His Christmas Sweetheart. Cathy Mcdavid
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all? We’ll spend every minute of it together. Are you hungry? I can make some sandwiches.” She scanned the room, confusion clouding her features. The next instant she brightened and tugged on his Western-cut shirt. “They’re not feeding you enough. Look how this uniform hangs on you. No worries. I’ll fatten you up while you’re home.”
Nell slipped quietly into the room and set a tray on the bedside table. It held a pot of tea, two mugs and a plate of sugar cookies. After giving Will a wink, she disappeared.
“I ate earlier, Mom,” Will said. “But I wouldn’t mind some tea.”
Another moment of confusion, then Mrs. Litey spotted the tray with the tea and cookies. “I have a fresh pot.”
Will insisted on helping to pour. They sat in a pair of chairs by the window. Mrs. Litey chatted amiably, asking Will questions about his current tour. He answered as best he could. How her son, Joseph, might have answered had he not died thirty years ago in a training accident when the armored personnel carrier he was commanding flipped on a patch of black ice.
Will didn’t know why Mrs. Litey took one look at him and decided he was her son. Perhaps through her haze, she’d sensed his military background. He really didn’t care.
Sitting in the too-small chair, listening to her ramble, he let the present slide away.
It was then he saw the ghost. His late grandmother.
Closing his eyes, he was transported back in time to his grandmother’s kitchen on her farm outside of Fort Scott, Kansas. The sugar cookies were fresh from the oven, not store-bought from a box. Mrs. Litey’s voice became deeper, warmer, resembling his grandmother’s. She was inquiring about school and baseball practice and what colleges he’d applied to.
In a world that had been chaos for far too long, Will was finally at peace, his demons temporarily silenced. Mrs. Litey’s, too, he imagined. It was the reason he visited her and why he let her believe he was her son.
They were a pair, each of them escaping the memories of an unhappy past by taking solace in one another.
A noise from another part of the house traveled down the hall to Will. Then Arthur called hello to Miranda.
She was here!
Will cast about for an escape route, knowing there was none. He’d have to leave the same way he came in. Let her bubbly personality wash over him. Fend off her attempts to know him better. Remind him of the love he’d once had and lost because of his PTSD.
“Mom, I need to go.” He pushed to his feet.
“So soon?” Mrs. Litey’s voice trailed off as fragments of clarity returned.
Will kissed her cheek. She didn’t respond. Sad as her distance made him feel, it was easier to handle than when she clung to him, begging him to stay.
“See you soon,” he whispered and patted her shoulder. Then he started for the door—only to come up short.
Miranda stood not five feet in front of him, a hand pressed lightly to her heart, an aren’t-you-sweet smile on her face. The panic he’d staved off earlier returned, and for one paralyzing moment he feared his coping techniques would fail him.
* * *
MIRANDA GRINNED BROADLY. Will Dessaro was absolutely adorable when flustered—and he was flustered a lot around her.
To be honest, she enjoyed her share of admiring glances from men. Had even plied her charms on occasion to elicit them. The bold, sometimes shameless, looks flattered her. But they were nothing compared to the thrill that Will’s undisguised longing gave her.
How had she coexisted in the same town with him for all these years and not noticed him?
Then came the day of the fire, and the order to evacuate within two hours. He’d shown up on her doorstep—strong, silent, capable—and provided the help she’d needed to rally and load her five frightened and uncooperative residents into the van.
She couldn’t have done it without him. And he’d been visiting Mrs. Litey regularly ever since.
Thank the Lord her house had been spared. The same couldn’t be said for several hundred other homes and buildings in Sweetheart, including many on her own street. Her beautiful and quaint hometown had been brought to its knees in a matter of hours and still hadn’t recovered five months later.
“I hate to impose...” Miranda glanced over her shoulder, making sure Will had accompanied her into the kitchen. It was empty, her part-time helper Nell attending to the residents and their afternoon medications. “There’s a leak in the pipe under the sink. The repairman can’t fit me in his schedule till Monday, and the leak’s worsening by the hour.” She paused. “You’re good with tools, aren’t you?”
“Good enough.” He blushed.
Sweet heaven, he was a cutie.
Wavy brown hair that insisted on falling rakishly over one brow. Dark eyes. Cleft in his chin. Breathtakingly tall. He towered above her five-foot-three frame.
If only he’d respond to one of the many dozen hints she’d dropped and ask her on a date.
“Do you mind taking a peek for me?” She gestured toward the open cabinet doors beneath the sink. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure.” His gaze went to the toolbox on the floor. “You have an old towel or pillow I can use?”
That had to be the longest sentence he’d ever uttered in her presence.
“Be right back.” She returned shortly with an old beach towel folded in a large square.
By then Will had set his cowboy hat on the table and had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows.
Nice arms, she noted. Tanned, lightly dusted with hair and corded with muscles.
Handing him the towel, she indicated the rubber band on his left wrist. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“I do the same thing.”
He stared at her.
“Find rubber bands and put them on my wrist. Never know when you’ll need one.”
“Yeah.” He was back to monotone answers.
Miranda didn’t mind. Words weren’t the only way to communicate. She flashed him another brilliant smile.
His blush deepened.
Excellent. Message sent and received.
Will dug through the toolbox and selected a wrench. Laying the towel down in front of the cabinet she’d cleared out in preparation, he sat on it and then rolled onto his back, adjusting his long body until he was half in, half out of the cabinet.
“Water turned off?”
“Did that when I first got home.”
Miranda knelt on the floor beside him and, for the first time, got a good look at the large silver belt buckle he wore.
U.S. Army. Not a rodeo event.
That answered some questions. She’d often wondered how he was able to effectively play the part of Mrs. Litey’s late son. Where, then, had he learned to be such a first-rate cowboy?
“How long were you in for?” she asked.
He stilled. “Pardon?”
“The army. How long?”
“Six years.”
“Where did you serve?” she persisted.
“Overseas.”
“The Middle East?”
“Some. Also stateside.”
He was certainly a challenge. Luckily Miranda didn’t give up easily.