Christmas Lone-Star Style

by Linda Turner

  “And just how are you going to do that when you’re burning up with fever and can’t even keep your eyes open?” he countered.

  “I just need to rest—”

  “Finally! The woman agrees with me!” he said to the ceiling, grinning. “Now that we’ve got that cleared up, I’m going to check on the kids. I’ll be back to see if you need anything after you’ve had your nap.”

  He didn’t give her time to protest, but strode out and quietly shut the door behind him, leaving it open just a crack so he could hear her if she called for help. The kids were just where he’d left them, glued to the TV. Becky showed no signs of the nausea that had tormented her all night. Her aunt, however, was another matter. Her stomach might have settled down for the moment, but she was still one sick puppy, and he had a feeling she was going to get much worse before she got better.

  That prediction, unfortunately, proved to be all too true over the course of the next four hours. She was sick more times than he cared to count, and if it wasn’t her stomach that was bothering her, it was her head. And to make matters worse, her fever went up and down like a yo-yo, making it impossible for her to get comfortable.

  And in between caring for her, he had the kids to deal with. Robby needed help with his homework and there was supper to make, then afterwards, they both needed baths. For a logical, efficient businessman who ran multimillion-dollar companies without breaking a sweat, handling a six- and seven-year-old should have been a piece of cake. And at times, it was. When they didn’t have him running in circles.

  And it wasn’t as if they were bad kids. They were just kids. They teased and argued, and there were moments when Robby had to only look at Becky wrong to make her squeal in protest. And as the evening grew long, those moments became more and more frequent. Attributing their irritability to the fact that Becky still wasn’t feeling completely up to snuff and Robby himself might be coming down with the flu, he decided it wouldn’t hurt either of them to go to bed a little early.

  He’d watched Phoebe put them down for the night enough times to know the routine. They brushed their teeth, said their prayers, and then she read to them for a few minutes after she checked under the bed and in the closets for monsters. That he figured he could handle. But when he casually suggested that they trade beds with him for the night so he could keep an eye on Phoebe, both children got unusually quiet. They exchanged a speaking glance, and before he suspected something was wrong, they both started to cry.

  Alarmed, he said, “Hey, it’s nothing to cry about. If you don’t want to, that’s okay. I’ll just sleep on the couch so I can hear Phoebe if she needs me during the night.”

  Her little face solemn and pale, Becky looked up at him with big blue eyes swimming in tears and had no idea how she broke his heart. “Aunt Phoebe’s really bad sick, isn’t she? Sicker than me.”

  “I told you she was going to die,” Robby whispered to his sister. “Tommy Parker’s grandmother did the same thing. She puked and puked and she died. The doctor said it was ‘cause her independic thing burst inside her, but it was really ’cause she puked too much.”

  Confused, Mitch frowned. “Independic thing? What’s that?” Even as he asked, understanding dawned. “Oh, you must mean appendix!”

  He nodded solemnly. “That’s what I said.”

  Fighting a smile, Mitch said dryly, “I beg your pardon—so you did.”

  “So Aunt Phoebe’s going to die?”

  “No!” Becky cried angrily, punching him. “She can’t! She said we’d all be old together!”

  “You don’t get to pick when you die!” Robby snapped back. “That’s why Mommy and Daddy died in the wreck. God took ’em and he can take Aunt Phoebe if he wants to.”

  Suddenly realizing that they’d been picking at each other all afternoon because they were worried to death about Phoebe, Mitch fought back growing panic. He could handle cooking for them, seeing that they were washed and fed, even cleaning up after them if they were sick as dogs, but what was he supposed to say to two kids who had lost their parents, their home, even their grandparents over the course of the last year, and were now afraid they were losing the one person they had left in the world that they loved?

  This was out of his league, dammit! He only saw his own nephews and nieces three or four times a year, and that hardly made him an expert on kids. He didn’t know how to talk to them, how to reassure them and calm their fears, how to make them feel safe. They needed Phoebe, not him.

  But Phoebe was out of commission and he was the only one around when Robby drew back his arm to strike back at his sister. “Whoa!” Quickly snatching Becky up on his lap, he frowned at Robby and drew him to his side in an reassuring embrace. “C’mon, guys, you can’t hit someone just because you don’t like what they say.”

  “But he said—”

  “Tommy’s grandmother—”

  When they both jumped to their own defense at the same time, he held up a hand, stopping them in their tracks. “Like I said, you can’t hit someone just because you don’t like what they say. Phoebe is not dying. If your friend’s grandmother died, it wasn’t because she was throwing up,” he told Robby quietly. “She was throwing up because she had a bad appendix, and if the doctors didn’t find that out in time, that’s what killed her. Phoebe has the flu. Just like Becky did.”

  “And I didn’t die,” the little imp on his lap said triumphantly. “So see, you’re wrong!” And with that announcement, she stuck her tongue out at him.

  Phoebe’s early demise momentarily averted, Mitch couldn’t remember the last time he wanted to laugh so badly. But Robby was puffed up like a thundercloud and still looked like he wanted to smack his sister one, and Mitch couldn’t say he blamed him. If that wasn’t just like a female—to rub it in when she was right!

  What was needed was a quick distraction. Struggling to hold back a chuckle, he told Robby, “I noticed you have a lot of books in the bookcase in the hallway. Why don’t you go pick out your favorite, and I’ll read to you guys before you go to bed.”

  He didn’t have to make the suggestion twice. Robby took off like a shot, with Becky right behind him, trying to talk him into picking out her favorite. Grinning, Mitch half expected him to choose something he knew his sister detested, but to his surprise, the boy selected something they both apparently liked. Returning to the living room, his brown eyes alight with eager anticipation, he handed the small book to Mitch. “This one’s the best.”

  As the two kids took a seat on either side of him on the couch, Mitch studied the book in surprise. It was a homemade, hand-bound volume that was obviously well loved. Slightly tattered and soiled from handling, it was entitled Professor Rat and the Case of the Lost Glasses and written by P.S. Urant.

  Snug against his side, Becky informed him solemnly, “We know what happens at the end but we won’t tell you so you’ll be surprised.”

  Amused, Mitch grinned. “I appreciate that, shortcake. I just hate it when someone spoils the ending for me.”

  Expecting the book to be some silly animal story that anyone over the age of nine could figure out by the end of the second page, he opened the book and began to read. By the end of the first paragraph, he was chuckling. A page and a half later, he was laughing out loud with the kids and thoroughly captivated.

  The story was funny and intriguing and unlike any of the predictable children’s books he’d read to his nieces and nephews. Professor Rat, the main character, had a wicked sense of humor that appealed to both children and adults, and that took no small amount of skill on the part of the writer. Not sure if P.S. Urant was a man or a woman, Mitch had to admit that he—or she—had a way with a phrase that was downright impressive.

  And that didn’t begin to describe the artwork. Old-fashioned, and reminiscent of Andrew Wyeth, with detail that was beautiful to behold, the pencil drawings spoke of an imagination that touched on wonder wherever it looked. There were angels magically peeking out from large, billowing clouds, and grinning
wood nymphs hidden in the thick foliage of a shadowy forest. Professor Rat and his friends seemed to leap off the page, their faces brimming with personality and good humor. Without a single written word, the story could have been told with just the illustrations alone.

  All too soon, the mystery of the missing glasses was solved and he reached the last page. Closing the book, he turned it over and studied the cover again. “I can see why this would be one of your favorites,” he told Robby, “but it looks homemade. Where’d you get it?”

  “From Aunt Phoebe,” he said with a grin. “She always gives us a book for Christmas.”

  “She made it!” Becky piped up. “Isn’t it beeeutiful?” Mitch couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d said Phoebe was a stripper at the Baby Doll House out by the airport. “What do you mean she made it? Are you saying she wrote it?”

  She nodded, her eyes dancing happily. “Mmm-hmm. And she drawed it, too. See.” Pointing to the author’s name typed on the cover, she read, “P.S. Urant. That stands for Phoebe Smith, your aunt.”

  Stunned, Mitch stared down at the simple homonym and wondered that he hadn’t seen it sooner. After all, he knew that she enjoyed writing—she spent hours every evening banging away on her old typewriter on the kitchen table. She had the drive—he’d never doubted that—but whoever wrote Professor Rat had a heck of a lot more going for them than mere drive. She had to see pictures in the clouds and hear the whisper of stories in the wind, then somehow transform all that to the written and illustrated page. Phoebe was a damn good secretary, but he’d never suspected she had that kind of talent and creativity.

  Confused, he said, “I thought she wanted to write murder mysteries, not children’s books.”

  “She does,” Robby replied. “She just does this kind of stuff for the family and her friends every year for fun. She says when you give a gift, it should be a part of yourself, and that’s what her stories are—a part of her heart. She’s pretty cool, huh?”

  Mitch had to agree with that. The lady was, in fact, one surprise after another. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she turned around and did something that blew his mind. And it wasn’t even as if she was trying to fascinate him. She just seemed to do it naturally, and that was really starting to worry him. It was bad enough that he couldn’t put that kiss out of his head. He liked everything about her, and that could only mean one thing. He was in trouble.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Even if she hadn’t had the flu, he’d given her his word she could stay there at least until Alice returned, and he had to stick by that. He didn’t fool himself into thinking it was going to be easy. Because even now, when he’d seen her at her worst and she was so sick she could barely lift her head off the pillow, he couldn’t forget the feel of her in his arms. God help him when she got back on her feet.

  Trying not to think about that, he’d just put the kids to bed in his room and was going to check on Phoebe when the phone rang. When he quickly answered it and recognized his aunt’s voice, he didn’t know why he was surprised that she’d call tonight, of all nights. Alice had been trying to marry him off from the time he was twenty-five, and somehow she always seemed to know when he was thinking more than he liked to about a woman. If she found out he was actually living with one, regardless of how innocently, she’d have the wedding planned and the church reserved before he could blink.

  Determined to make sure that didn’t happen, he said easily, “Hello, Alice. I was just thinking about you. How’s Glen?”

  “That’s just why I was calling, dear,” she said somberly. “You know he hurt his shoulder in the accident. His doctor was hoping to avoid surgery, but today he decided he was just prolonging the inevitable. He operated this afternoon.”

  Mitch swore softly. “Damn. I’m sorry to hear that. How’s Em holding up? She must be a basket case.”

  “She wouldn’t leave Glen’s side if she didn’t have to for the baby,” she said simply. “I don’t know how she’s kept from falling apart.”

  “She’s a strong woman,” Mitch replied. “I wonder who she gets that from.”

  Alice laughed, just as he’d known she would. It was a well-known fact in the family that while she might look as soft as a marshmallow, when push came to shove she could be as tough as nails. “She’s a chip off the old block and you know it!” she chuckled. “So how are things back in S.A.? Have you found anyone to help you with the Social Club until I get back?”

  He couldn’t lie to her, but neither did he intend to tell her more about Phoebe than he had to. “Actually, I did,” he said, then expertly steered the conversation in a different direction. “You’ll be happy to know that the Johnsons moved in without a hitch, so we’ve got a full house again. They seem like a nice couple. In fact, they’re so quiet, you hardly know they’re here.”

  “I knew they would be perfect for us,” she said in satisfaction. Then with a skill that was every bit as sharp as his, she brought the discussion back to where she wanted it. “Now about this woman...”

  “What woman?”

  “The one you hired to help you with Social Club business.”

  “I don’t remember saying I hired a woman.”

  She made an impatient sound, one he remembered all too well from his childhood when he would try to talk circles around her and get caught every time. “Mitchell Ryan, you stop that!” she scolded affectionately. “You know very well you hired a woman, and she must be a pretty one or you wouldn’t be trying so hard to change the subject. What’s her name?”

  Trapped, Mitch hesitated. He could have refused to answer, but that would never stop Alice from finding out what she wanted to know. She’d just call her old friend, Elizabeth Kincaid, in 2D, who would be only too happy to tell her that her nephew was living with a woman in her apartment! And if she didn’t learn the truth from Elizabeth, Phoebe herself would tell her if she happened to answer the phone when Alice called. He could hear it now.

  Wondering how she had boxed him into a corner with so little effort, he swallowed a groan and grudgingly admitted defeat. “Her name is Phoebe Smith,” he grumbled. “And I wouldn’t know if she’s pretty or not—I haven’t noticed.”

  “Ha!” she laughed. “The day you don’t notice a woman’s looks, you’ll be six feet under. So she must be something special if you don’t want to talk about her. Will I like her?”

  “Don’t even think about going there,” he warned silkily. “You might as well know now that she’s living here, but only because she got thrown out of her apartment, and that’s something I don’t have time to go into now. Just take my word for it that everything is aboveboard and there’s nothing going on here that shouldn’t. Okay?”

  Far from intimidated, she teased, “Oh, really? Is that due to lack of trying on your part or hers? Don’t answer that,” she said quickly when he muttered a curse. “I’m just pushing your buttons, dear. I’ll find out myself when I meet her. Have you taken her out yet?”

  Rolling his eyes, he counted to ten. It didn’t come close to helping. “Don’t start planning the wedding, sweetheart. It’s not going to happen. I’m going back to Dallas just as soon as you get home.”

  That sobered her, but not because he’d finally gotten through to her. “I’m sorry, dear, but that’s one of the reasons I called. Glen’s surgery was much more complicated than the doctors expected, so his recovery is going to take longer than anyone first thought. I’m sorry, but it looks like I may not be able to get back there until after the first of the year. I hope that’s not going to be a problem.”

  Stunned, what could he say? Of course it’s a problem! You’ve got to get back here before I do something stupid... like forget all the reasons why I can’t get involved with her and give in to this crazy need she stirs in me!

  He could just hear Alice’s reaction to that! She’d think he’d lost his mind. And he couldn’t say he’d blame her. Compared to the problems Glen and Emily were going through, how he was going to man
age to keep his hands off Phoebe seemed a very trivial thing that only a selfish bastard would worry about when the rest of the family was caught in the throes of a crisis.

  “I’ve got everything here under control,” he assured her gruffly. “You stay with Glen and Em as long as you need to.”

  She was burning up...again. Checking on Phoebe as soon as he hung up after talking to Alice, Mitch found her moaning softly and kicking at the covers he’d tucked around her earlier to keep her from getting chilled. He only had to touch the back of her hand to know that her fever was back and hotter than before. Frowning, he glanced at the bedside clock and swore. He’d given her some aspirins right before the kids took their baths. He couldn’t give her any more for another two hours.

  Worried sick, he jerked the covers off her in the hope that that would at least make her more comfortable, but she was lost to everything but the fever that raged in her body like a forest fire. Tossing and turning, she searched for a cool spot on the bed without success.

  Just watching her made him ache. There was, he told himself grimly, no way he was going to just stand by and let her suffer for the next two hours. Not when he could do something about it. He had to get her temperature down. The quickest way to do that was, of course, to give her a cool bath, but he was afraid that in her delirium, she would misunderstand his intentions. And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t know if he could handle stripping her naked without going quietly out of his mind. He’d just have to find another way to cool her down.

  Covering her gently with the blanket again, he turned and strode out. When he returned a few minutes later, he had a bowl of tepid water and a washcloth. Setting it on the nightstand, he pulled up a chair next to the bed, eased the covers back from her feverish body, and gently began to sponge her down with the dampened cloth.

  Being able to touch her, feel her, stroke her face and throat and arms under such circumstances, was, he discovered, the worst kind of torture. At the first brush of the cool washcloth across her hot forehead, she turned her face toward him in her sleep like a flower lifting its petals to the sun and never knew how her quiet sigh of relief struck him right in the heart. Against all his better judgment, his touch turned caressing.