by LoRee Peery
“Hi, Izzy. What a deal, running off the road like that. Glad you’re on your feet. And, big brother, I’ll be back inside before you can say Merry Christmas.”
Burt’s presence meant Izzy could get rid of any nerves she had over the prospect of being in the house alone with Brock.
He slapped Burt on the back. “Grab her bag, would you? Leave the presents.”
Izzy accepted his proffered hand. “I like the color of the house, Brock. I can hardly wait for a tour.”
“I don’t care if you open every door and take a peek. But first things, first.” He paused to hold open the back door. She looked pale. Was she hurting? “I want you to walk around some on the main floor to make sure your ankle can handle stairs. Watch your step; we need to go up two treads to the kitchen.”
“Got it. And I’m so glad you thought of looking in my car trunk. All that’s on my mind is a warm shower, if that would be all right.”
“Better yet, there’s a tub in the main bath. I even have Epsom salts.” He guided her inside and opened a top cupboard door, shook the salts, and set the box on the counter. “I had to make sure I was telling the truth. And here’s a trash bag liner to keep your wrap dry. You look wiped out. Are you in pain? Do you need to rest first, take a pain pill, have lunch?”
“Let her catch her breath, bro. I’ll set this bag in the bathroom, Izzy.”
Burt returned before she’d removed her coat. “Since I was snowed in last night, I made chili.”
She untied the belt on her coat and Brock stepped behind to slide it off her shoulders. She turned, keeping hold of one sleeve.
“Is it caught?” He slid his hand from her elbow to her fingers, and looked down. His insides jumped at the touch of her free hand catching the coat sleeve, his fingers caught between. Tears swam in her beautiful blue eyes, where gold tinted the irises. No woman had ever expressed more without saying a word.
He wanted…wanted what? He swallowed.
Izzy gave him a squeeze, a brief hug around the waist with her coat as a buffer. She stepped back.
He breathed unencumbered again.
She mouthed thank you, accepted the plastic liner, and addressed Burt. “Your chili sounds delicious. Don’t imagine you have cinnamon rolls to go with? That’s what I would have awakened to if I’d made it home.”
“Cinnamon rolls with chili? We’ll have cheesy cornbread with my little brother’s chili. Then you can soak while we’re out clearing snow from the walks.”
Did the woman have any idea what she expressed with her eyes?
He grabbed for the handle of her wheeled bag, but she beat him to it. “I’ve got this.”
She reminded him of a two-year-old about to storm, “I can do it myself.” She shot him a grateful smile over her shoulder and limped from the room.
While he labored clearing snow, the memory of Izzy’s beautiful smile and cute dimple kept him company.
~*~
Izzy opened her eyes with a start, shivered, and couldn’t move. She struggled against an invisible weight. “Ouch.” She pushed up, and her calf cramped. She’d propped her foot on a towel to keep water from getting inside the plastic wrap around her bandage. She flexed her toes, massaged her calf, and circulation returned. With a jolt of full awareness, she oriented herself.
No dark enclosure. No car wreck. Brock’s house in Lincoln.
The tub water had cooled enough to make her shiver.
Thank goodness the window brightened the bath, or the walls would have closed in on her. She sat up, turned on the hot water, and then hurriedly washed with the lemongrass handmade soap—odd for a bachelor’s bath. She relished the flow of fresh heat from the water as she rinsed. Mom could help wash her hair if she still hurt so badly later.
Izzy dried and dressed, slower than warp-speed normal, and noted the tender blue blotches that covered her body.
The muted television voices and an occasional hint of the men’s lower comments registered from outside the room. Comforting sounds.
The knowledge she wasn’t alone took the edge off, although she’d rather be with her own family. Izzy surveyed the room to make sure she’d gathered her belongings. All was in order. She opened the bathroom door to the wonderful aroma of chili and came to an abrupt halt at the size of a big, caramel colored dog with black splotches.
He blocked her way, posed as though he’d been waiting for her to open the door.
“Well, hello there. Who are you?”
“Oh, that’s Oscar.” Burt whipped a scarf around his neck. “Stay, boy. Brock can tell you all about the monster. I need to run to the store for a few things Mom asked me to bring for after church.”
She’d end up in the house alone with Brock after all.
Oscar looked friendly enough, but Izzy hesitated. Was he ready to pounce on her by way of greeting, or did he plan to stay between her and Brock until he introduced them?
As though he sensed her thought, Brock poked his head around the kitchen doorway. “Oscar, this is Izzy. She’s a friend.”
The dog stretched his neck and pointed his nose, sniffed three times. Then Oscar sat and lifted both front paws, extending the left.
Izzy burst out laughing and reached for a paw. “Nice to meet you, Oscar.”
“You’ll be friends for life now. You’re probably warm from the bath, but lunch is ready.”
She joined Brock on a high stool at the counter.
“Burt’s always quick to help Mom when he can. With the sisters married, he’s the family errand boy.”
“I’d like to meet your family.”
“Oh, you’ll meet the whole Winston gang for Christmas Eve service, and afterwards at the house.” She giggled at the cornbread crumbs that escaped when Brock talked.
“Tell me their names, please.”
He slid her a grin. “Mom, Sheila. Dad, Bob. I have one sister older. We go in order: Ali, Brock, Audra, and Burt. One of Burt’s buddies made a joke that has been repeated so much, it’s turned into tradition. We are now known as A,B,A,B, which is far better than saying ABCD.”
“That a clever way to remember. One of my old roommates claimed two boys and two girls equaled a perfect family.” She planned to observe that philosophy later when she met Pastor Robert Winston and his wife Sheila’s other two children. “I’m stuffed. Burt can make a mean chili stew.”
“If you’re not too warm from the soup, would you like hot apple cider or iced tea? There’s also coffee or cocoa.”
“The cider sounds wonderful. Mind if I check out these lovely old rooms?”
“Go for it. Just wait for me to go upstairs with you in case you need to lean on me.”
As helpful as he seemed, she imagined lots of people leaned on Brock.
She circumvented the leather sectional situated for the best view of the huge, big screen television and meandered through the room—no doubt the original dining room, and now where the guys appeared to spend most of their time. Except it was so neat that even the remotes lay at perfect angles on the table top.
She crossed through the living room. The gleam of the natural woodwork and floors exhibited care and pride. Rich browns, tans, and navy revealed masculine taste. Rather than open the front door, where the top of a wreath peeked outside beyond the small window, she looked out to avoid letting in cold air. The two-tone gray, large columns and trim accented the blue painted floor of the wide porch. She pictured Brock on a nice spring evening enjoying a cold glass of something.
The porch reminded her of home. She should check in with her folks to see if the roads had been cleared.
“Coming through.”
She swiveled toward Brock. He held a small tray with two huge mugs of steaming cider, cinnamon stick and all, plus a pretty plate of cookies. “The cookies are from the church secretary. I don’t hang out much in the living room. We could sit there, and I’ll flick the switch for a fire.”
“That would be lovely. I’m always saying thanks.” The oversized recliner didn’t appeal
to her so she chose the blue vinyl loveseat that faced the fireplace.
Garland, elegantly graced by bronze and silver bows, draped above the mirror which hung over the mantel. What kind of man decorated like this for Christmas? “Wow, nice decorations.”
“My sisters did such a nice job of spiffing up the fireplace. They claim a house with history needs to wear swags at this time of year.”
Who was this neat man—a man who lived in a home where all things appeared in order? Not that she’d been in many bachelor pads, but those she’d seen belonged mostly to college guys. And they were a mess.
“All right, Brock. You’ve stayed close to me and watched over me for most of the last eighteen hours. Who are you, Brock Winston? Give me clues to the man who owns this place and rescues women on dark country roads.”
4
Brock squared his coaster so it lined up with the edge of the coffee table. “Didn’t Burt have you primed to hear about my dog? I love to talk about Oscar, especially one hilarious adventure he once had at my folks’ place.”
“I can tell you’re itching to get on with the story. I suppose that explains why there’s no Christmas tree. That big lug would think it a giant toy? Oscar first, then no weaseling out of telling me who Brock Winston is.”
“You said a lot there. And we do have a tree; it’s not visible from here. You know who I am. You’re looking at me. Maybe you were groggy from the accident, but I already told you where I work and that I am kind of handy.”
“I remember. Judging by the neatness of your tidy home, parishioners are fortunate to have you looking out for their house of worship. But I don’t want to know about your job. I want to hear something personal.”
He resettled the ankle resting atop the opposite knee, and with no attempt to hide his interest, checked out the vision sitting across from him. Minor scratches and colorful bruises did not detract from her freshly-scrubbed good looks.
“What a man does for a paycheck is a lot of who the man is. Now I love my dad, but he believes menial tasks are beneath his son. Maybe what I do is way down on the food chain as far as making a good living, but it’s my choice.”
“Why be down on yourself about your job? Jesus grew up under the tutelage of his earthly father. Joseph was a tradesman.”
She’d given him something to remind his dad of the next time Brock felt he was a disappointment.
“I have a good feeling about you, Brock. You’re one of the good guys. If you weren’t a Good Samaritan, you never would have looked for me in the middle of a raging snowstorm.”
“I followed my gut instincts, however you want to believe. It could have been an angel or a nudge from God.”
Izzy cozied into the corner of the loveseat and drew her legs up. He now had a direct view of her face instead of her profile. All he longed for at the moment was to tumble into the depths of her clear blue, gold-flecked eyes. God made a beautiful creature when He designed this woman. How well could he get to know her during her short Christmas break?
“Brock? Do I have a spot on my face or is a scratch seeping blood?”
He tapped his foot and jiggled his leg. He wanted to know her story rather than talk about himself. He was nothing to write home about, especially according to his dad. He rested his mug on his upraised knee.
“You’re perfect. Guess it’s time for that tale about Oscar. He was a huge pup at four months old. My dad heard about him needing a new home because some dude’s girlfriend wanted to be the one-and-only in his life. Supposedly, Oscar has some wolf in his genealogy. You can tell by his chest there’s golden lab in his blood line, and German shepherd by the shape of his snout.
“The rascal’s legs grew faster than fast when he was a pup. With his hind quarters higher than his front legs, he had a sway to his back. For some time he appeared to be nothing but tall legs and a bottomless stomach, and he’d trip tail over teakettle. What a kick when he looked up at us with those amber eyes. We figured he’d be mortified if we laughed, so we tried to contain ourselves.”
“Did Oscar belong to your parents first?”
Talking about the dog came easy. Thinking about Oscar made him smile. “Dad found the pup with the agreement I would take him. I had to get a backyard fence built, and stuff was going on in my life at that time. I worked more hours than I do now.”
Oscar ambled into the room and plopped down by the fire, head over paws, and stared at Brock.
“It’s clear Oscar dotes on you. I’m guessing he’s heard his master tell this story over and over.”
Brock grinned at his dog and set his cup on the coffee table. He reached over and gave Oscar a scratch between the ears. “When Oscar was nine months old, somewhere around 90 pounds, Mom and Dad woke up to a mournful howl. Dad rushed outside. He didn't see Oscar at first. When he found Oscar, he ran to the dog and yelled for Mom to grab the camera.”
“I’d better set down my mug. I may laugh and spill my cider.”
Brock reached for and tested the cooling drink. He took a healthy gulp. “I wish I’d been there. Poor Oscar was hung up on the wooden seat of our swing set. We grew up with an old tall set from a country school. We’ve told our parents they need to get rid of it before they have grandchildren. The thing is dangerous. That’s a rabbit trail. My oldest sister lives there now. According to Mom, the look in Oscar’s eyes was pitiful. He was demoralized, no doubt begging for help and understanding while Mom and Dad consoled him and laughed in turn. All four feet touched the ground, but one end of the board seat was under Oscar’s back legs. The poor guy hadn't figured out that all he had to do was lift his hind legs and leap.”
“Poor baby. I’d love to see a picture.”
“I just happen to have one on my phone. Dad laughs every time he recalls the scene. He claims he dared not look in the pup’s eyes until he lifted Oscar’s hindquarters free. The overgrown galoot went to sleep without breakfast and slept until suppertime.”
Izzy covered her mouth. Her shoulders shook in silent laughter. “I’m surprised he didn’t howl earlier, as soon as he knew he needed help.”
“He’s always been a polite sort of dog. He must not have made noise until he heard the folks up and about in the house.”
Izzy stirred her cider with the cinnamon stick. She fixed her gaze on Oscar and finally laughed out loud.
Brock blinked. Izzy smiled and every light and sparkly decoration in the room dimmed. His head moved as slow as a moon dance as he swiveled Oscar’s way.
The silly dog lay with his paws over his ears.
“He knew you were talking about him.”
Brock set both feet on the floor and motioned. “Come here, boy, and get some deep scratches. You’re a good boy. I love you.”
Oscar slanted a comical look at Izzy, lumbered to his feet, stretched, and padded to Brock.
“I think he’s saying ‘so there’ to me. You said your family is all here, your sisters are married, and your father pastors a church. I’m amazed God put you on the road not far behind me. What were you doing west of Lincoln?”
“I was on my way back from Grand Island. I went to see my grandparents before they go south for the winter. You finished with your cider? Time will go fast. I’ll take the cups to the kitchen, and then show you the place.” He made short work of tossing cinnamon sticks, rinsing out the mugs, and stacking them in the dishwasher.
She waited at the bottom of the stairs. “The woodwork is wonderful.”
“Yes it is. Stay, Oscar. I won’t allow you the chance to trip our pretty visitor.” He shrugged at Izzy’s mouthed thank you. “Somewhere along the line, folks came up with carpet as a sign of opulence or something. This home is over a hundred years old. Golden oak floors lay under years of dirty carpet…Well, upstairs first. Let me go behind you in case your ankle gives you trouble. I’ll break your fall.”
“You are a sweet man, Brock Winston. Any other day, I’d run up the steps, but I’ll let you be chivalrous.” A beat later, “Oh, there’s your Christmas tre
e. How clever to put it in the niche.”
“It’s safe from Oscar that way. My sisters learned how to decorate from Mom. The wide landing here at the turn of the stairs provided a perfect place to build a shelf. You can see there are rooms on each side of the stairs. One is still used for storage because I’m always painting or sawing somewhere. With the basement occupied, Burt and I need the other bedroom for our overflow. His room is on the right side, mine on the left. We share the bath.”
“Did you always want to be a carpenter or been handy with your hands?”
No. But his dream hadn’t matched his dad’s. “Actually, no. I thought about writing, but it didn’t work out.”
“Writing? As in books?”
“Uh. More like Bible studies. I’ve thought about fictionalizing biblical martyrs.”
“You can still do that.”
“Maybe someday.”
“You will if God leads you.” She ran a hand over door trim. “I’d love to run off and explore every nook and cranny in this home, except closets. But I’ll restrain myself because I’m not a child.”
“If you promise not to snoop, I can open the rooms to the basement, but later, after I check with the renters first.”
“That’s an admirable quality, the way you put others first.”
“I try. You stay close now so I can protect your bruised body if you ankle goes wonky.” He’d discerned a clear difference in their outlooks. She was an adventurer the way she exhibited such enthusiasm in the potential fun of exploring his home.
Brock viewed life more from a serious standpoint. From the viewpoint of his job, the way he put his wants on hold, to the rift with his dad over not going into ministry.
Brock circled in front of her, again to break any potential fall, and waited on the landing.
She raised an eyebrow, but let him have his way. She followed him down the stairs, exposing that pretty dimple every time he looked up at her. He reached the floor and turned to give her a hand, positioning his eyes on a level with her mouth. The light revealed a dusting of freckles across her nose and a darkening bruise on her right cheek, opposite the dimple.
