The Christmas Key

by Lori Wilde

No worries, no worries. Smile. Life is good. Yes, her arms were screaming at her to put down the packages, but she could ignore the burn for a little longer.

  Hurry, Jana, hurry.

  It was okay. Achy arms weren’t going to kill her, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t have a loving community to help. Things were so much better than they were a year ago. She counted her blessings. She was healthy. Her business was turning a profit. She had parents who loved her. She lived in the best small town in Texas.

  And she had the sweetest little boy who was about to become her son. Who could ask for anything more?

  “Thank you,” she murmured skyward. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Jana’s black Jeep Grand Cherokee pulled up to the curb. Whew! Nick of time. Relieved, Naomi headed toward the back of the Jeep.

  “Here, here,” said one of the workmen. “Let me help.” The man stretched out long, reached for the handle, and flung the door open.

  “Thank you.” Naomi breathed, offered him a harried smile. Nice man. Helpful. She dumped the packages in the backseat and slammed the door. Heard her cell phone ding from the bottom of her purse.

  She wanted to ignore it, but with Hunter in preschool, she didn’t dare. Digging in her purse for the phone, she hopped into the passenger seat. Without looking around, she clicked on her seat belt.

  The workman shut the door behind her. She nodded at him, waved.

  “Hello,” she said into the phone, but the caller had hung up. She pulled the phone from her ear to see who’d called.

  Jana.

  Huh? Why was Jana calling her when she was sitting right here in the car with her? She turned to her best friend.

  But it was not Jana sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Rather, it was a man. A tall man. A handsome man. A complete stranger. And . . .

  Sweet

  Holy

  Mother

  of

  baby

  Jesus . . .

  He bore an uncanny resemblance to the dark-haired man she’d dreamed of last Christmas Eve, when she’d slept with a kismet cookie under her pillow. Not that she believed in the legend.

  And yet, here he was.

  Believe me now? taunted the legend.

  “Eeep!” Naomi cried, scrambling for the door handle to jump out.

  But the seat belt yanked her backward, tightening down on her chest. Which he must have noticed. Because he was staring at her breasts with an amused expression on his gorgeous mug.

  Feeling like a ginormous idiot for getting into the wrong vehicle, she blurted, “Who are you?”

  “Better question,” he said in a voice as deep and dark as the Brazos River at midnight. “Who are you?”

  And where did you come from, butterfly? Mark Shepherd stared at the beautiful bundle of electricity in his Jeep.

  The woman gaped at him, openmouthed, and he felt the earth shift in a fundamental way. He’d never believed in fate or fairy tales. Myths and legends were for movies and children’s books. He was logical, practical, down-to-earth.

  But here she was. The big-eyed, dark-haired angel he’d dreamed of last Christmas Eve. After he’d put Luther’s cookie under his pillow, and woke up with a bunk full of crumbs.

  Could he still be asleep?

  Snoozing in the last motel where he’d stayed the night in the Fort Worth Stockyards. Right next to Billy Bob’s Texas, the world’s largest honky-tonk. Country music had kept him awake until two a.m.

  That had to be it.

  He was still asleep, and it wasn’t yet dawn. He hadn’t grabbed a mediocre omelet for breakfast at a Yelp-recommended diner. Or programmed his GPS to Twilight, Texas. Hadn’t turned on a prerecorded NPR podcast of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. Or stopped to fill up the gas tank, and refresh his coffee when he hit Highway 377.

  He was still sleeping, and she was a figment of his imagination.

  Except that her chest rose and fell with an extended inhale, and a hissing release of air. Would a dream breathe?

  The sound of Christmas music blared from somewhere. An up-tempo version of “We Three Kings.” Sung by an artist he didn’t recognize. In front of him, a workman climbed a ladder with a staple gun and green garland rope draped over his shoulder.

  She looked as stunned to be in his vehicle as he was to have her there. She was studying him like he was an ugly baby swan in a nest of cute yellow ducklings. Now she was cocking her head at an endearing tilt as if she’d decided it was okay.

  Gorgeous.

  Enrapt by her eyes, he felt time stretch before him. It was as if eons had passed since she’d climbed into his Jeep. But in reality, it had been less than a minute.

  How was it possible that his dream angel existed in the flesh?

  He thought about the white metal key tied with a red ribbon shoved into the pocket of his black denim jeans. The Christmas key that had sent him on a solemn mission. The key that had led him to this town.

  To her.

  It was a lot for a skeptical man to swallow. Fear, as strong as anything he’d ever felt on a battlefield, gripped him.

  In the perfect stillness of his Jeep, in the middle of the road, surrounded by workmen with Christmas wreaths and orange neon sawhorses, Mark Shepherd experienced the unedited terror of a man who knew he’d met his destiny.

  And had learned too late that there was no escape.

  Her cell phone rang and she answered it on a voice that flew high and thin. “Oh, Jana, where are you?”

  There was a pause and she nibbled her bottom lip. “I see. Don’t worry. You take care. I’ll find another way home.” She switched off the phone, glanced over at him.

  And Shepherd heard himself say, “Do you need a ride, butterfly?”

  “Did you just call me butterfly?”

  He stared at her lips like he was spellbound. “What? No.”

  “You did.”

  “Did I?”

  She covered her mouth with her palm. The awestruck look in his eyes freaked her out a little. “Yes, you did. You called me butterfly.”

  “I sincerely apologize if I offended you. I did not mean to say that out loud.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you said it out loud or not, you thought it.”

  “Clearly, it does matter. If I had kept my mouth shut, you wouldn’t be getting bent out of shape.”

  “I’m not getting bent out of shape.” She smiled to prove it, and lowered her voice. “I just want to know why you would call me butterfly. Do you think I’m frivolous?”

  “I—”

  “Impulsive?”

  “Well, you did get into the wrong—”

  “Do you think I’m shallow?”

  He looked flummoxed. “I don’t even know you.”

  “Exactly.” She clasped her hands together, realizing she was being weird. “Then why would you call me butterfly?”

  “Because butterflies make me happy.”

  “Oh.” She straightened. Blinked.

  “They’re pretty and delicate and bright. In a world that’s often ugly and heavy and dark.”

  Well, that was a nice thing to say. She would have thought him slick if he didn’t look so sincere. “So, it’s a compliment?”

  “It is to me. But I don’t want to assign my values to anyone.” The sparkle in his eyes told her he was teasing.

  “I see.”

  “The offer for a ride is still open.”

  She didn’t know this guy, and she wasn’t going to let him give her a ride home. Allow a complete stranger to know where she lived. Not even a man who’d had the starring role in her dreams last Christmas.

  No way. Not when she had Hunter to think about. Fantasy dream men were one thing, reality quite another.

  “Thank you for the offer,” she said, sounding overly prim even to her own ears. “But I couldn’t possibly impose.”

  “No imposition.” His smile was a blanket, soft and cuddly, his dark eyes kind. But behind that warm curtain of thick lashes, she saw a haunted emptines
s. Her breath caught, and her chest pinched.

  Clipped short hair, as if he’d started growing out a buzz cut. His shoulders were straight and broad, his spine erect. His black boots were polished to a high sheen.

  Military, she thought. Sudden grief ambushed her in a hot, abrupt wave. She closed her eyes, exhaled. Don’t think about Clayton right now.

  She put her brother’s memory in a box. Locked it up tight. Hid the key. Opened her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, forcing a rah-rah smile and unbuckling her seat belt. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

  “No trouble.”

  She opened the door and tumbled from his Jeep. Turned to open the back door and retrieve her packages, but he was already getting out of the driver’s seat.

  “I don’t need any help,” she called, fumbling packages. Dropped three on the ground. “You can stay in your car.”

  She tucked several packages into the crook of her left arm. Squatted to retrieve the ones that had fallen onto the ground.

  At the back of the Jeep, she spied a desert camouflage–colored cane. She glanced up. Handsome Dream Man limped toward her. Definitely military.

  He squatted beside her.

  “I’ve got this,” she said.

  They reached for a package at the same time. His big hand slid over the top of her small one.

  Zing!

  A current of awareness jolted through her. Sent tingles pulsating up her arm to her shoulder, and then to her heart. All the air escaped her body. Leaving her breathless and dizzy.

  The pads of his fingertips, touching the back of her hand, were rough with calluses.

  His energy lodged there. Poured into her. Throbbed. Full and heavy.

  It was weird. Unexpected and hot.

  I touched him. He touched me. We touched each other, she thought, and her heart floated into the clouds.

  He was so close that she caught his scent. His aftershave was lovely. A delightful mix of cedar and basil, with soothing undertones of bergamot. Her nose twitched, eager to inhale more and absorb his intoxicating fragrance.

  They both let go at the same time, and the package dropped back to the ground.

  In unison, their gazes met and they laughed.

  “I guess I’m more in the way than helpful,” he said, and shifted his weight away from her. Grabbed the cane. Withdrew his warmth. The tingling faded away like the last note of a wistful song.

  She scooped up the scattered packages. Rose to her feet. But she lost her grip, and all the packages fell topsy-turvy.

  “Dang it,” she muttered.

  “You’re trying to do too much. How about this. You pick up half of the packages, and I’ll pick up half.”

  She almost questioned his ability to juggle both the packages and his cane. But her mother was in a wheelchair. Naomi understood the inherent clash between fierce pride and the urge to help.

  Tread lightly.

  She didn’t want to dismiss his capabilities. Then again, she didn’t want him to fall and break something.

  He didn’t wait for her approval. He’d already grabbed half the packages and was standing up. Rather adroitly, by the way, for a man with a cane.

  Ha. She should be so adept. Her own knees were wobbling. She didn’t know if it was from the wind that had just gusted around the Jeep or the presence of this man. But tremble she did.

  He sized her up. “There’s no way I can leave you on the curb with all this. Please, let me give you a ride.”

  “No, no,” she chirped. She was both captivated and terrified. He was so handsome that she couldn’t even look at him. The attraction was too much. He was too much. This was utterly crazy.

  Robert, remember Robert.

  Um, for the life of her she couldn’t conjure up Robert’s face.

  “I get it,” he said. “You don’t know me from a hole in the ground—”

  She laughed then, because that was a phrase her father used.

  His eyes widened and his face brightened, and he said in a voice rich with sincerity, “You have the best laugh. I could hear a laugh like that for the rest of my life and die a happy man.”

  Their gazes met again.

  Her heart skipped a beat. In that flicker of a moment, she felt a solid click. It was as if she didn’t know the universe had been spinning off course, but one look into his brown eyes, and her world settled into its rightful groove.

  Snap. Clack.

  She let out a soft gasp.

  He looked startled. The eternal timelessness evaporated. And she was back to normal. Feeling uncomfortable and awkward.

  “Wow,” he said. “That came out cheesier than I intended.”

  “It was a sweet thing to say.”

  It seemed as if he might say something else, but instead he buttoned up his lip and lowered his eyelids. Retreating.

  Good. He was overwhelming.

  She did not like overwhelming. Dad said it was because she had a knack for tuning into other people’s emotions. Her quirky, mystical best friend, Jana, claimed Naomi was a natural empath. But she didn’t know about any of that.

  “Where do you want me to put the packages?” He glanced around.

  Naomi had no idea what to do with the packages. She could call her father. But he had gone to the hospice center to pray for a longtime parishioner, Dotty Mae Densmore.

  There was no Uber in Twilight, or even taxis for that matter. Just Jana’s car service and medical transports.

  “I do not mind giving you a ride,” he said.

  She hesitated. Torn between the ease of accepting his offer, and the inherent risk.

  A horn honked.

  They both turned to look.

  An identical black Jeep pulled up behind his. A colorfully pierced and tattooed woman with dreadlocks waved from behind the steering wheel. Jana!

  Her friend put the window down, called out, “Sorry I’m late. Got hung up with a client.”

  “Problem solved,” Naomi told her dream man. “But thank you for your offer. See you around?”

  “Not likely,” he said. “I’m only in town for the day.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said, and meant it.

  “You’re the first stranger to ever jump into my Jeep by accident. What a happy mistake.” His eyes danced with amusement. She had the distinct impression his happiness was a rare occurrence.

  Jana parked her Jeep and got out. Came around to where they were standing.

  He helped them transfer Naomi’s packages to Jana’s Jeep. Naomi explained her faux pas, mistaking his Jeep for hers.

  “Fate’s a strange thing,” Jana said, sounding mysterious and cryptic. “You never know what she’s going to dish up.”

  Once the boxes were all in Jana’s vehicle, Naomi turned to thank him again. Tried not to think about fate and kismet cookies and Christmas Eve dreams.

  “Good-bye,” he said, and shook her hand one more time. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Same here,” she said, a melancholy sigh creeping up her throat. She’d just met him and he was leaving. But that was for the best. Her life was far too complicated. “Enjoy your stay in Twilight.”

  It was only after he’d gone that Naomi realized she’d forgotten to ask his name.

  Chapter 3

  Meeting the cheerful brunette threw Shepherd off his game.

  It was as if by passing the “Welcome to Twilight” sign, he’d dropped into a portal to a different dimension. A place where it was possible for a man to dream of a soul mate, and have her materialize.

  In those few minutes he’d been with her, he’d forgotten about war and suffering. Forgotten about mysterious Christmas keys, and Clayton Luther’s death. Forgotten he was a battle-scarred warrior on a somber mission.

  All he could think of was her blue eyes and the soft shape of her pink mouth, her round cheeks and sweet scent. A scent that reminded him of tiny purple flowers, rich vanilla beans, and happiness.


  For that small window of time, he’d felt normal again. And he couldn’t help wanting more. She hadn’t been wearing a wedding or engagement ring, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t taken.

  Forget it. Even if there were such things as soul mates, and she happened to be his, she deserved far better than the likes of him.

  Soul mates? Gunny, you’ve lost your mind.

  Shepherd had one purpose for being in Twilight. Visit Luther’s family. Give them his condolences, and the key. Then be on his way.

  To where?

  Ambivalent, Shepherd shrugged. He hadn’t figured that part out yet.

  He drove through town. The whole place could have come from a made-for-TV movie. Charming. Quaint. Quirky. He cruised past a park into the center square surrounded by historical Old West–style buildings and old-fashioned lampposts. As he took a turn leading back to the outskirts, he saw a shimmering blue lake with sailboats bobbing on the waves even in December, white sails whipping in the breeze. Four houseboats sat moored in the marina.

  The friendly waters called to him, inviting him to stay awhile.

  He followed the GPS guidance down Ruby Street to the west side of town. Here, the houses were older. Craftsman bungalows. Sprawling Victorians. Tin-roofed farm-style houses. Was this place for real, with its picket fences, scrolled gates, and wide verandas? Almost all had holiday decorations in the yard. Nativity scenes. Rooftop Santas. North Pole workshops. Inflatable reindeer. The Grinch. Snoopy wearing a jaunty stocking cap.

  Passing the First Presbyterian Church of Twilight, he felt his chest tighten. According to military records, Clayton Luther’s father was the church pastor. The building was picturesque, and white. Tall, slender steeple. Built long on a short lot. Over a hundred years ago from the look of the architecture.

  It had been years since Shepherd had been in a church. The last time he remembered going was with one of his foster families. For the sake of his soul, they’d insisted on baptism. They’d dunked him in the water for no discernible reason that a twelve-year-old could parse out. Held under far longer than was necessary by an overly enthusiastic preacher.

  The church parking lot was empty, so he didn’t stop. Instead he pulled into the driveway of a green Victorian two doors down.

  Picket fence. Check. Nativity scene. Check. Christmas lights dangling from the eaves. Check. Predictable, considering how naïve and trusting Clayton Luther had been. The kid had grown up in a home full of hope and joy. He’d had no business in war.