Romancing the Holidays: Twelve Christmas Romances - Benefits Breast Cancer Research

by Crista McHugh

  For all my readers who believe in the healing power of Christmas.

  Chapter 1—Blue Christmas

  Merry effing Christmas.

  Blake Daniels plunked his butt down on the front steps of his rustic cedar home, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped in front of him. He didn’t give a shit that the six inches of snow and ice on the steps froze his ass through his jeans. The snow might be pretty, but it was terribly out of place here in the San Juan Islands and he was determined to ignore it.

  Yeah. Bah, humbug.

  Once, Christmas had been his favorite time of year, a time to celebrate with family and count his many blessings. Yeah, once. Now it was a mixture of melancholy memories and painful realities.

  Blake stared at the surprisingly wintry scene around him. Heavy snow bent the boughs on the cedar trees nearby. Christmas lights twinkled cheerfully on his neighbors’ homes. Every once in a while laughter from inside the closest house echoed off the water and drifted up the hill, but that only made his chest clench with pain. In the distance, Chinook Channel churned with water so black and angry a Washington State ferry bound for the ferry landing rocked and rolled. He’d bet his best pair of skates they would shut down the ferries for the night after this sailing.

  The storm added to his dark mood. He couldn’t explain why he tortured himself every year by returning to this house. Maybe he kept hoping he’d find what he’d lost. Maybe it was good old-fashioned denial. Maybe he was just plain nuts.

  Early this morning he’d walked onto the San Juan Islands ferry in Anacortes, Washington, bound to spend his Christmas the same way he’d spent the last four: by himself on this remote island with just ghosts for company. Not real ghosts, but recollections from his past. The scent of his mother’s gingerbread cookies in the oven. Christmas music played by his sister on the piano near the window. A college football game on in the den. His father and youngest brother arguing over whether or not the Seattle Steelheads would make the playoffs. His older brother building a raging fire in the fireplace. They were all things he’d taken for granted, assumed they’d always be there. If only he’d taken that same Christmas Eve flight four years ago, he wouldn’t be the one left alone to pick up the pieces. He’d be in a watery grave with his parents and siblings, none the wiser and a whole lot more peaceful. There were worse ways to go, like dying a slow death inside every day while going through the motions of a life he no longer knew how to live.

  For as long as he could remember, his family had flown from all parts of the country to spend the holidays at their vacation home on Madrona Island here in the San Juans. Then came the fatal night their chartered floatplane crashed into the frigid waters of the Straits of Juan De Fuca. His sister had texted him at takeoff to let him know they were in the air and would see him soon. A few hours later, completely unaware of the tragedy, Blake arrived and wondered where the hell everyone was.

  It had been snowing then, too. He’d texted his sister first. No response. He’d called her cell and actually got through, but the phone went straight to voicemail. Next, he tried both brothers and his sister-in-law. Same result. His parents didn’t have cell phones. To quote his dad, they’d lived without them for sixty-plus years and didn’t need them now. Frustrated and wondering if they were playing one hell of a joke on him, he’d called the floatplane company. He hadn’t expected an answer and didn’t get one, but he left a message with contact info. He then spent a sleepless night pacing. With no internet access, no late-night ferry service and spotty cell phone reception, he couldn’t do much but wait for morning. Staring at the snow.

  A county sheriff knocked on his door at six a.m. One look at the man’s face and Blake knew. He just knew. Two days later he’d walked onto the ice and played hockey because only on the ice could he possibly forget.

  Only, he couldn’t forget. Even though hockey was all he had left, he couldn’t get his game back. He bounced from NHL team to NHL team. Coaches scratched their heads, frustrated at how to get through to him, how to get back the player who’d shown such promise. Teammates avoided him as if he’d caught some contagious disease. Friends expected him to recover and move on. But how does a guy move on from something like that?

  Now he didn’t even have hockey. L.A., his third team in a year, had cut him a week ago, and so had his limelight-seeking girlfriend. He’d never been a huge star, but he’d been a good defenseman, the guy a team could depend on to replace a starter, a steady, straight guy who avoided the limelight and just did his job. Yeah, that’d been him. The guy who’d rather read books on the team plane than play cards or video games, rather have a quiet meal than go out and get drunk, the guy who’d longed for a nice girl rather than a groupie—until everything changed four years ago. Lately he’d bounced from meaningless relationship to meaningless relationship. His latest girlfriend Candy—that name should’ve been a clue—had dumped him like yesterday’s bread for an up-and-coming rookie.

  So far, not one team had contacted his agent to pick him up. At thirty-four he should have a few good years left, but he’d lost his edge and run out of second chances. He was tired of forcing a desire that didn’t exist, too. In some ways, walking away from the game would be a relief, but what the fuck was he going to do with the rest of his sorry-assed life? He’d never contemplated his future without hockey any more than he’d contemplated it without his boisterous family.

  Blake stared at his size-thirteen feet and heaved a big sigh. The weight of the grief he’d denied for four years settled on his shoulders like a concrete yoke. Snow fell softly around him. He buried his face in his hands and listened to the silence.

  Mew. Mew.

  Blake lifted his head and looked around. The snow muffled most sound, but he heard it again, a pathetic little cry like that of a cat or a kitten.

  Standing, he held the railing so he wouldn’t crash down on his ass on the icy steps. He scanned the snow-covered yard but only saw one set of footprints leading to the cabin. His own.

  “Kitty? Kitty?” Blake stood absolutely still, listening.

  A tiny gray kitten appeared, dragging a useless leg, its hair matted and caked with ice crystals and snow. Malnourished and shivering, it managed few more steps toward him before collapsing in a pitiful heap.

  A life-long animal lover, Blake was on the kitten in two strides. He cradled the kitten in his arms, amazed the poor creature was still alive. The kitten gazed up at him with eyes yellower than a sunflower, and a small piece of Blake’s heart cracked open.

  He carried the freezing animal inside the warm three-story cabin, wrapped it in a blanket and sat down on the fireplace hearth. He ran his large hands over the kitten’s protruding ribs, feeling for injuries. The leg hung lifeless. Blake touched it gingerly. The kitten mewed and licked his hand just once with a sandpaper tongue.

  “What happened to you, little guy?”

  The lump in the kitten’s leg indicated an old break which had improperly healed, but Blake was no animal doctor. Hell, he couldn’t even heal his own sorry-assed life.

  Despite the sad shape the thing was in, a rough purr vibrated in its stomach. The sound seemed to indicate the kitten’s desire to live, and that desire struck Blake like a slap in the face. While it fought to survive, he’d given up trying.

  * * * * *

  Sarah Whitney stared out the vet clinic window at the snow sticking to the ground and getting deeper by the minute. It rarely snowed in the San Juan Islands, and when it did, the snow never piled up. Not to this extent. Heck, she doubted the county even owned one snow plow. In all her years here, she couldn’t ever recall a snowstorm like this. Not even the infamous Christmas Eve storm four years ago.

  Walking to the door, she flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. She’d sent her only employee home hours ago. She should’ve followed. Instead she’d hung around, just in case of an emergency, but not one customer had walked in her door all afternoon. Everyone was hunkered down in their cozy homes in front of their fireplaces, celebrating Christmas Eve w
ith friends and family. Except her.

  Cyrus, her St. Bernard cross and the clinic mascot, opened one eye from his location on his dog bed. She whistled at him. With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and lumbered over.

  The phone rang, and she crossed the room to answer it. “Island Vet.” Cyrus sat down in the middle of the floor, not interested in expending more energy than absolutely necessary.

  “Hey, where the hell are you?”

  Sarah smiled. “Closing up shop.”

  “Good, then come on over. We’ve got a boatload, and we’ll be drinking lots of liquid good cheer and singing off-key Christmas carols.” Her best friend Cari and Cari’s husband Kyle lived down at the marina on an old fifty-footer.

  “I can’t. I have some things to finish here.”

  “Liar.”

  Sarah didn’t deny it. Normally she spent Christmas Eve on the boat with her friends and her dad, but this Christmas was different. She just didn’t want to go down there with all those people making merry. She’d be one heck of a downer. They didn’t need that, and she didn’t need the guilt. New Year’s might be a different story. She couldn’t wait to ring out this hellacious year and look to the future.

  “Mark’s here.”

  Sarah blew out a breath and tamped down her exasperation. Cari was always trying to fix her up. “You know I’m not interested in dating right now.”

  “He’s a nice guy.”

  “Exactly why he doesn’t need to get mixed up with me. The clinic is my life right now. I don’t need a guy muddying the waters. You know I don’t have time for a relationship, even if I wanted one—which I don’t.”

  Sarah’s boyfriends had been few and far between with her pre-vet and vet school studies monopolizing all her spare time. Once out of college she’d dived into the vet practice with her father, as well as traveling to neighboring islands for vaccination clinics and her animal rescue work. Spare time didn’t enter into her schedule. After her father died, she’d given her heart and soul to the practice with no room for a social life. If her friends wanted to see her, they made an appointment to bring an animal into the clinic.

  “Promise me you’ll be at dinner tomorrow.” Cari didn’t give up easily.

  “Absolutely, even if I have to snowshoe. I wouldn’t miss your prime rib for anything.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll see you tomorrow. But if you change your mind—”

  “I know. I’m always welcome. Thanks.” Sarah hung up the phone before Cari had a chance to argue.

  Crossing the room, she paused to straighten the bags of dog food stacked on the shelves against one wall. With a sigh she gazed around her little clinic, her home away from home for close to five years, turned out the waiting room lights and stepped into her tiny office, which was crowded with piles of veterinary journals and animal care books.

  Pushing a bunch of papers out of the way, Sarah picked up a picture half-buried on her messy desk. Her mother, frail and gaunt, lay in a hospital bed but still managed a smile for the camera. Next to her, a ten-year-old Sarah clutched her hand, looking like crap. A few hours after that picture was taken, her mom succumbed to a long battle with cancer and young Sarah’s world caved in. For years it’d just been her and her dad. Until two years ago. She couldn’t believe how much it still hurt. At times the pain almost drove her to her knees. Orphaned at thirty-two, without family at Christmas.

  Sure, there were lots of people who had it worse, but she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for herself. The holidays drove home how alone she was, and how much she missed having a family. Even a bickering, dysfunctional family beat the hell out of an empty house on Christmas.

  Loud pounding on the clinic door ended Sarah’s pity party. She hurried to the door and turned the lock, not bothering to check who it was. This was the San Juans; no one worried about stuff like that around here. Cyrus just watched. He knew the drill. He’d seen this happen before. Assuming they wouldn’t be going home anytime soon, he sank down on his dog bed and was snoring before she’d even opened the door.

  A large, imposing man filled the doorway. In his big hands he held a tiny kitten. The kitten looked dead.

  Sarah glanced up and gazed into the most intriguing pair of troubled, blue-gray eyes. The man’s brow was furrowed, and his lips were drawn into a thin, tight line. His shoulders stooped, as if the weight on them was immense. His gaze dropped to the kitten.

  “Can you help him? I found the poor thing in the snow outside my cabin.”

  Sarah held out her arms. With extreme gentleness for one so brawny, the man transferred the kitten to her. It mewed in protest but didn’t struggle—as if it could. She ran her fingers over the mangled little guy, checked his vitals. Miraculously, the kitten started purring.

  “Follow me.” Sarah didn’t wait for the man but hustled the kitten into an exam room and set up an IV. The cat was so badly dehydrated she needed to get some fluids into him immediately and warm him up. She lay him in a box lined with towels, prepared the IV then tucked a small blanket around him.

  “Will he make it?”

  The voice was world-weary, but Sarah jumped, having forgotten all about the kitten’s savior.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She met the man’s gaze and really looked at him for the first time. She’d never met someone with such a physical presence. A ruggedly handsome face bore a shadow of dark stubble on a strong jaw, and a lock of rumpled hair fell over one side of his forehead, adding a bit of a bad-boy impression. Lines of fatigue creased his face, making him look much older than he probably was. He was actually quite handsome if you liked the rugged, athletic sort. But those kind eyes reflected such deep sorrow that he must have suffered some incredible loss or tragedy.

  Sarah knew what that was like. Still, there was no time for sorrow. There was a kitten to be healed.

  Chapter 2—The Weather Outside…

  Blake forced his gaze away from the woman with the soft brown eyes that looked right into his soul. She saw too much. How the hell he knew that…? Well, he just did. Some things couldn’t be explained; they only had to be dealt with. Maybe he should just give her a reasonable amount to care for the cat and find it a home. Then he could be on his way.

  Yeah, but on his way to what? An empty house? A big dinner with no guests? An uncertain future?

  Shaking his head, he focused again on the kitten. The little guy lay curled in tight ball, eyes squeezed shut. When Blake bent down close he heard the purring. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The kitten was a fighter. He could appreciate that. He should learn from it.

  A clock ticked on the wall, and he glanced at it as he straightened. Seven-thirty on Christmas Eve. He had nowhere to go except a home filled with painful memories—but he’d bet his hockey skates the doctor needed to get to her family. Hanging next to the clock was the good doctor’s diploma from vet school. Dr. Sarah Whitney. The name fit her. She wasn’t the type of woman he’d dated recently, yet something about Dr. Sarah Whitney did it for Blake in a big way. Maybe it was that she reminded him of what he used to want. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. That tall, slender body with those long legs indicated an active, outdoorsy person, not someone who got fit in a gym. Her earthy, casual appearance showed a woman unconcerned with clothes, makeup, and jewelry—totally the opposite of the women who hung around the ice arena on any given night, the women with whom he’d been recently soothing his pain. He found her sexy. Very sexy.

  She left the room briefly, and Blake watched, liking how her jeans hugged the soft curves of her behind. A huge dog sprawled in its bed studied him through one half-closed eye, as if to say, Good luck, buddy.

  On cue, Dr. Whitney walked back into the room. “How’s our patient?”

  He gave the cat a glance. “Hanging in there. Hey, I’m sorry to take up your time on Christmas Eve.”

  A shadow crossed the woman’s face, which quickly hardened into an emotionless mask. “No worries. My pl
ans tonight consist of a good book, hot-buttered rum, and a roaring fire.”

  “Sounds pretty good,” he admitted. Too bad a hot, intelligent woman like her had to be sharing that hot-buttered rum with a significant other. Probably another doctor or something.

  “Yeah, quiet holidays can be a welcome relief from big gatherings with family and friends.” She spoke with conviction, but her eyes told a different story. He wondered if that story was similar to his own.

  “Yes, sometimes that’s true,” he allowed. “No family dramas, no bickering or that type of thing….” He’d give everything he possessed for a family drama right about now. “I’m Blake by the way.”

  “Sarah Whitney.” She stared out the window, her gaze faraway. The snow kept accumulating. “Sometimes snow seems so barren, so lonely. It blankets everything in white, beautiful…but cold and stark, especially at night.”

  Especially when a person didn’t have anyone to warm their bed. Was someone warming Dr. Whitney’s bed? Was there anyone special in her life? But…why the hell did he even care? Sure she turned him on, but he barely knew the woman.

  Part of him disagreed. He felt as if he’d known her for a very long time.

  She continued to stare out the window, and Blake nodded, thinking again about what she’d said. He hadn’t seen snow the same since it contributed to his family tragedy. He didn’t say that, though. He just said, “I’ve been coming here since I was a child. I don’t remember a snowfall quite like this.”

  “No, we don’t get it much here. And this is even worse than the Christmas Eve storm four years ago.”

  Blake stiffened. He fought to breathe, like someone had slammed him into the boards from behind. He looked away and regained control. “Like I said, I apologize for keeping you.”

  She glanced up, and he suspected she saw more in him at that moment than most people did in an evening. “You don’t need to apologize. You aren’t keeping me from anything.” She studied him then. “You’re not a local. I’d know if you were. Are you here for the holidays?”