Snowbound

need it.

John’s fingers hovered over the keys. Damn. He

couldn’t remember ever struggling over a few simple

words the way he was now. But something told him it

was important that he strike the right balance, sounding

friendly but not desperate. Please come back would

scare her off. He finally settled on,

If you have time, e-mail me.

Place isn’t the same without you.

No. He backed the cursor up, changing the sentence to,

Place isn’t the same without all of you.

“Send” and it was gone, before he could have

second thoughts.

He read his other e-mails and responded briefly. He

never knew what to say anymore to his parents or

sisters. But they’d worry if he didn’t answer at all.

Supplies loaded, he headed back up the mountain,

arriving barely an hour before the obviously wealthy

couple in a Lexus SUV, who tipped him when he

carried their bags up to their room, then wondered

how far it was to the nearest restaurant and whether

he had a hot tub. His Web site emphasized the isolation of the lodge, the family-style meals and the rustic rooms and cabins. It didn’t hide the fact that bathrooms were basic and shared. Maybe these two had just looked at the pretty pictures and skipped the fine

print. Yeah, and maybe, he thought hopefully, they’d

decide to leave tomorrow.

It had been weeks since he’d had a really ugly nightmare. He had one that night. John woke to find himself rearing up in bed, his throat raw from his shouted

warning that came too late. Even in his nightmares, he

couldn’t let himself see the worst parts. The last thing he

remembered was knowing he’d been hurt bad, lying with

his leg not right, and staring with bewilderment at the

mud-brick wall that had provided meager shade while

he gathered the boys for a pickup game. Now…God.

Before his dazed, uncomprehending eyes, it was

splashed with bucketfuls of blood. So shockingly bright

as it dripped.

His stomach heaved, just as it had that day. Then,

after staring dazed at the blood dripping from a soccer

ball, he had pushed himself to his knees to puke and

seen… He lifted a shaking hand and rubbed his face. No.

He wasn’t going to remember. Not that. Thank God he

always awakened before he saw anything worse than the

blood.

He didn’t know why his life had been spared. Maybe

the sight wasn’t the point of the nightmares. Sometimes

he thought it was his shouted warning that came simultaneously with the blast, as if his subconscious wanted to remind him over and over again that he’d been ineffectual.

As if he didn’t know? he raged at himself. He was

just goddamned lucky that his subconscious didn’t seem

to realize that ineffectual was the least of it. In his

bumbling naïveté and with his good intentions, he had

invited the horror.

Sitting there in the dark, still shaking and battling the

nausea, he thought, I am the angel of death.

Fiona wouldn’t have been so grateful if she’d known.

She wouldn’t have trusted him. She wouldn’t so easily

have brushed off the incident when he’d seen the boys

fall and blood color the snow.

What if he’d told her? he wondered, but was shaking

his head before he could pursue the speculation. His life

goal was to repress all memory of those few minutes.

Only once had he described what had happened, when,

from a stretcher, he’d had to identify the suicide bomber’s

body—the scattered bits of his body. John never intended

to tell another soul. Words had power. Stories once told

lived on, refusing to be corked inside a bottle.

He got up and went to his bathroom. After splashing

water that was just this side of freezing on his face, he

looked at himself in the mirror. The angry scar stood out

like a brand. How had Fiona looked at his face and seen

anything but the scar?

The fact that she had was a miracle. Miracles were

rare and precious. He’d be a fool to turn his back on

this one.

Go see her.

When was he supposed to do that? He didn’t have a

weekend until March without reservations. Suppose he

drove down on a Monday. She’d be working. At best

she’d save an evening for him. He didn’t want just an