Home for Christmas (28 page)

“No, it's okay.” Libby pulled both her legs up onto the hay bale and rested her crossed arms on her raised knees. “This is fascinating. And I think I get what you mean. Treating all returning war vets like ticking time bombs isn't fair. Also, maybe it makes it harder to diagnose and help those vets who really are suffering if we assume everyone has the exact same problems.”

“I'm not saying I've never had a flashback or a nightmare,” Owen clarified, the need for honesty thrumming through him. “Or struggled with some of the same stuff I've seen buddies go through when they get sent home. I guess all I'm saying is it's a spectrum, and as hard as my service was—I'd still do it over again. Which is exactly what makes me feel like I need to go back. I can handle it. Not everyone can—and that doesn't mean I'm better than them, by the way. The guys I know who've had the toughest time since they got back are some of the best soldiers I've ever seen. Men I trusted with my life in combat, and they never let me down once.”

“I'm not surprised. Having PTSD doesn't mean someone is weak.”

“Exactly.” Relief that she understood nearly took Owen's breath. “And not getting it doesn't mean I'm stronger. But maybe it does mean I have a responsibility to keep fighting when others can't.”

Libby smiled again, that same edge of bittersweetness twisting at her lips. “That's what makes you a hero, I guess.”

Something surged through Owen, an emotion so fierce he couldn't have named it with a gun to his head. “I'm not a hero.”

The words were almost growled, low and throbbing, and Caitlin stirred against him restlessly. Libby, however, didn't even flinch.

“Trust me,” she said quietly. “I know stories, and you're the hero of this one.”

Despair had Owen closing his eyes briefly. “You want to make me a hero, but one day you're going to figure out that you made it all up in your head. I'm not a hero, Libby. I'm just a man. A regular guy who wants to do the right thing.”

Libby rested her chin on her crossed arms, tilting her head slightly. “See, that would be exactly my definition of a hero. Which makes me wonder what you think a hero is, if not a man who wants to do the right thing.”

An image of his own father, crisp and stern in his police dress uniform, took over Owen's mental vision. The podium, the medal, the mayor's commendation … the first time he'd seen Dad smile since Mom died.

“A hero is someone who puts his duty before everything else in his life,” Owen said slowly. “Someone who sacrifices his own desires in service to the greater good.”

“That's certainly one definition,” Libby said contemplatively. “Although that also sounds kind of like somebody with something to prove.”

Owen frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Some sacrifices are noble,” Libby said, shrugging. “Obviously. But sometimes people can appear to be sacrificing for the greater good when actually everything they're doing is about pumping themselves up to look big and important. If ego is what's most important to you, you're nobody's hero except your own.”

Her words filtered into Owen's deepest memories and rearranged them, shuffling them like cards and dealing out an entirely new hand. Feeling as if one of the silent, nonspeaking horses had kicked him in the chest, Owen tipped his head back against the stall wall and laughed. “Has anyone ever told you that your ability to cut through the bull is kind of devastating?”

Libby blinked, eyes wide and innocent. “No? I don't mean to be devastating.”

“I know. That's part of what makes it so rough. But don't worry, I love it.”

I love you.

The words tickled the tip of his tongue, trying to leap free, but Owen swallowed them back. He couldn't do that, he couldn't drag Libby in any deeper, when the future was so uncertain.

But he should have known that Libby—his brave, reckless Libby—wasn't going to live her life in fear of the future.

“I love
you
,” she said, three simple, straightforward words that could change Owen's life forever, if he let them. “You don't have to say it back or feel guilty, I just wanted you to know. And I want you to know that's not why I think you're a hero. I think you're a hero because whatever choices you make are about what's best for others, not for yourself. It's inspiring and humbling, and so, so sexy. And if you've made up your mind to go, I won't be the one who begs you to stay. I'll be the one who trusts that you're doing the right thing, because I don't think you know how to do anything less.”

Talk about humbling. Owen shook his head, feeling the weight of his sleeping daughter pressing him into the hay bale and keeping him from striding across the stall to show Libby exactly how much he wanted to do the wrong thing with her.

“I can't move without waking Caitlin,” he said hoarsely. “So I'm going to need you to come over here. Because I have to kiss you. Right now.”

A beautiful flush pinked Libby's cheeks as she uncurled herself from her hay bale to snuggle up next to Owen. He got his free arm around her slim form, feeling whole and right for the first time all night, even before he put his mouth on hers.

The kiss was slow but not hesitant. Owen savored every second of it, the dangerous intimacy and undeniable connection he felt every time Libby turned her face up to his. He could kiss her forever and never get tired of it, he thought hazily.

But eventually, they both had to breathe. Owen pulled back, tilting his head down to press their foreheads together.

“I've never known anyone like you,” he said helplessly.

Her fingers tightened where they clutched at his waist. “Ditto. Despite what you think, I'm not delusional enough to believe the fairy tales are true. I know real-life heroes are thin on the ground. But on a night like this, it's hard not to sense magic in the air. It's hard not to believe in miracles.”

Owen breathed in, the scents of sweet hay, contented child, and warm woman filling his lungs. “Libby, I hope you know how I—”

“Please don't.” Libby shook her head and sat back. “I didn't tell you I loved you to make you feel bad or to force some kind of confession in return. I just … there have been enough lies and secrets between us already. I couldn't bear another one.”

Before she could move further away, Owen reached out and cuddled her back against his side. She was tense for a moment before settling close with a sigh. Owen pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and laid his cheek there to feel the rise and fall of her breath. “You're wrong, you know.”

It was a mark of how relaxed she was that Libby didn't stiffen. “Oh? How's that?”

“I'm not the hero of this story,” Owen whispered. “You are.”

He felt her smile against his shoulder, right before she yawned. “Oops.”

“Go to sleep,” he told her. “It's okay. I'll keep watch.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, already nuzzling her face against the shoulder she was using as a pillow.

“I don't need much sleep.”

She roused slightly, blinking up at him. “Hey. Wake me up if any animals start talking, okay?”

With his arms and his heart full of this woman and this child who believed in miracles, Owen could do no more than nod. “You got it.”

Satisfied with that, Libby put her head back down. At once, her breathing evened and deepened into the rhythms of sleep, and Owen let himself fall into the patient stillness and alertness of keeping watch.

Guarding the two people who meant most to him in the world, Owen knew there was no greater gift he could receive that Christmas.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

“But we all fell asleep, so we missed it when the horses talked!”

Caitlin was so aggrieved, so mad at herself, she couldn't stop telling people about their failed Christmas Eve experiment. Even the fascinating topic of what she'd gotten for Christmas couldn't derail her for long, although she'd been pretty excited to show off the new jodhpurs and paddock boots under her Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sweater.

Every time Caitlin brought up their missed chance at hearing the horses speak, Libby felt guilty for falling asleep. But she also felt like she'd be miserable right now if she hadn't gotten any sleep at all the night before.

It was stressful enough to wrangle eight guests around an elaborately decorated holiday meal, complete with silently filming camera crew, an empty place setting for her absent grandfather, and a variety of secret relationships to hide. She'd been up since five as it was, doing last-minute prep and cooking. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle and made her bones feel weighted with lead, but they were seconds away from the first course being finished and so far, all the cameras had gotten was a half-hour diatribe from Caitlin about how much it sucked to fall asleep when you didn't want to.

Libby let herself be momentarily distracted by the memory of waking up on Owen's shoulder with a crick in her neck and a pervasive sense of safety and happiness. Owen had smiled down at her, not a trace of weariness on his handsome face, even under his coppery morning stubble. Libby was pretty sure he hadn't slept a wink, but when Caitlin roused a few minutes later and cried out at the sight of the sun rising outside the stall's back window, Owen had apologized gravely for failing her.

When Caitlin dragged herself out of the stall to visit Peony and see if she would maybe consent to speak even though Christmas Eve was technically over, Owen had lowered his head to whisper in Libby's ear. “I know I shouldn't lie to her. But I don't want her to stop believing in magic.”

Libby had curled her arms around his neck and climbed into his lap with her heart beating the “Hallelujah” chorus behind her ribs. “Merry Christmas,” she'd whispered back, then kissed him.

But now was not the time to get distracted. Now was the time to move onto the next course and pray her luck held. Trying to maintain her poise when all she wanted was to run into the kitchen to check on things, Libby smoothed her black-and-red checked dress—patterned to hide food splotches—and stood up to gather the empty soup bowls.

“Can I take that?” she politely asked Mr. Downing, who dabbed at his mouth and nodded.

“Wonderful,” he told her. “Top notch. I never had an oyster soup like that, but I'll be asking you for the recipe for my personal chef.”

Libby glowed under the praise until she got to Rhonda Friend, who had barely touched her soup.

“It's very rich,” Rhonda commented, nudging the bowl away from her as if the calories were contagious.

“Cream does tend to be rich,” Libby agreed, smiling around her clenched jaw and taking extra care with the almost full bowl.

“Here, let me help you clear this course,” Ivy Dawson said, every inch the perfect guest.

“Oh, I can manage,” Libby tried, but Ivy insisted, and it was easier to give in than to squabble about it in front of the cameras bristling from the four corners of the dining room like one-eyed black beasts.

After a quick, surprised “Oh!” when Ivy got a look at the disaster that was the kitchen, the silence that reigned as they stacked up the soup bowls felt as thick and stilted as the awkward conversation around the table.

Libby opened the fridge to get the ingredients she'd prepared for the salad course, and groaned when she encountered the solid wall of casseroles, mixing bowls, and other dishes. She was going to have to excavate to get to the pomegranate seeds and orange sections she'd carefully removed from their skins yesterday.

Pulling out the biggest casserole, the one right in front, Libby turned to put it on the counter and almost dropped the pan when Ivy was right behind her.

“You startled me,” Libby said, trying to laugh it off.

“Sorry. I just wanted to say, while we have a minute alone—I know.”

Libby's heart, which had started to slow after her moment of startlement, began to pick up speed once more. Edging past Ivy, Libby looked for a place to put the spinach casserole, but the counter was already packed with cutting boards, dirty dishes, and bags of flour and sugar.

“I know about you and Nash,” Ivy spelled out, while Libby tried unsuccessfully to wedge the casserole onto the counter between the salad spinner and the food processor. “Nash came to see me last night, and he explained a few things.”

Sweat prickled at Libby's hairline, and her palms got clammy enough that she worried the casserole would slip out of her hands. At her wits' end, she kicked open the back door and set the casserole dish down on the top back step. It would stay plenty cold out there, she reasoned, slamming the door shut and turning back to face Ivy.

“I see,” Libby settled on, not sure how to respond without knowing exactly what it was that Nash had told Ivy. No wonder he'd been trying to get a word with her all morning, but Libby had been like a whirlwind in the kitchen, and then the camera crew was setting up and she had to shower or risk showing up on national television with a stringy ponytail, no makeup, and the jeans and sweater she'd slept in the night before.

“Don't be angry with Nash,” Ivy said, a pleading note entering her sweet drawl. “I already knew some of it. Andie told me you and Nash weren't really married, but she couldn't explain all the reasoning behind it. I still don't think I've got it all straight, but at least I know now why Nash went along with it.”

Libby raised her brows, relief filtering in and calming her heart rate. “Then you know everything. I'm glad. I hated asking him to lie for me, especially when it became clear how much he cared about you—and how much this whole deception was ruining his chances with you. But now you know the truth, the two of you can work out your differences and get back together! Well, once the camera crews are gone. If you don't mind waiting a few more hours.”