Christmas Angel

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Home’s just around the corner.”

  She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. A few short moments later, he pulled to a stop alongside a tall building. Nothing around her appeared familiar. It was all brick and stone. She hadn’t seen a blade of grass since she’d come out of the music hall. Perhaps more confusing, she didn’t understand why not seeing grass would bother her. Why this place should feel so foreign to her. Yet when she was near Detective Jackson, she felt secure. Believing like he said, everything would work out. She ran her hand along the side of the door, marveling at how smooth the metal was, how detailed the upholstery. Her detective appeared on the opposite side of the window, startling her. He pulled on the handle and the door opened with a noisy squawk.

  “Let’s not dawdle out here.” His eyes were alert, watching the street. “It’s much too cold for you in those clothes.”

  She knew it was more than the chilly night air that concerned him. She swung her legs around, wanting to comply and not stay out there any longer than necessary, when the air caught in her belly and the strap across her chest pulled her back into the seat, holding her bound there.

  “I can’t seem to move,” she muttered, searching for how to unfasten the oppressive strap. He leaned over her lap, sending her pulse shooting as he wedged his body against hers in the small space.

  “There’s a small button down here that you push, like this.” Thankfully, he didn’t tarry.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Her feelings were scattered in so many directions she didn’t know whether to hug him or try to get away. He offered his hand and helped her to the running board and then to a wide hard path. They seemed to wind throughout the city like a great stone snake. Rattled from the ride and her wayward emotions, she stepped out and stood for a moment staring up at the towering structure of brick and stone. “This is where you live?”

  “Well, in an apartment, but yes. We’ll take it slow.” He gently took her elbow and led her up several flights of steps, pausing whenever she needed to rest.

  It was not unlike a hotel, but with shorter halls. Only three doors appeared on each landing as they moved slowly upward. “Is everyone who lives here a detective?” she asked. Her legs grew weary. It was like climbing up the steep side of a mountain.

  He chuckled quietly. “I guess I never thought about it. Nobody from my precinct anyway. Though as nosy as my neighbors are, some of them would be pretty good at it.” When they reached his floor, he unlocked the door, flipped on a light, and ushered her inside.

  He helped her out of her coat. “I can take this to the cleaner’s if you’d like, but I’m not sure there is much hope left for it.” He hung it on the hook next to the door.

  It’s all I have. “Thank you. That would be kind of you.” Though she had no concept of what a “cleaner’s” was, by virtue of the name and as long as he offered, she was willing to give it a try.

  He hooked his cap beside her coat and began to unzip his coveralls. Having shrugged off the top half to reveal a thin, white undershirt that left little doubt to the taut muscles beneath, he was about ready to push down the pants when he stopped and glanced at her. She waited in breathless anticipation, her heart pounding. Had she ever seen a man in this state of undress before? His hands froze. “Sorry, habit.” He stopped then letting the coveralls dangle enticingly at his hips.

  She tried not to let her disappointment show. “Your wife won’t mind me staying here?” she asked tearing her eyes from where the undershirt bunched around his firm waist. If he had a wife, she certainly didn’t seem to keep an orderly house.

  He sighed and shrugged. “No wife. No girlfriend. Which seems rather apparent, I guess.” He began picking up papers, shuffling clothes together, and moving used dishes, leaving rings in the dust. “My apologies for the clutter. I don’t have much company…my job keeps me busy.”

  Her head had begun to ache again, and she was suddenly very tired. “Would you mind if I sit down and rest awhile?”

  “Oh, of course.” He yanked at his coveralls, holding them up with one hand as he grabbed a stack of papers off a chair and tossed them aside. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to change, and I’m sure I have something you can wear so we can at least launder your clothes.”

  Tired and confused, she watched as he moved swiftly around her and hurried down the hall, flipping on the light to another room. For one man, it seemed like a large house. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she immediately searched for a place to sit. A large brown tweed settee invited her to cross the room. Sinking into its welcoming comfort, she grabbed a pillow with a yellow crocheted flower on it and hugged it, hoping to quell some of the sudden and painful loneliness she felt. Was there anyone, somewhere, looking for her? Was there anyone who missed her? She squeezed the supple cushion; it didn’t really suit him—flowers and such. Perhaps it had sentimental value, a gift from a favorite aunt, or something passed on to him from his mother. Physically and emotionally drained, she laid it down beside her and stretched out, putting her head on its welcoming softness.

  “I have a sweatshirt and…,” he called from down the hall. His voice grew dim as a foggy cloud passed over her consciousness and blocked out all else.

  ***

  She stumbled, scrambling back to her feet. Her boots echoed within the dark canyon walls. Great gusts of snow drove against her, pelting her with frozen bites against her exposed flesh. A wintery blast wrapped its icy fingers around her, swallowing her whole. She fought to stay warm, but she had only the threadbare dress she’d worn to her piano lesson. Icy fingers gripped her throat. Someone chased her. Her lungs felt frozen from running. She wanted to scream for help, but there was no one near, only tall buildings with their black silent eyes staring down at her. A pair of hands grabbed at her, trying to hold her back, and she fought to get away.

  “Wake up. Come on, wake up. You were having a dream. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  A deep, gentle voice drew her out of her nightmare. Her heart raced. Her limbs felt confined.

  “That’s it. Come on, wake up.” A hand softly nudged her shoulder. “It’s okay.

  You’re safe.”

  She cracked one eye open, aware first of a muted light and then of a man’s hands resting on her shoulders. She shoved at them and sat upright, confused as to where she was.

  “Doc suggested I wake you every few hours. I don’t think he took into consideration you might have a nightmare.”

  She blinked, and his face came into focus. A man with eyes the color of a desert summer sky knelt in front of her.

  “It’s Detective Jackson. I brought you here after you were attacked and hit on the head.”

  She drew the blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill and realized her feet were bare. “Where are my boots?”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of removing them. I thought you’d be more comfortable.”

  “And my coat?” She looked around, her brain still in a fog from sleep.

  “By the door.” His deliberate demeanor calmed her uncertain emotions. “You came home with me after your stay at the hospital. Do you remember?” He searched her face.

  Slowly, a few memories emerged, though her head ached with a dull throbbing. She touched her forehead, discovering the bandage at her temple. The flash of a memory—a man’s arm clamped around her neck—sparked in her brain, followed by the image of the detective on the floor, his gun poised at her, just before everything went black. “I hit my head?”

  “In a manner of speaking. You were clocked pretty good. Any of that sound familiar?”

  “I was being held against someone—a man. He wouldn’t let me go, and then

  you were there.” She paused and searched her rescuer’s patient face. “I felt a blow to my head and then woke up in the infirmary.” She looked at him. “And you were there. Detective Jackson, is it?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but please, call me Shado. Are you feeling better?

  She rubbed her han
d over the back of her neck. “I think so.”

  “Good. Give yourself some time.” He held her hand, gently brushing his thumb across her knuckles and setting her mind at ease. Reality emerged quietly in her brain. She recalled a ride in a strange mode of transportation.

  “You brought me here to protect me.” Instinct prompted her to touch his cheek. He eyed her briefly then took her hand and placed it back in her lap.

  “Just until your memory returns and we find the guy who did this to you.” His fingers lightly skimmed her forehead.

  She couldn’t count solely on her emotions, but there was a keen awareness between them she could not deny. The fact he seemed a little uncertain of her being there somehow made her feel as though she had nothing to fear. He made her feel safe.

  “How about a cup of tea?” He stood. “My mother used to give me hot tea when

  I was sick.”

  “Sounds nice. You wouldn’t happen to have a shot of whiskey you could toss in?”

  He stopped in his tracks and gave her a startled look.

  “What?” she asked, unsure why the request should sound odd.

  His brow rose. “You don’t impress me as the whiskey type.” He shrugged. “At any rate, I don’t keep liquor in the house. Sorry.”

  She shrugged, curious why the request had popped from her mouth. “I don’t know why it sounds soothing to me, but I’m fine with a cup of tea. Do you by chance have chamomile with rose hips?”

  He eyed her. “Uh, I was thinking more along the lines of Lipton?

  She’d never heard of Lipton before, but then again, there were bound to be a number of new things she might need to adjust to until her memory returned. “That sounds lovely, thank you.” Hoping to alleviate the tension a bit, she sought to offer assistance instead of having him wait on her. She rose on wobbly legs. “May I be of some help?” The floor swam before her, and a small sound escaped her throat as her knees buckled. In an instant, he was there, catching her before she fell and drawing her upright against him.

  “Maybe you should sit down.” He searched her face. “With a head injury, you’re liable to feel a bit woozy.”

  His strength, the nearness of another person to lean on, caused her to fall against him, desperate to make a connection with something real, something she could physically touch. She pressed her cheek to his chest, telling herself it was only for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered, content to be close. “For everything.” It didn’t matter that he stood unresponsive, his arms at his sides, and let her draw what she needed from him. She spotted a dark image on the bulge of his shoulder, peeking from beneath the fabric of his undershirt. Holding his arm, she touched her finger to the intricate scrolling etched into his skin, mesmerized as she traced the unusual design. It was beautiful against his smooth, muscular skin.

  “It’s one of my first tats.” He had turned his head, eying her exploration.

  “Tats?” she asked curiously. “How is it stuck on your skin?”

  His eyes met hers. “The usual way, with ink and needles.”

  “Strange.” she replied not wanting to sound ignorant, but still curious about its artful design “Where does it go?” She moved to his side and with eyes only, followed where it disappeared beneath the fabric.

  “You really want to see it?”

  She swallowed, met his gaze over his shoulder, and nodded. “Do you mind?”

  He shrugged and the corner of his lips tilted with a crooked smile. “They’re not for everyone.” He lifted the thin shirt over his head and her knees grew watery at the sight of his sculpted body. She stared at the corded muscles across his back, how his waist narrowed to the odd trousers he wore.

  “Seen enough?” he asked after a minute or two. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”

  She’d all but forgotten the reason he took off his shirt in the first place. With care, she reached out and followed the dark scroll design, tracing gently over his flesh. She saw him flinch at her touch.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  He blew out a breath, cleared his throat, and tugged his shirt back over his head. “Not anymore. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll bring us that tea.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was the view of his muscled back or the injury making her feel flushed, but she agreed without question. Easing to the chair, she took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head and her heart. This man’s gallantry could weaken a woman’s heart and make her vulnerable to a world of hurt. He’d made it clear she was here only until she healed properly and could be safe on her own—wherever that might take her.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen, right in the next room. You’re sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded. “I think so. You’ve been very kind. Thank you.”

  “Except for the free show there, I’m just doing my job.” He tossed her a dimpled smile.

  “Are you in the habit then of bringing women to your home to protect them?” His gait slowed, and he turned to her. “Uh, no, this is not standard protocol.” “Why me?” she asked, truly curious why he would break rules for her.

  He sighed. “Where else would you have gone?” His meaning was loud and clear. I’m kind, but don’t mistake compassion for more.

  “I suppose you’re right, and I have to thank you. This won’t cause trouble for you, will it—I mean, with your superiors?”

  He hesitated then shrugged. “Gleason will cover for me. The sooner we finger this guy; the sooner you can safely move on with your life.”

  “And you, too, can move on with yours,” she reminded him.

  He pushed his hand through his hair. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it. I’ll put the water on.” He left the room in haste, not wishing to pursue the conversation, she guessed. It must be odd caring for someone you don’t even know. A distinct image emerged in her brain of her walking up a narrow staircase, carrying two buckets. Her heart faltered as she scrambled to remember the time, what it meant. She drew in a shaky breath, reminding herself to be patient and allow the healing of her memory to take its natural course. No sooner had the image appeared than it dissipated in a vapor. She closed her eyes to regroup. Despite her confusion about the past, the nap had given her some of the rest she needed, restoring her natural curiosity.

  She opened her eyes and took in the small room with its pale painted walls. Most were bare, except for the spot near the front entrance where he’d hung the coats. A definite contrast, however, to the possessions squeezed into the one room. The settee, a bookshelf crammed with books, papers, and framed pictures, as well as another large overstuffed chair created a parlor area. Some objects appeared new, others a little worn. An oddshaped lamp emitted a soft light. It seemed fueled by neither candle or kerosene, but by some other power.

  She inched closer, curious about what the shade hid, paying little heed to the tingling beginning to occur in her eyes as she drew near the bright light. Fascinated, she peered under the strange shade, and then flung herself back against the cushions, reacting as though she’d stared directly into the sun. Her sudden movement caused the lamp to sway and before she could move, it wobbled and fell to the hard wood floor with a terrible crash, sending shards of debris across the floor. Suddenly cast into pitch-blackness, she held her breath and waited, not knowing what might happen next. A rustling sound piqued her interest and then a light from above illuminated the room.

  “What happened?” Shado glanced toward the broken object lying on the floor. “Are you all right?” He set the lamp upright and assessed the bits of scattered glass.

  “It’s entirely my fault. My apologies.” The words tumbled clumsily from her mouth as spots continued to dance before her eyes. “I must have knocked it askew when I moved back. It was so very bright.”

  “Askew?” His expression showed concern, but she could see he was not happy.

  “Oh, dear.” She assessed his face. “Had it been in your family a long time?” she asked, her focus beginning to clear.

  He blinked wi
th surprise. “Uh, no. No harm done. It’s an old thing I picked up at a thrift store. Just needs a new bulb.” He glanced at her. “You didn’t get cut, did you?”

  She shook her head. The initial shock in her brain was beginning to subside.

  He looked down at her. “You mind me asking what prompted you to stare directly into the light?”

  “I wanted to see how it worked.”

  “How it—you’ve never seen an electric lamp?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, I’ve heard of them, of course, but I’ve never been close to one.”

  He studied her with greater interest. “Are you starting to remember? Have you had any other flashes of your past, of where you live, who we might contact to let them know you’re okay?”

  “I had a dream earlier. I was wearing this dress and running through a canyon with very high walls.”

  “A canyon,” he repeated.

  “I remember dressing for my lesson.”

  “Your lesson?”

  “My piano lesson.” She frowned. Mystified, she shook her head, wishing she could put the pieces, no better than the glass shards on the floor, together. “All I can remember was being afraid of missing my piano lesson.”

  He sighed. “Okay…that’s good.” He braced his hands on his lean hips. “Don’t worry. The doc said it could take a few days for everything to make sense to you.” He smiled, and it helped her feel less clumsy. “Guess I need a broom and dustpan.”

  She waited, her legs curled beneath her as she watched him sweep up the broken pieces, following carefully with a wet cloth to get up all the unnoticeable bits. For a man without a woman in his life, he fared well on his own. He was confident and comfortable in his own skin.

  Her attention dropped to the way his trousers stretched tight over his firm backside as he stooped down to clean. Curious to know what form of attire they were, she considered the fabric, which revealed much of the muscular form beneath. “What type of trousers are you wearing?”