LITMIR.BIZ

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never understand that I can’t stop loving him just because he might associate with criminals.”

      “‘Might associate with’?” Chris’s voice was far too quiet.

      Lauren understood what that meant. He grew quiet when he was angry. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Her family had come between Chris and her having a happy future together. Now Ryan was interfering with Chris’s Christmas with his mother and sister.

      And she had just said that Ryan might associate with criminals, as though he wasn’t one himself. She never could accept that her big brother was something other than the kind and loving young man who had built her a tree house and cleaned her bloody hands and knees when she was learning to ride a bike.

      “Ryan ran into the woods when the shooting started.” As an olive branch, her information was poor, but it was all she had to offer.

      “Do you have any form of communication here?” Chris’s question was his only response. “I get no signal on my mobile.”

      Despite the heavy storm shutters, she was all too aware of a gunman likely lurking outside the house. Without a word, she fetched the satellite phone and handed it to Chris, then she located the first-aid kit she had dropped on the faded Oriental rug in the center of the living room. She could doctor Chris’s head wound until he got assistance from EMTs. Needing warm water to cleanse the wound, she returned to the kitchen. With the open floor plan, she wouldn’t be able to avoid hearing Chris’s call, but if he wanted privacy, he could go into the bathroom, one of the bedrooms or even retreat upstairs.

      Yet he made no phone calls. One hand holding a square of clean linen cloth beneath the kitchen tap, Lauren glanced over her shoulder. Chris perched on the edge of the sofa with the phone in his hand, his mouth set in a grim line.

      “What’s wrong?” She flicked off the water.

      “No signal. I guess I have to risk going outside.”

      “You shouldn’t have to. I have an antenna.” Their eyes met across the breakfast bar, and she corrected herself. “I had an antenna.”

      “Cloud interference?”

      “The weather isn’t bad enough for that yet.” Despite the heat of the woodstove, a chill raced down Lauren’s arms. When she read the accusation in Chris’s gaze, steady upon her face, the shivers penetrated through her body to her core. She would rather face an arctic storm outside than remain beneath the scrutiny of those beautiful blue eyes. Yet she could not look away or he would think she was trying to hide something.

      “Did you disable the antenna because you were expecting your brother?” He asked the question she had anticipated.

      She flattened the palms of her hands on the white quartz countertop so they wouldn’t shake. “Do you really think I climbed on the roof to disable the antenna?”

      “I think you didn’t answer my question.” His tone was as cold as Lauren felt—a rival to the oncoming storm—cold enough to make something inside her snap.

      “I did not disable the antenna.” She threw the cloth she’d been wetting into the sink. “I did not plan to give my brother shelter.” She grabbed the frying pan with her ruined dinner congealing inside and threw that into the sink with a satisfying clatter of cast iron on stainless steel. “I did not shoot at you, steal your gun or make the woodpile collapse on top of you. I arrived here two hours ago to avoid the press that seems to be forgetting it is nearly Christmas and some of us would like a peaceful time to remember the season and the birth of Jesus in peace. I came here to avoid the press so I didn’t forget about goodwill toward men.” She rounded the breakfast bar and yanked open the door to the stove to add more wood. “I was not in Chicago for my brother’s trial, so I did not aid and abet his escape.” A log slipped from her hands and hit the floor a hairbreadth from her toes. “I cannot prove the negative, so you will simply have to believe me or not. Frankly, at this moment, goodwill toward men does not include you, as far as I’m concerned.” She wrestled the log into the stove and latched the door before she dared face a too-silent and, she presumed, outraged deputy US marshal.

      She faced a man with one arm clamped to his side and his other hand flattened to the wound on his head, as he rocked with silent laughter.

      “I’m glad I amuse you.” Burdened with the knowledge she had just made a fool of herself, she trudged back to the kitchen and found another clean cloth. “Your head is bleeding again. Let me clean it up and get a bandage on it.” The running water masked anything he might have said. By the time the cloth was wet and she returned to the living room, Chris had stopped laughing. The light had left his eyes, and his jaw, solid and square, was set in renewed anger, or maybe just pain—set enough so he didn’t seem inclined to speak.

      Lauren took a deep breath. “I apologize for losing my temper. I simply—” She broke off, not willing to diminish the apology with excuses about how much she hated false accusations. “Please forgive me. My temper is my thorn in my flesh.”

      “I know.” Their eyes met again. From only two feet away, the impact struck Lauren like a physical blow to her chest, to her heart.

      He had always laughed at her temper, those infrequent outbursts after she was pushed too far. At least he had laughed until the last time when she had sent him away in a flood of outrage, a spate of words designed to drown any affection he felt for her.

      She held up the wet cloth like a shield. “Let me cleanse that wound for you. Do you think it was from a bullet too?”

      “A log struck me. I doubt I’d be awake if it had been a gunshot wound.”

      “I suppose not.” She brushed aside his hair, cut short no doubt for his job, but so thick it tended to wave anyway, so dark a brown it was nearly black, far darker than her own burnished chestnut. “It’s not deep. I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

      “That’s fortunate, since we can’t seem to get an ambulance or sheriff here.” He held up the useless sat phone.

      “I could have stitched it.”

      “Without anesthesia? No thanks.” He shuddered.

      “You mean the big bad deputy marshal can’t take a little pain?” She meant the words to be teasing; they sounded snarky.

      In truth, they were mean. He must be in serious pain from the blow to his back, vest or not, but hadn’t complained about it. His head must hurt, as well. Again, he hadn’t complained.

      “I’m sorry,” she said.

      “No need to apologize for that.”

      “Which means I need to apologize for something else.” She affixed a couple of butterfly bandages to the wound, covered them with a larger adhesive-edged pad and stepped back to inspect her work. “It’ll do.”

      “Thank you.” He gave her a half smile. “Now that I’m patched up, let’s go back to talking about your brother.”

      She stiffened. “I do not need to apologize for helping my brother. I did nothing but go to him when he fell at the bottom of the steps, to offer him aid if he was seriously injured. He wasn’t hurt that badly, apparently.”

      “That’s all?” Chris’s gaze burned into hers.

      “Yes, that’s—” Her hand dropped to the pocket of her jeans.

      In all the terror of being shot at, not to mention the shock of seeing Chris after five years, she had forgotten about the flash drive Ryan had pressed into her hand.

      Lauren paled, emphasizing the depths of her wide, dark eyes. Chris regretted his harshness, yet she needed to see the consequences of helping her brother evade the law. He might not be able to love a woman who could not support his chosen profession, but he remembered enough of his former affection for her to want to keep her free to live her life as she wished to.

      “What is it?” Chris demanded.

      “I...don’t

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