Christmas At Copper Mountain (A Copper Mountain Christmas) (10 page)

She glanced down at the beautiful rustic wreath the ranch hands had made her.
It was wonderful, thoughtful, and charming and it’d actually look perfect in the kitchen, hanging on the big river rock fireplace above the mantel.

She carried the wreath toward the mantel, and was standing on tiptoe, trying to decide where the wreath would look best, when Brock entered the kitchen.

He’d changed into black plaid flannel pajama pants and a gray knit long-sleeved shirt that clung to his muscular chest and torso, before tapering to a narrow waist. “Thought I heard some of the boys,” he said, glancing around.

She nodded, trying to ignore how his flannel
pajamas hung from his lean hipbones, revealing several inches of bare skin and taut, toned abs between the pajama waistband and the hem of his shirt.

Her mouth dried.
He had quite a hot body. Goodness knows what else all those layers of clothes hid...

She licked her upper lip, moistening it.
“Lewis and Paul just left. They brought back the dishes, and this.” She lifted the wreath. “The boys made it for me.”

“They made you a wreath?”

She nodded, remembering how he wasn’t one who liked Christmas fuss. “It’s a thank-you for taking care of them.”

One of his black brows lifted.
“They know you’re leaving then?”

She carefully placed the wreath on the seat of the rocking chair.
“No.”

“They just made you a wreath for the hell of it?”

“I think they like my cooking.”

He made a rough sound deep in his chest.
“I think they like
you
.”

“I’m not encouraging them—”

“Didn’t say you were. I meant it as a compliment. They do like you, and I don’t blame them for being appreciative. Maxine kept their bellies full but she didn’t care too much about making them comfortable, or trying to make anyone happy. That wasn’t her job.” His lips curved ruefully. “Or so she’d say when the boys complained.”

“I can’t imagine those boys complaining about anything,” she said, filling the
tea kettle with water and putting it on the stove.

“They certainly didn’t complain about her cooking ever again after she poured a cup of salt in their stew, and overcooked their biscuits by an hour or two, so that when the biscuits reached their table, they were hard as bricks.”

Harley laughed. “She didn’t!”

“She did.
You don’t mess with Maxine.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “You eat what she cooks, you stay out of her way when she’s cleaning, and you wear your clothes however you find them... wet, dry, stinking of moth balls, or smellin’ of bleach.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“She definitely runs a tight ship. JB calls her Warden behind her back.”

Harley spluttered.
“As in a prison warden?”

“That’s the one.”

“No wonder they’re hoping Maxine won’t return,” she said, glancing at the kettle, waiting for it to come to a boil.

“They said that?”

She shrugged. “More or less. But it was probably just a joke—”

“It probably wasn’t.”
He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I will have to do something eventually. Just not ready yet. She’s known the kids since they were toddlers, and she knows her way around the place.”

“So Maxine is like family to the twins.”

He grimaced. “I wouldn’t say that. She doesn’t remember their birthday or talk much to them, but she’s familiar and I trust her. She won’t spoil the kids, but she won’t hurt them, and she’s honest to a fault. So I’ve put off making changes.” Brock looked at her, shrugging wearily. “As you can tell, I’m not a fan of change.”

No, it didn’t sound like it, Harley thought.

For a moment there was just silence and then she drew a quick breath. “Speaking of the kids... have you checked on them?”

“No.
Why?”

“They’ve been in their rooms for hours.”

“They’re supposed to be. I sent them to bed.”

“I know, but they didn’t have much lunch as they were too eager to get back outside to play—”

“If they’re hungry, that’s their problem, not mine.”

Harley bit the inside of her lip.

But he saw her face, could read her worry. “They’re in trouble. There have to be consequences for their actions,” he said.

“I know, and I agree that there must be consequences, but I don’t think it’d hurt to talk to them, hear what they have to say.
They’ve been gone for months and they only just got home.”

“Then they should have made different decisions.
They didn’t have to go to bed without dinner. They could have told me what they were doing when Molly got hurt, because I know they were up to something. Molly didn’t get hurt from a snowball fight. That was a cut next to her eye, a clean cut, with clean edges. Something made that cut and I want to know how it happened, and the kids know. But they’re not talking, so they’re in their room. End of story.”

She nodded, wondering if now was when she should tell him what Paul and Lewis had told her, about the
ax and the tree, but she didn’t want to get the kids in more trouble.

“What’s wrong?” Brock asked.
“You think I’m too hard on them?”

The kettle whistled, saving her from immediately answering.

She grabbed a pot holder and moved the shrieking kettle to a back burner. The kettle fell silent. “Would you like a cup?” she asked, motioning to the kettle.

He shook his head.
“But I am interested in your opinion. You’ve been here a few days with them now. Do you think I’m too hard on them?”

She squeezed the
pot holder. “I’m not the best person to ask.”

“Because you don’t know kids?”

“Because they’re your kids. I think you have to raise them according to your values.”

“My brothers say I’m too hard on the twins, but they’re bachelors.
They don’t know what it’s like to have a child, to be the only one responsible for a child, never mind suddenly becoming the only person responsible for two infants still just breastfeeding when their mom is killed.”

Harley couldn’t imagine what it’d been like for him to bury his wife even as he had to become both mother and father to two babies.
“Must have been awful,” she said quietly.

“It was hell.”
His brow furrowed and he stared blindly across the kitchen, grief etched across his features. “Amy was such a good mom, too. She was such a natural... calm, and patient. Nothing flustered her.”

“Good thing, considering you had twins.”

“That was a surprise, but not a huge shock. Twins run in the Sheenan family, I have brothers who are twins—Troy and Trey—and my dad had brothers who were twins, but Amy and I were a little overwhelmed when Mack and Molly were born. They were small and needed round-the-clock feeding, and Molly had colic. She was so fussy.” He smiled ruefully. “She still is.”

“But Mack was easy?”

“Mack was born easy. He’d just sit there in his infant seat and chill while his sister wailed.” Brock shook his head. “Thank God Mack was so good-natured. I don’t think I could have handled two fussy babies on my own.”

“You’re a good dad,” Harley said quietly, meaning it.

“I make mistakes.”

“Everybody makes mistakes.”

“I guess we are managing, the three of us, but I thought the hard years would be the baby years. Instead, it’s getting tougher as they get older. They’ve got ideas and opinions and they’re starting to test me—”

“They’re becoming teenagers.”

“They’re only eleven.”

“And a half.”
She smiled. “They told me they were born in early May. Apparently they are hoping to do something fun with you for their twelfth birthday... something about going to Orlando?”

“I have not agreed to
Orlando. I would never agree to Orlando. Flathead Lake, yes. Florida, no.”

“Why not
Orlando?” she asked.

“Too many people. Don’t like crowds. Not a big fan of amusement parks.”

“Have you ever been to an amusement park?”

“No.”

“You can’t blame them for being curious.”

“They’re Montana kids. They’re just as happy camping and fishing. So if they really want to go somewhere for their birthday, I’ll take them to Flathead Lake.
Amy’s parents have a cabin there and we can fish and hike.”

“Molly fishes?”

“For their tenth birthday I gave each of them new poles and tackle.”

Harley squashed her smile.
She couldn’t imagine her Emma or Ana ever being excited about a fishing pole and tackle, but her girls were good athletes and had loved skiing and snowboarding and having adventures with their dad. That’s how they’d died, too. Setting off on an adventure with their dad.

David should have never taken off in that bad weather.
Never, never, ever.

But he never did listen to her.
He was always so sure he knew what was best.

Her smile faded.

She realized Brock had stopped talking and was looking at her. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

She shook her head, unable to talk about the kids, or how they died, or how selfish their father had been, piloting his own plane when there had been severe weather warnings.

“Nothing,” she whispered, pushing back the flood of memories, heartsick all over again. Emma and Ana and Davi, her little boy. Gone. All gone.

She turned to the cabinet, stared blindly at the boxes of tea, waiting for her vision to clear.

“I’m sorry,” Brock said, after a moment. “I forgot that this is a difficult subject for you.”

“It’s okay,” she said thickly.
She turned to face him a few moments later. “I’m sure you know it, but you’re lucky. You have such sweet, smart kids. You should be proud.”

“I’d be prouder if they didn’t run away from school and if they’d tell me the truth when one of them gets hurt.”

“Maybe they’re scared that if they tell you the truth they’ll get in trouble.”

“I’ve never hit them.
There’s no reason for them to be afraid of me.”

Harley regarded him a moment, still feeling the ache of grief that accompanied thoughts of her children.
“Maybe they just need you to talk to them more. Reassure them that they can trust you—”

“Of course they can trust me.
I’m their father.”

“You can be a little intimidating,” she said gently, thinking that right now he looked about as soft and receptive as the granite counter slabs in the kitchen.
“Maybe just try to talk to them as a friend.”

His big arms crossed over his chest, drawing the knit shirt tight at his shoulders, revealing those hard carved abs again.
“I’m not here to be their friend.”

Suddenly JB’s words came to Harley’s mind.
Mr. Sheenan’s been a bachelor too long
. Is that what this was?

She dropped her voice, softening her tone.
“Don’t you want to know who they are? Don’t you want to know about their ideas... their feelings... their dreams?”

His upper lip curled.
His expression was openly mocking. “For a woman who never had kids, you certainly seem to have a lot of opinions on how to raise them.”

She flinched, caught off guard.

She shouldn’t have been caught off guard, though. She’d pushed, wanting to help, but her attempt had backfired, and he’d lashed out at her instead.

It was a good lesson.
Not just because he’d hurt her feelings, but because she wasn’t a counselor, a family member, or a friend. She was his employee and day after tomorrow she’d be gone.

Dropping the teabag in her mug, Harley vowed to mind her own business until then.

She counted to ten as she filled her mug with hot water, and then counted to ten again.

When she was confident she could speak calmly, she faced Brock.
“I never said I’d never had kids. I said I don’t have children
now
.” She looked Brock in the eye, held his gaze. “My children died with their father in a small plane crash three years ago February. And maybe you don’t need to be friends with your kids, but I loved being friends with mine.”

Blinking back tears, she grabbed her mug and headed to her room to sip tea and read in bed and think of anything and everything besides her children who were angels now.

Brock cursed under his breath as Harley disappeared.

He’d hurt her again and he hadn’t meant to hurt her as much as get her to stop, back off. He wasn’t accustomed to being lectured, and she’d given him an earful and he’d had enough of her dispensing advice.

He didn’t need advice, not when it came to parenting his children.
Mack and Molly were his kids and he was raising them the way he thought best.

But with Harley gone from the kitchen, he could still feel her surprise and hurt.
He could still see the bruised look in her eyes when she’d turned away.

Shit.

This is exactly why he didn’t date and avoided polite society. He didn’t fit in polite society. He was better away from people, better on his own.

Angry with himself, he went to the barn to do his nightly check before bed.
As he entered the barn, his dogs were immediately at his heels and followed him from stall to stall as he greeted each horse, stroking noses, giving treats, trying not to think about Harley or what she’d told him.

She’d been a mother.
She’d had kids. Her children had died.

He cringed all over again, disgusted with himself, not just for his put-down,
but for his need to put her in her place.

What was wrong with him?

Why did he have to shame a woman?

If his mom were alive she’d be horrified.
She’d raised her boys to be gentlemen. She’d taught her five sons that women were equals and deserving of protection and respect.

He certainly hadn’t been respectful to Harley tonight.

Heart heavy, he returned to the house, locked up the doors, and turned off unnecessary lights but he couldn’t settle down in front of the TV, not when his conscience smacked him for being a heel.

Brock climbed the stairs two by two, and then the narrow staircase to the third floor bedroom he’d carved from the attic.

He knocked on the closed door with a firm rap of his knuckles.

She opened the door after a long moment, peeking out from behind the door.
Her long hair was loose, a thick golden brown curtain about her face, and from behind the door he glimpsed a bare shoulder, her skin creamy and smooth.

She must have been changing when he’d knocked.

Just like that, his body hardened, pulse quickening.

He wanted her and he couldn’t remember when he’d lasted wanted anyone.

“I didn’t know,” he said shortly, glaring down at her, now unhappy with himself for being unable to manage the way he responded to her. In the eleven years since Amy died he’d never had an issue with lusting or physical desire, but something about Harley annihilated his famous self-control. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being rough with you and not being more... sensitive. As you might have noticed, I’m not a very sensitive guy.”

“I share the blame,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have been offering advice. I won’t do it again.”

They were the right words but somehow they didn’t make him feel better.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had kids?”

“It’s not something I talk about anymore.” She tugged her robe up, over her shoulder, concealing her delectable skin.
“I’ve discovered that people treat you differently if they know.
She’s the lady who lost her husband and three children...
I could hear people whisper that, or look at me with pity, and I’ve found that it’s just better for people not to know. That way there’s no awkwardness.” She made another little adjustment before stepping from behind the door, firmly tying her sash at her waist. “Which is why I didn’t want you to know I had children. I liked coming here to work knowing that my past didn’t matter, that my grief was my grief alone, and that this Christmas I’d get through the holidays with a minimum of fuss.”

“And then my kids came home,” he said quietly.

“Your eleven-year-olds.” Her lips curved but her expression was haunted. “My oldest was eleven when she died.” She drew a slow breath. “Eleven is such a great age, too.”

Brock could see how hard she was trying to keep it together, trying to be calm and strong, and her strength and courage moved him far more than tears ever could.

He’d wanted her moments ago because she was beautiful and desirable and now he just wanted to hold her to comfort her.

But he couldn’t.

There was no way he could make a move, not even to comfort. She was his employee. He was responsible for her.

“Tell me about your kids,” he said.

Her head dipped. Her voice dropped. “It’s hard to talk about them. Hurts.”

He heard her voice crack and his chest grew tight.
It was all he could do to not reach out and caress her cheek. “It doesn’t help to talk about them?”

Her head shook and she lifted her head, looked up at him, eyes bright.
“I’m still mad they’re gone. I don’t know why they’re gone.”

It was the tear trembling on her lower lashes that did him in.

He reached out to wipe the tear from her lashes and then the tear from the other side and when he couldn’t catch the tears because they were falling too fast he did the only thing he could think of. He drew her toward him and kissed her.

The kiss wasn’t meant to be sexual, and her lips were cool and they trembled beneath his.
Brock was afraid he’d scared her, but then she slowly kissed him back, the coolness of her mouth giving away to a simmering heat.

He liked the way she kissed him back, her lips opening to him, and he took her mouth, craving her warmth.
She tasted both sexy and sweet and he drank her in, feeling more than he wanted to feel, feeling more than he ever expected to feel and he leaned into her, backing her against the doorframe, his big body pressed to hers, needing to get as close as he could.