Gillian had retreated to her room, where she slumped down on the bed and stared into the mirror, perturbed by her own behavior. Even as the anger caused by Steve's accusations had coursed through her, she had felt the pull of those vivid blue eyes, had been drawn by their intensity. She found herself automatically comparing her visitors, until she realized with a start that, despite his rudeness and disturbing claims, she was more intrigued by Steve than his friend, who was obviously much more kind and considerate. What was wrong with her, she wondered; this should have been a no-brainer. And, in any event, she wanted them to leave -- she thought. She rubbed her hands over her face, took a deep breath, and went to find Jesse so she could apologize for her outburst.

She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard low voices inside, and the obvious strain in both as she stood listening persuaded her to rethink her plan. Instead, she turned and headed for the kitchen, with the idea of making them sandwiches as a peace offering, casting a worried eye at the darkening sky as she walked through the living room.

The first faint trickle of renewed snowflakes was starting to fall, but the temperature inside the guest room was far chillier as Jesse finished rebandaging Steve's arm and raised angry eyes to his friend's face. "I want to check your ribs," he said curtly.

Steve pushed the hands away. "They're fine," he said mendaciously. "Jess --"

Jesse shook his head. "I don't want to hear it, Steve. Now let me see your ribs."

Steve stared at him. "Not until you tell me what you've got going with Gillian."

His best friend glared back, obviously contemplating physical mayhem. "Why? So you can tell me how stupid I'm being?" he snapped.

Steve blinked. "No. I just want to know what's going on --"

"What's going on," Jesse interrupted, "is that any chance I might have had for any kind of meaningful relationship with a very attractive woman, who seemed to return my feelings, has now gone down the toilet, thanks to you."

Stung, Steve retorted, "Oh, and Roger Hill doesn't come into consideration here at all?"

Jesse shook his head. "I don't know -- but they are friends. However -- she wasn't looking at me like just a friend -- or at least until you started in on him."

The fact that Jesse essentially was right gave him pause momentarily, but Steve ignored the twinge of conscience. "And just what would have happened when Hill found out? Or hadn't you planned that far ahead?"

"Steve, you don't understand."

He shook his head, trying not to wince. "No, Jess, you don't understand. Hill is an amoral, opportunistic psychopath. I'll bet anything he was involved in Tolliver's so-called accident. He finds us here, we're sitting ducks -- and then Gillian and Paul's safety is compromised as well."

Jesse stared at him coldly, unwilling to consider the possible truth in Steve's words. "Obviously nothing I can say is going to convince you otherwise. So let's get you some clothes and get out of here before you and Hill go for round two."

Steve sighed in exasperation. "Jess --" he started, but was interrupted by Gillian, who looked as if she was trying to ignore the last part of the conversation.

"Here are some clothes which might fit," she said, her tone deliberately neutral. Steve took them, thanking her equally colorlessly, and withdrew to the bathroom, shaking his head briefly in response to Jesse's automatic but not particularly sincere offer to help. The young doctor frowned at his friend's back and turned to Gillian, who was gazing in that same direction pensively. "Gillian, I --"

She put a hand on his arm. "Don't apologize; I understand." She flicked another concerned glance at the window. "I'm going to check the weather report," she said quickly, and slipped out, leaving him to sink down on the bed, where he leaned his chin onto his hands, contemplating the closed bathroom door and his own conflicting emotions. Thus distracted, he hardly noticed when Steve emerged, good arm thrust through the sleeve of a denim work shirt, injured arm hanging awkwardly.

"Jess? I could use some help with this if you don't mind --"

Unhappy brown eyes met perturbed blue ones; then Jesse sighed and stood up. "Yeah, sure, Steve. I'm sorry -- this isn't your fault."

Steve's mouth twisted. "I haven't helped the situation any." He looked around. "Where is Gillian, anyway?"

Hands occupied with easing the wounded arm into its sleeve, Jesse jerked his head sideways. "Probably in the kitchen -- that's where the radio is."

"Radio?" Steve asked, trying to suppress the twinge of alarm.

Jesse nodded. "Weather report. She seems to think the storm will get worse."

Steve directed a glance at the window. "It doesn't look good out there." He squared his shoulders and secured the final button. "I'm going to go bite the bullet and apologize to the lady of the house." He held up a hand as Jesse started to speak. "Jess, let me go eat crow, okay? Trust me." He turned and headed for the door, trying not to limp too visibly.

Gillian was in the kitchen, worriedly regarding the world outside as a not very encouraging forecast crackled out of the radio speaker. She turned as he entered, and he felt an unexpected jolt as the clear eyes met his. "Gillian --" he started, and stopped, temporarily at a loss for words.

Those disturbing eyes glanced outside again, then returned to focus on him. "What is it, Steve?"

Another shock at her unexpected use of his first name, and the caress in her voice as she said it. He had a disconcerting feeling of teetering on the edge of a pit, and grabbed at his reason for seeking her out in an effort to regain his emotional balance. "Gillian, I'm sorry. What I said before -- I was out of line. I didn't mean to --"

Before he could finish, she was standing in front of him, delicate face raised, sea eyes compelling. "It's all right," she breathed, and the small hands whose competence he had already had occasion to notice reached up to pull his head down to hers, as his arms circled her automatically and their mouths met. He lost himself temporarily in the intoxication of it before sanity thundered through his brain. Infinitely gently, he disengaged her hands and drew back slightly.

"Gillian. That -- that was very nice --" His wits, having successfully fended off immediate danger, now fled cravenly at the prospect of explaining himself.

She watched the emotions flicker across his face, debating whether to help him or not. Not. "But?" she asked.

Steve was visibly uncomfortable. "But I --" Gillian merely gave him an expectant look, and he resigned himself to his fate. "I'm -- I'm involved with someone."

Strangely enough, it didn't feel like an excuse, nor did it bother him to say it. She remained silent, and some perverse force encouraged him to continue. "Seriously involved," he added, realizing with almost pleased shock that the statement was true, and that his confused heart had finally made its decision, bearing out the promise made to him by his alleged kinsman that fateful day months earlier.

Gillian gave him an appraising look. "That's a shame," she said calmly. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, still marveling at the revelation. Finally, his voice found itself. "I'm sorry, Gillian. If circumstances --"

She smiled. "Were different. I understand."

He waited, but she seemed disinclined to continue. After a lengthy, awkward moment, Steve cleared his throat. Time to do something helpful for Jesse for a change. "Besides, I couldn't do that to Jesse. He's my best friend."

Gillian looked startled. "Do what?"

Steve smiled down at her. "Jesse's interested in you, you know."

She blushed. "I -- know." And, as Steve waited patiently, she added, "He seems like a good person."

Steve's expression sobered. "Seems, nothing. I'd trust him with my life."

"You're probably right," Gillian said thoughtfully. "Maybe I should give him the opportunity." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "Thank you, Steve."

After returning the embrace, Steve extricated himself gently. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, and limped off towards the living room, where he sank gratefully into a chair to wait, frustrated by his weakness.

Jesse found him there shortly thereafter. "I thought you were looking for Gillian," he remarked acidly.

Disturbed by the worsening view through the window, Steve failed to notice the bite in his friend's voice. "I already did," he replied shortly, preoccupied by the snow.

"And I gather you resolved the problem?" Jesse inquired.

This time, the edge registered. "What is it with you, Jess?" Steve asked, irritated. "First you fuss because I upset her. I make peace with her, and you're still not happy. Just what is it you want me to do?"

"Don't you have enough women in your life right now?" Jesse demanded, obviously making an effort to hold onto his temper.

Totally lost, Steve stared at him, mouth open; then the penny dropped. "Jess, I didn't -- I wasn't --"

His best friend's voice was cold. "Weren't what? Weren't kissing her in the kitchen? Just what would you call it, then?"

Steve swore under his breath. "Jess, listen to me. I -- it wasn't what you think."

"And wasn't what I saw, either?"

Jesse had moved towards the other window in his agitation; Steve twisted to face him and grunted involuntarily as his midsection protested. Jesse twitched reflexively, but stood his ground, correctly assuming any medical admonishment from him would not be well received, as Steve stood up slowly. "And just what was it you saw, Jess?"

Jesse automatically took a step back; even in his weakened condition, Steve looked suddenly -- dangerous. "You were kissing her," he said defensively. "After all that snarling at each other, there you were with a lip lock on her. And you knew I'm interested in her. And," he added unexpectedly and not entirely fairly, "just how do you expect me to look Cheryl in the eyes after that?"

"What?" The snap in Steve's response would probably have been more impressive if his voice hadn't cracked on the word. His left hand instinctively seeking the support of the chair back, Steve swallowed and tried again. "What are you talking about, Jess?" he asked slowly.

Dispassionately, Jesse took notice of the white-knuckled hand and the slight tremor in the voice, but wisely refrained from pointing out his friend's obvious weakness. But the unexpected panic in the blue eyes dismayed him; had Steve really thought he had successfully concealed his feelings for his partner? He shook his head. "Never mind."

Too late. The grip on the chair tightened along with the muscles in Steve's face. "No, Jess. You weren't just aimlessly tossing invective. You meant what you said." The strained look was deepening as his body objected to its upright position, until Jesse could bear it no longer. "All right, I'll tell you -- if you'll sit down before you fall down."

He would have refused, but his vision was starting to acquire ominously grey edges, and his knees really didn't feel particularly steady anyway. Steve nodded and sank into his chair wordlessly, trying not to gasp with relief. "Talk to me, Jess."

Jesse pulled another chair closer and flopped into it. "Steve -- you're in love with Cheryl, aren't you." The silence which met his comment was unsettling; he gathered his nerves and rushed on. "Ever since that weird business with that sea-thing --"

"Selkie," Steve said automatically and somewhat grumpily.

"Whatever. It's been pretty obvious --"

Now Steve definitely looked alarmed. "Obvious?"

Jesse shook his head. "Whoa. To me, Amanda, Mark -- not the whole world, maybe."

A startled blink. "Dad, I can see -- but you and Amanda too?"

"Steve -- we're your best friends."

It was said simply, quietly, but, in conjunction with his mounting guilt for his earlier behavior, it stabbed deeply. He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips, ashamed and at a loss for words. "Jess --" The other man said nothing, waiting, and Steve forced the words out. "I'm truly sorry, Jess. Gillian -- it really was unintentional -- and we neither one of us meant it."

Temporarily distracted from the other burning question, stung by the remark, Jesse demanded, "Then why did you do it?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know, Jess. Neither did she." He raised his head to look his best friend in the eyes. "But we both realized it was a mistake -- she doesn't want me, and I --"

"Want Cheryl," Jesse said inexorably. "What are you going to do about it?"

Steve damned the post-injury illness and weakness which refused to let him out of his chair. Anywhere but here, any time but now, he thought. Then a memory of luminescent eyes and velvet mouth pushed its way gently but firmly into his awareness, and he finally acceded to its irresistible demand. "I guess I'll have to tell her, won't I?" he ventured carefully, still apprehensive about turning his feelings into reality by virtue of the spoken word.

His best friend stared at him somberly. "That would be the best approach, don't you think?" Steve didn't respond, and Jesse's irritation percolated again. "Steve, did you think if you waited long enough, she'd do it for you?"

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I've -- that's usually when things start going down the tubes." Jesse remained unhelpfully silent, so he continued reluctantly, "Even Rachel -- once it turned into a normal relationship, it went south. We're not --"

"And then there's Cheryl," Jesse pointed out obligingly.

"Yes." Steve blew out a breath and shifted, trying to get comfortable. The movement sent a grimace of pain flitting across his face, and Jesse relented.

"Steve, I don't think the weather's going to let up any time soon, and you need rest. I'm going to give you something for that arm, and I want you to take a nice, long nap."

"Jess, I'm all right," Steve protested unconvincingly.

The eyes were dull, the voice threadier than he liked. "You promised not to argue with your doctor, remember? I swear I'll wake you as soon as we can travel."

Steve managed a small grin. "You just want some time alone with Gillian."

"There is that too," Jesse agreed. He left the room and returned with his bag, rummaging through it until he found what he needed. "I mean it, Steve. For you right now, sleep is most important." He administered the sedative to a surprisingly cooperative patient, noting with satisfaction the gradual loosening of the clenched left fist. "We'll deal with how you're going to tell Cheryl later."

Steve was just exhausted enough for the medication to kick in quickly, and his world was developing kindly, fuzzy corners. "Have to tell her I love her," he mumbled, "soon's we take care of Hill."

What? Jesse thought with sudden alarm, and reached to shake the other man back to lucidity, but his efforts were rewarded only with a soft snore. Reluctantly, he straightened, tucking the thought away for future handling, and, after arranging an afghan over the sleeper, wandered off hopefully in search of the lady of the house.