Karen Templeton - A Gift for All Seasons

“Ask me,” April said softly, electricity jolting through her.

Patrick’s eyes jerked to hers. “What?”

“Ask me out.”

“April—”

“Nothing fancy,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate. Because she wasn’t. Really. “Dinner at Emerson’s. Maybe a movie. If things work out …” Her heart thumped against her sternum. “Maybe a good-night kiss at the end.”

Oh, dear. Poor baby actually flinched. And not, she didn’t think, because he found the idea appalling. Strange, and wonderful, the feeling of power that gave her. Frowning though he was.

“I thought I made it clear—”

“What’s clear,” she said with remarkable calm, considering, “is that there’s something humming between us. Agreed?”

Dear Reader,

I was just starting to develop this story when I started watching Season 13 of Dancing with the Stars . And within minutes of “meeting” JR Martinez, the severely burned Iraq War vet who went on to win the coveted mirror ball trophy, I had my hero. JR’s drive to push himself past what some might have seen as limitations—and his undeniable sex appeal as a result—was a true joy to watch. And served as an incredible inspiration for my own Patrick Shaughnessy.

Not that Patrick’s quite in the same place JR is, attitudewise. At least not when his story starts. But that’s where cute little April Ross comes in. Because the brand-new innkeeper is determined to smack some sense into Patrick. To make him accept that her heart is far bigger than the three acres she’s hired him to landscape, big enough to love him and his little girl both. Add to that a huge Irish-American family, equally determined to see their Patrick return to a normal life after the combat injury that’s left him scarred, both physically and emotionally, and you have a story about giving and loving and never giving up that’s just perfect for the holiday season.

Enjoy!

Karen Templeton

Since 1998, two-time RITA ®Award winner and Walden-books bestselling author KAREN TEMPLETONhas written more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon. A transplanted Easterner, she now lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats and whichever of her five sons happens to be in residence.

Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Jessica Scott,

who took time out of her own writing schedule

to help me get the army details right.

At least, I hope I have.

Thanks, hon!

A weeper by nature, April Ross was the type to keep tissues at hand in case a coffee commercial took her by surprise. And, granted, the past several weeks had been an emotional roller coaster ride of reunions and massive renovations and reassessments of what she wanted from life. But to find herself nearly in tears—April dug in the only real designer purse she’d ever owned for one of those tissues and blew her little ice cube of a nose—over a bunch of plants?

Beyond pitiful.

Especially since she’d been the one who’d said, “What’s the big deal? You go to a nursery, you pick out some trees, hire a couple dudes to stick ’em in the ground, done.”

No wonder her cousins had rolled their eyes at her.

Now, huddled inside her thick cardigan against the bay wind shunting through the garden center, she turned on the heel of her riding boot and marched past a mess of pumpkins to the checkout area, where the bundled-up, gray-bearded black man behind the register released a soft chuckle.

“Somebody looks a little overwhelmed,” he said in the relaxed Maryland shore drawl that immediately evoked memories of those childhood summers. “Not to mention half-frozen. So first off, step closer to the heater—go on, I’ll wait—then tell me how I can help. I reckon I know pretty much everything about whatever’s in stock. You got questions, you just go ahead and ask.”

April’s eyes welled again, both at his kindness and the lovely heat waves rippling from the nearby metal obelisk. “What I’ve got,” she said as she removed her gloves, stretching her cramped fingers toward the heat, “is three acres of dirt and renovation mess that needs landscaping. By the middle of December, when my first guests arrive.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “You the gal who’s fixing up the Rinehart place?”

“That would be me.” April tucked her wind-ravaged hair behind her ear, then extended her slightly warmer hand. “April Ross.”

“Sam Howell. It’s a real pleasure, young lady.” Sam shook her hand, then crossed his arms high on his plaidjacketed chest. “Three acres, you say—”

A child’s excited squeal cut through their conversation. Grinning, Sam hustled from behind the counter a moment before a tiny, dark-haired blur slammed into him. After a fierce hug, the little girl backed up, all pink-cheeked adorableness in bright blue tights and a puffy purple jacket, and April’s breath left her lungs.

“Daddy said I could pick out a punkin for Halloween!” she said, then planted a mittened hand against the front of the counter to awkwardly lift one glittery-sneakered foot. “An’ I got new shoes! See?”

“Those are some rockin’ shoes, Miss Lili. Your daddy pick ’em out for you?”

“Nope,” she said with a vigorous head shake. “I choosed ’em all by myself. Mommy’ll like ’em, huh?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m sure she will.…”

She turned her baby-toothed grin on April before letting her foot drop, twisting it this way and that to admire it. “Daddy says they’re my princess shoes.”

April laughed. “They certainly are,” she said, as a toe-curling chuckle behind her sent the breath she’d barely pulled back into her lungs whooshing out all over again. Especially when the man—tallish, nicely shouldered, his face partially obscured by one of those silly hats with flaps covering his cheeks—scooped up his daughter and pretended to munch on her shoulder, making Lili giggle and sending April into a free fall.

Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

Automatically her left thumb went to her wedding rings, twisting them around until the diamonds dug into her skin, the sensation oddly soothing. Steadying. Yes, she should take them off already. But they made her feel … safe. Like the sweetest, most generous man she’d ever known was still watching over her, standing in the wings and cheering her on.

“Miss Ross,” Sam said after the man untwined his little girl’s hands from around his neck and set her down to go check out the pumpkins, “This here’s Patrick Shaughnessy. And this young lady,” he said with a wink in April’s direction, “needs you bad.”

So much for being cold. Heat swept across her face as she gaped at Sam, who—clearly enjoying her discomfiture—chuckled. “The Shaughnessys run one of the best landscaping outfits in the county.”

“County, hell,” Patrick said, turning just enough for April to see his eyes, a bluer blue than hers, like lasers in a face still mostly hidden in the cap’s shadows. Eyes that dimmed inexplicably when they met hers. “On the whole Eastern Shore.” After a moment’s hesitation, he offered his gloved hand, giving hers a quick shake before slugging it back into his jacket pocket. Canvas, no frills. Not exactly clean. His gaze shifted, presumably to keep an eye on his little girl, who meandered along the rows of pumpkins, like a finicky customer in a used-car lot, her face scrunched in concentration. “So I take it you need some work done?”