Christmas In Snowflake Canyon (26 page)

She flashed him a look, trying to force her imagination not to go there. Pulling off his jacket, loosening that tie, baring all those muscles…

She cleared her throat. “You’ll get used to it, I’m sure. Or if you prefer the eye patch, wear that. It doesn’t matter to me.”

I love you either way.

“Or anyone else, I’m sure,” she quickly added. “Wasn’t it great to see Trey standing for the ceremony?” “Yes. And Jenna’s dress was beautiful. I kept picturing you in it, though.”
Before she could respond to that, the couple in question approached them, trailing their happiness like Jenna’s train.

The bride embraced her, smelling of hair spray and lilies from her exquisite bouquet. “Genevieve. Oh. I don’t even know what to say. It was the most beautiful wedding, in front of those big windows with the mountains in the background and that light snowfall.”

She smiled and hugged her back. “I can’t take credit for the view or the snowfall.”

Jenna eased away. She really did look beautiful in that dress. “Everything else is because of you. We can never repay you for the wonderful gift you have given us. Another chance. You’ve given us a future.”

“You had the courage to grab your own future together. I’m so happy for you both.”

Trey, still using his forearm crutches, embraced her next. Genevieve kissed his cheek. “I needed a kick in the ass, somebody to show me I was being a stubborn fool. Thank you for giving it to me.”

“Anytime.” She managed another smile, though it was edged with sadness. Why couldn’t Dylan accept he needed her, as Trey had finally opened his heart and his life to Jenna?

“What are your plans now?” Dylan asked.

“I’ve got a contract to finish up the school year in Georgia,” Jenna said. “After that, we’re not sure where we’ll settle.”

“I’ve decided to go back to school to finish my degree. Mac has convinced me I could work in a program like this one or something similar.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Genevieve exclaimed. “You would be perfect.”

The orchestra set their instruments down and the beginning strains of the romantic pop-ballad recording Jenna had requested for their dance together began playing over the sound system.

“Oh! There it is. Our song. We have to go dance.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll look ridiculous trying to dance. I’m going to topple both of us to the ground.”

She gave him a dewy-eyed smile. “Don’t you know by now, I’m strong enough to support us both, when I have to?”

Gen watched them go out to the small dance floor she had marked by more of those trees with twinkly lights. The lights dimmed as they walked out while Justin Timberlake and the rest of *NSYNC sang about promising to love forever and battles being won.

Trey used his crutches to go to the middle of the dance floor and then handed them to Jason, something that had obviously been planned ahead of time. He took Jenna in his arms and they held each other, not really moving, mostly swaying in time to the music.

She watched them, the handsome battered warrior and his sweet bride in her beautiful wedding gown. She wasn’t the only one crying softly before the song was through.

Dylan handed her a handkerchief. “You did a good thing, Gen.”

She wiped her eyes, her heart a heavy ache. When she lowered the handkerchief other couples began to move out to join the newlyweds. Charlotte and Spencer moved past them, Alex McKnight and Sam Delgado. Even Mary Ella and Harry Lange.

He said nothing, just watched as the small dance floor began to fill. Finally she decided this was her only chance and she couldn’t let it slip through her fingers. “Dance with me,” she said softly.

The moment stretched out, awkward and wooden. She could feel his tension.

“I wasn’t a good dancer, even before.”

“Do you think I care about that?”
I just want one last chance to be close to you.
She thought the words but couldn’t say them.

Finally, when she thought he would leave her standing on the edge of the dance floor, he reached for her hand and they walked out among the twinkly trees.

After some quick mental calculations, she switched the way she would traditionally place her arms and curled her right arm around his neck. After a pause, he put his prosthetic hand around her waist. It wasn’t really holding her, just resting on the curve of her hip.

This was another romantic ballad from about a decade ago, obviously also picked by Jenna. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his chest, trying to savor every moment. It was magical and she never wanted it to end.

But forever wasn’t in the cards for them. As soon as the song was over, he stepped away.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said, his voice gruff and stiff, his features once more remote.

She had been wrong about the eye patch. Even when he didn’t wear it, his expression wasn’t any more clear to her.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

He gave her one last look, then turned around and walked away—not simply from her but from the whole reception, working his way through the dancers and the crowd with single-minded purpose.

A wise woman would simply let him go, since he was so determined to put as much distance between them as he could.

She watched his progress for a moment, aching and miserable and filled with sorrow, then screwed her eyes shut. When had she ever been wise about anything? Why ruin a perfect track record of foolish mistakes?

She drew in her courage and rushed after him. all he wanted was to climb back in his truck, drive up to Snowflake Canyon and climb inside the last bottle of Johnnie Walker in the place.

Emotions were a big, messy snarl inside him, like fishing line that had been left in the bottom of the boat over the winter. He didn’t want to untangle them right now; he only knew he had to get away.

He didn’t want this. These tender, fragile, terrifying feelings.

This was all Jamie’s fault. If his brother had never asked to meet him at The Speckled Lizard that night, he never would have stepped in to help Genevieve Beaumont.

He would have been perfectly happy the rest of his life thinking she was a spoiled, snobby bitch instead of the soft, vulnerable,
perfect
woman he had come to know these past few weeks.

A woman who gave away her wedding dress then stayed up all night making alterations so another woman could wear it. Who cried like a baby as she watched a broken soldier dance with his bride. Who looked at him—screwed up, angry, half-missing
him—as
if he was everything to her.

He reached his pickup, telling himself the ache in his chest was only the cold air hitting his lungs.

Just as he opened the door, he heard a swish of fabric, and some sixth sense had him turning around.

Of course. There she was. He should have known she would come after him. She was so damn stubborn when she wanted to be: punching assistant D.A.s and firing her father out of pique and steaming off layer after layer of wallpaper in a dilapidated old house.

She didn’t have a coat and her cheeks were pink and he wanted to bundle her up, throw her in the pickup and take her home with him.

“Why are you running so hard from me?” she demanded.

He loosened the stupid tie his father had tied for him as if he were six years old.

“Can’t I just be done with the party? I’ve spent more time surrounded by people these last ten days than I have in my whole life. Is it so hard to believe I might just want to be alone for a while?”

“Not hard at all. I just think it’s me you’re eager to escape.”

He wanted to deny it. It would make things so much easier, all the way around. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but he had to make her face reality somehow.

He rubbed his hand over his face, hating this, hating himself. Even hating
her
a little for forcing him to face all the things he had never, for a moment, thought he wanted—a wife, a family, a future—and the bitter realization that what he wanted was out of reach to him.

“Gen, I can’t be the man you need.”

She paled a little but lifted her chin. “How can you be so certain?”

“You need someone who wants the same things you do, who is used to the kind of life you’ve had. Someone polished and cultured. Someone who has no problem listening to that French jazz crap you like and going to museums and escorting you to the opera. That was never me and it sure as hell isn’t now.”

“A few weeks ago, I would have agreed with you. The man you’re describing is exactly the one I’ve always thought I wanted. Is it so hard to believe I was wrong—about myself and about so many other things?”

“Gen—”
“I love you.”
She said the words quickly, as if afraid she would lose her nerve if she didn’t rush through them.
He inhaled sharply as some of those emotions seemed to yank free of the snarl.
Love. Of course.
That
was what this was.
He closed his eyes—the real one and the fake one—as the truth soaked through him like somebody had doused him with that bottle of whiskey waiting at home for him.

He loved Genevieve Beaumont. And she apparently felt the same.

He wanted to savor the words as he had that dance, to drink them in, swirl them around inside him and just let them soak through.

He couldn’t do that, to either of them.

She must imagine they could have a happy ending like Trey and Jenna.

He wasn’t like Trey. Trey had been basically a good soldier who had been injured through no fault of his own. He hadn’t been responsible for the deaths of five of his closest friends because of weakness and uncertainty.

What did he have to offer her? A broken-down house in Snowflake Canyon, no career. He did have a great dog, but on the list of things Mayor Beaumont wanted for his daughter, a great black-and-tan coonhound likely wouldn’t make the cut.

Nor would a washed-up army ranger with several missing parts.

He drew in a sharp breath. “You don’t love me. I’m flattered that you would say so—who wouldn’t be?— but you’re just caught up in the whole wedding romance thing.”

“You really think I’m that shallow?”

A few weeks ago, he would have given an unequivocal yes to that question. Not now. She was so much more.

He couldn’t let her love him. Two years from now, what would she want with him when she finally realized he couldn’t miraculously regrow an eye and a hand? He wouldn’t be able to bear that.

He didn’t know what to do, what to say. The only thing that seemed certain to convince her was to strike out where he knew she was most vulnerable.

“What if you’re not the kind of woman I want?”

He hated himself more in that moment than he had in all the months since his accident, but he didn’t see any other choice but to drive her away irrevocably.

Her features grew even more pale. “Is that so?”

He focused his gaze somewhere over her shoulder, unable to lie straight to her face. “You’re incredibly beautiful, and if circumstances were different, I would sleep with you in a second. But you surround yourself with perfection. The way you dress, your makeup, your hair. You can’t tolerate anything being out of place. You wrap presents with ribbon ends that have to be exactly equal. Even before I was injured and became very much less than perfect, I wouldn’t have been the man for you.

Eventually, I probably would have wanted to chew my own arm off to get away from all those expectations.” She stared at him, eyes wide, and he could see her curling into herself, pulling all her protective barriers back in place. “I…see.”

He wanted to call back every word, but all he could picture was a future with her eventually coming to despise him. He wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Yeah, it made him the coward she had called Trey a few days ago. He knew that.

Better to be a coward now than completely wrecked later when she finally realized he wasn’t enough for her.

“It’s cold. You should go back inside.”
“I… Yes. I guess you’re right.”
With each breath, he felt as if knives were carving holes in his chest, but he forced himself to give his best imitation of a casual smile. “It really was a beautiful wedding, Genevieve. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

She wouldn’t look at him as she turned and fled back to the lights, the music, the fairy-tale ending he could never give her.

“A
re you sure you’re all right, darling? You hardly touched your dinner, and you’ve been so pale and quiet all evening.”

“I’m fine, Mother.” She tried a smile to ease the worry she could see in Laura’s features. “I’m only a little tired.”

She was working hard to be patient with her parents, trying to remember they had her best interests at heart. Sometime in the past few days, she had come to the realization that her father had been right to bring her home to Hope’s Crossing. She had been aimless in Paris. Oh, she had certainly enjoyed herself but that life had been unsustainable. She had needed to find her purpose—and perhaps the strength inside herself to reach for one.
She could have done without the heartbreak that had come along with it, but blaming her parents for that would be unfair.

“Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. Mrs. Taylor outdid herself.”

“Didn’t she?” Laura beamed as if
she
had been the one slaving away in the kitchen instead of their longtime housekeeper. “And what did you think of Adam? Isn’t he a lovely man?”

“Yes. Lovely.” Her father’s new associate, Adam Schilling, actually had been quite nice. He was funny and smart and treated her with respect, as if he genuinely cared about her opinion—something of an appealing rarity, in her experience.

She would definitely have been interested in him if circumstances had been different.

Her heart felt achy and sore, as if she had a strange sort of flu. She had cried herself to sleep the past two nights, something she hadn’t done once after the end of her engagement.

Having all these tender feelings for a man who didn’t want them hurt worse than anything in her life.

Dylan hadn’t come to A Warrior’s Hope to see their guests on their way the previous day. She had spent the whole night before trying to figure out how she would possibly face him again…and then he hadn’t even had the courtesy to make all that effort worthwhile.

No one had explained to her where he was, but she had overheard Charlotte tell Eden he’d phoned her that morning and said he had an appointment he’d forgotten about. He promised he would make up the last of his hours after the holidays.

She knew it was a lie. He wouldn’t have forgotten an appointment. He only wanted to avoid the awkwardness of facing her again after that last humiliating scene between them.

She sighed, earning a concerned look from her mother.

“Really, darling,” Laura exclaimed. “I think you must be coming down with something. And on Christmas Eve, too! Poor thing. Why don’t you stay here tonight instead of going back to your grandmother’s house? I can tuck you in, just like old times, and make some of your grandmother’s Russian tea you always used to like.”

“I’m just tired, I think. A good night’s sleep will be just the thing.”

“You should definitely stay here, then,” William piped up. “You’ll sleep better in your own bed than at your grandmother’s.”

She didn’t want to argue with them when so far the evening had been conflict-free. Even so, she had a deep yearning to be alone. Pretending to enjoy herself all evening took emotional energy she just couldn’t spare right now.

She had done as they asked by coming to dinner, spending time with them, being polite to their guests. That was all she could handle tonight.

“Thank you, but I would rather go back to Grandma’s house. All my things are there—my makeup remover, my moisturizer. I’ll be more comfortable there.”

Her mother, at least, would certainly understand the importance of good skin care.

“You’re coming over tomorrow morning, then, for breakfast and to open presents,” Laura insisted.

“Yes. Of course. I’ll be here bright and early, I promise.”

At that moment, her brother, Charlie, came in from outside, stomping off snow. “It’s really coming down. I just scraped your windows, but maybe you ought to stay here.”

She rolled her eyes, even as she was immensely touched that her previously troublesome, sullen brother had learned to look outside himself and help others. “Not you, too! Give it a rest, everybody. I’ll be fine.”

Her words were a lie. She wasn’t fine and hadn’t been for two days. Though it sounded melodramatic, right now she wasn’t sure how she would ever be fine again. How was it possible to ache so deeply for something that had never even had the chance to begin?

With hugs and air-kisses, she said her goodbyes to her family and climbed into her little SUV.

The streets of Hope’s Crossing were mostly empty. Just after dark each year, Silver Strike ski resort had a Christmas Eve candlelight ski, when they would turn off the resort lights and the only illumination would be the line of tiny lights held by skiers as they traversed the run. Nearly everyone in town usually attended—her family and her parents’ guests had watched, hot cocoa in hand, from the deck of their home not far from the resort and then returned inside for dinner.

By now, all those skiers and the bystanders were back in the warmth of their homes, tucked up together to celebrate the joy of the season together.

Her windshield kept up a steady rhythm to beat away the snow as the Christmas lights of Hope’s Crossing glimmered. It really was a pretty little town. She had to keep her eyes on the road because of the inclement conditions, but every once in a while, she caught a vignette inside a frosted window of people gathered around laughing, talking, smiling.

Her feelings for Hope’s Crossing had changed, as well. Once she had considered it an insular backwater, filled with small-minded people. Working at A Warrior’s Hope and seeing the outpouring of support by people in town toward outsiders they didn’t even know had given her new perspective.

She might have reconsidered returning to her flat in Paris, if not for Dylan and her aching heart.

As she pulled into her driveway, she noticed fresh tracks in the snow. It looked as if someone had pulled in and then out again while she had been gone. It must have been some time ago as more snow had filled in the tracks.

Someone had left something on the porch, she could see as she drove into the garage. Curious, she parked her vehicle then walked through the house to the front door to find a shiny red gift bag with a clumsily tied gold bow on the porch.

Odd. Who would be leaving her a gift? Perhaps Charlotte had stopped by, or maybe Eden.

She carried it inside and turned on the lights in Grandma Pearl’s living room. She couldn’t find a gift label or a card. With a frown, she began to pull away tissue-paper layers. Something solid and dark lay inside, she saw. She reached inside and her hand closed around smooth wood.

A figure.
Three wooden figures, actually.
She pulled them out and caught her breath as her heart started to pound with stunning ferocity.
Three figures: Joseph, Mary, Baby Jesus, each rather roughly carved out of a fine-grained wood, unpainted but stained with a clear finish.
With fingers that trembled suddenly, she set them on the coffee table for a better look. Mary knelt beside the manger, her features in shadow from her head covering. Joseph stood beside her, strong and sturdy, staff in hand, and the tiny Baby Jesus lay in a manger with arms stretched wide.

She looked in the bag again and found nothing to indicate who had left such treasure.

But she knew.

He could have purchased it somewhere, she supposed, or his father or one of his brothers could have made it.

That would have been logical, given his circumstances, but somehow she knew in her heart Dylan had made them himself, to continue the tradition her grandmother had started so long ago.

She pictured him trying with one arm to carve this for her, probably using the prosthetic he hated to hold the wood in place, and she started to sob.

She cried for all he had endured, for her pain the past few days and for the unbearably precious gift he had given her, overwhelming in its magnitude.

When the torrent of tears had slowed to a trickle, she picked up the carving of the baby in the manger. It was raw, primitive, like something out of a folk-art museum, but beautiful in its simplicity, in the young, serene mother, the watchful father, those open arms.

As she looked at it again, the truth washed over her. He loved her.
Despite what he’d said, all that ridiculous nonsense that had cut so deeply, he loved her. He wouldn’t have spent a moment doing this for her otherwise, let alone the hours it must have taken him to painstakingly carve something so lovely.

He loved her and she refused to let him pretend otherwise.

She scooped up all three figures, hugged them close to her heart and hurried back out to her SUV.

Dylan stirred the fire and watched red-gold embers dance up the chimney.

Christmas Eve, and here he was alone at his cabin in Snowflake Canyon with Tucker, a fire and a book he knew would remain unread.

He had done his best. He had dutifully gone with his family to watch the candlelight ski and then had gone to Pop’s place for dinner. He had stayed amid the noise and chaos as long as he could, until his nerves felt as frayed as Tucker’s favorite rug and he finally made his excuses.

Then he had made the fatal mistake he had been regretting for the past hour.

He poked at the fire again then tossed in another split log, watching while the flames teased at it for a moment before taking hold.

“I know I’m an idiot, Tuck. You don’t have to tell me that.”

His dog just looked at him out of those big eyes. Yeah, he had definitely climbed onto the crazy bus. What else would explain the past few days?

The whole thing had started as a whim, just to see if he could still carve. After a frenzied two days with little sleep and countless tries, next thing he knew, he was actually dropping the whole thing off on her porch like the town’s do-gooder Angel of Hope.

He couldn’t believe he had actually left them, but he had figured, what the hell? What else was he going to do with them?

He supposed on some level, he was trying to atone for his cruel words the other night—which really made no sense at all since he was hoping she wouldn’t guess the crappy gift came from him.

Yeah. He was not only riding the crazy bus—at some point in the past few days, he had taken the damn wheel. He sighed. Nothing for it now but to get through the holidays, wait for her to go back to Paris and then move on with his life.
The snow was still coming down steadily, so he decided to head out to the woodpile to fill up the box on the porch. Few things sucked worse than having to run out in the middle of the night all the way to the woodpile so he could keep the fire going—but even that beat the alternative of waking up to an ice-cold house.

He threw on his boots and his coat but didn’t bother with a glove. It wouldn’t take him long. In two or three trips to the stack out beyond the house, he could have enough split wood on the porch to last twenty-four hours or more.

“You coming?” he asked Tucker. The dog gave him a “fat chance” sort of look and settled back on his rug in front of the fire.

He was on the second trip to the porch through the snow when he saw a flash of light on the long, winding drive to the main canyon road.

He stopped and stared, the leather wood carrier dangling from his hand. What the hell? Who would be stupid enough to drive up here in the dark in the middle of a storm?

If it was Charlotte or Pop, he was seriously going to have to start yelling. Couldn’t they leave him alone for two damn seconds?

He climbed up to the porch and dumped the wood in the bin then waited while the vehicle drew closer.

He recognized it when it was about twenty yards away, and his pulse started pounding in his ears.

Not Charlotte or Pop.

He shouldn’t have bothered with a coat. Despite the cold wind that hurled snow at him, his face and chest felt hot and itchy as he watched Genevieve climb out of her SUV.

She looked like a Christmas angel, with her little cream wool coat, red scarf and a jaunty little matching wool cap.

He drew in a sharp breath, aching with the effort not to run down the steps and yank her into his arms.

“I thought
I
was the crazy one, but you are completely insane,” he growled.

“Probably.” She stopped at the bottom of the steps.

“No
probably
about it,” he snapped. “What were you thinking, driving up here in the middle of a blizzard?” “This?” She made one of her funny little gestures at the snow steadily piling up. “This is just a few inches.” “You have got to leave now if you want to make it back down and not be stuck up here all night.”
She looked up at him for about ten seconds then walked up the steps and into his house without waiting for an invitation, untwisting her scarf as she went. He followed after her. “Genevieve Beaumont. Get back in that SUV and go home. If you don’t, I swear, I’ll haul you over my shoulder, toss you in my pickup and take you down myself.”
She ignored him, instead looking around his house with interest. She hadn’t been here, he realized. He tensed even more, wondering what she saw. Yeah, it was pretty bare-bones but it was comfortable and he liked it.

Tucker the Traitor padded right over to her for a little love, and she knelt down with a slight smile and rubbed just behind his left ear, right where he adored.

“Hey, buddy. How’ve you been? Hmm?”

“Seriously, Gen,” he tried again. “This isn’t a joke. The canyon roads can be slick and dangerous even when there’s not new snow. If you don’t believe me, ask your brother.”

Her mouth seemed to tighten a little as she rose to her feet and faced him. “I’m not leaving. At least not until you explain this.”

She pulled three wooden figures out of her pocket and set them on the table.

His face turned hot again and he could barely look at them. Crazy bus. Definitely. What the hell had he been thinking? How could he ever have imagined it was a good idea to give them to her?

“Well?” she demanded when he said nothing.

He tried for nonchalance. “I don’t know. They look like something a third-grader did in art class.”