He had removed his coat, scarf, and boots and was standing with his back to the flames when she brought him the steaming mug. “Will it make you nauseous?”
“I’ll take my chances.” He closed both hands around the mug and raised it to his lips, then halted. “Where’s yours?”
“It’s for you. You earned it.”
He took several sips, savoring the taste and the warmth, making small sounds of pleasure. “I may marry you.”
She gave a nervous laugh and sat down in the corner of the sofa nearest the fire, tucking her stocking feet under her hips. She hugged the throw to her chest as though for protection. Against what, she wasn’t quite sure. Tierney’s eyes maybe, which seemed always to follow her, to see into her, to know more about her even than she knew about herself.
He sat down on the hearth and extended his feet toward the fire.
To fill the silence, she asked, “How’s your head?”
“Reeling.”
“Still hurt?”
“Some.”
“I don’t see any fresh blood in your hair, but after you’ve rested awhile, I’d better check the wound again.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything. Eventually she got up and took the empty coffee mug from him, then went into the kitchen to refill it. When she brought it back, he shook his head. “That’s yours.”
“I made it for you.”
“I insist you have some, too.”
She took a few sips, murmured thanks, then passed the mug back to him. As she did, his fingertips brushed hers. “This feels good, Lilly. Thanks again.”
“Thank you for going after the firewood.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took up her former post in the corner of the sofa. No sooner was she settled than he began a new conversation with a flat statement. “I know about your daughter.” Her astonishment must have shown, because he gave a small shrug, adding, “I picked up tidbits of information here and there.”
“From whom?”
“The people in Cleary. There’s been a lot of talk about you, especially since Dutch moved back to become police chief. You two remain a hot topic of gossip at Ritt’s soda fountain.”
“Do you spend a lot of time there?”
“When in Rome. It’s the place to be.”
“Oh, it’s the hub of the city, all right,” she said sarcastically. “I expected my split with Dutch to cause a flurry of rumor and speculation. Gossips thrive on marriages, pregnancies, affairs, divorces.”
“Deaths,” he said softly.
“Yes.” Sighing, she looked over at him. “What do they say about Amy’s death?”
“That it was tragic.”
“Well, that much isn’t rumor. She was only three when she died. Did you know that?” He nodded. “Four years ago. It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve been without her for longer than I had her.”
“Brain tumor?”
“Right again. A real bastard of one. Sneaky and deadly. For the longest time, it didn’t manifest itself. No paralysis, or partial blindness, or slurred speech. No warning of any kind of what was in store. Amy appeared to be a perfectly healthy little girl. That was the good news. It was also the bad news. Because by the time we did begin to realize that something was wrong, the tumor had invaded an entire hemisphere of her brain.”
She picked at the fringe on the throw. “We were told at the outset that it was inoperable and incurable. The doctors said even with aggressive chemotherapy and radiation treatments her life could be extended for a few weeks, perhaps a month or two, but not spared.