CHRISTMAS IN WHITEHORN

by Susan Mallery

  "You were the one screaming my name."

  She blinked first. "The lights."

  "Lead the way."

  They started at the top of the tree. Mark positioned the strands while Darcy gave instructions. He enjoyed the sound of her voice and the fact that she'd been curious enough to ask around about him.

  When the lights were arranged to her picky satisfaction, they switched to ornaments. Despite her diminutive stature, Darcy insisted on hanging decorations near the top of the tree. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach, which meant her sweater crept up, exposing a strip of bare back and belly. Mark stood back and enjoyed the view. As he wasn't likely to get any from her anytime soon, he would take what crumbs he could find.

  They argued over where to place painted gingerbread men, and he deliberately moved several paper cranes to a different branch. Outraged, Darcy planted her hands on her hips.

  "I cannot work under these conditions," she exclaimed, raising her voice slightly when she caught sight of a boy on crutches. He was about nine or ten, and thin.

  Dramatically Darcy tossed her head, then stared at the heavens. "I am an artist. You must not disrupt my flow."

  "I'm going to get out of the way before I step in it," Mark muttered under his breath.

  The boy laughed.

  Mark inched toward him, then dropped into a crouch. "Women," he said. "Do they drive you crazy, too?"

  The boy nodded.

  Mark pulled two more wooden ornaments out of his shirt pocket. "I'll distract her and you hang these, okay?"

  Big brown eyes brightened at the thought of a conspiracy. Mark sensed Darcy's attention and knew that she'd heard him, but that wasn't a problem. He didn't doubt she would play along with the game.

  "Oh, Darcy," he said, his voice loud enough to carry. "We're missing a box of ornaments."

  She turned toward him, careful to keep her back to the boy who was moving slowly toward the tree.

  "Did you lose them again? I thought I could trust you. Where did you last see the box?"

  Mark rose and shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you lost them."

  "Me?" She pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm crushed you would say such a thing about me. Simply crushed. Mortified. Broken."

  She sagged into a nearby chair and buried her head in her hands. The child finished hanging the two ornaments and made his way to Mark's side.

  "Good job," Mark said, touching the boy's shoulder. "I'm impressed."

  Darcy looked at the tree and sprang to her feet. "My tree. It's perfect. And yet. No! Someone has touched it. Someone has … made it better. Was it you?"

  She turned to the boy. He grinned in delight. She returned to her chair.

  "Done in by a child."

  Still smiling, the boy gave a little wave then started back to his room. One of the nurses stepped into the hall.

  "Jon-Anthony, you get back here, young man. You just got your crutches today and already you're running marathons. I told the doctor you'd be trouble, but did she listen?"

  "Nice job," Darcy said, rising and surveying their tree. "You're really good with kids."

  "You, too."

  They stared at each other. It was too much like a moment for Mark to be comfortable. "Maddie was always breaking something when we were growing up. It was never fun for her to be slowed down by a cast or crutches. I used to entertain her."

  Darcy stared down the hall. "I feel badly for the children who have to spend Christmas here."

  "You're helping."

  "I want it to be enough, and I'm not sure it is."

  She looked a little lost as she spoke. He had the thought she was the kind of woman who should be married with a couple of kids of her own. That might keep her from wanting to rescue the world.

  As he stared at the lights on the tree, he remembered when he'd had his own dreams about children. It had been a year ago, right after he'd met Sylvia. By their second date, he'd been ready to propose, having already named their children. He'd never been happier.

  Suddenly he could hear the sound of Sylvia's laughter. He recalled how she'd looked waiting for him to come home from work. Usually she'd been naked and in his bed. It had taken nearly three months after he'd gotten out of the hospital for him to stop expecting to see her. Even when he'd stopped caring about her, she'd still managed to invade his dreams. Even now she haunted him, reminding him to be wary.

  "Mark?"

  He turned to look at Darcy.

  "Want to come back to earth?" she asked with a smile.

  "Sorry."

  Suddenly he was uncomfortable in his own skin. He recognized the feeling, hating it, knowing that there wasn't anything he could do about it except wait it out. His bullet wounds began to ache and he wished it wasn't so cold out. He needed to go for a run.

  "I should go," he said, grateful he'd met her at the hospital so he could make a quick exit. Who knew the ghosts would follow him back to Whitehorn?

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "You look – I don't know – unhappy."

  "I'm fine. I just need to get home."

  She nodded. "Do you still want me to come to your basketball game tomorrow?"

  He'd nearly forgotten. "Sure. Eight-thirty sharp."

  She groaned. "Sunday is my only day to sleep in."

  He pointed at the tree and she sighed.

  "I'll be there," she promised.

  As he walked to his truck, he found himself oddly pleased by the fact that she was coming to watch the game. All he had to do now was survive the night and not let the demons win.

  *

  Darcy arrived at the basketball courts a little before eight-thirty. She came bearing gifts. Something about the way Mark had left the hospital the previous night had made her uncomfortable. She wanted to make things right between them – difficult to do when she wasn't sure anything was wrong. Regardless, she used the only fix that she knew was bound to work with a bunch of guys playing sports.

  Cinnamon rolls.

  The smell of the freshly baked breakfast treat nearly made her crazy while she drove the few miles between her place and the new gym facility. But she'd been determined to resist. Eating with the guys would be her bonding experience.

  She parked next to Mark's truck, trying not to think that they could have easily gone together. But he hadn't offered and she hadn't wanted to ask. He'd accepted her request that they be friends instead of lovers, although she'd sensed that wasn't his first choice. She didn't want to push things. Telling herself she'd done fine all this time without Mark in her life was interesting but not convincing. Darn the man for starting to get under her skin.

  She carried her pink box of goodies, along with a couple of carafes of coffee and several disposable cups, into the main en- trance, then headed for the gym. She followed the sound of male voices and laughter into one of the practice areas. Once inside the warm room, she came to a stop – overwhelmed by so much masculinity in a single room.

  She recognized Mark right away. In fact her gaze sought him out first, as if he contained a homing beacon she'd been especially programmed to find. She barely no- ticed the other guys milling around. They all looked good enough in their loose gym shorts and baggy T-shirts, but only Mark made her heart beat the tiniest bit faster.

  He looked up and saw her. In that split second, she held her breath, hoping for a flash of desire to harden his expression. Unfortunately, he kept whatever he was feeling to himself, although he did grin at her and wave her over.

  "Hey, Darcy, what's in the box?"

  She glared at him. "What's in the box? Not "Hi' or "Nice to see you'?"

  Josh Anderson, the owner of Anderson, Inc., strolled over. "Morning, Darcy. Nice to see you. What's in the box?"

  She turned her back on Mark. "Some people have manners. Some people take the time to be appreciative. Good morning, Josh. I made cinnamon rolls and brought coffee."

  "The woman's a goddess," he said, reaching to take the box from her and opening the top. Instantly the sweet scent
surrounded them.

  Mark moved close. "Josh only thinks you're a goddess. I happen to know that it's true."

  "Oh, please." Darcy wrinkled her nose to show she wasn't the least bit impressed, this despite the quivering in her stomach and thighs.

  The guys ate nearly all the cinnamon rolls and gulped most of the coffee. Then Mark grabbed a basketball from the rack and the game began.

  Darcy settled herself on the side bleachers to watch. The men were aggressive, pushing and shoving, cheering their scores and booing their opponents. When the ball bounced in her direction, she tossed it back, earning a quick wink from one of the players. A couple of loud swearwords earned a "ladies present" comment from Josh. Even Mark teased her about doing a cheer or two for his team.

  Darcy sipped her coffee and enjoyed the feeling of belonging. She knew it was temporary, but for the moment, it was very nice. She hadn't had all that much belonging in the past five years. She'd been so busy working to keep herself and Dirk afloat that she hadn't had time for a regular life. All the strays in the world weren't going to make up for that.

  Listening to the male laughter made her think of her brother. She hoped he was having a good time in Chicago. She would go see him next week and hear all about his trip.

  According to Andrew, the counselor at the school, Dirk was doing a good job of making friends. He'd found his place in the world, at least for the next few years. Darcy could finally draw a breath and relax about Dirk. All she had to worry about now was making sure there was enough money to pay for the school, and that was the easy part. Over the past few years she'd learned that she had a capacity for hard work.

  She'd also learned that she was a pretty caring person. She liked giving to others, whether it was helping at the hospital or having people with nowhere else to go over to her house for a holiday meal. She liked—

  Darcy blinked as Mark made a basket. In the middle of her self-congratulation party she had the sudden thought that, while she was very willing to open her life to people in need, she rarely opened her heart. Except for Dirk, everyone else she'd known or had made friends with had been someone moving on. Just by calling people "her strays," she invited distance in the relationship. She didn't have any close friends here in Whitehorn. She wanted to blame that on her time in town – it had only been six months. But it wasn't that. Who had she been close to in Arizona?

  So why had she stayed so solitary, she wondered. What had made her pull back? The humiliation of what had happened after her parents died? The need to stay in control? Was she punishing herself for being so self-absorbed while she was growing up?

  She didn't have any answers, which was depressing. After all, she was twenty-five. Shouldn't she have her life together by now?

  No answer came to her so she focused her attention on the game. It finished with a mad attack by Mark's team. Three baskets in succession gave them the victory.

  He grabbed a towel from his gym bag and collapsed next to her on the bench. "Pretty impressive, huh?" he said, draping the towel around his neck and wiping his face.

  "I was immobilized by awe," she teased. "Your physical prowess puts lesser men to shame."

  "I know."

  She laughed and he grinned at her. The connection between them flared again. The one that made her nervous.

  A couple of the guys stopped by to thank her again for the cinnamon rolls. "My pleasure," she told them.

  Mark grabbed the last one from the box and took a bite. "What are you doing with the rest of your day?"

  "Baking. I have to be prepared for the week. I want to get everything ready for the Hip Hop."

  "That's right. You're hoping to be their new supplier." He sipped some cold coffee. "When are you going to find the time to fill their order if you get the contract? Will you quit your waitressing job?"

  "No way." She needed the money too much. "If I have to, I'll give up sleep."

  He leaned toward her and kissed her on the cheek. "Not bad for some rich girl from the burbs."

  "Thanks."

  His green-eyed gaze was steady. "I mean it, Darcy. You're impressive."

  His compliment made her feel all fluttery inside.

  "Well, I do what has to be done." She wondered what he would say if he knew about Dirk. No doubt he would admire her more and want to be with her less.

  "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you to your car." She started to shrug into her jacket. Mark came up behind her to help. It was a polite gesture that meant little, yet she found herself wanting to believe that it was significant. Like the brief kiss on her cheek. She wanted to think he cared. Which meant she had to watch herself. Obviously she was vulnerable in a very dangerous way – and the last thing she wanted was to fall for a guy who was bound to leave her once he learned the truth about her life.

  *

  Mark headed into the office shortly before noon. On Sunday afternoons the place was empty, except for someone stuck on duty answering the phone. He made his way to his messy desk and began sorting through files. One of these days he was going to get his paperwork under control. The problem was he hated it, so he wasn't motivated. Sheriff Rafe Rawlings frequently threatened to set his desk on fire, but Mark wasn't im- pressed.

  Now he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the piles. Maybe he should shove everything into a box and start over with a clean surface. Or maybe—

  The phone rang. He pounced on it, delighted with the thought of a reprieve.

  "Kincaid."

  "Hey, Mark, it's Ralph Wayne. What's going on in Hicksville?"

  "Ralph!" Mark rested his elbows on the desk and grinned. "Still hanging out in vice, hoping to get lucky?"

  "You should talk. You're out in Montana. What's the big crime of the day? The cows didn't come home?"

  "Yeah, but I caught 'em, and they're doing their time."

  Both men laughed.

  "How's Sal?" Mark asked, picturing his large friend's petite wife. "Or has she left you yet?"

  "You wish. She's great, and so are the kids. Ralph Junior is nearly ten."

  "No way."

  "It's true. Last week a girl called the house and wanted to talk to him. I nearly had a heart attack."

  Ralph was a devoted husband and father. Mark had always admired his friend's ability to keep the job away from his family. When Ralph left the police station every evening, he was a hundred percent with his wife and kids. Mark had spent many happy evenings with the Wayne family.

  "So what's new at the department?" Mark asked.

  Ralph hesitated. "Actually, that's why I called. I've got some news."

  Mark stiffened. "Sylvia?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did she change her plea again? Wasn't the last one innocent by reason of insanity? Or is it time for me to come back?"

  Mark didn't want it to be the latter. He knew that Sylvia would do whatever she could to avoid trial for as long as possible, but eventually she would run out of options. He wasn't looking forward to returning to New York to testify against her or having their private life played out in such a public forum.

  When he'd first come back to Whitehorn, he hadn't wanted to see her again because he couldn't believe how wrong he'd been about her. Now he didn't want to see her because she no longer mattered. He'd done his best to put her and her actions behind him. He wanted to move on.

  "It's not about the plea," Ralph said. "It's … oh, hell, Mark. I don't know a good way to say this. She's dead. She killed herself."

  Chapter Seven

  Mark heard the words but didn't believe them.

  "Mark?" Ralph asked. "Are you there?"

  "Yeah, I'm here."

  "I'm sorry."

  Mark didn't know what he was. Shocked, maybe. Stunned. His chest hurt, as if he couldn't catch his breath.

  Dead. Sylvia was dead. She'd finally found a way to avoid being punished for what she'd done. He'd known she would go to extremes, but this? Was it possible? Had she simply given up or had this been part of a plan?

 
"I don't know what to say," Ralph admitted. "I didn't want to tell you this over the phone, but—"

  "Don't sweat it," Mark told him, finding it difficult to speak. "I'm glad you were the one who called. I gotta go. Give my love to Sal."

  "You gonna be okay?"

  "Sure."

  Mark didn't know if he was lying or not as he hung up the phone. Dead. Sylvia was dead. He tried to figure out what, if anything, he was feeling.

  His body felt entirely empty. As if everything that had already gone on before had drained him of all emotion. Unfortunately, the space quickly filled. He closed his eyes to block out what had happened before, but the action didn't help. Memories swamped him until he was drowning in the past.

  He'd met Sylvia about three months after he'd moved into a new apartment. She'd been his next-door neighbor. He still re- called rounding the corner and finding her balancing too many packages while she dug in her purse for her keys that hadn't been there. She'd been a pure New York woman cliché – tall, thin, dark hair, dressed in black and beautiful. She'd charmed him with a smile and before he knew what had hit him, he'd been ushering her into his place, pouring wine and spilling his guts about his background while they waited for the locksmith.

  She'd been smart – she'd made him laugh. He'd adored her big brown eyes, her full mouth, the way she absently touched him when she'd been reading the paper. He'd been so damn sure she was the one.

  While he might have recovered from the relationship, the pain of her betrayal still cut through him like fire. Why hadn't he been able to see through her facade? He'd always thought he was so clever about people – at the department he'd had a reputation for cutting to the heart of someone's motive. But he hadn't sensed anything amiss with Sylvia. Not even for a second.

  He'd felt so angry, so betrayed. He'd re- fused her requests that they talk one more time. Before Mark had left New York, her attorney had tried to give Mark a letter from Sylvia. Mark had torn it into pieces and handed it back to the attorney with instructions that Sylvia never contact him again.

  She hadn't. There had been silence, and now she was gone.

  Mark leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Guilt hovered, but he shoved it away. He hadn't done anything wrong. So why did he feel as if he'd been emotionally skinned alive?