Home for Christmas (12 page)

“No!”

Libby blinked, terrified for a moment that she'd been the one to give the loud, emphatic negative, but Andie was sliding into the seat across the table from Owen's and leaning over the table to make her point. “You just got here. I'm not ready to lose you again. Caitlin will come around, she needs more time to get used to you and to see that you coming back doesn't mean you're going to take her away—even if that used to be her favorite daydream.”

Owen sucked in a breath, like someone had thumped him hard right over his sutures, and Libby couldn't stand it. “I have an idea,” she blurted without thinking. They looked at her, and she rushed to get the words out. “Why doesn't Owen stay here? We have plenty of room, and that would give Caitlin some space to adjust while keeping you all close by each other.”

There was a pause, just long enough for Owen's expression to lighten a fraction as he considered the idea … and for Libby to realize what she'd done.

She'd invited the man she was supposed to fool into believing she was the perfect wife and homemaker into her house, where he'd have front-row seats to her every mistake and slip–up. She'd have to live the lie full time, with no breaks. This was the worst idea ever.

Except that Owen was smiling at her, the slow, sweet, secret smile that almost felt as though it belonged to Libby alone. “That's incredibly generous of you,” he said. “If you're sure you don't mind having a virtual stranger in the house over the whole Christmas holiday.”

Any sensible objections Libby might have been formulating melted away under the warmth of Owen's gaze. “I don't mind,” she said, a little breathlessly.

“What will your husband have to say about it, I wonder.” Libby flinched, her gaze darting to Andie's cool, watchful expression as the sheriff continued. “Not to mention his grandfather.”

Andie's eyes dropped to where Owen and Libby's fingers were still tangled together, and Libby felt her cheeks go hot. She pulled free of Owen's grasp and gave them both a determined smile. “They won't mind, either of them. It's Christmas! The more the merrier.”

“Hmm.” Andie didn't look convinced as she turned back to her brother. “Are you sure this is what you want? I still think that we could help Caitlin through this together.”

“We will,” Owen assured her. “But I won't be in Caitlin's face every minute, freaking her out. And even if I get woken up by your famous chickens every morning at dawn, Libby, at least I'll get to escape that monstrosity my sister calls a couch.”

Andie reached across the tablet to thwap his shoulder, but Libby thought there was something like relief lurking behind Andie's grin. The warmth Libby felt at the idea that she was really helping made it easier to ignore the spurt of guilt over the imaginary chickens she'd written about in her column. Libby stood up and got back to clearing the table of their gingerbread mess. “The chickens are very quiet, I promise! You won't even know they're there. So it's settled! I'll get a room ready for you, just come on over with your things whenever you want. We'll be here.”

“This is very kind of you,” Andie said, getting up and gathering the rest of their things. “Please tell Councilman Leeds hello for me. And I guess this development means we'll also take you up on your kind offer to host us for Christmas. Apparently, I'll be asking Santa for a new couch.”

Libby watched her go, unsure whether to be thrilled at the confirmation that her boss's scheme was going forward full steam ahead or terrified that now she was actually going to have to pull off the perfect Christmas.

“I'm going to go talk to Caitlin.” Owen levered himself out of his chair and strode determinedly toward the front hall, where Caitlin's sobs had tapered off a few minutes before. “I can't just appear and disappear from her life at random. And I've got my first session at the therapy riding place in an hour, so I'll be back after that. In time for dinner! I'm looking forward to my first meal prepared by America's Favorite Cook.”

He winked and slipped out the door, oblivious to the way Libby suddenly swayed on her feet. She felt as if all the blood had drained from her head. Groping for the table, she leaned over it and let out a piteous moan.

Dinner. Tonight.

It had taken her four tries over seven hours to master the simplest stir-and-bake recipe for gingerbread she could find online. And now she needed to figure out how to prepare a convincingly delicious dinner for Owen, and she only had the afternoon to work with. If she bombed dinner tonight, he'd start getting suspicious. All it would take would be one dangling thread and this whole blanket of lies would start to unravel.

Libby put her head in her hands and moaned again.

This was going to be a disaster.

“So they're finally gone.” Her grandfather's querulous voice made Libby pick her head up. He rapped his brass-topped cane against the doorway imperiously. “What's the matter, girl?”

Another wave of disbelief swept over Libby's head, threatening to drown her. “I lost my mind, that's what. I invited Sergeant Owen Shepard to stay with us for the holidays. So now instead of cooking for him just the one time, on Christmas Day, I'll have to figure out how to put something edible on the table three times a day for the next two and a half weeks.”

“Is that all?” Dabney's faded blue eyes gleamed with something that looked a lot like the enjoyment of the challenge. “I told you on the phone that I'd take care of everything, and I intend to. Leave it to me, girl. You just worry about putting on a good act with Nash. I've got a plan.”

Men with plans. She was surrounded by men with plans.

Well, it wasn't as if better solutions were knocking on the door. She might as well let her grandfather try. Libby picked herself up from the table and went back to cleaning. If they really were going to have a delicious dinner tonight cooked by someone other than Libby, they'd need someplace to eat it.

 

Chapter Eleven

Owen waved good-bye to his sister's boyfriend from the porch of the Leeds house. Sam, who had driven him over on his way to volunteer at the Christmas Village's nativity petting zoo, flashed his truck's lights in acknowledgment and drove off.

Alone in the gathering dusk, Owen allowed his shoulders to droop for a brief moment. It had been a long, exhausting day, and it wasn't over yet. He still had to make it through dinner at the same table with pretty Libby Leeds and her no-good skunk of a husband.

That was one of the advantages of staying at the Leeds house, Owen reminded himself. He could observe their relationship up close and personal, and decide how to proceed with regards to telling Libby the truth about her husband. The very fact that he wanted nothing more than to barge into the house and chuck Nash out into the cold was enough to give Owen pause.

He wasn't objective here. He needed more information.

Hitching his duffel higher on his shoulder, Owen braced himself to move again. After an hour of evaluation exercises with the physical therapist at the Windy Corner barn, Owen's entire right side was knotted with pain.

His spine snapped straight at the sound of the front door opening.

Libby poked her head out, an immediate smile brightening her face when she saw him. “I thought I heard a car! What are you doing out here?”

He couldn't say that he'd been taking a minute to drop the mask and acknowledge how much his body ached. The army wasn't the first place that taught him to never show weakness—his years there had only cemented those early lessons from his father.

Instead, Owen gestured to the darkening sky beyond the pinewood surrounding the gracious old home. “I was enjoying the night.”

“Brrr.” Libby rubbed her hands together and blew on them. “Enjoying the cold?”

Owen couldn't help but laugh. “This isn't cold. Midnight in the desert. That's cold. This is … brisk.”

Interest sparked in Libby's eyes and she stepped outside to join him, pulling the door closed behind her. “I guess you can probably see a lot of stars out there, too.”

Closing his eyes in memory, Owen pictured the black velvet expanse of the sky over Afghanistan dotted with pinprick diamonds so numerous, they lit the sand dunes below. “Yeah. A lot of the guys hated being over there, hated the sand and the heat during the day. They thought I was nuts, but I kind of loved it. Afghanistan is beautiful, in its own harsh, unforgiving way.”

“You sound as if you miss it.”

“I do. And I don't.” Owen shrugged, his shoulders heavy with the invisible weight of responsibility and duty that pressed down on him whenever he thought of his Ranger unit. “I miss the landscape and the people. I miss feeling useful—having a purpose. Readjusting to civilian life, especially with doctors telling me I might never walk right again … it's been rough.”

Libby's sharp inhalation was audible in the cold, still night. “Owen. I'm sorry, I didn't know your injuries were that severe.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Owen assured her with a grim smile, and as he acknowledged silently that even if he made a good recovery, he might never reach Ranger standards again. “I don't intend to listen to the doctors. I'll be back to fighting fit in no time, if the physiotherapist I met with today has anything to say about it. And since she's in charge of my rehab for the next few months, I guess she does.”

“I forgot you had your first appointment out at Windy Corner today! I want to hear all about it, but after you come inside and get settled in your room.”

Owen followed her inside, breathing deeply in appreciation of the wonderful smells emanating from the back of the house where he assumed the kitchen must be. “Mmm. You can just point me in the right direction if you need to get back to cooking.”

The back of Libby's neck went red, but she sounded perfectly composed when she said, “Don't worry, dinner is well in hand. Here we are.”

She pushed open a door at the foot of the stairs and ushered Owen into a large, spacious bedroom. He could feel his brows climb as he took in the enormous four-poster bed hung with intricate lace drapes that matched the filmy floor-to-ceiling curtains at the windows. Tiffany lamps sat on slender-legged night tables in a gleaming, polished mahogany that matched the graceful sofa and chaise longue arranged in front of the—wow!—wood-burning fireplace.

Owen limped over to the marble mantelpiece that framed the fireplace and stared up at the huge portrait that dominated the wall above it. An elderly man sat in a wingback chair with a bulldog at his feet. Arrayed around the chair were a young woman and two young men, all with hair in varying shades of blond. The family resemblance was strong enough that Owen was sure this must be Nash's family.

Frowning, Owen studied the painting. It was funny he hadn't noticed it before, but Libby could almost have been born into the family instead of marrying in. She and Nash had such similar coloring, they looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife.

“We put you on the ground floor so you wouldn't have to deal with the stairs. Grandfather insisted. He's very big on supporting the troops, so he said he was glad to do it.” Libby babbled, sounding nervous.

Owen halted in the act of setting his duffel down on the faded Persian rug. “This is your grandfather's room.”

“Well, yes.” Libby twisted her hands in front of her, obviously reading Owen's resistance. “But he insisted…”

Reshouldering his bag, Owen shook his head firmly. “I appreciate the thought, but I can handle the stairs. In fact, it'll be good for me.”

“Oh, but…”

“Libby. I can't put an old man out of his own bed.
I
insist.”

She hesitated longer than Owen would have predicted, and finally threw up her hands in amused annoyance. “Fine! But you get to be the one to tell Grandfather yourself. Heaven save me from men with opinions.”

Stalking out of the room, Libby nevertheless waited for Owen at the foot of the stairs instead of leaving him in the dust. And she stayed by him, careful to pace him but somehow not giving the impression of hovering worriedly. Owen appreciated the way she managed to show she cared without making him feel like the poster boy for disabled vets.

The stairs were … more of a challenge than Owen had anticipated, but he gritted his teeth against the agony of lifting his right leg and pushed through it. He was never going to get better by babying the leg.

This is good,
he told himself as sweat broke out along his brow line and Libby cast him a worried glance. It took far longer than it should have, but he made it to the top of the stairs eventually. And the rush of relief and accomplishment was almost as satisfying as the moment after a firefight when he counted heads and realized all his men had come through unscathed.

Okay, not quite that satisfying. But it was enough to let Owen grin at Libby when she held up her hand and said, “High five! You made it.”

“Thanks for not trying to prop me up or make me lean on you,” he said. “The nurses at the hospital were too quick to coddle me.”

“Of course they were. You're a handsome war hero. I'm sure they were all half in love with you by the time you were discharged. They probably spent their coffee breaks fighting over whose turn it was to give you a sponge bath.”

Owen blinked at Libby's back as she walked ahead of him to open the first door on the right. “Handsome, huh?”

She froze for a second before giving him a mock scowl over her shoulder. “You know what you look like. Quit fishing for compliments.”

A warm glow almost like happiness suffused Owen's chest and relaxed him enough to take the pain in his hip down to a dull ache. “I like the way you come up with a story for everything.”

“Occupational hazard of being a writer.” Libby shrugged, leading him into a smaller but still elegantly appointed bedroom.