The Christmas Key Page 7

  “How is that possible?” Shepherd asked, incredulous.

  “We’re not perfect. We slip up.” Tom’s rueful headshake was humble. “But then we remember who we are, and do better.”

  “I—”

  “If Joe vetted you, we know you’re on the up and up.”

  “But Joe—”

  “I’m guessing that a man of your bearing doesn’t become an itinerant handyman without a hard-luck story. But this is what I want you to understand. The past is the past. It’s gone. And you are not your story.”

  Oh, but he was. The Luthers just didn’t know it yet.

  “You don’t know the things I’ve done,” he whispered.

  The room went silent.

  Tom inhaled and said in a reverential tone, “It doesn’t matter. We’re all sinners here. Forgiveness is absolute in this house.”

  The pastor said it as if such a thing was possible. Shepherd didn’t believe him. Not for a second.

  “Mark.” Irene leaned across the table to rest her knobby fist over his hand. “Do you have a place to stay while you are in Twilight?”

  “No,” he said, because it was true. He figured he’d crash at the closest motel. “Not yet.”

  “Then it’s settled. You’ll stay in the rectory.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not fancy,” Irene went on, her tone brooking no argument. “It’s old and small. But it’s clean and furnished and free. You’re welcome to live there and work for us as long as it takes you to get back on your feet.”

  “It’s too much,” Shepherd said, wretched guilt twisting up his gut. He wanted to tell them the truth. Needed to get it off his chest. These were good people. The best people. And he was deceiving them. “I’m not—”

  “You’re staying in the rectory,” Irene said, starch coming into her voice. The strong look in her eyes belying the weakness of her wheelchair. “And I won’t hear another word about it. Now who is ready for dessert? Terri brought over pumpkin pie this afternoon.”

  He needed to refute her. Stake his claim. Shepherd pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Oh, thank you for helping me clear the table,” Naomi said, and stuck a stack of dirty plates in his hands.

  And that ended his confession before it ever began.

  Chapter 6

  Naomi needed to move. Sitting at the table across from Shepherd had her insides knotted up like sweater yarn. And when he said that he had something to confess, goose bumps had spread up her arms.

  Chilled her.

  His jaw was tense. His eyes dark and unfathomable. His shoulder blades pulled down. She couldn’t help wondering what in the world he had done.

  Like her parents, she believed in forgiveness and unconditional love. But believing something and acting on those beliefs were two different things. She wasn’t as good a person as she longed to be.

  She was afraid.

  And at the root of her fear was her intense attraction to him. She had dreamed of this man. Wanted to believe in fate and kismet cookie true love. But the hazards were as clear as a giant red neon sign blinking in a pitch-black night.

  Slow down. Caution. Danger ahead.

  He was a total stranger. She did not know him at all.

  And yet, she wanted him.

  Her heart was an emergency vehicle racing to a fire, flashing lights and screaming sirens. Warning! Warning! Here lies trouble.

  He could turn her ordinary life upside down, in ways she couldn’t begin to image. Never mind the gentle expression on his face when he had looked at Hunter. Or the kindness that lay heavy in his voice when he spoke to her mother. Or the respect in his eyes when he listened to her father.

  The man had something to confess. He’d said so, plain as day. He had a secret.

  She shivered. Gathered up the gravy boat and the bowl of mashed potatoes and carried them into the kitchen.

  The new handyman had come recommended from another church. But that didn’t mean much. Mark Shepherd could have pulled the wool over their eyes. Was he a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

  She studied him. No. That was wrong. There was nothing sheepish about this man. He was at least six foot two and full of muscles. Testosterone oozed from his pores. He possessed a perfect Greek nose. Straight and proud. Broad shoulders that could make angels weep.

  And there was that butt. Not too big. Not too small. Just right. Firm and high.

  Dear Lord, please let me stop this. She did not want to be so consumed. It wasn’t smart. But every part of her body was aware of him. Her toes curled. Her knees weakened. Her nipples tightened. Her mouth went dry.

  What secret was he keeping?

  Bigger question, did she really want to know?

  He followed her into the kitchen. “Where should I put these?”

  “The sink.” She turned toward him.

  He met her eyes over the glow of the kitchen lamp, and in that brief exchange she saw it. The wildness he kept on a short leash. A primal animal lurked inside the man.

  She sucked in air at her body’s response. Her nipples turned rock hard, and her stomach softened. And heaven help her, she wanted him. Wanted him with an urgency that terrified her. He was not the dangerous one.

  She was.

  Mark ducked his head, dropped her gaze. Limped to the sink. What had happened to him? Wounded in the war, she supposed. Did the limp have anything to do with the secret he was keeping?

  She went across the room to the sideboard where the pumpkin pie sat. Her heart tapped out a ragged rhythm, pushing blood through her ears in a roaring rush. She could hardly hear anything else.

  “Need some help?” Shepherd asked.

  Naomi jumped.

  He was right behind her. Standing so close they were almost touching.

  Her pulse shot even higher, sprinting like a jackrabbit from a coyote’s sharp teeth. Running until the frantic pace left her staggered and dizzy.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Yes?” He leaned in closer, and she lost her voice. Lost her breath. Lost all common sense. His eyes glistened, going from chocolate brown to almost midnight black.

  “Take this to the table.” She thrust the pie into his hands. Cut off his gaze. “Dad, you want coffee?”

  “Decaf, please,” her father called from the dining room.

  “Do you want coffee?” she forced herself to ask Shepherd. As if everything were nice and normal.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I want the real deal.”

  There was nothing sexual in his tone of voice or in his expression. But the words lit her up as hotly as if he’d licked the nape of her neck. Tingles surfed from her belly straight down between her legs.

  What was going on? What was wrong with her? Why did this man turn her on like no other man ever had? She had never felt this level of sexual desire with Robert. If she had, she would have moved with him when he first got that job in Denver. Except that he’d never come out and asked her to go with him.

  One glance from Shepherd started a brushfire inside her. And she didn’t even know him.

  Soul mate, whispered a voice in the recesses of her mind. This is how it is with soul mates.

  Nonsense. This feeling was insanity. Bats. Looney tunes. Loopy.

  And yet, it was as if a magnetic current was hauling her toward him. Terrifying. Exhilarating.

  Magical.

  What was happening?

  Because she didn’t want these feelings, didn’t want them at all. And she needed to learn how to make them stop.

  The bedroom was cell-like. The wrought-iron framed single bed adorned by a plain, well-worn quilt. The picture of Jesus on the wall reminded him that this was a rectory, as if he could have forgotten.

  Its sparseness suited him. The picture made him nervous. He wasn’t a religious man, but that the room reminded him of military barracks—simple, sparse, and clean—did bring him a certain comfort.

  Even so, Shepherd feared he would not sleep well tonight. He hadn’t slept well in
a year. He was in a strange place to begin with, and his dreams were haunted by the nightmares of his mistakes. And unless he wanted to go for the sleeping pills at the bottom of his duffel bag, tonight wouldn’t be any different.

  For a moment, he considered the pills, but decided against them. He’d had enough of feeling fuzzy-headed. He lay down. Did his breathing routine.

  It didn’t work.

  The place was new to him. The smells and sounds were new. Wind blew through the sycamore tree outside the window. The musty scent of hymnals. The creak of old floorboards of the house settling. But he’d fallen asleep in all kinds of unusual and uncomfortable places. Pool tables. Rocky ground. A rooftop, once.

  But since last Christmas, even the finest mattress could not coax him to sleep easy.

  And this was not the finest mattress. It was too thin. The pillow too fat. The room too warm.

  He flopped one way.

  His knee ached.

  Flopped to the other side.

  His neck got a crick. He sighed and shifted onto his back. Stared up at a crack in the ceiling. Thought of Naomi. The terrific way she smelled, the gentleness of her smile, the loving way she dealt with her nephew, the cheerfulness that seemed an innate part of her character.

  The feelings churning around in his body were foreign, but pleasant. So very pleasant. He wanted to feel like this more often. Wanted to be around Naomi as much as he could. She fed his spirits, hopes, and dreams.

  But it was dangerous to feel this way. To long for a life that could not be his.

  An hour passed. Ten-thirty.

  Finally, he threw off the covers. Got up. Got dressed. Sat on the edge of the bed staring at his knee. Thought of Clayton.

  The kid was an ache in his heart. Guilt was a flame burning him up inside. Why hadn’t he told the Luthers who he was? Why hadn’t Clayton given them the key himself? Why was he pretending to be their handyman? Why had he agreed to live in the rectory?

  Because you’re a coward, snarled the ugly voice in his head. The one that sounded like his father.

  He picked up the Christmas key he’d left lying on the bedside table beside his wallet and car keys. Traced his fingers over the bumps and ridges. “Why did you leave this for me, Luther?” he mumbled. “Why send me on this mission when you could have just mailed it to your family?”

  Shepherd gulped. He’d probably never know the answer to that question. But clearly, Luther must have had some kind of premonition he was going to die if he left the key for him.

  Feeling as if he were suffocating, Shepherd stuffed the key into his pocket. Reached for his cane. Limped across the floor. Walked out of the room. Out of the house. Pulled the door closed behind him.

  Out on the front porch, he took a deep breath of the cool night air, looked up and down the street.

  Total silence.

  He paused, listening. The military had sharpened his senses, and he strained for the sounds beyond the sound. Faintly, he heard the faraway whinny of a horse. On the interstate, the rumbling of big rig tires.

  And music.

  It was faint, and low. Coming from his left, toward the town square. Apparently, the music was being piped through the outdoor speakers the workmen had set up for the Dickens festival. “Joy to the World.”

  His heart sloshed up against his chest, messy and wet. He wanted to believe in joy to the world. Agreed with the sentiment. But he knew no such thing existed.

  Shepherd pulled up the collar of his coat, snuggled deeper inside. With intent and focus, he placed the tip of the cane onto the step below him. Eased down. He took another step and then another. Finally, he was on the sidewalk.

  The elderly concrete buckled in places. It was uneven and cracked. He navigated his way toward the street, passing more quaint houses like the Luthers’, all looking as if they had been built in the 1910s and 1920s, with wide, inviting front lawns.

  Many of the homes still had their Christmas lights on, and he suspected they’d be on all night. Walking through the darkness, but still surrounded by light, felt surreal to him. He shook his head, trying to empty it. Walked. Since his knee injury, he had a hard time walking any great distance and thinking at the same time. Walking required focus. It was a gift, if he let himself see it that way.

  Land solidly. Push off with the cane. Let the momentum propel him to the next step. Look, Ma, I’m walking.

  Except his mother was long gone. Out of his life when he wasn’t much older than Hunter. He barely remembered her. Knew she’d had dark brown hair and blue eyes from the single photo he had of her. In the photograph, she was sitting on a carousel horse, riding a merry-go-round. Shepherd on the painted pony with her. His little boy hands on the reins. His head tossed back. Joy on his face.

  That was long ago and far away.

  His gut tightened.

  He kept walking.

  The deserted town square was lit up. Christmas lights aglow. Red, green, white. Big old-fashioned bulbs and twinkle lights. Flashing lights. Blinking lights. Flameless candles.

  Each store window held a lavish display. One boutique featured Santa’s elves wrapping gifts. In the window of the tearoom, a table was laden with a wide assortment of cookies.

  The sight of the cookies stirred his memory.

  He saw Naomi as he’d seen her in his dreams last Christmas, and then today in his Jeep. Recalled the shocked look on her pretty face when she realized her mistake. The surprise in her eyes when she’d met his gaze.

  And then again, in her kitchen, when she’d looked up from cleaning up a jar of broken pickles. That moment had been pretty monumental for him too.

  It took Shepherd ten minutes to walk the square. It calmed him. The walk. This town. The place was too good to be true. It felt like something from a schmaltzy black and white Christmas movie. But he liked it.

  Too bad he didn’t belong here.

  His knee was throbbing, but the pain reminded him that he was alive. Clayton Luther wasn’t lucky enough to feel pain.

  He left the town square going east. Ambling along a path that led down to the lake. The air was much colder here. Boats bobbed in the slips. Metal moorings clanked. The dampness tightened his knee, kicking the pain up a notch.

  Good.

  Shepherd clenched his jaw. He needed to hurt. Needed to feel something, anything. Numbness was a luxury he could ill afford.

  When he reached the lake, he circled back, making a loop. About halfway around the lake, his knee was hurting too much for him to continue and he stopped.

  Near a bar called the Horny Toad Tavern. He’d seen the bar on his way to the Luthers’ that morning. The perfect place for a bar, away from the residential zoning, but near enough to the town square to allow for pub crawls, and with the only signs of life at this hour. Vehicles were parked in the lot. Honky-tonk music spilled out, and when the door opened he heard an old Hank Williams tune, “Lovesick Blues.”

  He stood there, debating whether to go in or not. His knee told him he needed a drink. A big stiff drink. But his heart wasn’t in it.

  How was he going to get back to the church? He had to be at least a mile away from the Luthers’ by now, and his knee was ready to collapse. No way he could walk back under his own steam. Why hadn’t he thought this through?

  In the city, he would call for an Uber. But he knew before he ever checked his phone app that there was no such thing in Twilight.

  He had to go into the bar. Or he was going to end up sitting down in the parking lot, and he wasn’t sure he could get back up again if he did.

  Reaching deep for his reserve energy, he headed toward the bar.

  “Yo, Gunny!”

  He stopped. Turned. Saw a man standing across the road at a twenty-four-hour diner called Waffle-O-Rama. Waving.

  At him.

  Shepherd squinted. Did he know this guy?

  The man trotted over.

  Shepherd studied him—early to mid-forties. Shaggy hair. Goatee. Peacoat. Military bearing. Watchful eyes.
>
  No. He didn’t know him, but his instincts told him this guy was navy.

  “Ah,” the guy said. “You are a gunny.”

  “Do I know you?” Shepherd kept his voice neutral.

  “Name’s Nate Deavers.” He stuck out a hand.

  Shepherd didn’t want to shake the man’s hand. It was after midnight and they were standing outside a bar. The scenario had mugging written all over it. He swept his gaze over the perimeter, searching for accomplices. But the man appeared to be alone.

  The guy kept standing there, hand extended, gave his rank and serial number, ended with “SEAL Team Six.”

  The magic words. That broke Shepherd’s resistance. He clasped the man’s hand. “Mark Shepherd. How did you know I was a gunny?”

  “You look the part.” Nate grinned, and inclined his head toward the bar. “You going in?”

  “Debating it.”

  “If you’re on the fence, and don’t have your heart set on a drink, why don’t you join us?” Nate waved at the diner.

  Shepherd looked back across the street to the plate-glass window of the restaurant. A group of men sat around a table. From the looks of them, all ex-military.

  They met Shepherd’s gaze, raised their coffee mugs in invitation, and he knew at once what was going on. They’d been sitting in the window and watched him lope up. Saw him hesitate outside the bar.

  “I don’t need an intervention.” Shepherd scowled.

  “No one said you did.” Nate’s smile was mild, but his eyes were razors. He didn’t miss a trick.

  Shepherd looked from the Waffle-O-Rama to the bar, back to Nate. “I don’t have a drinking problem.”

  “No one said you did,” Nate repeated.

  “You friends of Bill Wilson?” Shepherd asked, referring to the code name for an AA meeting.

  “Some of us,” Nate said. “But mostly, we’re here to support each other through the shit.”

  “Good for you,” Shepherd said, hearing his voice drip sarcasm.

  “PTSD?” Nate grunted.

  “They’re calling it PTSS these days.”

  “Doesn’t matter what acronym they stick on it. Results are the same. Shellshock. Battle fatigue. Seen and done too many gawdawful things in service to our country.”