Searching for Cate (26 page)

“M
y mother called me,” he told her as Cate shut the door behind them and flipped on the light.

The call had woken him up. For the first few seconds, he'd had trouble concentrating on what his mother was saying. All he was aware of was that Cate had left his bed again. He'd thought they were beyond that.

Apparently not.

He followed her into the living room. “Seems we made the five o'clock news in Arizona.”

Cate felt as if she was suddenly all thumbs inside. She was no longer tired, just edgy. And confused. “Here, too.”

He watched her as she moved around the room, a bird with nowhere to land. “She wants to know if you're all right.”

That was a matter of opinion, Cate thought while forcing a smile to her lips. Forcing herself to sound nonchalant.
You proposed to me. Do you even remember that?
She didn't know if she wanted him to or not.

“Tell her I'm fine.” When in doubt, turn the tables, Big Ted had taught her. “How does she feel about having raised a hero?”

“She told me I did the right thing.” He was waiting for her to sit down before he did the same. So far, it was like waiting for Godot. “She also told me that John almost ran off with Lily.”

Cate stopped moving around and looked at him. This was a new name. “Lily?”

“A girl on the reservation. More like a woman-child.” Thinking back, he realized that John had wanted to talk about Lily that night at the cemetery but had stopped himself at the last minute. He should have pushed instead of thinking the boy would tell him in his own good time, Christian thought. Sometimes people needed to be pushed. “He was trying to protect her.”

“From?”

“Herself, mostly.” It was amazing how alike Lily and Alma were. Except that for Lily, there was still hope. “I talked to him, told him not to think he can fix everything, that he can be there for her when she needs him, but he has to make sure that he's strong enough himself first. That takes growing.”

Something he had learned the hard way, Christian thought. But at least he'd finally learned it.

Cate nodded. “Good advice.”

His eyes held hers. “Yeah, I should have followed it myself when I was his age.”

She knew him well enough to know that this was a huge admission on his part. Her expression softened. “Think he will?”

“We learn by our mistakes and by example. Barring that, Uncle Henry will sit on him if necessary until John makes the right decision. Mom's doing what she can for Lily. I think it'll be all right.” In fact, he was willing to bet on it. With those two in one's corner, very little could really go wrong.

She felt as if they were waltzing around the subject. And it wasn't that she didn't like waltzing, but there was a different melody playing.

“Did you come here to give me a news bulletin?” When he said nothing, she felt she had her answer and filled in the blanks. “Look, if it's about what you said to me earlier, I know it was the painkiller doing the talking, so you don't have to worry—”

He cut her off before she could get carried away. Or say something he didn't want to hear. “I will if you turn me down.”

He didn't get it, did he? He'd gotten swept up in the heat of the moment, nothing more. “Christian, we were in one hell of a situation before. That tends to pump up the adrenaline, make you think you feel things you don't.” Because she wasn't getting through to him, she tried something he was more familiar with. “It's like with your patients, the ones who fall in love with you. They're not really in love with you, right?”

The look on his face was pure innocence. “They're not? Well, there goes my ego.”

She laughed, some of the tension draining from her. And then she sobered as she looked at him more closely. “You're different. Why?”

She was the reason he was different. Cate, and the fact that he had finally given himself permission to forgive himself.

He draped his arm over her. “Different how?”

“Freer. Less solemn—no, not solemn, that's it. You're not solemn.” The shadow of pain had left his eyes, she realized. “Maybe you should consider getting a refill for that painkiller.”

His mouth curved as he looked at her. She knew it wasn't the painkiller, he thought. It was just an excuse she was using because she afraid to face the truth. He could relate to that.

“It's already out of my system.” When she opened her mouth to say something, he placed his finger to her lips, silencing the protest. “Trust me, I know about these things.”

Her shoulders moved beneath his hands in a half shrug. “Then I don't understand.”

His eyes pinned her. They both knew she was lying. “What's not to understand? I love you—did I forget to mention that?”

She felt like a bowling pin that had just been mowed down. Her throat tightened so much, she could barely squeeze out the single word. “Yes.”

He didn't have practice at this sort of thing. But he'd learn, he promised himself. He'd learn. “Okay, consider it mentioned. We'll get back to that part.” He took her hands in his, as much to make contact as to keep her from fleeing. She had a strange look in her
eyes. “I want you to marry me. I want me to marry you. Nothing very complicated about that—unless you don't feel about me the way I think you do.”

Her stomach and brain had just simultaneously launched into the spin cycle. “I don't know what I feel—”

“Scared?” he supplied.

She took a breath and then nodded. “Yes.”

“Confused?” he guessed.

“Yes.” Never so confused in her whole life, she added silently.

“Like you want to run away?”

She wanted to say no, but this wasn't a time for lies. “Yes.”

He grinned broadly and she caught herself thinking that he looked almost boyish. No, not boyish. More like a teeth-jarringly sexy hunk who reduced her knees to the consistency of water.

“Congratulations,” he said, “you're in love, adult-style. Either that, or you think someone's out to get you, in which case, you're still right. Because I am. But only in the nicest possible way.”

As much as she wanted this, she could feel disappointment looming on the sidelines, ready to swallow her up again. Panic had her pulling away from him. “Don't you get it? This isn't a joke and I don't want to be in love.”

His grin faded a little around the edges as he grew serious. “Not really a matter of choice. You either are, or you aren't.”

“If I'm in love—” She looked up toward the ceiling, trying to collect herself. Trying not to cry. “Don't
you see? Loving someone leaves you open to all sorts of awful things.”

She was focusing on the down side. That wasn't like her. “Only if they betray you or they die. I'm not about to do the first. As for the second…” His voice trailed off as he shrugged. “I can only promise you the same thing you can promise me. Today. Right now.” And then the smile returned as he nodded heavenward. “I'm working on a deal regarding immortality, but it still has a few wrinkles to iron out.”

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. Most of all, she wanted him. But she was so afraid of taking that final step. Of admitting what she was feeling out loud. “This isn't a joke.”

“No, it's not,” he agreed. “It's very serious.
I'm
very serious. Those days you were in the Ukraine, doing your special-agent thing, I tried to get back to normal. Back to life without you.” The effort had been doomed from the start. “I didn't like it. Life didn't feel right.
That's
what I was doing at the airport. To see for myself just how I felt the first second I laid eyes on you.

“When I did, my pulse leaped. And I liked it. When I saw you start to grapple with Sullivan for the gun, I got that same awful feeling I had when I heard that Alma was killed. Except this time I was there, witnessing it. And I wasn't about to let anything happen to you.” He spoke earnestly, firmly. All he knew was that he had to make her understand. “Alma wasn't my fault, I know that now. But if I let you slip through my fingers, that
will
be my fault. Nothing comes with absolute guarantees in life, but I can absolutely guarantee
that I will love you for the rest of your life or mine. Whichever comes last.”

He took her hands in his again. “Love me, Cate. Love me just a little. I'll make up the difference.”

“I'm scared, Christian.”

“Me, too.” He drew her into his arms, holding her against his chest. Stroking her hair and thinking how he never thought he would ever feel this way again. Ever. It was enough to make a man humble. “But if we're scared together, there'll be someone to talk to in the middle of the night.”

He felt her words against his chest as she spoke, creating circles of warmth. “You make it hard to say no.”

“Then don't say no.” He drew her back so that he could look at her face. So that he could silently plead. “Say yes.”

Every single bone in her body was saying yes. She was surprised he couldn't hear. “If I say yes, will you go home and go to bed?”

“No,” he said honestly, “but if you say yes, I'll go to your bed.”

She grinned, threading her arms around his neck. “I guess that's a start.”

He moved to kiss her, then pulled back. “Just so we're on the same page—is that yes you love me or yes you'll marry me?”

Mischief entered her eyes. “You'll have to torture me to find out. And I warn you, I've been trained to resist by the very best.”

“We'll see.” He took her into his arms and kissed her. Kissed her so deeply that she felt as if her very core was in meltdown.

“Yes,” Cate breathed, finally, finally letting herself go. She felt as if she had wings and could touch the sky. “Oh, yes.”

“We already know that part,” he murmured against her mouth just before he deepened the kiss again. “But don't stop saying it. I like the sound of it.”

Everything you love about romance…
and more!

 

Please turn the page for Signature Select™
Bonus Features.

The Writing Life.

A Day in the Life of Marie Ferrarella

Native American Legends

Spider Rock

The Journey to Rainbow's End

How the Wood Tick Became Flat

Sneak Peek

The Measure of a Man

by Marie Ferrarella

BONUS FEATURES

 

Searching for Cate

Ever wonder how authors spend their days? Here's your chance to peek inside the life of author Marie Ferrarella, who shared her description of a day in her life.

 

My days can only be described as typical, if
typical
means to encompass the word
insanity.
For most people, dragging a comatose body up at four in the morning five days a week comes under the heading of torture, not typical. However, that's when I get up. No, I don't live on a farm, I live with a man who somewhere in his family tree absorbed a rooster. He has always gotten up before God invented dawn—usually to exercise before he goes to work.

My daughter, unfortunately, takes after him. She works seventy miles from the house so, traffic being what it is, she needs to leave by 6:30. Jess has never been as fast as I have, so she gives herself a lot of time. I get up to make breakfast for both of them, to pack a lunch for my husband, Charlie, and then,
after he leaves at six, I walk the dog. I'm back by 6:30 to say goodbye to Jess.

Between 6:30 and 7:00 I like to get in a little exercise if possible, and eat breakfast. I write a rough draft of my chapter between 7:00 and 8:30. Also in that timeframe, I usually get my son, Nik, up for school and clean up after everyone (it's like living with three versions of the Tasmanian devil).

Depending on the weather, I usually spend between fifteen to thirty minutes taking Charlie's cacti and succulents out of the garage, into the sun (his hobby, my work; my autobiography will be entitled
Taking the Cacti for a Walk
). Contrary to popular belief, a great many succulents and cacti are delicate so if it's too sunny, they have to be brought in again relatively quickly.

I spend the next two hours doing whatever errands need to be done: grocery shopping, going to the drugstore, taking my mother-in-law to various doctors (she has a number of ailments and is confined to a wheelchair), taking the cars (we have four) to the mechanic, my dog in to make the vet richer, etc. (And you thought my life wasn't glamorous.) If I'm not taking my mother-in-law to the doctor, I go over to see her daily to get her mail, take out her garbage and do whatever chores she needs done. I'm home by 11:30, have my lunch, return any phone calls on my machine, check my e-mail and am back at the computer “making magic” by 12:30.

I write until 3:00. Then I bring in the plants and start dinner. My husband's usually home by 4:30. We eat, I do dishes, clean up and go back to writing until the chapter “feels right.” I watch TV and usually fall asleep during the last fifteen minutes of
Law & Order
—I've never seen a first-run ending yet (thank God for videotapes). That's around eleven.

The next morning, it starts all over again.