by Lori Wilde
The memory, while sweet, made him uncomfortable, and he shoved it aside.
“Your mission,” Shepherd said, leveling the boy a look that set off peals of fresh giggles, “is to stay out of the way while I put the tree together. Got it?”
“Got it!” Hunter clapped his hands.
The boy did not, however, get it. Shepherd dragged the big tree box in from the mudroom where Tom had taken it down out of the attic. And there was Hunter padding right behind him.
“Twee.” Hunter pointed.
“Yes, it’s a tree.” Shepherd picked Hunter up and sat him on the couch. “You sit there and watch.”
He turned back to the box, took out the branches, started dividing them into piles arranged by the color-coded order in which the branches went on the tree.
Whoosh.
Here came Hunter. Picking up one of the bigger branches and marching around the living room with it, humming “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
“C’mon here.” He grabbed the boy by his belt loop and towed him over. “Clearly, having you sit and watch isn’t going as planned. Let’s put you to work instead.”
Hunter studied him as if trying to parse out what Shepherd was saying.
“See this?” Shepherd pointed to the metal end of the branch that Hunter was holding. “It’s got a red dot on it. That matches the red dot on the tree base. See here?” He showed the boy. “Do you know your colors?”
“Wed,” Hunter announced, dropped to his knees on the rug, and matched the red dot on the branch to the red dot on the circular metal rod that served as the artificial tree’s spine.
“Good boy,” Shepherd encouraged. “Here, let me help you get it in the hole. Sometimes you have to jiggle it.”
Hunter watched intently as Shepherd slipped the branch into the spine.
“Now, can you find more red branches?” Shepherd asked, showing him the red dot on another branch.
Hunter took his task seriously. Picking out the branches with red dots and giving them to Shepherd so he could fit them into the spine, building the tree from the bottom up. Shepherd was surprised by how helpful the kid was. But then they finished up with the red branches and Hunter got distressed.
He threw around the remaining branches, a worried frown on his little forehead. “No wed. No wed.”
“It’s okay,” Shepherd said, gently guiding him. “Look here, we’ve finished with the red. Next comes orange.”
“Owange?”
Shepherd showed him a branch with an orange dot on it.
“Owange,” Hunter said, getting the picture, and went after the orange branches. They finished the orange and then went for the yellow, then the green. Going from color to color until they’d erected the entire tree.
After Shepherd affixed the final branch that became the tree’s crown, Hunter tipped back his head and stared up at the whole thing. “Whoa.”
“Whoa is right,” Shepherd agreed. “It’s a pretty big tree.”
His cell phone dinged with a text message. Shepherd pulled his phone from his pocket, grinned. It was from Naomi.
How R things going?
Shepherd texted: Don’t tell me U took your phone into the massage room.
Naomi: Oops.
Shepherd: Powering off my phone now.
Naomi: Hunter?
Shepherd snapped a picture of the boy still gawking at the tree and texted the photo to her.
Naomi: U got it up already?
Shepherd: Yeah, sexy woman.
Naomi: Pervert.
Shepherd: U R the one with the dirty mind.
Naomi: Ha. Ha.
Shepherd: Hunter is a good helper. Great kid.
She sent a series of smiling, applauding emojis. Then added: Don’t decorate it without me.
Shepherd: Turn off your phone. That’s an order.
Naomi: I’m not in the military.
Shepherd: Still an order.
She sent a smiley face emoji sticking out its tongue.
He meant to send an eye-rolling emoji, but punched the wrong image and pasted up a smiley face blowing a kiss.
She sent a kiss emoji right back to him. Followed by a gif of a beating red heart.
And Shepherd couldn’t help falling for her just a little bit harder.
Chapter 22
When Naomi arrived home, the entire family decorated the tree, making a party out of it, complete with Christmas music, hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows, and a roaring fire in the fireplace. She was determined to make things perfect. Keep up the family traditions no matter what.
Everything was going so well as Pastor Tom went outside for more firewood and Shepherd placed the last of the ornaments on the tree. Hunter had fallen asleep on the couch, and Naomi was crouched looking for the best spot to hang the angel Shepherd had carved for her. After they found it, they knew they were finished and stepped back to admire their handiwork.
“Something’s missing,” Naomi said, surveying the tree, rubbing her chin with her fingers and thumb.
“Looks good to me.”
She cocked her head. “No, there’s something off.”
“We’ve got the lights, tinsel, garlands, ribbons, a star at the top . . .” Shepherd ticked off the items on his fingers.
Naomi circled the tree, looking high and low. “Where’s Clayton’s ornament?”
“What’s it look like?” Shepherd asked.
“It’s a blue hound dog popping out of a stocking. He got it when he was Hunter’s age, and he loved that thing.”
“I didn’t see it when we were taking the ornaments out of the box,” Shepherd said.
“Mom.” Naomi turned to Irene. “Did you put it up someplace special after last—” Naomi broke off.
Shepherd heard the sorrow in her voice, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and hug her tight.
“The neighbors took down the tree last year.” Irene’s voice was as heavy as her daughter’s. “Remember?”
“That’s right. Do you recall who it was?”
Irene shook her head. “That whole time was a blur. I have no idea.”
“Could it have been Terri?”
“Maybe. Honestly, it could have been anyone,” Irene said.
“We have to find it.”
“Don’t worry yourself about it, sweetheart. It will turn up,” Tom added.
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Maybe it fell out of the box in the attic,” Irene said.
“Good idea.” Naomi scrambled out of the room. She returned a few minutes later with cobwebs in her hair, and a forlorn look on her face. “Nothing. Unless it fell in the insulation.”
“Don’t go digging around in the insulation.” Tom’s brow furrowed. “It’s fiberglass.”
“I’m sure it didn’t fall into the fiberglass,” Irene said.
“We have to find it!” Naomi’s voice had taken on a shrill quality that was unlike her.
“Maybe it’s in Hunter’s room,” Irene suggested.
“How could it have gotten into his room?” Naomi asked, but she was already headed toward the boy’s bedroom.
“I’ll help you look,” Shepherd said.
Hunter had awakened, and he was sitting on the couch rubbing his eye. “What’s w’ong?”
“Sweetie, did you see your daddy’s ornament? The blue dog in the stocking?” Naomi dashed back over to kneel in front of the boy.
Hunter slowly moved his head back and forth.
Naomi hopped up and tore into Hunter’s room. Concerned, Shepherd followed her. She dropped to her hands and knees on the floor, looking under Hunter’s racecar bed. She dragged out toys. Stuffed animals. Puzzle pieces. Hot Wheels.
“Search the closet,” she told him, moving on to the toy box.
“I help!” Hunter cried, and ran to Naomi’s side. In less than a minute, the two of them had emptied the toy box. The contents were scattered around the room.
“It’s not here,” Naomi said, tossing the toys ba
ck in the toy box. “How are you doing?”
The closet was neat. Orderly. Clothes hung up. Shoes on a rack.
“I don’t see it.”
Irene and Tom had come to the doorway. Irene in her wheelchair, Tom standing behind her.
“It probably got lost in the . . .” Irene’s jaw tightened. “Aftermath.”
“It can’t be lost.” Naomi shook her head. Her mouth flattened and her eyes widened. “It can’t be.” Her voice climbed an octave on that last word. She scooped up the remaining toys in her arms, dumped them into the toy box. Jumped to her feet.
She started pacing, distress rolling off her in waves. Tapped her forehead with her index finger, mumbled, “Think, think, think. Where can it be?”
Shepherd had never seen her like this. She was wound up. Normally, she was the calm one. The steady happy presence. Why was she so distressed over the ornament?
Looking alarmed, Irene pushed up out of her wheelchair. “Honey, it doesn’t matter. We can leave off the ornament this year.”
“No we can’t. No we can’t.” Naomi’s voice was a string now, vibrating at a fast, high rate. “This year has to be perfect.”
“There’s no such thing as perfect, sweetheart.” Irene wavered on her feet. Shepherd could see her torn between needing to sit back down and wanting to go to her remaining child.
Naomi stood in the middle of the room. Her legs splayed wide. Her hands moving everywhere. First on her hips. Then at her throat. Her mouth. Her heart. Her eyes. She looked as if she were on the verge of a panic attack.
He wanted to tell her to breathe, but he had a feeling that would upset her even more.
“I can try.” She hardened her chin.
“You’re making yourself crazy with all the trying. We’ll buy another ornament in honor of your brother.”
“No! No!” Naomi shook her head, the cobwebs floating above her hair like a halo. “It has to be Clayton’s ornament. Hunter needs something to remember his daddy by.”
“There’s plenty of things he—”
“Don’t you get it? He’s already forgetting his daddy,” Naomi went on, unchained. “Hunter already thinks Mark is his daddy.” She waved a hand at Shepherd.
“Really, Naomi, it would be fine to buy a new ornament.”
“But Clayton’s blue hound dog and my pink hound dog ornament are a matched set. It’s tradition.”
“We’ll make a new tradition.”
“If it’s new, it’s not tradition.”
Shepherd didn’t know what to do. If he got in the middle of this family situation, he might make things worse. It took everything he had in him to keep his mouth shut and stay out of it.
“It’s not really about the ornament, is it, sweetheart?” Irene’s tone softened and she eased back down in her wheelchair.
Naomi dropped her chin to her chest. Was she crying? Probably a good thing if she cried. The holidays were bound to bring up unresolved emotions, especially since Clayton had died at Christmas. Shepherd’s gut churned. He hated that she was hurting.
Irene wheeled her chair over to her daughter, touched Naomi’s shoulder.
Naomi hauled in an audible breath, and raised her head. A big, bright smile graced her face. Artificial. Forced. “It’s okay, Mom. You’re right. I made a big deal out of nothing. I apologize for having a meltdown.”
“Shh, shh. It’s okay. It’s all right.”
“It’s not. I shouldn’t have taken my emotions out on you.”
“You didn’t. You’re fine. More than fine. You’re wonderful. Amazing. We are all so fortunate to have you. I don’t know how you manage to hold it all together.”
Naomi’s chin tipped up, determination hot in her eyes. “I will find that ornament.”
“Honey, please don’t make yourself crazy.”
“I’m not going to.” That forced smile again. “I just need to take a break.” She held up her hands.
Naomi might have smoothed things over with her mom, but she didn’t fool Shepherd. He’d been where she was. Overwhelmed with powerful emotions. She’d been holding it together for everyone else for so long, she’d never had a chance to fully grieve.
He could see it in her body language. She was a caldron of unexpressed feelings, waiting to boil over. She needed to boil over. Needed something or someone to take out her rage and grief on.
It should be him. He should be her target. He was the target.
Tell her. Tell them all. Right here. Right now. He should get the truth off his chest. Let the chips fall where they may.
And ruin the Christmas that Naomi was trying too hard to make merry?
No. That was selfish. The guilt was his to carry. He had to keep quiet. He couldn’t tell them who he was until after Christmas.
“Okay, the meltdown is officially over.” Naomi was smiling so hard he feared her beautiful face would crack wide open.
This wasn’t right. If she kept up this forced happiness, this punishing pace, she was going to get sick.
Oh Lord, he’d gotten her brother killed. He was back to that. Always. It was all his fault. Clayton. Samantha. The Luthers’ grief. The lost Christmas ornament. He was responsible. The buck stopped with him. There was no one else to blame.
Um . . . Shepherd heard Dr. Fox’s voice in his head. Terrorists might have played a small part in it.
Okay. Granted. A terrorist might have been the instrument of Clayton’s death, but Shepherd was the catalyst. If he’d only listened to his gut instead of insisting on following protocol. If he’d gone to the orphanage with Clayton, the story would have had a different ending.
And then, after he’d gone after Clayton, when he might have saved him . . . he’d left him behind.
The guilt was a hot stew. Bubbling. Burning. Raw as ever. The last few days with Naomi had made him start to forget the real reason he was here. He’d let the warmth of her family seduce him into thinking he could have a future with her.
Foolish. So damn foolish of him.
The Luthers were the fallout. A nice family thrust into a war thousands of miles away. Sacrificed their son and brother. For what?
Until last Christmas, Shepherd had never questioned the military. It had been his home. His family. Like all families, it had its pluses and minuses. Its strengths and flaws. When he was living in the middle of the system, the flaws had seemed minor in comparison to the strengths.
But now? Here? On the other side of it? Swamped in the aftermath? All he could see was the destruction of war.
Somehow, he had to make amends, and doing handyman work simply was not going to cut it.
Naomi lifted her head and met his gaze, grief swimming in her eyes.
In that moment, Shepherd knew what he had to do. Knew it as surely as he knew his own name. If he did not intervene, Naomi was going to keep pasting that fake smile over her grief until she lost touch with the truth.
Naomi was completely ashamed of herself. She was the glue of the family, and here she’d come completely undone.
Unacceptable.
She straightened her shoulders and her spine. Mark had been so great today, helping out with Hunter so she could go have a massage. She should be calm. She should be chill. Instead, she was agitated as hell. Distressed beyond reason at the loss of Clayton’s ornament.
Smile. Smooth it over. Merry and bright. Put on a happy face for Hunter.
Hunter was what mattered. He was the only thing that mattered.
She glanced over. Saw Mark watching her with worried eyes. She turned up the wattage on her smile. She knew exactly what would give her an attitude adjustment.
Mark’s red-hot kisses.
She inclined her head toward the kitchen. “Help me start dinner?”
“Sure.” He nodded and joined her.
Out of view from her parents and Hunter, she slipped her arms around his neck. Pressed her mouth to his for a kiss.
He did not kiss her back. Instead, he untangled her hands from around his neck. Whispered, “N
ot now.”
That hurt her feelings a little, but she understood. He was right. This thing they had going on was so new. They didn’t know where it was going or if they could work past their issues. What if Hunter walked in on them? This wasn’t the time or place.
“Right,” she said.
“It’s not just that.” His tone was somber, his brown eyes darkening to almost black. “We need to have a serious talk. This thing between us can’t go any further until we do.”
“Ouch.” She drew back, tried not to show how much his words distressed her. “That sounds ominous.”
“Not ominous. No.” He shook his head. “But there’s something you should know about me.”
“Please don’t tell me you have an STD,” she said, trying to make a joke, but it came off weird.
“No STD,” he said. “But PTSD. Please make time for me as soon as you can.”
“It’s not something you can tell me quickly?”
“No. Let me know the next time you have the evening free.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Okay.”
Her cell phone dinged in her back pocket. She grabbed for it, happy to have something else to focus on. The text was from the Woolys, Samantha’s parents. They wanted to know if they could have Hunter the following night. They hoped to take him to see a school Christmas play that his cousin was in.
“Well,” she said. “You’re in luck. Hunter will be with his other grandparents tomorrow evening. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a date.”
Chapter 23
The following evening, Mark picked Naomi up at five. She wasn’t sure where he was taking her. It seemed to be more confession time than an actual date. She wore jeans and a sweater and hoped he hadn’t been planning anything fancy.
She couldn’t get a read on him. His expression was impassive, unshakable—the face of a military man in full control of his emotions.
Her anxiety was off the charts. She’d barely slept. Worrying about what he was going to tell her. Her mind played with a hundred different scenarios. Each more terrible than the last. He’d made no secret he’d been in therapy. He was ex-military. She’d just assumed he had PTSD. What if it was something much worse?
