Christmas In Snowflake Canyon Page 11

  “Can’t wait,” he muttered.

  She paused in distributing bunches of bananas in the boxes. “I don’t think it’s been that terrible so far. In fact, I’ve quite enjoyed it.”

  “It’s been less than two full days,” he pointed out. “And you spent most of that time decorating and shopping. That’s not really out of the norm for you, is it?”

  He regretted the rather snarky words as soon as they were out, especially when her mouth tightened and she looked down at the bananas as if they were dipped in diamond dust.

  “Now, if only we can spend a few days having our hair done and getting a massage, it will seem like every other day for me,” she said quietly.

  He sighed, feeling like the jackass that he was. “Sorry,” he muttered. “That was out of line. You’ve worked hard.”

  He wasn’t sure whether she accepted his apology or not as she picked up another bag and started sorting bagged baby carrots into the piles in silence.

  “Tell me something,” she finally said. “Were you this cranky before you, er, were injured?”

  The unexpected question startled a laugh out of him. “Before I left my hand in an ambush in Helmand Province? I don’t know. Probably.”

  She was quiet, her head angled to one side as she watched him. “You were in an ambush?”

  He didn’t want to talk about this. Hell, he didn’t like thinking about it, though memories of that fateful evening would always haunt him.

  Mac had been trying to weasel the information about his injuries out of him all morning, and he hadn’t wanted to reveal a damn thing. For reasons he couldn’t have explained, he wanted to tell Genevieve.

  “Yeah. We were on the hunt for a group of insurgents responsible for several bombings focusing on girls’ schools. They were killing their own people, just because a few girls wanted to learn how to read. We had solid information that the insurgents were in one particular village, so we were doing a house-to-house search.”

  He was quiet, focusing on the small bag of clementines in his hand, crisply orange and sweet smelling.

  “Everybody in the whole village was acting suspicious. We knew we were onto something. Finally, somebody directed us to this cluster of houses, all connected to each other, on the outskirts of town. We were clearing it room by room when I found this kid. He couldn’t have been more than twelve.”

  The kid—barefoot, big dark eyes—had a weapon, a big old Kalashnikov probably left over from the Soviet war.

  Dylan should have shot him on sight but those big dark eyes had looked terrified as hell. He had tried to talk to him in his limited Persian and then had tried Pashto, trying to assure the kid they wouldn’t hurt him if he handed over the weapon.

  Instead, the kid had watched out of those big eyes, saying nothing. Dylan knew now he had only been waiting until the rest of the unit moved within range before he detonated the suicide bomb strapped beneath his robes, taking down the whole dilapidated series of buildings.

  “What happened?” Gen asked softly.

  “He was one of the insurgents.”

  “The little boy?”

  He nodded. There you go, Princess JahnViEv.

  That’s the real world for you, at least in some of the planet’s nastiest neighborhoods.

  “Beneath his robes, he was strapped with a shitload of explosives, which he detonated as soon as he could achieve maximum kills.”

  She made a soft sound of distress that seemed to drive sharp splinters into his heart. “Oh, no.”

  He should stop now. He had told her enough. She didn’t need to hear the rest. He wouldn’t tell her about the eighteen hours he had spent buried under rubble, listening to his friends’ gurgling last breaths. Or the rabid fear that the rest of the insurgents would be the ones to dig him out and how much pain they would inflict once they found him.

  He didn’t need to tell her everything, but once he started, the words just seemed to ooze out of him like raw sewage.

  “I lost five good friends that day. Good men and good soldiers. When more of our guys in the area finally dug me out, everybody kept telling me how lucky I was to survive. A miracle, they said. I’ve got to say, I’m not convinced.”

  Especially since he knew his stupid soft heart had been responsible for the whole FUBAR. He should have blasted the kid when he’d had the chance. The explosives would have gone off and Dylan still would have gone down but everybody else would have been out of range of the worst of the damage.

  She had turned pale, clutching a jar of salsa to her chest as if it were her firstborn. “Oh, Dylan.” Her voice sounded ragged, thin. “I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged. After one quick look, he shifted his gaze back to the clementines and their sweet citrus scent that drifted in the air, unable to bear the pity in her eyes.

  “I expect you’ll hear worse from the guys who come through the program,” he said. “My story is pretty classic, all things considered.”

  “Do you…? Are you still in pain?”

  Her question took him by surprise. Few people asked him that. The ambush had been more than a year ago. “Is that why I’m a grouchy bastard, you mean? Because I’m nobly and heroically coping with my battle scars?”

  She made a small sound, not quite a laugh—but he wouldn’t have expected that after the grim story he had just shared. “I didn’t say that,” she said as she moved closer to him to set the salsa in one of the boxes.

  “That’s not why I’m grouchy,” he said. “But yeah, sometimes I feel a twinge or two.”

  The eye actually bothered him more than anything. Once in a while, he had headaches that made him want to rip off half his face, but he didn’t want to tell her that.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again. This time she rested her hand on his, where he still clutched the bag of fruit, and he wanted to drown in the warmth of her eyes.

  He would never be able to eat an orange again without thinking of this moment, her fingers soft against the back of his hand, the heat of her seeping into him, the tug of emotions in his chest.

  He wanted desperately to kiss her again, even though he knew it was completely idiotic. She was a pampered princess. Perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect makeup, while he was a broken-down wreck of a man with no job, no prospects, nothing except a great dog and an equally broken-down wreck of a house.

  He jerked his hand away and shoved the bag of fruit into one of the boxes. “Everybody’s sorry. That doesn’t ease the pain one damn bit, now does it?”

  She gave him a long look. “No. I guess you’re right. Biting everybody’s head off is probably a much better pain reliever.”

  He almost smiled at her sarcastic response but managed to bite it back. He still couldn’t believe he had shared that with Genevieve Beaumont, of all people. He hadn’t told anyone in his family those details. Why her? Needing to put a little emotional and literal distance between them, he focused on the task at hand. “Looks like we’ve sorted everything. I’ll take one of these boxes over and start putting things away in the cabin next door. You can start in this one, since you’re here.” Without waiting for an answer, he lifted the heavy box using his arm and propping it on the prosthetic. Ignoring the pain that was a little more than the twinge he had told her, he headed outside and away from her as quickly as he could manage it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Her cell phone rang just as she was climbing into her SUV to make the short drive from the recreation center back to her grandmother’s house at the mouth of the canyon.

  She was so exhausted, she just wanted to rest her head against the steering wheel and sleep for a few days. She hadn’t slept well the night before, troubled by angst that kept her awake and then nightmares when she finally did manage to close her eyes. Even if she hadn’t already been feeling as if her bones were coated in lead, the afternoon with Dylan had been emotionally draining.

  Every time she thought of him lying injured under rubble or grieving for his friends afterward, she wanted to cry.
She had cried a few tears in the bathroom after he left the cabin but had quickly rinsed her eyes and then applied a few artful brushstrokes of makeup to conceal the evidence.

  She couldn’t imagine what he had endured. It seemed so real, so raw, completely out of her realm of experience. They were total opposites, as she had thought many times, which made this odd, tangled connection between them so disconcerting.

  She knew he was attracted to her, but he didn’t seem at all motivated to do anything about it. Maybe he wouldn’t. He apparently preferred to ignore the currents zinging between them.

  She only wished that she could do the same.

  Depressed suddenly, she pulled out her phone and looked at the caller ID.

  The mayor—just about the last person she felt like talking with right now. She wasn’t at all in the mood to listen to her father lecture her about all the many ways she was wasting her life.

  She turned off the sound and sent the call to voice mail. As she started the SUV, the phone vibrated with a second call, also from her father.

  He would keep this up all day until she answered. Her parents were experts at relentless erosion tactics, wearing her down until she finally gave in.

  Once in France, she had forgotten to charge her phone overnight and her battery died. Her mother had ended up calling poor old Madame Archambault—her neighbor with the big dog—and insisted she climb the three flights of stairs to Genevieve’s flat to make sure she wasn’t lying comatose from carbon-monoxide poisoning.

  Intoxication au monoxyde de carbone.

  She could turn her phone off, but if she did that, she suspected William might very well be waiting for her at Grandma Pearl’s house by the time she drove down the canyon. She would rather talk to him on the phone than in person any day.

  With a heavy sigh, she connected the call. “Hello, Father.”

  “Genevieve. Darling. There you are!”

  “Yes,” she answered. For a brief moment, she ached for the surreal but wonderful relationship they’d developed when she was engaged, when both of her parents had seemed to think she could do no wrong. For once. “I dropped by your grandmother’s house today but you weren’t there.”

  Courtordered community service, remember that?

  Of course he didn’t.

  “I’m sorry I missed you,” she lied.

  “I let myself in and took a look around.”

  He threw the words out between them like a dead

  rodent. Though he didn’t add anything else, she heard the subtext anyway. You haven’t done much, have you? No. She hadn’t. She had been there only a week and had spent most of that time having estimates done and figuring out her budget. And staying out of jail.

  “If you had waited until I was there, I could have showed you around and told you some of my plans.”

  “Your plans.” He said the words mildly but, again, subtext was everything. They smacked of so much derision, her chest actually hurt.

  “Now that I’ve done the initial survey work, I’m going to start taking the wallpaper down in a few of the rooms tonight. I’ll be bringing in someone to strip the cabinets in the kitchen and I’ve picked out the new flooring.”

  “That all sounds…ambitious.”

  “It’s going to be great when I finish. Just wait.” “I’m sure,” he answered. “I had forgotten how small and depressing my mother’s house was. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to stay in your own room here while you’re working on the renovations?”

  She really longed for her little en suite bathroom with the jetted tub and the steam shower, but she wasn’t going to cave on this. “Positive. I’m fine.”

  “If you change your mind you know you’re always welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The reason I called, actually, is that I have some good news.”

  “Oh?”

  She could use a little good news right now after the difficult day.

  “Yes. I had lunch today with Judge Richards. He indicated he might be amenable to changing the terms of your plea agreement.”

  “Change the terms.” For a long moment, she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yes. He’s not willing to reduce your communityservice hours but he says he has no problem with changing the venue to somewhere a little more…appropriate. Somewhere like the library or the fine-arts museum.”

  The words took a moment to sink through her exhaustion. Change the venue. Library or museum.

  A few days ago, that would have been an immensely appealing offer.

  “Why would Judge Richards be willing to do that?”

  “It took some doing—I won’t lie to you, but let’s just say I called in some favors.”

  She could almost hear her father preening on the phone. She hated when he pushed his weight around town, especially on her behalf. It was more proof that he didn’t think her capable of anything on her own.

  As much as she might cringe at his efforts, she was also fiercely tempted by them. Volunteering at the library or the museum would be so easy. She could be done by Christmas and would enjoy being surrounded by books or precious artworks. Both the library and the art museum offered safe, serene environments, far removed from the kind of gritty details she had heard today.

  The internal war only lasted a moment before shame washed over her for even being enticed. She thought of Dylan and everything he had lost and the courage it must take him every single day to climb out of bed and face the world, given his new limitations.

  She could borrow a little of his strength and carry on with the current arrangement.

  “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, Father, but that’s not necessary,” she said quickly, before she could change her mind. “I’m content with the agreement as it stands.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” Her father’s voice was slightly impatient—and more than a little patronizing. “Think this through before you make a hasty decision you’ll regret later. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable spending your hours at the library than working with rough soldiers who aren’t fit to do anything worthwhile anymore?”

  Appalled, she moved the phone away from her ear and stared at it. She wanted very much to hang up the phone. She loved her father but sometimes she didn’t understand how he could be so callous, bordering on cruel.

  “Yes. I would probably be more comfortable doing something more in my element,” she said. “But maybe I’m tired of being comfortable.”

  “Now, Genevieve…”

  He was ramping up for another lecture, she knew, and she didn’t want to hear it.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said quickly. “I’m driving through the canyon and I’ll probably lose you. Thank you for trying, but I signed a plea agreement and I intend to stick by it.”

  She hung up quickly before her father could start in again and turned her phone completely off so he couldn’t try calling her back. She wasn’t nearly as tired now as she backed out of the parking space and headed for the main road.

  It was amazingly empowering to make a decision she could feel good about, for once, and she wouldn’t let her father take that from her.

  The moment he drove up to his childhood home on Winterberry Road, Dylan knew he shouldn’t have come.

  The driveway was chock-full of vehicles and he ended up parking his old pickup behind Spence’s Range Rover on the street.

  He usually tried to avoid these Sunday dinners like the plague, but Pop’s birthday was the next day. He kind of felt obligated to make an appearance. He loved his family, but they were easier taken in small doses. Having everybody together like this made for a loud, boisterous scene. He always ended up with a headache that lasted hours.

  Still, after he shut off the engine, he sat in his truck for a long time, until Tucker whined a little and rested his chin on Dylan’s thigh.

  “Yeah. I know. We’re here, right? We might as well go in.”

  He opened his door, dread heavy in his gut, and started up t
he sidewalk. The weather matched his mood, darkly ominous. Winter storm clouds obscured the tops of the mountains and the air smelled of impending snow.

  While nothing was falling yet, weather forecasters were predicting a few inches that night.

  Despite the grim evening, Pop’s house looked warm and inviting, with a big Christmas tree in the window dressed in thick gold ribbons and a hodgepodge of ornaments.

  Charlotte had probably set it up for Pop, who was usually too busy this time of year to worry much about Christmas decorations while he catered holiday parties all around town.

  “You’re going to behave yourself, right?” he said to Tucker. The dog gave him a patient, what-do-you-think? sort of look. Dylan sighed and pushed open the door.

  A wave of noise, heat and sumptuous smells just about knocked him off his pins. Roast beef, if he wasn’t mistaken, and some of Pop’s glorious mashed potatoes, as well as something chocolatey.

  Tucker was completely at home here on Winterberry Road since he had lived here with Pop—and Charlotte, until she’d bought a house of her own—during Dylan’s various deployments. The dog immediately headed to what he and his siblings had always called Mom’s company room to plop down on his favorite spot by the gas fireplace that oozed out heat. A minute later, a ratskinny little Chihuahua raced in and started licking Tuck’s big, jowly face.

  “Tina! Come back!” A little dark-headed boy ran after the Chihuahua, followed by Pop’s plump tabby, who always acted more like another dog than a cat.

  When his nephew Carter—his brother Brendan’s son—spotted the coon dog, joy exploded on his fouryear-old features.

  “Tucker!” He clapped his hands and hurried in to throw chubby arms around the dog’s neck. When Tina—his brother Drew’s dog—decided she had spent long enough greeting Tucker, she scampered off, and Carter toddled after her with a cheery giggle.