Home for Christmas (6 page)

“The ferry was packed,” he commented absently. “What's going on this weekend?”

“Tonight is the opening ceremony for our annual Christmas Village,” Andie explained as she eased the SUV onto a side street that took them away from the worst of the crowds. “Every December, Sanctuary Island transforms our town square into a holiday-themed village. A ton of local businesses take part, there are games and contests, sleigh rides and pictures with Santa, and a parade—it's a pretty big deal. People come from all over to see it, and all the money the village brings in goes toward caring for the wild horse sanctuary on the island.”

“Sounds like a good cause.”

Andie sighed. “It is. And it's a good time—kids love the Christmas Village, of course, but the whole town really gets into it. It's something to see.”

Owen knew that exhausted tone. He grew up with a cop, too. “But for y'all in the sheriff's department, the Christmas Village isn't all fun and games,” he guessed.

“Lots of permits, lots of logistical support, lots of headaches,” Andie confirmed. “Plus, a huge daily influx of strangers who need food, water, medical attention—all kinds of stuff. I thank God every day that there's no place for all these tourists to stay overnight on the island, or I swear, we'd never have a moment's peace.”

Owen shifted in the deep seat, grimacing at the lance of pain through his lower back where he tensed it as he walked with the cane and the air cast. “I wish I could pitch in and help out, but I'd probably be more of a liability.”

And didn't that grate on him? The knowledge that the army had been right to place him on the Permanent Disability Retired List, though he'd wanted to fight it. He couldn't help, couldn't fight, couldn't
serve
, until he was back to peak physical condition. His men deserved him at his best, and that's what they would get.

“How are you doing?” Andie asked, a little tentative.

Remembering the way their father had tended to bite the head off anyone who asked him a question like that, Owen worked up a quick smile for his sister. She deserved his best, too. “Better every day. And I'm sure the good folks at the Windy Corner Therapeutic Riding Center will get me back on my feet again.”

“Windy Corner is where Caitlin has her lessons with Sam,” Andie told him. “He works there.”

Protectiveness stirred in Owen's chest, but he throttled it back. Andie had been taking care of herself for plenty of years without any help from Owen after he enlisted. “Tell me about this Sam guy. You're pretty serious about him, I take it? If he's moving in with you.”

Andie sent him a wry look out of the corner of her eye. “Caught that detail, did you? Yeah, Sam is … well, he's it for me. I can't explain it any other way but that.”

Something pressed, tight and aching, against the back of Owen's breastbone. “You love him.”

“I really do.”

“When you smile that way, you look like the pictures we have of Mom on her wedding day.”

Andie's soft, glowing smile faded. “I hope not. Or at least, I hope Sam and I have a longer happily-ever-after than Mom and Dad got.”

The anger that clenched Owen's stomach at the thought of their father was so old and familiar, it was almost comforting. “Dad didn't have to turn from the hero of the story into the villain when Mom died. That was his choice.”

“I used to agree with that, but now…” Andie shook her head. “I can't be sure how I would react if anything happened to Sam. I know that it would change me.”

“That's hardly a convincing advertisement for being in love.” Staring out the window, Owen automatically tracked the turns they took, estimating distances and clocking landmarks. “I worked damn hard to become the man I am now. Not perfect, by any stretch—but I'm not interested in starting over from scratch as a whole different person if I lose someone I love.”

In his sharp peripheral vision, Owen saw Andie give the signature Know-It-All-Sister Smirk. “Oh, sweetie. It's cute that you think you'll get to decide whether or not to be in love. In my experience, love doesn't require your permission to come right on in and change your whole life.”

Privately, Owen disagreed. Intimacy—emotion—was never a tactical advantage.

For some reason, the soft, dreamy prettiness of Libby Leeds flashed through Owen's mind. Her pink coat and pink cheeks made her sort of pink all over, like a frosted sugar cookie.

Owen frowned at his wavering reflection in the SUV's window. She was married, he reminded himself. And even if he'd disliked her grinning husband on first sight, that didn't mean Owen had the right to think about whether Libby would taste as sweet as she looked.

His forearm tingled where she'd scratched out her number. Palming it absently, Owen thought about calling her up, asking her to meet him for coffee—or hot cocoa, which seemed more her speed—to talk about why she'd seemed so surprised to see her husband meet her at the ferry. She'd listened to all Owen's problems. He owed her an ear in return.

Owen clamped down on the idea. Dangerous. What he ought to do was call her up and politely decline her invitation to spend Christmas at her house. That would be the smart play.

He promised himself he'd do exactly that as the SUV pulled off the main road onto a bumpy graveled driveway. Andie slowed way down, giving Owen plenty of time to appreciate the view of the big white barn perched atop the hill, surrounded by maritime pines.

“Nice place,” he commented, taking in the glimpse of paddocks and training rings out behind the barn. A curious horse poked its large chestnut head out of one of the windows lining the side of the barn and whinnied a shrill welcome.

Andie parked beside a few other vehicles and hopped out. She made it all the way around to his side of the SUV before he'd managed to wrestle his sling free of the seat belt. Already on edge, Owen glared at the red and white twinkle lights outlining the double-wide barn doors. “Is this whole island crazy for Christmas?”

“Yes.” Andie raised her hands in surrender and stepped back to let Owen struggle down from the car on his own. “You might as well get used to it. And when did you turn into such a Grinch, anyway?”

“I don't hate Christmas,” Owen groused, grabbing his cane from the backseat and ignoring the twinge of soreness in his muscles. “I just don't see what the big deal is. It's a day, like any other.”

He expected Andie to laugh at him, or guilt him with reminders of how special their mom had made the whole holiday season when they were kids. He didn't expect the hard grip of her hand on his bicep, or the deadly serious glint of steel in her eye when she said, “Do not let me catch you talking like that around Caitlin. I mean it, Owen. She's been through a lot and she's already playing down how excited she is about Christmas. I mean to give her a good one this year if it kills me.”

Twin spikes of anger and guilt jabbed at Owen. “You think I don't want that for her? That's why I agreed to the magazine idea. A great Christmas with a great family.”

“We're her family,” Andie argued. “We're all she needs.”

Owen snorted, her words cutting deep into the most vulnerable part of him. “Right. Because we're so good at being a family.”

Andie sucked in a breath, and for a second, Owen felt the cold satisfaction of a direct hit. But it was followed swiftly by the regret he never let himself feel while on a mission.

“At least I'm trying,” she choked out, the temper they both inherited from their father flaring bright. “While you were hiding in your hospital bed, too afraid to meet your own daughter, I've been raising her.”

Talk about a direct hit. Owen fought not to flinch at the raw truth of Andie's accusation. Time to retreat. “I don't want to fight with you, Andie. And despite what you think, I am trying. And I'm well aware that the best I can do is nowhere near good enough for any kid.”

“Caitlin isn't just ‘any kid,'” Andie fired back. “She's your daughter. Your little girl, who spent nearly a year asking me every single night if her daddy was coming home tomorrow.”

Gritting his teeth against the pain that wanted to gut him and leave him bleeding out on the ground, Owen said, “For most of that year, I was deployed overseas. I couldn't be here, and I'm sorry for that. I know it was an imposition to ask you to take her—she's not your responsibility.”

“No, she isn't my responsibility. She's my family. My joy. My
privilege
, to get to know her, to be here for her.” Andie shook her head, clearly despairing of making Owen understand. “And I know you couldn't be that person for her before, when you first found out she existed. I don't want to guilt you about that—you were fighting for your country and you almost made the ultimate sacrifice. But since then, since you were wounded … Owen, you've been back in the states for weeks now. Worse, you've been on TV. Caitlin's classmates have seen you, they ask her about your video, they want to know why you haven't come home yet. But you know what? She's stopped asking me.”

“That's good, right?” Owen gripped his cane hard. “She's learning to be patient.”

Andie's glare had a pitying edge. “Owen. Every night since she came here, without fail, she's asked about you. Until you showed up on TV and then didn't show up here. For her. The way I'd been promising.”

Cornered, Owen lashed out. “What are you angry about—that I haven't been here for Caitlin, or that I made you look bad?”

He expected a fiery explosion, the kind of knock-down drag-out they'd had in their teens when their tempers were spiked with hormones and fresh grief—or even later, when Andie had tried to convince Owen to come home for a visit, and he'd refused, unwilling to step foot in his father's house. But sometime in the last few years Owen's older sister had learned control. Self-mastery. Restraint.

Andie's eyes softened, her shoulders dropping out of fighting stance and slumping slightly with sympathetic exhaustion. “Let's not. Okay? I love you. However long it took you to get home to us, you're here now, and I'm glad.”

She'd learned more than self-control. She'd learned how to forgive.

Forcing himself to back down was one of the harder things Owen had ever done, but he'd learned a bit in the last few years, too. For instance, he knew how to defuse a situation with honesty. “Look, Andie. I'm glad to be here too, and I want to do what's right for Caitlin. But the fact is, I'm only here until I get combat-ready again. Once I'm cleared for duty, I'm going back to my unit.”

Andie's eyes widened in shock, and Owen frowned. He couldn't believe this was news to her. But then he noticed that her agonized gaze was directed slightly behind him, and he turned with a sense of inevitability to see a huge bearded man in a plaid flannel shirt holding the hand of a small, carrot-topped girl. The kid was staring up at Owen with her serious face as set and pale as stone.

“Caitlin, honey,” Andie started, moving toward the pair, but before she got two steps, the girl wrenched her hand away from the big guy's grip and took off running.

Owen watched the red flag of her hair streaming behind her as she disappeared over the hill and down to the paddock behind the barn, his every muscle locked in place and thrumming with tension. He would've given anything for the ability to toss aside his crutch and sprint after her—and at the same time, the idea of catching Caitlin up and staring into her hurt eyes, having to figure out the right words to say, the right thing to do to make this all okay for her, was the most daunting tactical challenge Owen had ever faced.

As it was, he couldn't do anything but lean helplessly on his walking stick and watch his daughter run away from him as if she were trying to outrun a snarling monster.

“Well,” said the big guy calmly, putting his arm around Andie's trembling shoulders. “That could've gone better.”

 

Chapter Six

The drive from the ferry dock to her grandfather's house was a blur. Libby stared avidly out the windows, craning her neck to peer up through the windshield, trying to get every angle she could on the island she barely remembered.

“It's been so long,” she murmured, staring at the imposing brick house at the end of the long drive. Memories shimmered just below the surface of her mind, like reeds waving under a frozen lake.

The house was much bigger than she'd expected, and grander somehow. Libby shifted uncomfortably as Nash brought the car to a stop, noticing for the first time that the car was a very high-end model with polished burled wood accenting the dash and buttery soft leather seats. How much money did her grandfather have, anyway?

“Don't worry.” Nash grinned as he grabbed her suitcase from the backseat and started up the steps to the stately wraparound porch. “Nothing much has changed. Nothing ever does, on Sanctuary Island.”

Libby hurried to catch up with him. “You grew up here?”

He paused at the front door to give her a look over his shoulder. “You really don't remember me, do you?”

Oh no. “Have we … met before?”

“We're cousins,” Nash pointed out. “We were both born here. Of course we've met.”

Feeling like an idiot, Libby reached out and plucked at the loose sleeve of Nash's leather jacket. “I kind of blocked out a lot of my memories of this place,” she admitted. “I missed it so much, for a long time it was easier to never think about it at all.”

Sympathy, deep and genuine, turned her cousin's magazine-ready perfection into something more human and relatable. “I get that. You got a raw deal. I was only ten or so when your parents passed away, but I remember them well. Your mom gave the greatest birthday presents—they were always weird, off-beat things I never would've thought to want, but once I tried them, they turned out to be the best things I got.”