Home for Christmas (5 page)

“What's the problem, friend?”

Instead of snapping that he was no friend of Owen's, Owen ignored the guy to focus on Libby. “Who is this man? Is he bothering you?”

“Who am I?” The guy laughed, easy and relaxed. “Why, I'm Nash Tucker! Elizabeth's husband.”

*   *   *

Did most people get seasick after getting off a boat? Libby couldn't catch her balance. Her legs were as wobbly as a newborn colt's and her stomach roiled with tension.

She'd come so close to telling Owen everything; she'd been right on the cusp of just spilling it all and damn the consequences, when she'd heard her name shouted by a man she'd never met.

After that, everything happened almost too fast to follow, but she held onto the words he'd whispered in her ear when he'd picked her up and twirled her into a hug.

“I'm your cousin, Nash. Nice to meet you! Just play along,” he had said.

And then he'd introduced himself to Owen as Libby's husband while Libby gaped in shock. What was going on?

Owen's gaze shot to her face, making Libby instantly aware of what a crazy—or possibly moronic—expression she must be sporting. Closing her mouth with a snap, she looked up at the man still holding her clasped to his side. Nash. Her cousin.

“N-Nash,” she stammered. “I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

“You weren't expecting your husband to meet you at the ferry?” Owen murmured, a chill settling into his tone as he looked Nash up and down as if scrutinizing an enemy for weaknesses.

Thinking fast, Libby blurted out a version of the story she'd intended to give for the absence of her fictional husband. “I thought he was going to be out of town, away on business.”

“I couldn't miss the holidays with my best girl,” Nash boomed cheerfully, giving Libby a careful squeeze as if in warning.

Her cousin's brown eyes crinkled appealingly at the corners, as if he spent a lot of time laughing in the sun. Despite the scruff of beard and the tousled, over-long waves of his brown hair, there was something essentially clean cut about Nash. With his broad shoulders filling out his chunky cable-knit fisherman's sweater, he looked like an ad in a men's magazine about outdoor sports.

Libby couldn't help but cringe at how badly she matched him. Slight, timidly hunched, and with the pasty paleness that came from living like a hermit, Libby knew she didn't make a very convincing wife for this strapping picture of all-American masculinity.

As if to prove it, Owen's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied them. Putting out his good hand, Owen said, “Sergeant Owen Shepard. I met your wife on the ferry. She was kind enough to find me a place to sit down and keep me company for the trip.”

And she hadn't mentioned any husband. Owen didn't say it, but Libby knew he must be thinking it. This whole thing was already going so wrong. How had she ever thought she could pull this off?

Okay, to be fair, she actually
hadn't
thought she could pull it off, and she'd said so, but no one listened. It was less gratifying to be proven right than Libby might have hoped.

“That's my Elizabeth,” Nash was saying, maintaining his firm grip on Libby's shoulders as he turned and began to lead their little group down the dock toward the parking lot. “The soul of friendliness. And of course I know who you are, Sergeant Shepard. Welcome to Sanctuary Island!”

The corner of Owen's mouth twisted. “You saw that video too.”

“Well, sure.” Nash shrugged. “Who didn't? But I know who you are because I understand you're to be our guest this holiday season. You and your daughter?”

Even though he was behind her, Libby felt the instant Owen's steps faltered. She glanced back to find his eyes narrowed intently on Nash. “
Your
guest,” Owen said sharply. “I thought you said your last name was Tucker.”

“Oh, it is,” Nash said smoothly. “Elizabeth started writing before we were married, though, so she kept her maiden name for publication.”

Libby risked another glance over her shoulder, her gaze tangling with Owen's intent stare at once. “Elizabeth Leeds,” he said, quiet and sure.

“I'm sorry,” she burst out. “I was going to tell you on the ferry. I wasn't trying to trick you, I just—”

Just couldn't resist getting to know you as my real self, even if only for an hour or two.

Libby broke off, the lump in her throat squeezing the words back down into her chest, but Owen was already shaking his head.

“That's ten,” he said, with a ghost of a smile, and Libby felt the top of her head go hot and light as she smiled back. Even now, Owen didn't want her to apologize. With that one, simple reminder, Libby knew she was forgiven.

Her smile faded as she contemplated how much more there was for Owen to forgive. If she had any sense, she'd stop Nash and face Owen, tell him the whole truth now before this web of lies got any more tangled.

But then who would take care of Uncle Ray? If she lost her job, if Mr. Downing sued her as he'd threatened, then there would be nothing left to pay for the round-the-clock care Uncle Ray needed.

The memory of her gruff, but loving, uncle got Libby moving down the dock again. She had to see this through. It was only for a few weeks, then she'd be free and able to clean up the mess she'd made of her life. That was a worthy goal … she had to keep her heart set on it.

“Come on,” Nash said as they reached the end of the pier and stepped onto the gravel of the dockside parking lot. “I parked at the top of the hill. It's a madhouse down here today.”

“Wait.” Libby set her heels. “We can't just leave Owen here.”

“I'm sure my sister is around somewhere,” Owen said, scanning the crowd.

“I think I saw the sheriff's SUV pulling in after me,” Nash contributed. “I guess she was running late.”

“We should stay until we're sure Owen has a ride,” Libby said stubbornly. But it occurred to her suddenly that Owen might not be as eager for his daughter to meet her now, and she finished with a quick, “I mean, if you want us to. We don't have to.”

Owen gave her a small, but real, smile. “If you don't mind, I'd like you to stay. You could meet my sister, and Caitlin.”

Nerves fluttered under Libby's ribcage, but she smiled back. “That sounds wonderful.”

Through the crowd of people, she heard someone calling Owen's name. His face lit up when he heard it, too, and he turned just in time to catch a leggy redhead up in his arms. The woman was dressed in a tan uniform and had a sheriff's badge clipped to her belt, and when she blinked back tears to grin up at Owen, Libby saw that her eyes were his same shade of stunning ocean blue.

The sister, Andie. Had to be. Libby watched, her heart in her throat. She could read the love and joy in every line of their fast, hard embrace. But where was Caitlin?

“It's good to see you,” Owen was saying.

“Me!” The lady sheriff sniffled and whacked her brother gently on his good shoulder. “You're the one who's been home, stateside, for months and wouldn't let anyone come visit.”

“I didn't want to meet my daughter for the first time all bandaged and bruised, looking like a monster,” Owen protested, stepping back. “I wanted to wait until I wouldn't scare her just by standing here.”

“You didn't wait long enough,” Andie said, eyeing him critically. “You've still got the same face.”

The handsome face in question went shocked for a half second before it creased in a wide grin. “And you've still got the same mouth on you, sis. I can't believe I missed you.”

Libby saw the way Andie's lips trembled and her eyes filled, even as she smirked mischievously up at Owen. “You did miss me, though. And I missed my bratty baby brother.”

Clearing his throat gruffly, Owen glanced over and met Libby's gaze. He gestured them over, and Libby started forward eagerly, only remembering her so-called husband when Nash twined his fingers with hers and swung their linked hands between them as they walked.

Oh, right. She was supposed to be married. Moderating her pace, Libby shoved down the urge to shake off Nash's grasp and worked up a tentative smile for Sheriff Andie Shepard … who didn't smile back. In fact, her aquamarine eyes were narrowed suspiciously as she took in Libby and Nash's joined hands.

“Mr. Tucker,” the sheriff said coolly. “Nice to see you, as always.”

It looked to Libby as if there were more Andie would like to say, but it might not be quite so friendly. As if sensing the tension, Owen interrupted with introductions.

“Hey, Andie, guess who I met on the ferry?”

Blinking, Andie took in Libby's pale-pink wool coat and poppy-red mittens.

“I give up. Who?”

Owen frowned. “Don't tell me you don't know Elizabeth Leeds. How many famous magazine writers live on this tiny island? I was sure you two must already know each other. That's part of why when she invited us over for the perfect family Christmas, I took her up on it.”

“Um.” Libby barely stopped herself from apologizing, her heart drumming in her chest at having to come up with something plausible on the spot. “I don't go out much! I told you that. Writing is a very solitary job.”

“Nice to meet you. Kind of amazing what a small town this is, and yet it's still impossible to know every single person.” Andie gave her a polite smile, but her brows drew down as she looked over at Owen. “But about Christmas, I don't know. This year, with Caitlin and you here, and Sam moving in…”

Libby's breath caught. If Owen were the one to back out of this Christmas deal, surely Mr. Downing wouldn't punish Libby for that. Or would he?

“Speaking of Caitlin,” Owen said, looking past her. “Where is she?”

Libby wondered if anyone else could see the nerves sparking below his calm, confident demeanor. Maybe she was seeing them because she knew they were there, but it seemed so obvious to her that Owen was barely listening to any of this conversation. At least ninety per cent of his concentration was spent on watching out for his daughter to suddenly appear.

Only Andie was biting her lip and looking unhappy. “She … well, she had a riding lesson this afternoon, and she didn't want to miss it. I said she could still go. I hope that's okay—there's plenty of time to meet her tonight, right?”

The disappointment that darkened Owen's eyes was hard to look at. Libby tensed, wanting to go to him, to say something or do something, but Nash's grip tightened on her hand and kept her in place. Not that there was anything to say or do, in any case.

“Of course, that's fine.” Owen straightened his shoulders and smiled at his sister. “I know the two of you have a good routine. I don't want to do anything to mess that up, or to upset her.”

Libby wanted to protest—how important was a routine, when it came to introducing a child to the father she'd never met?—but it wasn't her place. Andie seemed to know, if her worried face was any indication. Clearly torn between the niece she'd taken in and the brother she loved, Andie said, “I'm sorry, Owen, I wanted her to come, but she's just like you. Stubborn. She'll need you to be patient with her until she adjusts.”

She tried to smile, and Owen shrugged back, looking intensely uncomfortable. “It's a tricky situation. I get that.”

At Libby's side, her cousin leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I think that might be our cue to vamoose.”

Startled, she bit back her instinctive denial. She didn't want to leave Owen, not when he looked like he'd just been dealt a worse injury than the wounds that landed him in the hospital. But he glanced up and saw Nash trying to pull her away, and Owen nodded. “Right. No Caitlin for you to meet—sorry about that. And about Christmas … I guess we'll have to talk about it and see.”

Impulsively, Libby grabbed a pen from the assortment she always carried in her purse, along with a spiral notebook for jotting down ideas and observations. “Here, give me your arm.”

Bemused, Owen stretched out his good arm and Libby shoved up the sleeve of his jacket. She was proud of herself for not lingering over the electrifying contact of skin on skin when all she wanted was to explore the crisp copper hair lining his hard, muscled forearm. Instead, she uncapped her pen and quickly wrote her cell phone number on the smooth tanned skin on the underside of his wrist.

“Call me,” Libby said, unintentionally fierce. “Any time, if you need anything.”

Owen looked directly into her eyes, and she got lost for a second in the fathomless ocean depths. “Thanks,” he said slowly, curling his arm back to his body slowly, as if he were as reluctant to give up the contact as Libby was.

“I mean it,” she insisted, not caring that Nash and Andie were both watching her with varying degrees of perplexed confusion. This was one of those social situations that made her the most uncomfortable, the most aware that she was doing things wrong, but for once, she didn't care. She wasn't even embarrassed. “Really, Owen. Call me. I don't make friends so easily that I can afford to let new ones slip away.”

He nodded, and the last thing she saw before Nash grabbed her bag and led her away was the glint of warmth she'd kindled in Owen Shepard's weary eyes.

 

Chapter Five

“I hate to rush you out of there,” Andie said, shifting her sheriff's department vehicle into gear and maneuvering them around a crowd of red-cheeked townspeople heading for the square. “But I've got to get back to work. This weekend is insane.”

Owen's mind was still wrestling with the problem of his daughter and what he was doing to her by crashing into her life like this. And when he managed to take a break from worrying about that, he was remembering Libby Leeds and her bright eyes and blushing smile. She hadn't exactly acted like a married woman on the ferry—but what would Owen know about how married women behaved? His and Andie's mom had died when he was just a kid, and since then, most of his experiences had been with women who were very definitely
not
married.