Page 53 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

“Maybe,” he said slowly. “Maybe you could have lived your entire life never knowing, and maybe you’d have been happier if you had.”

She dropped her head into her hands, hiding her face from him.

She didn’t speak again for a long time.

While she processed what she’d learned, or grieved, or whatever it was she was doing, he lit a fire in the fireplace, then checked all the doors to make sure they were secure. They were. If her alarm sounded while she was home, she’d know it. She had the gun to protect herself. The cops hadn’t asked about it, which led him to believe she had it on her. That was something. He’d taught her how to use it Friday night, even having her fire a couple of shots at a tree in the backyard. She’d hit it—albeit from ten feet away, but an intruder in the house wouldn’t be farther than that.

Whether or not shewouldshoot in self-defense—that he couldn’t know, which made him never want to leave her side.

In the kitchen, he found an herbal tea bag and heated a mug of water for her. Deborah had told him once that tea warmed a person better than coffee, and herbal wouldn’t have caffeine. He settled in beside her again. “I thought you might want something.”

She dropped her hands from her face and took the mug. “Thank you.”

He nodded, and she sipped, then set it on the table.

“Is it okay?” he asked. “I wasn’t sure if you took sugar or milk or?—”

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

“The gun wasn’t stolen, was it? Did you leave it in your room?”

“You told me to keep it with me. It’s in my purse.”

“Did you get the holster?”

Her lips hinted at the slightest smile. “It came today, but… I feel like an idiot with that thing on. And it’s not exactly comfortable.”

He didn’t want to make her nervous, but on the other hand, all things considered… “Neither are intruders.”

She conceded the point with a nod. “The thing is, I can’t quite figure out how it works. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Go get it, and we’ll figure it out together.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the neoprene strap, which she held out to him.

It couldn’t have been more obvious how it worked, but he didn’t say that. He laid it flat on the coffee table. “Where’s the gun?”

She dug it out of the bottom of her purse. Fat lot of good it would do there.Hold on a second, Mr. Murderer, while I find my weapon.

Wisely, he held his tongue, checked that the safety was engaged, and slid the gun into position. “It goes here.”

“Yeah, I get that, but… It’s going to stick out. I thought the holster would hide the fact that I was carrying it.”

“If it were tucked away too much, then how would you get to it?”

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she shrugged.

He lifted the strap off the table. “Arms up.”

She complied, and he positioned it around her middle just above the waist of her slacks. He perched on the sofa andsecured it, trying not to pay too much attention to her trim waist and the faint scent of vanilla wafting off her. “Is that comfortable?”

When she said nothing, he looked up to find her cheeks were pink.

“Is that where I’m supposed to wear it?”

“It’s pretty flexible.” He turned it so the gun was on her right side. “There, you can grab it quickly. Or you could put it”—he slid the weapon toward the front—“here, if that feels more natural.”

“None of this feels natural. I really don’t think?—”

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