Memories: A Husband to RememberNew Year's Daddy (Hqn)

by Jackson, Lisa

  *

  Bryan, obviously coached by his father, was on his best behavior. Beneath the surface was the same sullen boy, but he was outwardly friendly. After a meal of grilled steaks, salad and baked potatoes, they finished decorating the tree. Travis had already strung lights through the branches, so most of the hard work was done. The ladder was necessary again and when the last ornament was hung and the final length of tinsel draped, they lit candles, turned out the lights and plugged in the tree.

  Amy gasped as hundreds of tiny, winking lights blazed, lending the huge room a cozy glow. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, her eyes shining in wonder. “But it needs a star.”

  Ronni shrugged. “We’ve got the same problem and thought we might find a homemade star or angel at the church bazaar.”

  “Church bazaar?” Bryan snorted. “Don’t tell me, there’s a Christmas pageant, too.”

  “Are you coming?” Amy asked eagerly and Bryan rolled his eyes.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “A dumb pageant?”

  “It’s not dumb,” Amy said, her lower lip trembling. “I’m an angel.”

  “Then it will be great!” Travis said, bending on a knee so he could look her squarely in the eye. “We’ll be in the front row.”

  “No way!” All of Bryan’s pretenses shattered and fell away. “I’m not going to some stupid show about Jesus getting born. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

  “We’ll be there,” Travis said, rumpling Amy’s hair and shooting his son a look that brooked no argument.

  Bryan grabbed his crutches and hitched himself out of the room. A second later, the door to his bedroom slammed shut.

  “Why did he say it was dumb?” Amy asked, wounded.

  “Because he’s fourteen,” Travis said, “and sometimes he has a hard time remembering to be polite.”

  Amy started off in the direction of Travis’s room, but Ronni caught her by the shoulder. “Why don’t you give him a few minutes to cool off, honey? He’ll probably change his mind.”

  “No doubt about it,” Travis said, his jaw set.

  *

  Amy fell asleep on the couch watching a Christmas special and Ronni covered her with a hand-pieced quilt Travis found. “This looks like an antique,” she said, tucking the faded blue squares beneath Amy’s chin.

  “My grandmother’s. I think her great-grandmother made it—or maybe it was her great-great-grandmother, I can’t remember. Anyway, the story is that it came over on the wagon train—Oregon Trail—and then when the family moved north a generation or so later, it traveled along with them.

  “My grandmother thought I should have it and so now it’s back in Oregon. Come on.” He took her arm and guided her back to the kitchen where he made hot coffee, infusing it with a shot of brandy. They put on their jackets, walked to the back porch and watched as lacy snowflakes fell, powdering the boughs of trees and collecting on the ground.

  “So you have a lot of family in the Seattle area?”

  “Some. A sister, a few cousins and my folks, but my parents live in Arizona in the winter.”

  Funny, she’d never imagined him as part of an extended family. He seemed like such a loner, a man who was used to doing things for and by himself. “Is your sister coming down for Christmas?”

  Frowning, he gave a curt shake of his head. “Nah. I don’t see much of her.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t want to pry and yet there was so much she wanted to learn about him.

  “She resents me.” A simple statement of fact. No emotions tangling it down.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t really blame her,” he admitted with a crooked, humorless smile. “She was firstborn and smart as a whip. Excelled in school, studied abroad, a real academic.”

  She watched the steam rise from her coffee cup and blew across the cup, waiting for him to continue.

  Leaning a hip against the top railing, he said, “I, on the other hand, was a screwup. Always in trouble. Never studied, barely passed, hated school. Despite all the grief I gave them, my parents, both of them, treated me as if I were the golden child. I was the boy, my father’s only son, the last Keegan of his line. My sister, no matter how hard she tried, was always second best. It wasn’t that they didn’t love her in their own way, it was the fact that I was supposed to excel, be the best.” He took a long swallow. “My sister never forgave me.”

  “But that wasn’t your fault,” she protested, trying to reconcile the image of the rebel teenager with that of the successful man staring into the winter-dark night.

  “Maybe not, but when you’re hurting, you try and hurt back. When she couldn’t gain my folks’ attention through achievement, she found other means, married someone they disapproved of and moved to L.A. She’s divorced now, no kids and barely speaks to me.” He shrugged, then drained his cup. “The ironic part was, about the time she started rebelling, I’d finally grown up, finished college and started working for a computer software company. A couple of years later, I was married, a father and had moved into sporting goods and equipment. All of a sudden, I had to live up to my parents’ expectations, and by the time I stopped to take a breath, my marriage was falling apart and my son was a stranger who was starting to get into some of the same kind of trouble I got into as a teenager. I decided to change things.”

  “So you moved here.”

  His smile flashed in the darkness. “Sounds like I was running away, doesn’t it?”

  “No, just making a change.”

  He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “Let’s just hope it was for the best.”

  She set her cup on the windowsill and he linked his fingers through hers. Snow crunched beneath their shoes as he, tugging on her hand, led her through a copse of trees to the lake. Inky water lapped at the shore where ice had formed between the rocks.

  At the edge of the lake, he turned to face her, his features in shadows, his eyes as dark as the night. Ronni felt that new feeling, the sizzle in her blood, the anticipation in the beat of her heart. With snow drifting around them, he pulled her against him and his mouth found hers in the darkness. He tasted of coffee and his lips were firm and hot, demanding. The feminine part of herself she’d buried so long ago responded and she linked her hands behind his neck. A cool winter breeze caught in her hair and lifted it from her nape. Snowflakes drifted from the sky.

  Ronni felt her insides quiver as the kiss deepened. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it. Slowly he lifted his head and touched his forehead to hers. “Who are you, Veronica Walsh, and what are you doing to me?” he whispered.

  “I—I was going to ask you the same thing.” She swallowed hard, trying to get a grip on her equilibrium, but his lips claimed hers again, slashing across her mouth with enough force to shatter all thoughts of resistance.

  Inside she shuddered. It was she who knew nothing about him—just a few comments about a sister and parents and a grandmother’s quilt, about a troubled son and complicated ex-wife. But still he was a stranger, a man she’d only recently met, a man she didn’t know well enough to trust.

  Not that he was part of some sinister plot, that was silly, but the way he made her skin quiver when he kissed her, the power of emotions swirling and fighting in her being, the racing beat of her heart, all were signs that she needed to know more about him. He wasn’t like Hank, a boy she’d grown up with and trusted, a man she’d loved, a husband she’d adored and been faithful to.

  His hands slid beneath her jacket and farther, past the hem of her sweater to her skin. She sucked in a breath as his fingers grazed the stitching of her bra, moving sensually over the cup, heating her flesh beneath the thin layer of silk and lace.

  Warning bells clanged in her mind. Stop! Ronni, use your head! You don’t love this man. You barely know him. Think!

  But it had been so long. So very long. Endless, restless, sleepless nights had stretched from that time she’d last felt a man’s touch, last r
ealized what it was like to be wanted. His hand lowered, settling at the curve of her waist, fingers warm and supple.

  His tongue touched hers, delving, retracting, toying with her until a dark warmth curled slowly in her belly. Liquid heat radiated from deep inside.

  She felt the jacket being stripped from her, heard the soft thud of denim sinking into the snow. A breath of wind touched her flesh as he lifted her sweater over her head and her long hair fell back on her bare skin. Slowly he unhooked her bra, letting the scrap of lace fall into the white powder at their feet as he watched snowflakes melt against her skin.

  She was breathing with difficulty, all too aware of the tightening of her nipples, the dark points high and proud and aching. His eyes touched hers and she licked her lips nervously as he traced one long finger along the cleft of her breasts and lower to hook on the waistband of her jeans.

  “Veronica,” he whispered across her open mouth. “Let me…”

  “W-what?”

  “Love you.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “No, darlin’,” he said, his breath tantalizing her ear. “We both go into this with our eyes open or we don’t go at all.”

  Swallowing with difficulty, she forced her eyes open. His hands moved up her rib cage slowly, achingly, until they reached her breasts and then he cupped them both, rubbing his thumbs across her nipples, staring into her eyes and kissing her lips. She didn’t resist as he dragged her onto the snow, pulling her on top of him as he kissed one dark, proud point. Icy snowflakes settled against her back as he licked and teased, tasted and toyed. She moaned, arching her back, settling her hips against his and he suckled wildly, one hand lowering to grab her buttock and hold her firmly against him as he pleasured her.

  Old sensations, new emotions, a storm of heat and fire and passion swept through her blood and she lost control, moving against him, her flesh yearning for his. All thought of restraint was caught by the passing wind and carried away. She wanted more of him, of his magic touch.

  His mouth was moist and warm and wondrous and when he kissed her abdomen, she trembled with want. Her zipper slid down with a quiet hiss promising more and her body was on fire.

  Don’t think, just feel, her wanton mind cried.

  “Oh, Ronni, no!” Suddenly he stopped. His hands quit moving and his entire body tensed. “No,” he said, his words muffled against her skin. “Hell, no.”

  “Travis?”

  Strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close for a second before he rolled over and still embracing her, swept a long dark strand of hair from her shoulder. “I…I… Look, Ronni, I think we should slow down.”

  Her laugh was brittle. So he thought she was easy—that it was common practice for her to fall willingly and naked into a man’s arms. A hot blush climbed up her back as she tried to scramble away. What could she say? She hadn’t acted like this for years. Not since Hank. Oh, what had she been thinking? “You’re right,” she agreed, trying to break away. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Into us.”

  “I feel like a fool.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She stared at his eyes, deep gray in the darkness, and shook her head in frustration. “Because, believe it or not, despite what just happened between us, it’s not my usual practice to try and seduce a near stranger in the middle of a snowstorm—”

  “We’re not strangers.”

  “Nonetheless.”

  “And I was the one doing the seducing.” His voice was tinged with self-condemnation and he cast an angry glance at the moonless sky. “I lose my head when I’m with you.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.” She extracted herself and, suddenly self-conscious, reached for her sweater.

  “I’m not blaming anyone.”

  “Sounded like it to me.” She jerked her sweater over her head, then scooped up her jacket, shaking the snow from the folds of the denim. “Look, let’s just call it a mistake and move on.”

  “Is that what you think?” he asked, his mouth tightening. “That being with me was a mistake?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “No.” He grabbed her arm. “Look, Ronni, I don’t know what’s happening between us and to be honest it scares me, but I don’t believe for a second that it’s wrong.”

  She tried to step away, but he held her fast, his fingers tightening possessively. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong impression,” she said.

  “Have I?”

  “I—I haven’t dated much since my husband died and I’ve never even kissed another man since—” At his shocked expression, she added, “I know, it sounds unbelievable, but I wasn’t…I mean, I’m not ready for any kind of relationship. I never expected anything like what happened between us and I think it would be best if we… Oh, Lord, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, but I think it would be best if we didn’t…”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Get too involved.”

  “And what does that mean?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in the shadows. “That we shouldn’t see each other?”

  “No, not that, but—”

  “That I shouldn’t kiss you.”

  “Probably.”

  His laugh was harsh. “A few minutes ago, you were just about to—”

  “I know what I was about to do and we both realize it would have been a mistake,” she said, stung, her cheeks flaming in the darkness. “But nothing happened.”

  “Yet. Nothing’s happened yet,” he told her. “Look, things were heating up too fast for both of us, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t still see each other. We’ll just take things slower.”

  “I think it’s time for us to leave,” she said, stuffing an arm down one sleeve of her jacket. “I’ll just pack up Amy and—”

  “Don’t,” he said, his voice a soft command.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t leave angry.”

  “I’m not—” She clamped her mouth shut and silently counted to five. “I’m not angry with you.”

  “No, you’re angry with yourself.”

  “So now you’re a psychiatrist.” She started for the house, half expecting him to try to stop her, but he followed after her at a slower pace and she was inside the kitchen by the time he’d caught up with her. He didn’t say a word, just leaned one hip against a battle-worn butcher-block counter.

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, confused by the conflicting emotions that tore at her soul. “This is…it’s all new to me…well, new the second time around.”

  “Since your husband?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together.

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ve dated.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to play the virgin’s role here. I was married and have a child, but it’s been…it’s been a long time since Hank and—”

  “Since Hank?”

  She was startled by the accusation in his voice. “My husband.”

  “I know who he was,” he snapped, the corners of his mouth tight. “But you’re a young, vibrant woman. You don’t expect me to believe that in the what?—nearly four years since his death, you haven’t been involved with another man.”

  She inched her chin up a notch. “I don’t care what you believe.”

  “But—”

  “I was in love with my husband, Travis, and just because he died doesn’t mean that my feelings for him disappeared, that I was ready to jump right back into the dating scene. Thanks…thanks for tonight,” she added and pushed through the swinging doors and down the hall to the living room where Amy, in the glow of the Christmas tree, was still sleeping soundly.

  Without a word, Travis helped her gather her purse and, over Ronni’s protests, wrapped Amy in the old quilt that his grandmother had given him.

  Bryan, at his father’s insistence, stumbled out of his room. Earphones surrounding his neck, he managed to mumble a quick good-night before Ronni strappe
d Amy into the van and drove the short distance home. In her sideview mirror, she caught a glimpse of Travis, legs apart, arm folded over his chest, watching her leave as the colored lights strung across the roof of the porch winked cheerily.

  She waved despite the small hole she felt tearing her inside. “Don’t be a fool,” she muttered aloud. He was her neighbor—no more than a casual friend.

  She worried her lip as she drove through the ice-spangled gates of the his newly acquired estate and reminded herself that casual friends didn’t nearly make love on the snow-covered shores of a winter-dark lake.

  Chapter Eight

  TRAVIS DIDN’T CALL. Not the first night, nor the second, nor the third. Not that he should, Ronni told herself as she waxed her skis in a lean-to area off the back porch of her house. Pink shavings littered the concrete floor beneath the sawhorses that Hank had set up years ago for just this purpose. His skis hung on an interior wall and in their upstairs closet she’d kept his boots, jumpsuit and poles.

  She hadn’t realized how many reminders of her husband she’d kept around the house and wondered for the first time in nearly four years if she was clinging to the past, unable or unwilling to let go. She’d told herself that it was important for Amy to know who her father was, to have some tangible evidence of the man he’d been, but now she considered the very real possibility that she’d never come to terms with his death. Not that she’d spent the past few years moping around, drinking wine and sighing over could-have-beens, but there was a part of her that hadn’t been able to face the heartrending truth and the pain.

  Stiffening her spine, she told herself that a new year was coming and no matter what else happened, Ronni Walsh vowed that she was going to put the past behind her, once and for all.

  Through the open door to the house she heard the phone ring and her heart jump-started. Travis! “Oh, for the love of Saint Mary, Ronni, you’re acting like you’re sixteen again!” she reprimanded herself as she climbed the two steps into the kitchen and accepted the receiver from Amy’s outstretched hand. “Hello?”