Holiday in Your Heart (34 page)

Epilogue

A year later, on Christmas afternoon, Maribeth dropped onto the couch beside her grandmother. “Best Christmas ever,” she told the elderly woman with deep satisfaction.

“It is a special one,” Grandma said with a smile, and her husband, seated in a chair on her other side said, “It sure is.” They were in the big living room at Evan and Jess's, since it was that couple's turn to host the turkey dinner.

“I am so, so glad the two of you moved to Caribou Crossing,” Maribeth said. It had been almost four months since her grandparents had sold their house in North Vancouver—the one they'd bought half a century earlier—making a huge profit that would ensure they lived in comfort for the rest of their lives. They had rented the studio apartment at Daphne and Irene's house, figuring on taking their time looking for a new home. The four eighty-somethings had hit it off immediately, and so far Maribeth's grandparents hadn't kept the Realtor very busy.

“We should have done it years ago,” Granddad said. “Don't know why we felt so rooted in Vancouver.”

“It's always been our home,” his wife said, “and change is hard, especially when you're older. We had our clubs, activities, and friends there, though fewer friends as the years went by. But all those things can't compete with the charms of our first great-granddaughter.” She hugged month-old Joy, who was sleeping in her arms.

“Speaking of whom,” Maribeth said, “can I borrow her back? I can only go so long without holding her.”

As she happily took custody of her daughter, Joy stirred, blinked, and then fell back asleep. Maribeth gazed down at her, endlessly fascinated by this small, warm miracle. Joy's wispy hair was as black as her dad's, her skin was a gorgeous light caramel, and Maribeth really hoped her blue eyes would end up the same shade as Mo's. Joy was clothed in an adorable red onesie with snowflakes on it, a gift from Mo's sister. The wedding and pregnancy were forging a closer relationship with her and even with Mo's dad, and that made Maribeth very happy.

Feeling the warmth of her husband's gaze, Maribeth glanced across the room to where he sat on the floor playing trucks with Alex, who had turned three a couple of weeks earlier. Mo rose and headed over, trailed by Alex. Maribeth moved closer to her grandmother, letting Mo squeeze in on her other side.

He put his arm around Maribeth and trailed a gentle finger over Joy's delicate cheek. “How's our little bundle of joy holding up?” It was the baby's first big family outing.

“Hi, Bundle,” Alex said, reaching his own less gentle pudgy fingers toward the baby's face.

“Careful now,” Mo said, seizing the boy's hand and guiding it into a caress. “And her name's Joy.”

“She's Bundle,” Alex announced firmly. “Tee Bee and Mo-Mo's baby is Bundle.” He turned away. “I go play with Nicki now!” and off he raced.

“The Bundle thing is my fault,” Grandma said ruefully. When Maribeth and Mo had found out she was pregnant with a girl, they'd agreed on the name Joy, because it so perfectly expressed their emotions. The day Joy was born, when Grandma first saw her in the hospital, she'd cried and called her their bundle of joy. Maribeth and Mo had started doing it, too, and Alex, with the persistence of a three-year-old, had glommed onto the Bundle part and refused to budge.

“You look more rested,” Grandma said to Maribeth. “Is Joy sleeping better now?”

Maribeth grinned at her husband. “Mo found the perfect lullaby for her.”

“You're singing to the baby?” Grandma asked him.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But there's a voice she prefers. Caruso's, if you can believe it. We realized that whenever he sings, she settles right down. So we made a tape of his songs, repeating over and over.”

After her grandparents chuckled, Granddad said, “That dog's good with children, isn't he? I admit, when you first told us what breed he was, I looked it up and was worried. I thought he'd be too wild and unpredictable.”

“Amazingly,” Mo said, squeezing Maribeth's shoulders, “some wild things actually enjoy being domesticated, in the right circumstances.”

She snuggled closer into the curve of his arm, knowing he was talking about himself as well as Caruso. There was still a touch of wildness in both the man and the singing dog, a craving that sent them out together for two-hour walks in the country once or twice a week. But she didn't mind it one bit. She had her own cravings, like for time with girlfriends—lunches and the occasional ladies' evening out at a pub or at one of their homes. It was good for her and Mo to be different. They complemented each other—and on the truly important things, like the value of family, they were in total agreement.

Grandma took her husband's hand and squared her shoulders. “We have a question for you two.”

“Okay,” Maribeth said, a little wary of this lead-up.

“Now that Joy's settling in,” Grandma said, “when are the pair of you planning to give her a baby brother or sister?”

Maribeth's mouth fell open. Yes, she and Mo had talked in general terms about having more than one child. He knew how she'd regretted being an only. But Joy was barely a month old.

Granddad spoke next. “It's not like any of us is getting any younger.”

Mo gave a soft laugh. “The man has a point, my love.”

She gazed from her beloved grandparents, down to beautiful little Joy, whose rosebud mouth was pursed in her sleep, and then to the handsome face of the man she loved.

His grin flashed, the slow, dazzling one that carved dimples into his cheeks.

She smiled back. “Yes, Granddad has an excellent point.”

If you enjoyed HOLIDAY IN YOUR HEART, be sure not to miss Susan Fox's

 

She's raising her son on her own, but that's just fine with Lark Cantrell. Caribou Crossing's fire chief comes from a long line of strong, independent women—who have lousy luck with men. Lark's ex-husband walked out when Jayden was born with cerebral palsy. No matter—Jayden, now ten, is a bright, terrific kid, and the love of her life.

When it comes to men, Lark is content with the occasional casual hookup; there's no room in her heart for more disappointment.

 

Major Eric Weaver is in Caribou Crossing for one reason: to complete his rehabilitation so he can return to active service. Haunted by what went down in Afghanistan, his wounded soul isn't healing as quickly as his body. But it's almost impossible to resist the appeal of the sexy, feisty fire chief and her plucky son—not to mention the friendly, caring small town way of life. In Lark's loving arms, the scarred soldier begins to believe he may finally have found his true home . . .

 

A Zebra mass-market paperback and eBook on sale now.

 

Turn the page for a special look!

 

 

 

 

 

Lark Cantrell snapped awake at the familiar bleep of her pager and grabbed the device from the bedside table. A residential structure fire on Tannen Road; occupancy undetermined.

In a flash she responded and jumped out of bed. She ran down the hall, clad in her checked cotton sleep pants and blue tank top. Tannen was out in the country, ten or more minutes' drive from the town of Caribou Crossing.

She shoved her feet into a pair of sandals that sat by the front door. No need to leave a note for her family. Lark's ten-year-old son and mom were used to the unpredictable schedule of a firefighter. As for a man, there hadn't been a significant guy in Lark's life since Jayden's dad walked out on them when he was a baby, and she intended to keep it that way.

She sprinted next door to the fire hall, the mid-July air warm on her skin. As chief, she worked regular weekday hours and didn't have to respond to after-hours callouts. Although no one staffed the fire hall at night, she trusted her volunteers to show up when paged. But she lived beside the station, and with the fire so far outside town, every second counted.

Besides, firefighting was way more exhilarating than sleeping.

She raced into the apparatus bay, kicked off her sandals, and jumped into her boots and turnout pants. By that time, Javi Sanchez had joined her, and moments later Daniels and Mason ran in. As the volunteers dressed, Lark contacted dispatch to report their status, and learned that Captain Tom Weston, tonight's on-call duty officer, was on his way to the scene in the duty vehicle. He'd likely arrive five minutes before Lark's team, but he wouldn't have a mask and breathing apparatus so he couldn't enter the structure. Still, he'd provide valuable information while the other firefighters were en route, so they could plan their strategy.

Usually, Lark took the command role, but tonight she wanted the adrenaline buzz of active firefighting. Besides, it was good to give learning opportunities to some of the others. As she gathered her balaclava, mask, and breathing apparatus, she called out, “Engine 4. Daniels, you're driving.”

“Yes, Chief.” Sharon Daniels raced for the pumper truck. As driver, the volunteer would also be responsible for operating the pump once they were on-scene.

“Sanchez, you're Command,” Lark continued. He was a great firefighter and he'd relish the chance to be in charge. “Mason, you and I are the attack team.” She and Mason would be the first team into the structure, assuming it was safe to enter when they arrived. Cal Mason was only a couple of months out of training and Lark wanted to work with him, help him out.

More firefighters were arriving, including Manny Singh. Captain Singh was one of the paid personnel; like her, he worked regular weekday hours but also often responded to after-hours callouts. “Engine 3,” she told him. His team would follow Engine 4, bringing the additional water supply that could be needed out in the country where there were no hydrants.

Lark jumped into the back of Engine 4, joining Mason. Daniels drove the truck out the open doors with flashing lights and a whoop of the siren. Sanchez, beside Daniels up front, was on the radio. He relayed information to the firefighters. “Dispatch says a guy was driving home after a late shift at work. Saw flickering lights in a back window of a two-story residence. Said it looked to him like fire, maybe in the kitchen. The house is owned by the Hoppingtons, an elderly couple. The guy thinks they moved into an assisted living facility two or three months back, but he's not positive.”

The engine raced through the residential outskirts of the small town, and onto a country road leading northeast. One good thing about night callouts: the roads were virtually empty.

“Even if the couple did move,” Lark said, “there might be family staying there, or they could've rented it out.”

She checked her watch. They'd made excellent time. It had been only five minutes since she'd received the page. “Wonder how old the house is?” Older houses burned more slowly and cleanly. With a new home, once it had been burning for twenty minutes, it often wasn't safe to enter.

They were five, maybe six minutes from their destination, driving through ranch land where there was only an occasional building. She and Mason pulled on their balaclavas, and then donned their masks and breathing apparatuses.

Weston's voice crackled over the radio. “I'm just arriving. Jeep parked in front. No one outside. Smoke and flames pouring out the back of the house.”

Damn. It seemed the house was occupied, and the residents hadn't managed to get out. Lark leaned forward, readying herself to leap out of the truck the moment it stopped.

* * *

Major Eric Weaver eased through the doorway and stepped over a broken piece of wood, careful to walk in the boot prints of Sergeant Danny Peller. Their unit was on a training mission with the Afghan local police, searching an abandoned compound after receiving a tip that insurgents had a weapons cache there.

The vacated room was a mess of broken furniture and equipment. Peller stopped to assess the situation, and Eric glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sharif, the Afghan police officer who was following Eric, held back. Sharif was young and eager, and could be too impetuous.

Peller moved forward. Eric started to follow and—

The world exploded. He was flung into the air, crashing against the wooden wall. For a moment, he was too stunned to move, even to think.

Then . . .
fuck
.
Where's my weapon?
In the explosion, it had flown out of his hand.
What the fuck happened?
Was it an IED? A grenade? A truck bomb? Were they under attack? When he sucked in a breath, it carried the scent of smoke. Was the building on fire?

Where were Peller and Sharif?

He managed to sit up, blinking against grit in his eyes. His gaze landed first on the Afghan, who'd been blown back out the doorway and lay on the ground, either unconscious or dead.
Fuck
. Through a haze of dust and smoke, Eric searched for Peller and found him sprawled on the floor a few yards away with—oh, shit—his fucking right leg blown away from above the knee. Peller's gaze, wide-eyed with shock, was fixed on Eric.

Automatically, Eric made to rise, but his legs didn't work. For the first time, he looked down at his body. His legs were there, but from his knees down, both of them were a mess of torn flesh, blood, and—oh, fuck—even shattered bone.

And then the pain came. Agonizing pain.

But he couldn't surrender to it. Eric pulled himself onto his side and, using the strength of his arms, torso, and hip, dragged himself toward Peller.

Where were the other men? Were they taking fire, unable to reach him, Peller, and Sharif? Or were they dead, or injured? What the hell was going on out there? His ears rang, making it hard to distinguish sounds. One thing he knew: the building was on fire. Smoke scratched his throat and flames licked the closest wall, spreading quickly. At least the Afghan officer—alive or dead—was outside and should be safe from the fire.

Peller's gaze was fixed on Eric like he was his salvation. This morning, the kid had been joking about how he'd have to quit smoking before he went home, or his pregnant wife wouldn't let him back in the house. And that homecoming was only a couple of weeks away. Canada had almost finished pulling out of Afghanistan. Back on home soil, Peller would finish out the few months left on his Terms of Service contract, and then he planned to leave the army and find a job where he could be home with his wife and baby. As for Eric, he was a career soldier with no obligations other than to the army. After Afghanistan, he'd have a new posting.

As Eric dragged himself toward Peller, the sergeant's lips moved. Eric shook his head, trying to clear the ringing. With the aid of a little lip-reading, he made out Peller's next words. “It's bad, Major.” There was blood on the kid's face; he'd been cut by debris. Peller twisted in pain. He coughed and choked out, “Real bad.”

Yeah, it was bad, but agreeing with the kid wasn't going to help. “Hang on, Peller.” Fighting against his own pain, Eric reached the sergeant, pulled out the tourniquet that all soldiers carried, and wrapped it around what remained of Peller's right leg. The left leg was in bad shape, too, and he got Peller's tourniquet on it.

As for his own legs, they'd have to wait. The fire was a hungry crackle, a rush of flames relentlessly consuming the derelict building. Smoke clogged his throat and lungs. His brain, on overload from shock, pain, smoke, and urgency, struggled to form a plan of action.

The kid shouldn't be moved, not without a stretcher, but what choice did Eric have? He needed to drag him, and hope the fire didn't cut off their path to the exit. “Gonna get you out now, Danny-Boy. Get you to a medic.”

“Wish I could see Ellie,” Peller mumbled, his face white and sweaty, streaked with dirt and blood.

“You'll be home before you know it.” It was hard to concentrate on anything but the excruciating pain in his own legs.

“Not g-going home, Nails.” He forced the words out.

“Sure you are.” And if Eric had anything to say about it, it wouldn't be in a body bag. His nickname was Nails because, when he was green, he'd been so dumb that he'd said he was tough enough to eat nails. Well, he was a hell of a lot older now, and damned tough, but the task ahead of him was formidable.

Damn it, where were the others? He could sure use a little help in here. Even though his hearing had improved, he still couldn't make out any sounds from outside—not above the noise of the fire. He maneuvered his body into a position where he could try to drag Danny by the back collar of his uniform.

Soldier up, boy, and get your man out of there!
This time the harsh command ringing inside his skull was in his father's voice. The Brigadier-General had no patience with wimps.

Eric grabbed on to Danny's uniform and braced himself to tug, but then the sergeant's mouth opened again. Eric leaned closer as words came out slowly and clumsily.

“Tell El-lie . . .” The life faded from Danny's voice before he could finish the sentence. It was fading from his blue eyes, too, yet Eric saw the plea in them and knew exactly what Danny had wanted to say.

Shit. The cocky young sergeant was SOL. He was one of Eric's men, and Eric had sent him into danger. He'd failed to protect him, and now he couldn't save him. Couldn't send him home to his wife and unborn kid. All he could do was respect this dying wish.

“I'll tell her you love her and the baby,” he said gruffly, resting his hand on Danny's shoulder.
I'll tell her—if I don't burn to death or die of blood loss myself.
“She loves you, too, Danny-Boy. You know that.” But as he spoke the last words, he realized he was talking to a dead man.

Eric lifted his hand from his sergeant's lifeless body and raised clenched fists as he let out a howl of fury. And then—

He fell, landing hard, fierce pain in his right leg jolting him to awareness.

What the hell?
What now? Another explosion?

Smoke burned his eyes and clogged his throat, making him cough. Everything was dark, but doing a quick assessment of the situation, he felt a rough texture under his hand. Not concrete, wood, or dirt, but . . . carpet?

Gradually, he came to his senses. He'd had another nightmare. A flashback to the IED explosion that had taken Danny Peller's life.

Eric used the tricks he'd been taught for coping with PTSD flashbacks. Ground himself; orient himself in the present.

“I'm Eric Weaver and I'm not in Afghanistan. This is not the f'ing sandbox. I'm in British Columbia, in Caribou Crossing.”

Repeating those words didn't make the smoke go away. He coughed as he rubbed the floor again and felt the well-worn carpet. “I'm in the master bedroom of the farmhouse I rented.” And, damn it, he'd fallen out of bed again.

His right leg hurt fiercely. “It's phantom limb pain,” he muttered, coughing. “That leg's long gone.” Was there some kind of justice or divine irony in the fact that he, the major who hadn't been able to save Danny after the sergeant's right leg was blown off, had lost his own right leg? Eric curled his body so he could massage the stump where his leg ended midthigh. Sometimes that helped ease the pain. His left leg, which had undergone multiple surgeries, didn't feel a hell of a lot better than his phantom limb.