“Of course it is.” Didn’t he see? She closed her eyes, and it was there, right there. Glaring at her. “The date. The date you were shot. The seventh of November, right?” Seven plus eleven. Eighteen. Always eighteen.

“Yes.” He drew the word into three syllables. Three times six. Eighteen.

Her hands shook. “The same day Maman died. When He wasn’t asking me to pray for her. He wasn’t telling me to go home. He was telling me to pray for you.”

Warm strength enveloped the shaking. His hands clasping hers. She’d forgotten her gloves, apparently. “I know. You told me.”

“But I didn’t. I didn’t tell you that I didn’t.” She forced her eyes open again, forced herself to look up at him. “I wouldn’t. I was so angry. She was gone, and all I could hear was Eighteen. I told Him no. I refused to pray. The very day—probably the very minute you were shot.”

His thumb stroked over her hand. “Good.”

“What?” He was supposed to be cross. Cross would make sense. Good certainly didn’t. “How could you—”

“I’m glad it happened the way it did. That I got sent home to recuperate. That I’m here now. With you.”

He was an idiot. But it didn’t make her itchy. It made her weak. Liquid. Blurring her eyes. She shook her head. “No. You could have been killed. I should have—”

“Margot.” He moved closer, tightening his grip on her hands. “I wasn’t. Focus on that.”

“But—”

“Are you the only one in the world with faith enough to pray for someone when you don’t know why?”

Faith enough. She’d had it, then. She thought. But had she, if she’d let it go so easily? Turned her back on him? On Him? “I certainly hope not.”

“Do you know for a fact that no one else was asked to pray when you said no? If perhaps someone else’s prayers kept that bullet from hitting anything vital?” One of his hands dropped her fingers. Touched her cheek instead. “God was in it. I know He was. He didn’t abandon me.”

“But I shouldn’t have either. It should have been me.”

“Mi alma.” His lips pressed to her forehead and lingered there, warm and sweet. “I love knowing that it was ever you. That our Lord wove that bond between us. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t you that one time.”

“But it does. Of course it does.”

“It doesn’t.” His hand was so warm against her winter-chilled cheek. His face was so calm behind the mask of her tears. “Do you know what matters? That you wish it had been you.”