Home for Christmas (4 page)

She was a dreamer. Owen, who lived his life firmly mired in the harshest of cold realities, felt a deep swelling of protectiveness for Libby and her dreams. That's what he did it for—what he and all the other people he fought alongside did it for. So that the ones back home, like Libby, could follow their dreams in peace and freedom.

“You'll write that novel one day, I bet.” Owen smiled at her, knowing the men in his unit would be making catcalls and wolf whistles if they could see him now. But Libby brought out a side of him those guys had never seen.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But we weren't talking about my story—you were going to tell me yours. Unless you don't want to anymore?”

A pang shot through his thigh right where several metal pins held his bone together, telling him he'd unconsciously tensed his muscles. Making a deliberate effort to relax, Owen glanced away from Libby's searching gaze to stare out the foggy window. Condensation clung to the fiberglass, misting over his view of the choppy, gray-green Atlantic Ocean as the Virginia coastline receded in the distance.

The monotone hum of the ferry's powerful engine was a cocoon of sound, wrapping around Owen and Libby's table, making him feel like they were alone on the ship. He couldn't hear the conversations taking place around them—if he wanted to hear Libby, he had to focus and lean in close. It was as if they were the only two people on board.

“I'm just not sure where to start,” he finally admitted.

“That's always the hard part! Half the books I read seem like they start in the wrong place. It's part of what's keeping me from getting going with
my
book.”

Owen gave her a half smile. He appreciated the out she was handing him—the understanding, and the tacit offer to change the subject back to her writing. But the moment, the place, the woman … they were all combining to give Owen one of the strongest feelings he'd had since the gut-deep dread that had warned him right before the explosion.

In combat, Owen had learned not to discount those gut feelings. His gut had saved his life, and the lives of his men, more times than he could count. And right now, it was shoving him at Libby so hard, he felt an almost physical push against his shoulder blades.

“I'm pretty sure my story starts ten years ago, when I met Caitlin's mother. Jenna was a party girl—which tells you something about who I was back then. Young and stupid, fumbling around trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and in the meantime, I met this girl at a bar and we … dated. Only for a few weeks, but it was long enough for me to start to see that she was into some heavy stuff. Jenna was halfway down a bad road, and there was a moment where I thought about following her.”

Owen dropped the thread of his narrative for a second, flashing back to Jenna's slim, dark beauty and the infectious temptation of her wicked smile. She'd been so young, so dramatic, so lovely, and so full of life—even for Owen, who'd seen more than his share of senseless death, the knowledge of how Jenna's life turned out gave him a brief moment of vertigo.

“But you didn't follow her,” Libby said with a touching certainty. “You couldn't.”

Grimacing, Owen palmed the back of his neck. “It wasn't as simple as that. It was touch and go there … but in the end, I enlisted in the army instead. When Jenna found out, she was spitting mad, throwing things and screaming—and that was it. I left and never looked back. And I never heard from her again.”

Libby sucked in a breath, and a red-mittened hand came up to cover her mouth. “You mean, when she got pregnant, she didn't tell you?”

It was a gut punch every time Owen thought about it. “No. I don't know if she even tried. If she hadn't died, I'd still probably have no idea that I have a daughter. And now I'm about to meet Caitlin for the first time, and I just…” He shook his head. “After everything I've seen and done, you wouldn't believe how terrified I am of one little girl.”

“She's going to love you.” A shy smile peeked out from behind Libby's mitten, and for the hundredth time, Owen wondered why he was sitting here spilling his guts to a complete stranger. Maybe it was easier that way, somehow. He could work through some of this crap before he got to the island and came face-to-face with the sister whose life he'd disrupted and the daughter he'd unknowingly abandoned.

And Libby, who knew his secrets, would go back to her life and he'd never see her again. Oh, maybe they'd run into each other in the grocery store or pass each other on the sidewalk—Sanctuary was a small town, Owen knew.

But this would be their only intimate, intense conversation. Owen would make sure of it, because a woman as sweet as Libby deserved better than a broken-down wreck of an Army Ranger with an eight-year-old kid he didn't know and a boatload of issues.

The best thing he could do for Libby in return for her listening ear and wide, sympathetic eyes, would be to never talk to her again.

Why did the prospect of that make him feel like he'd swallowed a lump of coal?

 

Chapter Four

Libby's heart couldn't decide whether it wanted to clench in empathy with the pain shadowing Owen's ocean-blue eyes or race like a runaway horse every time a smile teased at Owen's firm mouth. Her entire body felt so attuned to him, she could hardly remember to breathe without matching her inhalations to his.

For a woman who'd spent much of the last twenty years feeling isolated from the rest of humanity, this immediate connection was overwhelming. Libby hardly knew what to do with herself. She bit her lip against the urge to apologize yet again, this time for being such a tongue-tied goony idiot, but the memory of Owen's grin when he said he was keeping track of her apologies helped her control the impulse.

Although if it would make him laugh again, she'd happily apologize all day long. Anything to lift the veil of sadness that had dropped over his handsome face.

She wished she could explain that she understood some of what he was going through. Libby, too, was about to meet several close relations for the very first time, and she was scared spitless.

“Your daughter—Caitlin?—she knows you didn't have a choice about not seeing her until now, right?”

Owen rubbed his jaw. “I think so. I'm pretty sure my sister would have explained it to her, even if Jenna didn't. Andie's been taking care of Caitlin ever since I found out about her. I was deployed at the time, couldn't get leave.”

“So, it could be worse,” Libby pointed out. “I mean, you might've been about to meet someone who knows you stayed away on purpose. That you chose not to meet them … for whatever reason.”

Nervousness jittered under Libby's skin as she remembered making that phone call to her grandfather. After one long, pregnant pause when she'd said her name, he'd moved briskly forward as if they'd known one another all along. But she couldn't help wondering if he was saving up his recriminations to deliver face-to-face.

“That's true enough.” Owen glanced aside, the weak winter light filtering through the window silvering his strong profile. “It still feels like I should've known, though. About Caitlin. How can there be a part of me alive in the world, for years, and I had no idea? She needed me, and I wasn't there for her.”

Libby's heart ached. “You can be there for her now.”

Owen didn't pretend to be comforted. A muscle clenched in his jaw, and his good hand tightened in a spasm. “I'm not sure I know how. I'm going to need help.”

Everything in Libby yearned forward. The words “I'll help you” were on the tip of her tongue when Owen rolled his shoulders to loosen them and said, “That's why I said yes to that magazine publisher's invitation, I guess. Caitlin deserves a perfect Christmas. And I'm going to give it to her, even if I have to ask for help to do it.”

The words dried up in Libby's mouth. He didn't know who she was—or, who she was pretending to be. She had to tell him, but the whole truth was getting tangled with the partial truth, turning everything into a huge mess.

Libby steeled herself, drawing in a breath to explain—whatever she could … just as the ferry made a slow, grinding noise and lurched, as all around them the other passengers got to their feet and began making their way toward the exits.

“We're here,” Owen said, standing and offering her his good hand.

“Wait—Owen, there's something I have to tell you,” Libby tried, desperation making her voice shake.

*   *   *

The rush of people toward the exits got Owen's heart hammering with anticipation. He was about to see his daughter for the very first time.

Shoving to his feet, he balanced on his one good leg while he got his cane braced. “Can you manage your suitcase?” he asked distractedly. “I'd help, but it's about all I can do to carry myself off this boat without pitching over the side.”

“I can get it.” Libby surged up from the table and grabbed at her wheeled packing case's handle. “Owen, did you hear what I said? I have something I need to tell you.”

“I heard. Come on, walk and talk. My daughter is waiting for me down there on the dock.”

Libby responded to the note of command that had snuck into his voice, falling in step beside him as he made his slow, halting way through the line of disembarking passengers. “That's what we need to talk about.”

“Caitlin? Hey, you want to see a picture—I've got a bunch on my phone that my sister sent me when I was in the hospital.”

“Oh,” Libby said, taking the phone and swiping through a few images with a slow smile curling the corners of her kissable mouth. “She's beautiful.”

He knew what Libby was seeing. He'd long ago memorized every line, every shaded angle, of those photographs.

Owen called up the image of his small, fine-boned daughter astride a horse who looked big enough to crush her. But Caitlin sat tall and proud in the saddle, a look of serious concentration on her face. Wisps of carroty red hair escaped from beneath the black helmet, and something about the way Caitlin's elbows stuck out as she grasped the reins always squeezed Owen's heart with tenderness.

“She looks like my sister, and our mother,” Owen confided. “And her mother, too, a little.”

Libby's soft gaze lifted to his. “She looks like you.”

A chill of dread raced down Owen's spine. He shook his head once in instinctive denial before he got his reaction under control, but Libby's dark-gold brows had already drawn together in a perplexed frown.

“Yes, she does,” Libby insisted, and Owen broke their gaze to stare grimly ahead at the approaching door.

“So long as her looks are the only thing she inherited from me,” he muttered.

Before Libby could ask him any questions that might prompt even more uncharacteristically emotional confessions, they'd made it to the door and stepped out onto the metal ramp that led down to the pier. A chill breeze off the water stole Owen's breath, and he felt more than heard Libby's sharp gasp at the sudden shock of cold.

The railing along the dock was twined about with greenery and old-fashioned strands of fat multicolored bulbs. A shaft of sunlight broke through the pale gray clouds, illuminating the hand-painted sign welcoming visitors to Sanctuary Island's Christmas Village. Owen wasn't a hundred percent sure what that was, but maybe it explained why the ferry had been nearly sold out when he snagged his last-minute ticket.

At the foot of the pier, people were swept up in joyous reunions punctuated by shouts and laughter, squeals of happiness and long hugs as families and friends reunited. A big bear of a man, dressed in the green tunic and tights of one of Santa's elves, shouted greetings and waved visitors in a stream up the hill toward the town.

Owen looked for the bright flash of his sister's auburn hair amidst the chaos, his eyes hungry for the sight of a little girl standing next to her, but he didn't see them. “Come on,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Libby. “Let's find my family. I want you to meet my daughter.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you,” Libby said, sounding agonized. She hung back, causing a bottleneck on the pier as the wave of ferry passengers behind her were stopped.

With an apologetic look at them, Libby moved to the side of the pier to let them pass while Owen schooled his body not to reflect his impatience. “What's going on, Libby?”

“I'm going to meet Caitlin,” Libby told him urgently as the stream of passengers brushed past them, adding to the boisterous crowd.

“I know, I want you to. Wait. What do you mean?”

She bit her lip, white teeth sinking into the plush pink cupid's bow and zeroing Owen's focus in like a heat-seeking missile. “I mean, I'm—”

“Elizabeth! There you are!”

Libby's head jerked up and her eyes went wide as she stared at something over Owen's shoulder. He turned to see a tall man plunging through the line of ferry passengers like a sleek salmon swimming upstream. The stranger's eyes were fixed on Libby, but when Owen's gaze swiveled back to her, she looked more shocked than anything else.

Before Owen could do anything but register the surprise on Libby's face, the stranger had reached them. Without hesitation, he swooped down on Libby and wrapped her up in his long arms, swinging her around. She made a muffled “oh!” into the man's shoulder, and every muscle in Owen's body tensed for battle.

The pain of his injuries drowned under the tidal wave of adrenaline flooding his system, and Owen changed his grip on the cane, turning it from support to weapon. “Put her down,” he said, his voice lethally quiet.

It was the tone his men knew meant they'd better hop to, and quick, or someone was in trouble—and this guy seemed to understand that Owen meant business. Letting Libby's feet touch the dock but keeping his arm around her shoulders, the tall stranger faced Owen with a polite, if wary, smile.