Angel's Rest(41)

“I will.” She smiled, but he didn’t see it since he was already heading for the front door. When it shut behind him, Nic said, “Well, that was awkward.”

“A locked-in-the-basement-together story,” Sarah said, her eyes gleaming. “Spill the details. Was it romantic? Did he tuck you against him and keep you warm? Or maybe … did you play Shanna and Ruark in the prison? You can be witchy like Shanna, Nic. I think Gabe has what it takes to be Ruark, but I really need to see him without his shirt first.”

“Oh, stop it.” Nic wanted to leave right then, but she had to return to the basement first. “My boots are downstairs. You stay here so I don’t end up trapped again.”

Gabe had smothered the candles, but he’d left the flashlight shining. Nic hurried down the stairs, grabbed her boots, then turned around—and ran into Sarah. “Of course you followed me.”

“Bearskins? Wine? Candlelight? Nicole Sullivan! Tell me this was as fun as it looks.”

Nic pulled on her boots. “You want the truth or fantasy?”

“Hmm …” Sarah tapped a finger against her lips as she followed Nic upstairs. “I have fantasy waiting at book group in the guise of Ruark Beauchamp, so I guess I want the truth.”

Stepping out into the hallway, Nic looked at both her friends and sighed. “The truth is that the man is still in love with his dead wife.”

“That’s so sad,” Sage said, handing Nic her coat.

“Well, shoot,” Sarah added. “In that case, there’s only one thing left to do. Let’s go to book group and drink rum punch.”

“Rum punch?” Nic asked.

“Hey, it might be the middle of winter here, but that novel you picked took me to a lush Caribbean paradise. With a shirtless stud. What else would we drink?”

Nic laughed and followed her friends out into the cold winter night. Later that night she went to sleep and dreamed about Caribbean beaches.

And a shirtless hero with scars on his skin … and on his soul.





SEVEN





Demon dreams woke Gabe a week before Christmas and sent him down into town even earlier than his norm. He almost took the day off completely to spend it skiing or hiking or chopping wood—anything physically demanding that would purge the ghosts from his mind. But since today’s chore was hauling rocks, which would both serve his physical needs and create something worthwhile in the process, work held more appeal than sports.

The morning dawned in a palette of pinks and purples above evergreen mountains dusted with snow. The air was cold, the wind quiet. It was a place of beauty and peace, and Gabe sensed the tension within himself easing as he approached Eternity Springs.

For no real reason, he decided to take the loop around the lake on the way to Cavanaugh House.

Formed hundreds of years ago by an earth slide that dammed Angel Creek, Hummingbird Lake was one of the most picturesque places Gabe had ever seen. A little less than a mile around, the lake had been sapphire blue and surrounded by the golds and oranges and greens of autumn when Gabe arrived in town. Today it was an expanse of white ringed with Christmas trees and brought to life by a slight figure dressed in red and black.

Gabe watched the skater fly across the ice. He needed to try that. He’d been on ice skates only twice in his life—both times as boy when his folks took the family to the indoor ice rink in downtown Fort Worth. Competent Rollerbladers, the Texan Callahan boys had all taken to the ice like Minnesotans. Surely he could pick it up again without too much effort.

The skater straightened out of a tucked position, and in that moment he knew it was her. Knew he should stay away.

Drawn by forces he had no will to resist, he turned in to the park on the west side of the lake. He pulled up beside her truck, grabbed his cup of coffee, and stepped out into the cold. Leaning against the front of his jeep, he watched Nicole Sullivan skate toward him.

“Good morning,” she called, smiling brightly, her breath creating clouds of vapor on the air.

“Hi.”

It was just about the only word he could manage. The woman wore leggings and a sweater that clung to her ample, tantalizing curves. She was breathing heavily.

“Did you come to skate?” she asked, tugging off red-and-black earmuffs.

He shook his head, took a sip of coffee, then asked, “Should you be out here by yourself? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I’m not alone,” she replied, pointing toward the shoreline across the lake and waving. Two figures waved back. “Sarah and her daughter, Lori, are with me.”