A Holiday to Remember

by Helen R. Myers

“You didn’t hear me say that. I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I caught the flying bug from my older brother. He would be your age now.”

  “Would be?”

  “He was flying my parents to the Gulf to catch a cruise for their twentieth wedding anniversary, but there was mechanical trouble. They didn’t make it.”

  “That’s rough.” She’d managed to keep her voice steady, but Mack didn’t miss how her hands worked the steering wheel and how tight her grip got.

  “It was. Is. But coming back to the world, as you service people tend to say, has to be a challenge, too.” Alana’s voice grew huskier. “And then to have this news that you weren’t expecting...”

  She didn’t really want to talk about the past any more than he did. That was another thing he couldn’t help but find appealing about her. He’d OD’d on drama queens years before finally freeing himself of his mother. “I am curious as to why my father didn’t hire an attorney to handle this,” he said, shifting the envelope between his hands.

  “His longtime lawyer passed away last year and he didn’t like the other two in town. I tried to help him find someone else, but he kept putting it off until it was too late.”

  “So his death wasn’t sudden?”

  “No, there’s nothing fast about lung cancer.” Alana shook her head as though trying to shake off something. “He never could quit smoking. Heaven knows, we all tried to help.”

  “He’d known you all of your life?”

  “Fred and Duke went to school together. After Fred’s divorce and losing you, he became part of our family. I don’t remember a holiday get-together when he wasn’t there. Or funeral. After—after the accident, you could say he and Uncle Duke finished raising me. Fred taught me everything I know about horses and cattle, and the chief added most of what they didn’t teach me in the police academy.”

  “Did Fred like anyone besides you and your uncle?” Mack asked the question for an excuse to continue studying her profile and admire the perfection of her skin in the surreal light. The answer was almost irrelevant.

  “Of course. But he didn’t trust easily. That’s probably something you two would have found you had in common.” As they passed the entryway of a ranch with an electronic gate and pole fencing freshly painted green, she nodded. “That’s us. Pretty Pines.”

  The visuals failed to trigger even the slightest memory in Mack. “Did we ever meet? I have to admit I remember less than I thought I did.”

  “I’m guessing you and your mother left about the time that I was born. I may have been all of six when you last visited as a teenager. That would have made me invisible to you. And the pole fence wouldn’t have been there yet. We still used barbed and ranch wire back then. Here we are,” she added, turning into the next driveway.

  As she parked before the simple gate with the metal letters Last Call Ranch bolted to it, Mack remembered his father’s irreverent humor in naming the place and his mother’s chastising him for making them the town trash. Her protests had seemed hypocritical even to a kid of eight who’d witnessed how much both of his parents drank—and the fights that followed. Now they struck him as doubly so, considering the line of work she’d ended up in.

  “You have the keys.”

  Pulled back to the present, Mack dug out two sets from the envelope. There were about a dozen keys on each ring. Alana pointed to the correct set and, once he handed it to her, deftly flipped to the sturdy stainless key.

  “All of the house keys and the front-gate key are on this one. You’ll soon memorize them because I color coded them. The other ring is for the barn, truck and equipment.”

  Accepting the handful, Mack went to open the gate, attempting to move as normally as possible. He would definitely look into getting an electronic gate system like the Anderses had, and not just because of the convenience. He had to shift to use the patrol car’s headlights to get the lock released, which would be more of a pain in bad weather than it already was. Besides, the fancier gizmo might help sell the place faster—not that he was planning to do that.

  Oh, yes, you are.

  Back in the car, he saw a front-door light and a security light by the barn. When they came to the ranch house, he saw it would take more than a fancy front gate to entice a buyer. The house was white brick with plain windows adorned with cheap miniblinds and a white metal roof. There were no shrubs around the place, and maybe the pastures were well tended, but the yard looked like it was nothing but weeds. He’d seen military barracks that looked more inviting.

  “Home sweet home,” he muttered with a sinking feeling.

  “It could be. It just needs a little TLC. Eberardo has had his hands full with the animals.” Alana put the vehicle in Park. “Do you want me to show you where the important things are?”

  “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time.”

  As he began to reach for the door handle again, Alana touched his arm. “Wait.”

  Mack turned back in surprise. When he saw her pensive look, curiosity got the best of him.

  “You need to know something, and I’d like you to hear it from me rather than just reading it cold and misunderstanding. In the will,” she said, nodding to the envelope in his grasp, “Fred was concerned that something might have happened to you before he actually passed—or that somehow the place would end up on the auction block, or worse.”

  Mack raised an eyebrow. “What would he have considered worse?”

  “Your mother sweeping in and taking possession.”

  Mack grunted. That would have done it, he thought wryly. “So what did he do? Just spit it out,” he ordered, as she continued to hesitate.

  “He adjusted his will so that if you died, or if you relinquish claim on the estate, it falls to me.”

  Chapter Two

  So that’s what it took to break the iron man’s enigmatic stare and impressive control, Alana thought, as the news registered in Mack’s expression. But she couldn’t blame him for being slow to reply. She’d been bowled over herself when Fred announced his decision some six months ago.

  “Congratulations,” Mack finally said.

  His tone left little to imagine about his mindset. “Don’t make it sound like that. I tried to talk him out of it.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “But the fact that you didn’t convince him tells me that he hoped in the end that you would get the place. He really didn’t want me to have it.”

  “That’s not true. He was sorry about your broken relationship, but so much time had passed, he didn’t know where to begin trying to mend things.”

  “I could have my own family, who might need a decent home, or help that this could provide,” Mack said, nodding in the direction of the house.

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  She’d gathered as much already, by the way he was traveling and from what he’d said earlier, but she couldn’t help but feel an odd relief at hearing him confirm it. “Well, I’m sorry if his decision offends, but the fact remains that he was determined to keep your mother off the ranch.” What he’d actually said was that he would “volunteer for hell first,” and had insisted to Alana that she was more family to him than his own flesh and blood was.

  “That much I understand,” Mack said in reference to his mother. “I remember some whopper yelling matches between those two.”

  “Uncle Duke pretty much said the same thing.” Alana slid him a sidelong look. “Do you know where she is these days?”

  “The last contact I had with her, she was wanting to borrow an additional twenty thousand to add to the percentage she owned in a strip joint she managed in California.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “That was pretty much my reaction to her. Needless to say, she hasn’t been in touch since.”

  That was some story not to pass on to his children—if he ever had any. “So you’re okay now?”

  “With her choices?” Mack’s lips twisted with dist
aste. “Who can ever be okay with that? But it’s her business.”

  “I meant with my news.”

  “Well, it could be worse,” he drawled. “If my father was anything like my mother, I could be stuck with having to call you ‘Mom.’”

  Alana pursed her lips, thinking he didn’t realize how close he came to the truth. “At one point, that was his plan.”

  Mack’s eyes narrowed. “That son of a—”

  “Calm down. I pretended that he was joking.” He didn’t need to know that she’d left in complete emotional turmoil and had immediately saddled her horse and had ridden for hours to deal with her feelings. “At any rate, it didn’t happen.”

  “Probably not for lack of trying.” Mack’s gaze swept over her. “Were you ever lovers?”

  Alana matched him stare for stare. “I told you that he and Uncle Duke finished raising me. What do you think?”

  “I think that it sounded like a win-win situation for you.”

  To some, Alana thought. The most mercenary. But Fred’s thinking had been all pragmatism just as his instincts were that of a caretaker, even then. He’d reasoned that, since she didn’t seem in any hurry to let any “young rooster” sweep her off her feet, they could marry and merge Last Call and Pretty Pines. That would give them twice the clout in the community and keep it out of the hands of developers and a certain bottled-water company that wanted the aquifer water the ranch sat on. Alana also knew Fred’s other motivation—that he had shared Uncle Duke’s worry that the loss of her brother and parents had changed her forever, that maybe with more responsibility or his—what? Attention? Influence? That she would quit risking her neck on overspirited horses and handling the night shift that no one else wanted for exactly those reasons.

  “I loved Fred,” she reiterated. “But I wasn’t about to expose either of us to the gossip and taunts that were likely to follow from agreeing to marry him. And I never could have taken him as a lover.” She gestured again to the keys he held. “But all that is immaterial now. You’re here and I’m out of the picture.”

  “Are you? Let’s see,” Mack replied.

  Too late, Alana realized what he was up to. Before she could stop him, he reached over to cup the back of her head, and pressed his lips to hers.

  At first, she just tried to push him away. It wasn’t her intent to injure—she understood the rush of emotions that he was experiencing. She could feel his anger at Fred, even his hurt, and she was the closest thing to being able to strike out at him. But she also had to make Mack realize how wrong and off base he was in pulling this stunt. Then, before she could do more than grip his wrists, he softened the kiss.

  The change had her momentarily hesitating, and that was a mistake. It lowered her guard enough for her to realize how wonderful his lips felt against hers, caressing and coaxing, even yearning. She hadn’t been kissed in a while—her choice—and never with this kind of wistful persuasion. It undermined her ability to keep her heart steeled against feelings, and crept under her defenses to remind her that she was all too human, and the world was fast becoming a lonelier place.

  Just when she began to reach for his face to trace the sharp contours, she found herself released. When she opened her eyes, Mack was opening the door.

  “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, before slamming the door shut behind him.

  * * *

  That had been a damned foolish thing to do, Mack thought as Alana spun the patrol car into a sharp U-turn the second he had his duffel bag, and sped down the driveway. She also pulled out into the street and burned rubber as she drove away, leaving the front gate open. It could have been worse. She could have taken off with his bag. Bottom line, he didn’t regret it. Another couple hundred feet of walking in pain to lock up would be a small price to pay for getting under Alana Anders’s skin the way she had his.

  He’d wanted to kiss her at first sight. Okay, soon after he first looked over and realized the smoky-voiced female asking about his welfare wasn’t a figment of his imagination. So things hadn’t gone as he would have liked thereafter, but then he always expected to be let down by people. It was a lesson learned in the volatile company of his parents. In this case, the price had been worth it. He’d wanted to find out what Alana’s game was. But soon his focus had been sheer lust and, in hindsight, he wasn’t one bit sorry—even if she came back in an hour with a warrant for assault of an officer.

  After returning from locking the gate, he used the front-door light to locate the correct key to the house. Once inside, he flipped on inside switches and set his duffel bag against an old buffet. He was in a breakfast nook that opened to the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, remembering. “But somebody washed the cherry pie and beer off the walls.”

  It was also warmer than he preferred. Not summer in Iraq or Afghanistan warm, but the outdoors at this hour was almost more pleasant. No doubt Alana kept the air conditioner set higher to save on utility bills. He went in search of the thermostat, found it and dropped the gauge ten degrees.

  Cripes, the place looked dated, he thought. Mack actually started to remember the layout of the furniture—the mud-brown recliner in front of the TV—although it was a flat-screen now, not the monster casing that looked like it would need the “jaws of life” to crack it open. However, the striped red-and-blue couch, the wrought-iron-and-glass coffee table, the gaudy lamps that looked like they’d been picked up at somebody’s idea of a flea market, were all unpleasantly familiar. Oddly enough, he doubted his mother couldn’t do worse even after all these years. At least there weren’t any bead curtains in doorways. He did, however, catch a lingering hint of cigar smoke.

  A bonfire seemed to be in order. No doubt Alana would suggest a garage sale or donation to some charity. The thought came as soon as he caught sight of a photo of her on the side table beside the recliner...and another by one of the lamps.

  “Whatever happens first,” he muttered to himself. “It’ll sell faster empty.”

  Having ventured this far, he wandered from the living room down a hall, to an office-den where he noticed there were numerous photographs on display. Once again most were of Alana, or included her. Alana with both his father and what he suspected was her uncle. Alana and her horse, her dog, her first car...everything but brushing her teeth, Mack thought with mild sarcasm. There was no denying she was a heartbreaker—had been even as a baby—but by the time she was a teenager, she’d looked like a ghost of herself. He suspected they must have been taken soon after her brother and parents died. The more recent ones—photos of being awarded ribbons and trophies at rodeo and equestrian events—showed a perfected smile. Mack narrowed his eyes as he studied them more closely. No, he wasn’t wrong. None of the smiles quite reached her haunted brown eyes. Nevertheless, Mack thought as he felt a twist in his belly and tightening in his loins, she was something.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, setting down the last photo.

  A quick check of the rest of the house had him deciding to put his duffel bag in the second bedroom that he thought he remembered was his. At least he remembered the queen-size bed when he’d last been here. The thing was barely large enough to handle his growing body then. It wouldn’t provide a great sleep tonight, but he couldn’t think of sleeping in his father’s bed. Not tonight after what Alana had confessed. Maybe never.

  All he wanted was a shower, a drink and a few hours’ escape from any more thinking, even though that’s what he’d also come here to do. But the future suddenly seemed as unpleasant as the past.

  “You better not have drunk all the bourbon, you old buzzard,” he muttered, stripping off his T-shirt.

  * * *

  “On to the next chapter,” Alana murmured, as she turned her silver pickup into Pretty Pines Ranch the next morning. Not even her late aunt’s sweet coining of the property’s name could bring a smile to her lips as it usually did. She was running late and knew that Duke would be making breakfast, with one ear tuned to the police-scanner radio
, an eye on the TV on the kitchen counter catching up on the morning news, and everything else directed at the driveway, waiting for her arrival. Nothing had changed since the accident—she could barely think the word crash, let alone say it—and that was mostly her fault. She’d given her uncle no reason to stop worrying about her. From the time she arrived for work at the station every afternoon, until she returned home in the morning—in fact, any minute that she wasn’t asleep in her own bed—he stressed. Countless sessions with doctors, psychiatrists...even lectures and threats from Duke hadn’t achieved much. She still lived with her torment and pain. But she did her best to make sure he knew that she did adore him.

  The widower cop had been the center of her universe—more like her anchor—since their world turned inside out. That was saying something considering that he looked like your stereotypical drill instructor and had a personality to match, particularly when someone crossed him, or one of his officers caused him trouble or embarrassment. But even when she was the one on the receiving end of his wrath, Alana loved no one more; however, she still hoped that with Mack’s arrival, Duke would now take a little of that intensive watchfulness off her.

  “Morning, handsome,” she called with determined brightness, upon entering the sun-filled white-on-white kitchen. Immediately, unfastening her paraphernalia-heavy belt, she beamed at him as she set it on the breakfast-table chair to the left of the one she would be using. Duke stood by the stove dressed in his summer blues with one of her aunt Sarah’s aprons over it. She could already smell his Brut cologne before she reached him to rise on tiptoe and kiss him just beside his ear. “You smell better than the bacon.”

  Duke Anders pretended to swat at her as she stole a piece. “Don’t play me, young lady. You’re late. Imagine what I thought when I called the station to see what was keeping you, since there was nothing of importance happening on the radio. Then to learn that Eisley had taken his patrol car—on time and properly clean, lucky for you—and that you weren’t at your desk completing reports.”