Home for Christmas (21 page)

Frustrated, Libby pulled away from Owen's hands. “What else can I do? What more do you want from me?”

Hands flexing as if he wanted to grab her and pull her close, Owen clenched his jaw. “Just stay. I'm not saying I forgive you—I need some time. But I know this: You can't change what you did in the past, but it doesn't have to overshadow your entire future.”

Libby shivered as a single, perfect snowflake fluttered between them. That sense of infinite possibility shot through her again, energizing every nerve and prickling over her skin. She looked up to see more snowflakes drifting down, swirling in the wind. A couple got stuck in Owen's unfairly long lashes, making tenderness catch at Libby's throat.

“Maybe we'll get a white Christmas after all,” she said huskily, wrapping her arms around herself.

“There's still time,” Owen agreed, his eyes watchful.

“I got everyone's hopes up about this Christmas, including mine.” Libby stuck out her tongue to catch a snowflake and grinned at the dot of frozen water instantly melting in her mouth. “You were wrong about one thing. I haven't hurt Caitlin with my lies. Not yet. If I pull off this Christmas the way I imagined, none of this ugliness will ever touch that little girl.”

Determination made Libby restless. She started walking again, Owen at her side, as she thought. Owen was right. Maybe Libby had hurt some people—but somehow, she understood with a pang, the person she'd hurt the most was Owen himself. And maybe there was no way to make it up to him …

But she could try. And the fact that Owen was here, beside her, walking through the first snowfall of the year under the wide canopy of pine boughs, gave Libby hope.

They walked in silence, their matched steps muffled by the thin layer of snow accumulating on the ground. Libby wasn't sure where they were going. All she knew was that as long as Owen was with her, she wanted to keep walking. She wanted to keep whatever fragile peace they'd built between them, and hold it safe against her chest like the baby chick she'd dreamed up to live in her fantasy chicken coop.

Without meaning to, they stumbled across what looked like a footpath through the trees. Maybe a deer path, Libby thought, or one of the meandering trails beaten down by the wild horse bands as they foraged across the island and searched out fresh water and shelter from the storms. But then the path widened, the snow gathering in a pair of grooves like tire tracks, but smooth instead of ridged.

“I thought your grandfather owned all this land,” Owen said into the stillness of the winter forest.

“So did I. But I don't know where these tracks lead. Should we follow them and find out?”

Owen rubbed absently at his healing leg. “Walking is good therapy. Or so they tell me.”

“How is physical rehab going?” Libby asked delicately, aware that Owen's progress back toward full health—and reinstatement in the armed forces—was a sore subject.

“Better than I could have hoped. I think I told you I was skeptical about the whole equine assisted–therapy thing. I don't know what I thought it was going to be like. Hug a horse, let the vibes of being around a big, gentle creature magically heal you.” He made a wry face. “But it's not like that at all. There's good science behind it. Sitting on a walking horse, keeping your balance as he paces forward—that works the same muscles in your pelvis as walking. But gently, without putting stress on them while they're healing.”

“That's wild. So you've been strengthening the muscles that will help you walk while sitting on a horse. I hope Windy Corner can get enough clients and grants to keep going. They could do a lot of good for a lot of people. I mean, look at Caitlin.”

Owen stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “Yeah, maybe I shouldn't be so dismissive of the magical healing properties of horses. Those riding lessons sure seem to have done wonders for my daughter. At least, from what Andie has told me. Not that I was here to see it for myself.”

“But you're here now,” Libby said, trying to be comforting.

“Right. I'm here now, finally getting my chance to screw up with my kid.” Owen's jaw clenched before he shook his head. “Maybe I always would've screwed up, maybe I wouldn't have been any better at this if I'd been in Caitlin's life right from the jump—but I'll never know. Caitlin's mother took that choice, that chance, away from me. It's not the same and I'm not saying it is, but can you see how a woman keeping relevant information from me might bring up some bad stuff?”

Libby's lips went numb from how hard she was biting them. Shame scoured through her chest, sending prickles of heat over her scalp and twisting her stomach into knots. “I'm sorry. I didn't think about that before, but I see it now. I hate myself, Owen. If there were any way I could go back in time and make different choices, I would.”

“I'm not trying to make you feel like crap,” Owen told her, the words slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to be sure she understood. “I wanted to explain why I went off half-cocked back there. I tore into you without trying to understand what really went down—no army officer worth his salt strikes first and finds out the details after. And I know you, Libby. I should have realized you'd have a good reason for telling this lie.”

Gratitude flooded her, but Libby shook her head. “I don't even know anymore. Maybe there's no reason good enough to justify being untruthful.”

“Maybe it's not up to us to judge whether it's good enough or not. But I'd like to know all your reasoning, just the same.”

“I already told you about Uncle Ray,” Libby said, fingers twisting nervously inside her woolen mittens. “That's basically it. He's my whole reason. He was my whole family for a lot of years. I would've done anything to help him.”

“Understandable. But what I don't get is why money was an issue.” Owen swept an arm out, indicating the gently rolling hills and acres of tall, stately pines around them. “Your grandfather—Ray's father—is obviously pretty wealthy. Why didn't you go to him for help?”

Emotion choked up into Libby's throat, but she forced herself to say, “I tried. Today, actually. Even though Uncle Ray made me swear I never would. He didn't want his father to know anything about his condition. They've been estranged for years, I'm not entirely sure why, because Ray would never talk about it. He didn't tell me anything about the rest of my family, I guess because it was such a source of pain for him. But when I got here and met Nash and Grandfather, I started to wonder if it might be possible to heal that pain. And after everything that's been happening between you and me, I wanted so badly to be able to come clean—and I thought if Grandfather would agree to pay for Uncle Ray's care, then I'd finally be free to tell the truth.”

“Makes sense. What went wrong?”

Defeat and remembered disappointment weighed on Libby's shoulders. “Grandfather. He's so stubborn! He got it into his head that if I had the money, I'd leave him.”

“Sounds like you wouldn't be the first member of his family to desert him,” Owen pointed out. “Maybe for completely legitimate reasons, but still.”

“I know. And I feel for him,” Libby said, squinting through the snow at the vague outline of a building in the distance. “But with his attitude, maybe it's no wonder he's driven all of his family away. I wanted to believe there was more to him than selfishness and bitterness, but after today, I'm not so sure. What's that building over there?”

Owen lifted a hand to shade his eyes. “Not sure. Some sort of outbuilding or shed. I guess it's not the chicken coop you wrote about.”

“Er, no. Sorry. That coop is another thing that exists only in my dreams. I've always wanted to keep chickens, so I invented a whole flock of them.”

“What's the big attraction with chickens?”

Libby laughed, her breath puffing out of her on a white cloud. “I don't know. There's just something so cozy and friendly and funny about chickens. The way they squabble and peck; their silly, sweet faces. When I was in Queens, keeping chickens seemed like the ultimate symbol of being settled and happy in a small town. If I lived here for real, a chicken coop would be my first project. Once you have chickens, you know you've got a home.” She paused, thinking about it. “I also happen to love fresh eggs.”

“I'm with you on that. When you're out on a mission and it's been weeks of MREs and nothing fresh, you start to dream about real scrambled eggs. Too bad there isn't a real henhouse behind your grandfather's place.”

They'd gotten closer to the mysterious structure in the woods as they talked. It was bigger than Libby had thought at first, a one-story rectangular structure with wide double doors that reached almost all the way up to the sloping metal roof. Excitement sparked in Libby's blood. “Oh, my gosh. That building—maybe it's storage! Grandfather put away a lot of my grandmother's things years ago, and now he says he can't remember where. Can you imagine being so uncaring about your family's history that you forget what you did with it?”

“Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded of the past.”

“I'd give anything to have a few of those memories. But for all I know, Grandfather threw away all my parents' things, and Grandmother's.” Libby shook her head in disbelief, hurt all over again at the thought that she might never find a single memento from her late parents. When she considered that, it was hard to keep sympathy for her grandfather's losses in her heart. “I've been searching everywhere for Grandmother's nativity set, one of the few memories I still have from my childhood on Sanctuary Island—but I didn't know about this shed. Maybe it's in there! Come on, we have to check.”

Snow started falling in earnest as they followed the tracks up to the shed. By the time Libby was close enough to reach out and test the strength of the shiny padlock holding the thick wooden doors closed, the snow was so thick she could barely see the outline of the shed's roof stretching up against the sky.

“L-Locked,” she said, disappointed and shivering. “I don't suppose picking locks is part of basic training.”

“Not as such, no,” Owen replied with a ghost of a grin as he fingered the padlock. “But it sure was part of a misspent youth rebelling against my cop father. You sure you want me to break in?”

Another shiver took Libby, frigid wind biting through her coat and hat to chill her to the bone. “D-Don't d-do anything that m-m-makes you uncomfortable,” she chattered out. “I c-can ask Grandfather about it later, c-come back on my own.”

Owen raked his gaze over her, taking in everything from the snow-dampened tendrils of hair clinging to cheeks that felt raw from the wind and cold. “We're breaking in,” he decided. “You need to warm up, and I'm not sure how far we are from the house.”

I love a man who takes charge,
Libby thought a little dazedly as she watched Owen fiddle with the lock. He worked patiently, not even seeming to feel the cold on his bare hands, and Libby couldn't suppress another shiver at the thought of those strong, sensitive fingers touching her as carefully as Owen touched the lock.

She blinked, and when she opened her eyes again, some time seemed to have passed. Owen had the lock open and was pushing apart the sliding doors with a mighty heave. “Come on,” he said, “let's get you inside. You're freezing.”

“I feel warmer,” Libby told him, stumbling a little on feet gone numb.

“Yeah, that's not actually a good sign.”

Owen's muscular arms came around her from behind, holding her up and reeling her in close to the solid, heated wall of his chest. Libby sank back with a sigh of pure animal pleasure in the warmth, her eyes drifting closed as the world swirled around her dizzily.

She blinked again and realized Owen had lifted her into his arms and carried her into the shed. Disoriented, Libby shook her head to clear it. “Why did you stop? What's the matter?”

Peering up at Owen's still face, Libby saw that he was staring over her head at something. She craned her neck to see, but the angle was wrong and it was dark. “What's going on? Is there something in here?”

Owen's voice was strange when he replied. “The answer to a mystery.”

“What?” Libby wriggled a little, curiosity piqued. “What mystery?”

Responding to her unspoken desire to be put down, Owen shifted her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a snowflake and let her feet touch the floor. He turned her until her back was against his chest, his hands on her shoulders as he bent close enough to whisper in her ear. “The eternal mystery. Santa Claus is real, and I know who he is.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

Owen felt more than heard Libby's gasp as she took in the majestic red sleigh parked in the center of the large shed. Light from a window high in the wall slanted over the gold-painted trim and gleamed on the dull brass of the jingle bells trailing from the brown leather reins.

“Santa's sleigh. In my grandfather's shed.” Libby sounded as if she couldn't believe her own eyes.

“Maybe your grandfather isn't as uncaring and cold as he wants people to think.”

She made a tiny sound deep in her throat that tugged at Owen's heart. Pulling away from him, she stepped closer to the sleigh and ran her hand over the smooth varnish. Someone loved this sleigh and took great care of it.

“We might have stumbled onto someone else's property by mistake,” Libby pointed out uncertainly. “I don't think there are any fences along the property line, and I don't exactly know my way around.”

“Why are you so reluctant to admit your grandfather might be the town's mystery Santa?”

He saw the movement of Libby's throat as she swallowed. Her eyes looked damp in the dim light of the shed. “Because if he cares this much about his neighbors and the townspeople, but doesn't care enough about his own family to hold onto them … I don't know what that means.”