Holiday Kisses: A Rare GiftMistletoe and MargaritasIt's Not Christmas Without YouThis Time Next Year

by Alison Kent

  She shifted even closer, her head on his shoulder, her breasts flattened against his ribs. “I don’t want to sleep. I’m afraid I’ll miss something fun.”

  About that… “I’m pretty sure the show’s over for tonight.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” she said, yawning, toying with the hair on his chest. “I won’t be walking straight for days as it is.”

  “Then my job here is done.”

  She tweaked his nipple, and he yelped. “Only because I say so.”

  “Bossy wench, aren’t you?”

  “I like to think of myself as a woman in charge.”

  He laced the fingers of his free hand through hers. “Something tells me you’re damn good at getting your way.”

  “Not all the time, but it takes a lot for me to give up trying.”

  “I’ll consider myself warned.”

  “Good, because I want to ask you something.”

  And this was where things went downhill. He turned away, gave her his back. “Goodnight.”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t even think about it,” she said, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him onto his back. To keep him there, she pinned him with a thigh thrown over his, and an arm across his chest.

  Not that he couldn’t move if he had a mind to, but she’d made her point. “You’d better ask quick. I’m fading.”

  She shook her head, her hair tickling where he’d caught it beneath his arm. “Don’t pull that after-sex man disease excuse on me.”

  “How about the 3:00 a.m. excuse?”

  “Are your eyes open?”

  “I can talk with them closed.”

  “Open them,” she ordered, lifting up onto her elbow to check that he had.

  He gave her a side-eyed glance. “Satisfied?”

  She was. She was also nervous, her palms damp when she squeezed her hands, so she dove right in. “What do the dates on your fan blades mean?”

  The lines at his temples furrowed, his pupils went dark. His pulse beat like a tom-tom in the hollow of his throat. “I’d rather not answer that.”

  She ignored the razor crack in his voice and pushed on. “That’s why I asked. That’s why I want to know.”

  He cut his gaze from hers to the fan hanging overhead like the Sword of Damocles. But it took him a long time to respond, and she wasn’t certain he would. Then beneath her leg, his stiffened. Beneath her arm, his heart pounded, and his chest rose and fell with his short rapid breaths as her question found its mark.

  She’d hit a nerve. A big one. Bigger than she’d anticipated, though she’d been certain the dates weren’t without purpose. And she was pretty sure she’d figured it out, but pressed one last time. “Do they have something to do with your military service?”

  His muscles continued to twitch, his heart to race, though his breathing had slowed and grown measured as he stared up at the fan. “May thirty-first, two thousand six. Private Ford Weber’s Humvee hit an IED. He needed more hours than I had and equipment I didn’t. I made him comfortable for the flight to Landstuhl, then left him on the stretcher while I worked on the kid who’d been driving.”

  “Did he make it?” she asked softly, unsure how hard or far to push for the things she wanted to know, weighty things Dillon had carried with him a very long time. Things she had a feeling he’d never told anyone, that he’d committed to wood instead of voicing.

  “The driver, yeah.” He shifted the arm beneath her head to toy with the ends of her hair. “I felt Weber die while I was digging shrapnel out of the kid’s chest.”

  “I’m so sorry.” It sounded lame, but would anything sound any better? She had no idea what he’d seen, what he’d been through.

  “February twenty seventh, two thousand five. Suicide bomber took out a market as a patrol was passing by. I lost Specialist Len Waters that day. Spent hours working to stabilize him. I had six others to attend, six with better chances, and had to leave him to see to them.”

  It was the second time he’d used the word leave, or left. Brenna frowned. He’d also talked about leaving his father, about her leaving Gran. Sadness rose in her throat, hot and living and red like blood.

  Was he blaming himself for the men who had died, or blaming the conditions he couldn’t control? Was the woodworking his way to honor them, to remember, or his way to get through the damage those years had done?

  She doubted he needed it to keep from forgetting. He would never forget. “Does it help? Having the dates as reminders?”

  He barked out a gruff laugh. “I don’t see the dates. I see the faces.”

  “I mean, does it help you to deal with things, pouring all of that…I don’t know what to call it. Energy? Anger? Sorrow? Pouring it into your art?”

  He fell silent, rolled away from her to sit on his side of the bed, and switched off the lamp. It was the middle of the night, but the moon was bright and the sky clear and the snow on the ground reflective. She took in his silhouette, his head hung low, chin tucked to his chest.

  His shoulders flexed as he braced his palms on his thighs. He was hurting, and her efforts at pop psychology weren’t helping relieve the pressure that had him burning into wood the dates men under his care had died. And yet she couldn’t be sorry she’d asked. He was talking about his experience, and she was certain he hadn’t done that often—if ever before.

  “January second, two thousand three. Corporal Boyd Massey took a hit from an RPG. The medics did what they could in the field. I got him off the chopper, took one look and knew he was done. The grenade’s explosive trigger hadn’t detonated on impact. It was lodged in his chest.” He swallowed, shuddered. “He was a live bomb.”

  “Oh, my God.” The room fell away. There was only Dillon and his surgical tent and the sandblasting heat of the desert. She hadn’t been there, but could feel it rolling off him as he made the trip back.

  “He was awake when he came in, knew what was happening. No way was I going to walk out and leave him alone.”

  “What did you do?” she asked in a whisper.

  He swallowed, cleared his throat. Shuddered. “One of the chopper crew was an explosives specialist. He and the medics stayed in the OR against protocol. After a hairy couple of hours, we got it out. Then lost Massey on the table.”

  Tears fell from her cheeks to her breasts. “You risked your own lives.”

  “It’s part of the job.”

  “And breaking the rules?”

  He leaned forward then, buried his face in his hands. “He was alive, but he was dead. And he knew it. He was so scared, but he was the bravest damn soldier I’ve ever seen.”

  Brenna rose up on her knees, pressed her front to his back. His skin had grown icy, and she rubbed her hands up and down his arms, wishing she could reach the part of him inside where she was certain he hadn’t felt warm in years.

  “I wish I could make it easier for you. Or make it go away.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want it to go away. Those men deserved to be remembered.”

  “As do you. For trying to save them.”

  He huffed. “I doubt their families feel the same way.”

  Was he kidding? “To know you did all you could? Why wouldn’t they?”

  “What if I didn’t do all I could? What if I made wrong choices?”

  “You know yourself. You made the only choices you could under the worst of circumstances. Tell me I’m not right.”

  “I don’t know, Brenna. I don’t know.”

  She leaned her cheek against his neck, breathed in the scent of his dried sweat and the chill on his skin. She was ill-equipped to offer counsel, but she could hold him. And it was easy to do when she cared for him so greatly, when what she felt had crossed the line from friends to lovers to a connection too deep and rich to define.

  “Did you do anything you regret?”

  It took him several seconds to answer. “No.”

  “If you could go back, is there anything you would do differently?”

  This
answer came more quickly with a shake of his head. “No.”

  “Did you ever look back, when you were in the ER, and wonder if you’d done the right thing?”

  “That was different—”

  “No. It wasn’t. Not really.” And this was what he needed to see. “The setting was different, sure. The types of injuries. And you weren’t working with combat gauze in a tent. But you dealt with trauma, life-and-death decisions. That part is the same.”

  “Patients in the ER weren’t kids putting their lives on the line for their country.”

  “But were they putting their lives on the line for their family? Stepping into domestic violence situations and ending up beaten or knifed? Maybe you treated police officers who’d been gunned down, or firefighters who’d fallen through burning buildings.”

  When he didn’t respond, she went on. “Aren’t all these people heroes, too? They’re serving their communities, their families, not the bigger picture. But it’s still service. And it’s still selfless. And you’ll always be a hero because of what you’ve done. No matter where you were when you cracked open a chest.”

  He turned his head a bit, smiled back at her. “You know about combat gauze?”

  “I watch the news. I read the papers.”

  “And you were a cheerleader in school?”

  She rolled her eyes, but was happy to see the smile widen. “No.”

  “Debate team?”

  This time she slapped at his shoulder. “I was an only child of parents who refused to spoil me so I learned to argue convincingly when I wanted something.”

  “You argue well.”

  “But do I convince?”

  He rolled his head side to side. “It’s more about convincing myself the argument is valid. It’s one I’ve made to myself many times, but I’m still not there.”

  “I’d help if I could. Please know that,” she said, and sat back on her knees.

  “You’ve helped by being here. By asking. By listening.”

  Hmm. “I can’t be the first one to offer.”

  He took a deep breath, shook his head. “No, but it’s tough to know when to talk about it.”

  “Bad timing?”

  “Wrong people asking.”

  Her heart swelled like a balloon, full and lifting, and the only thing she could say was, “Then I’m glad I asked.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Even if it didn’t help.”

  “It helped. Trust me,” he said, and reached for her hand.

  His touch was strong, cold. Fierce. “Talking can be hard, but it usually does.”

  “I know. One of the folks I see on rounds always wants to know how I’m doing.”

  “Someone you trust?”

  He nodded, looking at their joined fingers. “We talk sometimes. She tells me a lot of the same things.”

  A spark flared in Brenna’s stomach. It felt like jealousy and she told herself that was dumb. She had no claim on this man. She’d known him but a matter of days. Of course he’d have other friends, a confidante, lovers…

  God. Had she stepped into something? Not a relationship, because he was too honorable to cheat, but an arrangement? She moved back to her side of the bed. “Is this going to make things awkward for you?”

  He turned, frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You said you have someone. You said she.”

  It took a moment for her words to register, then he grinned. “I talk to my someone. That’s it. If this causes any awkwardness, it’ll be for you.”

  Uh-oh. “How so?”

  “My someone is your grandmother,” he said then rolled her beneath him and brought his mouth down firmly on hers.

  Chapter Ten

  When Brenna woke on Saturday, Dillon was gone, and judging by the chill on his side of the bed, had been for a while. She glanced at his alarm clock. Glanced again. For the love of Pete, it was nearly noon! When had she ever slept till noon? She hated that he’d left her alone, but noon? Seriously?

  She stretched, yawned, groaned as rarely used muscles reminded her of last night. She could do with a repeat. Of the physical part, anyway. The emotional part had her hung out to dry. She couldn’t imagine how Dillon was faring. The things he carried with him… She sat up, naked, and shivering from more than the cold as she left the bed. It was amazing he hadn’t broken under the weight.

  She showered and dressed quickly, sorting her things for the laundry she hadn’t done yesterday. Sniffing the air for coffee or breakfast, she got nothing, then remembered the cookies on the coffee table as she opened the door. As long as Dillon hadn’t gone all Suzy Homemaker on her and moved them…

  Oh. Oh. She couldn’t believe it!

  Where her decorated coat tree had stood last she’d looked, Dillon had placed a perfectly shaped fir. Her ribbon had been threaded through the branches, and her cupcakes hung randomly to maximize the canvas. He’d even added his hat on top in the place of honor, and tucked the cookies she’d planned to eat here and there.

  Her throat grew tight. Her eyes burned. She dropped her clothes bundle, bringing her steepled fingers to her mouth, pressing them to her trembling lips. And then she saw the gift sitting beneath. A square box, plain unwrapped brown cardboard, with a pinecone cluster on top like a bow.

  She knelt in front of the tree, lifted the box. It was so hard not to peek, but she resisted, holding it in her lap. Laughter bubbled up, a heady, airy, happy burst of it. This was perfect. Just perfect, except… She had nothing to give Dillon.

  She’d baked him cookies, yes, and she’d given him a night she hoped would be hard to forget. But he’d rescued her from the storm. He’d saved her life. He’d shown her heaven, and now he’d given her Christmas.

  At the sound of the back door opening, she got to her feet, leaving the box on the floor. She turned just as Dillon entered the room. She was in his arms before he’d shed his coat. The sheepskin was cold against her face, but he was warm beneath, and she knew she couldn’t have found a better man to love.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” she said, pulling back to look at him. He was beautiful, and he was smiling, and his eyes weren’t quite so sad anymore. “Did you sleep at all? And thank you. Thank you! This has to be the best Christmas gift ever.”

  He arched a stern brow. “Does that mean you peeked?”

  “No! And I wasn’t talking about the present. I meant the tree. And you decorated even.”

  “Ready for more?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Did he mean…

  He gave her a wink. “Dress warm. Ranger’s saddled and ready for the trek to your Gran’s.”

  While Dillon lived in a rather chichi log cabin, Gran’s two-story farmhouse rambled in all directions, the inviting sprawl a perfect fit for the patch of land cleared years ago by the grandfather Brenna knew only through stories.

  Riding in from the rear on horseback, rather than approaching the front by car, gave her a different perspective. And she was suddenly filled with tears of joy and belonging—yes this was where she belonged—tears that fell in icy pearls the moment Gran, bundled head to toe like a puffy patchwork quilt, stepped out on the back porch and waved.

  Dillon leaned close to her scarf-wrapped ear. “I’ll let you down then take Ranger to the barn.”

  She nodded, barely registering what he said as she vigorously returned her grandmother’s wave. Then they were there, Dillon’s hands beneath her arms to keep her from falling as she slid from Ranger’s back to the ground.

  She hurried the three steps it took her to reach the porch stairs, frozen snow crunching under her boots, the wooden boards creaking the way they always did. Gran’s arms came around her and Brenna cried, breathing in the scents that made Gran, Gran. Butterscotch and roses and fresh mountain air. Finally, finally, it was Christmas.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever get here,” she got out through her sobs. “I’ve been about to go out of my mind.”

  Gran chuckled, a deep thrumming sound, and
rubbed Brenna’s back through her heavy wool coat. “You’ve just spent several days snowbound with Dillon Craig. I can’t imagine things were that bad.”

  “I guess that depends on your definition of bad,” Brenna said, then pulled free to kiss her grandmother’s cheek.

  “I’d say tell me all about it—” Gran paused to adjust her glasses, “—but he’ll be up here shortly, and something tells me this is a story that will take hours to tell.”

  “I can tell you that the man is obstinate. He wouldn’t let me bring anything but my toothbrush, a change of underwear, and one single gift. Said he wanted to keep Ranger’s load as light as he could.” She turned to guide Gran into the house and out of the cold that had them both shivering. “I’ll have to get the rest to you later.”

  “You’re here now, pumpkin.” Gran laid an icy palm against Brenna’s cheek, her eyes misty and red. “That’s all I need.”

  Inside, the kitchen breathed toasty air, and the smells of garlic and tomatoes wafting from the oven had Brenna’s stomach rumbling. “Lasagna and fresh baked Italian herb bread. Christmas Eve the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Or at least Christmas Eve the way you love it.” Doffing her coat and hat, Gran slipped a mitt on her hand and pulled out the oven rack to test the top of the bread. “We’re eating lunch instead of dinner, then leftovers tonight with dessert.”

  Mmm. Dessert. “Tiramisu?”

  “I baked the ladyfingers yesterday. Dillon brought me the mascarpone and rum last week.”

  “Guess he’s a handy man to have around.” She left it at that, unsure how to play this Dillon thing, because letting Gran in on the truth didn’t seem like a good idea.

  “He is that.”

  Brenna pulled out a chair, sat sideways, tossed her coat on the table with Gran’s. “Is that why you never mentioned him to me? Keeping him all to yourself? Because he certainly knew of my existence.”

  Gran smiled to herself and nodded, as if entertained by private thoughts she had no intention of sharing. Brenna held her tongue. If after all these years Gran was going to matchmake… Not that Brenna was about to let on that there was no need.