Christmas In Snowflake Canyon (14 page)

She thought about letting the false impression stand but something compelled her to honesty. “I wasn’t by myself. I had help. Dylan Caine came over last night and worked with me to strip the walls.”

Her stomach tingled again as she remembered that kiss that had happened right about where her mother stood.

Laura frowned. “Which Caine brother is that? There are dozens of them.”

“Only six, Mother. He’s the youngest son.”

Laura looked baffled for a moment, trying to put the pieces together, and then her eyes widened. “Dylan. He’s the one who lives up in Snowflake Canyon. The one who lost his arm.”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “That’s the one.”

Laura stared at her. “Why would you have him help you? What can he even
do
without an arm?”

Kiss her until she couldn’t remember her name, for one thing. He had amazing skills in that direction, but she was quite certain her mother wouldn’t appreciate that particular insight.

“Plenty of things. Just about everything.” Whether he wanted to believe it or not. “He was amazingly helpful last night. I honestly couldn’t have managed without him.”

Her mother’s frown deepened. “Is there…something going on with you and Dylan Caine your father and I should know about?”

Heaven forbid. Her parents didn’t need to know
any thing
about whatever might be going on with her and Dylan. Not that there was anything to know.

“Why would you say that?” she countered.

“As I am remembering things now, he’s the one who got you into trouble, isn’t he? Yes. I remember now. He was in that bar fight with you. And now you tell me he came over on a Sunday night to help you with home renovations. What am I supposed to think?”

How would her family react if she started seeing Dylan? He was so vastly different from Sawyer, her parents’ ideal of a potential mate for her. Where Sawyer had been cultured, polite, polished and adroit, Dylan was rough, shaggy. Dangerous.

Her parents would probably totally freak. Her dad would start blustering around about bad boys and silly girls; her mother would shriek and ask what all her friends would think.

Charlie would be cool about it. Since his time in juvenile detention, she sometimes thought her little brother was just about the most grounded person in the family.

Not that it mattered how they might react, since it was the most hypothetical of questions. He had kissed her, yes, but swore it wouldn’t happen again.

On that depressing note, she ushered her mother to the door. “You don’t need to worry about me and Dylan Caine, Mother. We’re friends, that’s all. That’s why he helped me last night.”

Laura didn’t look convinced. She opened her mouth to argue, but Genevieve wasn’t in the mood to talk about Dylan another minute and especially not with her mother.

“I’m sorry but I’ve really got to go. I’m already late. Have a great time in Denver. Love you, Mother.”

Before Laura could protest or shove one of her black leather boots in the frame, Genevieve managed to close the door and lock it tight.

T
his was becoming a habit.
Genevieve adjusted a fold of garland on the seventh

Christmas tree she had decorated for A Warrior’s Hope then eased back a little to admire the results.

This one—located in the main reception room just off the lobby of the recreation center, with equally stunning views of the mountains—was bigger than those in the cabins. While the tree already had a few basic decorations, they were sparse and lackluster.

Saturday she had bought jute and spray paint at the hardware store and then had stopped into the craft store for a roll of burlap and ribbon.

Just before scraping wallpaper Sunday, she had gathered some bare branches from Grandma Pearl’s yard, laid them flat in the garage and spray-painted them with a little silver. Not too much, just a hint.

She had felt more than a little silly spending money she didn’t really have, but she was pleased with the results.

As this room with its big river-rock fireplace and wide windows would serve as the main gathering spot for everybody, she had wanted it to be as warm and welcoming as their cabins. The program participants shouldn’t want to only spend all their time in their individual spaces.

“Oh, wow. This looks fantastic, Genevieve.”

From her perch on top of a ladder, she glanced down to find Dylan’s sister watching from the doorway. She looked smart and pretty in tan slacks and a pale blue sweater.

“Do you think so? I was afraid the silver branches were too much.”

“Not at all. They’re perfect. It sets just the right tone, I think. Not too fancy, with a focus on nature.” She moved farther into the room and looked around at the table decorations Gen had thrown together to be reused throughout the week, a mix of flowers donated from the florist in town, the burlap and more of those spraypainted branches.

“All I can say is, it was a lucky thing for A Warrior’s Hope that you decided to get into a bar fight at the Lizard.”

Gen gave a rueful smile. “I do what I can.”

“And we appreciate it.” Charlotte gave her a warm look that made Gen glow more than the eight hundred lights on the tree.

“I don’t have your aesthetic sense, that’s for sure,” the other woman continued. “Seriously, have you ever thought about being an interior decorator?”

“Yes, actually.” She climbed down from the ladder and was grateful to be on solid ground again. She really didn’t like heights. “I graduated from college with a degree in interior design. I’d like to open my own company someday.”

“You’ll be wonderful at it,” Charlotte assured her. “Thank you.”
“I came to tell you they’re only fifteen minutes away.

Spence just called from the road with a status update.”

“Great,” she lied, nerves crashing around in her stomach like drunken butterflies. “I had better finish up in here, then, and put away all the supplies.”

“I can help you with that.”
“You don’t have a million other things to do?”
“At this particular moment in time, no. Amazingly enough. Everything is done, as far as I know. Alex and her crew are on the way from Brazen with dinner. We’ll have the welcome reception and then dinner, then let everybody settle in after their day of traveling. Tomorrow the fun starts in earnest.”

That was a matter of perspective. “Will you be here the whole week?”

“I wish. Unfortunately, I’ve still got a store to run. Sugar Rush is crazy-busy this time of year, with everybody wanting custom orders at the last minute. I’ll be here on and off most of the week. Eden, Chelsea and Mac should have everything under control, with all the other volunteers that come and go. Plus you and Dylan, who will be here full-time.”

She hadn’t seen the man since he’d left her house the night before after that stunning kiss.

“I guess Dylan went to help with the airport pickups,” she said since his sister brought up his name. She tried to inject a casual tone into her voice, but she was afraid she failed when Charlotte flashed her an intent look.

“He wasn’t very happy about it, but yes. Spence talked him into going with him.”

What would Charlotte say if she knew about that stunning kiss—or that Genevieve fiercely wanted more? “What would you like me to do during the welcome reception?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Just try to make everyone feel comfortable. That’s all. Change can be overwhelming to some of these guys, especially the few we have with head injuries, and the logistics of traveling can be stressful. The first night, we just try to relax and let them settle in, become familiar with the place, that sort of thing.”

Those nerves snarled in her stomach again. This part was easy. Hanging a few ornaments, wielding a can of spray paint, arranging some flowers.

Interacting with people who had been through hell was a different situation entirely.

On the other hand, she liked Dylan and had been able to get along fine with him, with only a few faux pas. She would just try to treat the others as she did him.

Except for the serious-crush part. Oh, and the kissing. the guests of A Warrior’s Hope arrived at the recreation center in three separate vans. Eden, in her hyperorganized way, had emailed Genevieve—and everyone else, she assumed—a list of everyone attending this eight-day-long camp, as well as photos and a quick biographical sketch and which family members they would be bringing as guests.

The two men using wheelchairs were easy to identify. One was young with blond hair and an open, freshfaced demeanor. Army Corporal Trey Evans hailed from Alabama, she knew, and had limited use of his legs after a spinal-cord injury. He was also the only warrior attending without any family members.

In quite startling contrast, the other man using a wheelchair must be Army Sergeant Joe Brooks. He was surrounded by family—a wife, Tonya, Gen remembered from the bio, who was just about the most beautiful woman Gen had ever seen in person, and two adorable girls with hair in a flurry of braids, Marisol and Claudia. One of the girls sat on his lap and the other one held her mother’s hand as they walked in beside the chair.

She knew two of the men had suffered brain injuries. They were a little harder to pick out, until she remembered one was coming with his parents. Judging by the way an older couple fussed around a tall, goodlooking man with a buzz cut, she guessed that was Marine Lance Corporal Robert Augustine and his parents, Robert Sr. and Marie.

She found the other one, Ricardo Torres, and his wife, Elena. When Eden sent his bio picture, Gen had thought he reminded her of one of her friends in Paris. Now she saw the similarity was even more pronounced. That would help her remember his name.

Lieutenant Pam Bryant was quite easy to pick out, as well. She was a pretty, compact woman with severe scarring over one side of her face who walked with a pronounced limp. Beside her was her fiancé, Kevin.

The last group to come in had to be Marine Lance Corporal Jason Reid and his wife, Whitney, who carried a little boy who was probably about three.

They were all talking together and laughing, though a few seemed tired and Jason Reid had a stony expression that discouraged conversation.

What did she have to talk about with any of these people anyway? She knew nothing of what they had endured. Feeling awkward and superfluous, she stood in one corner, trying to gather the courage to mingle.

Eden and Mac moved through the crowd, handing out appetizers, drinks, snacks for the children. Even Dylan was deep in conversation with Pam Bryant.

Etiquette and manners had been drilled into her from the time she used to go to dance class. She knew it was the height of rudeness to stand here in the corner. She had to make some kind of effort. By avoiding interactions, she likely appeared rude and snobbish, exactly how people perceived her.

What was she supposed to say to any of them? The old social nicety of seeking points of commonality seemed ludicrous under these circumstances. What could she and these battle-scarred men—and Lieutenant Bryant—who had seen and done so much, possibly have in common? It seemed ridiculous to even try making faltering conversation.

She stood shifting her weight from foot to foot, gazing out the window to avoid eye contact, wishing she were anywhere else on earth.

Finally, after about ten minutes, one of the men took the matter out of her hands.

“Hey there. What’s so interesting out there?”

She turned to find the younger man in the wheelchair had approached without her realizing. Trey Evans, she remembered. Up close, she could see he was about her age, with sun-streaked hair and quite handsome features. Not Dylan-gorgeous but enough to make most women a little flustered.

“It’s not a matter of something else being more interesting than present company. I’m just a little…out of my comfort zone.”

“Aren’t we all, darlin’.”

She had to smile at his easy charm and Southern drawl.

“You don’t like Colorado?”

“Never been here. All I can say is, you all sure know how to bring it when it comes to mountains and snow.”

“We do our best.”

He held out a hand. “I’m Trey Evans. You can probably tell I’m not from around here. I’m originally from Wetumpka, Alabama.”

She could feel herself relax. He was just a kid who had lost a great deal. She shook his hand. “Hi, Trey. I’m Gen Beaumont. Welcome to Hope’s Crossing. I hope you enjoy your stay. I’m actually from here, though I’ve been living in Paris until recently. Do you know which cabin you’re in yet?”

“No idea. Why?”

She felt stupid for asking. “I helped decorate them for the holidays last week. They all have different themes and I have a few of my favorites. I was just curious which one you would be staying in.”

“So you’re, what, the staff decorator or something?”

She could feel more tension seep away. This wasn’t so bad. She could handle small talk. “Something like that. Mostly, I do what they tell me.”

Except for the part about relaxing and making everyone feel comfortable. So far, that was a big fail on her part.

“You’re the general dogsbody, then.”

“I don’t have any idea what that means, but, um, sure.”

He laughed, taking a sip of the drink he had somehow managed to prop on his lap when he wheeled over. “My grandpap used to call me that when I was a kid and would spend the day at his store being his grunt. Running for change to the bank, sweeping the floors, grabbing him another coffee next door. It means errand boy. Gofer. Whatever you want to call it.”

“That would be me.” Something in this young man’s casual friendliness appealed to her, maybe because it presented such a sharp contrast to Dylan’s general surly reticence. “If you want to know the truth, I’m here for court-ordered community service.”

He nearly spilled his precariously balanced drink. She saw him catch it just in time, eyes wide, though some dribbled over the lip of the cup onto his slacks. “Community service? Wow. Didn’t expect that one. Seriously?”

She scooped up a napkin from a nearby table and handed it to him. “Do I look like the kind of girl who would lie about something as embarrassing as that?”

His long scrutiny wasn’t flirtatious, only friendly, edged with a daub of sadness she didn’t quite understand given their lighthearted conversation.

“No. But I have to say, you don’t look like the kind of girl who would be here on court-ordered community service, either. What did you do? Let me guess.” He narrowed his gaze. “Shoplifting.”

“I beg your pardon.” She sniffed. She had many faults, but she considered herself an honest person in general and disliked deception in others. She’d broken an engagement over it, for heaven’s sake.

“No?” He set his drink on a table and wheeled around her adeptly, trying to see her from a different angle. “How about…tax evasion.”

“Not even close.”

Dylan had moved closer, she saw, and was now in conversation with the Augustines about six feet away. When she glanced over, she found him watching her interaction with Trey out of the corner of his gaze— quite a trick, when one eye was covered by that everpresent black eye patch.

She turned back to Trey, suddenly enjoying herself much more than she expected. “Do you want to hear the ugly truth?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Lay it on me.”

She smiled, leaned in close and tried for her best badgirl voice. “I started a bar fight and ended up busting the nose of the assistant district attorney.”

Trey laughed so hard some of the other guests looked over with curious looks—including Dylan, whose expression was far more inscrutable.

“I would have paid good money to see that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t intend for there to ever be a repeat performance. It was purely a one-off. I learned my lesson. The next time some idiot decides to play every conceivable rendition of ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ on the jukebox of the worst dive in town, I plan to pay my tab and leave.”

He laughed again, so hard that Lieutenant Bryant and her fiancé approached.

“What’s so funny over here?” the woman asked.

“This is Gen Beaumont. She was just telling me a story about breaking a woman’s nose over Christmas carols.”

Lieutenant Bryant grinned. “Wow. Remind me not to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ around you.”

At first, Genevieve was uncomfortable looking at that scarred face that must have once been quite pretty, but after a few moments’ conversation, she relaxed, especially when the other woman commented about how much she loved her sweater and asked where she could find one.

Gen launched into a conversation about her favorite of the few shopping spots in town, which drew the attention of Tonya Brooks and Elena Torres. Before she knew it, she was offering to take the women on a shopping expedition into town if it could be arranged.

Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad way to spend her community-service hours after all.