The Christmas Target. Shirlee McCoy

into his eyes, looking wounded and tired and a little too fragile for Chance’s peace of mind.

      Finally, she shrugged. “You’re the first guy to ever say that to me.”

      Odd considering that she’d been married for years. Her husband had died serving his country, and she’d mentioned once or twice just how proud she’d been of him.

      That was about as much information as she’d given.

      Even when Chance had asked.

      Even when they were dating.

      “Then you haven’t had the right guys in your life,” he responded, keeping his tone light.

      She wasn’t herself.

      That was obvious. He didn’t want her to regret their conversation or be embarrassed by it.

      He took her arm, helped her to her feet. “Do you have a spare key to the house? Boone and Simon might need to get inside.”

      “I left the door open.”

      “There are police everywhere. Someone might have closed it.”

      “There’s probably a key in the flower box outside the kitchen window. If you want to look for it, I can—”

      “No.”

      “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

      “Whatever it was, the answer is still no. We’re getting out of these woods, and I’m driving you straight to the hospital. No stops for anything.”

      “You’re awfully bossy when I’m hurt,” she muttered. There was no heat in her words and no real complaint.

      “Awfully worried,” he corrected, taking her elbow and helping her up the embankment.

      “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

      “You always are. Until you aren’t, and then I have to ride to the rescue,” he replied, baiting her the way he had a hundred times before. He knew how she’d react. Her back would go up, her chin would lift, and she’d march to the house like she hadn’t been knocked unconscious and nearly frozen.

      It almost worked out that way.

      “I’ve rescued you more times than you’ve ever rescued me,” she said.

      Just like he knew she would.

      Then she shrugged away from his hold, marching forward with just enough energy to convince him she might actually be okay.

      They made it through the trees and out into the yard, white snow swirling through the grayish light. He could see how pale she was, see how much she was trembling. She was cold or in shock or both, and he had about two seconds to realize that baiting her hadn’t worked out the way he’d wanted before her steps faltered.

      Just a little hitch in her stride, a soft sigh that he barely heard, and she was crumbling to the ground so quickly Chance barely had time to catch her.