Home To Family

He looked at her, this stupid, stupid girl who seemed willing to go to the mat for a bauble that wouldn’t bring one hundred dollars in a pawn shop. “It’s not worth getting hurt,” he told her, softly.

He felt a swell of relief when she started twisting the ring off her finger. No reason for this to go sour. Unpleasant, yes. A nuisance, really, with the police reports that would have to be filed.

Shayla had been right, damn it. He shouldn’t have stopped.

And just as he had that thought, the door to the diner was opening. He turned his head to see Shayla come into the restaurant, her features pinched and cold from too many minutes spent alone in the car.

“Jeez, Matt. How long does it take to get a cup of coffee?” she complained as she came toward him.

“Shayla, wait for me out in the—”

Jill began to wail, a high-pitched, nerve-jangling sound. Matt turned toward her, saw that the robber had turned his gun in her direction, clearly intending to silence the girl once and for all.

“No, don’t,” Matt said quickly. “Don’t…”

“Matt?” he heard Shayla say in sudden, quavering distress.

“Shut up!” the robber yelled at Jill. “Shut up!”

There was sudden movement at the other end of the room and a terrified squeal from one of the diners. Everything happened so fast, almost simultaneously, and yet Matt was vividly aware of every moment, as though they were frozen in place like statues.

The older man reached below the counter, pulling a shotgun from some hidden nook. “You sons of bitches!” he shouted. “You’ve taken your last nickel out of this place!”

“Harley!” the robber called to his compatriot.

A gunshot exploded.

A woman screamed.

Matt launched himself at the robber closest to him. The man bellowed in surprise, but Matt concentrated on getting control of the gun.

Chaos suddenly. More screams and shouts as gunshots sounded again, so close together that Matt couldn’t tell how many or just where they had come from. The robber’s gun lay trapped between their bodies now, and as they both grunted and cursed and struggled for control, Matt felt himself shoved hard from behind.

Moments later, when the pain hit, he realized the truth.

Not shoved. Shot.

And only seconds after that awareness, the gun in his hand went off.

He was free suddenly, the robber sliding bonelessly into a heap at his feet. Matt backed away, aware that he’d just shot another human being.

His legs shook, threatening to buckle. He sank to the floor, his back pressed against the base of the counter, his legs splayed out in front of him. Breathing hard, he just sat there, trying to hold on to consciousness that felt as though it was oozing away. In his ears, his heartbeats sounded like thunder.

He looked down and had the odd, unexpected thought that the coffee he’d ordered had spilled all over the front of his best coat. And then he realized that it wasn’t coffee at all, but blood.

His blood.

His head fell back, and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t be sure whether he lost consciousness or not, but when he opened them, a woman was kneeling in front of him. He could see his own shock and horror reflected in her features. Vaguely he remembered that she’d been sitting at the far end of the diner when he’d come in.

“Just lie still,” she said. “We’ve called the police and an ambulance.”

Matt nodded, feeling the blood stream down the inside of his shirt. “Towel…” he said, his voice no more than a whisper, like dry leaves blowing softly in the wind. “Need to stop the bleeding.”

“I’ll get one,” she told him, jumping up and moving out of his line of vision.

That was when he saw that the diner was insanely cluttered with smashed dishes, glass and blood. When he let his gaze swing to the right, he saw the robber he’d fought with lying near the cash register, his body twisted like a puppet who’d had his strings cut.

He heard someone crying. Shayla, he thought. Probably scared to death. He wanted to tell her he would be all right, but frankly, he wasn’t sure of anything right now.

He turned his head in the opposite direction. Shayla was lying near the door, a pool of bright blood beneath her. His breath left him in a rush. He bit down hard on nothing, pressing his teeth tight as he looked at her for a long, long moment.

No no no no…Oh God, Shay, get up. Get up.

Her face was partially covered by her long hair, but he could see her eyes. It was the kind of truth Matt would have felt in his bones, even if he hadn’t seen dozens of gunshot victims at the hospital. She was dead.

The image of her soaked so deeply into his mind that he knew it would never leave him. Swallowing against sudden nausea, Matt closed his eyes again, lost to everything but regret.

He clenched his fists. Why the hell had he stopped for coffee? Fresh pain owned him then, hot and fierce in his left hand. Frowning, he brought his fingers up in front of him. His hand was a mess. Nothing but blood and bone and torn tissue. He tried to absorb what that kind of damage could mean to his career as a microsurgeon. He tried to care. But he had only one clear thought.

He was alive and Shayla was dead, and all he wanted in those moments was to have it be the other way around.

CHAPTER ONE

One Year Later

WHEN DOC HAYWARD threw his annual Christmas party, always two weeks before the holidays, nearly everyone in Broken Yoke, Colorado, came. It was considered the best of the season, held in one of the last great houses still standing from the days when silver had been king. And since Doc always packed his bags and headed off to California to visit his only daughter immediately afterward, the party presented the perfect opportunity for everyone to wish him Merry Christmas and give him a proper send-off.

Leslie Meadows, the doctor’s office nurse and good friend, surveyed the buffet table as she took a sip of white wine. Doc’s idea of a Christmas party consisted of watery dip and crackers and a silver Christmas tree that revolved and changed colors. She and Moira Thompson, the clinic’s receptionist, had taken on the added responsibility of decorating the old Victorian from top to bottom, as well as handling the caterers. If all the compliments tonight were genuine, the two women could be very proud of themselves. The place looked elegant and festive.

Leslie signaled to one of the circulating waiters to bring in another tray of peeled shrimp. For five minutes she’d been watching Tom Faraday from Faraday’s Plumbing Service scarf down handfuls of them like popcorn. It was clear that the diet Doc Hayward had put Tom on wasn’t working.

“I thought you were off-duty,” a voice said behind her.

She turned to find her date for the evening, Perry Jamison, at her elbow. He looked slightly peeved, and Leslie suspected that he felt neglected.

“Sorry,” she said, picking up her wineglass from the table. “Force of habit. I’m used to looking out for Doc, even when we’re not in the clinic.”

“How about looking out for me?” he asked, reaching out to run the back of his hand along her arm.

“I think you’re pretty self-sufficient.”

“Not when it comes to you, angel.”

He gave her a hot, meaningful look that told her exactly what he was thinking. She smiled at him. In addition to being worth a small fortune, Perry was quite a catch. They’d been dating off and on since last spring, and though he lived and worked in Denver, he’d been coming to Broken Yoke with increasing frequency.

He’d made no secret of the fact that he’d cut her out of the herd of eager, young women who’d been after him since his divorce two years ago. Leslie—he’d once jokingly informed her—should consider herself lucky.

She supposed that, in some ways, she did.