A/N: Lately I've been obsessed with the Patrick Jane of old, and the timeless idea of his redemption. We know how the Red John saga went, so it is interesting for me to explore what his life might have been without the weight of a dead family and a serial killer. Being a conman would have troubles enough. So this is a younger Jane of 24, and I've warped time a bit by making Grace, Cho, and Lisbon all around his same age, but I hope I kept their personalities intact.

I know I'm dipping into dangerous waters with this one, but any mistakes I make regarding Catholicism are unintentional and not meant to offend. I am not Catholic, but I have sought advice from one (she knows who she is), and I offer her my sincere thanks. I hope you like what I've done here.

Father Patrick

Chapter 1

Los Angeles, 1995

The bedside phone rang shrilly in the night, and Patrick Jane fumbled in the dark for the receiver, his heart pounding at the rude awakening.

"They're comin' for ya, Paddy," came his father's harsh whisper.

"Jesus, Dad," he replied, sitting up and reaching for the lamp. "What the hell?"

As light flooded the cheap motel room, Jane's sleep-fogged brain came to the slow conclusion that his father's voice was in fact speaking directly into his ear, and not from the other full-size bed beside him. He also noted in annoyance that it was three a.m.

"You heard me, boy. The jig is up. I suggest you hightail it out of there and head north before they get the hot tar ready. Better we split up. I'll meet you in Portland at the usual place."

Fully awake now, Jane glared into the phone. "You slept with her, didn't you?"

"Now, Paddy—"

"Dammit, Dad, you swore you wouldn't do this to me again. You don't sleep with the mark's wife. The deal wasn't even sealed, and now we're out ten grand and a month's work."

"Yeah, yeah, mea culpa and all that. Just get on a bus as soon as you can. I left you some money on the table."

Jane's eyes shot to the small dining table in the kitchenette area. Sure enough, a small pile of wrinkled bills was stacked haphazardly on the Formica. So Alex had planned for this before he'd left their room in the middle of the night. Jane also bet all the older man's belongings would already be gone from the room.

I must have been out like a light when he left. Probably shouldn't have had that extra beer…

"I'll drive the Citroen," his father was saying. "Don't go nuts if I'm not there right away. I have a bit of business to attend to along the way."

Yeah, to visit one of the many women he had stashed up and down the West Coast.

"Dad—"

"Bye, Paddy. See ya in a few days."

Jane slammed down the phone. "Son of a bitch!"

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus. How many times had his father screwed up a job before they could collect? This wasn't the first time it had been because of a rich mark with dangerous friends and a pretty wife. But damned if it wouldn't be the last, he vowed.

As he got out of bed and went to the closet for his jeans and button-up shirt, he could finally see the writing on the wall: time to go out on his own and leave his father to deal with his own screw-ups. Jane was twenty-four years old; time for the little bird to leave the nest before he ended up dead or in prison because of his father's lack of self-control. Jane felt confident that he could run his own scams easily enough, and he imagined how uncomplicated his life would become without his father running the show. More money for him, too, he thought, counting the paltry pile of twenties that was his remaining share of their last gig.

Jane had another hundred in his wallet, and his father expected that would be enough to pay for a cheap motel room in Portland, Oregon? If Alex hadn't lived so high on the hog, they could have saved up enough to live in comfort indefinitely, and not just hand to mouth as they had since they'd quit the carnival circuit two years ago. Yes, Jane was tired of the insecurity of being his father's shill; definitely time to make his own luck as the lead dog.

He tossed his clothes and toiletries into his duffle bag, frowning at the stack of books he'd have to leave behind since he couldn't carry them all on the bus. But there was one thing he did need. When he reached between his mattresses, however, he was horrified to discover his small pistol was gone.

"That's a swell father for you; leaves you nearly broke, hired goons out to get you, with nothing to defend yourself," he griped aloud to the empty room. "Asshole."

No way I'm meeting him in Portland, he thought. It's the end of the line for Jane and son.

As an afterthought, he grabbed his dog-eared copy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Complete Sherlock Holmes, something to read on the bus. The way Sherlock's mind worked oddly soothed him, and he'd need a lot of soothing while he contemplated his new life of independence.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

About an hour north of Vancouver, Washington, the bus rolled in to the depot of the idyllic town of Cannon River. It was a quaint little village, every small shop festooned with Christmas lights and window displays of Santas and Christmas trees and holiday sale signs. It was eight in the evening, and Jane awoke from his doze when the bus's loud breaks hissed to a stop.

"We're gonna be here for about an hour, folks," said the bus driver over the speaker. "There's a convenience store across the street as well as a truck stop diner if you want a snack or to stretch your legs. Don't be late though; we've got a schedule to keep, and we ain't waitin' for stragglers."

Jane stood, rolling his shoulders and turning his neck to loosen the kinks of ten hours of slumping against the window. He shrugged on his zip-up hooded sweatshirt, slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and ventured outside behind most of the other passengers. The chill night hit him and he shivered in his inadequate clothing (this was the heaviest outerwear he ever needed in LA). About three-fourths of the disembarking travelers went across the street as the driver had suggested; the rest went down the street toward a bar, Jane among them. A light snow was falling.

The River Rat was a typical small-town dive: dark, smoky, the Wurlitzer playing Lynard Skynard. Two guys played at the single pool table, a rough looking girl manhandled the pinball machine, and the booths and barstools were sporadically filled with early shift drinkers. They all wore the local logging uniform of plaid flannel, heavy jeans, work boots; long johns peeping out from beneath the flannel. One harried waitress brought drinks to the tables and the game area. Jane sat on an empty stool at the bar and got the attention of the attractive bartender.

"Hey, handsome," she said, eyes alight at his blonde good looks. "What can I do for you?" She smirked suggestively, her low-cut tee beneath her unbuttoned red flannel shirt a warm welcome after the coldness outside.

He rewarded her with a dimpled smile. She was momentarily stunned at the effect, and his grin widened.

"Beer, sweetheart," he said. "I'm not picky." And he only had enough money for one.

"Sure thing," she replied, when she could find her tongue. With any other guy, she would have given him a sharp set-down for calling her sweetheart. He noticed, however, that she poured from an expensive bottle but charged him the on-tap price. It certainly wasn't the first time his charm and good looks had gotten him special treatment. He gave her a promising wink but they both knew he promised nothing. He took a sip from the frosted mug and surveyed his surroundings dispassionately while the bartender tended to her other customers. Jane grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of him. His bus station sandwich earlier hadn't been very filling—or appetizing.

A man soon joined him, though Jane didn't recognize him from the bus, and he didn't seem like a local. He was dressed in a dark suit and heavy overcoat, and when he turned toward Jane, he was surprised to see the man wore the white collar of a Catholic priest.

"Padre," Jane nodded, raising his mug slightly before taking another swig.

"Good evening," said the priest. He ordered a scotch rocks, a man about twenty years Jane's senior, his close-cropped hair a light brown, graying at the temples, his face kind and open. He noticed Jane didn't look much like a local either. "Just passing through?"

"Yeah," Jane replied. "You?"

"Nope. I just got into town to start a new job."

Jane raised an ironic eyebrow. "The local sawmill?"

The priest chuckled. "The local parish. I'm Father Patrick, taking over at Saint Andrew's after Father John passed away last month. I was sent here just in time for Christmas Mass in a few days."

Jane shook the priest's outstretched hand. "Nice to meet you. My name's Patrick, too."

"Well, well. Small world. Where you headed, son?"

"Seattle. New job there for me too." He'd bypassed Portland and decided to give Seattle a try. His father would be keenly disappointed when his son and meal ticket didn't show up.

"Oh, really," said Father Patrick, taking a handful of peanuts for himself. "What line of work?"

"Sales," Jane replied, his face completely serious. If he felt a twinge of guilt for lying to a priest, Jane promptly ignored it.

"Aw. I figured a young man like you would still be in college, maybe grad school?"

"Never had the time. Didn't even graduate high school."

The priest frowned. "It's never too late, Patrick."

Jane shrugged and took another drink. "School was never for me. Besides, we travelled a lot." It actually felt good to tell someone the truth for a change, and he supposed that since this was a priest, he felt safe somehow.

"Dad in the service?"

"Something like that." Then he felt the truth slipping from his lips:
"Carnie circuit."

"How interesting." But when Jane didn't elaborate, the priest looked him straight in the eye. "You can tell me anything, you know, son. I'm a priest."

Jane grinned. "Yeah, funny, I was just thinking that. I usually don't spill my guts to perfect strangers. Must be the collar."

Father Patrick returned his smile. "It does invite people to confess. Sort of the idea. Your father still in your life?"

"No," Jane replied. "Not anymore." He took a healthy draught of beer.

"Aw, Patrick, you should mend your fences while you can. When my father died, we weren't talking. He disapproved of my becoming a priest. I forgave him, but he never wanted to speak to me again. I was his only hope for grandchildren, since my brother died as a teenager. I think my mother died soon after my dad in her despair, though the diagnosis was pancreatic cancer. She just didn't have the will to fight it."

"I'm sorry," said Jane, surprising himself that he meant it. Maybe it was because he didn't look at the priest as a mark. Jane's father had always taught him to look upon everyone as a potential mark; but that was a really crappy way to live, Jane thought bitterly.

"Well the point of my sad tale is that you mustn't shut people out of your life, especially family. You don't want to be alone like me in the world. Though I do have God, and the Church, of course. They are my family now."

"My dad isn't a very nice person," said Jane. And neither am I.

"We all deserve forgiveness, and second chances."

"Maybe." The priest backed off, sensing that Jane was not in a place to hear this yet; his wounds were still pretty tender.

Suddenly, the priest cringed a little, grabbing his right side. He turned pale.

"Something wrong, Father?"

He blanched, then reached a shaking hand for his scotch.

"It's nothing. It'll pass."

It had been a long time since Jane had actually cared about someone, especially so quickly. Before he could think, he'd put a hand on the older man's shoulder, but Father Patrick was slowly getting off the barstool.

"Excuse me a minute," Father Patrick said, then moved quickly toward the men's room in the back.

Jane watched him go, then glanced at the beer-themed clock above the bar. He had about thirty-five minutes till the bus left. Another ten minutes passed, and when the priest didn't return, Jane didn't allow himself to think, but picked up his duffle from the floor and followed the priest into the restroom. One stall door was closed, the dark overcoat slung over it. Jane could hear a man breathing heavily on the other side.

"Father Patrick?" Jane said. "You okay?"

"Uh…I'm not sure," he said through the door. "Can I ask you a big favor, son? I—I'm not feeling so good. Could you drive me to the hospital? I passed one on the way into town."

"Well, my bus is going to leave in a few minutes. Let me call you an ambulance."

"No-no. Ambulances are expensive. I—I just need to get to the emergency room. If you do this for me, I'll drive you wherever you want to go tomorrow, I promise."

Jane considered. He wasn't really in a hurry to get to Seattle, and besides, the idea of climbing back onto the drafty bus was as appetizing as that tuna salad from earlier.

"Okay. You uh, need some help in there?"

"No, I…just a minute." About two minutes later, the door slammed open, and Father Patrick emerged, his face covered with sweat, his now collar-less shirt unbuttoned. He looked like he was about to pass out, and Jane instinctively rushed to his aide.

"Lean on me, Father," he said. He grabbed the priest's coat and draped it around his shoulders, then helped him out the restroom door. Another passenger from the bus passed them and recognized Jane as a fellow traveler.

"The driver's just blown his horn. We got ten minutes."

"Yeah, well, don't wait for me."

"Okay. See ya."

Jane walked the priest out, steadying the man as best he could. They were the same height, with similar slim builds, but it was still awkward, what with his duffle bag and the full weight of the man leaning on him. There was a rear exit, and rather than make a scene going through the bar area, Jane opened the door, and they stumbled out into the alley.

"My keys are in my coat pocket," said Father Patrick, his voice tight with pain. "The white Honda Civic parked on the west side." It was about the same distance as it would have been going out the front door, and Jane was glad he'd chosen this route. The alley was empty of people and so it was faster going than had they had to dodge pool players and half-drunken patrons, though Father Patrick had to stop often to lean forward and clutch at his abdomen. Once, he even vomited on the snowy pavement.

Finally, they made it to the car and Jane settled him into the passenger's side. He tossed his duffle in the back seat of the economy vehicle, then got in and backed out into the quiet street.

"Drive back north," muttered Father Patrick. "The hospital's about a mile out of town."

"Okay."

They stopped at the town's single stoplight, and the only sound that filled the car was the priest's labored breathing.

"You a Catholic, Patrick?" he asked Jane. He was obviously trying to get his mind off the pain, and maybe pick up a new soul while he was at it.

Jane laughed dryly. "Are you guys ever off work? Well, my mother was Catholic, and I was baptized in the Church, but I haven't set foot inside one in fifteen years. Not since my mother died."

"You have a good heart, Patrick; I could tell the moment I saw you."

"Looks are deceiving, Father," he said wryly, for already Jane was thinking about how he would drop off the priest at the hospital and take his car on to Seattle.

A few minutes later, Jane drove up to the emergency room entrance and stopped. He looked over at the priest, who had gone silent once they'd driven past the stoplight. The man was out cold.

"Father?" Jane shook his shoulder, but there was no response. He got out of the car and ran into the ER.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane sat in the waiting room reading a six-month old copy of Time magazine, wondering why he was still there. Twenty minutes after they rushed Father Patrick by gurney into the operating room, the woman from the reception desk came over to speak to him.

"I have some paperwork for you to fill out about your dad," she said, handing him a clipboard.

She must have heard me call him Father.

"Oh, and here are his things," she said, handing him a white plastic bag. By its heft, Jane figured it was the priest's suit and shoes.

"Do you have his insurance card?" the receptionist asked.

"No."

"Well, okay. We'll work that out later. Just fill in what you can on these forms and bring them back to me."

Jane stared blankly at the empty spaces of the document. He sighed, tapping the pen absently against the clipboard. Plan B could be that he waited the next morning for another bus to roll through town. Maybe they would still honor today's ticket. If not, he was down to his last fifty bucks, stuck in Nowhereseville, Washington for the foreseeable future. No, he thought, he would stick to Plan A.

Jane sighed and set down the forms on the small lamp table, still completely blank.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"…your father's appendix ruptured," said the doctor an hour later. "We removed it, but I'm afraid he became septic, and has lapsed into a coma. We're doing all we can, pumping him with antibiotics and fluids. There's a chance we can stave off septic shock, but we'll just have to watch him for now."

"Okay," said Jane evenly. "Thanks."

After the doctor left, Jane sat in the uncomfortable chair of the waiting room, absently sipping the hot tea he'd gotten from a vending machine. It tasted just as you would expect hot tea in a hospital waiting room would taste. He grimaced, then rose, the weight of the priest's keys in his pocket. He could still leave. Father Patrick had all but said he had no relatives, but eventually the church would figure out what happened to him. After a few days without their new priest showing up, they would check the area hospitals. By then, Jane would have gotten a message to the church telling them where he'd abandoned Father Patrick's car; then it wouldn't be stealing, not really. Just borrowing. The priest had promised Jane he'd take him wherever he needed to go, after all. He was sure Father Patrick would verify this—if the man survived, that is. If not, well the police might not quite see his "borrowing" of a dead priest's vehicle in the same benevolent light. Cops were funny like that.

Despite the possible complications of this plan, Jane had made his decision. Absently, he picked up Father Patrick's clothing and left the hospital.

The snow had turned to a light freezing rain and the coldness of it began to seep into his skin. He had to wipe off the windshield of the Honda with his sweatshirt sleeve before he got inside and turned up the defrost and heater full blast, drops of icy water dripping from his hair. He sat shivering a moment before the heater kicked in, and, glancing at the passenger's seat, he saw Father Patrick's coat.

Unfamiliar tendrils of guilt began wrapping around his conscience, and he thought of how he hadn't filled out the priest's paperwork. He could have told the receptionist the truth, that he'd helped this stranger out who'd gotten sick in a bar, but then the police would have been called, Father Patrick's car impounded, and there would go his free ride to Seattle.

Unfortunately, Nature (he dared not think it was God) had something to say about his Plan A. As Jane pulled out onto the main road, he realized Seattle would have to wait. The rain was now more ice than liquid, and was falling even harder. Visibility was decreasing rapidly and he could barely see the center of the road. The ice was building up on the pavement, and he felt it catch at the tires, felt the minor loss of control when he hit a slick spot. He cautiously drove around the little town, past The Robin's Nest Bed and Breakfast, past the small road-side motel. Both places had No Vacancy signs. No room at the inns. Shit.

Plan B was probably out too, if this storm continued. No busses would be coming through tomorrow. Time for Plan C.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

If you spent any time at all in Cannon River, you couldn't miss the most beautiful building in town: Saint Andrew's Catholic Church. Jane had seen the Gothic structure on his brief quest for lodging, and he drove carefully back into the middle of town to find it again. He pulled into the parking lot of the rectory, and, seeing the curtain of ice outside, he grabbed the priest's coat.

The key to the rectory was clearly labeled on Father Patrick's key chain, and after slipping and sliding down the icy sidewalk, he felt for the lock and opened the door.

It was blessedly warm inside, and as he flipped on the light he sighed in relief, brushing the ice from his hair. He looked around the simply furnished apartment: small kitchen, sitting area, a hall leading to what he assumed was a bathroom, probably a study, and bedroom. This would do for the night, he thought, when he opened the refrigerator to find it fully stocked. When the weather broke in the morning, he'd be on his way again to Seattle, a good night's sleep, a full belly, and no one the wiser, if Father Patrick still lay in a coma.

Out of curiosity, he went to a door that he guessed would lead to the connected church. He found himself in a small room, a case on the wall containing the formal clothing the priest would wear at Mass. Through another door, he found the vestibule and, looking forward, the pews and pulpit of the sanctuary, the cloth-covered altar, all softly lit by the soft flicker of candlelight.

Images from Jane's past came back to him, and he felt a sudden tug at his heart as he remembered sitting in a church much like this, listening to a sermon, his mother beside him, smelling of Chantilly perfume that competed with the faint scents of candlewax and incense. He spied the font of holy water, but looked hastily away without moving to dip his fingers and cross himself, as his mother used to help him do. He certainly avoided the agonized gaze of the small statue of Christ on the cross.

He was briefly startled by the appearance of a nun from a side door, who strode purposely to the bank of candles, checking them for safety, lighting one of her own. She wore the long white habit of a second-year novice, and he could tell by her bearing she was not much younger than him.

As she turned from the candles and glanced toward the vestibule, she pulled up short, seeing him there, equally transfixed by her. She strode toward him then, a small smile on her pretty face as she beheld his borrowed overcoat. With her titian eyebrows and pale skin, he was sure there was red hair beneath her wimple. Jane's hand had slipped nervously into the priest's coat pocket, and suddenly he felt the soft plastic and fabric of Father Patrick's white priest's collar. He pulled it out in surprise. The nun's eyes darted to the familiar object in his hand.

"You must be Father Patrick," she said brightly. "So nice to have you at Saint Andrew's."

Jane looked down from her lovely amber eyes to the holy object in his hand, his mind racing. He certainly wouldn't be staying in the cozy rectory if he confessed.

"Yes, I'm Patrick," he said, taking her hand. She looked startled by both his casual manner and his handshake, but she put her soft hand in his and shook it with confidence. "And I can't tell you how happy I am to be here, myself."

She laughed. "I'm Sister Grace," she said. "I've been assigned to come and check on the church a few times a day. I suppose now I'll have to ask Mother for a new assignment, now you're here."

Jane smiled—he found she was one of those people who has a special light that radiates from within, and it was virtually impossible not to be taken in by it. In the past, his father would have called her the perfect mark. But then, Jane was currently of the mind that his father was the devil.

"Well, I'm sure you've been doing a very good job," said Jane, settling into his new role. He nodded toward the front of the church. "The sanctuary looks ship-shape."

Her cheeks grew rosy. "Thank you, Father. May I help you with anything before I go back to the convent?"

"No, thank you, Sister Grace. I'm sure God will reward you for all your good work seeing to things until I could get here."

"Yes, Father. Thank you, Father. Good night."

"Good night, Sister. And be careful out there; the roads are getting rough."

She left through the side door from which she had entered, and Jane turned back toward the rectory. He really hated to shatter her illusions, to take away her pretty smile, which he would surely do once she realized he wasn't actually a priest. He shrugged, pushing down the guilt for what seemed the hundredth time that day, and focused on the prospect of a hot shower and a good night's sleep in a warm bed.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hamburgers again? Really?" said Lieutenant Kimball Cho of the Canon River Police Department.

"I'm sorry, I'm hungry for them," said his partner, Lieutenant Teresa Lisbon. "Besides, I'm driving. Next time you show up first and get the keys, you can pick where we eat."

They'd stopped at Red's Diner across from the bus depot and sat in their usual booth. The place was decorated for the season with tinsel and lights around the windows, cut out snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. "Jingle Bell Rock" played softy on the radio behind the counter.

Lieutenant Lisbon would order the hopelessly greasy burger and fries, while Cho frowned at the one-page, laminated menu which he knew by heart. Sadly, looking harder wouldn't magically put pizza on the list. He sighed.

"What can I get you, officers?" asked the waitress, a hint of amusement in her voice. Cho didn't look up, but scanned beneath the heading of Red's Specialties, a definite misnomer, given there didn't seem to be one special thing on the menu.

"BLT," he told the waitress in resignation, imagining the limp bacon, greasy bread and anemic vegetables to come. When he raised his head to politely address the waitress, Cho felt his jaw drop and his dark eyes widen at the sight of the platinum blonde in red polyester. The small gold badge on her dress identified her as Summer.

"You want fries with that?" she asked, secret humor sparkling in beautiful brown eyes.

"Absolutely," said Lisbon.

Cho could only shake his head.

"And to drink?"

"Coffee," said Lisbon while Cho struggled to find his power of speech.

"And you, sir?" she prompted, bubblegum pink lips forming the words.

He forced himself to look up at her eyes and not follow the downward track they had been heading toward her full breasts. "Uh, coffee."

"Coming right up."

He watched her leave, noting with a dry mouth the pleasant sway of her hips, the slim legs encased in tan pantyhose. When he forced himself to look forward again, it was to see Lisbon staring at him with a knowing smirk.

"What the hell was that?" she said.

"Nothing."

Lisbon grinned. "It wasn't nothing. You looked like you were just poleaxed."

Cho shrugged. "I was surprised it wasn't Patty." Their usual waitress.

Lisbon snorted softly. "Yeah, right. I get it though. She is cute-in a sex kittenish sort of way."

He raised a brow. "Sex kittenish?"

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."

Summer returned with a pot of coffee and, turning over the coffee cups already at their table, she expertly filled each one. "Cream and sugar's on the table," she said, nodding toward the little caddy that held the packets.

"Thanks," mumbled Cho.

"No problem, handsome," she said.

Lisbon was delighted to see her usually unflappable partner flush pink.

"Your sandwiches will be out soon."

"Thank you, Summer," said Lisbon in supreme amusement, as the waitress went off to tend to other customers.

Cho met her eyes in annoyance.

"Shut up," he said.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time they'd finished dinner, the freezing rain was starting to fall in earnest. Cannon River's finest jogged carefully back to their green SUV police cruiser and Lisbon started the engine.

"Good Lord, that's really coming down now. We should drive around and see if there are any accidents."

"Yeah," Cho agreed.

They found two pretty quickly. The first was a woman whose car had slid off the road into an embankment. They called a tow truck on their car radio, loaned her a blanket while she waited in her car. Another was a two-car fender bender in the gas station parking lot. They took down the relevant information for their report and the two drivers went on their way.

Lisbon drove downtown, and Lisbon automatically went past Saint Andrew's. She was surprised to see a white Honda with California plates parked near the rectory door.

"The new priest must have arrived," she said. She was glad to see this, as there had been no Mass in the weeks since Father John had died. Still, she'd gone to church to pray twice a week, to light candles for her dead parents and to find the strength to get through each mundane day in Cannon River. She'd been worried there would be no Christmas services either, and now she felt excited to see who had been sent to take over the little parish.

Lisbon absently touched the cross that hung hidden behind her forest green uniform. God had guided her through the worst days of her life—her mom's death in a car accident, her father's alcohol poisoning—helped her finish college in Chicago, the top of her class in Criminology. But afterwards, she'd felt numb, her graduation anticlimactic without anyone to see it, and she could no longer summon the motivation to look for a job or go on to the police academy as she had planned. She lived on her parents' insurance policies until she could no longer bear her empty childhood home, until her friends stopped calling to invite her out. She'd long since broken her engagement to her high school sweetheart, and she felt as if there was nothing left for her in the big, loud city she had once loved.

When her great-aunt on her mother's side had called from Vancouver, Lisbon had spontaneously taken her up on her long-standing offer to come for a visit. Her aunt had been thrilled, and Lisbon had locked up her old house and gotten on the next plane to the Pacific Northwest.

She hadn't been back to Chicago since.

She'd applied and been accepted into the police academy in Vancouver, and after she'd finished with high marks again, landed a job in the small town of Cannon River as a lieutenant. It was just what she needed. She found she didn't miss the big city, could be alone with her thoughts and with the idea of building a quiet career, maybe finding a kind, dependable man to marry and live happily ever after in the idyllic town that was as far from Chicago's woes as she could get. When she wasn't working, she would find herself at the beautiful little church or walking on one of the numerous trails through the tranquil forest that surrounded the town. Both activities soothed and healed her soul.

She liked her competent partner, Cho, who had a similar story, though he had escaped the mean streets of Oakland, California for first the Army, then the academy in Seattle. His stoic nature appealed to Lisbon, and she found they were very compatible partners—both logical thinkers, both devoted to their jobs. They had slowly become friends, though not in the usual sense. There were few deep discussions or heart-to-hearts, but they connected on a level of respect and understanding that went beyond words. She trusted him with her life, and knew without saying it that the feeling was mutual.

When they heard that Police Chief Minelli would be retiring, their friendship turned a little more competitive, as they realized one of them would be next in line for the job. In such a small town where nothing ever happened, it would be difficult to distinguish herself as the heir apparent, and Lisbon secretly prayed for some excitement that would allow her to show off her potential to be the future chief. Nothing like a murder or anything, where someone would be hurt—just a mystery, or perhaps some way she could be a hero. Trouble was, with Cho as her partner, he would be in on any situation she might be faced with, and she knew he was equally qualified for the promotion. She supposed she would have to put her life in God's hands once more.

And so as she turned the police car around in the church parking lot, she was pleased to realize that at least her spiritual life was about to get a boost. Suddenly, the door to the rectory abruptly opened, and the light emanating from inside the rectory seemed to frame the man's blond curls in angelic light. Lisbon blinked, her imagination and no doubt her heavy meal coming back to bite her. She stepped hard on the brakes, and Cho let out a swear word she'd seldom heard him say.

"Hey!"

"Sorry," she said absently. "It looks like the new priest is getting something from his car."

"So?"
"Well, what if he needs help?"

Cho followed her gaze, watching the man in the dark coat through the rain and the steady swishing of the windshield wipers. The man tried the door to the car, but his hand slipped right off. He tried again, but it was obvious from this distance the handle of his car had frozen up, firmly encased in a layer of ice. He began pounding violently on the handle in a decidedly unpriestly way, and Cho's mouth quirked as he read the man's lips in the light from the rectory. Cho was no Catholic, but he knew those weren't words you likely heard at Christmas Mass.

Lisbon suddenly reached across Cho's lap to open the glove box, extracting a can of de-icer. She was out of the car before he could protest. Cho looked heavenward, then, with his second agonized sigh of the night, followed her out into the driving rain.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane couldn't rid himself of the chill from the frozen hell outside, so before he took a hot shower, he realized he would need dry clothing to change into. Problem was, he'd left his bag in the car. No way he was going to raid the priest's holy vestments from the small anteroom he'd seen earlier, and the drawers in the bedroom had been cleaned out of the past occupant's belongings. He'd also like his toothbrush.

Resigned to his decision, he went back out into the cold. The ice fell down beneath the collar of his borrowed coat as he tried without success merely to grasp the frozen door handle.

"Son of a bitch," he yelled, pounding on the door. "Come on!"

But just as he was about to go inside and boil some water, he looked up to see a very short cop approaching him, an aerosol can clasped in a gloved hand, a sidearm bouncing on a green-clad hip. Jane's heart seized at the sight of law enforcement—never a good thing to see in his line of work. He noticed now through the icy rain the police SUV's headlights shining toward the other end of the parking lot, and another officer emerging from the passenger door. This couldn't possibly be good. His first thought was that Father Patrick had awakened to ask for his car, and then the police had been called, and between them and the priest, they'd tracked him down here and were about to arrest him for grand theft auto.

"May I help you, Father?" asked the nearer cop, having to yell through the heavy sound of ice hitting the pavement.

Jane was surprised to discover that, beneath the plastic-covered bill of the police hat were a pair of very pretty, decidedly feminine, green eyes. She held up the can meaningfully.

He was inordinately pleased it was not mace.

"Uh, yeah," he managed. "Thanks."

He stepped aside as she liberally sprayed the door handle. "Give it a second to work," she said, looking up at him with those kind, compelling eyes.

Jane swallowed, feeling suddenly much warmer than he ought to be in a driving ice storm.

"So you're the new priest? Sorry you are having such a cold welcome," she said with a dimpled smile.

Jane reached up and wiped the melting ice from his face, the thought occurring to him that with his next words, he could be lying to the police. His heart picked up speed in anticipation of what he should say next. The cop's partner arrived to silently offer his support, nodding to Jane in an excellent imitation of Joe Friday.

"It certainly isn't California," he said, his own voice raised above the din. There. Nothing particularly priestly about that.

She chuckled. "Try it now, Father."

He did, and like magic, the ice around the handle had melted, and he was able to open the car door with ease.

"It's a miracle," he said. "You must be a saint."

He realized belatedly that that would sound very sacrilegious coming from a priest, but it made her smile widen and her dimples deepen, and immediately, Patrick Jane knew he was in big, big trouble.

A/N: Oh, yes we've got trouble. Right here in Cannon River…I hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew with this one—I'm sure you can see some of the implications. But let me just say, Lisbon's world is about to get more exciting than she ever really wanted. In case I don't get the next chapter out before Christmas, I pray you all have a merry one. Thanks for taking a chance on this fic. I'm a little nervous, but would love to hear what you think.