A Christmas to Believe In (6 page)

held so much back.

"Ethan." Jesse sat the controller on the carpet and

swiveled around to look at him. "It is your business. We're

family. Clint and I are just friends. That's all we've ever been

and all we'll ever
be
."

He didn't reply, but the tight lines around his mouth

vanished with the dip of his head. "You still got that wand the

pirate gave us?"

Jesse's smile widened. She picked up her controller again

and shifted back to the television. "Have. I still
have
the

wand."

"Good, cause this POS is gonna kick our ass without it."

Scowling, Jesse scolded, "Language."

"Yeah, yeah," Ethan mumbled. "Sorry, Mom."

Clint crossed one ankle over his opposite knee and reclined

in the corner of his mother's couch. He frowned as she

hobbled across the room to retrieve the picture of their father

from atop the fireplace mantel.

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"Did the doctor really say you should be walking on that,

Mom?"

"Pooh. Those doctors don't know anything anymore. If

they had their way, I'd still be in the hospital."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Amelia King answered

to no one. She did what she pleased, when she desired, and

no amount of argument would change her mind. Certainly not

doctors who she was convinced had fancy educations without

any hint of common sense.

"Mom, use the crutches. If you don't, it'll be a wheelchair

they put you in next, because you'll crush what they

repaired."

"I'm your mother, Clinton King. Don't argue with me."

He did roll his eyes then. How many times he'd heard that,

he couldn't count. His headstrong mother would land herself

back in the hospital if she weren't careful. Man, if only Dad

were here. He was the only person who could make her see

reason.

"Don't roll your eyes at me either," Amelia added as she

eased back down into her chair. She reached across the way

and handed him the framed photograph. "This was taken in

sixty-eight. The day before your father left for 'Nam. You see

that smile on your father's face?"

Clint glanced down at the photograph and studied the man

he'd never quite been able to please. Sandy brown hair set off

a pair of bright amber eyes. Tall and stout, his frame spoke of

strength, and at the same time, hinted to an air of

dependability. They stood side-by-side, arms linked around

each other's waists. His father gazed down at his mother with

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what could be nothing less than complete devotion. Even in

the profile shot, his smile spread across his face. And though

the depiction didn't capture it, Clint knew the same dimple he

sported, tugged at his father's left cheek.

"Yeah?"

"He always looked at me that way, Clint. The day he left,

the day he came home. I don't care what you or your

brothers might think, I never questioned where I fit into his

life. Whatever happened over in 'Nam..." She paused, and a

faint frown crinkled her brow. Taking a deep breath, she

motioned for him to return the photograph. When she held it

once again, she traced a fingertip over his father's face. "If

your father needed another woman to survive that hell, I

don't hate him, and I don't hate her. And I certainly don't

hate that innocent girl."

Keeley. His newly discovered half-sister. Clint frowned. "I

don't hate her either, Mom, but that doesn't mean I want a

stranger spending Christmas with us. She might be blood, but

she's not
family
."

His mother's head snapped up, her watery blue eyes sharp

and piercing. "Blood is family. Now, I expect you to step up

and respect my wishes. You're the oldest. Your brothers look

up to you. It's what your father would have done, and he'd

want you to do the same."

An involuntary shudder crept down his spine. Once again,

thrown into a role he couldn't fulfill. He wasn't his father. Lord

knew, he'd cut off his thumbs to be able to live up to that

man's memory, but he simply couldn't. Somehow, some way,

he always fell short.

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Yet, trying to explain that to his mother would be a battle

beyond futile. She wanted Keeley in their lives, and nothing

would sway her from forcing this strange sister on them. This

Christmas would be a nightmare. More aptly, complete chaos.

With Alex's pending nuptials, and his newly discovered

daughters, the tension hung in the air. Already Clint

experienced it when Alex and Sydney bid a curt goodnight.

Add in the absence of their father, their mother's

insistence about welcoming Keeley, and the concerns Clint

harbored over his horse—the only normalcy would come from

Heath and Jesse.

Clint held in a heavy sigh and dipped his chin, acquiescing

to his mother. He stared at his hands. Even Jesse wasn't

completely normal. Not now, at least. The ease of being

around her had disappeared, replaced by a ridiculous

awareness of her that left him on edge. And now, after he'd

stupidly attempted to kiss her, a greater chasm opened

between them.

What he'd give for a homecoming like the last one. Where

his father had sat in his favorite chair and relayed stories

about his first car. Where Heath and Alex had watched bowl

games and lost their asses to Jesse's gutsy bets. Where he'd

lain on the couch, eating his mother's homemade apple pie,

and taking the cozy comfort for granted.

The sigh he'd tempered escaped. He lifted his head and

drained the last of his coffee. "I'm going to head on up to

bed."

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Standing, he shuffled his weight to straighten out his

jeans. With a perfunctory smile, he bent over his mother's

chair and kissed her cheek.

Her bony fingers clamped onto his hand. "Are you all right,

honey? I know there's lots going on right now, but are you

okay?"

No, he wasn't. Not by any means. Everything he'd thought

he'd understood had up-ended and contorted. "I'm fine. Just

preoccupied over my horse."

Amelia gave his hand a tight squeeze. "Horses have been

having babies for centuries, honey. She'll be just fine."

"Yeah." He returned her affectionate grip then let her

fingers slid from his. "You need help up to your room?"

Her sparse eyebrows puckered with a deep frown. She

glanced down at the photograph in her lap, and the hand still

holding the frame tightened. "No," she answered quietly. "I

think I'll sit here a bit longer."

Clint's chest tightened. His mother would never let on that

she missed their father. Not as long as she thought anyone

would notice. She'd never want anyone to see anything but

the false bravado she projected. Like him, they both had roles

to fill. No matter how old her sons became, she was still a

mother. Programmed to be strong in the face of adversity.

He patted her shoulder. "I miss him too, Mom," he

whispered.

Turning away, he strode for the back stairs. He took them

slowly, remembering a different time. Hell, a different place.

As he walked down the upstairs hall where he and his

brothers had grown up, low voices filtered beneath Alex's

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door. Though hushed, he caught the brittle edge to the

whispers, and he shook his head. Evidently, the tension he'd

sensed between Alex and Sydney had come to a head.

He pushed the door to his bedroom open and flipped on

the light. Other than the duffel bags tossed on the bed, it was

just as he'd left it the summer after college graduation.

Wynona Ryder still hung on the wall next to the line of

photographs taken from Clint's summer seasons on the

racetrack. His High School diploma sat in a frame on his desk,

right beside his ancient Hewlett Packard computer.

Unlike Alex's usual pigsty, everything had a place and an

order. Contrasting from Heath's wallpaper of action-movie

posters, Clint's walls were crisp and clean, save for that one

corner. A tall bookshelf near the window sat mostly bare, the

books on Thoroughbreds long ago relocated to his study in

Kentucky.

He nudged the door shut with his heel and turned the light

off. On the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark depiction of the

galaxy glowed in neon green above his bed. It made him

smile. His father had helped glue it to the ceiling when he'd

been five or six. It was the one childhood frivolity he'd never

been able to part with.

Clint moved to his bed and turned on the brass lamp atop

the nightstand. He unzipped his duffle bag and methodically

pulled out his clothes, placing them all in empty drawers. He

hung the one suit he'd brought along for Alex's rehearsal

dinner in the closet, then toed off his boots. Returning to the

dresser, he pulled out a comfortable pair of lightweight

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pajama pants and tossed them on the bed. He changed

quickly, careful to put the clothes he'd worn in the hamper.

All ingrained habits his parents had drilled into him.
Big

boys pick up their clothes, Clint. Son, I don't want to see

those clothes on the floor if I come up here later.

The moonlight caught his attention, and he gravitated to

the window to look up at the clear sky. Overhead, stars

twinkled bright. Years ago, his father had studied the

constellations with him. Somewhere around here, Clint still

had the telescope his dad gave him for his twelfth birthday.

His gaze pulled to Orion and quickly traced the mighty

warrior's belt.

An owl's muffled hoot had him scanning the trees. Light

filtered through a window on the hill. Jesse's window. He

could just make out the soft yellow in the distance.

Her delicate features rose to the forefront of his mind. Her

lowered lashes, her slightly parted lips—she hadn't turned

away. Hadn't fought at all.

He could feel the softness of her mouth, the hesitant touch

of the tip of her tongue. She would have tasted like coffee—

rich and satisfying. She might have leaned in a little closer

inviting him to more. Her hair would have slipped through his

fingers like fine silk. And her perfume... He could smell the

light scent of flowers that contrasted with the tomboy he

knew so well.

Clint closed his eyes to the unexpected tightening of his

body. His heart drummed a heavier beat, and he clenched

one hand into the thick curtain.

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A Christmas to Believe In

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Jesse and he had played in this room. The racetrack they'd

built had spanned the entire floor, covered his desk, and

canvassed his bed. They'd had spitting contests off the back

porch. How in the world had that girl turned into a woman he

couldn't get out of his head?

How in the world had she managed to replace the memory

of Matchbox cars rolling across his bedspread with a fantasy

of how she'd look tangled up in his sheets? Long legs wrapped

around him, her back arched and accenting full breasts.

Alabaster skin slipping against his.

Biting back an oath, he snapped his eyes open to squelch

the vivid picture. He tugged at his waistband to adjust the

constriction of his pants and tossed himself on the bed. This

was not good. He had to survive a week of being near her.

And if the sudden stirring of his cock was any indication of

how that would go, he'd never survive two days.

Damn it all, Heath better be able to entertain her. Alex had

his hands full, and if Clint had to, they wouldn't be spending

much time in front of the Christmas tree talking to his

mother. He'd have her up here. Locked away. Where no one

could interrupt his thorough investigation of the woman she'd

magically become.

If that happened, everything would change.

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55

A Christmas to Believe In

by Claire Ashgrove

"Ethan, I'm off! There's pizza in the freezer for lunch."

Jesse grabbed her leather bag off the couch, threw it over her

shoulder and headed for the door. One hand on the knob, she

paused to cast a worried glance up the stairs. Today marked

the first day of school vacation. It was also the first full day

Ethan would be home alone.

"Ethan?"

"Yeah?" His harassed answer carried the heavy weight of

sleep.

"Remember what we talked about. No company while I'm

at work."

"Yeah, Mom. I know."

She gnawed on her lower lip a moment, resisting the urge

to recite a litany of house rules. With a decisive shake of her

head, she turned everything over to fate and let herself out