Christmas Hearts: In the Company of Snipers Page 9

  In anger one summer day, he’d taken his boys’ bikes apart with his acetylene torch, cut them into little itty bitty pieces and told the kids they’d never get another bike because they never put a damned thing away. He still regretted doing that to them, but he was so angry, so filled with pent up rage. After that embarrassing episode, he’d barricaded himself in his workshop, trying to turn those bits and pieces of bike parts into something worthwhile. He came up with a bunch of cute stuff, just nothing his boys cared about. They were mad at him and he was mad at the world.

  Suddenly another angry, bitter man made sense. Could it be? Was Mark’s father, John Houston, just another Craig Simpson? The untimely revelation irked Mark. He didn’t have a free moment to think about his grumpy old man, not with Christmas on its way and a bunch of self-imposed errands undone, but—could there be a side to the guy that Mark had never realized? Was John Houston worth another call home even though he’d probably hang up on Mark like he usually did?

  “Yeah, it’s ready,” Craig snarled, his lip curled back, not quite ready to believe that a jarhead, a total stranger, might just be the answer to his prayers. That someone running around for that perfect last minute Christmas gift might see one of those posters and take a chance on an ex-Army Ranger, that people might actually buy his pieces of junk.

  Mark studied the cart Craig had made for Quentin. Wow. The guy was good. He’d painted it red and the harness looked new. It was the jingle bells running along the hitch that caught Mark’s eye. “I like the bells. They’ll let folks on the sidewalks in town know when Quentin’s around. Good thinking.”

  “Yeah, well…” Craig glanced over his shoulder at the door to his home. “I had help. Holden kept bugging me, so...”

  “But I painted it, Dad,” Big Brother declared from the door, now opened wide and Holden peeking around his big brother. “Holden stuck the bells on, yeah, but I painted it.”

  “But I did the bells,” Holden bragged, his eyes alight with excitement.

  Pure unadulterated sibling rivalry at its best. Mark grinned and waved the boys out into the garage-turned-workshop. “Come on out. You boys did good. Real good. This is perfect. Do you think Tiger will fit in the harness?”

  And that’s all it took. One hand reaching out. One hand holding on. It’s called random acts of kindness. Big Brother nodded. So did Holden, his eyes shining with typical boyish delight. Even Craig smiled, his black eye patch and all.

  Mark pushed the limit. “Could I get you boys to deliver it for me?” he asked, his hand in his back pocket for his wallet. Greenbacks never failed to straighten a kid out, especially ones who might not have bought their mother anything for Christmas yet. Mark had learned that lesson early, too. These boys weren’t bad. They were just suffering along with their dad, and sometimes a few hard-earned George Washingtons turned a boy into a man pretty quick.

  He gave them each a five, then sent them to make peace with Quentin, along with the dog bone Mark had brought for Tiger. Quentin was another lost soul, but not for long. Libby was right. He was unstable. He’d come home with a tough case of post-traumatic stress. That’s why he needed Tiger. A good service dog could turn a suicidal man into a functioning member of the human race again. Quentin just wanted his independence and to be left alone, but today he was going to get the best present of all.

  He was going to get a couple of friends.

  Chapter Seven

  “I love it!” Libby had to stand on her tiptoes to dangle the wind chimes enough that they tinkled. “It will go perfect on our front porch. Where’d you get it?”

  That Mark, sitting there on her parent’s couch, his hands on his knees and acting innocent. It was Christmas Eve. The shopping was done. The baking, too. But the cutest dimple cracked that big chin of his. “From Craig Simpson’s Christmas workshop. The man’s a genius with metal. You should see some of the stuff he sold today.”

  “Craig?” Rosemary’s mouth dropped open. “Really? I didn’t think he had a creative bone in that cranky body of his.”

  Libby’s father piped up. “You betcha. I don’t think I’ve seen the guy as happy as he was today in a long time. Craig made a small fortune this afternoon selling all his fancy spinning wheels, and wind chimes, and gizmos for the yard. And just so you don’t start grumping at me when you get your next credit card bill, I’ll tell you now. I bought a couple fancy mountain bikes today. Went all the way to Eau Claire to pick ’em up.”

  Rosemary turned her entire body to face Jerry, her hands on her hips. “So that’s where you’ve been. I hope you bought them for Craig’s boys. Heaven knows they need something for Christmas.”

  He nodded, a clever light in his eyes. “I did. I got the idea from Mark. Them boys needed bikes and Craig needed a second chance. ’Tweren’t nothing.”

  Libby turned with her mother to face Mark. “You’re behind this?” They spoke at the same time, a common Clifton trait.

  He shook his head and shrugged those big wide shoulders. “Nah, not me. I just made a couple of observations and…” He shrugged again. “It’s Christmas magic. That’s all.”

  Jerry winked at Libby. “I told you that you were smart to marry this guy.”

  Didn’t she know it? Her heart swelled with pride at the gentle giant in her life. “Do the boys know?” she asked, tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes, a funny lump in her throat at the humble way Mark shrugged off the unwanted attention.

  He glanced at his watch. “Not until Santa comes. He only brings presents to good little girls and boys, you know.”

  She sputtered at that gentle sexual hint that she just might get another present. Later. When her parents were nestled all snug in their beds. When not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse… Her most feminine muscles clenched at the hope unfurling in her belly, the love for her man. How did she ever get so lucky?

  The doorbell rang, and wouldn’t you know it was the Simpson boys? Jeffrey and Holden. “Is Mark here?” Jeffrey asked, peering around Libby’s father.

  “Come on in.” Jerry waved the kids inside. “Take your coats off and stay a while.”

  “No thanks, sir. We’ve got to get home, but we—”

  “We got us a Christmas tree!” Holden exclaimed, his eyes aglow and his cheeks rosy red. “A real one and it’s a hundred feet tall and it smells good and Daddy says Santa’s coming this year for sure!”

  Jeffrey grimaced. “It’s six feet tall, Holden. Just six. Geez.”

  Libby pressed her lips together, fighting her emotions. These boys looked—happy. Nothing like the two belligerents she’d seen the day before. She glanced back at Mark, just lifting to his feet. That explained the contentment she’d felt radiating off of him since he’d come home for dinner. He’d been up to—good—in the world, while she’d been baking cookies and whipping up salads. He’d been playing the real Santa, the one that began in the Bethlehem manger a long time ago.

  “Mr. Houston?” Jeffrey asked respectfully, his voice steady, maybe a little determined, his hand extended and two bills in his fingers. “Me and Holden decided. We can’t take your money for delivering that cart to Mr. Sharp. It wouldn’t be right.”

  Mark stood there looking at the boy. “Why not? You earned it fair and square.”

  Jeffrey shook his head, his lips pursed. “No, sir, we didn’t. Not after what we were doing to him and his dog yesterday. Please take it back, sir. It’s enough to know he’s not the freak we thought he was.”

  “He made me cry,” Holden said sadly, the heel of his hand dug into his eye. “When he started crying, he made me cry, too.”

  A tear welled up in Libby’s eye at the thought of a grown man crying over a Christmas present. “What cart?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  A gentle frown creased Mark’s brow. “It’s nothing. Craig just built a two-wheeled cart that Quentin’s service dog can pull. It’s just a way for Quentin to haul a few groceries and stuff. Tiger won’t mind the work. He’s a good boy.”

  �
�You got Craig to do something for Quentin?” Libby’s mother asked, surprised. “Out of the kindness of his heart? For Christmas?”

  Mark nodded and dropped to one knee to talk to Holden. “That was a mighty brave thing you boys did delivering that cart to Mr. Sharp. He’s not a bad guy, is he?”

  Jeffrey spoke up while poor Holden’s eyes filled with more tears. “No, sir, he’s not. We gave Tiger his bone too, but he wouldn’t take it until Quentin said he could.”

  “That dog’s really smart,” Holden piped up. “You shoulda seen him. He knows how to shake hands, umm, I mean paws.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “I think he’s a lot like Dad, though. He’s just kind of beat up and mad at everyone, I guess, from what he seen and did in the war is all. Dad was telling us some stories. Some of ’em were funny, but some of ’em were sad. I, umm… I, umm…” Jeffrey swallowed hard, his hand stuck out like a man. “Thanks, Mr. Houston,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Thanks for talking to my dad, and for, I don’t know, everything you done for him. You didn’t have to do it, but you did, and, umm, you kinda gave him back to me and my brother for Christmas. We’re real grateful.”

  Holden launched himself into Mark. “I love my daddy,” he whispered against Mark’s cheek, “and I love you, too. You’re a really, really good guy. My daddy says so.”

  Libby’s heart turned to mush. There knelt her really, really good guy, his broad shoulders shuddering as he held a special little boy on Christmas Eve. Because of Mark, those boys were going to have a good Christmas. They had their father back. That wise man kneeling there on the floor with a kid he could have easily ignored and a situation he could have walked away from, was the only gift she needed.

  She went to him, needing to feel her hands on his shoulders, needing his strong muscles under her fingertips. If she could’ve kissed the dickens out of him without embarrassing the boys, she would have.

  He released Holden and pushed to his feet, taking hold of her waist while he faced his new friends. Mark didn’t take the bills from Jeffrey, though. “You keep that money,” he told the boys. “You’re men now. Use it to help others. Always remember. You have to look at people with your heart wide opened instead of your eyes. The eyes can be tricky, but the heart always knows.”

  “Yes, sir,” Holden said somberly, his head tilted up to Mark, his little brown eyes soft and filled with worship.

  “Come on, Holden,” Jeffrey said. “We hafta get home. Dad’ll be worried about us. Mom too.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Rosemary called out. “You boys get back here. How’s your mom doing, Jeffrey?”

  He halted at the door. “She’s on her way home from K-Mart, ma’am. She had to work late.”

  “But she’s over her pneumonia now? She’s feeling better?”

  “Yes, but she gets tired fast. Me and Holden are fixing lunch for her and Dad tomorrow so they can take a nap together.”

  Holden’s nose wrinkled when he grinned. “I made chicken soup, and tomorrow I’m gonna butter some bread for her. She likes that.”

  “I’ve got a big plate of cookies and fudge for you to take home. Tell your dad he’d better plan on bringing you and your mom over here for Christmas dinner tomorrow. Five p.m. sharp.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jeffrey said, accepting the cellophane wrapped tray stacked high. “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Merry Christmas, Jeff and Holden,” Mark called out to them. “See you tomorrow.”

  Holden turned and waved, his head ducked into his shoulders. “Bye! Love you!”

  Jerry shut the door, closing out the cold once more, his eyes bright with the real reason for the season. He clapped Mark’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen. “Good job, son. Good job.”

  And Libby couldn’t get her lips on her sexy man’s mouth fast enough. Let her mom and dad watch. They knew how she felt. She latched onto the back of Mark’s neck and tugged him to her level, her soul on fire for his.

  “Hey,” he grumbled, but that’s all he got out. Libby mashed her mouth to his, needing his breath, his taste, heck, needing every last bit of this magnificent male’s heart. His tongue swept over her lips, and she angled her body into his, filled to overflowing with fierce, womanly love.

  “I love you so much,” she ground out against his poor lips. “You make me so proud. You really don’t want to leave The TEAM, do you? You like what you do, don’t you? You like giving back what you can. It’s who you are, isn’t it?”

  He had the nerve to chuckle. “Hold on, babe,” he groused as he disengaged enough to read what was in her eyes. “One question at a time.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I? What you did with Quentin and Craig and those boys…” Libby blew out a deep breath of trust and faith and love for the handsome man ensnared in her heart, her arms still locked around his neck and his breath in her face. “I’ve been worrying about the wrong things, the little things, Mark. The cookies, the salads, and the ham, and whether we had enough eggnog or not, but all this time you’ve been taking care of the big things. The important things. Those poor little boys and their father. Quentin and his dog.”

  Tears filled her eyes and suddenly she was an emotional mess. Darn. She hated that her voice got squeaky when she cried. “All this time, you’ve been taking care of people, Mark. That’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s why you love your job. It isn’t the adrenaline or the excitement. You do it because you love the guys you work with and the people you save. I know you do.”

  He cupped her face in those big, wide, capable hands of his, and leaned in to plant a warm, moist kiss in the middle of her forehead. “But I love you more,” he said firmly.

  Her tears fell. “But I love you most of all, and I trust you, and I believe in you, Mark. You decide. I’ll follow you anywhere. You know I will. I want you to be happy. After Christmas, we’re going back to Virginia. We’re going home.”

  The Clifton front door blew open and suddenly, Marie was home from college, stomping the snow off her boots. She grinned when her eyes fell on her very pregnant younger sister in the living room, mugging her husband like a horny teenager. “Well, Libby. I see you got what you wanted for Christmas,” she teased, her face flushed from the cold and her blue eyes bright. “Hi Mom! Hi Dad! I’m home!”

  Libby nodded, her nose pressed to Mark’s nose. “I do have what I wanted for Christmas,” she said quietly. “I’ve got everything.”

  He had the nerve to slap her ass right there in front of her sister and her parents. The big guy winked. “Merry Christmas, Marie.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Yeah, hello. Who’s this?” John Houston. The proverbial Grinch who’d stolen Christmas.

  “It’s me, Dad,” Mark said steadily.

  “What do you want?” His father couldn’t have sounded more annoyed.

  “I want to tell you Merry Christmas, and I want you to know that I miss Mom, too,” Mark replied, his voice soft and hushed in the late Christmas Eve hour. “I know it was hard on you when she died. I know you loved her. When you lost her, you lost your whole world. I guess we both did. I just want you to know I’m thinking about you tonight. I appreciate all you did for me.”

  Silence.

  Mark cleared his throat, this mission a little tougher than most. His dad was a hard, bitter man before he’d lost his wife to cancer. Her death had only made him worse. “It’s been too many years, Dad. I want to come home for a visit, but I want you to be there when I do. I’m married now, and Libby’s going to have a baby. It’s a little girl, and we’re going to name her JayJay after Mom.”

  Something that sounded like a grunt passed over the long distance between father and son. Mark kept going. Only his father hanging up on him would end this one-sided conversation. It had happened plenty of times before. “We’re in Wisconsin right now, Dad, and it’s snowing. It reminds me of Ohio. Of home…” He let his words trail away. Libby had just come to bed from taking her shower. It was late in Wisconsin, an hour later in Ohio, bu
t the impression to reach out to his father had been strong, so he’d acted on it. “Are you still there? Do you hear me?” Did you ever care?

  “I hear you,” John snapped, his tone just as harsh, just as unforgiving as ever.

  For some unknown reason, he’d blamed Mark for the cancer and JayJay’s death. It made no sense to the boy Mark was then, and it made no sense to the man he was now. Still, he tried. “We bought a house in Rose Creek, Dad. It’s a suburb near Washington D.C. It’s affordable, and we’re happy, and Libby’s got a cardinal wreath on the front door just like Mom did. You’d like—”

  “She loved birds,” John ground out.

  Mark heard it then, that tiny crack in his father’s stone façade. “She did,” he agreed softly, remembering all the songbirds she’d fed that his father had killed with buckshot because they’d annoyed him. There were times Mark hated his father for the cruel things he did to his mother. “Mom sure fed enough of them, didn’t she?”

  “Libby you say?” John actually said her name. A first.

  Mark could have cried at this one small step. “Yes, sir. Liberty’s her full name. I’d really like you to meet her. You’d love her, Dad. I know you would.”

  Libby knelt one knee to the bed, dropping her hand to Mark’s arm, her warm belly pressed against his side. “Hello,” she called out congenially to the father-in-law she’d never met. “I’m sorry I won’t be skinny when you see me. I’m as big as a house right now.”

  “She’s fat? You married a fat girl?” John grumbled.

  Mark stifled a smile, thankful Libby hadn’t heard that. His father was older, meaner, set in his ways, and one hundred percent politically incorrect. “She’s close to eight months pregnant, Dad. She’s carrying your first granddaughter. JayJay, remember?”

  A long drawn out sigh. “JayJay, huh.”

  “Yes,” Mark said quietly, remembering the sweet mother who’d loved him right up to her last breath. She’d died at home with only Mark at her side. His father had been too worried about getting the hay into the barn to attend the death, but Mark remembered every last thing. How she’d cried. How she’d let go so slowly. How he’d cried when she’d left.