by Cara Colter
She had been amazed when Peter—wealthy, handsome, educated, sophisticated—a doctor and her boss, had asked her out. To her, he had been everything she dreamed of—stable, successful, normal, from a stellar family.
Only, it hadn’t been very long before she discovered that keeping up with appearances, which, admittedly, had impressed her at first, was an obsession with him. His shoes had to be a certain make, his ties were imported, his teeth were whitened. Looking good, no matter how he was feeling on the inside, was a full-time job for him.
And it hadn’t taken very long for him to turn his critical eye on her. You’re not going to wear that are you? Or It would have been better, when you met Mrs. Smith, if you said you enjoyed your Christmas charity work instead of telling her that dreadful story about the homeless man.
And Emma had gone overboard trying to please him, worn herself out, lived for the praise and approval that never came.
Despite his pedigree, it had all started to remind her a little bit of her relationship with her mother: she was looking for things the other person never intended to give her.
The truth was that she’d been glad when her grandmother had needed her, glad that she had a place to go, glad to escape from the demands of the role she had to play for him.
When she’d finally invited Peter to White Pond Inn, halfway through the renovation, thinking he would love it and see what a beautiful summer place it could make for them once they were married, he had hated it. He had told her, snobbishly, with hostility, that she was trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
That was something else he had in common with her mother, who hated this place so much she hadn’t even come back for Granny’s funeral.
And then the final blow—by telephone, the coward! Monique was more suited to his world. It was Emma’s own fault for going to the inn. For putting her interests ahead of his.
How had the love of her life, the man who was her dream, turned out to be a snobby version of her mother? To both of them, their interests came first. They didn’t even hesitate to divest themselves of anyone or anything that asked something of them, that wanted a return on an investment. And Emma had bought into it for so long, telling herself real love didn’t ask for anything. It only gave, never took, exhausting and unrewarding as that was.
Why did Emma think Lynelle would come for Christmas when she hadn’t even come to her own mother’s funeral?
She’ll come, Emma told herself. She said she would come. But a promise in her mother’s world was not always something you could take to the bank. The doubt was going to be there until the moment her mother stepped off the bus.
And Emma felt guilty about her lack of faith in Lynelle.
“Emma, Emma, Emma,” her mother had said, annoyed, the last time they’d spoken and Emma had pressed for an answer about Christmas. “Where do you get that sentimental streak from?”
As if somehow Emma was in the wrong for wanting her to come.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Lynelle had finally said, irritated. “I’ll come. Send the damned ticket. Are you happy now?”
“Hey,” Ryder said. When had he come back beside her? “Don’t take it like that. The road could be open tonight.” And then, softer, “Please don’t cry.”
Which was when she realized she was crying! She swiped at her cheeks with a mittened hand. “I’m not crying,” she said stubbornly. “I poked myself in the eye with a branch.”
She held out a branch to show him, but he looked right past it and right past the words.
He cupped her chin in his gloved hand, slipped the glove off his other hand with his teeth, brushed the tear from her cheek. She saw the struggle in his face, knew he wanted nothing more than to walk away from her pain.
And she knew she was seeing something he tried to hide when he didn’t walk away, or couldn’t.
“Come on,” he said, throwing a casual brotherly arm over her shoulder, guiding her away from the road, “you’ll have a good Christmas this year. Meanwhile, let’s see what that miracle worker Mona has planned for supper.”
As soon as he walked in the door, Sue and Peggy, who had apparently lugged Tess around all afternoon, were on him as if he were a favored uncle. They handed over Tess, who now sported several more bows, somewhat reluctantly.
“Mama,” she said.
“No, Tess,” Sue said sternly.
“Ubba?” Tess guessed.
“Yes!” The gleeful girls danced around as if Tess had scored a touchdown. Ryder stroked Tess’s combed hair, and Tess didn’t even howl a protest.
“Me preffree,” she declared to her uncle. “Har.”
“She means she’s pretty,” Sue translated officiously. “’Cause of her hair.”
“Pretty,” Ryder said thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so.”
All three girls looked shattered at his pronouncement, but the smiles started when he said, “Um, no, pretty isn’t good enough. Lovely?” He seemed to think it over, regarded Tess, then shook his head. “Gorgeous. Beautiful. Stunning. Dazzling.”
“Creative!” Sue crowed, and he smiled.
And then he lifted his niece up with that easy masculine grace, dangled her over his head, her little legs waggling with glee, and then he swooped her down and blew a kiss onto her belly.
Emma could have watched him play with the baby forever. But even thinking that word in close proximity to him seemed to be inviting danger, so she deliberately turned her back on the scene and went in search of Mona. Mona was on the back porch, assembling the bundles of balsam and fir and spruce that went into wreaths.
“The road’s not open,” Emma said, glad to have this moment alone with Mona. “I’m not sure we need any more of those. We probably won’t be able to sell what we have.”
She took a deep breath, “I appreciate you and Tim and the girls spending the day, but I’m not sure about tomorrow. If Holiday Happenings doesn’t happen soon, I’m not going to be able to pay you.”
Mona gave her an insulted look. “We came as your neighbors and your friends today, not as your employees, and we’ll be here as long as you need us.”
Emma could feel those awful tears burning in her eyes again.
“Besides, you know how I love this house and it’s good to keep busy. It keeps all of us from thinking about Tim. Two more Canadian soldiers were wounded yesterday.”
And then Mona’s eyes were full of tears, too, but she quickly brushed them aside. “Let’s have supper at my place. I can cook on the wood burner. I took out chicken this morning. Plus the whole house will be nice and warm from the woodstove.”
The thought of so much warmth—physical and emotional—was more than Emma could refuse.
But Ryder refused with ease, closing something in himself that had opened during the snowball fight. “Tess and I will stay here,” he said. “I’ve got food for her. I can have a hot dog for supper.”
Emma knew something about all this bothered him: the children, the family, the moments of playfulness, the togetherness. She could see that he deliberately planned to turn his back on it. She refused to beg him to come, which woman-scorned was very pleased about. Emma knew he was posing a danger to her. She could see that by coming to the inn she had deliberately removed herself from all those things that, after Peter, she was ill-equipped to handle.
But Mona was having none of it. “You are not having a hot dog for supper after the kind of work you did today.”
Ryder still looked stubborn.
Peggy came and took his hand, shook it vigorously to make sure she had his full attention. “Tess has to come to my house. I want to show her my dollhouse that my daddy made.”
“I could use another man,” Tim said, clearly having to overcome his pride to ask. “The pump won’t be working, and I’ll need to haul water from the creek.”
Emma was not sure which of those arguments won him over, but she was aware of the sweet sensation within herself of wanting to be with him and to spend more time with him, and be
ing glad she didn’t have to reveal any of that by convincing him herself.
Somehow they all managed it in one trip, Mona on the snowmobile behind her father-in-law, Ryder, Emma, girls and baby squashed onto the sled.
Ryder went in first, Emma between his legs, the baby on her lap. She had to push hard into his chest to make room for Sue and Peggy, who squeezed in practically on top of her and the baby.
The extremely crowded ride the short distance to the Fenshaws’ should have been uncomfortable. Instead, it felt incredible. It wasn’t just because she was so close to him, though she could feel his heart beating through his jacket, feel the steel of his strong legs where they formed a V around the small of her back. It was the whole picture, the baby and the girls shouting with laughter as their grandfather picked up speed, the snowmobile cutting a smooth path through the snow.
It was the party atmosphere the Fenshaws insisted on creating, as if closed roads and downed power lines were exactly the excuse they’d been looking for to spend some time together.
It was the feeling of family that Emma had yearned for her entire life.
The house Mona had come to share with her father-in-law when her husband was away was as old as Emma’s but more rustic. Inside was as humble as out; it was a true farmhouse, more about function than fashion, especially since Tim had lived here on his own after the death of his wife.
Wall art ran to framed school photos of the girls, and a large picture of Tim, Jr., in his military uniform, smiling shyly at the camera.
There was nothing “up-country” about the Christmas decorations, either; they were a happy mishmash of fake silver and gold garlands, a scrawny tree nearly falling over under the weight of pine-cone decorations obviously made by Sue and Peggy, the table centerpiece a skinny Santa Claus made out of a paper towel roll and cotton batten.
And yet, the feeling of Christmas and of family was perfect.
Peter would have hated every single thing about this house, and he would have called the decorations tacky.
But when she slid Ryder a glance to see how he was reacting, she saw him take in the humble home, something reluctant and oddly vulnerable in the dark of his eyes.
How could it be, that just twenty-four hours ago when she had seen him those dark, dark eyes had made her think the devil had come to visit?
Could he have changed that much in twenty-four hours? Or had she?
CHAPTER SIX
EMMA watched with admiration as Mona, unfazed by the lack of electricity, stoked the cookstove, lit coal-oil lanterns, warmed water for washing, set her old coffeepot on the stove and began to get chicken ready to fry in an old cast-iron pan.
The men hauled water, a hard job that left them soaked in their own sweat and the water that sloshed from buckets. When they were done, Mona gave them a scrub basin filled with the warm water, and dry shirts and shooed them into the back porch off the kitchen. She gave Emma a potato peeler and pointed at a mountain of potatoes.
Unfortunately, from where she stood at the table peeling, Emma had a clear view through the open door to the porch. Her mouth went dry as Ryder stripped off his wet shirt. He was one hundred-per-cent-pure man. He had incredibly broad shoulders, his chest was deep and smooth, his pectoral muscles defined, his abdomen a rippled hollow. His pants hung low over the slight rise of his hips.
Emma felt a fire in her belly. Around Peter she had always striven to feel cool and composed. Even their kisses had been stingy and proper.
Nothing could have prepared her for the pure primal feeling she felt now.
How could she be a brand-new woman—totally devoted to her inn and her independent life—with someone like him around?
He’s a temporary distraction, she told herself. But did that mean she could look all she wanted? Was it something like those chocolate oranges that came out only at Christmas? You had to give yourself permission to enjoy them while they were around?
Embarrassed by her own hunger and curiosity, Emma forced herself to focus on the potato she was peeling, but she just had to slide him one more little look. Who knew how long before she would see something like this again?
Ryder Richardson was built as if he had been carved out of marble. The male strength and perfection in every hard line of him was absolute.
He took the washcloth, dipped it in the water, soaped it and then ran it along the hard bulge of his forearm, up his arm to the mound of his biceps.
She hoped she hadn’t made a noise! Because he looked up, caught her looking and his gaze rested on her, heated, knowing. He continued what he was doing, but he held her gaze while he did it. She looked away first, her face feeling as if it was on fire.
She didn’t look up again, scowling with furious concentration at the potato in her hand.
Then he was beside her, filling her senses in yet another way, the soapy scent of him as sensual as silk on naked skin.
“Wow,” he said, his voice husky, “not much left of that potato.”
Despite her attempt at concentration, despite the fact she had not looked away from that spud for a single second, she had whittled away at it until only a sliver of it remained in her hand.
“You should go check on Tess,” she said, throwing that potato in the peeled pile and picking up another, trying to get rid of him. Only he wasn’t falling for it.
“I can hear her laughing. She’s obviously okay.”
He picked up a paring knife, sat on the stool beside her, took off a potato peel in one long coil, his hands amazing on that knife, his movements, despite the strength in those hands, controlled and fine.
It was very easy to imagine hands like those doing things and going places—
“Pay attention,” he said, as if he knew she was looking at his hands, and thinking totally wicked thoughts about where she would like them to be. “Don’t cut yourself.”
She glanced at him, saw a teasing smile playing across his face. The scoundrel knew exactly what effect he was having on her!
Probably because he’d had it on about a million women before her.
“Ouch,” she said. She’d nicked her finger.
“Tried to tell you,” he said smugly. But then he set down his potato and his knife and lifted her hand.
She who had always disdained the word swoon and the kind of woman who would do it—certainly not an independent innkeeper—could feel something in her melt and slide.
“It’s nothing,” she said, trying to take her hand away.
He held fast. “I’ll finish up, if you want to go take care of it.”
“I said, it’s nothing.” Her voice was high and squeaky, and it had an unattractive frantic quality to it. She yanked her hand away, picked up another potato to prove a point, though, at the moment, she was so addled she wasn’t quite sure what that point was.
Her hand was tingling.
He sighed, exasperated. “You’ve got to know when to quit, Emma.”
That was a problem for her, all right. Because she should quit this right now. She should set down her paring knife and go join the girls and Tess in the other room. She could hear them trying to play cards and keep the cards out of Tess’s clutches at the same time.
But good sense did not prevail. She did not quit. Instead she said, boldly, “Maybe I’ll let you take care of it for me later.”
And when he was silent she glanced at him and saw he was now concentrating furiously on his task.
Whatever was going on was mutual.
Which made a wholesome farm dinner, platters of perfectly browned chicken, wedged potatoes, a simple salad, seem fraught with hidden dangers—the touch of his hand while he passed the salt, his leg brushing hers when he got up to get something that Tess had dropped on the floor.
Ryder’s presence, her aching awareness of him, made her feel as awkward as a teenager on her first date, as if she was just learning to chew food and how to use a knife and fork.
“Mona, you cooked,” Emma said after dinner. “I’ll clean up. You go vis
it with the girls. Relax.”
I need a break from this man, from the intensity I feel around him, from the awareness of his scent and his eyes and the way his chest rises and falls when he breathes.
“I’ll help,” he said.
Great. Hide the knives.
Why was he doing this? Maybe because he was helpless not to do it, the same as she was? Maybe because he wanted to be close to her, the temptation of the faint but growing sizzle between them a warmth too hard to walk away from if you were chilled from the inside out?
Emma did not miss the look on Tim’s face. Not in the least judgmental as he looked between the two of them, but satisfied somehow.
Alone in the kitchen, Ryder took a tea towel and wiped the dishes she washed.
“Tell me what made Christmas so bad for you,” he said.
“Oh, I wish I had never said that. It was silly. A moment, that’s all.”
A moment of trusting another person with your deepest disappointment.
The truth was the Christmases of her childhood had been chaotic, full of moves, Lynelle’s new men, not enough money, too much adult celebration.
And that shadow seemed to have fallen over the Christmases of her adult life, too.
“One year my new puppy had died, another I ended up in the hospital with pneumonia.”
And then last year, when she had so been looking forward to her first Christmas with Peter’s parents, practically quivering with expectation, she had been devastated by the reality.
Not that she was going there with this man!
“Just normal stuff that happens to everyone,” she said. “I’m too sensitive. Everyone says so. Sorry.” Especially my mother. Repeatedly.
“Emma,” his hand was on her shoulder.
There was that tingling again.
“You don’t have to apologize for being sensitive. The world could use a whole lot more of that. It’s people like you who make everything that is beautiful.”