A Little Christmas Magic Read online

  "Obviously not. When did you have your last tetanus shot?"

  "Tetanus? I… I don't know—"

  "Rusty gutters," he said, as if that explained everything.

  Jamie waited anxiously by the door. His normally bright face had turned pale with worry. He tended to become overprotective whenever she got hurt. And the last thing a little boy should have to do was worry about his mother. Beth wanted to put her arms around him and reassure him she'd be just fine, but her neighbor wouldn't let go of her arm and kept her moving forward. She shot her son a comforting smile, and his attempt to smile back heartened her.

  "All I need is a good soaping," she said.

  As she stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of the cooking oven and the scent of roasting turkey enveloped her. The dog cautiously poked her nose through the door and sniffed, then followed them in and hedged to the nearest corner. Droplets of blood along with gobs of slush tracked their progress across the kitchen floor.

  "Door," the man said.

  Jamie doubled back to the door and slammed it shut.

  With a swipe of his arm the man pushed away the dirty pots and pans littering her countertop. He definitely needed to enroll in Mildred's etiquette class.

  "Hey, easy on those. They're the tools of my trade."

  Jamie dragged a chair by the sink to supervise the cleansing operation. He shucked off his soggy mittens. His scarf and hat followed in quick succession, leaving his light-brown hair standing up straight from the static. "Mom's a chef."

  The man grunted his comment as he helped her out of her jacket.

  "Of a sort," Beth added. She dreamed of starting her own gourmet catering business. But that dream was at least seven long months away; more pressing things needed her attention at the moment. Like the somber stranger in her kitchen who examined her hands with the detachment of a field surgeon.

  "If you're going to invite yourself into my home, the least you can do is tell me your name."

  She was fast losing control of the situation. How could she have allowed him in when she knew nothing about him? How could she allow him to lead her around as easily as a trained dog on a leash? When he moved her hands over the sink, she winced.

  "Your home?" The man snapped on the sink's spigots, tested the water's temperature and shoved both her hands beneath the flow. Water splashed onto the worn sleeves of his black ski jacket. "The agent said an old widow lived here."

  Beth sucked back a sharp breath and pursed her lips against the sting of water on her wounds. "I lost my husband five years ago, but I'm not exactly ready for the rocker yet."

  He gave her such a strange look, something between surprise and dismay, that she didn't know what to make of it. The glance was fleeting and he quickly hid the raw emotions, whatever they'd been, beneath the blinds of his dark lashes. He kept her hands under the flowing water and turned to look at Jamie over his shoulder.

  "Do you know where your mom keeps her bandages, sport?"

  "In the bathroom."

  "Do you know what gauze is?"

  Jamie shook his head.

  "It's the white stuff that comes in a roll."

  "It's in the care kit," Beth added between clenched teeth. The water's relentless onslaught stacked burning pain on top of throbbing torture.

  "Oh, yeah, I know." Jamie jumped off the chair, bolted out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs to the second floor. Wet boot tracks marked his path.

  "So, do you have one?" Beth asked, to divert herself from the unmerciful agony he was putting her through.

  He poked at the swelling flesh around the cut of one hand. "One what?"

  "Ouch!" She hissed in a fast breath. "A name. Mine's Beth Lannigen. My son is James Andrew Lannigen, the Third, but I call him Jamie. It suits him better."

  "Logan Ward." He jabbed at the skin of the other hand. She bit her lower lip to control the fresh pang of pain. A shaggy lock of his hair fell forward, the spiky ends teasing the edge of his eye. It irked her that, with her wrists imprisoned in his strong grasp, she couldn't reach out and tuck the curl back against his temple.

  "Are you quite done, Mr. Ward?" The question came out with more sting than planned. Beth Lannigen gave help. Beth Lannigen didn't take help. This helpless position disturbed her more than she cared to admit.

  "You're going to need stitches."

  "Of course not." She tried to yank her hands away from his grasp. With only the slightest pressure of his thumbs, he repositioned them beneath the flow of water. She noticed her pulse then, and how it bumped fast against his fingers. The heat of the water, she assured herself, remnants of adrenaline from her fall, discomfort at having a stranger, a man, in her kitchen.

  Jamie returned with the yellow plastic toolbox labeled Care Kit and dumped it on the pine kitchen table. Logan snapped off the water's flow. "Dish towel?"

  "I'll get it." Jamie snapped the towel from the oven's handle.

  "A clean one, sport."

  Jamie dropped the used towel on the floor, then pounced on the drawer where she kept her kitchen linens and snagged two fresh towels. "One for each hand."

  "Good idea." Logan gave Jamie a crooked half grin. The gesture, so foreign on the grim landscape of his face, caught her by surprise. At one point in time this man must have been quite handsome. What had happened to him?

  She shook her head. I don't want to know.

  Jamie handed Logan a towel and kept the other for himself. With his tongue sticking out in concentration, Jamie followed Logan's every move as they carefully dried her hands.

  Her gaze strayed to Logan's hard face. His deep gray eyes had a haunted quality to them. Yet, despite his unyielding grip and his wild appearance, he had a gentle touch. He handled Jamie with patience, yet wasn't patronizing. Did he sense being involved was the best way to deal with Jamie's anxiety? The contradiction of this man's harsh looks and his kind actions revived her curiosity.

  "Where did you move from?" she asked, as much to divert herself from his touch and her fanciful thoughts as to alleviate her curiosity.

  "Texas."

  "Why?"

  Looking at Jamie, Logan pointed his chin at the care kit. "Bandage."

  Jamie snapped the box's lock open, held up a blue-and-white carton and cast Logan a questioning look. Logan nodded. Jamie scampered back with the prize.

  "Can I put it on?"

  "I'm going to give you the very important job of hugging your mom while I put this bandage on—just in case it hurts. You know how girls can be. Okay?"

  The words seemed dragged out of him by force. As soon as he'd uttered them, his lips tightened to a straight line, the tendons along his jaw popped into prominence, and his gaze avoided Jamie.

  Jamie didn't notice the sudden shift in the stranger. He clamped her waist and hugged her with all his might, making her laugh. "Take it easy, Jamie. I still need to breathe."

  Her son readjusted his hold and tenderly snuggled against her, a paradox of softness and energy. Love filled her heart.

  Her gaze sought Logan's face, considering once again the contradictions in the gruff man who so gently tended to her hands. For all this man's stern exterior, he did have an extraordinary way with Jamie. Did he have children of his own? A thought flashed across her mind. Had a recent divorce put the dark shadows under his eyes?

  "New Hampshire's a long way from Texas. What made you choose Rockville for your new home?"

  Logan ripped the carton's top open. "Where's the nearest hospital?"

  "There aren't any medical facilities in Rockville."

  "You're going to need stitches."

  "It doesn't look that bad." She looked down at the fresh blood already seeping from the cuts across her palms.

  "Trust me, I've seen enough cut up bodies to know. You need stitches."

  She gasped. "What?"

  He took the opportunity afforded by her momentary astonishment to walk her backward toward the center of the room. As he followed the strange dance, Jamie giggled. When her knees h
it the back of a chair, she sat down reflexively. Jamie's hold switched to her neck, his cheek nestled against hers.

  "What exactly is it you do for a living?" she asked, unable to hide her sudden renewal of fear.

  "We'll have to use your car." As if he hadn't heard her, Logan placed a layer of gauze across the palm of one hand.

  Why, if the prospect of driving her to the clinic held so little appeal, did he insist on doing so? "Really, there's no need. There's too much to do—"

  "I don't have snow tires."

  "You'd better get some if you're going to survive the winter around here."

  "I'm not planning on needing them." He concentrated on his bandaging.

  "What were you going to do?" She gave a brittle laugh. "Hibernate?"

  He didn't answer, but put the finishing touches on his bandaging job. "Is this too tight?"

  "You are planning on hibernating!" Her mouth hung open at her sudden intuition.

  The clenching of his teeth brought out the tight ligaments of his jaw, giving her his answer.

  "Why?"

  Logan reached for her other hand. "That's really none of your business. Where do you keep your car keys?"

  Jamie jumped up. "I know. I know." He shot out of the room.

  "I really can't go." She didn't like the idea of getting in a car with someone she didn't know, especially one who talked of slashed bodies and plans of hibernation. "I have to baste the turkey and start the rest of dinner soon, and—"

  "How long does it have to go?"

  "What?"

  "The turkey." A hint of impatience tinged his voice.

  "A couple of hours. But I have too much to do—"

  "What's more important, taking a chance of developing lockjaw or one stupid holiday meal?"

  Once again, he left her taken aback. She said the first thing that came to mind. "I have to finish putting up the lights."

  "What difference does it make?" He rammed the remnants of the bandage roll into the care kit. The dog pressed deeper into the corner.

  Beth had pushed the wrong button, but his crumbling control over his anger and his obvious distaste at being there only made it harder to accept his help. "It's Thanksgiving tradition. Don't you have any?"

  For a minute, she thought he'd forcibly pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and dump her into the car. Instead, he placed both his hands on the kitchen table and leaned his weight on them, caging her between his arms. Her heart tripped in sudden panic. His gaze blazed into hers, dark and dangerous. She swallowed hard.

  "If you let me take you to get your hands seen to, I'll finish putting up your damned lights. Is that a deal?"

  She thought better than to refuse. "There's no need to swear."

  She couldn't stand the heavy awareness of him so close to her, of the fire in his eyes, of the body heat his anger generated, of the clean scent of soap that wafted pleasantly toward her. Trying to create more space between them, she sank deeper into the chair.

  Just as suddenly as he'd trapped her, Logan shoved away. She silently sighed her relief. She wasn't used to dealing with such blatant male power.

  He snatched the baster from the spoon rest on the stove, opened the oven door, and doused her turkey with pan drippings. "There. Your bird'll be fine till you get back."

  His gruff manner raised her hackles. Even Mildred Wallace with her stiff upper lip and regal propriety would have a hard time edifying this man about the rules of simple good manners. "Am I?"

  "What?"

  "Coming back."

  A dark glower scudded across his face. She instantly regretted her outburst. Once again her mouth had spilled out words like an overfilled saucepan before her brain could censor them. Not only had she made a fool of herself, she'd insulted this person who was going out of his way to help her.

  "I'm—"

  "Just what do you think I am?"

  Her cheeks flamed once more. Taking in the worn condition of his jeans and coat, the unkempt appearance of his hair and beard, she shrugged, looked down at the thick, mummylike bandages covering her hands, and stared at the thin line of red seeping through. "You don't exactly look, um, presentable."

  He grabbed the bloody towels from the table, dumped them in the sink, and sighed in exasperation. "Listen, lady, I've just moved two thousand miles. I've gotten maybe six hours of sleep over the past few days. I'd much rather leave you alone and go home, but I feel responsible for your fall—"

  "The dog—"

  "Never mind the dog. I shouldn't have startled you—"

  "It's not your fault—"

  "I don't want to have to worry about you getting lockjaw, okay? Let me take you to get your hands stitched and get a tetanus shot." He placed one of his huge hands over his heart. "I swear, on my honor, that after you get stitched up, I'll drive you straight home and leave you alone."

  When he put it that way, she had no choice. The least she could do was give him the chance for a little peace of mind; he seemed to have precious little of that. Of course, she'd have to pay him back for his kindness. After all, she'd been responsible for her own fall. If she hadn't acted before thinking, she'd have gotten safely down the ladder, and he'd be on his way home. Beth Lannigen owed no debts of any kind. Maybe she'd drop off one of her famous spaghetti casseroles as a housewarming gift. He didn't look like a lemon caper chicken kind of guy.

  The throbbing in her hands swept away the rest of her resistance.

  "All right, I'll go." She nearly choked on her answer.

  Jamie returned with her purse in one hand and her key chain, shaped like a chef's apron, in the other. "Can I sit in the front?"

  A fleeting look of pain crossed Logan's face. "Are there three seat belts?"

  She nodded, confused by his mixed messages of hurt and helpfulness.

  With a blank expression, he looked down at Jamie. "I don't see why not."

  With his famous whoop of delight, Jamie charged ahead toward the garage door.

  "Hat and mitts!" she yelled after him.

  "I'll get some from the dryer," Jamie answered, slamming doors as he went.

  "What about the dog?" she asked, looking at the pitiful creature hunkered in the corner, shivering.

  With a sigh Logan crossed over to the animal, and gave the dog a quick once over. "She's fine. Want her outside?"

  "No, it's cold. I'll just close the kitchen doors so she can't get into any trouble." Beth rose from her chair.

  With a hand on her shoulder, Logan pressed her back down. "I'll do it."

  "She needs something to eat."

  He slanted her a look that said she was trying his patience.

  "There's some leftover meatloaf in the fridge."

  Logan poked his head into the fridge and came out with a plate. "This?"

  She nodded.

  He ripped off the plastic covering and shoved the plate on the floor. The dog looked up at him adoringly, sweeping her ragged tail tentatively against the floor.

  "Have at it," he said. The dog greedily gobbled the treat.

  Logan locked the back door and closed the other door leading to the rest of the house, leaving only the entrance into the garage untouched, then came back to loom above her. "Are you ready?"

  She nodded, keeping her gaze averted from the mesmerizing effect of his haunted eyes. As he helped her back into her jacket, her heart knocked hard once. The dog whimpered. Beth looked at the animal and thought she saw an almost human quality to its soulful gaze. Was the dog afraid to be left alone?

  "She'll be all right," Logan said.

  Once again, his gentleness caught her off guard. Reluctantly, she got up to follow him. When he took her elbow to guide her to the car, an odd feeling rippled through her. Tenderness? No, that was wrong. Pity? No, that wasn't it either.

  As he closed the door, she shrugged. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. She had too much to do to worry about her surly neighbor.

  But even as she sat in the car and he clicked on the safety belt, confusion sw
irled through her once more. And as he backed down the driveway, Jamie safely sandwiched between them, she wasn't sure at all if she was ready for a neighbor like Logan Ward.

  Chapter 2

  Beth Lannigen was the most frustrating woman Logan had ever met—and he'd seen his share of kooks patrolling the east-side streets of Fort Worth. The woman didn't seem to understand the meaning of silence or have heard of its golden qualities. On the drive over to the emergency clinic, she'd talked nonstop about, of all things, Christmas. Even now her mouth worked in a relentless chatter as she directed Jamie out of his coat.

  "Mrs. Lannigen?"

  Cut off midsentence, she swung toward the voice at the entrance to the examining rooms. "Yes?"

  "We're ready for you."

  "Oh, oh, yes." She started toward the waiting nurse, then swiveled back, setting her jingle-bell earrings jangling. "Jamie, I want you to stay right where you are."

  "Okay, Mom."

  She put on a stern expression and extended a warning finger in Jamie's direction. "I mean it. I don't want you to wander anywhere or leave this area."

  "Okay, Mom." Jamie took a pack of hockey cards from his coat pocket and sorted through them.

  "I mean it, Jamie."

  "Mo-om!" He looked up from his cards with a huff. "Knock-knock."

  A surprised expression crossed Beth's face. "I don't think this is the right time—"

  "Knock-knock," Jamie insisted.

  A series of emotions flitted across her expressive eyes, stirring equal shots of awareness and annoyance through Logan. She finally relented, putting both him and Jamie out of their miseries. "Who's there?"

  "Irma."

  "Irma who?"

  "Irma big boy now, Mom."

  Her smile shook at the edges, and tears shone bright in her eyes, making him uncomfortable. "I know you are, sweetheart."

  She hadn't moved two steps before she spun back again, extending a beckoning hand toward Jamie. "Come with me."

  "Are you sure you want Jamie to see his mother being stitched up?" Logan asked. Geez, she was acting as if she were going to have both her hands cut off at the wrists.

  She shook her head, took two more steps toward the nurse and turned back. She gave the receptionist a pleading glance. "Will you keep an eye out for my son?"