by Candis Terry
“How’s the shoulder?”
Dean flipped the switch on his on-camera charm and flashed the smile that had brought him millions in endorsements. “Doing great.”
“Looks like Jacoby’s ready to take the team to the playoffs.”
“He’s capable. As long as he doesn’t let his nerves or ego get the best of him.”
“If the Stallions go to the Super Bowl without you, do you plan to retire?”
Irritation snapped up his spine. With any luck the gnashing of his teeth wouldn’t be heard through the microphone. “Oh, don’t go rolling the carpet up on me just yet.”
Dean gave the reporter a polite nod and a goodnight and headed toward his car. He slipped inside to the comfort of the leather interior, started the engine and let it rumble. The muscles in his neck and jaw knotted. Man. He was tired of the naysayers. Tired of the loaded questions. Tired, period. Maybe he needed a break. Away from the spotlight. Away from those who’d lost their faith.
It was two weeks away from Christmas. Might just be a good time to take a few weeks of R & R and head home to Deer Lick. He threw the gearshift into drive, stepped on the accelerator, and roared away from the glare of disappointment.
CHAPTER THREE
Snow.
Everywhere Dean looked there were hills and mounds and piles of white stuff. The current downpour wasn’t doing much for visibility. What the hell had he been thinking, leaving the comfort of Texas for this?
On top of the weather conditions, he’d had to leave his Mercedes behind, and now he was stuck driving his mother’s beat-to-hell beast of a Buick. Why his father had refused to get rid of the old bomber after his mother died was a wonder. The old man never drove it. The rusted chassis sat in the driveway, took up space, and reduced property values. A shabby reminder of the lively woman who’d driven it for over two decades.
Dean tested the brakes as he maneuvered the car through a wintry obstacle course toward his newlywed sister’s house for dinner. Kate had been so excited when he’d come home, she’d started to interfere with his plans. His sleep-in mornings. Tranquil afternoons. Peaceful evenings. He’d agreed to one dinner and Christmas Day festivities. After that, he’d head back to Texas to ready himself for training camp. An athlete could never start the conditioning process too early. Especially if his doctors and physical therapists were Nancy boys who had no faith he’d be back out on the field throwing perfectly tight spirals into the gloves of his receivers.
He drove down Main Street where a banner stretched across the road and wished everyone happy holidays. Where tinsel wreaths with twinkle lights hung from every lamppost. Where neon green posters announced the upcoming Christmas parade. He drove past Purdy’s Pawn Shop and Old Man Crosby’s used bookstore, toward the Sugar Shack, the family’s bakery. Dean originally intended to drive right on by. Instead he pulled over and parked out front.
The doors were locked. Lights were out. But he could still picture his mother in her overalls and apron flitting about the shop, sliding cookies off bake sheets and into the hands of eager customers.
During his teen years, when he hadn’t been honing his football skills, he’d helped out after school and on Saturdays, baking chocolate pecan cookies, loaves of honey wheat bread, and washing pots and pans. He’d hated every sugar-filled second. He’d seen the results of all that work at the end of the day. While he and his sisters sat at the kitchen table doing homework, his father would massage lotion into his mother’s dry, chapped hands. Or he’d see his father soak his tired feet in a tub of Epsom salts. But Dean also remembered the affectionate looks that would pass between his parents. The laughter. Even amidst their sighs of utter exhaustion he recognized the love.
Those times—the sights, the smells, and the devotion—would be forever embedded in his brain. He loved his parents. They’d been good to him. They’d always believed in him. His mother had always been his biggest fan. She’d always worn her replica Deer Lick Destroyers number-eleven jersey on game day.
Sorrow squeezed his heart and he absently rubbed at his chest.
This would be their first Christmas without her.
At that moment, the little setback with his shoulder paled in comparison to the breathtaking loss of the woman who’d given him life. Who’d wiped his nose, taught him his ABCs, donated hundred of pastries for football fundraisers, and who’d sat on splintery bleachers in rain or snow to watch him play the game he loved. He smiled and shook his head. She’d been the best.
God, he missed her.
Several memory-filled moments later, he gave the Sugar Shack another glance, twisted the key in the ignition, and eased the car away from the curb. Nightfall had descended and he didn’t need to be late to Kate and Matt’s, or he’d never hear the end of it. Fresh off their Hawaiian honeymoon, Kate was eager to show off their photos and her newfound culinary skills. Dean hoped she’d do better than the tofu, bean sprouts, and slimy vegetable combo she’d tried to serve him the last time he’d visited her in LA.
The long stretch of road out to his sister’s lake house was deserted. Those in town had long ago bundled up in their cozy homes—out of the cold, and into their nightly routines. If he were in his own home right now, he’d be headed out to meet the guys at Johnny Ray’s for wings and a beer, or calling up a sexy blonde to join him for a dinner of slow-baked salmon at Reef, his favorite restaurant.
Everything about his childhood hometown screamed the opposite of the trendiness of his adopted hometown of Houston. Deer Lick was simple. Ancient. Boring. Even the oldies radio station he’d tolerated surrendered to static. He punched the buttons to search for a station that didn’t reek of political commentary or Lawrence Welk.
“It’s not unusual . . .”
Great.
Tom Jones.
His mother’s favorite.
Dean moved his finger away from the radio. Another reminder of his loss. Seemed like his days were filled with them.
Beneath him, the Buick’s wheels rolled across hard-packed snow while old Tom did his laughable best to sound sexy. The interior of the car grew crisp with icy air. Dean adjusted the heater fan to high, but even after a few minutes it hadn’t helped. An odd glow brightened in the rearview mirror and Dean squinted against the glare. Damned cars following too close. And on a deserted road? What the hell was the matter with them?
Upon closer inspection through the side mirror, he realized the glow couldn’t be coming from another car. There wasn’t another car. Instead the light appeared to be in the back seat. He figured a flashlight—maybe on the floorboard—accidentally got turned on when he’d hit a bump in the road. He eased up on the accelerator so he could reach into the back to find it and turn it off.
He shifted in his seat, looked over his shoulder, and froze.
“Hello, Son.”
Every hair on the back of his neck sprang up like porcupine quills when he realized the green eyes he stared into belonged to his mother.
His . . . mother . . . lifted her finger and pointed toward the windshield. “Oh. Honey. Watch out for that car.”
Dean swung back around in his seat just in time to realize he was headed in the direct path of oncoming headlights.
With gloved hands, Emma gripped the wheel of her Subaru and braced for impact. The Christmas tree tied to the top of her old Forester shifted as she swerved at the last second to avoid a head-on collision—something no experienced driver ever attempted on an icy road. But better to spin out than end up a scrambled egg.
The jerky motion sent her car skating toward the culvert on the side of the road. With a splash of white powder over the hood of the car, everything came to a bone-jarring stop. Her headlights cut across vacant land and shone into the branches of the perfect little ponderosa pine she’d just cut down in the woods behind the now-vacant Clear River Lodge.
She swallowed the lump of petrified terror stuck in her throat and glanced out the window to find the other car had come to a stop across the road. All four wheels w
ere on the ground.
Somehow they’d missed disaster by mere inches.
Relief poured through her. She dropped her forehead to the wheel with thanks to whichever of her busy guardian angels had been on duty. Then she inhaled a steadying breath. Exhaled. And scrunched her face to keep from crying. As her heart rate declined, her temper accelerated.
What kind of jerk drove like that in such treacherous conditions? Someone probably too busy texting to keep their eyes on the road.
She shoved the car into park, unhooked her seatbelt, and swung open her door.
“Are you crazy?” Her gloves slapped against her antiquated parka as she shouted at the other driver. “Where the heck did you get your driver’s license? A gumball machine? Why don’t you—”
The door to the old brown sedan creaked open and way over six feet of muscular male slid out from the front seat.
The blood drained from Emma’s head. Her ears buzzed. Inside her knitted gloves her fingers went numb and her heartbeat kicked back up into overdrive.
While she wished she could Houdini herself to somewhere else on the planet, Dean Silverthorne stood across the icy road and stared at her as if she were a Keebler elf on crack. The soles of a worn pair of cowboy boots dug into the snow at his feet. Relaxed jeans hugged his slim hips and encased his long, long legs. The buttons of a dark-colored henley peeked out from behind the zipper of a hooded parka.
Damn. He really did look as good in real life as he did on all those magazine covers.
She’d thought she’d seen the last of him when she’d left him behind at Kate’s wedding. She thought he’d gone back to his Lone Star play land of supermodels and super stardom where she’d never need to think of him again. Obviously she’d thought wrong.
If it hadn’t been for the dazed look on his face, Emma would have continued to nail him to the floorboards about his less-than-acceptable driving skills. But since she didn’t want any accusations or future lawsuits to come her way, she figured it might behoove her to check on his health and welfare. She could only imagine the levelof attorneys he could afford. “Are you okay?”
His dark brows pulled together. “Are you?”
She folded her arms against her parka. “I asked you first.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good. You?”
“No damage.” She glanced at her car. “Not sure I can say the same for my Christmas tree, though.” Turning back toward him she found he hadn’t moved. Not an inch. And maybe only cartoon eyeballs spun in cartoon characters’ heads, but Dean Silverthorne’s jade-colored orbs gave the tilt-a-whirl thing a run for its money. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call 9–1–1?”
He looked down the road. When his gaze returned to her, he seemed to have gathered his wits. If he had any to begin with.
“No need.”
“Okay. Good. Then . . . what the hell were you thinking? If you can’t handle the icy roads, then don’t drive. You could kill someone.”
“I . . . ah . . .” He bent down and looked through the sedan’s back window. “Yeah. Sorry about that. There was something . . .” He hitched a thumb toward his car. “In . . .” He righted himself again. Shook his head as if to clear it. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Wow. Okay. Talk about taking too many hits to the noggin. Rumor was his football career was kaput because of the shoulder injury. Emma thought he just might not be playing with a full box of Wheaties.
“Where were you headed?” she asked. And why are you still here? “Do you need a ride? Because I’m not sure you should be driving. You do look a little shook up.”
Apparently sanity along with his muy macho ego roared back. His head snapped up and he started across the road toward her. A puff of warm breath hung in front of his face that made him look like a fire-breathing dragon about to tackle her on the fifty-yard line. She pulled a gulp of icy air into her lungs and took a step back.
“Let me help you get this back on your car.” He marched right past her, toward her once-perfect little tree, which now teetered on the edge of the culvert.
Bum shoulder. Bad idea. She marched behind him. “That’s okay. I can get it myself.”
He turned and her nose came within inches of smashing into the front of his Kodiak parka. The scent of warm male and expensive aftershave rose up to tickle her senses, and she had to remind herself that he played poker with the devil.
“What are you saying?” His large hands came up to steady her. “That I’m not man enough to pick up a little Christmas tree?”
She looked up past the dimple in his clean-shaven chin. Did her best to ignore the heat of his hands clasped onto her sleeves. “I didn’t—”
“You know, that’s not the first time you’ve questioned my manhood.”
“I’m not question—”
“Good.” In one smooth motion, his lips tilted upward. “But just in case you do have any doubts, I’d be happy to prove to you that I am 100 percent.”
“Sorry. Not interested.”
“Because that’s all men like me think about. Right?”
The conversation they’d had at Kate’s reception rolled back. Wow. Had she wounded his overblown ego? Why would he even remember what she’d said? “Ummm. Sure.”
“You know,” he said, “maybe you should get to know someone better before you toss out accusations.”
“And maybe you should have more than your shoulder examined.” She shrugged off the hands he had clasped around her arms and strode toward the poor little pine tree, hoping the branches were all intact. She needed to get home. To her mug of hot chocolate. Her CD of Christmas classics. The purr of her cat. And the cherished ornaments she intended to put on her once-perfect little tree.
Dean came up behind her, reached down—noticeably not with his throwing arm—and lifted the heavy end of the trunk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She grabbed the smaller end at the top of the tree. Needles poked through the woven loops of her gloves. And a familiar stab jabbed her in the heart. Every time she saw Dean Silverthorne, all he managed to do was dig up old and rotten memories. “It means nothing. Just help me with this so I can go home. Oscar’s waiting for me.”
They walked the tree to her car and with little effort Dean tossed it up onto the roof. She reached for the end of the bungee cord that had done a poor job of holding the tree in place prior to Mr. Perfect hogging the road. He pulled the cord from her hand and somehow she found herself pressed against the car, trapped by his big body and long arms. He leaned against her to connect the end hooks together and gave a whole new meaning to the term up close and personal. Her chest got tight and she tried to fight the warm tingles she had noooo business feeling. Before she could escape beneath his arm, he backed away. His green eyes were now focused and penetrating.
“You going far?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I just live over on Spotted Fawn.”
He stepped backward. Gave her a nod and said, “You drive careful.”
Hello. Pot calling kettle. “Yeah. Sure. Than—” Thanks? She was about to thank him when all this was his fault in the first place? Man, she needed a long vacation in a nice warm place. Somewhere she could think about the sand between her toes and the umbrella drink in her hand and not this smooth-talking charmer.
Dean Silverthorne was not a prince.
Dean slid onto the front seat of his mother’s car. He waited until the taillights of his sister’s crazy bridesmaid’s car disappeared before he turned the key in the ignition and cupped his hand over the ache in his injured shoulder. He dropped his chin to his chest and exhaled.
He hated weakness.
Hated the lack of control.
Hated that nobody had faith.
Hated that he’d lost his edge.
He lifted his head and stared out into the darkness cloaking the road before him. When he would catch a break?
Sure, it had been just a few weeks since he’d been pile-driven into the turf at Mile High Stadium, but he e
xpected more of himself. And he certainly didn’t need anyone like his sister’s loony friend looking at him like he was weak as a kitten. Or that he was a marauder of innocent women. All he needed was to get back to his team. Back to his life. Then no one would question his ability—on the field or elsewhere.
As he reached for the gearshift an arc of golden light flashed across his hand. He glanced up into the rearview mirror to find the hazy glow once again hovering in the center of the backseat.
He turned and there she was. In her standard attire of worn overalls and a red plaid overshirt. A chill washed over him.
He shifted back around to face the front of the car and stared through the windshield to where the moon fought to break through clouds heavy with snow.
“Breathe, Son. Before you pass out.”
A whoosh of air pushed from his lungs. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said to no one in particular. “Or demons or psychics or luck. And I already have my hands full with rehab from the surgery so I don’t need to work a psychiatrist into my schedule, too. I just didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. That’s all. No closure plus the pain pills equals hallucinations.”
The music of a feminine chuckle rippled down his back. “Oh, honey, you’ve always been too rational for your own good. Come on, open your mind to the possibilities. It’s a helluva lot more exciting than knowing what’s around every curve.”
Dean blinked. Took another breath and turned again in his seat. Yep. There she was. “Mom?”
She gave him the same broad smile she’d flash when he’d brought home a good report card. Or when he’d thrown a touchdown pass. Or when her fingers straightened the bow tie of his rented prom tux.
“I’d say it was me in the flesh,” she said, “but that’s not exactly right, is it?”
“Mom?”
“Oh, honey,” she let out a hoot of laughter. “You sound just like Katherine when I popped in on her the first time.”
“Kate knows about you?”
