The Bachelor’s Christmas Bride

by Victoria Pade

  “Well, since I’m still warm from the truck, let’s do the sleigh ride first. Then we can get under some of the heat lights to watch the chain saw ice massacre and walk through the booths.”

  “Good choice,” Dag decreed.

  Shannon had put both of her hands into her coat pockets and without warning, Dag hooked his arm through one of her elbows as if he’d done it a million times before.

  And that was all it took for her to feel an instant sense that all was right with the world. Especially when he used their entwined arms to tug her close to his side as they headed for the line of sleighs waiting for passengers.

  Confused and somewhat in awe of the phenomena, she glanced up at him, wondering exactly what was going on with her when it came to this man.

  But there were no answers in the profile of his handsome face above the turned-up collar of his coat. She just felt another wave of gladness to be there with him.

  Maybe it’s only the spirit of the holiday, she told herself.

  But despite making a valiant attempt to believe that, she still had the sneaking suspicion that it was the man himself.

  “We want that one,” Dag announced to the teenagers waiting to drive the sleighs that were different in size, shape and ornateness, but all painted white and decorated festively with red ribbons and wreaths on the backsides.

  Dag’s pick was a simple, plain-sided, old-fashioned country sleigh with a thick plaid wool blanket waiting in its plush red velvet interior.

  Once they were situated side by side behind the driver, Dag tucked the blanket around their laps and the driver gently tapped the reins to put the big roan into motion, setting off the jangle of small golden bells on the harness’s girth.

  The sleigh ride took them in a big circle around the town square and the connecting grounds of the small private college that was closed for winter break.

  Dag explained that two other contests had been held—one for the best decorated evergreen tree in the square or on the campus, and another for the best snow sculpture.

  “It’s no wonder they’re offering sleigh rides to see it all,” Shannon said in astonishment at what the small town had produced.

  Businesses, clubs and organizations had sponsored the decoration of the trees and each one was more elaborate than the other. The tree done by the local beauty salon had won first prize with bedazzled ribbons tied around almost every branch, bright lights and hair accessories all turned into sparkling tree ornaments.

  Between the trees done up in festive finery there were snow forts, a snow village, snow families, snow spaceships, snow cathedrals and so many other snow-erected marvels that Shannon lost track of them all.

  “This town is just its own little oasis, isn’t it?” she said when their sleigh ride tour came to an end.

  “Ya gotta love Northbridge,” Dag agreed, heading them for the ice-sculpting contest that was getting under way.

  Huge blocks of ice had been set up near the gazebo. The contestants went three at a time with a goal of producing the best sculpture in the shortest amount of time.

  The expertise in the wielding of the chain saws was something to see all on its own but the little wonderland of ice sculptures that resulted from it was an added bonus. The sculptures went from simple—a Christmas tree and a snowman—all the way to a complicated castle and even a five-foot-high lumberjack, complete with his dog at his feet.

  It was the lumberjack that won and, along with the applause and cheers of the onlookers, the other sculptors did a good-natured chain saw salute to the winner before Shannon and Dag moved on to the booths.

  Food, drinks, gifts, ornaments—the bazaar had a different tone than what they’d seen on Main Street on Sunday. Of course there was the hot chocolate and hot cider booth, but there was also a booth that offered Christmas Treats from Around The World—different cookies, desserts and sweets that were traditional to assorted countries and cultures.

  There was a booth selling beautiful gingerbread houses for those without the time or inclination to make their own, there was a booth selling hand-carved and painted nativities and another offering all sizes of Moravian stars. There were two stands selling handmade candles, one offering adult-size rocking horses, and several others where hand-knit sweaters and scarves could be had.

  All in all, Shannon continued to admire the talents and what seemed like the unlimited energy of the people who lived in Northbridge. But after a few hours, not even the heat lamps were enough to keep away the cold and she was ready to go home.

  The problem with that was the thought of saying good-night to Dag—which she wasn’t ready to do yet despite all the reasoning she did with herself about why she should be.

  So, hoping she wasn’t being too transparent, she developed a sudden enthusiasm for the mulled wine being sold at one stand, bought a bottle and used it as the excuse to invite Dag back to the apartment—for the third night in a row—in order not to have this evening end yet.

  And if Dag saw through it?

  Shannon couldn’t have cared less because he jumped at the idea, looping his arm through hers as he took her back to his truck to drive them home.

  “Sooo, I’m not engaged and you said last night that that makes me a free agent,” Shannon said forty-five minutes later when she and Dag were sitting on the apartment’s sofa, in front of a blazing fire in the fireplace, sipping mulled wine.

  “Uh-huh,” Dag said, an amused but confused frown pulling his brows together since she had said that out of the blue.

  Shannon was sitting in the middle of the couch, her feet tucked to one side and underneath her so she could look at him. Dag was sitting next to her, angled in her direction, one long arm stretched across the top of the sofa back.

  “And you also said last night that you’re a free agent, too…” she added.

  “Did I?”

  She might have been more concerned about that question except that the look of mischief in his expression let her know he was just giving her a hard time.

  “You did,” she confirmed. “With some conviction behind it—I believe you said, Oh, I am! Believe me, I am!” Although Shannon put even more oomph into his words than he had and made him laugh.

  “Like that? Did I really say it like that?”

  “You did,” she claimed. “Which is why it has me wondering—was that too much of a protest? Is it not true?”

  He laughed. “Oh, it’s true. When it comes to women, I am definitely a free agent. And I have been for about two years.”

  “Two years? Wow, the last one must have really made you gun-shy.”

  “Actually, it made me crowbar-shy,” he said wryly but with an ominous undertone.

  Shannon was curious about why a man who looked like Dag did, who was as charming and funny and nice and fun to be with, was without a girlfriend or fiancée or wife. It hadn’t occurred to her that by prying a little into the subject she might be opening a can of worms. But she was too curious not to lift the lid anyway.

  “I told you about my fiasco with Wes—even though I wasn’t supposed to,” she said. “You can trust me with yours…”

  “Mine was a fiasco but it was no secret—it made a splash, remember?”

  “I remember you saying that the end of your hockey career made a splash. What does that have to do with your last relationship?”

  “Everything. And it all made the news. But there was a sports element to it, so if you came across anything about it you probably didn’t pay any attention to it.”

  “Sorry,” she said unapologetically. “But your love life made the sports page? You must have really gotten around!”

  Dag’s laugh this time was wry as he shook his head in denial. “My love life was not a sporting event. It made the sports page because I was a name in hockey at the time and so was the jerk who blindsided me.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Shannon said more seriously.

  “Yeah, you could say it wasn’t good,” he said with enough of an edge to le
t her know this subject was even more sobering than she’d imagined.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to,” she said, feeling obligated to offer him the option even though her curiosity was growing by the minute.

  “Nah, I can talk about it,” he said. “I told you, mine isn’t a secret, it’s just not for the faint of heart.”

  “I’m not faint of heart,” she assured.

  “Okay, but don’t say you weren’t warned….” Dag took a drink of his wine. Then he said, “A little short of three years ago I got involved with a woman named Sandra Pierce.”

  “A hockey groupie?”

  “A hockey wife.”

  Shannon was midsip of her own wine when he said that and her eyes widened over the rim of her glass. She stared at him in shock. “You were involved with someone else’s wife?” she said when she’d swallowed her wine.

  “No,” he answered instantly and firmly. “I would never get involved with anyone else’s wife. I’m not even completely comfortable being here drinking wine with you knowing that you’re as fresh out of a relationship as you are.”

  Shannon opted not to address that in favor of hearing his story. “So how was this Sandra person a hockey wife?”

  “She was a former hockey wife. I actually met her the night she was out with friends celebrating that her divorce had become final that day.”

  “Her divorce from another hockey player,” Shannon guessed.

  “Exactly. She hadn’t been married to anyone on my team, she’d divorced a defenseman on the team we had come into town to play the night before. We’d won our game and were out clubbing to celebrate, too.”

  “And one celebration overlapped the other?”

  “A bunch of rowdy hockey players out on the town, a bunch of already-tipsy women cutting loose—paths crossed, we were buying drinks, you know how it goes.”

  Shannon’s social life had always leaned toward moderation, but there had been a few evenings out with friends when she’d witnessed what he was talking about even if she’d shied away from it herself. So she said, “Sure.”

  “As the night wore on, I sort of paired up with Sandra. I liked her—she was kind of wild and brash, but she was beautiful and smart, too, and we hit it off. The game we’d played and won the night before had been an exhibition game in Canada but Sandra was from Detroit and she was moving back. We arranged to have dinner when she got there.”

  “Which you did,” Shannon said.

  “Which we did. And I still liked her even when she was sober, so we started dating.”

  “Because you were a free agent then, too, and since she was divorced, so was she.”

  “That’s what I thought. Divorce seems pretty final to me. But I didn’t factor in that while things might be over on paper, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re over-over.…”

  “Oh-oh…”

  “She kept saying it was over. But he still called her and she still called him. She’d always tell me whenever they talked so I thought that proved she didn’t have anything to hide. I figured it was just an amiable divorce. I didn’t think they were talking because they weren’t really done with each other—”

  “But they weren’t.”

  “I learned later that the calls were mostly about how her ex wanted her back. And that she was torn and actually thinking about it. I was six months into things when she let that slip. If I’d had any brains I would have said goodbye on the spot.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “I didn’t,” he answered with self-disgust. “I had feelings for her by then. And much to my regret, my competitive streak came right to the surface. Instead of bowing out, I did everything I could think of to win. To get her to pick me over the ex.”

  The low, disgusted tone of his voice, the way his brows almost met in a frown, let Shannon see how much he damned that choice.

  “It didn’t work? She picked the ex anyway?” she asked gently.

  He shook his head again. He let out a mirthless laugh. He took a drink of his wine and stared at the fire for a moment before he looked Shannon in the eye again and said, “Yeah, she picked the ex anyway, but not until after he and four of his teammates jumped me one night.”

  Shannon hadn’t realized until that moment just how literal he’d meant his comment about crowbars and being blindsided. “Were you alone? Against five other hockey players?”

  “I was alone. Coming home after a game, figuring to shower and go over to Sandra’s place. Then out of the shadows came these guys…” He shook his head again and he looked more angry than anything as he went on. “I can take a beating with the best of them, and I’ve dished out plenty of my own on the ice—I played hockey, after all. But these guys took me by surprise—”

  “And you were alone against five of them? With crowbars?”

  “Sandra’s ex-husband was the only one with a crowbar. His four friends held me down while he broke my knee and my leg in three places.”

  Shannon felt her own eyes widen and the color drain from her face, and she wondered if she might be more fainthearted than she’d thought. “Oh, my god…”

  “Luckily a neighbor heard the attack and called the cops—they were there before Sandra’s ex got started on the other leg. The cops arrested him and got an ambulance there right away—”

  “But the damage he’d already done—”

  “Ended my career.”

  “And hurt you!”

  “Five surgeries to put pins in bones and rebuild my knee almost from the ground up. In and out of the hospital, then in and out of rehab each time to make sure the leg would go back to working. I got hit on Christmas Eve the Christmas before last, so I was in the hospital for that one, and I was in rehab after a surgery last Christmas—he definitely did damage.”

  “No wonder you’re so happy to be here this year!”

  “And walking.”

  “But that was it for hockey,” Shannon said, referring to his end-of-his-career comment.

  “I worked like crazy in rehab every time, thinking I could get back to where I was if I did it with the same intensity I used to train for hockey. But all the doctors, the physical therapists, and then the coaches and trainers and the team doc agreed—there was no way the leg or the knee wouldn’t crumble with a good hard hit on the ice. So I had to retire.”

  He seemed determined not to make it sound like a tragedy, but Shannon knew it had to have been devastating. Still, his refusal to feel sorry for himself reminded her of her parents and all the times she’d watched them put a happy face on their failing health, and she couldn’t help being impressed by that in Dag, too.

  “What about the creep who did it?” she asked.

  “He got eighteen months in jail for assault, his cohorts did a few months each. There was also a civil lawsuit that I filed against them. And won.”

  “And Sandra?”

  “She took the whole thing as some kind of grand romantic gesture,” Dag said with disbelief. “It was actually the other guy’s winning goal—they remarried the week he was released from jail.”

  “And you thought that woman was smart?” Shannon said, her own outrage sounding.

  “Apparently not when it came to relationships,” he admitted.

  Shannon glanced at his legs—one of them bent at the knee, his foot on the floor, the other stretched out to the coffee table. She’d never seen him so much as limp and had no idea which leg had ever been hurt.

  “It’s that one,” he said as if he knew what she was thinking, pointing to the leg stretched onto the coffee table.

  “How about now—are you okay?”

  “For everything but hockey, I’m fine. So I’ve moved on to the next stage of my life—back to Northbridge and new things here.”

  And he sounded as if he’d genuinely accepted that without bitterness.

  “You’re kind of something, you know that?” she heard herself say as she gazed at the face that hockey playing hadn’t scarred, as she saw mo
re of the depth of the man and admired his inner strength as much as his outer, his spirit and his ability to take something awful that had happened to him and make the best of it. “Kind of something what?” he asked with a dash of devilry to his voice and to the one eyebrow he raised rakishly at her.

  It made Shannon smile. “Just kind of something,” she hedged, setting her glass on the coffee table.

  Dag did the same with his as he persisted, “Kind of something wonderful? Kind of something brave and heroic? Kind of something too hot to resist?”

  All of the above, Shannon thought.

  But she didn’t say it. She just laughed at him because it was obvious he was joking. “I’ll give you brave—because even after that you’re still here with me when I’m as fresh out of a relationship as I am,” she said, reiterating his earlier words.

  “Well, yeah, that is brave,” he deadpanned. “Facing down five hockey thugs is one thing, but a politician? I could end up with my taxes raised or an IRS audit—that’s really terrifying!”

  Shannon laughed again, also appreciating his sense of humor.

  Then he said, “You’re not going to offer to kiss it and make it better?”

  “Your knee? No. Have you had a lot of offers to do that?”

  “One or two—nurses can be hockey fans, too, you know.”

  “Then you don’t need me to do it, do you?”

  “Need? Maybe not…” he said, bringing his hand up from the sofa back to cup the side of her face. “But want? That’s another subject…”

  “Even under threat of higher taxes and audits?” she asked, her voice somehow just barely above an inviting whisper as she lost herself a little in black eyes that were delving into hers.

  “Even then…” he said, coming forward enough to kiss her—but so lightly it was more like the kiss he’d pressed to her hand than the one they’d shared the night before and she wondered if he was a little leery after all.

  If he was, it didn’t last, though, because after a moment he deepened the kiss, parting his lips and hers, and slipping his hand to the back of her head, into her hair while his other hand came to the other side of her neck, inside the collar of the blouse she wore under a V-necked sweater.