Healing Beau (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 6) (6 page)

She went straight into her bedroom, shucked her clothes, and put on flannel pants and the U.S. Army sweatshirt Beau had left there five years ago.

Damn it, where was he? Should she be worried? If she could have thought of a reason to call Emory or Neyland, she would have. Maybe he’d decided to move back into Beauford Bend. Even if he hadn’t, he probably would when he discovered it was forty-two degrees in his room.

Or maybe he wasn’t at Beauford Bend at all. He probably wasn’t. He’d never had any problems finding a woman, and he’d most likely found one—maybe some country music star. Someone like Carrie Underwood, though not exactly her since she was married. Beau wouldn’t do that. He had a code of ethics. But he could have Taylor Swift. Yes, that was it. Swift would have finally found someone she wouldn’t write an unflattering song about. In fact, they would probably get married, if they weren’t already. That was it, why he wasn’t here. He’d bring her back here for the wedding night. And why not? If Firefly Hall was good enough for Tim McGraw and Faith Hill, it was good enough for Taylor Swift-Beauford.

But she’d better bring a flannel nightgown. Either that, or a heat pump and a lackey to install it. Though she wouldn’t need those things, because she’d have Beau to keep her warm.

A chime rang softly, alerting her that the front door had been opened. Ah, there they were now. Perhaps she should go greet Mr. and Mrs. Swift-Beauford and explain the lack of heat situation. But she stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Crazy, internal kidding aside, what if he really had brought a woman here? How awkward would that be? At least for her. Why should it be awkward for Beau? He had the right. She’d told him this was his home as long as he wanted.

She settled back on the sofa and waited. Pretty soon, there were footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on the door. Christian didn’t even smooth her hair. No sense in trying to compete with Taylor Swift.

She walked over and opened the door just as he was about to knock. With his fist poised in the air, he laughed. “Hello.”

“Hello, yourself.”

Would the day ever come when the sight of him did not take her breath away? No matter how recently she had seen him, she always forgot the perfection of his bone structure and the beauty of his mouth. But there was something more tonight. Was it her imagination? He looked a little happier. There was a glimmer of serenity in his eyes.

“I’ve been wondering where my sweatshirt got to.”

She stepped aside to let him in. “It’s not your sweatshirt. You left it here and I took it for my own.”

“Have you eaten?” He held out a paper bag to her. “Gwen sent this. It’s chili.”

“Gwen’s chili?” She took the bag. It only now occurred to her that she’d had nothing since that Italian wedding soup at String. The more the knots in her stomach dissipated, the more ravenous she became. “Even if I had eaten, I’d eat again. I assume you ate at Beauford Bend.”

“Yeah. I think there’s come cornbread and pound cake in there, too.” He dropped down on the sofa.

Christian sat down and unpacked the food on the coffee table. It was still hot. “Do you want anything?” She went into the kitchenette to get flatware and pour a glass of iced tea.

“No. I’m good.”

“So was Taylor Swift at dinner?” Christian sat on the sofa and took the lid off the chili.

“Who?” Beau frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

“No reason.” But one could never tell. “Did you notice that it was cold downstairs?”

“Cold like Beowulf’s hell, but it stands to reason. It’s gotten colder outside. I cut up the thermostat. Is that okay?”

“Cut away. It won’t do any good. The unit’s broken, and between the holidays and the part being on backorder, it won’t be fixed until after Christmas.” Now was when he was going to say he was going back to Beauford Bend. She’d be breezy and make it easy for him, like it didn’t matter. “So it looks like you have three choices: Sleeping in the cold. The little room up here. Or back to Beauford Bend with you.”

“Hmm.” He closed his eyes. “If it’s all the same to you, I pick the little room up here. It’s palatial compared to some places I’ve slept.” He winked at her. “Besides, I like the company.”

“What about climbing the stairs? Isn’t that bad for your back?”

He shrugged. “I can’t say it’s the most comfortable thing I do all day, but the physical therapist said taking the stairs is good for me. Seems like those medical guys can’t make up their minds. Rest. Exercise. Rest. Exercise. Which is it?”

His eyes lit up with true amusement, and Christian grew weak with the beauty of him.

“You know you’re welcome here.” If that wasn’t the biggest understatement in Understatement Land.

“I might not be after I tell you what I need to tell you.” Was it possible that Beau Beauford actually looked sheepish? It must be really bad.

“What? What? Did you kill my horse? Dig up my grandmother?”

His expression went from sheepish to confused. “No.”

Suddenly, she was embarrassed. She picked up a throw pillow and hugged it to her. “That’s good. The last person who dug up my grandmother”—she swiped her hand through the air—“right out of here.”

Beau laughed. He was beautiful when he laughed—crinkled eyes, perfect teeth, and a tiny dimple that almost wasn’t.

“I’ll try to stay away from the Hambrick cemetery.” Then he went serious. “I lied to you about something.”

Fabulous. Just what she needed to top off this ideal day—lies and confessions from her oldest, best friend.

“Maybe you’d better tell me about what.”

“I don’t know woodworking. Or I didn’t. I know a little now.”

What did that even mean? Then it dawned on her. The day had been so long, and so much had happened, that she’d forgotten about the writing desk.

He held up a hand. “Don’t worry. Your desk is fixed now. I can’t believe how good it looks. Do you know who Will Garrett is?”

“The woodworker? Sure. He fixed my desk?”

Beau shook his head. “No,” he said proudly. “I did. But he helped me. We sent pictures. Jackson set up a web cam and Will talked me through it. The glue needs to dry overnight. Then I’ve got to do a little touch up staining. We had to mix three different stains five times to get it just right, but I swear you won’t be able to tell it was ever broken.”

“And that’s where you’ve been all this time? Fixing my desk?” The thought of that turned her heart upside down.

“It took longer than I expected, but it was fun. I was pretty good at it.” Then he looked startled. “Sorry. I guess you don’t want to hear how I had fun fixing it, when it upset you so much that it was broken.”

Better than having fun with Taylor Swift.

She smiled. “You want me to break something else? So you can fix it?”

“Would you?” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ll think about it.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked at the floor like he always did when he had something to say, but wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Tell me, Beau.”

He nodded and met her eyes. “The last few weeks have been pretty bad. I know it sounds stupid, but when I was working on that desk, that’s all I thought about—not how everything had changed in a split second, and not about what I’m going to do next. It felt good to be setting something right for someone I care about.”

She had to swallow tears. “Then I’m glad I broke it. I wish I’d broken it worse. I’ll take an axe to the rocking chair in library first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you for not being mad that I lied to you,”

Interesting. “Why
did
you lie about that, Beau?”

He looked startled, like he hadn’t been expecting that. “Well.” He swallowed, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. “You were so upset, and I wanted to make it all right for you.”

He wanted it make it all right for her.
Her upside-down heart melted like a marshmallow on top of hot chocolate.

“You did that. Thank you.”

He squeezed her hand. “You’re welcome. The patient can come home tomorrow.”

“Warn her she’ll be cold.” She wanted to squeeze his hand back but couldn’t bring herself to.

He released her hand. “Hey. Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Sure. Anything you like.”
Anything at all. Everything. Always.

“Anything?” He grinned. They both knew what that meant.
Talladega Nights
.

“Sure. We don’t even have to get it On Demand. I have the Blu-ray.” Of course she did.

“I know I’ve seen it a hundred times, but I laugh every time.”

When the movie was on and they’d settled in, he leaned into her and covered them both with the throw from the back of the sofa—just like he’d always done.

And just like always, it meant nothing to him and everything to her.

But it was good to be near him and good to hear him laugh. Right now, nothing else mattered.

“Beau, you need to wake up.” The words accompanied rapping on the door.

He turned over with a groan and reached for his phone. 6:00 a.m. Christmas started early at Beauford Bend. He and Christian were expected at the breakfast table at seven, which was why he’d asked her to wake him. His phone alarm wasn’t much good against a pain pill-induced sleep.

She knocked harder. “Beau! You said to wake you.”

He sat up. “I’m up. Come in.”

He expected a robe-clad-messy-haired Christian, but she was dressed in white wool pants and a fuzzy, soft pink sweater. Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl earrings surrounded by small diamonds. He knew those earrings because his mother had borrowed them from Christian’s mother once to wear to a party. They were always doing that—swapping jewelry, purses, and coats. It was a curse to have a memory like his. What six-year-old boy took note of the earrings his mother wore and remembered it twenty-two years later? Even if he had circled the pearls with this finger when she cuddled him on her lap before leaving?

Anyway, the earrings were probably Christian’s nod to festivity. She wasn’t one for a lot of flash and dash. But, then, she didn’t need it.

“You’re pretty,” he blurted out. And it was so true. Not beautiful, not cute, not flamboyant. Just creamy, pretty perfection.

She blushed and smiled widely. “Thank you.” He could tell she didn’t believe him. “Merry Christmas.” She set a cup of coffee on the bedside table. There was a Christmas tree on the mug.

Christmas. Great. Surprisingly, Christmas Eve hadn’t been hard at all. He’d wakened feeling better than he had in weeks, physically and mentally. Christian had been amazed and impressed when he’d brought her writing desk home, had sworn she couldn’t tell it had been mended. And it was true. He’d done a great job. Even realizing he needed to go Christmas shopping hadn’t dampened his spirits. Shopping wasn’t his favorite sport, but he didn’t hate it as much as most men did. It was just another task that sometimes had to be done.

Last year, he hadn’t arrived at Beauford Bend until Christmas Day, so he had not experienced Christmas Eve under the reign of Emory before. To his relief, it had been unlike his childhood Christmas Eves when they had eaten shrimp gumbo and Japanese fruitcake—neither of which he liked—in the formal dining room before going to church. Then there had been the ritual of leaving cookies and milk for Santa before being hustled off to bed.

But Emory had changed all that. They’d had Gwen’s chicken and dumplings in the family dining room and then settled in to the family room to eat Christmas cookies and watch the
A Christmas Story
marathon. Emory had insisted that the Yule log had to burn out on its own, and considering what a good year it had been, she wasn’t willing to risk bad luck. There had been a lot of good natured teasing about who was going to sit up with it, because leaving an unattended flame was never going to happen at Beauford Bend.

Christian had looked so serene and happy with one of Rafe’s twins on her lap that Beau had wanted to draw her into his arms, child and all, and kiss her.

Then he’d been horrified at the thought—and he was horrified now that she still looked kissable. Their relationship was too important to risk for lust.

“Tell me again why we have to get up at this ungodly hour?” he asked.

“You know the Beauford Bend rules. Stockings, breakfast, and then Santa.”

Yes, he did know. Then there would be lounging around the tree, playing with presents, and entertaining kids until lunchtime in the formal dining room. They would eat ham, turkey, cornbread dressing, and ambrosia on those special dishes with the flowers that some Beauford bride had hidden in the woods during the war. Then more lounging, and Jackson would sing. Someone would turn on a basketball game—only because there was no football on Christmas Day—and someone else would grumble about having to abandon a new video game for basketball. Someone would play Scrabble. Gabe would eat again an hour after lunch. The kids would be put down for naps. Then the ham and turkey would come back out for sandwiches, and there would be more basketball.

Beau knew all this because that’s how it had been last year. His brothers seemed to take comfort in the familiarity, but not Beau. With the familiarity, came the ghosts of Christmas past, like some Southern gothic Dickens tale. Every single second of it was torture. He vowed last year he wasn’t coming for Christmas this year, but hell had happened, so now he had Christmas hell to endure and the ghosts with it.

Beau was not so egotistical as to think that his loss had been greater than his brothers’, but they hadn’t been the cause of the deaths. And then there was Aunt Amelia. They had loved her, and he didn’t doubt that they missed her, but in many ways, Beau felt he’d lost two mothers. After the fire, he’d still been young enough for bedtime stories and cuddles, and Aunt Amelia had been there for him. But at least he hadn’t killed her. She’d died just a few years back of a stroke—not surprising, given her age, but that didn’t make it any less painful.

Beau gave Christian his Charmer smile. “Why don’t we just stay here? We could watch
Talladega Nights
again and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”