The Christmas Key Page 13

  People started drifting away. A few lingered, giving advice.

  Better ice it.

  Keep it elevated.

  Make a run to minor emergency.

  “Should we do any of those things?” Naomi fretted, nibbling her bottom lip.

  “Look,” Mark said. “This is normal for me. My knee gives way all the time. I shouldn’t have been vain and left my cane.”

  “Vanity?” she said. “You left it behind on purpose?”

  “Yeah.” He gave her a rueful, don’t-judge-me smile. “How can I be strong for you if I’m bumbling around on a cane?”

  “Aww,” she said. “That’s so sweet. And weird. Don’t do it again.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Cane or no cane, you’re plenty he-man enough for me.”

  “Oh really?” He wriggled an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

  “You’re awfully cocky for a guy who just took a header off the curb. Here.” She slipped her shoulder underneath his armpit. “Let’s get you over to the park bench and regroup.”

  “You don’t need to support me. I can walk.”

  “Humor me, okay?”

  He didn’t shake her off, but she noticed he did not put any weight on her shoulder either. She got him settled on the nearest park bench underneath the Sweetheart Tree. Went after his duffel bag lying on the ground where he’d lost it in the fall.

  When she got back, she found him tapping around his knee with his fingertips. “What are you doing?”

  “Coaxing blood supply to the knee. It goes numb from time to time.”

  “You sure we don’t need to take you to minor emergency?”

  “I didn’t hurt it. You broke my fall.” He looked chagrined. “Thanks for that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  They sat in silence. The day had warmed as the sun crept toward noon. More people were on the square, but cedar trees lining the path secluded them from the hustle and bustle.

  “Did you injure your leg in the war?” Naomi asked.

  Mark stuck his left hand in the pocket of his jacket. Looked as if he had something he wanted to tell her. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Nodded. “Yeah.”

  Should she ask him more questions? It seemed like he wanted to talk about it. “Were you in Afghanistan?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where my brother died.” Oh gosh, why had she said that? What if he wanted to talk about the war? That was the last thing she wanted to talk about. This was going to be a happy Christmas. No more tears.

  A bird flitted by.

  “Look.” She pointed at a bird. “Was that a woodpecker?”

  He blew out his breath through his teeth, and his shoulders slumped. He looked in the direction she’d pointed. “It might have been.”

  Awkward silence.

  Naomi cleared her throat. Smiled. A sunshine, rainbows, unicorns smile. A let’s-join-hands-and-sing-“Kumbaya” smile. But it felt too phony, so she dialed it down.

  “Well,” she said, planted her palms on her knees. “Well.”

  His face was bland. Expressionless. But there was nothing bland about this man. He had the countenance of a warrior—strong and stalwart, solid and steady, dependable and determined.

  And brave.

  So brave. He’d been in battle. Come out scarred. And she knew the scars were much more than physical. That was quite clear.

  He was not big on small talk. Where did she go from here that would keep the conversation light and cheery?

  Apparently, he was grasping for conversational straws too. He leaned over to look at the sign over the entrance to the park. “Sweetheart Park. What’s up with that?”

  “Town legend,” she explained.

  “Like knights-of-the-round-table legend?”

  “Not history that ancient, but along those lines. It’s some pretty romantic stuff.”

  “No kidding?” He glanced over at the fountain. It was a statue of a couple in Western clothing, enveloped in a passionate embrace. “Who are those two?”

  “Two of the town founders,” Naomi said. “Rebekka Nash and Jon Grant. We named the town in honor of them.”

  “How so?”

  Relieved to have a safe topic, Naomi launched into the story. “Rebekka and Jon were from Missouri, but the Civil War broke them up. Jon joined the Union Army. Rebekka’s family were farmers and they sided with the South.”

  “Star-crossed lovers.”

  “Exactly. The war came. Jon went into battle. Rebekka’s family moved to Texas to escape the conflict. Fifteen years passed. Each assumed the other was dead, but neither had married. After the war was over, Jon served the military in Fort Worth. They sent him west on a scouting expedition.”

  Shepherd shifted on the bench, turning closer toward her. He’d stopped tapping on his knee and was watching her face. “Go on.”

  “One evening, at twilight, Jon wandered down to the banks of the Brazos. And there on the other side stood Rebekka watering her horse. They recognized each other immediately. They could never forget their true love. They fell into each other’s arms. Soon after, they married. The town was built on the spot where Jon and Rebekka met again. And named Twilight in honor of their auspicious reunion.”

  “Aww.”

  “It’s a bit sappy.” Naomi shrugged. She loved the legend anyway. “But true. Mostly.”

  “I think it’s an amazing story,” Shepherd said.

  “A lot of additional lore sprang up around the tale. Especially since it stokes tourism. In particular the sweetheart legend.” Naomi leaned over. Planted a hand against the bark of the nearby two-hundred-year-old pecan tree.

  A white picket fence surrounded the pecan. Beneath it, a white wooden sign read: “Do Not Deface the Sweetheart Tree.” Carved into the bark were hundreds of names. Jon loves Rebekka. Sarah Loves Travis 4 Ever. Earl + Raylene. Hondo & Patsy.

  “This town likes signs that tell you what to do,” Mark mused, running his fingers along his firm jawline.

  “Rules,” she said. “That should agree with you.”

  “Don’t make fun of my values.” His eyes teased. He wasn’t offended.

  “What else do you value?” She cocked her head to study him. Felt the ends of her hair skim along her shoulder.

  A fox-in-the-henhouse smile slid from his lips all the way up to his eyes. For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed to be enjoying himself. His delight was hers. She loved it when people were happy.

  His fetching smile made her think of hot chocolate with marshmallows, sipped in front of a roaring fire on a cold winter morning. Of fuzzy fleece blankets and Perry Como holiday songs. Of cinnamon-scented pinecones, and sugar cookies left out for Santa on Christmas Eve.

  “Woodworking,” he said. “Whittling. It calms me.”

  “Whittling? What are you? Sixty-two? Next thing you know, you’ll tell me you value yodeling too.”

  His tone was dry, but his eyes were lively. “Don’t dis yodeling.”

  Naomi beamed, pleased. “So, whittling. How did that happen?”

  “I like working with my hands.”

  She looked down at his broad, square hands resting on his upper thighs. Sturdy, reliable hands. Her throat heated and her lips tingled. And she thought, I like him too much.

  From his jacket pocket, he pulled a pocketknife and a piece of wood. Opened the knife. Started whittling. Deftly guiding the blade over the tinder.

  “I can see why you find it calming,” she said, distracted by his fingers, and then he stopped. Curled one hand around the knife handle, and the other around the wood, and she added, “It’s very Zen.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve studied Buddhism?”

  “I’m not closed-minded.” She sniffed, fingered the cross at her neck.

  “I never said you were.”

  “I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in high school,” she said. “That’s my nutshell knowledge.”

  “Me too,” he said, and went back to whittl
ing.

  “Mindfulness is in the Bible too, you know.”

  “I suspected.”

  “Have you read the Bible?”

  “Parts of it.” His shoulders bunched. Tensing.

  “And?”

  “What’s there to say? It’s the Bible.”

  She backed off the topic. Leaned in, watched the wood quickly taking on a shape. “What are you making?”

  “Christmas ornament.” His eyes met hers. “For you.”

  Flattered, she pressed a hand to her heart. “I don’t even have our tree up yet.”

  “I can help with that.” He paused. “If you like.”

  “We’ll see,” she hedged. “You’ve got a lot to do for the church, and I’ve already taken up a big chunk of your time.”

  He whittled a face into the wood. A beatific smile. Wings. A halo.

  “You’re carving an angel.” She clapped her hands, leaned in closer. “Oh! She looks like me.”

  He dusted the wood shavings off the angel, passed it to her. Smiled. Simple. Straightforward. An offering. In that moment, he looked like a small boy who’d picked a little wild bouquet.

  “She’s beautiful.” Naomi clutched the wooden angel to her chest, touched beyond words. And impressed. Her hands trembled. His skill astounded her. “Thank you so much. I love it.”

  “You’re welcome.” He pocketed the knife, and stood up. Full-grown, badass Marine. She loved the contrast. He was a complex guy.

  Nervous in case his knee collapsed on him again, Naomi hopped up too. She didn’t want him standing there without something to lean on.

  He moved toward the Sweetheart Tree, his gaze scanning the names. She stayed at his side, the angel clasped in her hand.

  “Judging by the names carved in the tree . . .” His laugh was light, breezy. “People in Twilight aren’t very good at following the rules.”

  “Many were there before the sign went up in the 1980s,” Naomi explained. “Some weren’t.”

  Mark stepped closer to the tree. “Cody loves Piper 11/12/17. Cody’s a little rebel.” He circled the trunk, reading off names.

  Naomi rubbed the knuckles of the hand clutching the angel against her other palm. There were a lot of names carved into the bark. Would he find Robert + Naomi 4 Life? Did she want him to?

  If he found it, he would ask about Robert and then she’d have to talk about that. Over the past eleven years, she and Robert had broken up and gotten back together at least half a dozen times. They’d been high school sweethearts. Their love affair had been encouraged by the romantic town legends. She admired Robert’s work ethic and his impeccable table manners, and they had shared tastes in music and literature.

  But Twilight had not been enough for Robert. He wanted to conquer the world. Which was fine. But he wanted her to do it with him.

  Problem was, Naomi liked living in Twilight. She enjoyed being around her family and friends. Loved the security of her tight-knit community. Granted, Twilightites were not the most sophisticated or erudite, but neither was she. She liked how down-to-earth people were here. How kind and bighearted.

  The more time Robert spent in Denver, the more judgmental he’d become of their hometown. Naomi had almost ended their relationship the previous summer because of the changes in him, but he’d sweet-talked her into hanging on. Promised once she moved to Denver everything would be okay.

  But then Clayton died and Samantha took too many pills on New Year’s Eve.

  Robert had flown home to comfort Naomi. He’d stayed in Twilight for a month to be with her, and it had been so easy to fall into their old pattern. He was safe and familiar in a time when her world turned upside down, even though their relationship was long distance. She urged him to look for a job in Dallas or Fort Worth. He urged her to come to Denver. The same old clash they’d had before.

  They were currently at a stalemate. He wanted her to come to Denver alone. Let her parents or Hunter’s other grandparents adopt the boy, and she just couldn’t do that. She truly wanted Hunter, and Robert didn’t understand that. And he still hadn’t answered her text from last night.

  But now, her body thrilled over this handsome stranger.

  She shoved those thoughts aside. It wasn’t as if anything was going to happen between her and Mark Shepherd. Despite the fact she had dreamed of him. It was silly to base affairs of the heart on a cookie dream.

  Putting the angel he’d carved her into her purse, she moved away from the Sweetheart Tree, and led Mark deeper into the park.

  But her nerve endings were hyperaware of the walking power line behind her. His body exuded heat and energy. Her body vibrated like a tuning fork.

  He must have sensed she was wound up. He strayed over to the side, giving her breathing room. She inhaled purposefully. Exhaled. Did it two more times.

  “And here we have the Twilight wishing well.” She wandered over to a pond that branched off from a tributary of the Brazos River. The bottom of the pond was dark with coins. Mostly pennies.

  He stepped closer. Peered down into the wishing well.

  She studied the proud tilt of his head. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his dark hair swirled to the right at his crown. Her breathing grew shallow again, faster.

  What was it about this man that so compelled her?

  Yes, he was good-looking. Yes, he was sexy. Yes, he smelled great.

  But he tugged at her heartstrings. There was a loneliness that fanned her nurturing flames. There was an invisible wall around him. A protective force field that held him at arm’s length.

  A sudden impression of him as a child climbed into her mind, and she could not shake it. Someone had hurt him to his core. And he’d decided a long time ago not to ever let anyone get close.

  A lump of sadness filled her throat.

  Naomi had an overwhelming urge to pull him into her embrace. Squeeze him tight. Tell him everything was going to be just fine. Of course, she didn’t. Couldn’t.

  “Rumor has it if you throw a coin into the wishing well, your high school sweetheart will reunite with you,” she said.

  “Your town has some interesting customs.” His eyebrows flew up. “What if you don’t want your high school sweetheart?”

  “Then don’t throw a coin into the well.”

  “What if you were never separated from your high school sweetheart?” His eyes were full of mischief. He was enjoying teasing and she loved seeing this lighthearted side of him. “What then?”

  She’d only been with her high school sweetheart. She’d gone on a few dates the times she and Robert had broken up, but not with anyone more than once. “Again, don’t throw a coin.”

  “What if you didn’t have a high school sweetheart?”

  “You are taking this way too literally,” she teased back, batting her eyelashes for good measure. “The whole thing is a fable to sell tourists on Twilight. Roll with it.”

  “I keep thinking about those poor wallflowers with no high school sweethearts.” He shook his head, feigned a mournful face. “Oh, the humanity.”

  Naomi laughed at his dry wit. “That’s why we have the kismet cookie legend.”

  “The what?” His voice changed. Tone lowering. Pitch sharpening. “Another legend.” He cupped his palms behind his ears. “All ears.”

  “It goes like this. If you sleep with a kismet cookie underneath your pillow on Christmas Eve, you’ll dream of your one true love.” She heard her own vocal quality shift. The man had no idea that she’d slept with a cookie under her pillow last Christmas Eve and dreamed of him.

  But she knew it.

  She wouldn’t tell him. How could she? It sounded completely bonkers.

  “Do you believe in soul mates?” His eyes met hers. Darkened. The expression on his face, mysterious and foreign, took her breath.

  “The kismet cookies are blarney too.” Naomi waved a flippant hand, despite her quickening pulse. “I mean, c’mon, how could a cookie predict your soul mate? But the cookies are tasty and people hav
e fun with it, so why not?”

  “You don’t believe in soul mates?” His eyes locked onto hers and she could not glance away.

  Something passed between them. A certain look. A shared understanding. Was he sending her a message with his stare? Yes, we have something going here.

  Or was it all in her crazy imagination? Her feelings were out of control, and that scared her. Her entire life she’d made plans and stuck to them for the most part. She was a planner, a rule follower. It gave her a sense of control.

  Her attraction to him knocked her control for a loop. Leaving her feeling as if all her circuits were broken.

  “Do you?” she whispered, and moistened her lips. Her heart rattled inside her rib cage. Terrified if she allowed herself to fully experience the feelings bubbling up inside her, she would implode.

  “I—”

  “There you are, Naomi,” a woman’s voice called from behind them. “I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

  Relieved and grateful for the interruption, Naomi turned away. Breaking the enigmatic spell Mark Shepherd had cast over her.

  Chapter 13

  Naomi introduced Shepherd to Terri Longoria. Told him that Terri was a longtime neighbor, owner of the local gym and day spa, and a member of the charity ball committee that Naomi was heading. There was a snafu with the catering for the event, and Terri wanted to catch her up to speed.

  While Naomi and Terri confabbed about how to solve the problem, he went back to Perks and retrieved his cane, then returned to the park bench. He wasn’t much of a sitter. Wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for the damn knee. He wanted to pace. Needed to pace.

  Hell, he needed to run.

  Why was he here? Oh yeah, he’d agreed to chauffer Naomi around. Speaking of . . .

  He cleared his throat. Tapped his watch face. “We’re burning daylight, butterfly. You got a five p.m. deadline.”

  “Yes, right.” Naomi’s cheeks reddened. She told Terri she’d sort things out and call her later.

  Terri nodded to Shepherd on her way past. Eyed him suspiciously. Shepherd got that. He was a stranger in a small town.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, raising a palm as Terri went past.

  Naomi rejoined him. “Thanks for getting me out of that conversation.”