Kitabı oku: «I'll Be Home for Christmas and One Golden Christmas: I'll Be Home For Christmas / One Golden Christmas»

Praise for Lenora Worth and her novels

“Lenora Worth’s Christmas tale will warm the cockles of readers’ hearts.”

—RT Book Reviews on I’ll Be Home for Christmas

“Lenora Worth’s One Golden Christmas is another jewel shining like the brightest star atop the Christmas tree.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Lacey’s Retreat by Lenora Worth is rich in characterization and romance with an endearing hero.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Lenora Worth creates a character with a Heart of Stone that will have readers longing to melt it. Her best story yet.”

—RT Book Reviews

I’ll Be Home for Christmas & One Golden Christmas
Lenora Worth

LENORA WORTH

has written more than thirty books, most of those for Steeple Hill. She also works freelance for a local magazine, where she had written monthly opinion columns, feature articles and social commentaries. She also wrote for the local paper for five years. Married to her high school sweetheart for thirty-three years, Lenora lives in Louisiana and has two grown children and a cat. She loves to read, take long walks and sit in her garden.

Contents

I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

ONE GOLDEN CHRISTMAS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

I’ll be home for Christmas

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

—1 Corinthians 13:13

To Jean Price and Dee Pace,

for taking a chance on me,

and

To my mother, Myla Brinson Humphries,

who’s in heaven with the angels.

Chapter One

He was tired.

He was hungry.

He wanted a big roast beef sandwich from that roast Henny had baked early in the week, and then he wanted to go to bed and sleep for at least fourteen hours.

Nick Rudolph shifted against the supple leather seat of his Jaguar sedan, his impatient foot pressing the accelerator further toward Shreveport, Louisiana, the interstate’s slippery surface spewing icy rain out around the sleek black car.

He was also late. Very late. Carolyn would be fuming; he’d have to smooth things over with her. Right about now, he was supposed to be escorting her to the mayor’s Christmas party. Instead, he was making his way along a treacherous stretch of icy road, on the coldest night of the year.

His mind went back to the meetings in Dallas he’d had to endure to cut another deal for Rudolph Oil. After all the hours of endless negotiations, he still wasn’t sure if he’d closed the deal. They wanted to think about it some more.

That he wasn’t coming home victorious grated against his ego like the ice grating against his windshield wipers. Over the last few years, work had always come first with Nick Rudolph. It was an unspoken promise to his late father, a man Nick hadn’t understood until after his death. Now, because he’d seen a side of his father that still left him unsettled, Nick preferred to concentrate on tangible endeavors, like making money.

Nick Rudolph wasn’t used to losing. He’d been blessed with a good life, with all the comforts of old money, and he didn’t take kindly to being shut out. He’d win them over; he always did. He might have given up every ounce of his self-worth, but he wasn’t about to let go of his net worth.

As the car neared the exit for Kelly’s Truck Stop, he allowed himself a moment to relax. Almost home. Soon, he’d be sitting by his fire, the cold December rain held at bay outside the sturdy walls of his Georgian-style mansion. Soon.

Nick looked up just in time to see the dark shapes moving in front of his car, his headlights flashing across the darting figures rushing out onto the road in front of him.

Automatically slamming on his brakes, he held the leather-covered steering wheel with tight fingers. His mind screamed an alert warning as the car barely missed hitting a small figure standing in the rain before it skidded to a groaning halt.

“What in the world!” Nick cut the engine to a fast stop, then hopped out of the car, his mind still reeling with the sure knowledge that he’d almost hit a child. Coming around the car, his expensive loafers crunching against patches of ice, he looked down at the three people huddled together on the side of the interstate. Tired and shaken, he squinted against the beam of his car’s headlights.

The sight he saw made him sag with relief. He hadn’t hit anyone. Immediately following the relief came a strong curiosity. Why would anyone be standing in the middle of the interstate on a night like this?

The woman stood tall, her chin lifted in proud defiance, her long hair flowing out in the icy wind, her hands pulled tight against the shoulders of the two freezing children cloistered against the protection of her worn wool jacket.

The two children, a small boy and a taller, skinny girl, looked up at Nick with wide, frightened eyes, their lips trembling, whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t be sure.

He inched closer to the haphazard trio. “Are you people all right?”

The woman pushed thick dark hair away from her face, shifting slightly to see Nick better. “We’re all okay. I’m sorry. We were trying to cross over to the truck stop. We…you…I didn’t realize how fast you were going.”

Nick let out a long, shuddering sigh, small aftershocks rippling through his body. “I almost hit you!”

The woman stiffened. “I said we’re all okay.” Then as if realizing the harshness of her words, she repeated, “I’m sorry.”

Something in her tone caught at Nick, holding him. It was as if she’d had a lot of experience saying those words.

“Me, too,” he said by way of his own apology. He’d never been good with “I’m sorry”, because he’d never felt the need to apologize for his actions. But he had been driving way too fast for these icy roads. What if he’d hit that little boy?

He ran his hand through his damp dark hair, then shoved both hands into the deep pockets of his wool trench coat. “Where…where’s your car? Do you need a ride?”

The woman moved her head slightly, motioning toward the west. “We broke down back there. We were headed to the truck stop for help.”

“I’ll drop you off,” Nick offered, eager to get on his way. Turning, he headed back to his car. When the woman didn’t immediately follow, he whirled, his eyes centering on her. “I said I’d give you a lift.”

“We don’t know you,” she reasoned. “It’s not that far. We can walk.”

“And risk getting hit again?” Regretting his brusque tone, Nick stepped closer to her, the cold rain chilling him to his bones. “Look, I’m perfectly safe. I’ll take you to the truck stop. Maybe they can call a wrecker for your car.”

“I can’t afford a wrecker,” the woman said, almost to herself.

“We’re broke,” the little boy supplied, his eyes big and solemn, their depths aged beyond his five or so years.

“Patrick, please hush,” the woman said gently, holding him tight against her jeans-clad leg. Gazing up at Nick, she shot him that proud look again. “I’d appreciate a ride, mister.”

“It’s Nick,” he supplied. “Nick Rudolph. I live in Shreveport.” As he talked, he guided them toward his car, wondering where they were from and where they were headed, and why they’d broken down on such an awful night. “I’m on my way back from Dallas,” he explained, opening doors and moving his briefcase and clothes bag out of the way.

“We used to live near Dallas,” the little boy said as he scooted onto the beige-colored leather seat. “Wow! This is a really cool car, ain’t it, Mom?”

“It’s isn’t,” his sister corrected, her voice sounding hoarse and weak.

The boy gave her an exaggerated shrug.

Nick stepped aside as the woman slid into the front seat. Her eyes lifted to Nick’s, and from the overhead light, he got his first really good glimpse of her.

And lost his sense of control in the process.

Green eyes, forest green, evergreen, shined underneath arched brows that dared him to question her. An angular face, almost gaunt in its slenderness, a long nose over a wide, full mouth. Her lips were chapped; she nibbled at the corner of her bottom lip. But she tossed back her long auburn hair like a queen, looking regal in spite of her threadbare, scrappy clothes.

Nick lost track of time as he stared down at her, then catching himself, he shut the door firmly, his body cold from the December wind blowing across the roadway. Running around the car, he hurried inside, closing the nasty night out with a slam.

“Mom?” the little boy said again, “don’t you like Nick’s car?”

“It’s very nice,” the woman replied, her eyes sliding over the car’s interior. “And it’s Mr. Rudolph, Patrick. Remember your manners.”

The expensive sedan cranked on cue, and Nick pulled it back onto the highway, careful of the slippery road. “What’s your name?” he asked the woman beside him.

“Myla.” She let one slender hand rest on the dashboard for support as the car moved along. “Myla Howell.” Nodding toward the back of the car, she added, “And these are my children, Patrick and Jessica.”

The little girl started coughing, the hacking sounds ragged and raspy. “Mama, I’m thirsty,” she croaked.

“They’ll have drinks at the truck stop,” Nick said, concern filtering through his need to get on home.

“We don’t got no money for drinks,” Patrick piped up, leaning forward toward Nick.

“Patrick!” Myla whirled around, her green eyes flashing. “Honey, sit back and be quiet.” Her tone going from stern to gentle, she added, “Jesse, we’ll get a drink of water in the bathroom, okay?”

Nick pulled the car into the busy truck stop, deciding he couldn’t leave them stranded here, cold and hungry. He’d at least feed them before he figured out what to do about their car. Turning to Myla, he asked, “Is everything all right? Can I call somebody for you? A relative maybe?”

She looked straight ahead, watching as a fancy eighteen-wheeler groaned its way toward the highway. “We don’t have any relatives here.” A telling silence filled the car. Outside, the icy rain picked up, turning into full-fledged sleet.

“Where were you headed?” Nick knew he was past late, and that he probably wasn’t going anywhere soon.

“To Shreveport.” Myla sat still, looking straight ahead.

“Mom’s found a job,” Patrick explained, eager to fill Nick in on the details. “And she said we’ll probably find a place to live soon—it’d sure beat the car—”

“Patrick!” Myla turned then, her gaze slamming into Nick’s, a full load of pain mixed with the pride he saw so clearly through the fluorescent glow of the truck stop’s blinding lights.

His mouth dropping open, Nick gave her an incredulous look. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing.” Her chin lifted a notch. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Rudolph. We’ll be fine now.”

The car door clicked open, but Nick’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm. “Hey, wait!”

Her gaze lifted from his hand on her arm to the urgent expression on his face. “Let me go.”

“I can’t do that.” Nick surprised himself more than he surprised her. “If you don’t have any place to go—”

“It’s not your problem,” she interrupted. “If I can just make it into town, I’ve got a good chance of still getting the job I called about yesterday. Once I find steady work, we’ll be fine.”

“I can help,” he said, almost afraid of the worn wisdom he read in her eyes. “I can call a wrecker, at least. And find a place for you to stay.”

From the back seat, Jessica went into another fit of coughing, the hacking sound reminding Nick of memories he’d tried to suppress for too long.

“That does it.” He reached across Myla to slam her door shut. The action brought them face-to-face for a split second, but it was long enough for Nick to get lost in those beautiful eyes again, long enough for him to forget his regrets and his promises and wish for things he knew he’d never have. And it was long enough for him to make a decision that he somehow knew was about to change his life. “You’re coming with me,” he said, his tone firm. “I won’t leave a sick child out in this mess!”

The woman looked over at him, her eyes pooling into two misty depths. “I…I don’t know how to thank you.”

Nick heard the catch in her throat, knew she was on the verge of tears. The thought of those beautiful eyes crying tore through him, but he told himself he’d only help the family find a safe place to spend the night. He wasn’t ready to get any further involved in whatever problems they were having.

“You need help,” he said. “If you’re worried about going off with a stranger, I’ll call someone to verify my identity.” A new thought calculating in his taxed brain, he added, “In fact, my sister is a volunteer counselor for Magnolia House. I’ll call her. She’s always helping people.” Having found a way to get out of this sticky predicament, Nick breathed a sigh of relief.

Myla turned back, her eyes wary. “What’s Magnolia House?”

He waved a hand. “It’s this place downtown, a homeless shelter, but a bit nicer. According to my sister it has private rooms where families can stay until…until they get back on their feet.” He really didn’t know that much about his sister’s latest mission project, except that he’d written a huge check to help fund it.

Giving him a hopeful look, she asked, “And we don’t have to pay to live there?”

“No, not with money. You do assigned tasks at the home, and attend classes to help you find work, things like that. My sister helped set the place up and she’s on the board of directors. She’ll explain how it works.”

“Can you get us in tonight?”

Putting all thoughts of a roast beef sandwich or a quiet evening with Carolyn out of his mind, Nick nodded hesitantly. “I’ll do my best. And I’ll send a wrecker for your car, too.”

She relaxed, letting out a long breath. Then she gave him a direct, studying stare, as if she were trying to decide whether to trust him or not. Clearing her throat, she said, “Thank you.”

Admiration surfaced in the murky depths of Nick’s impassive soul. He knew how much pride those two words had cost this woman. He admired pride. It had certainly sustained him all these years. Debating his next question, he decided there was no way to dance around this situation. Starting the car again, he carefully maneuvered through the truck stop traffic.

“How’d you wind up…?”

“Homeless, living in my car?”

Her directness surprised him, but then this whole night has been full of surprises.

“If you don’t mind talking about it.”

“My husband died about a year ago.” She hesitated, then added, “Afterward, I found out we didn’t have any money left. No insurance, no savings, nothing. I lost everything.”

Nick glanced over at her as the car cruised farther up the interstate, leaving downtown Shreveport at Line Avenue to head for the secluded privacy of the historic Highland District. Taking her quiet reluctance as a sign of mourning, he cleared his throat slightly, unable to sympathize with her need to mourn; he’d never quite learned how himself. So instead, he concentrated on the fact that she was a single mother. All his protective instincts, something he usually reserved for his sister, surfaced, surprising him. Must be the Christmas spirit. Could I possibly have some redeemable qualities left after all?

“What did you do?” he asked, mystified.

Lifting her head, Myla sighed. “I left Dallas and looked for work. I got a job in Marshall, but the company I worked for closed down. I ran out of money, so we got evicted from our apartment.”

Nick could hear the shame in her voice.

“After that, we just drove around. I looked for work. We stayed in hotels until the little bit of cash I had ran out. That was two weeks ago. We’ve been sleeping in the car, stopping at rest areas to bathe and eat. The kids played or slept while I called about jobs.”

She slumped down in her seat, the defeat covering her body like the cold, hard sleet covering the road.

Then she lifted her head and her shoulders. “I don’t want to resort to going on welfare, but I’ll do it for my children. We might be destitute right now, but this is only temporary. I intend to find work as soon as I can.”

It was Nick’s turn to feel ashamed. He was more than willing to write her a fat check, but he had the funny feeling she’d throw it back in his face. She had enough pride to choke a horse, but how long could she survive on pride? And why should he be so worried that she’d try?

Nick didn’t have time to ponder that question. Minutes later, he pulled the car up a winding drive to a redbrick Georgian-style mansion that shimmered and sparkled with all the connotations of a Norman Rockwell Christmas. Suddenly, the wreaths and candles in the massive windows seemed garish and mocking. He’d told Henny not to put out any Christmas decorations, anyway. Obviously, the elderly housekeeper hadn’t listened to him, not that she ever did.

Now, seeing his opulent home through the eyes of a person who didn’t have a home scared him silly, and caused him to take a good, long hard look at his life-style.

“Man!” Patrick jumped up to lean forward. Straining at his seat belt, he tugged his sleeping sister up. “Look, Jesse. Can you believe this? Santa’s sure to find us here. Mr. Nick, you must be the richest man in the world.”

The woman sitting next to him lowered her head, but she didn’t reprimand her son. Nick saw the pain shattering her face like fragments of ice.

Nick Rudolph, the man some called ruthless and relentless, sat silently looking up at the house he’d lived in all his life. He’d always taken it for granted, his way of life. His parents had provided him and Lydia with the best. And even in death, they’d bequeathed an affluent life-style to their children.

Nick had accepted the life-style, but he hadn’t accepted the obligations and expectations his stern father had pressed on him. When he could no longer live up to those expectations, he’d acted like a rebel without a cause—until he’d seen the truth in his dying father’s eyes.

Everything his father had drilled into him had become a sham. And Joseph, overcome with emotion because he loved his Ruthie too much, had tried to tell Nick it was okay to be vulnerable when it involved someone you loved.

But it had been too late for Nick. He’d learned his lessons well. Now, he guarded his heart much in the same way he watched over Rudolph Oil—with a steely determination that allowed no room for weakness.

Maybe that was why he’d felt so restless lately. Maybe his guilt was starting to wear thin. Though he had it all, something was missing still. Nick had never wanted for anything, until now. All his money couldn’t buy back this woman’s pride or settle her losses. All his wealth seemed a dishonest display compared to her honest humility.

“No, Patrick,” he began, his voice strangely husky, “I’m not the richest man in the world, not by a long shot.”

“Well, you ain’t hurtin’ any,” Patrick noted.

“No, I suppose I’m not,” Nick replied, his eyes seeking those of the woman beside him. “Let’s go inside where it’s warm.”

Opening the car door, he vented his frustration on the expensive machine. He was hurting. And he didn’t understand why. How had the night become a study in contradiction and longing? How had he fallen into such a blue mood? Well, he’d just had an incredibly bad day, that was all. Or was it?

No. It was her—Myla. Myla Howell and her two needy children. He couldn’t solve all the problems of the world, could he? He’d make sure they had a decent place to stay, maybe help her find a job, then go on with his merry life. Things would go back to the way they’d been up until about an hour ago.

And how were things before, Nick? an inner voice questioned.

Normal. Settled. Content.

And lonely.

And that was the gist of the matter.

These three ragamuffins had brought out the loneliness he’d tried to hide for so long. Denying it had been pretty easy up until tonight. But they’d sprung a trap for him, an innocent but clever trap. They’d nabbed him with their earnest needs and unfortunate situation. He’d help them, sure. He certainly wasn’t a coldhearted man.

But he wouldn’t get involved. At all. His formidable father had drilled the rules of business into Nick—no distractions, show no emotions. In the end, however, Joseph Rudolph had forgotten all his own rules. In the end, his own emotions had taken control of his life. Nick had learned from Joseph’s mistake. So now, he let Lydia do the good deeds while he took care of business. It was a nice setup. One he didn’t intend to change.

“I’ll call Lydia. She’ll know what to do,” Nick said minutes later as he flipped on lights and guided them through the house from the three-car garage. A large, well-lit kitchen greeted them as the buzz of the automatic garage door opener shut them snugly in for the night. Nick headed to the cordless phone, intent on finding his sister fast. Then he’d have to call Carolyn and make his excuses. When he only connected with Lydia’s perky answering machine, he left a brief, panicked message. “Lydia, it’s your brother. Call me—soon. I’m at home and I could really use your help.”

We make him uncomfortable, Myla Howell reasoned as she watched the handsome, well-dressed man talking on the phone. She knew she and her children were an inconvenience. When you didn’t have money, or a place to sleep, you became that way.

She’d learned that lesson over the last few months. People who’d called themselves her friends had suddenly turned away. She wasn’t good enough for them now. They didn’t have time for her now. They couldn’t be seen associating with a homeless person.

This man was the same. He couldn’t wait to be rid of them. But, he had saved them tonight. She’d give him credit for that. She watched him moving about the kitchen, taking in his dark, chocolate-colored hair, remembering his gold-tinged tiger eyes. Golden brown, but missing that spark of warmth. Calculating eyes? She’d seen that kind of eyes before; still bore the scars from trusting someone who could be so ruthless. Would this man be any different?

She hoped so, she prayed so, for the sake of getting her children to a safe place. Refusing to give in to her fears or her humiliation, she focused on her surroundings instead. What a joy it would be to cook in a kitchen like this! She missed having a kitchen. Cooking was one of her pleasures and with hard work and lots of prayer, it could soon be her livelihood, too.

The gleaming industrial-size aluminum stove shouted at her while the matching refrigerator-freezer told her there was lots of bounty here to explore. The long butcher block island centered in the middle of the wide room spoke of fresh vegetables and homemade breads and pastries. Myla closed her eyes briefly, almost smelling the aroma of a lovely, home-cooked holiday meal. She’d miss that this Christmas. But next year…

Nick watched her in amazement. Under the surreal lights of the truck stop, she’d looked pale and drawn. But here in the bright track lights, Myla seemed to glow. She was tall, almost gaunt in her thinness. Her hair was long and thick, a mass of red, endearing curls that clung to her neck and shoulders. Even in her plain clothes, this woman exuded a grace and charm that few women would possess dressed in furs and diamonds. Obviously, she hadn’t always been homeless. Her clothes and the children’s looked to be of good quality and in fair shape. Not too threadbare; wrinkled, but clean.

Mentally shaking himself out of his curious stupor, Nick watched her closely, noticing the dreamy expression falling across her freckled face. Then it hit him. “You’re probably hungry.”

His statement changed Myla’s dreamy expression to a blushing halt. “I’m sorry…this is such a beautiful kitchen…I got carried away looking at it.” Nodding at the expectant faces of her children, she pushed them forward. “The children need something to eat. We had breakfast at a rest stop—donuts and milk.”

The implication that they hadn’t eaten since this morning caused Nick to lift his head, but he turned away before she could see the sympathy in his eyes. “Well, don’t worry. Our housekeeper, Henrietta Clark, has been with the family for most of my life. She always stays with a friend down the street when I’m away, so she’s not here tonight. But she cooks a lot, way too much for my sister and me. We usually wind up giving half of it away—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Rudolph,” Myla said to ease his discomfort. “We’ll be glad to take some of your leftovers off your hands, right, kids?”

She was being cheerful for the children’s sake, Nick realized. Relaxing a little, he dashed over to the gleaming refrigerator. “Let’s just see what we’ve got. We’ll have ourselves a feast.”

Patrick hopped up on a wooden stool, yanking his fleece jacket off with a flourish. “My mom’s the best cook, Mr. Nick. She can make just about anything, but her bestest is bread—and cookies.”

“Oh, really?” Nick glanced over at Myla. “Well, come on over here, Mom. I could use an expert hand. I’m not very good in the kitchen.”

Eyeing Jesse and unsure what to do with her, he lifted the quiet little girl up on the stool next to Patrick. With an unsteady smile, he registered that she felt warm, almost too warm, but then he wasn’t a doctor or a daddy. What did he know about little girls?

Myla stepped forward, then took off her threadbare wool coat. “Anything I can do to help?”

Nick watched as she hovered beside him, as if waiting for him to issue an order. Tired and unsure what to do himself, he unceremoniously loosened the red-patterned tie at his neck, then yanked off the tailored wool suit jacket he’d worn all day. Tossing the jacket across a chair, he watched as Myla straightened it and hung it over the back of the chair, her hands automatically smoothing the wrinkles out.

“Thank you,” he said.

He watched as a flush bathed her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Force of habit. My husband liked everything in its place.”

Nick nodded, then wondered about her marriage. Had it been a happy one? Not that it was any of his business, but the sad, almost evasive look in her eyes made him curious. Did she miss her husband? Of course, she probably did, especially now when she was struggling so much.

“How about a roast beef sandwich?” he asked as he lifted the heavy pan of meat out of the refrigerator. “Henny cooked this for Sunday supper, but I didn’t get back into town to enjoy it.”

“That’s a shame.”

“No, that’s the life of an oilman. Lots of trips, lots of leftovers.” Searching through a drawer, he found a large carving knife. “I say, let’s cut into this thing.”

“Yeah, let’s cut into that thing,” Patrick echoed, clapping his hands. “My mouth’s watering.”

Jesse smiled, then coughed.

“Are you hungry, Jesse?” Worry darkened Myla’s eyes. “She has allergies and she’s fighting a nasty cold.”

A spark of warmth curled in Nick’s heart. “Maybe some good food will perk her up.” He offered Jesse a glass of orange juice.

Nick found the bread, then poured huge glasses of milk for the children. Myla located the coffeemaker and started a fresh brew. She sliced tomato and lettuce, then made some thick roast beef sandwiches. Soon all four of them were sitting around the butcher block counter. Nick picked up his sandwich for a hefty bite, but held it in midair as Myla and her children clasped hands and bowed their heads.

Seeing his openmouthed pose, Myla said quietly, “We always say grace before our meals. I hope you don’t mind.”

Nick dropped his sandwich as if it were on fire. “No, of course not.”

When Myla extended her hand to his, something went all soft and quiet in his ninety-mile-an-hour mind. When was the last time he’d said a prayer of any kind? He listened now to Myla’s soft, caressing voice.

“Thank you, Lord, for this day and this food. Thank you for our safety and for the warmth you have provided. Thank you for sending us help when we needed it most. We ask that you bless each of us, and this house. Amen.”

Stunned, Nick wasn’t so sure he wanted his house blessed. He felt awkward as he lifted his hand away from the warmth of Myla’s. To hide his discomfort, he said, “Let’s eat.”

Patrick didn’t have to be told twice. He attacked one half of his sandwich with gusto. Nick flipped on a nearby television to entertain the children, but mostly to stifle the awkward tension permeating the room.

He watched them eat, hoping Lydia would call soon. Patrick wolfed his food down in record time, while Jesse nibbled at hers between fits of dry coughing. Their mother broke off little bits of her sandwich, as if forcing herself to eat, her eyes darting here and there in worry.

Finally, out of frustration more than anything else, Nick said, “That hit the spot. I was starved.”

“Me, too,” Jesse said, speaking up at last.

Nick’s eyes met her mother’s over her head. It didn’t help to know that Jesse probably had been really hungry, when to Nick the words were just a figure of speech. Myla only gave him a blank stare, though, so to hide his confusion he munched on a chocolate chip cookie while he watched the children, and their mother when she wasn’t looking.

The baggy teal sweater brought out the green in her expressive eyes. Worn jeans tugged over scuffed red Roper boots encased her slim hips and long legs. Couldn’t be more than thirty, just a few years younger than him, yet she carried a lot of responsibility on her slim shoulders.

“You’ve got a pretty name,” he said to stop the flow of his own erratic thoughts.

“I was named after my grandmother,” she said. “She hated her name because people would always call her Mi-lee. My mother named me after her to make her feel better about it.”

“Where’s your family?” he asked, hoping to learn more about her situation.

She shot him that luminous stare before answering. “My parents passed away several years ago—a year and a half apart. First my mother, from a stroke. Then Daddy. The doctors said his heart gave out, and I think that’s true. He died of loneliness. They’d been married forty years.”

Nick felt a coldness in the center of his heart, a coldness that reminded him of his firm commitment to keep that part of himself closed away. “Same with my parents. My mother died of cancer, and my father was never really the same after her death.” He looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. “He…he depended on his Ruthie, and her death destroyed him. It was as if he changed right before my eyes.” Not wanting to reveal more, he asked her, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

She nodded. “A brother in Texas—he’s got five kids. And a sister in Georgia. She just got married a few months ago.” She sat silent for a minute, then finished. “They don’t need me and my problems right now.”

“Do they know…about what’s happened to you?”

Her flushed face gave him his answer. She jumped up to clean away their dishes. “No, they don’t. Not yet.” Turning toward the sink, she added, “I really appreciate your help, but I don’t intend to live on handouts. If my job hunt pays off—”

“What sort of work are you looking for?”

“A waitress, maybe, for now. I love to cook. One day, I’d like to run my own restaurant.”

Nick wanted to touch her face for some strange reason. She had that dreamy look about her again, and it endeared her to him. He felt an overwhelming need to buy a building and turn it into a restaurant.

But he didn’t touch her, and he didn’t offer to fund her venture. Instead, he looked down, as embarrassed by being wealthy as she obviously was by being destitute.

Myla’s touch on his arm brought his head up. “I want to thank you, Mr. Rudolph, for helping us. All day, I prayed for help, and then you came along. You offered us shelter, and that’s something I’ll never forget. So thank you, for your kindness and your understanding.”

Nick looked in her eyes and felt himself falling, falling, as if in slow motion. Moving away abruptly, he said, “Call me Nick, please. And you don’t have to thank me.”

The confused look she gave him only added to his woes. He couldn’t tell her that he rarely let people get close enough to touch him, either physically or emotionally. He couldn’t erase the hurt look in her eyes.

When a special news bulletin interrupted the noisy cartoon on the nearby television, Nick was thankful for the distraction until he heard the report.

The familiar face of the local weatherman filled the screen, and after going over the progress of the ice storm covering the city, the newscaster suggested everyone stay put for the night. “The roads are becoming treacherous and travel may be hazardous until this storm passes. We should be able to resume normal activities by midmorning when higher temperatures and sunshine clear this system out.”

Nick eyed the television, willing the man to say it wasn’t so. When that didn’t happen, he looked toward the silent phone, all hopes of Lydia’s much-needed help freezing up like his winding driveway outside. With three pairs of questioning eyes centered on him, he could only give a gracious but shaky smile.

Thoroughly at odds, he wanted to ask Myla Howell why him? Why’d she have to pick him? And what was he supposed to do with her now? Instead, he took her hand. “Well, that settles it. You heard the man. You can stay here tonight.”

“What?” Myla gave him a stunned look. “But what about your sister? What about Magnolia House?”

“It can wait,” Nick stated firmly, silently wishing Lydia would call and rescue him before he drowned in those questioning green eyes. Or was he silently hoping she wouldn’t call? To counter his treacherous thoughts, he added, “It’s late and Magnolia House is downtown. It’s too dangerous a trip in these icy roads. You’ll have to stay here tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” His tone was firmer than his confidence. Right now, he wasn’t very sure of anything—except that he couldn’t send this family back out into that cold, dark night.

Chapter Two

“Henrietta, please don’t cry.”

Nick ran a hand through his tousled hair, then gratefully accepted the cup of coffee the whimpering housekeeper handed him before she burst into tears again.

“Ah, Henny, don’t do that. It’s too early in the morning for theatrics. I didn’t know my Christmas present would move you to tears.”

“But, Nicky,” the older woman began, her shimmering gray curls not moving a centimeter even though she bobbed her head with each word, “it’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. God bless you. You’re a good man…a good one…” Her words trailed off as her watery eyes centered on something beyond Nick’s head.

Nick turned to find Myla Howell standing in the doorway, wearing the same clothes she’d had on the night before.

“I’m sorry,” Myla said, sensing she’d interrupted something important. “I heard voices….”

“Nicky?”

Myla looked from the old woman who stood with her hands on her hips to the man sitting like a king at the head of the long Queen Anne dining table. He was trying to read the newspaper, and judging from the frown marring his handsome face, he was losing patience with the woman standing before him.

“Who’s this?” the woman asked, smiling kindly over at Myla.

Nick looked up. Myla didn’t miss the surprise or the grimace on his face. “Oh, hello. Henny, this is Myla Howell. Due to the bad weather, Myla and her children were forced to spend the night in one of the guest rooms.” He extended a hand toward the woman. “Myla, this is Henrietta Clark, my housekeeper and best friend.”

Myla was thankful when the woman didn’t ask any questions. “Nice to meet you.”

Henny smiled and waved a hand. “Did I wake you up with my wailing, honey? I’m sorry, but I’m so excited. Nicky gave me the best Christmas present before he left for Dallas the other day—a trip to see my daughter and her children in Arkansas.”

“And she’s wailing because she’s so touched,” Nick added on a droll note. “She’s leaving today.”

“That’s wonderful,” Myla said. “I know you’ll have a great time.”

“I plan to,” Henrietta said, “if I don’t spend the whole time worrying about Nicky and Lydia.”

“We’ll be fine,” Nick said, his attention already back on his paper. Then he asked Myla, “Would you like some breakfast, a cup of coffee, maybe?”

Myla took the cup of coffee Henny pressed into her hand, but she didn’t sit down. “Actually, I came down to ask for some medicine. Jesse’s had a bad night. She’s running a fever.”

Nick scowled. “Is she all right?”

Afraid that he wasn’t pleased at this added problem, Myla nodded. “I think she’ll be okay. I just need to bring her fever down.”

“Your child?” Henny asked.

“Yes. My oldest. I’m not sure about her temperature, but she feels awfully hot.”

Henny whirled around. “There’s a thermometer around here somewhere. Nicky won’t let me use it on him anymore.”

A smile slipped across Myla’s face. In spite of her concern for Jesse, she couldn’t resist the mental image of the stout Henrietta chasing a snarling Nick around with a thermometer.

Nick’s scowl went a few grooves deeper. “She still thinks of Lydia and me as her babies.” He gestured for Myla to sit down. “Does Jesse need anything else?”

Myla appreciated the warmth in his words, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t think so. Just rest and good food. If you don’t mind, I’ll feed them breakfast before we leave.”

He looked down at the table. “I put in another call to my sister. You can’t take chances with this weather.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that to Jesse. I appreciate your letting us stay here, Mr. Rudolph.”

“Call me Nick.”

“Okay.” Myla sensed, knew, he couldn’t wait to be rid of them. “I’m sorry we’ve disrupted your life.”

“It’s no problem,” he said. “Did you sleep all right?”

“Yes, we all did until Jesse started coughing.”

Myla wouldn’t tell him that she’d tossed and turned in spite of the warm, cozy room and the enormous bed. She felt so alone, so out of place in this grand old house. But she was certainly thankful that they hadn’t had to spend the night in the car.

When she looked up, Nick’s gaze softened. “Don’t worry about your daughter. If she’s sick, we’ll get her to a doctor.”

“Thank you.”

Henrietta burst through the swinging door from the kitchen, a bottle of pills in one hand and a thermometer in the other. “How old’s the child?”

“Eight.”

“Half a tablet, then. And I’ll fix her up some of my special hot lemonade with honey to help get that down. The lemons—good for a cold.” She turned to strut back to the kitchen, then whirled to face Nick. “Oh, Nicky, I almost forgot. Are you sure you and Lydia can handle things tonight?”

Nick looked confused, his gaze moving from Myla to his housekeeper. “Tonight? What’s going on tonight?”

“Your dinner party,” Henny said with arms akimbo. “Don’t tell me you forgot to call the temp service. You told me not to worry about a thing, that you and Lydia would take care of calling someone to fill in for me.”

Nick sat up, realization hitting him. “You mean my sister and I are in charge of…kitchen duty?”

Henrietta shook her head. “I knew you weren’t listening to me the other day.” She shot Myla a knowing look. “A one-track mind, that one. If it don’t have to do with oil, he don’t want to deal with it.”

“I guess I wasn’t listening,” Nick agreed. “And I think we’d better round up someone to take care of that. We both know Lydia’s as useless in the kitchen as I am.”

The housekeeper mumbled something about preoccupied executives, then explained, “It’s too late to call the temp service. They’re booked through Christmas, I imagine.” Looking disappointed, she asked, “You want me to stay?”

Myla listened, then squeaked, “I can do it.” When both Nick and Henrietta looked at her as if she’d gone daft, she wanted to drop through the tapestry rug underneath her feet. But this would be a good way to pay Nick back for his help, and it would make her feel a whole lot better about things. “I can cook. I can do whatever needs to be done.” When Nick kept staring at her, she rushed on. “Well, if I’m going to stay here all day anyway, I can’t just sit around twiddling my thumbs. I’d like to help, to pay you back for your kindness.”

Henny smiled from ear to ear. “Well, now, isn’t that a nice gesture on your part, honey.”

“I’ll pay her, of course.” Nick gave Henny a sharp look, then turned a questioning glance at Myla. “Do you have experience with this sort of thing?”

Myla didn’t tell him that she’d once been considered the best hostess in her neighborhood. That had been one of her husband’s demands, along with all his other demands. Instead she said, “I’ve been in charge of dinner parties before, yes. Henrietta can show me where everything is.” Lifting her chin, she added, “And I could use the money.”

She watched as Nick weighed his options, hoping for this reprieve, this time out of the cold. Finally, he spoke.

“Well, I certainly don’t have time to find anybody else. Okay, you’ve got the job. But I expect everything to run smoothly—and that means making sure your children—”

“They’ll stay out of your way,” Myla said. “I promise.”

“Good.” He turned to Henny. “After breakfast, you can get things settled up between you.”

“You’re the boss,” Henrietta said, smiling to herself as she ambled into the kitchen.

Nick watched her, and Myla saw the doubt clouding his features. Wanting to reassure him, she said, “Don’t worry. I can do whatever needs to be done. I want to help and I won’t let you down.”

“That’s good,” he contended, “since I’m trusting you alone in my house.”

Not liking his tone, she retorted, “I’m a Christian, Mr. Rudolph. I won’t steal anything if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I wasn’t implying anything. And I certainly didn’t mean to insult you.”

Seizing the opportunity, Myla rushed on. “Then you might consider letting me fill in for Henrietta. I could work for you until she gets back from her trip.”

That got his attention. “I hadn’t planned on a long-term replacement. I don’t go all out for the holidays.”

“That’s a shame,” she countered. “Christmas is such a beautiful, blessed time of year.”

“I don’t like Christmas,” he insisted. “In fact, this dinner party tonight is more of an obligation to my clients than a celebration.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to celebrate?” she had to wonder out loud. “The birth of the Savior is a joyous time.”

He didn’t give her the answer she wanted. Instead, he said, “Henny’s planning to be gone until the first of the year. Are you willing to work through Christmas?”

Myla was glad, but surprised that he wanted her to stay that long. She needed a job, but hadn’t counted on this becoming a long-term arrangement. This would give her some time, though, and a safe place for her children. “A month? That would help us get a good start on the new year.”

Nick’s next words were dusted with doubt. “And, it would solve both of our predicaments—you need a job, I need a good worker.”

“What about my children? You obviously don’t want them underfoot.”

“We’ll get them enrolled in school. You were planning on doing that, weren’t you?”

Resenting his superior attitude, she retorted, “I hadn’t thought past getting them to a warm bed.”

Nick countered. “Hey, it was your idea. After Christmas you can take the money you’ve earned here and do whatever you like. This is a sensible solution for everyone concerned.”

Myla had to agree. “So you’re asking me to stay here and work for you for the next few weeks?”

He almost grinned. “I don’t remember doing any asking, but yes, I guess I am.”

She held out her hand. “Deal, unless that other job I came here for is still open. Then, I’ll help you only until I can start there.”

“Deal,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m glad you understand that this is only temporary.”

“Oh, I understand. And I’ll need to get my car. We’ve got a few belongings left in the trunk.”

“I’ll take care of that. You take care of your daughter, then get together with Henny so she can explain how everything’s run around here.” He started toward the long, central hallway, then turned. “We’ll put you in Henny’s apartment off the kitchen. It’s more private.”

“That’s fine,” Myla said. At least it would be a roof over her head for a while, and it would be much more suitable than the spare guest room, since this was a strictly business arrangement. “I’d better get back up to the children. Jesse needs this medicine.”

“Don’t forget Henny’s hot lemonade with honey,” he reminded her. “Works wonders. I’ve got to get to work. Oh, and one other thing. I always do a background check on my employees. Any problem with that?”

Hesitating, Myla stammered, embarrassed. “No, but I think you should know a few things. I haven’t held a job since high school. I was…I chose to stay at home after my children were born. And my credit is shot because…I had to file bankruptcy.”

He gave her a sympathetic look that hid his own doubts as to the wisdom of this arrangement. “Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?” she replied with a small smile. “I’ll do a good job, I promise,” she added sincerely.

Nick stared down at her a moment, nodded briefly, then turned to go.

She watched Nick walk away, then she sent up a silent prayer. Don’t let me mess this up, the way I’ve messed up my life.

She’d be so ashamed if he knew the whole truth.

“This is so exciting!”

Lydia Rudolph stood at the window of her brother’s downtown Shreveport office, gazing out at the Red River some twenty floors below. “I mean, I’m twenty-five years old, big brother, and this is one of the few times I’ve actually seen you do something almost human.” She fluffed her shining blond bob and beamed brighter than the lighted Christmas stars twinkling insistently on the building across from them. “This only goes to show what I’ve tried to tell you all along—doing something good for someone brings out the best in people, even an old Scrooge like you.”

“I am not a Scrooge,” Nick said in protest. “I can’t help it if I don’t feel the same strong sense of religion that you do, Lydia. I’m quite happy with my life the way it is, thank you. In fact, I’m just a happy-go-lucky kind of guy.”

Lydia snorted, causing her bright red hoop earrings to jingle. “Right. You’re a great faker, Nick, and we both know it. But this is a start. I’m glad to see you involved with something besides this oil company.”

“Yes,” Nick responded dryly from his perch on the massive teakwood desk. “Having two rambunctious children and their pretty mother in my house for the holidays is about the most exciting thing I can imagine. And here I was hoping you’d help me out of this mess.”

“They’re people, Nick, not a mess.” Lydia swung around, the fringe on her red suede jacket almost hitting her brother on the head. “I think you needed this. You couldn’t wait to tell me all about it when you got here this morning.”

“I told you all about it because what I need is your help, little sister. They need your help. This is a very temporary situation.”

Nick wished he’d just kept his mouth shut. This whole business was starting to get to him. Still amazed that he’d hired Myla to run his house, he had to wonder at his own sanity. He was reeling from the strange turn of events in his life. In the span of less than twelve hours, he’d committed himself to saving a homeless mother and her two waifs. Not involved? Hah! He was involved up to his eyeballs.

Resolving to get this situation cleared up—another of his father’s rules: no loose ends—Nick gave his sister a pleading look. “This dinner party is important, Lydia. I need to reassure some of our local stockholders. We’ve pulled through our slump, but I’ve still got people jumping ship. Are you going to help me?”

“I’m thinking,” Lydia said, settling herself down in the comfortable black leather swivel chair behind Nick’s desk. “If I help you with this woman and her children and your precious party, will you go to church with me on Christmas Eve?”

Nick gulped his coffee too fast and burned his tongue. “That’s blackmail,” he said, spurting out hot coffee in the process. “You know how I feel about that.”

Lydia’s knowing smile didn’t help his bad mood. “What happened to that almost-human I was just talking to?”

He scowled, rubbing his burned tongue against his top teeth. “I’m the same as ever. And I refuse to be pushed into a situation about which I feel uncomfortable. If you can’t agree to help me, please leave. I’ve got work to do.”

Lydia jumped up to come around the desk. “Oh, Nick, remember when we were little? Remember Mother taking us to the Christmas Eve service? You in your Christmas suit, me in my velvet dress? You cared then, Nick. You loved Christmas.”

“Well, I don’t love it now,” he said, his mood getting darker by the minute. “And I have work to do.”

Lydia stood staring at him. “And I thought helping someone out of a jam would make you less grumpy. When are you going to stop being mad at God, Nick?”

“Probably never,” he said, tired of this argument. Thinking back about last night, he remembered Myla’s prayer. She’d thanked God for simple things. Basic things. Things most people took for granted every day. Arrh, there he went again, daydreaming about a woman he’d just met last night. “Look, Lydia,” he said, “I won’t kick them out. You know that. But we do need to help them. And since this sort of thing is your department…”

Lydia nodded. “Of course I’ll help. But you made the right decision, Nick. Giving her a job was the best thing you could do.”

“I didn’t have much choice. She was available on the spot and I needed someone immediately. Now I hope I don’t live to regret it.”

“You won’t,” Lydia assured him as she headed toward the door, her long black wool skirt swishing around her matching boots. “You did need someone immediately, and I don’t think you’ll regret it at all.”

“Hey, you’re the bleeding heart, remember?” he replied. “While you’ve been out trying to save the world, I’ve been breaking my back to save this company.”

“And you’ve done a good job,” his sister acknowledged. “The latest stock report shows we’re up forty cents per share. We haven’t had to dip into that old pile of money Daddy left us, so why don’t you relax?”

Nick’s eyes grew dark. “I promised him—”

“No, you swore on his grave,” she reminded him. “Nick, when are you going to forgive and forget? Yes, he was harsh, but he was only human. It’s just that we didn’t see his human side until it was too late. I don’t want it to be too late for you, Nick. But you’re already headed down the same road he took—giving orders and doling out cash, never getting your hands dirty, never facing reality. It’s not too late for you yet, not if you realize that money isn’t everything.”

Nick eyed his little sister curiously, still amazed that she’d escaped their father’s ironhanded approach to life. Lydia was so like their mother, good, kindhearted, openly loving. And, Nick reminded himself bitterly, he was his father’s son. “Look, Lydia, doling out cash is what I do best. Money, I’ve got.”

“Uh-huh. And that’s about all you’ve got.”

Defending himself, he said, “Well, I haven’t heard any complaints. We’ve both got everything we need.”

She shook her head. “Except faith, Nick. That’s the one thing I’ve got that you lack.” With that, she shut the door and left.

She was wrong, of course. He didn’t need the added assurance of some higher power watching over him, which she insisted on believing. He had everything he needed. Didn’t he? Head of a successful company, owner of one of the finest homes in Shreveport, possessor of a social book that rivaled anybody’s in Louisiana. His list of attributes spoke volumes about his life.

But that’s about all you’ve got. Lydia’s words taunted him again. Oh, all this Christmas sentiment was affecting his better judgement. It was normal to feel at odds with so much Christmas hype being shoved down his throat.

Remembering other, happier Christmases, Nick stared out the window, mindless of the crawling traffic below. His father had taught him to keep his emotions at bay, and had set a firm example by never showing any sort of affection or compassion himself. Until Ruth died. Watching his proud, self-sufficient father crumble had only reinforced Nick’s own need to stay in control.

Now, he was trapped, so trapped, in a firmly encased persona that gave him a ruthless outlook on life. He’d get through Christmas the same way he had each year since his parents’ deaths, by celebrating with a detached kind of fascination, like the cynical kid who didn’t believe in Santa anymore.

Except this year, he reminded himself, he’d be doing it with a lovely widow and her two noisy kids. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this whole thing?” he asked himself.

“The whole thing is going to be a disaster,” Myla mumbled to herself as she once again checked preparations for the dinner party that loomed less than two hours away. Henrietta had gone over all the details with her. The food was ready; it only needed to be heated when the guests arrived. But Myla wasn’t so sure about herself.

She wore a white long-sleeved blouse and black trousers, courtesy of Lydia’s closet. Henrietta had insisted Lydia wouldn’t mind or even miss the functional outfit.

“All you have to do is keep the food coming,” the older woman had explained. “Nicky likes everything to run smoothly—these people are clients and stockholders, but this is a casual dinner. Just put it out on the buffet, real nice and hot, and keep your eyes open for seconds. The bar’s fully stocked, and Nicky’ll mix what drinks are needed.”

Since she didn’t condone drinking, Myla was glad she didn’t have to play bartender. The rest sounded simple enough. After all, she’d done this hundreds of times before. Smoothing the knot of hair coiled at the nape of her neck, she took a deep, calming breath. The children were tucked away in Henny’s small sitting room, armed with books to look over, coloring pads and crayons, and various other things Henny stockpiled for her grandchildren. They could watch a little television before they were to go on to bed. Surely, nothing could go wrong.

The kitchen door swung open. Nick marched in, whistling to himself. He’d saved the Dallas deal, another coup for Rudolph Oil, and a nice nibble to share with his fidgety stockholders. Stopping in midwhistle, he looked around the kitchen, and then into the set of exotic eyes watching him.

“Who did all of this?” he asked in a deadly calm voice as his gaze trailed over the fresh ivy and holly berry greenery adorning every available corner. The scent of bayberry candles lifted through the air, giving the room a cozy holiday effect.

Seeing the scowl on his face, Myla said, “I…I did. I found the decorations in the garage. I thought it would look nice for the party.”

“I don’t care for a lot of frivolous decorations,” he said, noting that she looked right at home. “I just wanted a simple, quiet evening with no fuss. Did the cake I ordered come?”

She nodded, swallowing back her embarrassment. “Yes, your coconut cake is right here on the counter.”

So it was. To avoid lashing out at her for her innocent assumptions, he concentrated instead on the rich cake he’d had a local restaurant prepare for tonight.

Before he could speak, she spoke to him. “I’m sorry about the decorations. I didn’t realize—”

“Never mind,” he said on a tired sigh. “It is Christmas, after all, and I do need to appear all jolly-holly for these people.”

Myla leaned against the counter to steady her nerves. “Everything’s in order. The table’s set. The food’s ready. I really didn’t have that much to take care of.”

“Plenty to drink?” he asked as he scanned the mail lying on the countertop.

She lifted her shoulders. “Yes, but I must tell you, I don’t drink and I’d prefer not to have to mix drinks for your guests.”

He shrugged. To each his own. “I’ll take care of that, then. But don’t worry. I don’t expect this stoic crowd to get too wild.”

Relieved to hear that, Myla relaxed a little. “Henny told me how important this is to you.”

He moved into the room, throwing his briefcase on a desk in the corner before heading to the refrigerator. “Henny’s very efficient. She knows how these functions work. The old-boy networking system never slows down.”

Myla noticed the lines of fatigue around his eyes. He seemed so cool and in charge that she found it hard to believe he could be worried. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“Nah, I’ll just have some juice.” Spying a tray of appetizers in the refrigerator, he picked up a cracker covered with a shrimp mixture and popped it into his mouth. “That’s good,” he said between chews.

“I found the shrimp in the freezer,” she explained. “I know the recipe by heart.”

“You’re in charge of the kitchen,” he said by way of appreciation. “Do you need anything?”

I need to have my head examined, she thought. She was terrified of being here, but she needed this job. She wouldn’t allow her children to be homeless again.

“No, Henny went over the schedule with me.”

“Good.” Nick placed the empty juice glass in the sink. “Guess I’ll head up to get a shower.” Turning back on his tasseled loafers, he asked, “How’s Jesse?”

“Much better.” Touched that he’d bothered to ask, Myla guessed he was just being polite. “Her fever is down.” At his questioning look, she added, “They’re in Henny’s room, all settled in.”

He nodded, wondering why he’d become so tongue-tied all of a sudden. “By the way, your car’s in the auto shop. It should be fixed in a couple of days. Your belongings will be delivered tomorrow.”

“But…” Myla began, not knowing how to ever thank him. He’d taken care of everything in such a businesslike manner. She supposed he was used to taking matters into his own hands, while she was just beginning to learn how to deal with everyday problems on her own. “Thank you,” she said, her voice tapping down the tad of resentment she couldn’t deny.

He raised a hand to ward off her gratitude. “It was no trouble and besides, I’m depending on you to run my house. You can’t do that if you’re out trying to get your car fixed.”

“Good point,” she reluctantly agreed. He didn’t take compliments or praise very well. “I’m sorry for all this trouble.”

Nick shrugged. “Don’t worry. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll send you the bill.”

“I insist,” she said as she watched him plow through the swinging door to the hallway. Somehow, she’d pay him back for his kindness, but she couldn’t say if it would make her feel better or not.

Nick’s bellowing call from the den brought her head up. Rushing through the swinging door, she flew down the hall to the other room to find him standing in front of the tree she and the children had put up that afternoon.

“What’s this?” he asked, his hands on his hips, his chin jutting out as he stared at the eight-foot-tall evergreen.

“It’s a Christmas tree, of course,” she said, wondering why the fresh-cut tree seemed to be bothering him so much. “Henny called a nursery and had it delivered.”