Home for Christmas (3 page)

Libby burrowed her mittened hands deeper into her coat pockets and leaned her head against the cold Plexiglas window. Her breath fogged a circle blocking her view of the water as the ferry carried her relentlessly toward her destiny.

She was out of practice at sticking up for herself, she knew. If she didn't find her backbone soon, the forceful men in her life were going to keep running roughshod over her. It was hard, though. She'd always preferred to live in her sweet dreams of the past rather than the real world. Libby had spent most of her life alone, but she'd never been lonely. Not with her books, her memories, and most importantly her imagination for company.

Letting the rhythmic chug of the ferry's engine lull her into a doze, Libby pictured Sergeant Owen Shepard as he'd looked in the video. Her vivid memory lovingly recreated every line and angle of his shadowed face … then promptly got sidetracked into a fantasy of what it would be like when she met him for the first time.

He would smile, and it would be a real smile that lit his gorgeous eyes from within. And she would be gracious, poised, welcoming him into her stately home decorated with greenery and red velvet ribbons. Light would glow from fat, cinnamon-scented pillar candles, and in that flattering candlelight, Libby would be pretty. She would be confident and friendly, able to converse with her guests easily, no hesitation or shyness at all. She imagined the music of laughter and the clink of heirloom silver on precious, hand-painted china.

And she had two whole weeks to prepare. Two weeks to make that fantasy a reality. If that was enough time, it would be a miracle.

Sighing, Libby sat up straight and rubbed at the cold spot the window had left on her forehead. With her sensitive skin, she probably now sported a red mark the size and shape of a Ping-Pong ball front and center. She leaned over, bracing herself on her roller bag to dig through the zipper pocket for her wool cap.

Without warning, the wheels on her brand-new suitcase unlocked, sending both the case and Libby shooting forward. She squawked, off balance and arms trembling with the effort of keeping the case from crashing into the passenger across the aisle.

She gasped, wrenching herself upright while keeping a grip on her runaway bag. But she didn't have the hang of it quite yet, and when she wobbled, the bag squirted sideways and banged into a man making his way up the aisle.

Mortified, Libby ducked her head and grabbed for the stupid bag. The man reached down to steady her, wrapping hard but gentle fingers around her wrist.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry,” she babbled, her downcast gaze catching on the cane hooked over the man's wrist. There was a walking cast encasing his leg from foot to thigh. “Did I hurt you?”

A warm thrill of premonition shook Libby's frame as she let her gaze travel up the length of his strong, denim-clad thighs to the fitted black T-shirt stretched over the impressively broad and muscular chest that even a loose, open flannel shirt couldn't hide. One of the man's arms was in a sling, and Libby closed her eyes briefly.

Why? Why here, why now, like this? It had to be punishment for living a lie—a punishment she probably deserved, but that didn't make it any easier to look up and meet Sergeant Owen Shepard's amused gaze.

“Don't worry,” he told her with a hint of a smile. “It looks worse than it is.”

Libby didn't think that was true. From the news reports she'd read, he'd been seriously wounded in the explosion that took out half his team. But the locked-down control he exhibited in every efficient movement as he pulled her carefully to her feet told Libby that he was not a man who wanted or needed coddling.

Which didn't mean she could stop herself from apologizing. “Oh my gosh, I'm
so
sorry. I feel awful. Your leg … it's amazing you're up and about, Sergeant Shepard! They said on the
Good Morning Show
that you wouldn't be released from the hospital for another couple of weeks. Are you sure you're okay to be out already?”

Until his eyes went cool, she hadn't been aware of how warmly he'd been regarding her. “I'm fine. I heal fast. And believe me, if you were trying to finish me off, you'd have to come at me with something more dangerous than a rolling suitcase.”

Libby realized he was still holding her wrist. She felt her cheeks go hot at the same moment he let go and took a hitching step back. “I'm sorry. Should I not have mentioned the
Good Morning
video? But I recognized you from it. I mean, I saw it.”

“You and four million other people,” he muttered, jaw clenching before he shook his head. “Don't worry about it, ma'am. Have a safe trip.”

Panic clutched at her throat. This whole first meeting hadn't gone at all the way she'd imagined. “Do you want to sit down? You must be tired. There's an empty seat next to me.”

He looked almost as taken aback by her boldness as she was, but he recovered quickly. “I was looking to get out of the wind, but I guess everyone else had the same idea.”

The lower deck was full of people in thick coats and hats with earflaps. The two rows of chairs running along the center of the ferry were all taken, as were the two-person tables set by the windows. As Libby glanced around, she noticed that most of them were openly watching her exchange with Sergeant Shepard. Cheeks and ears burning, she ducked her head again. At least they were all undoubtedly looking at him. Handsome and soft-spoken, he nevertheless had a presence that commanded attention. He made you want to lean in to catch every word he said.

“Please,” Libby mumbled, gesturing at the table behind her. “It's no trouble. I mean, I'd love to share my table with you. I promise I won't talk about the video—or anything! We can sit in silence if you want. That's probably best.”

Making a face at her own rambling, Libby almost missed the slight twist of humor that warmed Owen's face. “Something tells me that might be a problem for you.”

“No, it won't!” Libby tried to project earnestness. “I promise. I spend most of my time not talking to people. I'm great at not talking to people. Sorry.”

Owen laughed. He actually laughed, rusty but appreciative, and Libby felt her insides melt like marshmallows in a cup of hot cocoa.

“What if I want to hear you talk?”

 

Chapter Three

The pretty blonde woman blinked her big eyes as if she'd never heard anything so crazy. Owen stood his ground. He wanted to hear more.

This woman … there was something about her. A softness that made him want to sink into her, like coming home after years of wandering.

Except Owen had never had a home like that—not really. And at this point in his life, he was pretty sure he'd missed his chance. He wouldn't even know how to come home anymore.

The woman opened her mouth, then shut it again, ironically struck dumb by his request that she speak. Taking pity, Owen propped his cane against the free chair and lowered himself into it. After five months in the hospital and rehab, it was second nature to keep his expression free of the grimace of pain his stressed body wanted to make, but even after all this time, it still surprised him.

He'd relied on his body and what it could do for a long time. He couldn't get used to not being at peak physical condition. Thankfully, it was a temporary situation. It had to be.

“Come on,” he invited. “Sit with me. I'll help you keep your luggage under control.”

That got a tiny, embarrassed smile out of her. She tucked her caramel-blonde hair behind her ears, her gloved fingers clumsy, leaving her hair mussed in staticky wisps. “Okay. Um. Thanks.”

She slid into the seat on the other side of the wobbly round table and stared down at it like it held the secret to cracking a coded message. Owen already missed the nervous babble from before. Even when she'd brought up that stupid video, it hadn't bugged him as much as it should have. Maybe because her voice was so nice, light and clear as a set of silver sleigh bells.

Or maybe it was just a good distraction from the chaotic brawl of his thoughts and the constant background throb of pain in his still-healing body.

“I got myself transferred to Sanctuary Island for the second half of my physical rehab work,” he offered. It was against his training to give up info so easily, but he was half afraid if they sat any longer in that embarrassed silence, the pretty blonde was going to fake a seizure or something to get away from him.

“Oh!” Her face lit up, lovely and animated, nothing like the bleak blankness he saw in his own features staring back from the mirror every morning. “Are you going to be working with the Windy Corner Therapeutic Riding Center?”

“That's the idea.” He thumped his cast right over the spot where it velcroed around his lower thigh. “This thing comes off in a couple of days, and I guess there's some kind of way the horses help a guy learn to walk on his own two feet again. I don't really get it, but they tell me it works.”

And, more importantly, it would get him to the island where his daughter lived in time for the holidays.

“So you'll be one of the first to participate in their pilot program, partnering with The Hero Project!”

Owen blinked, a little surprised. But he guessed it was a small island, and people would notice something like their local therapy riding center getting hooked up with a major national nonprofit that helped people wounded in the line of duty.

Still a little uncomfortable with being classified as a “hero,” Owen gritted his teeth against the need to point out that he was only doing his job. No more and no less than the thousands of other soldiers and support staff overseas. Instead he said, “Yes, ma'am. I'm looking forward to it.”

She cocked her head as if she'd heard a whisper of words he hadn't said, her dreamy eyes suddenly going laser sharp. “Sorry, but … are you really?”

Letting his spine touch the back of the plastic chair, Owen worked up a wry smile. “Okay, you caught me. I'm not really looking forward to it—I have a feeling it's going to be kind of touchy-feely and woo woo. But I know if I put in the work I'll get back to combat condition, so the program doesn't matter that much. It's mostly an excuse to get to Sanctuary Island.”

Her gaze softened. “For your daughter. You must miss her so much every time you're deployed. I'm sure she can't wait to see you.”

A strange clutching sensation invaded Owen's throat. “I wish I could be so sure of that. But the situation is … not ideal.”

He planned to leave it there—he wasn't used to “sharing” or talking about what was going on in his personal life. He wasn't used to having a personal life, period. Not since he decided to go out for the Ranger program. But something about the way she leaned in, propping her pink-jacket-clad elbows on the table and leaning her head on one red-mittened hand had Owen opening his mouth.

“Caitlin's mom … I think I mentioned in the interview that she'd died, but that's not the whole story.”

Owen paused, the words backing up in his chest, but she didn't seem impatient. She gave him a slow, sweet smile and said, “Well, I love stories. You can tell me the whole thing if you want, and I promise not to get too touchy-feely or woo woo about it. I'll just listen, Sergeant Shepard.”

“It's Owen,” he said. “If you're going to hear all my secrets, you can call me by my name.”

“Owen,” she repeated, her smile brightening until she glowed like the star at the top of a Christmas tree.

“And you are?”

She hesitated briefly, then stuck out her hand. “I'm Libby.”

Owen clasped her slender fingers through the wool of her mittens, sparing a brief moment to wish they were skin to skin. “Well, Libby, I'm not sure what it is about you that's making me chatty. When you invited me to sit with you I said I wanted to hear
you
talk—you kind of outflanked me there.”

Cheeks going red as cranberries, Libby tucked her chin down so that a sheaf of wheat-gold hair swung forward to shield her face. “You don't have to talk,” she said anxiously. “Not if you don't want to. I'm sorry.”

Protectiveness warmed his chest. “Don't apologize. Ask anyone in my unit—it's pretty damn hard to make me do something I don't want to do.”

That got her to look up at him through her lashes. Her eyes were a complicated light brown color, with flecks of gold and a ring of deep green around the iris. Owen couldn't stop staring at them, trying to decide what that color was called. Hazel, maybe.

“Okay. I'm sorry, I'll stop apologizing.” Her eyes got big as she obviously replayed what she'd just said. She cringed. “Oops, sorry! I mean, not sorry. I mean … help?”

Owen couldn't help it. He laughed, the sound rusty and unfamiliar after months of pain and recovery. The moment broke some of the building tension, untwisting the tangle his guts got into every time he thought about what it would be like to lay eyes on Caitlin. “I'm going to start keeping a tally of how many times you apologize to me—we've got to be getting close to double digits here.”

“Sor—” Libby grimaced, cutting herself off. “I told you, I'm not great at talking. Like, to other people.”

Owen quirked a smile. “But you do okay when you're talking to yourself?”

“It's sort of like talking to myself, actually. I'm a writer.”

Owen began to put some pieces together. The dreamy quality to Libby's smile, the far-off look in her eyes that told him she regularly traveled to distant lands in her imagination. “You said you like stories. Do you write fiction?”

The twist of her mouth went flat as she nodded, her hair shadowing her expression.

“Are you … working on a novel?” Owen struggled for the right terminology. “Or have you got a book out already?”

“No, I don't know if I could ever really write a book.” Libby met his gaze, her eyes lighting up again. “I mean, I have a thousand ideas! But the hard part is sitting down and actually writing it, believing I have a story to tell that anyone else might want to read. I'm still working on that. “