Snowbound

“John?”

He looked like himself, and yet…not. For one thing,

it was April, so instead of a heavy sweater or down vest

over his jeans, he wore only an oatmeal-colored thermal

henley T-shirt, with the couple of buttons unfastened to

expose his sinfully sexy throat and chest. And athletic

shoes instead of boots. He’d had a haircut, too.

Recently, she thought. And he was so clean-shaven, he

had to have taken a razor to his five o’clock shadow.

Which meant… She couldn’t think what it meant.

“How did you find me?”

“Dieter.” He shrugged apologetically, his eyes

wary. “You’re unlisted. He, uh, hacked into the personnel records…”

She flapped both hands. “Don’t tell me! If I know, I

might have to do something.”

“He thought it was a good cause.”

“It?”

“Me.”

“Oh.” Warmth crept over her. He’d enlisted Dieter’s

help… Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Did you ask Tabitha

or Kelli if I was dating anyone?”

“Uh…”

“You did!” she accused.

He glanced each way, at the neighboring town

houses. “Do you suppose I could come in?”

Of course she wanted nothing so much in the world

as to have him come in, but she pretended to frown.

“You used the kids!”

“If you let me in, I’ll explain.”

“Oh, fine.” She stood to one side, then closed the door

behind him. “I’m their teacher. You asked them to pry!”

“They’re the ones who e-mailed me when you started

dating the school Mussolini.”

“Chad is very nice… They e-mailed you? ”

“First, Tabitha and then Dieter. They apparently felt

I should rush to rescue you. Or rush over here if I

wanted to have any chance whatsoever with you.”

Fiona felt a funny shift in her chest that felt very like

the crumbling of hope. “That was almost six weeks

ago. You didn’t rush here. Or even e-mail.”

“No.” His eyes were very dark and intent on her face.

“I thought, uh, that I wouldn’t be welcome. Not if I

hadn’t dealt with any of my issues. But their e-mails

scared me, Fiona.” He reached out and clasped her

hands. “If that’s what they meant to do, they succeeded.”

“But…” Tears stung her eyes and she knew any

minute her nose would be running. “It’s been months!”

She couldn’t seem to help wailing. “You never…never

even answered my e-mail.”

“God,” he said, and enfolded her in his arms.

She cried quietly for a minute, her tears soaking his

thermal shirt. All the while, he held her tightly, his

cheek pressed to the top of her head.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Fiona. If you only knew…”

When she thought she could hold herself together, she

straightened and stepped back. She heard in her voice a

dignity that reminded her of Erin. “That was the trouble,

wasn’t it? I couldn’t know, because you didn’t tell me.”

Any guard had slipped, leaving his face haggard, unhappiness—equal to hers—in his eyes. “That’s why I couldn’t rush over here six weeks ago. Why I never answered. I was…struggling with anger because you were asking me to do something that was painful. I couldn’t

come to you until I could admit that I had a problem.”

“But…” The words caught in her throat, emerged as

a whisper. “Have you now?”

“I spent two weeks in Portland in March. I saw a

counselor who specializes in PTSD three times a week.

Since then, I’ve been making the trip once a week.”

Now she was afraid to hope. “Has…has it helped?”

His mouth twisted. “I still have nightmares. I haven’t

had a flashback in maybe a month. That’s not long

enough to assume they’re gone for good. But…I’ve

been able to talk to people. First him, then my sister and

Mom and Dad.” He hunched his shoulders. “Is your

offer still open, Fiona? Because I’m here to talk.”

Darned if she wasn’t crying again. She didn’t even