Someday Soon

by Debbie Macomber

  The service closed with the singing of “Silent Night.” Cain couldn’t participate for the hard knot that gripped his throat. He didn’t want to ruin this moment, standing in this country church with Linette at his side.

  For the first time in years he felt almost whole. Almost good. Almost clean.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t last. Within an hour of returning home, Cain was reminded of exactly who and what he was.

  One moment Linette was sound asleep and the next she was awake. It took her a couple of seconds to remember where she was, then another moment to realize Cain was with her. His face was only a few inches from her own.

  “Cain?” she whispered.

  The moonlight reflecting off the freshly fallen snow revealed his taut features. The look in his eyes was wild, almost primitive. She could feel every breath he drew and see his pulse throb at the base of his throat.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked in a whisper, and knew without his answering that there was.

  He shook his head, denying everything. “I need to kiss you.”

  It never occurred to her to ask what he was doing in her bedroom in the middle of the night. It never occurred to her to refuse his request. She raised her arms and linked them around his neck, and smiled up at him.

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re too trusting?” he said as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Linette experienced the familiar, hot excitement as his lips settled over hers. It was as it had been in the beginning for them. A coming home, a renewal of life. One touch and the desperate loneliness she’d lived with since Michael’s death eased.

  They were staring at each other in the golden glow of moonlight, when Linette realized something was different about Cain. Gone was the man who’d dressed up as Santa in order to surprise two small boys. Gone was the man who’d sat next to her in a sleigh, holding a sleeping child in his arms.

  She didn’t recognize this Cain. Then again, perhaps she did. This was the man she’d met at Nancy and Rob’s Christmas party, the one who took her out to dinner and asked her about her life while freezing her out of his.

  Confused and a bit dazed, she attempted to gather her scattered senses. Cain would never hurt her, never take what she wasn’t willing to give.

  She lovingly stroked the side of his neck and kissed the underside of his jaw. He released his breath slowly, in a barely audible rush.

  “Can you tell me what’s—”

  “No.” He answered her question before she had a chance to fully ask it. He kissed her again with a hunger that left them both gasping for breath. When he lifted his head from hers, she could read the desire in his eyes. She could feel his arousal as well.

  He seemed to get a grip on himself, and he gently folded back the blankets. His hands found her breasts, and he lifted his eyes to hers. “May I? One last time?”

  She nodded, although she wasn’t completely sure she understood what he sought. Slowly he lowered his head to her breasts, licking each nipple to a heated peak until it was all Linette could do not to ask him to take her in his mouth.

  He fulfilled her unspoken request and tightly fit his lips over her nipple and sucked. A shaft of intense pleasure shot through her. Instinctively she arched her back.

  He rolled onto his side and held her against him with one hand. He slid his free hand over her stomach, past the elastic of her silk-lined bottoms. He hesitated, seeming to wait for some sign from her. Linette gave it by parting her thighs. He lowered his hand. The intimate contact caused her to suck in a deep breath and bite down on her lower lip.

  He was kissing her again, deeply, hungrily. All at once he stopped and broke away from her, rolling onto his back. His chest heaved, and he groaned from between clenched teeth.

  Linette was undergoing some heavy breathing of her own. First and foremost she wanted to know why he’d stopped. It was just beginning to get interesting.

  “Cain?”

  It took another moment or two for him to compose himself. He sat up and gently kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be here. It would have been better if I’d left you a note.”

  “A note?”

  “I have to go.”

  She didn’t understand. “Go?”

  “I got a call, for a mission.”

  “Mission? But it’s Christmas.”

  “I know. I’ve already talked to John. He’ll drive you to the airport in the morning. I’ve arranged for your flight back to San Francisco.”

  By the time Linette could sit up, he’d made it across the room and was walking out the door. “Cain?”

  He paused but didn’t turn around.

  “When will I see you again?”

  His shoulders tensed. “You won’t.” With that he closed the door.

  Linette fell back against the pillow, fighting a hundred conflicting emotions. She had one thing to say for Cain McClellan. He had a hell of a way of saying good-bye.

  6

  Francine Holden loved her family. Loved spending the Christmas holidays with them. Loved smothering all ten of her nieces and nephews with a heart full of love and a bounty of attention.

  But it wasn’t the holiday season or the gifts collected under the brightly decorated Christmas tree that occupied Francine’s thoughts this year.

  It was her patient, Tim Mallory.

  “I swear life gets better every year.” Her grizzly bear of a father wrapped his massive arms around his wife of thirty-two years and planted a noisy kiss on the side of Martha Holden’s neck.

  “I never understood why a woman as talented and beautiful as your mother married a man like me,” Chuck Holden told his daughter.

  Francine smiled and pulled down the spices from the oak rack and took them to her mother. Martha’s hands were buried in a thick ceramic bowl filled with moistened bread cubes.

  “It’s times like this that I ask myself the same question,” Francine’s mother said with a teasing smile. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m about to stuff this turkey.”

  “All right, all right,” her father said, and laughed. “A man knows when he’s not wanted.”

  Her father walked out of the large family kitchen, leaving the door to swing in his wake. Francine found herself alone with her mother for the first time that day.

  “How are things going with your new patient?” Martha asked conversationally as Francine added an extra dash of rubbed sage to the dressing.

  Francine hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Tim Mallory, especially now, knowing he was spending Christmas Day alone. Rarely had she met a man more bullheaded and irritating. Rarely had she met a man who haunted her thoughts more.

  His leg was responding well to the exercises and physical therapy, but mentally, despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to reach him. It was as if he’d erected a concrete wall between the two of them.

  Francine felt as if all she’d done in the last week was continually butt her head against the full force of his stubborn male pride.

  “Things aren’t going so well.”

  Francine felt her mother studying her. “Why not?”

  “I’ve only been working with him a few days.”

  “But…”

  Francine shouldn’t be surprised by how well her mother knew her. “But I don’t expect it to get much better. Not unless something happens.

  “He doesn’t trust me, doesn’t want anything to do with me. He’d rather I left him alone.” She’d spent several sleepless nights mulling over the problem with Tim Mallory and had found no solutions.

  “Tell me about him,” her mother prompted.

  “His name’s Tim Mallory.” She gathered her thoughts together, making a mental assessment. Tim was a large, burly man, not unlike her own father, but the resemblance and just about everything else stopped there.

  His anger spilled over like a spitting, bubbling cauldron, the heat of it driving nearly everyone away.

  “How old is he?” h
er mother asked next.

  “Thirty-five, I believe.”

  “Car accident?”

  Francine shook her head. “He stepped on a land mine.” The injury would have killed almost anyone else, she suspected. She had a few other suspicions as well, mainly that Tim Mallory wished he had died that day.

  “A land mine?”

  “He’s a mercenary.”

  “A mercenary.” This bit of information gave her mother pause.

  “He’s not like what you’d expect.” It surprised Francine how quickly she came to Tim’s defense. “He’s acting like a wounded animal now because he’s in pain.”

  “And you’re the one inflicting it.”

  “Yes.” But Tim’s agony was far more than physical; the mental anguish outweighed anything else.

  “Are his loved ones with him for Christmas?”

  Francine shook her head. “He’s alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “He’s never mentioned any family.” Nor had Cain McClellan said anything to indicate Tim had one.

  “Why, that’s terrible. No one should be alone on Christmas.”

  Francine didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that she suspected Tim Mallory preferred it that way.

  Her mother didn’t mention Tim again until after the huge dinner had been served. As Francine cleared off the table, she noticed Martha busily working at the kitchen counter.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” Francine asked, joining her mother.

  “I’m making up a dinner plate for your friend, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Mom, trust me, he isn’t my friend.”

  Her mother nodded profoundly. “Maybe that’s the problem, Francine. It seems to me a man with no family is in need of a friend. This may be the way to reach him. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

  Her mother, with her warm, generous heart, couldn’t bear the thought of anyone spending Christmas without being surrounded by loved ones and good friends. Martha didn’t understand about men like Tim Mallory. Didn’t understand the last thing he’d do was allow Francine into the fog of his pain. From what she knew of Tim, he’d rather starve than eat the dinner she delivered.

  “I want you to take this dinner plate to him, and stay and visit until he’s finished eating.”

  Francine knew better than to argue, especially when her mother wore a look that said she wasn’t going to listen to reason.

  “Take some sugar cookies and fruitcake with you,” Martha called to Francine on her way out the door. Her mother added a paper plate full of homemade goodies to Francine’s growing stack. “Make sure he understands you’re his friend.”

  “I will,” she promised, but doubted that she’d make it much beyond the front door.

  By the time she parked her car in Tim’s driveway, Francine was convinced she was making a terrible mistake. She walked up the porch steps with little enthusiasm and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, she got out the key Cain McClellan had given her and let herself into the house.

  Stark silence greeted her. Her own family home was filled with the sound of children’s laughter and the scent of mincemeat and holly.

  “Who’s there?” Tim’s gruff voice called out from the family room, at the far end of the house.

  Francine was grateful to realize he wasn’t holed up in the bedroom. “It’s me,” she called, following the sound of his voice. She found him in the wheelchair in front of the big-screen television set, watching a football game. Probably the same one her father and brothers had been vehemently discussing earlier.

  Mallory frowned when she walked into the room. “What are you doing here?” He stared at her with a decided lack of welcome.

  She should have given more thought to what she intended to say, Francine mused, too late. Tim Mallory wasn’t likely to believe she just happened to be in the neighborhood.

  “I thought I’d stop in and see how you were doing.” She set both plates on the kitchen counter behind him.

  His voice was gruff and unfriendly. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “Good. I’m not offering it.”

  “Then what are you offering?” He swiveled the wheelchair around and glared at her menacingly.

  Francine sat on the ottoman so they’d be at eye level. She studied her palms, debating what she might possibly say to reach him. The man was as obstinate as they came.

  “I want to help you,” she began slowly, her voice low and uncertain, “but I can’t because you won’t let me. I was hoping that if we sat down and talked, you might be more comfortable with me.”

  He looked away from her and back to the television screen. Apparently that was his answer, the same answer he’d been giving her all week. The same answer he’d been shouting at the world since his accident. He was shutting her and everyone else out as effectively as if he slammed a door closed. He didn’t want her there, didn’t want her anywhere close to him. Physically or mentally.

  What her patient didn’t understand was that Francine wasn’t willing to accept this response. It was going to take a whole lot more than diverting his attention to persuade her to walk out that door.

  She walked over to the coffee table, reached for the remote control, and turned off the football game. Then she deliberately set the controller out of Tim’s reach.

  His eyes followed her movements. His gaze told her it wouldn’t take much more for his anger to explode. “We can do this the easy way,” she said without emotion, “or we can do this the hard way. The choice is yours.”

  “Everything in my life has come hard, and it isn’t going to change with you, sweetheart.” A bitter smile twisted his lips.

  She hated the way he said “sweetheart.” In no way could it be construed as a term of affection. He made it sound like a four-letter word, as if saying it left an acrid taste in his mouth.

  “Oh, that’s smart,” she muttered sarcastically. “In other words, you go out of your way to make life difficult.”

  He didn’t answer, but then she hadn’t expected he would.

  “Just go,” he ventured after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “That would be much too easy.” She sat back on the overstuffed chair and stretched her long legs onto the ottoman. Crossing her arms, she set her lips in the same stubborn, prim way her mother had so often.

  “Just how long do you intend to plant yourself in my house?” he asked gruffly.

  “As long as it takes to get you to walk again.”

  He snickered. “Neither of us is going to live that long.”

  So that was it. He didn’t believe it was possible, couldn’t see past the pain and the frustration. The light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming freight train and not the hope she’d worked so hard to instill in him.

  Tim had plunged himself into a cave of despair, crawled through the mire of pessimism, and was waiting for her to give up on him the way everyone else had. With the exception of Cain McClellan. She wouldn’t, only he didn’t know that. Not yet.

  “You’re going to walk, Tim Mallory, come hell or high water, and you can count on that because I’m not going to allow you to waste the rest of your life feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Tim’s hands tightened into fists. He clenched his teeth so tight, his jaw went white. Francine guessed that the control on his temper was precarious at best.

  “So that’s it,” he said in a voice best described as a growl. “You want me to walk. You need me to walk. Because if I do, it’s a feather in your professional cap. You can’t allow me to ruin your perfect record. Can’t allow me to smear your lily white reputation.”

  Francine knew this probably wasn’t the moment to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. She giggled.

  Tim cursed and wheeled away from her. There wasn’t any place he could go that she couldn’t follow. He must have figured she was just the type to go after him because he suddenly rotated back around. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to walk again?”

  “Frankly, no,�
�� she returned smoothly. “You want it so damn much you can taste it. You want it so much you’re scared spitless. You’re more frightened now than you’ve been at any other time of your life because if you dare to think it’s possible, then it won’t happen.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Sigmund Freud?”

  “Tim,” she said, allowing her voice to soften significantly. “I’ve been a physical therapist for a long time. You aren’t so different from the others I’ve worked with over the years. There’s no shame in fear. No disgrace in pain. If anything, it’s a common denominator.”

  The fierce light in his eyes brightened.

  “I can help, if you’ll let me.” She scooted to the edge of the cushioned chair and prayed some of what she’d said made sense in that stubborn head of his. “Listen, Tim—”

  “No one calls me Tim,” he said.

  “No one calls me ‘sweetheart,’” she countered without reproach.

  He gave a snickering laugh. “I can see why. What did McClellan do, search for the ugliest therapist he could find?”

  His verbal attack was so brutal and unexpected that it left Francine reeling. She’d underestimated his ability to find her weakest point and charge full speed ahead.

  It shouldn’t hurt this much. She should be used to it by now. Tim Mallory was only saying what others thought, only saying what she knew to be true.

  But it did hurt. Like hell. For several excruciating moments she waited for the pain to fade.

  “Oh, so now we’re going to get nasty and personal,” she said, faking a small laugh. “I have news for you, Tim Mallory. If you think insults are going to send me running, you’re wrong. I’m not going to give up on you, even if you’ve given up on yourself. I’m here for the long haul.”

  Fire leaped into his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yes, we will,” she countered, unwilling to budge so much as an inch. But then, neither was he.

  Bouncing from one airport to the next wasn’t the way Linette had expected to spend Christmas Day. She’d envisioned a turkey roasting in the oven, music on the stereo, and sitting in front of the fireplace with Cain.