The Last Noel by Heather Graham Page A

Quintin or Scooter, hardened and with an edge. This man was younger. Not much older than Frazier and Kat, she realized.
    And he was hurt. A trickle of dried blood marred his forehead and matted his hair. Light hair. His eyelashes fluttered as he looked up at her, and for a moment his eyes went very wide, as if he knew her. As if he somehow recognized her. Which was ridiculous, she thought, because she’d never seen him before in her life.
    A pained smile tugged at his lips; then his eyes closed again and his head dropped. The only reason he was still vertical, she realized, was because her husband and son were supporting him.
    He looked as if he’d fallen face-first into the snow somewhere along the way, and he was tall, even slumped between her husband and son. He looked to be about their height, and except for his present exhaustion, in excellent condition, like an athlete rather than a thief.
    Really? she mocked herself. And just what did thieves usually look like?
    Like the other two men. Hard, dangerous, cold—and soulless.
    â€œSet him down on the sofa,” she said.
    As soon as they did so, she knelt down beside him and carefully probed the wound on his head. He cried out involuntarily, his eyes—dark blue, she saw in the light—fluttering open again.
    â€œHey,” Scooter protested. “Don’t hurt him.”
    â€œLike it makes any difference,” Quintin muttered.
    â€œI’m just trying to see how badly he’s hurt,” Skyler said. “I think he may have a concussion.” She looked from Quintin to Scooter. “He should never have been out in that car. You could have killed him.”
    Her words were met with silence.
    Maybe they—or one of them, anyway, she thought, remembering Quintin’s cavalier attitude toward bringing him in— had been trying to kill him. Or else had taken the attitude that if he died, he died.
    â€œTold you,” Scooter said.
    â€œHe deserved what he got,” Quintin snapped.
    Deserved…
    So who had cracked him in the head? Someone they had accosted earlier tonight?
    Or Quintin?
    â€œJamie, can you get the first aid kit, please? It’s up in my bathroom.”
    She heard a click and looked up quickly. Quintin had clicked off the safety on his gun, and his finger was on the trigger.
    â€œI’ll just get the kit. I swear it,” Jamie said, staring at Quintin.
    â€œPlease,” Skyler said softly. “This man is your friend, ” she added, hoping it was the truth.
    â€œI’ll go with him,” Scooter said.
    â€œMake it fast,” Quintin said. “There’s still a meal on the table. And dessert.”
    As she listened to Jamie’s and Scooter’s footsteps on the stairs, Skyler realized everyone else was clustered around her. Frazier had his arm protectively around Brenda’s shoulders, but his eyes were on Quintin and the gun. Uncle Paddy was standing silent, leaning on his cane. David stood as tense as strung piano wire, watching her.
    The torment in his eyes was terrible to see. Worse than her fear that she would be shot. Almost as bad as her fear that her entire family would be massacred if they made a wrong move.
    Or even if they didn’t.
    As soon as Jamie came back with the first aid kit, she found the antiseptic and bathed the cut, happy to have something to concentrate on other than her fears. He stared at her steadily the entire time.
    She almost fell over when Brenda stepped forward. “I can see if there’s any kind of fracture, Mrs. O’Boyle. I’m pre-med.”
    â€œThat would be great, thanks,” Skyler murmured, trying to hide her shock, though she did remember Frazier saying Brenda was brilliant.
    â€œJust a concussion,” Brenda said with surprising confidence a minute later. “I’m sure he’ll be all right.”
    Skyler and Brenda looked at one another. Even Skyler knew he shouldn’t be lying down on her