Ruth Herne - Yuletide Hearts

No answer.

Matt continued along the road, mud-slicked shoes slowing his progress. The graveled areas would have been inconsequential in his boots. In worn dress shoes, the rough curves and sharp points of stone reminded him that if new shoes hadn’t been on the list before, they’d gain a spot now, and all because some fool didn’t have sense enough to keep their kid out of harm’s way.

Kind of like his mother.

He refused to flinch at the memory. His mother was no June Cleaver, but he hadn’t been a choirboy either. He had the juvie record to prove his stupidity before Grandpa Gus realigned him with old-fashioned hard work, faith and fishing.

A movement drew his attention left. He darted between two incomplete houses, saw the kid about a house-and-a-half away, yelled again and took off in pursuit. The boy appeared fairly savvy about dodging among the half-built homes, so Matt ducked through a window and raced across the subflooring to the front door of the house, burst through and collared the kid just as he angled toward the house Matt had cut through.

“Hey! Hey! Let go! Let me go!”

“Not until we’ve had a few words, kid.”

“Let me go! Let me go!”

Matt held tight.

The dog raced into the fray, tail wagging, obviously unconcerned about his young owner’s welfare.

“Jake? Jake? Where are you?”

The dog’s tail flagged faster. He dashed to the front door of the house, barked a welcome, then raced back, his gaze expectant, his angled doggie look wondering what was going on.

Which reflected Matt’s feelings to a tee.

A disheveled woman strode through the nonexistent front door, her hair a mess, her shoes not quite as bad as Matt’s, her jeans rain-spattered, her fleece pullover soaked.

“In here, Mom! Someone’s got me!”

“Someone’s got you all right.” Matt sent the kid a look meant to quell and refused to relinquish his grasp, despite the fire-breathing mother striding his way. Her purposeful gait seemed militaristic even though she wore somewhat impressive heeled boots, which meant she’d most likely served at some point in time. If that assumption proved true, she should know enough to keep her kid where he belonged. He raised his chin, noted she almost matched him in height with the shoes on, met her glare and stood his ground, refusing to scowl, letting his stance make his point. “This your kid?”

“Let him go.”

Matt ignored the command. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to have a kid running around a construction site? The things that could happen to him?”

The woman’s gaze returned his look, one on one. “I’m well aware, thank you very much, although Jake knows his way around construction sites. Usually.” She leveled a tough, knowing look to the kid, shoulders back, feet braced, her posture adding evidence to Matt’s guess that she’d been in the military at one time. “Were you supposed to leave the house?”

“N-no.”

“And what if something happened to The General?”

The General? Matt frowned, followed her glance to the dog and realized it must be the dog’s name.

The boy snorted, a pretty gutsy act for a kid being collared by an absolute stranger while his mother reamed him out from a few feet away. “The General knows all the enemy hideouts. He’s trained to sniff out snipers and UXBs.”

“UXBs?”

The woman kept her gaze on the boy, her profile taut, worry lines marring a perfect forehead over sea-green eyes. Light brown hair fell to her shoulders, a side clip meant to keep the bulk of it out of her face, but the storm had outmaneuvered the clip’s potential. She shoved the errant hair back, obviously irked. “Unexploded bombs. London. The Luftwaffe.”

“I get the war reference.” Matt switched his gaze from her to the kid as he released the boy’s collar. “What I don’t get is how he gets it. You’re what? Seven? Eight?”

“Almost nine.”

“Which means eight.”

The kid’s glare matched his mother’s, obviously a genetic trait. “You can’t play around these houses. It’s off limits,” Matt told him, his voice stern. He turned his attention to the woman, realizing she was probably chilled through, the November day wretchedly wet and cool. “You’ll keep him out of here?”

“Yes.” Something in her look told Matt she didn’t say things lightly. That quality reassured him. She turned and hooked her thumb toward the door. “Jake, let’s go. The banker’s got better things to do than chase you around where you don’t belong.”

Her words registered as she neared the door, the kid following, head down, chin thrust out, forehead furrowed. “I’m not a banker.” Matt strode forward and yanked down a bill of foreclosure notice attached to the front window. “I’m the new owner.”

Her head jerked up. She stared at him, then the house, then him again, utter disappointment painting her features. Wet, bedraggled, rumpled, cold and wickedly disappointed.

Her look grabbed a piece of him, the air of disillusionment needing comfort and joy, but at the moment, confronted with the enormity of what he’d undertaken less than two hours ago, Matt’s personal comfort level had nose-dived into incredulity.

“Seek and ye shall find. Knock, and the door will be opened, son.”

Gus’s wisdom reminded Matt that he wasn’t in this alone, that despite Gus’s death while Matt served in the desert sands of Iraq, he’d never be alone again, not in spirit anyway.

“You bought this house?”

The reality of the recent transaction tightened his neck, his look. “I bought the subdivision.”

“All of it?” The kid’s air reflected his mother’s again, a shadowed starkness making Matt feel like a crusty headmaster, cold, cruel and crotchety.

The cold part was accurate, his wet clothes and the brisk wind a chilling reminder of what was to come. He met the kid’s eyes and nodded. “All of it. Yes.”

“But, Mom—”

“Stop, Jake. It’s all right.”

“But—”

“I said stop.”

The kid’s baffled look made Matt feel like scum, but why? Why should it matter if…

“You bought Cobbled Creek?”

A new voice entered the fray.

Matt swung around.

Three older men stood at the back door opening, backs straight, heads up, their posture definitely not at ease.

Military men, despite the paunch of one and the silver hair of another.

The man in the middle stepped forward, drew a breath and extended a hand. “I’m Hank Marek.”

The name sent a warning bell of empathy. Hank Marek of Marek Home Builders, the now-defunct contractor that started this project over two years ago.

Matt wasn’t a sympathetic person by nature. He’d hard-scrabbled his way up the ladder of success despite illegitimate beginnings followed by a fairly miserable upbringing, but coming face to face with the man who lost his dream so that Matt could have his, well…

He hauled in a breath and accepted Hank’s hand. “Matt Cavanaugh of Cavanaugh Construction.”

The older man’s face revealed nothing of what he must be feeling inside, the loss of his work, his livelihood, his well-designed subdivision the victim of overextended loans and the burst of the housing bubble.

The other men stepped forward, concerned.

Hank moved back, nodded and directed a look beyond Matt to the woman and boy. “There’s stew just about ready and the temperature’s supposed to dip lower tonight before coming back up tomorrow. Jake, can you help me fire up the wood stove?”

The boy scowled Matt’s way, scuffed a toe, huffed a sigh, then trudged past Matt, the dog trailing behind, their mutual postures voicing silent displeasure.

“Callie? I’ll see you at home?”

“I’m on my way, Dad.” She pivoted, her mud-slicked heel tipping the move.