Her Miracle Man

by Karen Sandler

  They sat at the dining-room table, the pellet stove adding a flickering orange warmth from the adjacent great room. After sprinkling cheese and onions on his chili, Jack picked up his spoon and gazed down at the steaming bowl.

  “Thank you for making dinner tonight. It’s not something I usually do on Christmas Eve.”

  She scooped up a cheese-laden spoonful. “I wanted a special meal for the holiday.”

  He took a bite, then sighed with pleasure. “Chili seems like an unusual choice for Christmas.”

  “Now that you mention it…” She swirled sour cream through the dark red mixture. “When I first thought of making chili, I wasn’t making a connection between it and Christmas Eve. But it seems right. As if it’s a traditional meal for me.”

  “You mentioned Arizona. Maybe it’s something people do in the southwest.” He heaped another mouthful on his spoon.

  “In any case, it’s delicious.”

  Jack went for a second helping. The bright orange shreds of cheddar he dropped into his bowl relaxed onto the hot surface. That was how she had felt when he’d stroked her, melting against his body.

  She shook off the image. “Did you get everything settled with William’s mom?”

  “Her medical insurance only covered a fraction of her hospital stay and none of her prescriptions. I told her I’d make up any shortfall.”

  “You’re a good man, Jack.”

  He shrugged off her compliment. “She needed a hand. I gave it to her.”

  “Not everyone would.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “They wouldn’t.”

  Done with her chili, Mia drizzled honey on her corn bread, licking the stickiness from her fingers when she’d eaten the last bit. She felt Jack’s gaze on her and shivered when she saw the heat in his eyes. A throbbing started up between her legs, her body remembering his clever fingers touching her, thrusting inside.

  He rose abruptly, shoving back his chair. With a clatter, he tossed his spoon into his empty bowl. “Done?” he asked as he reached for her dishes. She nodded and he stacked them with hers.

  She brought in the rest of the corn bread and wrapped it for the freezer. Once Jack was finished with their few dishes, he held open plastic zipper bags while she ladled portions of leftover chili into them.

  As they worked, an awareness sparked between them, crackling along Mia’s skin. His hands brushed against her, contact that could have been accidental, except his fingers would linger. When she glanced up at him, his gaze would be on her mouth or the line of her throat. She could almost feel his lips pressed there.

  Then he seemed to take a step back, breaking eye contact entirely. He turned his back to her as he washed the chili pot, walking away without a word to carry the leftovers to the garage freezer. A battle seemed to rage inside him between approach and retreat. Mia only knew she wanted him to wrap her in his arms.

  He took his time in the garage. Mia swiped the counters clean one last time, then tried to figure out what to do next. She felt ready to explode, emotions tumbling and bursting from inside her. She needed some resolution from Jack, but she wasn’t sure what that should be.

  Her gaze fell on the teakettle on the back of the stove. A cup of cinnamon tea might not settle her, but preparing it would at least give her something to do with her hands. Filling the kettle, she set it on the gas to heat, then pulled the step stool up to the pantry cabinet.

  Climbing to the top step, she scanned the contents of the top shelf for any hidden treasures she might be able to use for a Christmas dinner. Poking her head inside, she spotted a can of cranberry sauce tucked behind a palisade of soup cans. When she reached for it, she upset an open tin. Cinnamon sticks spilled onto the shelf, their aroma blasting her.

  Her mind clouded, she swayed on the step stool. Felt herself falling into space as images pummeled her. A fist slamming against her face, punching her chest. A boot against her ribs.

  She floated away, hovering over herself, watching an enraged man beat her. Except it wasn’t her enduring the man’s wrath. It was a four-year-old girl cowering and screaming and begging Daddy to stop.

  And everywhere, the scent of cinnamon, like a thick, choking smog. Pain and cinnamon locked together in her mind. Punishing fists and that spicy scent now bitter on her tongue.

  “Mia!”

  The syllables meant nothing to her; they were nothing but nonsense noise. She was too busy watching the little girl curled up on herself like a pill bug, trying to be small enough to evade the blows.

  “Mia!”

  The voice was louder now. Something, someone shook her. With a jolt she crashed back into her body, not the little girl’s but her own. One last scream escaped from that tortured child through Mia’s own mouth as she suddenly came to from her waking nightmare.

  For an instant it was a monster’s face bent over her, the rage of her unknown attacker distilled into a demon’s visage. She struggled against the constraint of his arms, mad with terror. Then Jack’s voice registered in her ears, Jack’s firm but gentle touch, and she collapsed against him.

  She shuddered as powerfully as she had that first day when he’d saved her from the creek, except it wasn’t bone-deep cold that shook her body. Burrowing against his chest, eyes closed, she inhaled the clean scent of him, the faint trace of cinnamon dispersing.

  He rose, lifting her in his arms, carrying her to the great room. Easing into the recliner, he nestled her in his lap, curved one hand against her cheek. His hand felt cool where he traced soothing circles on her skin. The rest of him felt warm and rock steady, a bulwark against the black unknown concealed inside her.

  She clutched his shirt to keep him near. “You saved me again.”

  “I heard you screaming.” He kissed her brow. “You were toppling off the ladder when I came in.”

  She took an uneven breath. “Another flashback. I was looking for something in the cupboard. I smelled cinnamon…”

  “Scent can be a powerful trigger.”

  “But this time…” She struggled to make sense of what she’d seen. “I saw a little girl.” Her head swung up as realization struck. “It was me. As a child. Being beaten.” The last word came out in a rasping whisper.

  The motion of his hand stilled. “Who beat you?”

  “I think it was my father.” Her throat closing with remembered fear, she described the scene she’d seen in her mind’s eye. “Is that what my memory loss is all about, then? My father beat me as a child and I’m still traumatized by it?” She shook her head even as she said it. “That makes no sense.”

  She did know with gut-level certainty that the little girl she’d seen was her. But she could muster no sense of peril surrounding her father.

  Jack stroked her back. “You’re safe now,” he murmured.

  The touch of his fingers distracted her from her contemplation. “I’ll always feel safe with you.”

  A mix of emotions played across his face—guilt, uneasiness, longing. “Don’t count too much on me, Mia.”

  She took his face in her hands, his rough beard prickling against her palms. “I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrists and tugged them away. But he didn’t let go. “I can’t give you anything but my body.”

  “That’s enough,” she said, even as despair settled in her chest.

  “I can’t, Mia.” The edginess was back in his eyes.

  “Because of your wife.”

  “Yes. No.” He turned away, the fire casting shadows on his face. “There’s something building inside me. Call it my own flashback. Memories of that night she died, but more than that.”

  “But wouldn’t it be easier to be with me?”

  “Dammit! Of course it would!” He let go of her, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he dropped his hands again, his eyes blazed with a dark fire. “I can’t use you that way.”

  He shifted, pushing away from her, leaving her on the chair as he prowled before the f
ire. “It plays over and over in my mind, each time more vivid, more real. From the first of December until now. Until the time she died.”

  “When?” she asked, barely able to push out the question.

  “Eight twenty-one.” His head jerked toward the clock that hung above the pellet stove. “An hour and a half from now. I see myself coming home…finding her…”

  He lunged at her, hands propped on the arms of the recliner, trapping her. “If I take you into my bedroom now, it will be nothing but sex, Mia. Nothing but a way to drive the ugliness from my mind.”

  She flinched at his raw declaration. Wanted to deny what he was telling her. She saw the wildness in his eyes, the corded muscles in his arms. Everything about him was hard, taut, as if it took every last scrap of his will to keep from self-destructing.

  And yet…she remembered the longing she’d seen in his face. Could see a fragment of it still, almost pleading with her to say yes. Maybe she was only fooling herself, was only seeing what she wanted to see. But instinct told her that despite what he’d said, he yearned for more.

  “I want to be whatever you need tonight.” She wouldn’t think about why, wasn’t ready to let that thought in.

  He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze hotter than the flames flickering in the stove. “Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” he rasped out.

  He lifted her again, carrying her from the great room and down the hall. The air should have felt cooler away from the fire, but Jack felt as hot as a furnace, as if his tension converted to heat as he kicked open his bedroom door and slammed it shut again. He set her on the bed gently enough, but then stripped the comforter out from under her.

  “Take off your clothes,” he told her as his fingers went to the buttons on his shirt. Illuminated by the bedside lamp, he was all rough angles, light and shadow.

  She tugged her sweater and T-shirt off in one motion, enjoying the way his hand fumbled when he saw her bared breasts. Unashamed, she pushed off her jeans and panties, moving aside as he lay beside her, naked, on the bed.

  Reaching into the drawer, he tossed a handful of condoms on top of the nightstand. She thought he would sheathe himself, immediately plunge inside her. She wanted that as much as he did, wanted to be joined with him, one with him. The need rippling off him stoked her own.

  But instead he stretched out beside her. Drew his hand leisurely along her body from shoulder to hip. Pressed soft kisses on her mouth, her cheek, her jaw. Traced the whorls of her ear with the tip of his tongue. His tenderness melted her heart even as it heated her body.

  She couldn’t lie still. She threw one leg over him, wanting his thick heat inside her, but he nudged her back, flat on the bed. He continued his gentle assault with his hand, stroking in growing circles from rib cage to belly, then higher, lower with each arc.

  The first brush of his hand against her soft curls, she strangled back a cry. He moved in slow motion back up, just to the bottom of her breasts. Her nipples stood out hard and aching for his touch. But still, he teased her, so very close yet not quite reaching his goal.

  When he again passed the nest of curls, she grabbed his wrist, desperate for his touch on her sensitized flesh. She hadn’t the strength to force his hand and glared up at him in frustration. His mouth curved into a smile, and with his hot gaze on her, he bowed his head and drew her nipple into his mouth.

  A low, guttural moan slipped from her throat. His teeth grazed her nipple, sending heat zinging from her breasts to the vee of her legs. Again it was impossible to lie still, her legs moving restlessly. Her fingers holding his wrist grew lax, allowing him to resume his unhurried exploration of her body.

  When finally he parted her folds, trailed his fingertip along her sensitive nub, a lightning bolt of sensation struck. Then he thrust a finger inside her, and she climaxed, crying out in ecstatic surprise. As her body clenched around his finger, she clutched his wrist again to hold him there.

  A last circling of her nipple with his tongue, then he moved to her mouth, kissing her softly, taking his time. She could feel his erection, as hard as stone against her thigh, the tip wetting her skin. But he still didn’t reach for a condom. Instead he lay on his back and pulled her toward him.

  “Straddle me,” he whispered.

  When she tried to sit across his hips, he stopped her. Gaze locked with hers, he urged her higher until she was positioned at his shoulders, knees beside his head, facing the carved oak headboard. The curls between her legs shivered with each breath he exhaled.

  “Hold on,” he murmured, and she did, wrapping her fingers around the headboard.

  Then he lifted his mouth to her.

  The first touch of his tongue ran through her like a shock and she was grateful for the anchor of the headboard. Her fingers dug into the wood, bliss running through her at the wet slide of his tongue. She couldn’t hold back the explosion, felt it thunder through her like a rockslide. Flung to pieces like that crumbling mountainside, she drifted into an exquisite emptiness.

  Drowsy and sated, she all but slumped to the bed when he released her hips. He gazed at her lying beside him, an intense light in his eyes. There was still tension in his face, a tautness she knew she could soothe with her body. He’d said this would mean nothing more to him than physical release, yet he’d delayed his pleasure for so long to give her hers.

  She pressed her hand to his cheek, a brightness welling up inside her. Still unwilling to accept the message her heart was sending, she forced herself to remain silent. Soon enough she would have to deal with the emotional fallout in the aftermath. For now this would be the only gift he would take from her.

  Reaching across him, she took a condom from the nightstand and ripped it open. He didn’t stop her as she took his erection in her hand, his sharp intake of breath the only sign of the strain he was under. As she unrolled the condom, his fingers dug into the mattress, tendons popping out on his hands.

  When he made to rise, she pressed his shoulders back into the bed. She straddled his body again, this time across his hips. Taking his hard flesh in her hand, she eased him inside her, watching his face as each inch slipped deeper.

  He pulled her down, gathering her close. Mouth close to her ear, he murmured her name, whispered endearments. None of them promises, none of them meant for anywhere but this bed. But she took them into her heart nonetheless.

  He lay motionless as she cradled him inside her, his large hands spread across her back, their heat seeping into her. Then with his mouth on hers, his tongue dipping inside, he cocked his hips up toward her. She pressed down as he moved up, their rhythm in perfect synchronicity.

  Then his thrusts increased in tempo, losing their grace, even as pleasure lapped at her again. His tongue plunged deeply in tandem with his hot flesh, giving her more of him with each stroke. He climaxed, his deep groan matching hers as she came again, astonished by the shattering sensations. Her body squeezed him over and over, as if it would not willingly release him from its domain.

  Finally she slid from him, her head pillowed on his arm, her body curved tightly against his. She mustered the energy to tug the comforter over them both, then relaxed against him, listening to his slowing heart.

  And felt her lies come crashing down on her. That she could deal with the emotional fallout. That she could be intimate with him without wanting more. That he was a stranger who meant nothing more to her than someone who gave her shelter. And the most monumental lie—that she could leave him and still remain whole.

  Then came the next rockslide, the biggest one of all. The one she could no longer hold back, no longer ignore.

  I love him.

  She lay there, stunned, afraid to look up at him, terrified of what he might see in her face. Fearful that he could somehow feel it in the way her body lay against his, the way her heart beat, her breath moved in and out of her lungs.

  She loved him. With all his edges, all his secrets. She loved him as she had never loved—

  A name skittered across
her conscious mind then vanished. A chill crept over her skin despite the comforter and Jack’s warm body beside her.

  She had loved someone before. Or thought she did. If she cared for someone as much as she did Jack, how could she have possibly forgotten? Of all the things her mind might have wanted to conceal, why would it have hidden love?

  It must be someone in her past, someone no longer in her life. She had only the impression that there had been someone once, not that that someone was still a part of her world.

  With Jack’s breathing growing slower, deeper, she took a chance, looking up at him. His eyes were closed, his body so relaxed it was obvious he was asleep. The demons that had been pursuing him all day, all week, had given up the chase.

  Lifting her head high enough to see, Mia checked the clock. Ten to eight. She settled her head back against Jack’s arm to wait.

  An hour later, when 8:21 p.m. had come and gone, Jack still slept. Mia closed her eyes, as well, and let herself drift off into dreams.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jack’s eyes snapped open. Light poured in through the bedroom window, the warm yellow of sunshine rather than the milky white of overcast skies. The bed beside him was empty, but he could still feel Mia’s warmth on the sheets.

  Then it hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. He’d slept through zero hour. Had damn near slept through the night for the first time in weeks. He’d woken only once, at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., he wasn’t sure. He’d reached for Mia and they’d made love, both of them half-asleep but hungry for each other. The feel of his climax still tingled along his nerve endings.

  Had he used a condom? A quick glance at the nightstand told him there were two empty packets. He huffed with relief. Bad enough he’d used Mia the way he had. To have risked making her pregnant when she would soon be out of his life would have been beyond wrong.

  And she would be leaving. In several days, a week, however long it would take the crew Dawson hired to plow through the snow and dig out the rockslide. And once the road was clear, he’d transport Mia to the county sheriff and watch her walk out of his life.