Page 54 of Track of Courage

Dawson stood at the top of the steps, hands in his pockets, shivering.

Keely sat down on the top step, her hands between her knees.

Fine. He sat with her.

She leaned into him, her shoulder warm. “There was this serial killer that haunted Minneapolis for a while. Killed a number of young women—most of them were waitresses. My dad was a young cop at the time, and he landed on one of these grisly killings. It tore him up, but ... instead of facing it, he turned his fears to me. Taught me how to use a gun and enrolled me in self-defense classes, made me camp out in the backyard just so I could endure a night alone.”

“Seriously.”

“I know he was just trying to keep me safe, but he scared me. He was dark and stoic and refused to admit his emotions. He didn’t even cry at my mom’s funeral.”

He nodded. “My father didn’t cry at Aven’s funeral either. Just disappeared into himself.”

“I took it personally for a long time. Felt rejected.” She glanced at him. “For an adopted kid, that’s a double whammy.”

He’d completely lost Caspian in the snow, but he couldn’t takehis gaze from her face. Pretty, with a softness to it, snow caught in her lashes. Winter Tinkerbell, indeed. And despite the chaos, the frenzy of the blizzard around him, his usually chaotic insides had settled, his heartbeat steady.

As if here, in this pocket, his body said he was safe.

Keely stared out into the night. “He just poured himself into his work, then. Shut me out. Until a woman walked into his life. A neighbor who’d gotten divorced. I think she saw my dad and his life and wanted stability—anyway, they got married two months after she showed up on his porch and asked him out.”

“Wow.”

“I made the mistake of not being overjoyed. I thought it was too fast, and I was worried about him. They called me dramatic and selfish and cut me out of their lives.” She swallowed. “I grieved for a long time. And then I realized ... maybe I was scared of losing him so I hung on too tight.” She lifted a shoulder.

He cocked his head. “We don’t cause things to happen just because we fear them.”

“I agree. My father was broken, and my mother’s death only made it worse. I think I hoped things would be different, that after her death we’d somehow get close. But he only fled into his job, and then his new wife. I wasn’t ... I wasn’t what he wanted. Or needed.”

He had the wild urge to find this guy, tell him what he was missing.

“I did learn that fear makes us do stupid things. It makes us run. Hide. See things the wrong way. And sometimes, it causes us to make terrible choices that cost us more than we can realize.”

She looked away then, and aw, he couldn’t stop the urge to put his arm around her, scooting close, their parkas crunching in the snow. Her body sank against his.

“Maybe there’s stuff.”

Aw, he couldn’t escape it.

He sighed. “I’ve had three months to sit on that day. Running the shooting over and over in my head. And every time the anger just...” He shook his head. “If they put me on that stand, I’ll either come off as a cold, calculating jerk, or I’ll lose it, and yes, I see myself going over to the defense table and strangling the man. So...”

She nodded.

“So yeah, I’m angry. And frustrated. And ... it’s completely messed ... I think it’s messed me up.”

He might have let her go, disgusted by his confession, but she turned to him, put her hand on his jacket. “You’re grieving.”

He met her eyes, beautiful and shiny in the puddle of porch light, and frowned.

“Yes. Grieving,” she said. “And maybe it started with your sister, but you’re also grieving the family you should have had. And probably your mobility. And maybe even your own heroism.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What, are you a psychologist?”

She laughed. “Sometimes. But the fact is, there is a lot more churning around inside here, Dawson. And none of it adds up to you being the villain.”

His throat tightened. She lifted her face, searching his, so close that all he had to do was lean down and—

Oh, wow. He let her go, looked out at the night, pulling in a cool breath.