Home for Christmas

 

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For my husband, Nick, who makes every season bright

 

Chapter One

Libby sat with her fingers poised over her laptop keyboard, her deadline looming over her shoulder like a stern, demanding schoolteacher.

You could excel if you'd work a little harder,
she imagined Mrs. Deadline saying.
Are you stupid or just lazy, Ms. Leeds? Why don't you apply yourself?

Libby sighed in the dark silence of her small home office. Another week, another column for
Savor
magazine … another shame spiral.

Imaginary Mrs. Deadline was right, Libby told herself firmly. Why did she put herself through this every time? She ought to buckle down, grind out a few sentences, and see what she came up with. If it sucked, she could fix it later! She wasn't curing cancer, here. All she was doing was describing a Thanksgiving feast—and that should be easy! The main course was predetermined. It had to be turkey! So what was she waiting for?

Nothing. She was going to start typing. Libby rested her fingertips on the smooth keys and took a deep breath in. The blank white page glared back at her, painfully bright in the dim room. Any second now …

Without conscious thought, Libby's right hand twitched and her pinky hit the button that maximized her internet browser. Before she could get her rogue fingers under control, they'd clicked her mouse and restarted the video that she—and more than a million other people—had been watching on repeat since the clip first aired on the
Good Morning Show
.

“And how are you recovering from your ordeal?” The talk show host's platinum blonde bob quivered with sympathy as she leaned over the hospital bed's railing.

Libby held her breath, her gaze eating up the details of this image she'd already viewed at least fifty times. The man being interviewed didn't shift a single hard muscle. Copper glinted from his short-buzzed hair under the fluorescent lights. His broad chest was barely contained by the plain white hospital gown, his muscular shoulders straining the material where he sat propped against several flat pillows.

Even with his right leg in a cast and raised slightly in traction, he sat at attention, looking ready to spring from the bed and into action at the first sign of danger. His left arm was in a sling that held it immobile across his chest, the tanned skin dark against the pristine fabric.

Next to the hospital bed was a small open box framing a bronze medal hanging from green and white striped ribbon. It was the Army Commendation Medal for distinguished service and valorous conduct, usually awarded to those who had risked their lives above and beyond the normal duties of combat.

Libby knew, because she'd looked it up yesterday after the first time she'd watched the video.

When Sergeant First Class Owen Shepard finally spoke, it was with quiet authority, his rough voice stroking over Libby's skin like a callused palm. “Recovery is slow but steady.”

Rhonda Friend, the premier network morning show host, blinked big blue eyes at him. “And was it just awful?” she asked in hushed tones. “The explosion that nearly took your life?”

It was only because Libby had basically become a PhD-level expert in Sgt. Owen Shepard's facial expressions that she caught the miniscule tightening of his sharply angled jaw.

“I can't speak about that,” he said, clipped but polite.

“Of course, of course,” Rhonda rushed to reply, still simpering. “An active military operation—we wouldn't want you to compromise it. But you can share a few teensy little details with us, can't you?”

Something shifted behind Sgt. Shepard's blue-green eyes, and suddenly he smiled. Bright, charming, effortless—but Libby's gut told her it was fake.

“I'd rather talk about the future,” he said. “Rehab is hard work, but I'm committed to getting back on my feet and going back to my men. They tell me it might not happen, but I'm not good with accepting limitations. I'll get there, even if it takes a few months.”

Rhonda, who hadn't seemed to notice anything off about her interview subject's easy smile, gave him another smile dripping with sympathy. “It will be wonderful to have some time off, I'm sure! Time with your family, to reconnect, before you return to your unit overseas to fight for our freedoms back home. And speaking of home, where is that for you?”

For the first time in the interview, a hint of something real and joyful warmed Sgt. Shepard's weary eyes. “My sister, Andie, and my daughter. Caitlin. Wherever they are, that's home.”

Libby's heart skipped ahead two beats, the way it had every time she'd watched the clip.

Obviously sensing the nearby presence of gold, Rhonda dug deeper. “Your sister is a small-town sheriff, isn't that right? Heroism must run in the family.”

“I don't know about that—but Andie is pretty great. Her town is lucky to have her standing watch over them.”

“And what about your wife? Is there a Mrs. Shepard waiting for you at home?”

Something flickered through Sgt. Shepard's gaze, and his smile dimmed a bit. “No. Caitlin's mother passed away … almost a year ago, now.”

“Tragic,” breathed Rhonda, clearly delighted. “I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“All that matters to me now is Caitlin.” A muscle ticked in the wounded soldier's jaw, and he glanced past Rhonda's startled face to stare directly into the camera as if making a vow to his little girl. “All that matters is getting home to her in time for the holidays. I want to give my daughter the perfect Christmas.”

The moment held, intense and riveting. Libby's lungs seized, her throat tightening and eyes burning. He was so intent, his fierce need to be there for his young daughter was almost palpable.

With a jerk of her chin, Rhonda gestured for the cameraman to re-focus on her tight smile. “I'm sure you will.”

Sgt. Shepard shrugged, sinking back into the pillows. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. The doctors tell me I'll be recovered enough to get out of the hospital and down to Sanctuary Island in time—but whether I can manage anything approaching a good Christmas is less certain. I'm not even sure I'd know a good Christmas if it ambushed me in the desert, much less how to make sure Caitlin … well. I'll figure it out.”

“There you have it, ladies,” Rhonda purred, turning back to the camera and flicking her hair back. “He's single, handsome, and a real-live hero—and he needs you. Send us your holiday ideas and help a genuine American hero give his daughter the Christmas she deserves.”

With only seconds left on the video, Libby ignored the talk show host's babble in favor of staring at Owen Shepard's handsome, angular face. There was a bone-deep confidence to him—not arrogance, exactly, but a deep assurance in his own strength. The only hint of vulnerability was the way he softened over his daughter … and the pain that hardened his mouth when he shifted his weight against the hospital bed.

Libby noted the sharp slash of his cheekbones as he glanced down, one hand dropping to massage the muscle above his leg cast. Even partially veiled by his dark chestnut lashes, his eyes were an extraordinary color, a blend of blue and green that she'd spent way too long trying to come up with the perfect word to describe.

And when he looked up, Libby paused the video right before it cut out, her breath catching in her throat at the way his gaze burned through the screen and into her soul.

She stared, caught up in the unfamiliar feeling of connection. For a girl who spent most days hiding out in her living room in yoga pants, not speaking to anyone other than her impatient editor and the coffee shop guy on the corner who supplied her caffeine needs, what she felt when she looked at Owen Shepard defied understanding.

Libby wanted to know him. Everything about him. And she wanted him to know her, the way no one had since …

Enough. Huffing at the silly fantasy, Libby determinedly clicked out of the video and shut off her internet connection for good measure. It was time to get to work. This Thanksgiving piece wasn't going to write itself. Unfortunately.

Libby rested her fingertips on the keyboard and stared at the blinking cursor at the top of the screen. This was good. She was working.

She sighed, her mind as blank as the page in front of her. When she closed her eyes, her imagination betrayed her with visions of Owen Shepard's strong, weathered face. Cracking her knuckles in frustration, Libby forced herself to focus. She started typing.

I sometimes think I must have done something especially wonderful in a past life to deserve the riches of this one. Not the material things—although I'm grateful for every stick of furniture and every crumbling brick holding up the walls of this old house—but our wealth is in the air. So sweet and clear it almost sparkles in the morning sun.

Our wealth is in the deep blue of the ocean stretched under the horizon and the swaying boughs of the pinewood trees leaning over our back porch.

Our wealth is in the warm, friendly community of Sanctuary Island, where wild horses thunder across the sandy beaches and autumn shades everything in tones of russet and gold. This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for so many things, especially—

When the phone rang, she jerked in surprise. Cursing silently at the distraction just when she'd been getting into a good rhythm, Libby didn't even check the caller ID before answering. She knew who it had to be. No one but the sweet, caring nurses at Uncle Ray's assisted living center ever called her.

Bracing herself for bad news from Sunnyside Gardens, Libby was startled by the brisk masculine voice asking, “Is this Elizabeth Leeds?”

“Yes,” she replied cautiously. “May I ask who's calling?”

“This is Hugo Downing.”

Libby's blood froze. The publisher of
Savor
magazine.

“Your boss,” Hugo continued, as if Libby might not recognize the name. “And first of all, I want to say how glad we are to have you at
Savor
.”