Rescued by his Christmas Angel: Rescued by his Christmas Angel / Christmas at Candlebark Farm. Cara Colter
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she said, in that little frog croak of hers, staring up at him with adoration he was so aware of not deserving, “I love you.”
Ace saved him from the awkwardness of his having to break it to Miss Morgan McGuire that he was accompanying them on their trip, by answering the doorbell on its first ring.
Freshly dressed in what she had announced was her best outfit—worn pink denims and a shirt that Hannah Montana had long since faded off—Ace threw open the front door.
“Mrs. McGuire,” she crowed, “my daddy’s coming, too! He’s coming shopping with me and you.”
And then Ace hugged herself and hopped around on one foot, while Morgan McGuire slipped in the door.
Nate was suddenly aware his housekeeping was not that good, and annoyed by his awareness of it. He resisted the temptation to shove a pair of his work socks, abandoned on the floor, under the couch with his foot.
It must be the fact she was a teacher that made him feel as if everything was being graded: newspapers out on the coffee table; a thin layer of dust on everything, unfolded laundry leaning out of a hamper balanced perilously on the arm of the couch.
At Ace’s favorite play station, the raised fireplace hearth, there was an entire orphanage of naked dolls, Play-Doh formations long since cracked and hardened, a forlorn-looking green plush dog that had once had stuffing.
So instead of looking like he cared how Morgan McGuire felt about his house and his housekeeping—or lack thereof—Nate did his best to look casual, braced his shoulder against the door frame of the living room, and shoved his hands into the front of his jeans pockets.
Morgan actually seemed stunned enough by Ace’s announcement that he would be joining them that she didn’t appear to notice one thing about the controlled chaos of his housekeeping methods.
She was blushing.
He found himself surprised and reluctantly charmed that anyone blushed anymore, at least over something as benign as a shopping trip with a six-year-old and her fashion handicapped father.
The first-grade teacher was as pretty as he remembered her, maybe prettier, especially with that high color in her cheeks.
“I’m surprised you’ll be joining us,” Morgan said to him, tilting her chin in defiance of the blush, “I thought you made your feelings about shopping eminently clear.”
He shrugged, enjoying her discomfort over his addition to the party enough that it almost made up for his aversion to shopping.
Almost.
“I thought we’d go to the mall in Greenville,” Morgan said, jingling her car keys in her hand and glancing away from him.
Why did it please him that he made her nervous? And how could he be pleased and annoyed at the same time? A trip to Greenville was a full-day excursion!
“I thought we were going to Finnegan’s,” he said. Why couldn’t Ace have just been bribed with Happy time, same as always?
Why did he have an ugly feeling Morgan McGuire was the type of woman who changed same as always?
“Finnegan’s?” Morgan said. “Oh.” In the same tone one might use if a fishmonger was trying to talk them into buying a particularly smelly piece of fish. “There’s not much in the way of selection there.”
“But Greenville is over an hour and a half away!” he protested. By the time they got there, they’d have to have lunch. Even before they started shopping. He could see the car show slip a little further from his grasp.
And lunch with the first-grade teacher? His life, deliberately same as always since Cindy’s death, was being hijacked, and getting more complicated by the minute.
“It’s the closest mall,” Morgan said, and he could see she had a stubborn bent to her that might match his own, if tested.
As if the careful script on the handwritten notes sent home hadn’t been fair enough warning of that.
“And the best shopping.”
“The best shopping,” Ace breathed. “Could we go to The Snow Cave? That’s where Brenda Weston got her winter coat. It has white fur.”
Nate shot his daughter an astonished look. This was the first time she’d ever indicated she knew the name of a store in Greenville, or that she coveted a coat that had white fur.
“Surrender to the day,” he muttered sternly to himself, not that the word surrender had appeared in a Hathoway’s vocabulary for at least two hundred years.
“Pardon?” Morgan asked.
“I said lead the way.”
But when she did, he wasn’t happy about that, either. She drove one of those teeny tiny cars that got three zillion miles per every gallon of gas.
There was no way he could sit in the sardine-can-size backseat, and if he got in the front seat, his shoulder was going to be touching hers.
All the way to Greenville.
And even if he was determined to surrender to the day, he was not about to invite additional assaults on his defenses.
“I’ve seen Tinkertoys bigger than this car,” he muttered. “We’d better take my vehicle.”
And there was something about Miss Morgan McGuire that already attacked his defenses. That made a part of him he thought was broken beyond repair wonder if there was even the slimmest chance it could be fixed.
Why would anyone in their right mind want to fix something that hurt so bad when it broke?
He realized he was thinking of his heart.
Stupid thoughts for a man about to spend an hour and a half in a vehicle—any vehicle—with someone as cute as Morgan McGuire. He was pretty sure it was going to be the longest hour and a half of his life.
Stupid thoughts for a man who had vowed when his wife died—and Hathoways took their vows seriously—that his heart was going to be made of the same iron he made his livelihood shaping.
Out of nowhere, a memory blasted him.
I wish you could know what it is to fall in love, Nate.
Stop it, Cin, I love you.
No. Head over heels, I can’t breathe, think, function. That kind of fall-in-love.
Cindy had been his best friend’s girl. David had joined the services and been killed overseas. For a while, it had looked like the grief would take her, too. But Nate had done what best friends do, what he had promised David. He had stepped in to look after her.
Can’t breathe? Think? Function? That doesn’t even sound fun to me.
She’d laughed. But sadly. Hath, you don’t know squat.
There was a problem with vowing your heart was going to be made of iron, and Nate was aware of it as he settled in the driver’s seat beside Morgan, and her delicate perfume surrounded him.
Iron had a secret. It was only strong until it was tested by fire. Heated hot enough it was as pliable as butter.
And someone like Morgan McGuire probably had a whole lot more fire than her prim exterior was letting on.
But as long as he didn’t have to touch her shoulder all the way to Greenville he didn’t have to find out. He could make himself immune to her, despite the delicacy of her scent.
It should be easy. After all, Nate had made himself immune to every other woman who had come calling, thinking he and Ace needed sympathy and help, loving and saving.
He didn’t need anything. From anyone. And in that, he took pride.
And some days it felt like pride—and Ace—were