combined? He had no idea.

He put a hand up to his bare chest. He might not know how long he’d slept, but he could say with a fair degree of certainty that he hadn’t been capable of stripping down. And if
he
hadn’t taken off his shirt…

A corner of his mouth tipped upward. Well. So strawberry-scented Grace had undressed him, had she? An interesting idea, that. Or it might have been, if not for the encumbrance of four—

A soft thud cut off the thought. Sean went still, frowning. That had come from inside the cottage, not out. But no light peeked through at the loose-fitting doorframe, and no voice announced a presence.

Swiftly, Sean ran through the possibilities. Gareth? No, he wouldn’t just drive out unannounced—and even if he had, he would have made his presence known on arrival. Grace? Sean snorted at himself. Sheer wishful thinking, that was. That left an animal as the most likely intruder—and if Grace hadn’t shut the door firmly enough when she’d departed earlier, it was all
too
likely.

The sound of a clatter came through the door from the kitchen—something striking ceramic tile. Whatever the intruder was, it was big enough to reach the counter. A thought occurred to him and his blood went cold. Hell. The bear.

He swallowed a curse, remembering the shotgun he’d left at Grace’s cottage. He debated the wisdom of trying to scare it off. If he just left it out there, he didn’t hold out much hope for his kitchen, but if he tried and failed, and it came after him…

Hell, hell, hell.

Sean pressed a button on the side of his wristwatch and peered at the glowing dial. Seven-fifteen. Had it been nice enough today for Grace to have the kitchen window open? Would it still be? If he opened his own and called loudly enough, would she hear—

The soft, unmistakable scuff of a shoe against carpet filtered through the bedroom’s thin wall. Sean rolled to the side of the bed and sat up, his every cop instinct roaring to life. Shit. That was no four-legged animal, it was a two-legged one.

And it was trying hard not to be heard.

He set his foot carefully on the floor and reached for the crutches. He levered himself upright. Empty cottages made a prime target for B&E artists in the off season, and the ones along this stretch of the lake—including his—had been hit twice before. While it wasn’t likely someone would break in with a vehicle parked outside, it wasn’t impossible, either, especially if there were no signs of light or life this early in the evening.

The footsteps in the living room drew nearer. Sean swung across the floor to tuck himself into the space behind the door. He shifted his crutches to one hand, balanced his weight, and readied for a fight. The door swung open.

Sean reached out and snaked an arm around the intruder’s throat.

“You picked the wrong cottage, scum bag,” he growled.

GRACE REACTED WITHOUT THINKING TO
the arm around her throat. Years of martial arts practice and some seriously ramped-up paranoia did that to someone. She grabbed her attacker’s arm with both hands and pulled, tucking her chin down to protect her throat. In the space of the same heartbeat, she swept her left leg back and locked it behind his, swiveled halfway around, and rolled him over her hip onto the floor.

He landed with a hollow, far too solid thud…and a roar of pain. Her brain stuttered in recognition.
Sean?

Sean. Cast. Oh, shit
.

Open mouthed, she stared at the shadowy form at her feet. A string of profanities followed his bellow, and she dropped the arm she still held, fumbling for the light switch beside the door. The glare of a bare overhead bulb flooded the room. Grace blinked, shielding her eyes for an instant. Then she dropped to her knees beside the man lying on the floor. His jaw was tight, and he’d gone quiet but for his harsh breathing. She covered one of his fisted hands with her own, flinching at its rigidity.

“Sean? It’s Grace.”

He continued breathing through flared nostrils. She squeezed his fingers. Remorse clutched at her. The man had already endured one tumble. Lord only knew how much damage a second would inflict. Especially one with the force of a black-belt jujitsu throw behind it. She laid her other hand on a forearm slick with sweat and knotted with a pain she couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“Sean, can you hear me? You have to talk to me. I need to know how badly you’re hurt. Do you need an ambulance?”

Dear Lord, please don’t make me call 911.
The questions she’d have to answer, the calls she’d have to make…the notice she would bring down upon them…

Sean’s entire frame shuddered with an exhale. Forearm muscles flexed beneath her fingers, then began to relax. Fists uncurled. Bottle-green eyes slitted open to glare at her.

“Holy hell, woman,” he muttered. “Where in hell did you learn a move like that?”

The normality of his response sent a rush of relief through her that culminated in a prickle behind her eyes. She blinked, her fingers tightening on his arm, his hand. Clinging to his warmth.

“You’re okay? I didn’t re-break anything?” Her gaze flicked to his cast and then back to his face again.

“I may have jarred half my hardware loose, but other than that, I’m fine.” Clenching his jaw, Sean pushed up to a sitting position. His abdominal muscles flexed with the effort, reminding Grace of his state of half undress.

“And you haven’t answered my question,” he growled, wrenching her attention back up to his face.

He’d asked a question? She flushed, and to cover her embarrassment, asked one of her own instead. “What hardware?”

He grimaced. “Pins. Rods. Enough metal to put airport security on high alert wherever I go.” He scooted across the floor on his butt until his back connected with the bed, then sent her a fresh glower. “Did it ever occur to you to knock or call out before you came barging into my house? What if I’d had the shotgun handy?”

Grace tugged her gaze from sweat-slicked muscles for a second time. She sat back on her heels. “You didn’t have the shotgun, I did,” she pointed out. “And I did call out. Twice.”

His scowl deepened. “Well, you should have called louder.”

“I thought you were sleeping.” She climbed to her feet and scowled back. “Or dead. Excuse me for wanting to check up on you.”

“So I’m supposed to
thank
you for this?” As soon as the words left him, Sean waved them away. “Scratch that. I didn’t mean it. Can we blame it on the pain? And maybe the ignominy of having been dumped on my ass?”

“By a woman?” she inquired tartly.

“By anyone. It just so happens I’m a cop, which means
I’m
supposed to do the dumping.”

“I know.”

“You know I’m a cop?” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember telling you.”

“I called Luc.” As soon as the words slipped out, she knew they’d been a mistake. Fresh heat crawled into her cheeks.

“You called Luc…about me?” Sean asked. “Why?”

Grace shrugged and buried her hands in her jacket pockets, opting for the simplest explanation. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

His lips twitched. “Well, I’m flattered, of course, but—”

She cut him off. “Not that kind of curiosity.”

Sean linked his hands behind his head, his chest muscles flexing under a dusting of sandy-coloredhair. Flat-out amusement danced in the green eyes now. “I see. So I should be insulted instead.”

“Of course not. I just meant I’m not—I don’t—” Floundering, Grace snapped her mouth shut and closed her eyes against the view. Had any man’s bare chest ever been this distracting? She drew a deep breath and cast about for a change in topic. “Your hardware. Tell me about it.”