by Susan Fox
“M-Mo?” Her voice quivered. “Are you thinking . . . I mean, have you decided . . . ?”
“Guess it’s time for chapter three of the story.” He stared into her eyes, his blue-green gaze mesmerizing. “Maribeth, I’ve thought long and hard. Something Daphne said on Sunday was the final piece of the puzzle. She talked about when someone sees you for the person you’re really meant to be, the one who’s hiding inside because you don’t have the guts to let them out. And how that can give you the courage to be that person. Maribeth, I’ve been afraid, guilty, just downright messed up.”
“Lost,” she whispered. “A lost soul.”
He nodded. “That’s who I was. But I’m not that man anymore. You’ve helped me find my way to being the real Mo.” He took a breath and gazed steadily into her eyes. “The real Mo wants it all, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure I deserve it.”
“A-all?” she stammered.
“This,” he said.
She hadn’t been able to look away from his eyes, which was why it took her a moment to realize that he was holding something else out to her. When she finally glanced down and saw the ring box, she let out a squeak. Her eyes felt so wide they could pop out of her head, and her heart pounded so fast she couldn’t think straight. “Mo?”
“Will you marry me, Maribeth Scott? I love you, I want you, and I want our babies, however they’re created. I want to be part of your life, to meet your grandparents and all your friends. I want you to be part of my big, messy family. I want us to build a future together and I want us to be happy.”
Was this really happening? It was all she’d dreamed of, so maybe she was still asleep.
He gave a rough laugh. “And that’s a whole lot of ‘I wants.’ What do you want, Maribeth?”
Whether this was a dream or reality, there was only one possible answer. “You! I want you, Mo.”
“I am the luckiest bugger in the entire world,” he said gruffly as he opened the box to reveal a lovely ring—an emerald set off with sparkly little diamonds.
As Mo slipped the ring on her finger, Caruso sat up, lifted his head, and sang them a long, warbly ballad.
Maribeth stared at her finger, tears of joy glazing her vision. It seemed like she’d waited for this moment all her life. It was every dream come true, to be engaged to a man she loved deeply, a man with whom she’d create a family. “Oh my God, I can’t wait to tell my grandparents!” The words burst out.
Mo looked a little startled, and she hurried to explain. “They’re my only family and they’ll understand how much this means to me. I want them to be the first to know, and I want to introduce them to you. This is going to give them such a happy Christmas, too. And oh, Mo, just imagine the expressions on the faces of your family when we walk in this afternoon and I flash this ring!”
He shook his head, giving her an amused smile. “You want to tell the world?”
“I do! The whole entire world. I’m so happy, so excited, I just can’t believe it.” Euphoria, that’s what this feeling was. “I’m the happiest woman in the world!”
“D’you think there’s maybe a couple of things you could do before you call your grandparents?”
“Like what?”
“Say, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you, Mo,’ and then kiss me.”
Laughter bubbled out. She couldn’t complain about her man’s priorities. “Oh yes, Mo, I will most definitely marry you.” Kneeling, she captured his head between her palms and leaned forward to kiss him. In her enthusiasm, she lost her balance and tumbled him down to the rug, landing on top of him.
Gazing into his stunning eyes—knowing she’d be seeing those eyes every day for the rest of her life—she said, “I love you, Mo, and we’re going to have the most amazing life together.”
Epilogue
A year later, on Christmas afternoon, Maribeth dropped onto the couch beside her grandmother. “Best Christmas ever,” she told the elderly woman with deep satisfaction.
“It is a special one,” Grandma said with a smile, and her husband, seated in a chair on her other side said, “It sure is.” They were in the big living room at Evan and Jess’s, since it was that couple’s turn to host the turkey dinner.
“I am so, so glad the two of you moved to Caribou Crossing,” Maribeth said. It had been almost four months since her grandparents had sold their house in North Vancouver—the one they’d bought half a century earlier—making a huge profit that would ensure they lived in comfort for the rest of their lives. They had rented the studio apartment at Daphne and Irene’s house, figuring on taking their time looking for a new home. The four eighty-somethings had hit it off immediately, and so far Maribeth’s grandparents hadn’t kept the Realtor very busy.
“We should have done it years ago,” Granddad said. “Don’t know why we felt so rooted in Vancouver.”
“It’s always been our home,” his wife said, “and change is hard, especially when you’re older. We had our clubs, activities, and friends there, though fewer friends as the years went by. But all those things can’t compete with the charms of our first great-granddaughter.” She hugged month-old Joy, who was sleeping in her arms.
“Speaking of whom,” Maribeth said, “can I borrow her back? I can only go so long without holding her.”
As she happily took custody of her daughter, Joy stirred, blinked, and then fell back asleep. Maribeth gazed down at her, endlessly fascinated by this small, warm miracle. Joy’s wispy hair was as black as her dad’s, her skin was a gorgeous light caramel, and Maribeth really hoped her blue eyes would end up the same shade as Mo’s. Joy was clothed in an adorable red onesie with snowflakes on it, a gift from Mo’s sister. The wedding and pregnancy were forging a closer relationship with her and even with Mo’s dad, and that made Maribeth very happy.
Feeling the warmth of her husband’s gaze, Maribeth glanced across the room to where he sat on the floor playing trucks with Alex, who had turned three a couple of weeks earlier. Mo rose and headed over, trailed by Alex. Maribeth moved closer to her grandmother, letting Mo squeeze in on her other side.
He put his arm around Maribeth and trailed a gentle finger over Joy’s delicate cheek. “How’s our little bundle of joy holding up?” It was the baby’s first big family outing.
“Hi, Bundle,” Alex said, reaching his own less gentle pudgy fingers toward the baby’s face.
“Careful now,” Mo said, seizing the boy’s hand and guiding it into a caress. “And her name’s Joy.”
“She’s Bundle,” Alex announced firmly. “Tee Bee and Mo-Mo’s baby is Bundle.” He turned away. “I go play with Nicki now!” and off he raced.
“The Bundle thing is my fault,” Grandma said ruefully. When Maribeth and Mo had found out she was pregnant with a girl, they’d agreed on the name Joy, because it so perfectly expressed their emotions. The day Joy was born, when Grandma first saw her in the hospital, she’d cried and called her their bundle of joy. Maribeth and Mo had started doing it, too, and Alex, with the persistence of a three-year-old, had glommed onto the Bundle part and refused to budge.
“You look more rested,” Grandma said to Maribeth. “Is Joy sleeping better now?”
Maribeth grinned at her husband. “Mo found the perfect lullaby for her.”
“You’re singing to the baby?” Grandma asked him.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But there’s a voice she prefers. Caruso’s, if you can believe it. We realized that whenever he sings, she settles right down. So we made a tape of his songs, repeating over and over.”
After her grandparents chuckled, Granddad said, “That dog’s good with children, isn’t he? I admit, when you first told us what breed he was, I looked it up and was worried. I thought he’d be too wild and unpredictable.”
“Amazingly,” Mo said, squeezing Maribeth’s shoulders, “some wild things actually enjoy being domesticated, in the right circumstances.”
She snuggled closer into the curve of his arm, knowing he was talking about himself as wel
l as Caruso. There was still a touch of wildness in both the man and the singing dog, a craving that sent them out together for two-hour walks in the country once or twice a week. But she didn’t mind it one bit. She had her own cravings, like for time with girlfriends—lunches and the occasional ladies’ evening out at a pub or at one of their homes. It was good for her and Mo to be different. They complemented each other—and on the truly important things, like the value of family, they were in total agreement.
Grandma took her husband’s hand and squared her shoulders. “We have a question for you two.”
“Okay,” Maribeth said, a little wary of this lead-up.
“Now that Joy’s settling in,” Grandma said, “when are the pair of you planning to give her a baby brother or sister?”
Maribeth’s mouth fell open. Yes, she and Mo had talked in general terms about having more than one child. He knew how she’d regretted being an only. But Joy was barely a month old.
Granddad spoke next. “It’s not like any of us is getting any younger.”
Mo gave a soft laugh. “The man has a point, my love.”
She gazed from her beloved grandparents, down to beautiful little Joy, whose rosebud mouth was pursed in her sleep, and then to the handsome face of the man she loved.
His grin flashed, the slow, dazzling one that carved dimples into his cheeks.
She smiled back. “Yes, Granddad has an excellent point.”
If you enjoyed HOLIDAY IN YOUR HEART, be sure not to miss Susan Fox’s
RING OF FIRE
No one is a stranger in Caribou Crossing, a small Western town made for healing and second chances . . .
She’s raising her son on her own, but that’s just fine with Lark Cantrell. Caribou Crossing’s fire chief comes from a long line of strong, independent women—who have lousy luck with men. Lark’s ex-husband walked out when Jayden was born with cerebral palsy. No matter—Jayden, now ten, is a bright, terrific kid, and the love of her life.
When it comes to men, Lark is content with the occasional casual hookup; there’s no room in her heart for more disappointment.
Major Eric Weaver is in Caribou Crossing for one reason: to complete his rehabilitation so he can return to active service. Haunted by what went down in Afghanistan, his wounded soul isn’t healing as quickly as his body. But it’s almost impossible to resist the appeal of the sexy, feisty fire chief and her plucky son—not to mention the friendly, caring small town way of life. In Lark’s loving arms, the scarred soldier begins to believe he may finally have found his true home . . .
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Lark Cantrell snapped awake at the familiar bleep of her pager and grabbed the device from the bedside table. A residential structure fire on Tannen Road; occupancy undetermined.
In a flash she responded and jumped out of bed. She ran down the hall, clad in her checked cotton sleep pants and blue tank top. Tannen was out in the country, ten or more minutes’ drive from the town of Caribou Crossing.
She shoved her feet into a pair of sandals that sat by the front door. No need to leave a note for her family. Lark’s ten-year-old son and mom were used to the unpredictable schedule of a firefighter. As for a man, there hadn’t been a significant guy in Lark’s life since Jayden’s dad walked out on them when he was a baby, and she intended to keep it that way.
She sprinted next door to the fire hall, the mid-July air warm on her skin. As chief, she worked regular weekday hours and didn’t have to respond to after-hours callouts. Although no one staffed the fire hall at night, she trusted her volunteers to show up when paged. But she lived beside the station, and with the fire so far outside town, every second counted.
Besides, firefighting was way more exhilarating than sleeping.
She raced into the apparatus bay, kicked off her sandals, and jumped into her boots and turnout pants. By that time, Javi Sanchez had joined her, and moments later Daniels and Mason ran in. As the volunteers dressed, Lark contacted dispatch to report their status, and learned that Captain Tom Weston, tonight’s on-call duty officer, was on his way to the scene in the duty vehicle. He’d likely arrive five minutes before Lark’s team, but he wouldn’t have a mask and breathing apparatus so he couldn’t enter the structure. Still, he’d provide valuable information while the other firefighters were en route, so they could plan their strategy.
Usually, Lark took the command role, but tonight she wanted the adrenaline buzz of active firefighting. Besides, it was good to give learning opportunities to some of the others. As she gathered her balaclava, mask, and breathing apparatus, she called out, “Engine 4. Daniels, you’re driving.”
“Yes, Chief.” Sharon Daniels raced for the pumper truck. As driver, the volunteer would also be responsible for operating the pump once they were on-scene.
“Sanchez, you’re Command,” Lark continued. He was a great firefighter and he’d relish the chance to be in charge. “Mason, you and I are the attack team.” She and Mason would be the first team into the structure, assuming it was safe to enter when they arrived. Cal Mason was only a couple of months out of training and Lark wanted to work with him, help him out.
More firefighters were arriving, including Manny Singh. Captain Singh was one of the paid personnel; like her, he worked regular weekday hours but also often responded to after-hours callouts. “Engine 3,” she told him. His team would follow Engine 4, bringing the additional water supply that could be needed out in the country where there were no hydrants.
Lark jumped into the back of Engine 4, joining Mason. Daniels drove the truck out the open doors with flashing lights and a whoop of the siren. Sanchez, beside Daniels up front, was on the radio. He relayed information to the firefighters. “Dispatch says a guy was driving home after a late shift at work. Saw flickering lights in a back window of a two-story residence. Said it looked to him like fire, maybe in the kitchen. The house is owned by the Hoppingtons, an elderly couple. The guy thinks they moved into an assisted living facility two or three months back, but he’s not positive.”
The engine raced through the residential outskirts of the small town, and onto a country road leading northeast. One good thing about night callouts: the roads were virtually empty.
“Even if the couple did move,” Lark said, “there might be family staying there, or they could’ve rented it out.”
She checked her watch. They’d made excellent time. It had been only five minutes since she’d received the page. “Wonder how old the house is?” Older houses burned more slowly and cleanly. With a new home, once it had been burning for twenty minutes, it often wasn’t safe to enter.
They were five, maybe six minutes from their destination, driving through ranch land where there was only an occasional building. She and Mason pulled on their balaclavas, and then donned their masks and breathing apparatuses.
Weston’s voice crackled over the radio. “I’m just arriving. Jeep parked in front. No one outside. Smoke and flames pouring out the back of the house.”
Damn. It seemed the house was occupied, and the residents hadn’t managed to get out. Lark leaned forward, readying herself to leap out of the truck the moment it stopped.
* * *
Major Eric Weaver eased through the doorway and stepped over a broken piece of wood, careful to walk in the boot prints of Sergeant Danny Peller. Their unit was on a training mission with the Afghan local police, searching an abandoned compound after receiving a tip that insurgents had a weapons cache there.
The vacated room was a mess of broken furniture and equipment. Peller stopped to assess the situation, and Eric glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sharif, the Afghan police officer who was following Eric, held back. Sharif was young and eager, and could be too impetuous.
Peller moved forward. Eric started to follow and—
The world exploded. He was flung into the air, crashing against the wooden wall. For a moment, he was too stunned to move,
even to think.
Then . . . fuck. Where’s my weapon? In the explosion, it had flown out of his hand. What the fuck happened? Was it an IED? A grenade? A truck bomb? Were they under attack? When he sucked in a breath, it carried the scent of smoke. Was the building on fire?
Where were Peller and Sharif?
He managed to sit up, blinking against grit in his eyes. His gaze landed first on the Afghan, who’d been blown back out the doorway and lay on the ground, either unconscious or dead. Fuck. Through a haze of dust and smoke, Eric searched for Peller and found him sprawled on the floor a few yards away with—oh, shit—his fucking right leg blown away from above the knee. Peller’s gaze, wide-eyed with shock, was fixed on Eric.
A tourniquet. Gotta get a tourniquet on him or he’ll bleed out before the medics get here.
Automatically, Eric made to rise, but his legs didn’t work. For the first time, he looked down at his body. His legs were there, but from his knees down, both of them were a mess of torn flesh, blood, and—oh, fuck—even shattered bone.
And then the pain came. Agonizing pain.
But he couldn’t surrender to it. Eric pulled himself onto his side and, using the strength of his arms, torso, and hip, dragged himself toward Peller.
Where were the other men? Were they taking fire, unable to reach him, Peller, and Sharif? Or were they dead, or injured? What the hell was going on out there? His ears rang, making it hard to distinguish sounds. One thing he knew: the building was on fire. Smoke scratched his throat and flames licked the closest wall, spreading quickly. At least the Afghan officer—alive or dead—was outside and should be safe from the fire.
