Ann Major - Silhouette Christmas Stories

"He told Santa that he wants a daddy."

Jim put down his beer bottle. His dark eyes lit with humor. "That's certainly going to set the town on its edge. I can just see the headline now: Town's Mystery Librarian Gets Son A Daddy!"

Noreen didn't smile. "Darius is getting older. He wants things that I can't always give him. I'm not quite sure what to do about him anymore."

"No parent ever is," Sara said.

A devilish half smile curved Jim's mouth as he pulled his hand free of Sara's and leaned toward Noreen. "I think Darius has a good point. He does need a daddy. But no more than you need a husband."

"What? If ever I heard a chauvinistic remark-"

"Jim's full of them," Sara said placidly.

"You've practically buried yourself alive these past five years," Jim continued.

"Why, that's not true. I stay very busy with my job and with Darius. You know I'm as involved as anybody in civic projects."

"You're still the town mystery," Jim persisted. "You came to town five years ago-pregnant and single."

"That sounds so deliciously sinful," Sara said, "like a soap opera or something. You know it wasn't like that."

"I was a widow," Noreen replied tautly.

"Who still wears her wedding band, but goes by her maiden name. People know just what you want them to know. They know you're the school librarian."

"And a good one," Sara said, still trying to make peace.

"They know you moved in with Miss Maddie, that you inherited her farmhouse last year after she died. Not that anyone thinks you shouldn't have. Not after the way you took care of her after she went blind. They know that in the summers you hold the best story hour in the county every Wednesday morning at 10:00 sharp. They know you're a woman without pretensions. You're as plain as earth. As simple as water."

"Thanks." Noreen still wasn't smiling.

"I meant it as a compliment."

"Don't be mad, Norie," Sara said, folding her hand over Jim's again. "That's the way he compliments me, too."

"If I'm so ordinary, then why can't people be satisfied that there's nothing to know?"

"Because you don't talk about your past. You're running away from something or someone. And everyone wants to know who or what."

"Why-why, that's nonsense." But Noreen's slim fingers were so tensely clenched around her teacup that every vein stood out.

Jim leaned over and gently unclenched her hand. "Is it? Then why don't you accept a date with Mike Yanta the next time he asks you out?"

"Because… "

She looked at Jim and then looked away. Her dark eyes grew luminous with a pain she could neither share nor explain.

Her two dear friends would never understand. They didn't know she was a Hale by marriage. They knew nothing of her wealthy background. They wouldn't understand if she tried to explain.

People like them would have considered the Hale wealth and power a blessing. They wouldn't know that money could be the crudest of weapons. It could be used to destroy love, to wield power, to sever the closest bonds that could exist between a man and a woman.

Noreen had learned all about money and its misuse by bitter experience. First she had lost the man she loved. Then she had lost her husband. She was determined not to lose her son.

Unbidden came the memory of Grant Hale on the escalator… Of his arrogant tanned face… Of his husky voice calling her name…

Noreen was shivering as she gripped the steering wheel of her truck and strained forward to see through her fogging windshield. The last lights of the town were growing dimmer in her rearview mirror. The sky ahead was black; the narrow, curving road that led to her farmhouse treacherously slick with ice. And it was still sleeting.

Texas weather. Yesterday San Antonio had been sunny and warm, so warm it had been impossible to believe that today could be this dark and wintry with cold.

Because she didn't like driving the lonely road by herself, Mike Yanta had offered to follow her home. But she had known he would have expected an invitation to come in, so she had refused.

It was nearly midnight, and Noreen was tired. She hadn't slept much the night before. Instead she'd lain awake in her icy bedroom, listening to all the eerie creaks her farmhouse made as the norther howled. And she'd been thinking of Grant. Thinking of how his face had seemed leaner and harsher. Remembering how his eyes had pierced through her. Today had been no better. The past had seemed very near, all the old conflicts as deeply troubling as before.

Although she was off for the school holidays, she'd spent the day sewing Darius's cow costume for the school's annual Christmas pageant. Darius had stood by the sewing machine "to help." He had helped by losing pattern pieces and stabbing a stray pin into his bare toe.

She was on her way home from the Liskas where she'd left Darius to spend the weekend with Leo. Sara and Jim had invited her to dinner, and they'd had Mike Yanta over, too.

Darius's cow costume was neatly folded in the passenger side of the cab. Tonight's pageant had been a success, with Leo and Darius both starring as cows in Jesus's manger.

She was nearly to the bridge and the gate that led to the road to her house. Suddenly a blur of red and white lights up ahead and off to the right dazzled her. With a mitten, she wiped at the cloudy windshield.

Taillights jutted out of the ditch beyond the bridge. A pair of headlights shone like twin cones cocked at a crazy angle. A black Cadillac had skidded off the bridge and was stuck in the ditch.

Carefully, she drove across the bridge. When she came alongside the car, her truck slid to a halt with a hush of wet tires. She leaned across her passenger side and rolled down the window. Icy air blasted inside the truck. Dear God. She couldn't see any sign of life. Suddenly she was afraid of the dark and the unknown. Never had the road seemed more abandoned or forlorn. Just for a second, she toyed with the idea of driving on to her house where she could call for help. But the thought of leaving someone seriously injured in this cold stopped her.

The road had no shoulder, but she pulled off anyway, turned on her hazard lights, and set the emer-gency brake. She fumbled blindly under the seat for her flashlight and a crowbar, found them and jumped out.

Frigid gusts tore at her white woolen poncho and whipped her flimsy skirt. Her white boots sank into mud as she stepped off the road. When she reached the Cadillac, the mud was oozing over her ankles.

Frantically, she banged on the tinted window on the driver's side with her crowbar and shouted. Precious seconds were ticking past.

Then there was a feeble sound from inside. She caught her breath.

She made out a man's voice. "Help me open the door."

She struggled with the handle, tugging upward against the heavy door with every ounce of her strength until it gradually yielded. A man's strong hands were pushing at it from the inside.

"Get your keys and turn off your lights," she yelled.

The man could be dying and she was worrying about his battery.

But he obeyed.

"Can you hold the door by yourself, so I can get out?" a huskily pitched male voice asked from the depths of the Cadillac.

"I-I think so."

It took all her strength, but she managed the door just long enough for him to climb outside. The night was so dark she could only make out the shape of him. Once he was free, the door slipped out of her grasp and slammed with a thud.

"Sorry," she murmured in breathless apology.

"Hey, listen, honey, there's nothing to be sorry about. I was trapped till you came along."

His deep voice was muted and weak, but it was achingly familiar. "Grant?" Just for a second she flashed her light on his face.

"Damn."