Home for Christmas (10 page)

“Hey! Owen, I'm sorry. She's just a little overwrought—too many candy canes, probably.”

A muscle clenched in Owen's rough-hewn jaw. “The problem isn't a sugar overload and you know it.”

Caitlin's sobs had tapered off and now she was watching them from over the back of her pony's neck. Her red-rimmed eyes darted from her father to her aunt, and landed on Libby. Libby's ribcage squeezed her heart like an orange, wringing every last drop of empathy out of her.

Libby had been that little girl, so lost and alone in an unstable world that she clung fixedly to anything that would hold still long enough. For Libby, it had been a book of fairy tales her mother had read to her. For Caitlin, it was the stolid, unconcerned pony tearing at the dry grass of the village green.

I was lucky
, Libby remembered, picturing Uncle Ray's kind, weathered face and absent-minded smile.
Even if it took me a while to see it. Maybe I can help Caitlin see how lucky she is, even when things look bleak.

Before she knew it, she was stepping across to the pony with her hand outstretched. “Hi, Caitlin. I'm Libby. I'm a … friend of your dad's, and I'm hoping to get to know you this Christmas.”

Caitlin sniffled, not looking convinced. She didn't take Libby's hand, either. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to where Owen stood, frozen with tension, Libby dropped her hand to pet her fingers through the coarse strands of Peony's meticulously combed mane.

“She's beautiful,” Libby commented, searching for a way to connect. “And she did a great job in the pageant. Is she yours?”

From the way Caitlin's blue eyes lit up, Libby knew she'd hit on the perfect question. “No! She belongs to Miss Jo at the stables where I take lessons. But Peony is almost like mine—she's my horse that I ride in every lesson, and I'm responsible for grooming her and picking out her hooves from stones if they get in there and for giving her peppermint candies because those are her favorite when she's been good.”

Hiding a smile, Libby sorted through the jumble of information while her mind jumped forward a couple of steps. “I think Peony definitely deserves a treat after her performance tonight. And so do you! What would you think about coming to my house tomorrow to help me make a gingerbread house?”

Libby had no idea if Owen and his sister had yet had a chance to discuss where they'd be spending Christmas, but either way, Libby was determined to do what she could to make it special for Caitlin … and to give Owen a chance to get to know his daughter.

“By myself?” Caitlin asked, sneaking a glance at the other adults.

Libby kept her attention focused on Caitlin. “I was thinking we'd probably invite a few other people along. Like your aunt and your dad.”

“And Sam,” Caitlin said decisively. “Okay, I guess. Can we eat the gingerbread?”

A vague memory of research she'd done for a column a couple of years ago surfaced in Libby's mind. “Um, I don't think you would want to. The kind of gingerbread you have to bake that can stand up as a house isn't very good to eat. But there will be lots of candy to decorate with!”

Behind her, she caught Andie's soft groan and winced, wishing she'd thought a little faster and invited Caitlin over for some sugar-free holiday activity, like making snow angels or something.

But it was too late. Caitlin was running over to Andie, telling her about the gingerbread houses and casting shy, anxious glances up at her father whenever she paused for breath. For his part, Owen had clamped his jaw tight over whatever he wanted to say, but when Libby walked back to his side, the expression he turned on her told her everything she needed to know.

Thank you
, his blue-green eyes said.

Libby nodded back and tried not to think about how much she wished there were more than gratitude and friendship behind Owen's smile.

 

Chapter Nine

Owen squinted his eyes open against the light pouring in the windows, sore and stiff, and unsure why he was even awake.

Situational awareness came back to him in a flash—there were no curtains because he was in his sister's living room, and he was stiff because her sofa was a diabolical torture device from the middle ages.

And he was awake because a nine-year-old girl was perched on the coffee table, staring at him.

Blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes, Owen braced a hand on the arm of the sofa and pushed himself up. He had to grit his teeth against a groan of pain at the way the move torqued his torso, but luckily he'd had a lot of practice at suppressing reactions to physical discomfort.

What he had a harder time suppressing were the feelings that gushed up in his chest like an oil rig exploding, sticky and terrifying. “Morning,” he said.

His voice sounded like sand crunching under combat boots. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “How did you sleep?”

Caitlin shrugged. She had a poker face the guys on his team would've killed for. Owen, who'd never known what to say to kids, especially girl kids, even in the best of times, rubbed both hands over his face and prayed that somewhere in this house there was someone making coffee.

But he couldn't waste this chance to talk to his daughter.

“Listen,” he started, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, but then he paused. What could he say to this girl, whose entire life had been a secret to him up until a few months ago? “I know it's weird to have me just show up here, dropping into your life like a bomb. But I promise you, I'm not here to make things harder for you, or to upend everything you've got going with Andie and Sam and this island, and everything. School, the horse riding lessons…”

Owen trailed off, running a hand through his hair. Caitlin's expression hadn't wavered from stony staring. “Are you going to take me away to live with you?” she demanded abruptly.

Startled, Owen sat up straight as something like panic shot through him. “No! I mean, I don't think so. But I can't ask your aunt to look after you forever. It's complicated. And then there's my job. I haven't had a chance to talk it over with Andie yet, but she knows … and I guess you heard yesterday, that I'm hoping to go back to active duty when my leg heals up.”

He massaged a hand down his cramping thigh, careful of the healing scars, and sighed. That was a crappy non-answer to Caitlin's very understandable question, and Owen knew it. But Caitlin's only response was a silent nod that Owen had no idea how to interpret. She could've been agreeing that she'd overheard his plans—or she could've been approving of the plan.

“All I want to say,” he went on doggedly, “is that I know I'm late—years too late—and I don't know exactly where we're going to end up down the road. But I'm here now. And I want to get to know you. Can we do that?”

She shrugged and slipped off the coffee table, which Owen took as a yes. “Sam is making breakfast. I get to eat as much as I want. Even three pancakes, if I'm hungry,” Caitlin announced.

“That … sounds good?” Owen blinked, hoping again that breakfast included coffee. “Should we go see if Sam needs any help?”

“Helping is my job,” she said sharply. “You should brush your teeth. That's what we do when we first get out of bed, to wake our mouths up and get them ready for breakfast.”

Hiding a smile at the echo of his own mother's words, passed down to Andie and filtered through his daughter's mouth, Owen gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “Good idea. Let me get on that.”

Caitlin ran off toward the kitchen, leaving Owen to fumble through his duffel for his Dopp kit and troop down the hall to the bathroom. The counter was already cluttered with the detritus of two adults and a kid sharing space, and he went through his stripped-down morning routine as tidily and efficiently as possible. Andie's house was comfortable and cozy, but it was a tight fit with an unexpected adopted niece and a houseguest. Even family.

He worried about whether he was putting them out all through breakfast, while Caitlin chattered to Sam and Andie about people Owen didn't know who worked at the barn. Caitlin's eyes slid to Owen every so often though, so he smiled to let her know he was listening, but he didn't try to infiltrate the conversation. They'd made progress that morning, he thought, and he didn't want to push his luck.

A good leader knew when to forge ahead and when to hang back and let events unfold.

After breakfast, Caitlin was eager to get over to the Leeds' place and start her gingerbread house. Owen was ready in ten minutes—five longer than it would normally take him, but even without the air cast and with his arm out of the sling, his injuries slowed him down—and watched as the rest of them bustled around the small, confined space of the two bedrooms and one bathroom. Their smooth, choreographed moves reminded Owen of the way he and his guys operated in close quarters.

They had a routine that worked, a stable, organized way of doing things that Owen's presence was disrupting. Years in the military had given Owen a deep and abiding appreciation for order and routine, and he hated to be the extra variable that spun the whole careful construction off its axis.

That feeling of being extra and in the way intensified when they marched out to Andie's SUV and had to move a leather saddle and all its padding from the back passenger seat before Owen could get in. Apparently, caring for the saddle was one of Caitlin's jobs, and she fretted about leaving it behind at home the whole way to the Leeds' house.

“Okay, but just don't forget it when we go to the barn later,” she was reminding Andie for the fifth time when the SUV pulled around a curve and emerged from a stand of tall evergreen trees in front of a huge white plantation-style house.

Two stories of white-painted brick gleamed under the late morning sun. Slim white columns supported the generous two-story porch, which looked as if it stayed shady and cool even in the swelter of summer with the aid of outdoor ceiling fans. Right now, as winter began to tighten its hold over the tiny coastal island, the porch railings were festooned with garlands made of glossy, green magnolia leaves studded with pinecones and scarlet pepper berries.

Framed by black wooden shutters, the windows glowed invitingly, and Owen felt his spirits lift. This was what he'd had in mind for Caitlin when he accepted the invitation to spend Christmas with America's Favorite Cook.

The front door opened just as Caitlin leapt up the porch steps, and Libby stepped out. Crossing her arms over the giant snowflake knitted into her sweater, she gave an exaggerated shiver as she grinned down at Caitlin's upturned face. “Quick, come inside before you freeze to death!”

“It's not that cold,” Caitlin scoffed, waving her mittens in the air. “There's not even any snow.”

“I know, it doesn't seem fair, does it?” Libby said. “All this cold weather, but no snowball fights, no snowmen, no snow angels…”

“What's a snow angel?” Caitlin wanted to know, and Owen paused in his slow, painful trek toward the porch.
How can any kid not know what a snow angel is?

Libby hesitated, her gaze flicking to Owen's before she said, “If we ever get any snow, I'll show you. How's that?”

That appeared to satisfy Caitlin, who slipped past Libby and into the house. Andie and Sam made their polite hellos and followed the little girl inside. But Libby waited for Owen, who ground his back teeth and made an effort to hurry it up even as his hip tightened with pain.

There was no trace of impatience on Libby's bright face, but Owen felt all twisted up inside anyway, and when Libby reached out a hand to touch his elbow as if to guide him over the threshold, Owen jerked away from her.

“I'm not a cripple,” he growled, the clatter of his cane against the doorjamb punctuating the words and making him wince. “Fine. Maybe I am, for now. But I don't need help.”

“Sorry,” Libby apologized, then flinched as if she expected him to shout at her for apologizing.

All the angry heat drained out of Owen's muscles, leaving him tired and sore. “No, I'm sorry. I'm not dealing well with this injury. I'm used to being able to rely on my body, to give it commands and know I can trust myself to get the job done.”

“We spend a lot of time apologizing to each other,” Libby observed, her gaze still downcast and her cheeks paler than Owen liked. He couldn't help leaning in a little closer, breathing deeply to try and catch her elusive scent—warm and sweet, like vanilla.

“It's a shame,” Owen said softly. “Since there are so many other things I'd rather be doing with you.”

Her hazel gaze flew to his, her cheeks going as red as the holly berries in the wreath on her front door, and Owen cursed himself silently. He had to force his feet to move him back a pace, to get him out of her personal space, when all he wanted was to get even closer.

But Libby was married. To a jerk, but still. Owen hadn't decided what he was going to do about what he'd overheard at the Christmas Village between Nash Leeds and the sex kitten in the sheriff's department uniform, but making suggestive comments to the clueless wife was probably not the right or honorable thing to do.

“Sure,” he said heartily, nodding toward the cozy interior of the house where he could already hear Caitlin exclaiming excitedly over the variety of candies and frosting colors. “Like make gingerbread houses, for instance. What gave you the idea?”

Was it Owen's imagination, or did a fleeting wrinkle of disappointment furrow Libby's brow for an instant? “Oh. I saw a flier at the parade last night advertising a gingerbread house contest!”

“That's right,” Andie added, catching the tail end of the conversation as Owen followed Libby into a very formal dining room with heavy wood paneling. “They set up a whole gingerbread village laid out like the actual town.”