A Lone Star Christmas (Texas Justice Book 3)

by Justine Davis

  He nodded. “Lily and Joey now.”

  “You’ll be buying gifts for your brother’s girlfriends?”

  He gave her a one-shouldered shrug. “Once they’ve done Sunday night at the ranch, they’re family.”

  “What are you gonna get?” Marcos asked, giving her a moment to process what Sean had said.

  “I have no idea. Sage is easy, all she ever wants is something for the ranch or her horses, but…Lily and Joey, they’re more…”

  “Girly?” Elena suggested rather archly when he stopped awkwardly.

  “Yeah,” he said, looking sheepish now. She found it, like so much else about this man, charming.

  “Mom can help,” Marcos offered helpfully. “She’s real girly.”

  “I noticed,” Sean said, and his voice had taken on the faintest of rough edges, some undertone that made her feel as if a finger had just run down her spine.

  “She likes Christmas, too,” Marcos added in a tone of warning. “Be careful or she’ll make you start singing that silly ‘Feliz Navidad’ song.”

  “Believe me,” Sean said solemnly, “nobody who’s ever heard me sing would want that.”

  Your speaking voice is quite beautiful enough, Elena thought, then gasped when she realized she’d actually said it out loud. Sean practically gaped at her, and she would have sworn he flushed in the moment before he looked away from her. She felt heat rise in her own cheeks.

  “My brother Kane had the singing voice,” he muttered, and she knew how badly she’d embarrassed both of them, to make him bring up the Highwater who was never spoken of.

  But there was such sadness in his voice that even in her embarrassment she couldn’t stop herself from reaching out, putting a hand on his arm. “I pray that someday you find him, and that he is well.”

  He looked up then. “We have a newer lead, thanks to Slater and Joey.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “A license plate and a vehicle description from a couple of years after he left. Nothing’s turned up on it yet, but it’s more than we had before.”

  “And you will never stop looking, will you.”

  “Never.” He drew in a deep, audible breath. “We all feel…responsible, I guess. Because Kane said he always felt like the odd one out. I could relate to that feeling, being…odd. But I didn’t see why he felt that way. As a kid I thought maybe it was because he was the only one whose name didn’t start with an S. Or because he had different-colored eyes.”

  “That was…noticeable,” she agreed. They were moving now, walking, and Elena realized it was because Marcos, bored by the adult talk, had started to wander around looking at all the offerings. And Sean had instinctively moved with him, keeping him in sight. Just as she would have done, had he not already. “But you believe differently now?” she asked.

  “I think there was more to it. It took me a while to remember, but it was something he said when we were kids, working on a puzzle. That just because a piece fits in a place doesn’t mean it belongs there.”

  She stopped moving. Felt an odd sort of pressure as she looked at him. “I believe that is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.”

  Sean nodded, looking oddly relieved. “You get it. Sage thought I was reading too much into it.”

  “It sounds…lost.”

  He was staring at her now. “That’s how I felt, when he said it. He was only twelve then, but…he sounded so tired.”

  Which was, she thought, a very perceptive thing for a boy just two years older to have picked up on. But then, she’d never doubted he was perceptive. In fact, she guessed he was probably more so than most simply because he was more aware of other people than many were, for his own reasons.

  Marcos came running back, asking if he could have a funnel cake. “I suppose,” she said.

  And before she could reach into her purse Sean had pulled out some folded cash and peeled off a bill. “Buy three,” he said. “I’m starving.”

  “We’ll wait on the bench,” she called out as the boy ran for the stand that was sending out such luscious smells. They went and sat where they could see her son. But Elena’s main focus was still Sean, and what they’d been talking about. She hesitated, then said it. “Your brother had already vanished by the time I got out there.”

  “I know.” She saw his jaw tighten. “And I know what people think about what happened.”

  “Some people. The kind who always assume the worst about everyone. Which to me says much more about them.”

  “Yeah.” He seemed to relax a little. And he gave her a smile that told her he appreciated her words.

  “From what I recall of your father, he would say the same thing. Even about this.”

  “He believed intent counted. And he would never believe Kane intended what happened. He knew awful things could happen when people react out of emotion.”

  “Love?”

  “And anger. Kane was angry a lot.”

  “What would he have been so angry about? Feeling as if he didn’t belong?”

  “Or worse,” Sean said, rather flatly.

  Marcos was there then, with the three fried treats. She took two of the sweet confections from her son, handed one to Sean, and gestured to Marcos to sit beside them. She said nothing, merely tore off a chunk of the fried, powdered-sugar-coated dough and popped it into her mouth. She rarely allowed herself such decadence, and savored it slowly. Then she licked the sugar from her thumb and forefinger.

  Sean made an odd, choked sort of sound. She looked, saw him staring at her, and arched a brow at him. “Are you more of a rip it off with your teeth sort?” She nodded toward Marcos, who was working on his own funnel cake in that very rip it off with your teeth method she’d mentioned.

  He swallowed visibly, although he didn’t seem to have taken a bite. “I…used to be. When I was his age. Until I got tired of wearing more powdered sugar than I was eating.”

  One corner of her mouth curved upward as she glanced at her son, whose shirt now proved Sean’s words. “I’ll take hope from that, then.”

  He gave her a rather odd look, then started on his own funnel cake. She got through half of hers before she reached saturation with the sweetness and stopped. By then the strolling carolers had arrived, and were making the rounds. She saw Sean grimace.

  “Don’t care for Christmas carols?”

  “No, they’re fine. I think I’m just still mentally dealing with Thanksgiving.”

  She smiled. “The switch is a bit rapid when it’s so late in the month.”

  He smiled at her. “Exactly. I’m not a big fan of floating holidays.”

  She studied him for a moment. “Prefer the predictability?”

  He drew back slightly, but he was smiling. “Yes. Moving holidays disrupt the pattern.”

  “No wonder you and my son get along.”

  They listened to the singers—who truly were quite good—but as she did, she thought about what he’d said about his missing brother, and wondered what he’d meant by him feeling worse than just not belonging. And realized that she cared, a great deal, about this nagging unfinished business, if only because it bothered him.

  She helped him pick out gifts, a book of human interest essays for Lily, who had begun writing similar articles for The Defender, and a beautiful hand-tooled, leather-bound journal for Joey. He’d watched with apparent interest as she’d tried a sample of the paper with her own fountain pen because she knew Joey used one to journal, saying he didn’t realize the paper made a difference with fountain pens.

  They were walking back toward her parked car when something struck her about what nagged at him. That perhaps an assumption she had always made about that day twelve years ago had been wrong.

  “Marcos, go ahead and get into the car. I need to speak with Sean for a moment.”

  “You’ve been talking to him all afternoon,” the boy pointed out, but got in willingly enough, probably because he had a full stomach and his book to read.

  Sean was l
ooking at her curiously now. “We have been talking all afternoon,” he said in agreement with her son. Then, with that touch of shyness she found so endearing he added, “Sometimes about stuff I never, ever talk about.”

  “I know,” she said softly. And I am honored. “And that is, in a way, what I wanted to tell you.” She took a deep breath. “I presume you read…all the reports about that day.”

  His brow furrowed. “Yes.” He grimaced. “Repeatedly.”

  She tried to think of a gentle way to put this. “I don’t know exactly what they said about…what I told them. About what your father said.”

  The furrows deepened. “They had what you said he told you, that it wasn’t George’s fault, and to find us and tell us…something. But he died before he could finish what he wanted you to tell us.”

  She took in a steadying breath. “Did they quote the exact words?”

  “I don’t know if it was exact. Why?” He was looking tense now. She couldn’t blame him.

  “Because I’m wondering now if we all misinterpreted what he said. His exact words were, ‘Not his fault…find him…my kids…tell them…’”

  He was staring at her. “Exact words?”

  “They are engraved on my memory.” She put a hand on his arm again. “It was the worst experience of my life to that point, and yet…I was glad I was there.”

  “I’ve always been glad you were there. And that you stayed with him to the end.” He was staring down at her hand, but did not pull away. “That he wasn’t alone.”

  His voice was low and tight, and she felt a tightness in her own throat. She hastened to finish while she could still speak. “I’ve always assumed the same as you have. But what if he wasn’t absolving Mr. Goetz, didn’t misspeak and say ‘him’ when he meant all of you, and what if he did say what he meant me to tell you?”

  “Meaning?” There was a definite edge in his voice now.

  She bit her lip, but at his rather fierce expression knew she couldn’t back out of what she’d started now.

  “What if instead of ‘It wasn’t George’s fault, find my kids and tell them,’ he meant… ‘It wasn’t Kane’s fault. Tell my kids to find him.’”

  He went impossibly still. Stared at her. Said nothing.

  “This fits much better with what I knew of him,” she said, wondering if she should have kept it to herself.

  “Yes,” he said, almost hoarsely. And then, before she was even aware he was moving, he had pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in a fierce hug. “Yes, it does.”

  She felt a rush of relief. She tilted her head back to look at him about to say how grateful she was that she hadn’t caused more pain, hadn’t hurt him by bringing it up. She would never—

  He kissed her.

  And blasted all rational thought right out of her head.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sean had learned the hard way over the years to resist many of his impulses. But there had been no resisting this one. Reckless though it might be, the memory of his father dying in the street had crazily sent his brain careening down the path of things he would regret if he dropped dead here and now, and at this instant in time not kissing her was at the top of the list.

  Hell, right now it was the only thing on the list.

  He’d figured it would feel good. That it would be hot. Even that it might spin him off into some kind of fantasyland where the peon really could capture the heart of the queen.

  But that, and all other thought, was incinerated in the first instant. This wasn’t just good, or hot, or a fantasy.

  This was conflagration.

  Her lips were soft, warm, and sweeter than his apparently feeble imagination could conjure up. He felt the kick of his pulse, a surge of sensation along every nerve, so fierce it threatened to swamp him.

  And then, incredibly, she was no longer just allowing it but was kissing him back. Her lips parted, and he could taste even more of that impossible sweetness. And then he felt her tongue brush across his lips. He felt a leap in his chest, heard his heartbeat hammering in his ears, and if he’d turned to ash right here he wouldn’t have been surprised. He wasn’t sure he’d even regret it, because this would be one fine moment to die on.

  He had no idea how long the sound had been going on before he noticed. Applause. They were being applauded. He jerked back. And the full realization of what he’d just done, kissed the woman who had been his dream for over a decade, in public, right next to the Christmas market, one of Last Stand’s most popular events of the year, hit him. He didn’t even look around, didn’t want to know who was involved and have to face them later.

  He didn’t want to look at them anyway. He didn’t want to look away from Elena. Even though he had no idea what to do, less idea what to say. Finally, he managed the only thing he could think of, although it came out in a whisper. “Those cakes weren’t sweet enough.”

  Elena’s eyes widened. He was surprised he even remembered how to breathe, the way she was looking at him. As if…as if…she were as stunned and breathless as he was.

  “An early Merry Christmas, you two!”

  That voice from behind him was familiar, and snapped him out of the pleasurable haze. He shot a glance over his shoulder, confirmed both that it had been Mark Latham, Shane’s aide, and that he thankfully hadn’t stopped to gape. Although the comment had sounded like a genuine good wish rather than teasing.

  He looked back at Elena. “I’m sor—”

  He stopped, his breath jamming up in his throat as she put one slender finger up to his lips. “Do not apologize. Not for that.”

  She whispered it, and belatedly he realized Marcos was right there. And suddenly staring at them, making Sean realize he’d seen that impossible, soaring, pulse-pounding kiss. And he wondered what Elena would say or do.

  She said nothing more. What she did was simply open the driver’s door and get in. “Thank you,” she said as she reached for the handle. It took him a moment to realize she meant for the food. She did mean that, didn’t she?

  “Thank you,” he said, but he meant it for the kiss. Then, recklessly, he decided to make that clear. “And for the help shopping, too.”

  He saw it register. Saw color rise in her cheeks. And the slight smile she gave him then seemed like a very private one, shared between two people who had more than one secret between them.

  And then they were leaving, and Sean stood there for a long time after her car had vanished.

  *

  “You kissed Sean,” Marcos said flatly.

  It was more him kissing me, but I’m not going to quibble.

  Nor would she deny what the boy had obviously seen. “Yes. Does that bother you?”

  He grimaced. “When grown-ups like each other, they kiss. I’m not stupid, Mom.”

  “Yes, sometimes they do. And I do like Sean.”

  “So do I,” Marcos said, looking more thoughtful now. “Are you going to kiss him again?”

  I can but hope. “How would you feel if I did?”

  He gave her a sideways look. “Better’n when you kissed that Palmer guy.”

  She nearly laughed. “That you can blame on your cousin Esteban—he arranged that encounter.”

  Marcos wrinkled his nose. “Gran said that he doesn’t choose the best friends sometimes.”

  “I can’t argue that.”

  “She also said he’s pretty,” Marcos added with a laugh.

  And neither she nor any of Esteban’s multitude of girlfriends would argue that, either. The owner of Valencia’s was, in fact, her cousin, making him a cousin once removed from Marcos, but the intricacies of that were of no interest to the boy so she hadn’t pushed.

  But right now she was glad the subject seemed to have been changed. And it lasted until dinner, when Marcos had blithely announced over his dessert that she and Sean had kissed.

  Her mother did not even blink. She said serenely. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Elena went still. “What?”

  Her mo
ther gave her a look that was as serene as her voice had been. “He is a fine, honest, respectful young man from an upstanding family, just the sort a mother would like to see her daughter with.”

  “I…see,” Elena said.

  “Not to mention,” her mother said, with a glint in her eyes that Elena had not seen for a very long time, “that he is also handsome and very, very…” She glanced at Marcos and quite obviously changed what she’d been going to say. “Attractive,” she finished.

  And Elena knew perfectly well her mother, who could be as incorrigible as Marcos on occasion, had been about to say “sexy.” An assessment she could hardly argue with, not after the way she had nearly burst into flame at one simple, short kiss.

  “It has been a long time, Elena. Long enough. You have mourned him respectfully, and with love.”

  “Are you talkin’ about my dad?” Marcos asked.

  Elena decided she would let her mother get herself out of this one and silently went back to her meal. Being her mother, she didn’t quail but approached it directly.

  “I am speaking of both he and your mother. She loved your father very much, and he loved her just as much, but he is gone. I am saying he would want her—and you—to be happy. To have a full life, even if it is without him. To have the kind of life he died to protect.”

  “I wish he hadn’t,” Marcos said, in a voice so small Elena’s chest contracted painfully.

  “So do I,” she whispered.

  “But he did,” her mother said firmly. “And we must accept it. And,” she added with a pointed look at Elena, “move on. As he would have wished.”

  Later, after her mother had retired to her suite to read—and watch her secretly beloved telenovelas, Elena suspected—and the warning timer Sean had set for her went off on Marcos’s beloved game, instead of protesting he shut it down and turned to look at her.

  “Would my dad have liked Sean?”

  She went very still. This was a very significant question, and she must choose her words carefully.

  “He did like him, Marcos.”

  Her son’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know they knew each other.”