Holiday Kisses: A Rare GiftMistletoe and MargaritasIt's Not Christmas Without YouThis Time Next Year Page 8

“Everyone knows of your existence, pumpkin,” Gran said, bustling about gathering plates and flatware, and refusing Brenna’s offer of help. “I talk about you at every opportunity. But I don’t talk to you about everyone I know.”

  “You talk to me about the McGees and the Shepherds and the Martins. And the Alexanders and the Whites.” When Gran glanced over, a guilty look in her eyes, Brenna grinned. Gotcha. “Should I go on?”

  “That’s enough I think,” she said, but was stopped from saying more by Dillon opening the back door.

  He stepped into the kitchen, searched out Brenna and held her gaze. His was smoky and golden, smoldering, the thoughts behind them publicly indecent. “Smells good in here.”

  “Let’s get that wet coat hung to dry,” Gran said, hurrying over to where he stood, hat in hand.

  Brenna tried not to roll her eyes. She’d taken care of her own coat. Why couldn’t he? “Five bucks says more than a couple of those dishes in your freezer hold lasagna.”

  He gave her a grin full of wicked that wasn’t fit for Gran to see. “They do, but none of them are your Gran’s.”

  Gran’s voice came from the utility room. “That’s because I don’t make lasagna except when Brenna’s here for Christmas. Used to do the same when her dad was a boy. Recipe came from my mother and her mother before. It’s a lot of work, and I’m too old to be baking it for any occasion but Brenna’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Then I’m glad the storm kept us from making the trip over until today. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out.”

  “You’re welcome any Christmas you want to visit.” Gran gave Dillon’s arm a pat before returning to the stove. “You know that. And I’ve made up the downstairs guestroom for you.”

  “You didn’t have to go to any trouble.” Dillon tossed his hat to the table. “I’m fine with the couch or a pallet on the floor.”

  Gran shook her head. “Not under my roof. You spent enough years sleeping in bad conditions for me to give you anything but the best I have.”

  Just as long as it wasn’t in the same room where her granddaughter was sleeping, Brenna mused, working hard to keep a straight face. Though she hated the idea of sleeping alone, it was probably a good thing they were reduced to a hands-off relationship.

  It would give her a chance to see if the feelings growing out of the seeds planted earlier were based in some shallow attraction. Or if what she was feeling had the sort of roots that had tied her grandmother to this mountain her entire life.

  “He likes you.”

  Brenna looked over to where Gran was dropping balls of powdered sugared dough for Chocolate Krinkles onto the silicone mat lining her cookie sheet. A saucy grin pulled at both corners of her mouth and the lines at her eyes deepened with mirth. But she kept her gaze on her task, leaving Brenna to make the next move.

  Threading a ribbon through the hole at the top of the star-shaped sugar cookie now that the icing had set, she asked, “Let’s get back to you never mentioning him to me.”

  Still grinning, Gran coated another ball of dough with powdered sugar. “I’m sure I’ve told you about seeing Dr. Craig.”

  Uh-uh. Gran could hedge like nobody’s business, but Brenna wasn’t having it. “Not that kind of mention.”

  “What kind of mention did you want, pumpkin?”

  Pulling teeth. The woman should’ve been a dentist. Brenna shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve talked to him about me. He knew about my job and my move.”

  “Pshaw. Those are the things I tell anyone who’ll listen to me ramble on about my only grandchild.”

  That didn’t help. Brenna wanted to find out how much Gran knew, if Dillon had told her the same stories he’d shared last night in bed. But she wanted to find out without letting the bed part slip. “Have you seen his woodworking?”

  “I have. He made that big bowl on my coffee table.”

  “Is it dated?” Brenna asked, resisting the urge to run to the living room and check.

  Gran’s hands slowed. Her smile faded. “It is.”

  “Do you know what the date means?”

  Gran slid the cookie sheet into the oven, washed and dried her hands. “You’ve seen the dates?”

  Brenna nodded, tying a bow in the ribbon for hanging.

  “Did he tell you about them?”

  She nodded again.

  Gran took a minute to study Brenna’s face, her gaze pensive, searching, then returned to her cookie dough, her grin back in place. “Then I’d say he more than likes you.”

  “Gran! You’re not helping.” Though she had to admit Gran’s words had caused a blip in her pulse. He desired her, yes. He’d enjoyed her, and she imagined he cared for her to some degree.

  But was her grandmother seeing, or sensing, more? This was what Brenna needed to know. She was about to make an eight-thousand-mile move that would change everything about her life. The idea that it might be a mistake, that she might have another reason to stay…

  Was that what she was thinking? After one night in his bed? “You’ve never had a problem pointing out eligible bachelors in the past.”

  Gran brought her bowl of dough and next cookie sheet to the table where Brenna was working and took the chair to her left. “If Dillon has told you the same stories he’s told me, you’ll understand my hesitation.”

  “To do what? Tell me about him? Or…” surely Gran didn’t mean,”…consider him eligible?”

  Her lips pinched, Gran focused on the sugar and the dough. Her hands moved quickly, deftly, belying her swollen knuckles and age. After what felt to Brenna like an eternity spent wool gathering, Gran sat back and looked over.

  “You’re the most precious thing in my life, pumpkin. And Dillon Craig is probably the most honorable man I know. But he’s also the most tormented, and I would never want to see you hurt.”

  “I don’t think he would hurt me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so either. Not intentionally. But caring for someone with his type of baggage will take an emotional toll. That much I can guarantee.”

  Brenna dropped her gaze to her lap. “You’re talking about Grandpa Keating.”

  “I’m talking about any man who has had to kill others. Or see his friends die in war.”

  “But a man like that…” She was so conflicted, so confused. “Maybe he needs to be loved more than most.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I only just met him three days ago.”

  “Do you love him, pumpkin?”

  Even for Gran, Brenna wasn’t ready to admit her feelings. “I think I could. But as soon as I get home, I finish packing, then come the new year, I’m off to Africa. So it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Of course, it matters, Brenna.” Reaching for Brenna’s hand, Gran enclosed it in both of hers, and said softly, “Love is the only thing that does.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dillon stared at the tongue-in-groove ceiling of Donota Keating’s guestroom, wondering if Brenna was sleeping in the room above. Or if her bed was farther down the hallway, as far away from his as her grandmother could manage.

  The thought had him smiling, though his wry grin became more of a grimace as he sat up. He had no problem abiding by his hostess’s rules, but he didn’t like the idea that she’d kept him from Brenna for any reason but propriety.

  And something told him grandmother and granddaughter had done a lot of talking at his expense while he’d tended to Ranger after dinner last night.

  Really, though, what did he expect? Donota knew almost as much of his history as he’d spilled to Brenna, and he could hardly blame her for wanting her granddaughter to steer clear from damaged goods.

  He tugged on his socks and his jeans, buckled his belt and found his boots. After yesterday’s huge lunch and equally big dinner, not to mention the cookies he’d grazed on all day, his stomach shouldn’t be rumbling, but it was. Rain or shine, breaking dawn meant coffee. And seeing to Ranger’s feed.

  He slipped on his shirt and, boots in ha
nd, started toward the kitchen. Halfway down the hall, he passed the living room and glanced in, at the tree Brenna and her grandmother had decorated while laughing like schoolgirls, tossing popcorn and cranberries at each other and him, their squeals bringing down the house and breaking loose chunks of the armor he wore.

  And that was when he saw her asleep on the floor, not in the room above his at all. She was wrapped in the quilt from the rack behind the sofa. Throw pillows from the pile he’d seen in the rocking chair were scattered around her, cushioning her head, tucked to her chest, trapped between her legs.

  She looked warm and cozy and comfortable, and then he realized she wasn’t asleep. Instead she was looking at him.

  “Good morning,” he said, leaving his boots at the room’s entrance and crossing to the tree. “You’re up early.”

  “Up late, you mean,” she said, pushing to sit, her legs stretched out in front of her.

  “You haven’t been to sleep?”

  She shook her head, scraped a fall of hair from her face. “Gran and I stayed up half the night talking.”

  “When I came in from tending Ranger, you said you were headed to bed.”

  She shrugged, smiled softly. “That had been the plan.”

  Hmm. “What changed it?”

  “That,” she said, inclining her head, her gaze searching out his gift boxed under the tree.

  He hadn’t planned to bring it, had stuffed it at the last minute into Ranger’s saddlebag. Something told him giving it to her here, at her grandmother’s house cloaked in the familiarity of Christmas, would make a bigger impact.

  And making an impact was the whole point of the gift. “You want to open it?”

  “Can I?”

  “Your call,” he said, crossing his ankles and folding down to sit facing her. “You’re the one who knows the house rules, not me.”

  “We don’t really have house rules,” she said with a laugh, reaching for the box and pulling it into her lap. “I don’t have anything for you.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal. Besides, you made me cookies.”

  “And then ate half of them myself.”

  “Some gifts are better when shared.”

  She dropped her gaze from his to her lap, her cheeks going pink. “I guess some are.”

  He thought about having her in his bed, wondered how he’d ever sleep again without her there. They’d be leaving Donota’s after the big noon meal in order to get back to his cabin before dark. And with the storm over, he could get her to Raleigh tomorrow. Another week and she’d be looking down on the Atlantic from forty thousand feet.

  He didn’t want her to go. He had no expectation that she’d stay, no right to ask her, no claim to stake. This gift was all he had. “Are you going to open it?”

  She pulled the pinecones from the top, stripped away the tape holding the flaps together. Then gripping two in her fists, she said, “You’re making me nervous.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” He didn’t want to, but he would.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s Christmas morning. This is where you belong.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant. Did he belong here because of the holiday, or was this about neither one of them being alone? “Do you want to wait for your grandmother?”

  “No.” And without another word, she lifted out the carving, holding it, studying it, turning it this way and that.

  To anyone unfamiliar with the area, the chunk of wood would look like exactly what it was. A chunk of wood. But he could tell Brenna recognized the distinctive profile of the mountain he and Donota Keating called home.

  “Figured you could use it as a paperweight or something.”

  She turned it over, traced the date he’d burned into the wood. The date they’d become lovers.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice strangely flat. “But I can’t accept it.”

  “Why not?” he asked as she returned it to the box.

  “You were obviously carving this for someone else. I wouldn’t feel right taking it.”

  He’d been carving it for no reason at all. He’d been carving it because that was what he did. “I wasn’t carving it for anyone. And I want you to have it.”

  “Why?” She pushed to stand, crossed her arms over her chest and turned away. “You think I need a reminder of what I’m leaving behind? You think having this with me, seeing it every day will make things better?”

  He stood, too, his jaw tight and aching. “I wasn’t trying to make anything better, Brenna. I didn’t know things weren’t good.”

  Her hair flew as she spun on him then, her fists in balls of frustration. “Of course you did. We talked about it. I told you how guilty I feel for leaving Gran here with no one.”

  Uh-uh. Uh-uh. “She has friends. I’m here. She won’t be left with no one.”

  “She won’t be with family. She won’t have me.”

  And neither will I, he thought as he picked up the box. He didn’t need this shit. “It was a gift, Brenna. Not a guilt trip.”

  He was at the door, reaching for his boots when she spoke. “I’m sorry.”

  He turned. “For what?”

  She shook her head, her eyes damp and red, her throat working as she fought back tears.

  He hung his head, took a deep breath, looked back up. “If you’re sorry for rejecting the gift, don’t be. My feelings don’t hurt easily. If you’re sorry for leaving North Carolina, that’s on you. If you’re sorry for what we shared, well, I’m not.”

  He started to go, stopped. “If I’m sorry about anything, it’s that we only had one night because given a chance, it could’ve been a hell of a ride.”

  Brenna stood on the back porch, wrapped in her grandmother’s arms, her coat and gloves and her hat little protection against the cold seeping into her bones. This was it. She wouldn’t see Gran for at least another year, and even that depended on things out of her control—staying healthy, her and Gran both, getting away from a position she knew would consume her, money to make the trip home.

  Her stomach rebelled against the turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes that she’d hardly tasted at lunch. The food sat like a rock, a heavy anchor keeping her in place. Keeping her where she wanted to be.

  How could she leave North Carolina when this was where her heart belonged?

  “Oh, my sweet pumpkin, I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “I’m a phone call away. A plane ride away.” Brenna inhaled roses and butterscotch because she didn’t ever want to forget. “You need me, I’m here.”

  “I don’t want you worrying about me.” Gran gripped the fabric of Brenna’s coat and shook her. “I want you living your life, enjoying the adventure. Making new friends and having fun. Falling in love.”

  Behind them, Ranger snorted, ready to be on the way. Dillon waited beside him, giving her and Gran their time. He’d said little during the meal, focusing on the feast. After the callous way she’d refused his gift, she couldn’t fault him for his silence.

  She didn’t want to talk to her either. She was an abominably rude bitch.

  “Now, you go on with Dillon,” Gran said, pulling away after a pat to her back. “He’s waiting and it’s cold. And you’ve got quite a ride in front of you.”

  A ride that would be nothing like the one yesterday morning. Then they’d been lovers. She didn’t know what they were now. “What if I stay? I’m happy here. I don’t need to make this move. I don’t know why I ever thought I did.”

  “Isn’t that why you’re going? To find out what your life here is missing? And what’s waiting for you overseas?”

  What wasn’t waiting for her was Dillon Craig. He’d be here. She’d be there. Those damn eight thousand miles between them. “I promise I’ll be here for Christmas next year. I know I said I probably wouldn’t be able to get back, but I’ll make it happen. I promise.”

  “I hope you can, but it won’t be the end of the world if you can’t. I’ll just have to do m
y baking early so you’ll have cookies for your tree.” Taking hold of Brenna’s shoulders, Gran turned her around, then leaned close to say, “I love you, pumpkin. Now go.”

  Reluctantly, Brenna obeyed. Gran stayed on the porch, watching as Dillon gave her a leg up onto the horse and settled in behind her. He waved for the both of them as he spurred Ranger into motion. Within seconds the trees swallowed them, and Brenna closed her eyes.

  If she could sleep for the whole of the ride, she wouldn’t have to think about hurting him. She wouldn’t have to feel his body around hers keeping her warm. She wouldn’t have to think about choosing between career and family and losing whatever time she had left with Gran.

  She wouldn’t have to admit she was having second thoughts.

  “I’m sorry about the gift,” Dillon leaned close to say. “I never meant to make you feel bad.”

  “Why are you apologizing to me? I was horrible. I should be apologizing to you.”

  After a couple of seconds, he said, “I’m waiting.”

  She slapped at the hand he’d wrapped around her waist, then wrapped it even tighter. “I am sorry. I wasn’t fair.”

  “Is this where I’m supposed to say life isn’t fair?”

  “It’s not, you know.” She sighed heavily. “Here you come, just as I’m about to start a new life, a new career. One that’s been my dream forever. One Gran knows is my dream. It was her dream, too. What’s fair about that?”

  He nuzzled his cheek against the scarf Gran had tied like a hood over her head. “She’s going to be okay, you know.”

  “No. I don’t know. And neither do you.”

  “I’m a doctor. Trust me.”

  “I’m not talking about her health.”

  “Brenna, if she needs you, you can hop a plane and be here in a day. Two max. I can take care of her till then. You know I will.”

  “I’m going to miss her so much.” Eyes closed, she let him bear her weight and the burden tiring her, and said what she couldn’t hold back any longer. “I’m going to miss you, too.”

  She must’ve fallen asleep then. She didn’t hear him respond. The next thing she knew, Ranger had stopped in front of the barn door and Dillon was nudging her awake. He dismounted, helped her down then inclined his head toward the cabin.