Christmas in Destiny

by Toni Blake

  The scary stranger appeared completely astonished by the request, his eyebrows rising dubiously. “Me?”

  She nodded.

  Yet he seemed doubtful. And suddenly tired. “Look—it’s not that I don’t want to help, but I, uh, don’t know anything about cat rescue. Isn’t there a fireman you can call or something?”

  Actually, Amy’s husband, Logan, was a fireman, and given Amy’s penchant for cats, he’d rescued more than a few. And they lived right up the road from Jenny and Mick. Yet Candice felt forced, once more, to state the obvious. “Again—impassible roads, blizzard conditions.” She stopped, sighed. “I’ll get dressed and get some flashlights and—”

  “No—stay inside.”

  Once more, she flinched, taken aback.

  “I’ll look for the cat—you stay here. I’m already half-frozen—might as well freeze a little more.”

  She blinked—this time less from nervousness and more from awkwardness and surprise and even a little unexpected gratitude. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He replied by murmuring to no one in particular, “This night just keeps getting better and better.” Then to her, “So how is it exactly that I should lure this runaway cat in?”

  Candice thought about it, then said, for the second time in just a few minutes, “Wait here.” As if there was anyplace else for him to go. After which she shut the door yet one more time, rushed to the kitchen, yanked a can of cat food from an overhead cabinet, and used the can opener to remove the lid. Hopefully the smell of tuna—Frosty’s favorite—would penetrate the night air. She grabbed the promised flashlight from a drawer as well.

  Hurrying back to the open front door, where wind and a little snow now swirled into the foyer, she held out the can and flashlight to the stranger. He turned his collar up against the cold, then took both from her, their fingers touching briefly as he mused, seemingly more to himself than to her, “I’d think I was having a nightmare, but this is getting weirder than anything my brain could invent.”

  She ignored that and said, “His name is Frosty and he’s white.”

  “A white cat, lost in the snow. Just my luck. Yep,” he muttered, “stranger than I could make up.” And then he ventured down off the porch into the cold, snowy night that seemed to be getting more blustery by the moment.

  Despite the cold and her bare feet, Candice stepped out onto the porch, wrapping her arms around herself, peering desperately out over the scene. “Here, kitty kitty,” she called, watching as the hot, scary stranger swung the flashlight beam around in the falling snow—appearing to try to follow the cat’s path.

  “Oh!” she said a long, cold moment later. “Movement! I saw movement!” She pointed in the direction of a tree Frosty had seemed fond of on two previous outings into the yard—which she refused to think of as escapes just now.

  The stranger looked toward her, then swung the light to the tree—from which the sound of a faint meow could be heard. “He’s in the tree!” she yelled.

  “I don’t see a thing,” her stranger said, even with his flashlight shining right on the cat. Admittedly, Frosty was hard to make out.

  “I see his eyes,” Candice told him. “And I heard a meow. He’s over there!”

  But when her late-night visitor didn’t reply, she sensed he was tired and cold and already weary of cat rescue, and she thought maybe she should do what she’d suggested before—get bundled up, put on snow boots, and come help. “Listen,” she shouted, “if you can just keep an eye on him for a few minutes, I’ll get dressed and try to coax him down.”

  “Didn’t I say I’d do it and for you to stay where you are?” he called back to her, starting toward the tree himself now. “And besides, I can’t keep an eye on him because he’s freaking invisible.”

  Yep, definitely no shining armor on this guy, but she supposed she should just appreciate his help and let the rest go. So she switched her focus back to her cat, whose plaintive meows told her he’d realized the error of his ways and was appropriately afraid now, and probably getting frozen, snowy fur. As her impromptu cat rescuer reached the base of the bare, snow-covered tree, she sent up a little prayer for her usually smug kitty and hoped he would trust the guy—even if she still wasn’t certain she should.

  She heard the stranger now saying in a just slightly softer tone, “Hey there, cat—come on down. Got some smelly cat food for ya. And it’s a lot warmer and dryer in there than it is out here. If you come down, maybe we’ll both get to warm up.” He held the cat food up toward where Frosty huddled in a furry even if barely visible ball in the crux between two branches just beyond the guy’s reach.

  She wondered if he knew she could hear him. She wondered what was going to happen after he rescued her cat. Though as much as she loved her silly feline, Frosty suddenly didn’t seem as handy as a nice watchdog would right about now.

  A long moment later, after a little more coaxing, the kitty made a move, stepping carefully down into the stranger’s arms. And something in her heart expanded. Not only because it meant Frosty was safe. It also touched her on some unexpected level to see the cat do what she’d thought about just a moment ago—trust him. More than she did.

  But that doesn’t make him a great guy. It doesn’t even make him good. Even if it doesn’t make him bad, either. He’s still perfectly scary. And unknown. She still wished Frosty was more of a protector and less of a wuss.

  She watched as the stranger carried her cat, wrapped inside his coat now, toward the porch, trudging through knee-deep snow. Yep, still scary. And darn it—still hot. The worst possible combination.

  His dark hair, sprinkled with blowing snow, touched his coat collar, and the stubble on his cheek made him look strong even in the midst of a blizzard as he climbed the front steps.

  “Here ya go,” he said as he met her on the porch, then handed the now shivering, icy cat off to her. She tried to ignore the strange, awkward closeness involved in the exchange and wondered for the first time if any intimate parts of her showed through her nightgown in the cold, windy conditions. God, please, no. The notion made her all the more uncomfortable and nervous, and she blinked twice as she took the cat.

  Turning, she rushed in the still-open door, ready to warm up her cat, and herself. She headed straight for a throw on the back of her sofa, wrapping Frosty inside to melt the iciness that had quickly accumulated in his fur. She tried to ignore the fact that her stranger had followed her into the house and that she felt him there, behind her—that maleness again, that stark masculinity. Then she lowered cat and blanket to the couch and crossed the room to start building up the fire in the hearth, burned down to just embers now.

  “I can do that,” he offered.

  “I’m already doing it,” she told him, looking back, the poker still in her grasp.

  “You can quit looking so afraid of me,” he said. “I’m not going to beat you to death with that poker, promise.” He sounded irritated enough that she felt . . . well, more reassured. That he was telling the truth.

  “That’s a relief,” she said. Still feeling braver. Then realized there was something else she needed to say. “Thank you. For getting my cat.”

  His voice went matter-of-fact again. “Figure if I hadn’t been at your door, he wouldn’t have gotten out.”

  “But if I hadn’t stood there arguing with you and had just let you use my phone,” she reasoned in return, “he wouldn’t have gotten out, either.”

  The stranger tilted his head, narrowed his gaze on her. “Is that your way of saying I can stay?”

  Oh crap—that question again. And as her chest tightened, she spoke to him with full honesty. “I truly don’t want to let you freeze to death, but . . . you’re still a stranger to me. So what you’re asking is . . . a lot. Any woman would feel that way.”

  He just let out a tired sigh. “Look, lady, I understand that, but I’m so exhausted that your cat could take me out right now. You want to check me out—here’s my phone, here’s my wallet.” He pulle
d the items from his pockets with both hands and held them out, offering them to her.

  And a part of her did want to take them and check him out—but another part of her didn’t want to get any closer to him, and somehow to take his worn leather wallet, warm from his body heat, and look inside it, inside his personal world, would feel like exactly that—getting closer. Even to just take it from his hand, same as she’d taken the cat a minute ago, felt like too much. Too much nearness.

  “Lock me in a room. Or tie me to your couch if you want,” he went on, sounding all the more worn out. “I just need a little sleep. That’s all I’m after here, nothing else.”

  The man before her now appeared weary . . . and alone.

  And it was basic human kindness to give shelter. Especially at Christmastime.

  No matter how uncomfortable I am with the idea.

  But you have to sleep on the couch. And waking up to you and this situation in the morning already sounds awkward. And please, please don’t be an escaped convict.

  All of those replies flitted through her brain, but instead she simply said, “Okay. You can stay.”

  Two

  “If you’re going to help a man, you want to know something about him, don’t you?”

  Joseph, It’s a Wonderful Life

  “Good. Thanks,” he replied with a short nod.

  She nodded, too. And despite having a guest bedroom upstairs, concluded that the couch was indeed a far better idea. He might have saved her cat and he might not have a choice about being here, but he was still a total unknown quantity. So she left the fireplace, saying, “I’ll go get a pillow and blankets.”

  He didn’t reply, but shoved his belongings back into his pockets as he crossed the room to take her place by the hearth, holding his hands out to warm them.

  Upstairs, she considered putting a robe on over her gown but decided that might seem silly at this point. Not that she cared. But she was a grown, capable woman—she could act like one.

  When she descended the steps and re-entered the living room, a fresh blaze rose around a couple of newly placed logs, so he’d tended the fire while she was gone. He’d shed his coat to reveal a plaid shirt over a dark T-shirt and blue jeans. He stooped next to the hearth now, still looking in at the flames. And Frosty seemed recovered as well—he’d left his blanket and stood eating out of the cat food can that had been absently placed on the coffee table. All was well in this weird-feeling little scene.

  She plopped a pillow and blankets on the couch and said, “So what brings you to Destiny?” Some sort of effort to make this feel more normal. And make her seem less uneasy.

  He looked up. “A wrong turn, mostly.”

  “So you won’t be staying in town?”

  He shook his head. “Nope, just passing through on my way to Miami.”

  Like the fact that he wasn’t going to kill her with the fireplace poker, that too was a relief. “What’s in Miami?”

  “A job.”

  She nodded. And thought about asking what kind of job, yet decided not to. She wanted to be cordial, but wasn’t looking to become besties, after all.

  Though then something made her inquire, “Do you have a name?” Maybe a name would make him seem less intimidating somehow. And she could have found that out on her own by investigating his wallet, but since she hadn’t . . .

  “Shane Dalton,” he told her, rising up. “Do you?”

  “Candice Sheridan,” she introduced herself.

  “Candice,” he repeated. “That seems like kind of a fancy name.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. Fancy for what? Such a small town? A woman in a flannel nightgown? In a big house without a husband? So she said nothing at all.

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “Anybody ever call you Candy?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “I’ve always liked the name Candy for a girl,” he informed her. Suddenly making small talk.

  “I haven’t,” she replied. And the truth was, in elementary school, people had tried to call her Candy, but she’d put a stop to it. Now no one would even consider it. Well, except for this guy. “Too cutesy.”

  He’d taken a seat on the ottoman in front of her easy chair, started taking off his work boots. “For what?”

  “For me,” she said. “I like to be taken seriously.”

  He looked up from loosening the laces, pinning her in place with those blue eyes now illuminated by firelight along with the twinkling of the Christmas tree. “Why’s that?”

  She thought it another odd question—she was thirty-three years old, an adult, and what grown woman didn’t want to be taken seriously?—so she answered with an observation. “You seem like a pretty serious guy yourself, so I’d think you’d understand.”

  He just shrugged. “If I’m serious, it’s more by circumstance than choice. So it’s different.”

  What are your circumstances? Escaped convict came back to mind. And she was dying to ask in a way, but again thought better of it.

  And she could have tried to defend her position—but it was late and she was tired. So she took the high road and instead glanced toward his boots to ask, “Are your feet cold?”

  “Yep,” he said, pulling the boots off to reveal thick, wooly socks of gray underneath. “But they’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  “The fire will warm you up,” she agreed. Yet then experienced the sudden need to back away, end this. Because why was she asking about his feet being cold? Like she . . . cared or something. There was a fine line between thanking a man for saving your cat and developing too much of an interest in him. Especially a man like this one. So she added, “If you have everything you need, I’m going to turn in. Again.”

  “I’m fine. And hey—thanks. For letting me stay.” His tone was hardly warm and fuzzy—it had come out as stiff as the rest of his conversation. But it was something anyway.

  She answered with another nod, then turned toward the stairs and said, “Goodnight.”

  “’Night, Candy,” he replied.

  The words stopped her in her tracks, made her dart a look in his direction.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Guess I couldn’t help myself. ’Tis the season.” Then he pointed to a handful of candy canes resting on the coffee table, his expression the closest he’d come to a smile.

  Candice said nothing more, just turned and went on her way.

  Though she noticed as she hit the stairs that Frosty had stayed behind, curled up by the fire now. Traitor.

  The clock next to her bed said it was 3:30 a.m. And as she closed and locked her bedroom door, then crawled back under the covers, exhausted from all the excitement, she longed desperately for slumber. But there was a strange, mysterious man in her house, and even as tired as she was, she knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  Shane had slept like a log. It surprised him, but the fire was warm and the room comfortable. And chasing a crazy lady’s cat around in the damn snow had been exhausting. So far, everything about Destiny, Ohio had been exhausting. You better have sent me to this hell-frozen-over town for a reason, Dad.

  He’d given that last odd instruction from his father little thought since it had come. Maybe because there’d been a lot going on. The funeral, the loss. Packing up both their lives. Deciding to move on from the existence he knew in Montana to something entirely new—a new start.

  Or maybe he’d chosen not to give it much thought. Because it had come out of nowhere. And made no damn sense, no matter how he sliced it. Something there for you. What the hell could that mean?

  He’d almost wondered if his dad had thought he was someone else when he’d said it, if he’d even drifted into some other place in time, in his life. He’d wondered if it had something to do with his father’s youth in Ohio—he’d lived in this state until he was a little older than Shane was now before loading Shane up and heading west.

  And the truth was—Shane had probably come here for nothing. Which meant he’d wrecked his damn truck for n
othing. And now had to have it hauled out and hope the damage was cosmetic, something that could wait until Miami, until he could get settled enough to take care of it himself. For nothing.

  He did body work by trade—his father had taught him. They’d done work out of the garage behind their house until just a few years ago. Not a lot, just on the side. The side of whatever else his dad was into at the time. Shane had enjoyed it, and he’d held down jobs at a few different body shops over the years as well—but he would have liked if he and his dad had made more of a business from it together. His dad’s heart just hadn’t been in it the way his was.

  His dad’s heart had been . . . scattered.

  Some people hadn’t thought much of his father, but Shane knew he’d done the best he could with what he’d been dealt in life. He thought most people did the best they could. Whether or not it was good enough for everybody else.

  And his dad had always tried to do right by him, even when he didn’t deserve it. He’d always been trouble, plain and simple, but his dad had loved him anyway. So if he’d sent him here, surely there was a reason. Surely.

  Unless his first instinct was right and it had just been a meaningless ramble.

  As he lay there, sun shining through the windows, he realized two things: There was a cat curled up asleep near his feet, and the snow had stopped at some point, even leaving behind a bright wintry blue sky.

  It made him think of similar bright winter mornings in faraway Montana. But that reminded him that he’d chosen to leave winter—mornings and otherwise—behind for a warmer existence, and that as soon as the roads were cleared, he could start heading south.

  Hearing shuffling from the stairs, he looked up to see his reluctant hostess enter the room through the foyer. She looked like a different person than she had last night—wearing a cozy red sweater with jeans, and her auburn hair appeared far less crazy pulled back into a high, bouncy ponytail. She was actually . . . cute. Whether her “wanting to be taken seriously” attitude matched that or not.