Silent Night (4 page)

Standing this close to him on the street corner, she could smell the faint hint of his aftershave. She liked it. She also liked the way he was looking at her now, like he was trying to figure her out. And not in the I-know-you’re-up-to-something way she’d become accustomed to in Dayton.

“We don’t have a lot of historical buildings,” he said. “The town’s less than a hundred years old. The oldest thing around is the First Baptist Church, but it’s been abandoned since they opened New Baptist more than a decade ago. If you’re looking for historic, St. Catherine’s doesn’t exactly fit the bill, either. It can’t be more than fifty years old.”

She forced a smile. “All Catholic churches feel a bit historic to me. If it’s a problem, I can go alone.”

Please don’t make me go alone.

He held up his hands. “No, not a problem. We can go. The new priest isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s usually pretty vacant this time of day.”

Miranda swallowed and tried to summon a look of excitement rather than pure trepidation. “Thank you.”

She could tell by the look he gave her that it wasn’t his idea of fun. He glanced at his watch again. “I just need to go in here first.”

She looked behind her and saw that the
Chronicle
was only a couple feet away. “No problem.”

The small shopping center of businesses was quaintly decorated for the season. Miniature snowmen lined the walkways beneath the awnings, and every window had some sort of holiday garishness staring back at her. Tucker pushed open the last door on the right. Two women sat inside the otherwise empty office space, both so focused on their jobs that they didn’t notice Tucker and Miranda walk in.

Leaving Miranda at the door, Tucker interrupted, passed them a few photos, and returned to her, earning her very curious looks from the women in the cubicles.

The last people Miranda wanted to meet were reporters. She ducked outside before he could try to introduce them. Tucker followed.

“So? St. Catherine’s?” he asked.

She smiled. God, he was adorable. Those stupid dimples were going to do her in if she wasn’t on guard at all times. “Yeah.”

When they stopped at a crosswalk, Miranda turned in a full circle. She’d thought it was her late evening drive through town that had caused her to miss it, but she hadn’t seen a single fast-food joint anywhere.

“What are you looking for?”

“Mickey D’s?”

Tucker gave her one of his dimpled grins. “You’ll have to drive over to the next town, about fifteen miles away, for that. Christmas isn’t big on franchises. We have the Marriott over by the station because they agreed to design the hotel to fit the theme of the town. Besides, people who come here . . . they seem to prefer mom-and-pop joints. Places like Peggy Jo’s that offer from-scratch kinds of foods.”

He guided her around a puddle. When they reached the other side of the street, he didn’t drop his hand from the small of her back. She didn’t move away.

Miranda stopped at the bottom of St. Catherine’s stairs. Knowing that the priest would likely be inside made her rethink her decision to come by here. But this was why she’d come. To find Anatole. To see for herself that he was actually here, and if he was, to find
anything
that might prove she was right about him.

Even if it did leave her palms sweaty and her knees weak.

“Something wrong?”

“Nope.” She took a deep breath and pulled out her camera. She snapped a few blurry pictures of windows she didn’t give two shits about, her gaze wandering from the viewfinder to search the premises for any sign of Anatole.

She shifted the camera angle and captured a shot of Tucker before joining him on the steps.

“Sorry I can’t give you any history on this church.” Tucker opened the heavy doors and guided her into the vestibule. She pretended to take a couple more pictures, moving around the entrance hall, her gaze hunting, searching.

“It’s pretty,” she said, feeling as though she’d be expected to say something. And it wasn’t a lie. The few seconds she’d spent in here last night hadn’t been long enough for her to appreciate the architecture.

“I agree.”

Miranda glanced at him and knew by the way he looked at her that he wasn’t talking about the church. As he studied her face, she suddenly felt on display, and vulnerable and . . . Her belly flopped. She was in a church. That last feeling was highly inappropriate.

Near the corner of the church stood a man dressed in a black frock, surrounded by a couple of deacons. Though she couldn’t see his face, she knew, even from the back of his head, that it was Anatole.

She quickly lifted the camera and snapped a shot, willing him to turn around long enough to capture his face, and yet praying that somehow, he wouldn’t see her in turn. He’d thought he’d left all of Dayton behind. Well, he hadn’t left
her
behind. She was going to find proof, damn it. No matter what it cost her.

“Hey, miss? You still want to meet the father?”

Miranda’s finger finally remembered how to stop snapping that damned button, but the rest of her forgot how to move. Behind Tucker, Simon, the groundskeeper, was waving her over, smiling like a loon.

As Simon walked closer, she waved him off. “No, really. He looks busy. Some other tim—”

“Nonsense.” With a nod of greeting to Tucker, Simon called out to Father Anatole, and Miranda’s guts turned to water.

God save me from helpful people
.

Ignoring the questioning look Tucker shot her, she tried to think of a way to get herself out of this situation. But it was too late. Father Anatole, leaning heavily on the cane in his left hand, was limping straight for her.

A
S
F
ATHER
A
NATOLE
strode forward, his arm outstretched in preparation to shake Miranda’s hand, her insides boiled with such a ferocious anger, she thought she might very well erupt from it.

She barely listened as Simon made the introductions, re-vomiting her spiel about wanting to meet the priest before attending Mass. As she talked, she avoided eye contact, terrified of the slight chance Anatole might recognize her.

“Thank you for introducing us, Simon,” she finished, finally forcing herself to look Anatole directly in the face. “It’s nice to have met you, Father.”

The words came out, chased by a little river of acid that tasted a lot like syrupy throw-up. She looked to Tucker. “Ready?”

“Have we . . . have we met before, Ms. . . .”

Panic seized her. “No. We haven’t.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed, but not with venom. It was more of a look of curiosity. The same sort Tucker kept casting her way. “You look very familiar to me.”

“I get that a lot.”

Taking Tucker’s elbow, she waved a fake, shaky farewell at the priest and the confused-looking groundskeeper, before hurrying down the steps toward the crosswalk.

Way to play it cool, dumb ass.

“What was all that about?”

Ignoring Tucker’s question, she dropped his arm and darted across the empty street. He’d either keep up, or he wouldn’t. Either way, she was getting the hell away from the church and that evil prick of a priest.

He kept up, taking her elbow this time, and making her turn around. From here, she was still visible to Anatole and his little group. She was shaking. And sweating. She unzipped her parka, letting the icy air burrow its way through her knit sweater.

“Hey. You okay? Miranda . . . I think you’re hyperventilating.”

She felt herself being lifted, but her brain was too thick to register much else. Everything was spinning. Sucking in one breath took all her concentration. Then she was being placed on something hard. A bench? Warm hands cupped her cheeks, then pressed her head down, stretching out her spine as those hands pushed her face between her knees.

“Breathe in as deeply as you can. Slowly. Miranda? Can you hear me?”

Yes, she could hear him. Barely. Blood rushed to her brain and muffled every other sound in the world. Tucker’s big hand rubbed her back, her shoulders, her hair.

What was she doing here? Why did she think she could do any of this? She was a nurse, for God’s sake, and she couldn’t even tell when she was hyperventilating!

She took in a big gulp of air and her brain cleared. Just a bit. Slowly, she sat up. “I—I’m okay. Thanks. I’m . . . I’ll be fine.”

“Ready to tell me what that was all about?”

Would he still find her attractive if she yacked all over his uniform? Probably not. She inhaled again. Looked around. Couldn’t see Anatole anywhere. Her body cooled a degree or two and her insides stopped squirming.

“I, um . . . I don’t really like priests,” she said. It wasn’t a complete lie. Ever since Anatole had turned her world upside down, she’d had about as much faith in men of the cloth as she did men in uniform.

“Then why’d you want to meet him?” Tucker placed the back of his hand to her forehead. Seemingly satisfied that she wasn’t going to burst into flames, he dropped it and set it on her knee instead. She liked it there.

She had no lie at the ready this time. She chose to pretend she hadn’t heard the question. “I think I need a nap.”

And a stiff drink
.

The look on his face told her he knew he’d just been purposely brushed off, but he was gentleman enough not to call her out on it.

T
UCKER PULLED HIS
cruiser in front of his house that night and cut the engine. His back ached from sitting in front of the computer for the majority of the afternoon, searching every Ricky Schneider account on every social network he could think of. For nothing. He hadn’t found one single hint that their Ricky might have used any of them.

Bowen was still pulling up the library’s archives, however. Maybe the Internet history from those computers would be a little more helpful. Mrs. Perry certainly hadn’t been. Lisa’s talk with her had been a bust. The kid came in, used the computers, read some books. That was all she’d had to offer.

He’d bought Lisa’s dinner anyway.

He sighed and gathered the brown paper bag from the passenger seat before stepping out into the snow. It crunched beneath his boots as he passed his own front door and the tempting heat waiting inside, his gaze focused on Miranda’s door two cottages away.

The slight hike up the hill to her door felt like a trek up a mountain at this hour, but he kept the bag close to his chest, protecting the heat within. Once he’d knocked, he leaned against the porch railing and took a weary breath.

She opened the door, stared up at him with those big brown eyes that he was beginning to find devastatingly charming . . . and mysterious. This woman had secrets, and he found himself drawn to figuring them out.

Wanted to meet Father Anatole . . . but didn’t like priests. What the hell was that all about?

“It’s almost eleven,” she said by way of greeting.

He thrust the bag toward her. “Soup. In case you’re still not feeling well. It’s Peggy Jo’s chicken noodle. Pretty good.”

As she took the bag, her lips stretched into a smile. “I thought you might have come to fix my heat and show me where the firewood is. This might be even better.”

Shit. He’d forgotten all about his landlord responsibilities. Ricky’s disappearance was consuming most of his brain right now. “I’m sorry. I can take a look at it now so you don’t have to sleep in the cold.”

She glanced over her shoulder inside the cottage, then swung the door open wider. “Come on in. You sure you’re not too tired?”

“I won’t get any sleep knowing you’re in here hovering under the threat of hypothermia. Shouldn’t take long.” He stepped inside, raised an eyebrow at the fire crackling in the hearth. At least he hadn’t wakened her. “Looks like you have enough firewood to get you through the night, anyway. I’ll make sure I drop more off on your porch in the morning before work, but for future reference, there’s an unlocked shed behind my house full of it if you need more. I have some EZ gel starters if you’d like some, too.”

“That’s okay. I know my way around building a fire.” She set the paper bag on the small kitchen table and pulled out the Styrofoam bowl filled with soup. “Want some?”

He shook his head. “I’m just going to check your heater and get out of your way. Just wanted to make sure you were all right. You scared me this afternoon.”

Her smile turned bashful and he found it utterly appealing. “You’re sweet. I’m fine, though. Really. Please, don’t worry about the heat tonight. I can sleep in here in front of the fire and you can come by tomorrow to see what you can do. You look exhausted.”

The concern in her voice, and the way she watched him like he’d pass out on his feet any second, chased some of the fatigue from his muscles. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been worried about him. He hadn’t realized he’d missed it . . . or how much he enjoyed that spark of energy such concern created in him.

“You sure you don’t want some?” She held out the Styrofoam bowl. “Or I could make some coffee. Sorry, but I don’t have anything stronger.”

“Sit. Enjoy your dinner.” He opened the breaker panel, then flipped the switch off, then on again. The whoosh of the heat kicking on filled the small cabin. He held his hand to the vent. “Looks like that did the trick.”

Her smile eased the last of his fatigue from his bones. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll come by tomorrow and figure out why the breaker tripped. If I forget, please come over and remind me. You can share my heat and a bottle of wine.”

He hadn’t meant that in a sexual way, but the way her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth and her gaze slowly trailed over him, he knew how she’d taken it. What would she do if he closed the two feet between them and . . .

All his blood flowed south.

He flipped the panel closed. A piece of sharp metal caught his hand, slicing into his palm. He cursed.

“Let me see.” She placed her bowl on the table and moved to his side.

“It’s fine. Just a little cut.” It burned like hell but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“Come on.” Her hands gripped his and shifted toward the light. “Oh, that’s nasty.” She pulled him to the sink and stuck his hand under cold water. “Keep it under the water, I’ll be right back.”

Before he could protest, she disappeared down the hallway. She returned holding the biggest first aid kit he’d ever seen. When she turned off the tap and wrapped his hand in a soft kitchen towel, he smiled down at her. “Accident prone?”

She glanced at him with a frown. “Excuse me?”

He nodded at the box on the edge of the counter. He kept a small kit in each cabin’s bathroom, but it held only the necessities. Hers looked like it might hold half a hospital pharmacy.

“Oh.” She laughed, releasing his hand long enough to flip open the lid on the large box. “Occupational hazard.”

“Doctor?”

“Nurse,” she corrected. “My last post was in Bolivia. Before that was Haiti. You get used to being overprepared for anything.”

He watched as she dried his hand and examined the cut. “Looks clean, but keep an eye out for infection.” She placed a dollop of ointment on the cut, then a square of gauze before wrapping it securely. Miranda handed him several packages of gauze and the tube of cream. “Clean it a couple times a day, but don’t use that for more than forty-eight hours. If it gets red or puffy, see your doctor.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tucked the items into his pocket and took an uninvited seat at the table. She grabbed a cup and spoon from the sink, poured half her soup into it, and passed it to him before sitting down. “So what made you become a nurse?”

“I wanted to help people.” She shrugged, concentrating on her soup for several spoonfuls before continuing. “Taking care of people, making a difference in their lives, giving them a little hope when they have none, means something important.”

He nodded, completely understanding. Miranda’s reasons for joining the medical profession weren’t that different from his reasons for being a cop. He hadn’t been able to help his sister, but he could potentially help someone else’s. He’d given up his way of life, his family, everything he knew for the chance to give hope to those who didn’t have any.

Blue-collar work. His father hadn’t been happy about that at all.

“Corny, huh?”

Tuck looked up from his soup. “Not at all. In fact, we have a lot in common. Those reasons are exactly why I joined the police academy.”

Miranda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The smile on her face warmed the room better than the newly repaired heater. He found himself watching her eat. It wasn’t until she tried to smother a yawn behind her hand that he realized how long they’d been sitting at the table.

“I didn’t intend to hang out half the night.” He placed his mug in the sink. “Thanks for the doctoring.”

“Sorry,” she said around another yawn. “Thanks for fixing the heater and for the soup.”

“My pleasure.”

“Night.” She shut the door, and he stood staring at it for a long moment, trying to gather the nerve to knock again and ask her to dinner. The click of the deadbolt locking stilled his hand. Frustrated that he was so rusty with women, he bent his head against the cold and walked back to his place. He opened the door, then glanced back toward Miranda’s cottage. The curtain ruffled, falling back into place. He smiled.

There was more to Miranda than a pretty face and he really wanted to get to know every aspect of her.