Keegan

by Lori Wilde

  In two days?

  She could do it. If she started now and worked into the night. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, not with Keegan ensconced in the bedroom next to hers.

  Why not? Christmas was about giving. This didn’t have to be a sad, lonely time. At least this year she and Keegan would have each other.

  Enthusiasm she’d long thought dead awakened in her belly. Yes. Getting to her feet, Wren hurried down the hall, eager to find her yarn and get started. Maybe she’d knit him a matching scarf, if she had time.

  She passed his door, headed for her sewing room, when a sound drew her up short. Wren stopped and cocked her head.

  What was that...?

  It was an odd noise, soft and muffled. Wren stood very still, hardly daring to breathe as she listened for it again.

  There it was. The sound of ragged breathing, of someone crying.

  The door was barely cracked. Wren crept forward and with the tip of her toe nudged the door inward. It swung open an inch or two, and she peered into the darkness beyond.

  She saw Keegan sitting on the edge of the bed, doubled over as if in pain. His head was cradled in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, the image of despair. Wren’s heart caught in her throat.

  Could it be? That strong, silent man weeping?

  Shocked, Wren blinked back tears of her own. Tears born of sympathy. How many nights had she herself cried, alone, despondent, consumed with misery? But she hadn’t expected tears from such a tough man. A man who lived life on the edge, hitchhiking from place to place. A man who carried a loaded gun and trusted no one.

  She had thought him hardened by circumstances she could only guess at. Had assumed he was incapable of tears. She believed the shell around him was so solid, so unyielding that he simply couldn’t cry.

  But here he was, sobbing his heart out like a lost little boy.

  She ached for his sorrow. Wren backed away, silently easing the door closed behind her. Instinctively, she knew Keegan would be humiliated if he realized she’d seen him.

  Holding her breath, Wren slipped down the hall to her sewing room, and stunned, sat down at the sewing machine.

  There was someone hurting worse than she. Someone who thirsted for the milk of human kindness but was afraid to reach out for it. Someone in such emotional pain her heart broke for him.

  She had to do something. She couldn’t watch his suffering without trying to help. It was up to her to make his Christmas merry, to show him that all was not lost, that—no matter what had happened to him—life did, indeed, go on.

  It was high time she stopped feeling sorry for herself and started reaching out to others. Perhaps that’s what God had been trying to tell her when he deposited Keegan on her doorstep and sent a record-breaking storm to keep him there.

  Resolutely, Wren lifted her chin and started to plan.

  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO TRY so hard,” Keegan said. “I don’t care about Christmas.”

  “But I do!”

  “You don’t go to this much trouble when you’re by yourself.”

  “No,” Wren admitted cheerfully, “but this year I’m not alone. I’ve got company.”

  Keegan had gotten dressed and shuffled into the living room, gearing up to leave her house, when he’d walked into the North Pole run amok.

  While he’d slept, Wren had transformed the farmhouse into a winter wonderland. Candy cane reindeer peered at him over lamp shades. A fat-bellied musical Santa perched on the coffee table, good-humoredly waving a gloved hand to the tune of “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.” Pinecone wreaths adorned the doors. She must have been at it for hours.

  He folded his arms across his chest, narrowed his eyes, and watched her flit about the living room. What had come over her? She was possessed by the Christmas spirit.

  Gone was the quiet, shy woman he had first met two days earlier. She’d been replaced by a lively sprite who could pass for one of Santa’s elves in those red leggings, green tunic, and black boots.

  Dormant desire stirred inside him. Disturbed by his reaction, Keegan glanced away.

  A large cardboard box marked “X-mas stuff” lay open in the middle of the floor. Wren had draped a bright-red garland around the mantel and hung mistletoe over the doorways. The scent of baked apples drifted in the air. Lights twinkled atop the Christmas tree, winking and blinking.

  How long had she been awake?

  “Did you sleep at all?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said.

  “I have to,” he said. “There’s no one else to look after you.”

  “Right now, it’s my job to look after you.”

  But it wasn’t her job. She was nothing to him.

  Except she stood there looking at him with such happy eyes, he didn’t have the heart to say that. Uncomfortable with the lengths she’d gone to in order to impress him, Keegan stared out the window, watching fat snowflakes drift down to join the frosty ice coating the ground.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I’ve made baked apples, sausages, and oatmeal.”

  She wore jingle-bell earrings that tinkled gaily when she moved, and the smile on her face metamorphosed her features into a work of art. How had he ever thought her plain? She practically glowed with an ethereal shine.

  Keegan shrugged away the thought. He didn’t want to admire her.

  Wren chattered gaily about the weather, the season, the cows. Keegan kept quiet. The more he talked to this woman, the greater the risk he ran of getting involved with her. Better to keep his mouth shut and his defenses raised.

  He’d be leaving soon. Maybe today. If the weather would cooperate.

  “You look much better this morning,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “Rested,” Keegan admitted, tight-lipped.

  Once he’d given in to the sorrow invading his heart last night and let himself cry, he’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  It was miraculous really, that he’d been able to drop his guard and surrender himself to slumber. He didn’t know if it was sheer exhaustion, or Wren’s healing environment, or if his tears had in some way cleansed him. But for the first time since that awful night he’d lost Maggie and Katie, Keegan had cried.

  Being here in this farmhouse that so reminded him of his grandparents’ dairy farm, being with Wren who reminded him so much of home, he’d experienced a spiritual catharsis that had been a long time coming.

  But now, in the light of day, ashamed of the tears he’d shed, Keegan was ready once more to don his protective armor, to hide behind the mask of steely indifference that had served him so well for the past eighteen months.

  Tracking Heller was all he cared about. He had nothing left over to give this woman. Not even a smile.

  “Breakfast,” she said. “This way.”

  Wren waltzed into the kitchen. Keegan followed but stopped short and stared. The table was covered in a green-and-red felt tablecloth with a Nativity scene as a centerpiece. A Nativity scene identical to the one Maggie had set up every year.

  “Sit down.” Wren made shooing motions with her hands.

  Uneasily averting his eyes from baby Jesus and the manger, Keegan pulled out a chair and sank down. The knot in his stomach tightened, his appetite vanished.

  Wren buzzed around the kitchen humming to herself, got the food dished up, and slid a plate in front of him.

  “Aren’t you eating?” he asked.

  “I already ate.”

  Why did he feel a twinge of disappointment at the fact she wasn’t going to sit beside him? Keegan picked up his fork and toyed with the baked apple, oozing cinnamon and butter. Not wanting to offend her, he ate as much as he could.

  “How far is Farm Road 132 from here?” he asked.

  “A couple of miles north of here,” she said. “Why?”

  “Just trying to orient myself,” he lied.

  His gut squeezed. Nausea mingled with triumph. Heller’s half-brother, Gary Markum, was only two miles away.
Excited and nervous, he pushed his breakfast aside. He needed to get outside, breathe some fresh air, and formulate a plan.

  “Have you done the milking?” he asked Wren.

  “Not yet.” Wren shook her head. “I was just on my way out.”

  “Let me do it,” Keegan said, eager to escape the cheerful environment she had created with her decorating efforts. It was too much. Too relentlessly enthusiastic. Too overwhelmingly optimistic. Too much like Maggie’s touch.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Only yesterday you were running a high fever.”

  Why was she going to all this trouble for him? Her attention made him nervous. He preferred it when Wren had been frightened of him. He didn’t want her to care for him, nor did he want to care about her.

  She stood looking at him, a concerned expression on her face, her brown hair falling in wispy layers about her shoulders. He wished he’d stop noticing her delicate earlobes and her petite nose and that tender smile.

  “I’m fine,” he said gruffly, getting to his feet and pushing back his chair.

  “Wait,” Wren said. “Let me get my father’s coat for you to wear. It’s warmer than your denim jacket.”

  Keegan waited, even though he didn’t want to, until she returned with a heavy overcoat and a pair of fleece-lined gloves. He shrugged into the coat. Worked his fingers into the gloves.

  “There.” She reached up to brush lint from his shoulders.

  He froze at her intimate gesture, but Wren didn’t seem to notice.

  “Be careful,” she cautioned. “The steps are still icy.”

  Nodding, Keegan moved away from her. Fast. He did not want to dwell on the feelings her touch ignited inside him. Nor acknowledge that despite his best efforts to the contrary, this woman touched him on a very basic level.

  His stay at this farmhouse was temporary. Very temporary. He could not encourage her in any way, and he refused to hurt her.

  He made the mistake of looking at Wren one last time.

  She was staring at him, a sad expression on her pale oval face.

  Keegan tightened his jaw. Trust him to suck the joy right out of her happy holiday preparations.

  Mumbling a halfhearted apology for not eating more breakfast, Keegan turned and walked from the kitchen, pulling the door closed tightly behind him. Funny, that barrier proved far too thin for his taste. He wished for a much greater distance between himself and Wren Matthews. A span roughly the width of the Grand Canyon.

  WREN SCRAPED THE REMAINS of Keegan’s breakfast into the trash and resisted the urge to cry. She pressed the back of her hand to her nose and inhaled sharply.

  Why on earth was she feeling so teary, so emotional? Just because he’d barely touched the food she’d worked so hard to prepare didn’t mean it was a negative critique of her cooking skills. He simply wasn’t hungry.

  He didn’t like my decorating efforts, either.

  She’d stayed up all night, knitting his Christmas sweater, dragging the ornaments down from the attic, and cooking him a hearty breakfast.

  Her chest muscles burned. She had to stop being so sensitive. He wasn’t rejecting her on a personal level. Besides, why should she care what he thought of her?

  Because she wanted to help him.

  She realized that was true. For the longest time, she’d been wrapped up in her own problems. It had been easier to cloister herself, to withdraw from people and live like a hermit, than it was to overcome her setbacks and get on with her life.

  If nothing else, Keegan had shown her it was time to lay aside her grief and focus on someone else.

  Sure, she’d suffered. She’d lost her parents, permanently injured her hip, and been suckered by a charming con man. But enough was enough.

  She was twenty-nine years old. If she couldn’t stop feeling sorry for herself now, when would she? The only way to overcome her fears was to let go and live in the present. She’d spent ten years wallowing in self-pity. The time had come to forget the past and embrace the future.

  Wren plunged her hands into the soapy dishwater and peered out the window at the frozen ground, stunned by her revelation.

  A few hapless sparrows sat huddled on the telephone wires. Ice glazed the birdbath, and the garden hose lay curled in a frosty imprint on the dead grass.

  Actually, once she’d decided to throw her heart and soul into the Christmas spirit, Wren’s attitude had brightened. That surprised her. For so many years, she’d gone through the motions of celebrating the season, and it had been a chore.

  But this year was different. From the moment she’d started on her project, Wren felt lighter, freer, almost childlike.

  It had been fun. More than fun. She’d grown excited, knowing she was making the holiday special for the cold, distant stranger who was in such dire need of Christmas cheer.

  Keegan’s reaction, however, had been disappointing, but what had she expected? That he would suddenly drop his brooding and become jolly St. Nick? That he would honor her with a standing ovation? That he would care?

  “Silly woman,” she whispered under her breath.

  Considering the way Keegan lived, unfettered and alone, Wren should have anticipated his response to her domestic scene. She’d gone overboard. She’d done too much, tried too hard. She couldn’t force him to embrace Christmas.

  Still, she wasn’t going to give up trying. If anybody had ever needed a Christmas miracle, it was Keegan Winslow. She didn’t know his story, couldn’t name his pain, but that photograph she’d found and the burn scar traversing his back told the sorry tale.

  Wren clasped her soapy palms together. She didn’t exactly know what she was praying for, but something inside her urged her to say the words.

  “Dear Lord,” she entreated. “Please bring Keegan out of the darkness and into the light.”

  The prayer seemed right, and fitting. It made her feel better. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her but for the first time in many years, hope bloomed in her heart.

  Chapter Eight

  Hurrying down the steps, Keegan took in a fortifying breath. The cold air burned deep inside his lungs. He embraced the pain, welcomed its frigid punishment. He had to remember who he was and what he was doing in rural southwest Texas.

  Until Connor Heller was dead, or once more behind bars, he could not rest. He could not even enjoy the pleasure of Christmas Eve spent in the company of a fine, upstanding young woman.

  To allow himself that small luxury was a direct betrayal of Maggie. His wife’s death must be avenged and unless he could accomplish that goal, Keegan could never have a life of his own.

  The scary thing about Wren Matthews was that she made him yearn for hope. Until he’d met her, he thought all hope had died with his wife and daughter. To feel something beginning to thaw in his heart heightened Keegan’s fear.

  “You’ve got to focus,” he muttered, his breath chugging out in white puffs. “Think about Heller.”

  He knew the man had to be in the area. Had Heller come home for the holidays? Heller had been raised in south Chicago by his bookie father, but his mother was from Rascal, and he’d lived here with her after she’d left his dad and married rancher Reese Markum. But she died giving birth to Reese’s son Gary, and Connor had gone to live with his father, stepmother, and half-sister Victoria in Chicago.

  It galled Keegan to think Heller was almost within touching distance. This was the closest he’d been to his quarry in the last six months, and yet, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  Not now. Not yet. Not until the weather improved. Not until he recovered some of his strength. Keegan hoped the storm was keeping Heller as icebound as he.

  The man wouldn’t be so stupid as to show up boldly on his half-brother’s doorstep. The two brothers were night and day. From all accounts, Gary was an upstanding citizen and might not welcome his criminal brother with open arms.

  Heller was crafty. He’d slipped through Keegan’s fingers several times over the last few months, and he
wasn’t about to let it happen again. What he needed was a foolproof plan. Something to lure Heller out of hiding.

  Shaking his head, Keegan pushed open the barn door and was struck immediately by the lack of warmth. Rather than mooing their discontent, the cows were lying down, burrowed in the hay.

  The heaters had gone out.

  Obviously, in her concern with taking care of him and decorating for Christmas, Wren had neglected to monitor the butane tank.

  Keegan trod across the floor to twist off the main valve to the gas heaters, his gaze scanning the barn’s run-down condition. The place sorely needed renovating. The milking equipment was outmoded, and the wooden stalls cried out for new braces. The roof leaked, as evidenced by the water stains marring the walls, and the fluorescent lighting, which flickered and buzzed, needed to be replaced. A couple of coats of paint wouldn’t hurt anything either.

  With only seventeen head of Holsteins, he doubted Wren even cleared a profit on the dairy. It had to be tough, staying abreast of the constant demands. Keegan imagined the poor girl limping about the barn, trying her best to accomplish chores that stretched her capabilities.

  She wasn’t strong enough to do this sort of work alone. She desperately needed help.

  He wondered why Wren bothered to keep the dairy going. From a financial standpoint, it would make more sense to shut the place down than to pour money into restoring such a small endeavor. He shrugged. Perhaps the place was a tax write-off and nothing more. Still, it seemed like a lot of work for a tax break.

  How did she even get by?

  Perplexed, he ran a hand through his hair and accidentally grazed the bump on the back of his head and winced. He didn’t have time to worry about Wren Matthews and her sad little life. His life was no better. He would do for her what he could, then he’d get out of her way and go stake out Markum’s ranch.

  He left the barn and circled around it, searching for the butane tank. He spotted two tanks a few yards away and breathed a relieved sigh. Thank goodness she had two. It wouldn’t take much to switch tanks, turn the main valve back on and get the heat going again.