Hers for the Holidays. Samantha Hunter
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it all back in stark, painful color.
So did the fear that followed her every time she went into town, worry that she would bump into one of Ginny’s family and have to face it all over again. The recrimination, the blame. Her mother said it was all in the past, and that Ginny was doing fine. That she had married, gotten on with her life.
Really? How fine could she be, paralyzed from the waist down, her dreams shattered?
Lydia was glad if Ginny had managed to find some happiness, but that didn’t make what she had done any more forgivable. It was why she had to get out of here as soon as she could wrap up her obligations. She didn’t like living with all these ghosts; this was all in the past and it had to be left there.
Looking at the clock through bleary eyes, she saw she had only dozed off for less than a half hour, and she was intent on doing more work. It had to be done if she was getting out of here.
She froze as a sound traveled up from the first floor.
Footsteps.
She’d heard them in her dream, too, but now she was awake. Had she imagined it? These were heavy, hard and making their way through the bottom floor.
Holding her breath, she walked carefully to the edge of the door and heard the squeak that came from the floorboard between the dining room and the kitchen.
She wasn’t imagining it. Someone was down there. She thought she heard some voices, as well. Male voices.
Smitty? Kyle? But why would they be in the house in the middle of the night? Had the cowboys who’d harassed her earlier followed her home, or found out where she lived? But she had locked the doors; made sure to do so. Suddenly Clear River was feeling a lot more dangerous than south Philly.
Another crash made her jump, and she knew she had to do something. Slipping from the room, she edged down the hall to the stairs. At the end of the hall was her father’s gun rack; his favorite shotgun was still there.
Holding her breath, she made it to the gun rack, and retrieved the weapon. Her intruder’s footsteps were only yards away, traversing the kitchen. Lydia held her breath and moved in that direction. Stopping just outside the kitchen, she swallowed with resolve and snapped the barrel of the gun into place. Silence.
“I have a gun, and if you’re not out of this house in two seconds, I’ll use it,” she warned, her voice more steady than she would have expected. She turned the corner of the kitchen just in time to see someone duck outside the back door.
She took chase, yelling after them. When she reached the back door, she fired up into the air, hoping to shock them, to perhaps see who it was.
But the shadowy intruder disappeared into the trees.
Or so she thought.
She tried to load the gun again, but no go—it had only had one shell.
No matter, it was yanked from her hands a second later as she stumbled back into the kitchen, trying to get away. She went sprawling. A sharp pain stabbed at her hand, but she ignored it as she scrambled to find another weapon, anything within reach.
“Lydia.”
She didn’t listen, panic frying her brain.
“Lydia, stop. It’s me, Ely.”
The words finally permeated her brain, and she stopped her frantic dash across the floor, as the lights flicked on.
“Lydia, are you okay? What happened?” Kyle.
Ely and Kyle, she mentally recited.
Was she still dreaming? Ely and Kyle seemed so surreal.
But it was real.
Ely held her shotgun and a second one. Handing both to Kyle, he bent down, picking her up from the floor like she weighed nothing.
“Lydia, it’s okay,” he said gently and pulled her in close.
A weak moment, she would tell herself later. Right now, Ely was the most solid thing she’d felt in days. Weeks. She allowed herself to curl into the safety and support he offered, just for a minute. God, he felt good.
Everyone was quiet until she looked down and saw the blood soaking into the material of his sweat jacket.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered.
Ely looked down, frowning, and then cursed, taking her arm in his hand.
“No, that would be you,” he said.
She looked down and saw he was right. Her hand was bleeding where she had cut it on something on the floor. She took in the sight of the wrecked kitchen, and her knees wavered a little.
“Sit,” Ely commanded, leading her to a chair.
Ely was quiet as he examined her hand.
“It’s not bad, just bleeding a lot. You have a first-aid kit around here anywhere?”
Kyle, still watching them closely, put the guns down and went to her kitchen cupboard, pulling out a small, white box.
Lydia shook her head. She wouldn’t have known that was there. Kyle knew her house better than she did. Well, he had been here all this time, and she had not been.
“I guess we had better call the sheriff, after all,” Ely said.
“I followed whoever it was out to the tree line before I came in, but he was gone,” Kyle muttered agreement.
“No, don’t call anyone,” Lydia interrupted.
Ely looked at her in surprise. “Someone broke into your house, wrecked the place. You need to report it.”
She shook her head. They wouldn’t do anything anyway, as she already knew.
“It would be a waste of time. I didn’t see who did it, and the authorities are probably busy with the storm. It’s probably just someone who thought the house was empty, or some kids out looking for excitement or something. They took off the minute I let them know I was here, so they didn’t mean me any harm,” she said, maybe a little desperately. Who was she trying to convince?
“Or whoever it was could be the one who’s been giving you trouble since you got here, and—”
Lydia cut Kyle off with a sharp look.
“Lydia—”
“Why are you here?” she whispered, interrupting him.
She knew everything was a wreck around her, and she couldn’t deal with that. Not just yet. So she focused on him.
“Tessa sent me. She wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Lydia’s eyes closed, and she shook her head.
“When you came up the side of the house, I thought you were—”
“I know. I’m sorry. My truck is stuck back on the road, and Kyle caught me out front of the house. He thought I might be trouble. We were just sorting it out when we heard the gun go off. And who’s been giving you trouble?”
“Not sure, but they—”
“Kyle, we’re fine,” Lydia interrupted him again with a direct look. “Why don’t you head back down to the bunkhouse, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Ely’s gaze narrowed on her, but he didn’t say a word.
Lydia’s pretty mouth flattened into a line of displeasure as she looked at Kyle.
“So I did see you earlier,” she said. “In town.”
He nodded.
“You do know each other? From back east?” Kyle asked, still not moving.
“That’s right.” Exhausted, her hand throbbing, Lydia felt a chill travel over her skin. She was clad only in the robe she had put on after undressing, having become distracted