Especially if he wasn’t alone. Which, unfortunately, he was tonight.
“You’re headstrong like your father. Always off doing your own thing.”
Bill knew that disapproving-mother tone all too well. He’d grown up hearing how much he was like his dad, a man who was never around to support and love her. But this was different. His mom didn’t understand the pull of the mountain. The allure of the adrenaline rush. The satisfaction of a successful mission. She was too worried Bill would end up hurt or dead. That could happen one of these days, but still...
Time to change the subject before she laid on another guilt trip. He didn’t want to end up letting her down again. “This morning I put up the Santa you brought over. Got the lights strung on the eaves, too.”
“Wonderful. How’s the tree coming along?”
Two ornaments—a snowboard and a snowshoe—hung from the branches of a seven-foot noble fir. Bill had a box full of more ornaments, but he’d gotten bored trimming the tree. Decorating with a sexy snow bunny for a helper would have been more fun. “The tree’s coming along. I’ve even got a present under there.”
He wasn’t about to tell his mom the gift was a wedding present for Leanne Thomas and Christian Welton, two firefighters getting married on Saturday. Soon Bill would be the only member of their crew still single.
He didn’t mind.
Marriage was fine for other people. Somehow his parents had remained together in spite of spending so much time apart. Maybe when Bill hit forty he would reconsider matrimony as an option. Then again, maybe not. He didn’t need another woman dependent on him, like his mom. A woman who would think he wasn’t a good enough man, husband, father, and kept waiting for him to screw up.
“I’m happy to finish decorating your tree,” Mom said.
He had no doubt she would happily show up to decorate his whole house, wearing an embroidered Christmas sweater and jingle bells dangling from her earlobes. With her husband away most of the time, she focused her attention and energy on Bill. Always had. After she’d miscarried during a difficult pregnancy, she’d turned into a hovering, don’t-let-the-kid-out-of-your sight, overprotective mom. His turning eighteen, twenty-one, thirty hadn’t lessened the mother hen tendencies. “Give me another week.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” She made a smacking sound, her version of a good-night kiss over the phone. “Sleep well, dear.”
“Will do.” Too bad he’d be sleeping alone. Stormy nights were perfect for going to bed with a hot woman. But the December dating deadline—the second Monday in December, when men stopped seeing women, in order to avoid spending the holidays with them—had passed. Even friends with benefits expected more than he was willing to give this time of year. “’Night, Mom.”
He placed the phone on the end table, sat in the recliner and took a long pull of beer. This year’s seasonal brew from the Wy’East Brewing Company went down smoothly.
He glanced at a photograph hanging on the wall—of Jake Porter, Leanne, Nick Bishop, Tim Moreno and himself at Smith Rock during a sunny day of rock climbing in central Oregon. He raised his bottle in memory of Nick, who’d died during a climb on Mount Hood’s Reid Headwall at Christmastime nine years ago.
Wind rattled the windows.
Storm, storm, go away. Billy Paulson wants to play.
He downed the rest of the beer.
Game highlights gave way to a sports talk show.
He flipped through the channels, not bothering to turn up the sound. News. Chick flick. Syndicated comedy. The same boring shows.
Bill heard what sounded like a knock.
No one would be out tonight. Must be a branch against the house.
Another knock.
He stood.
The knocking continued. Rapid. Loud.
Not a branch. More like someone in trouble.
Bill ran, opened the door.
Cold wind slammed into his body. Bits of ice pelted his face. Swirling snow blinded his eyes.
He blinked. Focused.
A woman stood on the porch. A woman holding a bunch of blankets. A woman covered with snow.
Bill ushered her inside, then closed the door.
Dark, wet hair obscured her face. Her teeth chattered. Her jeans and jacket were soaked. She wore wet gloves.
He brushed snow off her jacket, icy wetness chilled his palms. “What’s going on?”
“S-slid into a s-snowbank.”
“Were you buckled up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No. Air b-bag.”
“Back or neck pain?”
“No.”
“Does anything hurt?”
“F-f-face was b-burning. H-hard to breathe. B-but that’s better now.” She shivered. “Just c-c-old.”
Bill pushed the wet hair off her face to get a better look at her.
Wide amber eyes. Flushed cheeks. Runny nose.
Full, generous lips.
The kind of lips a man, at least this man, dreamed about tasting and kissing and...
Her lips trembled.
Focus, Paulson. “Let’s get you out of that wet jacket.”
She held out the pile of blankets. “M-m-my s-son.”
Adrenaline shot through Bill. He grabbed the child and laid him on the rug in front of the living room fireplace. “Is he injured?”
“I d-don’t think so.”
Bill peeled away the wet top covering. “How old is he?”
She struggled out of her gloves and pink fleece jacket, nothing more than a waterlogged sponge now. “Three.”
Another blanket came off, this one dryer than the last. “What’s his name?”
The woman slipped off canvas sneakers. She wasn’t wearing socks. Not exactly dressed for the weather. What in the world was she doing driving around in a snowstorm?
“Liam.” She stepped away from the puddle of water pooling by her shoes. “I’m G-Grace. Grace Wilcox.”
“Bill Paulson.”
“Mommy,” a small, scared voice said from beneath a blue fleece blanket.
Grace kneeled next to the boy. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt. Goose bumps covered her arms. “R-right here, honey.”
Bill raised the blue blanket. “Liam?”
A small boy with dark hair and pale skin looked up with quarter-size blue eyes. He wore red mittens and forest-green footie pajamas.
Bill gave the kid his best fireman smile. “Hello, little dude.”
Liam’s lips quivered. “Mommy.”
Grace pulled his mitten-covered hand onto her lap. “It’s okay.”
Okay? Only if she was talking about them being out of the storm. Maybe she had hit her head or maybe she was drunk.
Bill didn’t smell alcohol. She didn’t show any obvious signs of impairment, except for driving late at night in a blizzard. “Was Liam in a car seat?”
Her do-I-look-like-a-bad-mother glare hit Bill like an ice pick in the forehead. “Of course my son was in a car seat. He was in the backseat.”
“Just a question.” Bill didn’t see any cuts or bruises. “No offense intended.”
He touched the boy’s shoulder.
She grabbed the top of Bill’s hand, her fingers, as cold as Popsicles, dug into his skin. “What are you doing?”
“Checking your son.” Bill didn’t need to look over to know an anxious mother was watching his every move. “I’m a firefighter with Hood Hamlet Fire and Rescue. I have EMT training and am a wilderness first responder with OMSAR.”
“OMSAR?”
Definitely not from around here if she didn’t know what that was. He shot her a sideways glance. Anxious, but attractive with wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, straight nose and full lips. M
id-twenties, if that. “Oregon Mountain Search and Rescue.”
Her gaze went from distrustful to relieved. “Looks like I picked the right house.”
“Da-arn straight.” Bill didn’t want to curse in front of the kid. “No visible signs of trauma. Does anything hurt, buddy?”
The little guy scrunched up his nose. “P-Nut.”
Bill looked at Grace. “Huh?”
“Peanut is right here.” She handed the child a stuffed animal. “Tell Mr. Paulson if anything hurts, okay?”
The kid’s eyes glistened. Tears would fall in 3...2...1.
“Tummy.” Liam’s voice cracked.
Internal injury? Bill’s throat tightened. “I need to check Liam’s abdomen.”
Color drained from the woman’s face. She rubbed her hands over her mouth. “Maybe we should call 9-1-1.”
“I am 9-1-1, minus the truck, flashing lights and uniform.” Bill grabbed the pajama zipper and pulled. “Relax. I know what I’m doing. If he needs help, we’ll get it.”
“Hungry,” Liam said.
Bill’s hand stalled. “You want something to eat?”
The little boy nodded.
“Wanting food is a good sign.” Bill examined Liam. No redness or marks from where the car seat straps may have hit his body. No signs of distress or shock or concussion. The kid seemed fine. “How does a cookie sound?”
A grin brighter than the lights on the Christmas tree erupted on the kid’s face. “Cookie! I want cookie, puh-lease.”
Bill’s throat relaxed, allowing him to breathe easier. The kid was going to be okay. But the mom was another story. Not quite panicked, but cold and suspicious.
The dark circles under her eyes told only half the story. Exhausted, check. Stressed, check. Nervous, two checks. Her eyes darted back and forth, unable to focus on one thing too long. But with each pass, her gaze lingered on him a second longer than the last. Her wariness pissed him off. She seemed to forget she’d knocked on his door tonight.
“Do you want a cookie?” he asked. “Chocolate chip. My mom made them.”
Grace gnawed on her lip. “No, thanks.”
Bill rose. He grabbed two chocolate chip cookies from the snowman-shaped cookie jar on the kitchen counter, then returned to the living room. He handed one to Liam, who’d removed his mittens, and the other to Grace, who looked as if he’d given her a grenade with the pin pulled.
Her confused gaze bounced from the cookie to Bill. “I didn’t want one.”
“You look like you need one.” He watched Liam munch his cookie. “Nothing wrong with his appetite.”
“Unless I’m trying to feed him veggies.”
Grace’s lighthearted tone surprised Bill, but it was good to see her sense of humor come out. “Who wants to eat icky green and orange things?” he asked.
The kid and Peanut nodded.
“Green and orange things—” Grace emphasized the last word “—help a person grow to be tall and strong. I’m sure Mr. Paulson didn’t become a firefighter by eating junk food and drinking soda.”
Grace sounded like a mom. Duh. She was one. He wasn’t helping her out here. “Your mom’s correct, Liam. Eat lots of vegetables, fruit and protein if you want to grow up to be tall and strong like me.”
She stared down her nose at Bill. “Modest.”
Her tone and look screamed not interested. That only piqued his. “Humility is a virtue.”
Grace opened her mouth, but didn’t say a word. She looked away, then took a bite of her cookie.
Bill knelt next to her. Wet hair dampened Grace’s shirt. She wasn’t busty, but had curves in the places that mattered. She smelled good in spite of being wet, a mix of vanilla and cinnamon and something he couldn’t place. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”
Holding the cookie, she crossed her arms tight over her chest. “I’m okay. The snow washed away the powder from the air bag.”
“Looking you over won’t take long.”
She scooted back. “I’m good.”
He cut the distance between them. “Let me make sure.”
Grace stood. Every motion seemed to take effort. A battle of fatigue and stress and shock, one she was losing. “You’ve done enough.”
His gaze ran the length of her, checking for obvious injuries. He didn’t see any. “Show me where the seat belt straps hit you.”
“It’s not necessary. I told you, the air bag—”
“If you stiffened prior to impact, you’re going to be sore.”
“I’m—”
“I’m trying to do my job here. That’s all. Please let me examine you.” He was losing patience. “I have to determine if you need to go to the hospital tonight.”
She nibbled on her lip.
“Would it make a difference if I put on my uniform?” he asked.
“None whatsoever.” Her firm voice left no doubt she was serious. “I appreciate you letting us get warm, but I need to find a place to stay tonight.”
“You’re not going anywhere unless it’s the hospital.”
She glanced out the window. “But—”
“The weather’s wicked. You’re staying here tonight. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
Forget deer in headlights. Grace’s expression made her look as if she’d been flattened by a semi. “That’s—”
“Your only option.”
Her mouth twisted.
He wasn’t deterred. “I have two spare bedrooms. Use one or both.” Bill pointed to her coat. “You may feel warmer without your wet jacket and shoes, but you need to change clothes.”
Grace rubbed the back of her neck.
“Sore?” he asked.
“Fine.” She moistened her lips. “All my clothes are in the truck.”
“I have something you can wear. Be right back.” Bill sprinted to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of flannel pajamas, a Christmas gift last year from his parents. Well, from his mom. His dad usually arrived home on Christmas Eve and was out the door on the twenty-sixth, leaving Bill to become his mom’s entire world again. Maybe if he’d had a sibling, a little brother or sister, things would be different. Better. But Bill hadn’t called for help soon enough. His mother had lost her baby and couldn’t have another.
Back in the living room, he handed the pajamas to Grace. “They’ll be big on you.”
She stared at them as if he’d handed her a French maid outfit to wear, complete with fishnet stockings and a feather duster.
Her jaw tightened. “You want me to wear your pajamas?”
He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “They’re practically new. I’ve only worn the bottoms a couple times. Flannel is warm. You might be hypothermic.”
Her suspicious gaze targeted him once more. It was a good thing she wasn’t armed, or he would be a goner.
“You’re really a firefighter and mountain rescuer?”
“Check the pictures on the mantel.” He pointed to framed articles and photographs. “And the walls.”
Looking around, Grace held the pajamas in front of her like a shield.
Okay, he got it. Got her.
No wedding ring, and a kid had made her cautious. That was smart. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know her having a child meant he considered her off-limits, a look-don’t-touch, modern-day leper.
“My job is to help people in trouble. I do that when I’m on the mountain, too,” he said. “That’s all I’m trying to do here.”
“It’s just...” Grace glanced at Liam, who was playing with Peanut. She touched the boy’s head. “I’ve never been stranded—with a stranger.”
“No worries. I understand. But you’re safe here. If it makes you feel any better, the bedroom doors lock.”
Her eyes darkened. “From the ins
ide or outside?”
That would be funny if she didn’t sound so serious. “I have an idea. I’ll call the sheriff’s office. Let them know about your truck, so they can get it towed. Then you can talk to the sheriff or a deputy. They’ll appease your concerns about staying here tonight.”
“The sheriff and his deputies will vouch for you?” Only a deaf person would miss her please-someone-tell-me-he’s-not-psychotic plea.
“I’ve lived in Hood Hamlet my whole life. I know everybody.”
Grace’s gaze took in the articles and photographs hanging on the wall again. The tension in her face, especially around her mouth, lessened. “Okay. Let’s call the sheriff. I doubt there’s more than one black pickup stuck in a snowbank around here, but in case there is, mine has Georgia plates.”
“Long way from home.”
She shrugged.
Must be a story there. Not his business.
Even if he was curious...
CHAPTER TWO
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Bill took the phone from Grace, who held on to his pajamas with her other hand. The lines creasing her forehead had disappeared, but the wariness in her eyes remained. He hoped that look wasn’t due to something the sheriff had said. “All good now?”
“The sheriff said Liam and I would be safe with you.” Her voice sounded stronger, but her words had a nervous edge. She rubbed her fingertips against the pajamas. “He’s going to take care of my truck.”
“Truck,” Liam repeated. “I like trucks. Big ones.”
“Me, too.” The kid was cute. So was the mom. If she would quit acting as if Bill was a murderer. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. At least her toes weren’t frostbitten. “Something’s still bothering you.”
Her hands stopped fidgeting with the pajamas. “You’re perceptive.”
“Sometimes.” Bill wasn’t about to play games with Grace after what she’d been through. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She looked at Liam, looked at his EMT and wilderness first aid books on the shelf, a snowboard, an old fire helmet, looked at everything in the living room except Bill.
A Little Bit of Holiday Magic Page 2
