The Christmas Key

by Lori Wilde

  “Just through the holidays,” Shepherd answered.

  “Too bad.” Mia licked her lips. “If you ever get a hankering to get out of your boring rut . . .” She leaned over the counter, grabbed his hand.

  Taken aback, Shepherd sucked in air. Battled his Marine’s instincts to fight when caught unaware.

  Mia flipped a ballpoint pen from the pocket of her apron and wrote her phone number in his palm. “Don’t wash it off.”

  Laughing, Mia turned to make their coffees.

  “Does that happen to you a lot?” Naomi murmured as they waited in line to pay for their drinks.

  “It’s the limp,” he said. “Brings out the nurturer in women.”

  “Right. And it has nothing to do with how hot your butt looks in jeans.”

  “You think my butt looks hot?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she quipped. “Hot butts are a dime a dozen.”

  “Who’s got a hot butt?” asked a voice from behind them, followed by an audible inhale. “Oh . . . I see.”

  Shepherd turned to see a woman about Naomi’s age. She had long, straight red hair and wore stylish dark-wash blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and far too much makeup in Shepherd’s estimation.

  “Lily!” Naomi squealed, and wrapped the woman in her embrace.

  Lily hugged Naomi, but over her shoulder gave Shepherd the stink eye. This one was protective of her friend. “Who’s this?”

  “Dad’s new handyman.”

  “Handyman, huh?” Lily narrowed her eyes. “He doesn’t look like any handyman I ever knew.”

  “Oh you.” Naomi patted Lily’s arms. “You’re so suspicious of strangers.”

  “He walks with a limp. What handyman limps?”

  “One who got injured.” Shepherd met Lily’s hard-edged stare. Dealt one right back at her.

  “Don’t let the limp fool you,” Naomi said, sticking up for him. “He’s very capable.”

  “Really?” Lily sent him a she-wolf stare. “I’ve got a loose floorboard in my kitchen. Would you mind taking a look at it?”

  She was testing him. No question.

  “I’m committed to the Luthers, sorry,” he said.

  “Just my luck. Handsome stranger rolls into town, and he’s already in a committed relationship.”

  “Mark,” Naomi said. “This is Lily Hanson, one of my best clients.”

  Lily faked a pout. “I thought I was your best client.”

  “Shh.” Naomi giggled and pressed a finger to her lips. “You are.”

  “Best client.” Lily slung her arm around Naomi’s shoulder, pulled her closer.

  Shepherd blinked and stared at the two women. Light and dark. Night and day. And he wasn’t talking about their coloring. From her clothes to her stance to the look in her eyes, Lily was tough and sharp, all rough edges and angular lines. By comparison, Naomi was soft and round, smooth curves and gentle circles.

  “Where are you from?” Lily asked, stepping closer and narrowing her eyes. “You don’t sound like a Texan.”

  “Kentucky.”

  “Where in Kentucky?”

  “You a private investigator in your spare time?” Shepherd asked.

  “When it comes to my friends, I am.” Lily raised two fingers to her eyes, and then pointed those same two fingers at him. “I’m watching you, buddy.”

  “Lexington.” He cracked a smile. Lily was all right.

  Lily’s eyes squinted even narrower. “You any kin to Raylan Givens? You look kinda like him.”

  “Raylan Givens is a fictional character.” Entertained and intrigued by Naomi’s choice of friend, he smiled. Whatever Lily lacked in couth and decorum she made up for in loyalty.

  “I know that,” Lily said.

  “Raylan Givens can’t live in Kentucky,” he said.

  “Of course he can. He’s a fictional character. He can live anywhere he wants.” Lily scowled at him as if he were a total idiot.

  “She has a thing for Timothy Olyphant,” Naomi explained.

  “Not Timothy Olyphant,” Lily corrected. “Raylan Givens.”

  “Good luck with that,” Shepherd said.

  Lily laughed. “I like him.” To Shepherd she said, “You get a pass for today. But you mess with my friend, and you die.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and saluted her.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Have you ever been in the military?” Shepherd asked her.

  Lily got a weird look on her face as if she’d had a major run-in with the military. “I have to be somewhere.” She hugged Naomi. “See you later.” She turned and scooted out the back door of Perks.

  “Your friend is . . .” He paused, searching for the right word.

  “Colorful?” Naomi supplied.

  “Yes,” he said. “That.”

  “Cappuccino,” called out the young man behind the cash register. “And . . .” He looked confused at the drinks Mia had put in front of him. “Plain black coffee?”

  “He’s a Marine. No nonsense.” Naomi whipped out her debit card to pay for the coffee before Shepherd had a chance to get out his wallet.

  “I see,” said the kid behind the counter.

  “I was going to pay for the coffee,” Shepherd protested.

  “You got the tip. I got the java. Plus you’re driving me around all day. Buying your coffee is the least I can do.” She picked up her cappuccino. “Do you want to sit or walk?”

  His knee needed to sit, but Shepherd wanted out of the noisy, crowded café. “Walk.”

  “This way.” Naomi led him out the back door where Lily had gone and into a cobblestone courtyard.

  Wrought-iron picnic tables were on a little patio area, but it was too cold to sit outside. The ubiquitous Christmas lights had made their way back here too. Draped over the live oak trees, and down the sides of a pergola arbor.

  They strolled the gentrified alleyway toward the town square. The tourist traffic was light. It was still early, and a Tuesday morning to boot. Banners for the Dickens festival flapped overhead in the breeze. Vendors were setting up a food kiosk, including a booth selling roasted chestnuts.

  “I’ve never eaten a chestnut,” Shepherd said.

  “Really?” She looked surprised, as if roasted chestnuts were as common as salt. “We’ve got to get you some once Randy gets them toasting.” She raised her cup in greeting. “Morning, Randy.”

  “Hi, Naomi,” called the paunchy middle-aged man. He had two different-colored eyes. One brown. One green. He sported a handlebar mustache and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. “How are your folks?”

  “Fine. Doing well.”

  “And little Hunter?” Randy said. “How’s he?”

  “Running me ragged.” She chuckled. “He’s a lively four-year-old.”

  “I get that. We raised four of our own and now the grandkids keep coming. Charlene is expecting her second in May.”

  “Oh, Randy.” The tension eased from Naomi’s voice. “That’s so awesome.”

  “Yep. It’s a boy this time. She’s gonna name him after me.” The chestnut vendor puffed out his chest with pride.

  “What a lovely honor,” Naomi said, but the comment wasn’t perfunctory. Her tone was warm and genuine. She meant it. “You must be so proud.”

  “As a peacock.” Randy laughed.

  “We’ll be back later when the chestnuts are ready.” Her smile was a Christmas present all by itself. Shiny and bright, but beneath it, Shepherd saw a thick layer of unexpressed sorrow. She was still holding on to a lot of grief. He detected it in the stiffness of her shoulders, the deepening hollow of her cheeks.

  Randy sidled a glance at Shepherd. “We?”

  “Where are my manners?” Naomi clucked her tongue. “This is the church’s new handyman, Mark Shepherd. My van is in the shop so he’s escorting me today.”

  Randy stuck out his hand to shake Shepherd’s. “Welcome to Twilight.”

  “Thank you,” Shepherd said. “It’s a friendly pla
ce.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Randy smoothed his mustache. “Come back in an hour. Any friend of Naomi’s is a friend of mine. The chestnuts are on the house.”

  Naomi slipped her arm through Shepherd’s. The contact was electric.

  Startled, he jumped. What the heck? But then he realized she was guiding him around a gnarled tree root that had grown up through the sidewalk.

  “Trip hazard,” she said, and released him. “With your knee, I didn’t want to take chances.”

  Too late.

  She’d already taken a huge chance by touching him. Damage done. Those soft fingers had curled around his upper arm. Her fresh, honest scent—like vanilla, peppermint, and starched linen—had gotten tangled up in his nose. His body instantly responded to her touch, growing hot and tingly.

  She leaned forward to toss her empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can. Her camel-colored coat swung against the curve of her hip.

  He could not stop staring at her. It wasn’t just her beauty that mesmerized him, or her sweetness. He’d dreamed of her, of moments like this. He’d longed for a woman like her—friendly and open and trusting, with a smile as wide as the sky.

  Now that she was here with him, he didn’t know what to do. Naomi and her sunbeam eyes. Her tipped-up mouth offered him a life preserver. He knew in his heart of hearts that he did not deserve her. She was too special, too precious, too sweet and pure for the likes of him.

  Lily knew it.

  From the look Randy had given him, and the tight, slightly threatening squeeze of his handshake, the chestnut vendor knew it too.

  Shepherd finished off the last of his coffee, and put the cup in the trash receptacle. Stepped back. Stepped away from her.

  Breathing room.

  He needed breathing room.

  “Onward and upward,” she said in her gung-ho singsong. “Next stop, the toy store!”

  She headed for a building on the opposite side of the square, cutting across the courthouse lawn. Her dark hair bounced silkily over her shoulders.

  He watched her move, awed by her lithe grace.

  She paused when she realized she’d outpaced him. Turned to look at him over her shoulder. The clouds parted overhead and the morning sun streamed down in fingers of warm, rich light.

  Stunned, he could only stare at her golden perfection and wonder how he’d come to be in the presence of such an angel.

  “Where’s your cane?”

  “Huh?” He blinked, realizing for the first time he was without the cane. “I must have left it in the coffee shop.”

  She came back for him. “Take my arm.”

  “I’m fine.” He held his hands behind his back.

  She sent him a funny look. “Then why were you standing there just staring after me?”

  He wanted to say, Because you are so beautiful I can hardly bear it. But that would be weird, so he pointed to the sign on the courthouse lawn.

  “Keep Off the Grass.”

  “Oh that.” She waved a dismissive hand at the sign. Pointed to the foot traffic trail right through the middle of the grass. “C’mon.”

  Shepherd shook his head. “The sign says not to.”

  She sank her hands on her hips. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Rules are rules.”

  “The grass is dead. There’s a dirt trail through it. No reason to keep off.”

  “Not dead,” he said. “Just dormant for the winter. It’ll come back in the spring if we don’t trample it.”

  “If we don’t cut across the lawn, we have to go the long way. The workmen have that whole side of the square blocked off. Detour through Sweetheart Park.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  “Even without your cane?”

  He hardened his chin. “I’m not walking on the grass.”

  “You are such a Boy Scout,” she teased.

  “And you are a minister’s daughter. You should know better than to disobey the law,” he joked right back.

  “Haven’t you heard? Preachers’ kids are the worst.” Her face was so full of glee that he wanted to take a snapshot to remember this moment.

  “You don’t strike me as a stereotype.”

  “It’s just a ‘Keep Off the Grass’ sign.”

  “It’s a rule.”

  “Sometimes you have to know when a rule isn’t really a rule, but more of a suggestion. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut.”

  Trust your gut.

  Those words made him think of last Christmas. When he should have trusted his gut and gone to the orphanage with Clayton. He paused. Debating. It was just walking on the grass. What was the big deal?

  His lips twitched. The urge to tell her who he was swept through him. He wanted to blurt it. Clear his conscience of everything. Confess that he was not a handyman. Give her the Christmas key in his pocket. Beg her forgiveness.

  But he thought about what Nate and the other military men had told him the night before. Recalled how Lily had playfully threatened him if he hurt Naomi. Not that he was scared of Lily, but the last thing he wanted was to hurt Naomi.

  No getting around it. He was going to hurt her. Whether now or later, whenever the truth came out, it wouldn’t matter if he slept with a hundred cookies under his pillow and had a hundred dreams of her. She wouldn’t be able to forgive him.

  How could she?

  Her family had been destroyed because of him.

  The pain of what he could not have was powerful and poignant. He yearned for her like a hungry kid with his nose pressed against a bakery store window.

  She snorted an exasperated breath, but her lively eyes were kind. “Okay, we’ll do it your way. Stroll through the park it is. C’mon.”

  Turning, she skirted the cherry-picker truck, parked in the middle of the road. Hoisting light-stringing workmen up to the treetops.

  Shepherd caught up to Naomi as she stepped down off the curb, and headed for the entrance to Sweetheart Park.

  She stopped, swung back toward him. “Oh, do mind your ste—”

  But she didn’t get to finish her sentence. The toe of Shepherd’s boot hung in a deep, wide crack in the cobblestones and his knee collapsed inward. He stumbled forward.

  Naomi grabbed him as he fell. Good-naturedly whispered, “Bet you wish you’d cut across the grass now, huh?”

  You couldn’t tell it from the way she dressed. Or the gold cross hanging around her neck. But this one had a saucy side to her. Oh yes, she did.

  Chapter 12

  At the contact of Mark’s chest against her breasts, Naomi sucked in air. Lots of it. She had her arms around him and was leaning forward to keep him from hitting the concrete. He was a good nine inches taller than her five-foot-five height. And at least sixty pounds heavier. He was lean, but stacked with muscles.

  She crouched beside him, trying to lever him up. Wished he had his cane. She almost had him to his feet. But then her foot slipped out from underneath her at the shift in his weight. And they both ended up on the ground.

  Shepherd on his back. Somehow Naomi was straddling him.

  She just had to be in a skirt, didn’t she? Yes, she had on leggings, but they were little protection. Her thighs were on either side of him. Her pelvis perilously close to his.

  And the zipper of his jeans was straining. He had an erection.

  Because of her.

  Holy moly.

  Naomi was twenty-seven years old. Yes, she was a preacher’s daughter. But she wasn’t a prude, and she’d had the same boyfriend since she was sixteen. She wasn’t innocent. She wasn’t virginal. She’d given herself to Robert knowing in her heart of hearts they would one day marry.

  Or so she believed at the time.

  No, she wasn’t chaste. But boy, did she blush.

  Red-hot heat swamped her. Bathing her entire body in blood-roasting flames. Her internal temperature felt shoved to a hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit.

  In the desert.

  In August.
>
  The cool wind blowing up her skirt did nothing to cool her. Nor did the molten look in Mark Shepherd’s eyes. This man wanted her.

  And she wanted him.

  The spot between her legs, where she was straddling him, burned and ached with crazy mad desire.

  She had no time to process that look or her feelings. People were rushing over. Exclaiming in alarm. Reaching out. Helping them up.

  Naomi didn’t dare look at Mark. And when she finally did hazard a quick glance his way, he wasn’t looking at her. Thank heavens.

  “You took quite a tumble,” a woman said to Mark.

  “Are you okay?” a man asked Naomi.

  “I’m getting after the mayor about these sidewalks,” said Patsy Crouch. She’d hurried over from the Teal Peacock. Patsy was on the town council. Plus, Sheriff Hondo Crouch was her husband. More than one board member quaked in their boots whenever she walked into the room. “These cobblestones might be quaint, but they’re a liability.”

  “Shh,” another business owner hushed Patsy. “Don’t give him any ideas.”

  “I’m not suing anyone,” Mark assured them. He straightened his shoulders and pulled away from a clutch of women who were dusting off his coat. “It’s my own fault. I have a trick knee, and I should have been more careful. I should have listened to Naomi, and cut across the courthouse lawn.”

  “Blindly following the rules can get you into trouble,” Patsy said.

  Naomi dredged up the courage to meet his gaze. Her pulse was still galloping. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” His lips were tight, his eyes flat. Embarrassed.

  She imagined he hated all this focus on his mobility. She understood because of her mother’s battle with rheumatoid arthritis. Independence versus the need for help. It was a fine line to walk. No one wanted to look weak. Then again, being unwilling to accept help was a weakness of another kind.

  Or so people told her. Often, friends and family scolded her for trying to shoulder too many burdens alone.

  “Can you walk on it?” she asked.

  He tested his knee. Winced.

  “It’s hurting you.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” People were still hovering. That seemed to bother him. He waved them away. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Please go on about your lives.”