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He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “You don’t want folks feeling sorry for you, I get that. Your life’s taken a nasty turn, and I respect what you’re doing to get it back together.” Moving a step closer, he added, “But you’re here now, and you don’t have to do everything on your own anymore. Folks in Barrett’s Mill are real fond of your aunt and uncle, and they’re gonna want to help you, whether you like it or not.”
“Including you?”
Warmth spread through his features, burnishing the gold in his eyes to a color she’d never seen before. When he finally smiled, for the first time in her life, she actually felt her knees begin quivering. If he took it into his head to kiss her, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t have the strength—or the will—to stop him.
“Including me,” he said so quietly, she almost didn’t hear him.
Struggling to keep her head clear, she pulled her dignity around her like a shield. “That’s really not necessary. I’m very capable of taking care of myself, and I didn’t get where I am by letting people poke their noses into my life and tell me what to do.”
Mischief glinted in his eyes, and he chuckled. “Me, neither.”
Because of her size, Amy was accustomed to being misjudged, underestimated and generally dismissed by others. Sometimes it actually worked to her advantage, lulling people into a harmless perception of her that masked her relentless determination until she was ready to bring it out into the open. By then, it was too late for whoever had dared to step in between her and whatever she wanted.
But Jason Barrett, with his country-boy looks and disarming personality, didn’t seem inclined to follow along. Instead, he’d taken stock of her and had apparently come to the conclusion that she didn’t scare him in the least. She’d given it her best shot, and it had sailed wide. So far wide, in fact, that the only sensible thing left to do was admit defeat.
“Okay, you win. This time,” she added, pointing a stern finger at him in warning. “But Arabesque is my business, and things around here will be run my way. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tacking on yet another maddening grin, he went on. “But I’ve got an idea about how to balance this entrance display. If you’re done scolding me, would you like to hear it?”
The concept of someone her size hassling the brawny carpenter was absurd, and she got the distinct impression he was trying to get her to lighten up. Since he was bending over backward to be entertaining, she decided the least she could do was smile. “Sure. Go ahead.”
Propping the nutcracker in place against a shrub, he moved to the other side of the walkway that led to the studio’s glass front door. Holding out his arms, he said, “Imagine a nicely decorated Christmas tree over here. Then you could do narrow pillars with an arch over the top strung with lights and a sign telling people when the show is.”
“I don’t think Jenna has time to do another sign for me.”
“It’s just lettering,” he pointed out. “I’ll get some stencils and knock it out in no time.”
Squinting, she envisioned what he’d described. Since the sun went down so much earlier this time of year, people running errands on Main Street after work would be drawn to Arabesque, just the way she was hoping. They’d come over to check out the cheery display window and get a look inside the freshly redecorated studio. Not only would it boost attendance for The Nutcracker, it might gain her some new students. Profits were the name of the new game she was playing, and anything that had the potential to bring in customers was worth a try.
“I like it,” she announced. “When do you think you can have it done?”
“How’s Monday afternoon sound?”
She had no idea how much work was involved in what he’d described, but he sounded so confident, she didn’t even consider questioning the quick turnaround. “Perfect. Thank you.”
Plunging his hands into the front pockets of his well-worn jeans, he said, “I oughta warn you, it probably won’t be perfect. But I can promise you it’ll be good enough to do the job.”
“Like you?”
“And you.” Slinging the wooden soldier over his shoulder, he gazed down at her. “For most of us, that’s enough.”
“Not for me,” she assured him. “I don’t stop until whatever I’m doing can’t possibly be any better.”
“We’ve all got flaws, y’know. It’s what we accomplish in spite of ’em that makes us who we are.”
The last thing she’d have expected this morning was to find herself in a philosophical debate with a guy carrying a life-size nutcracker. “That’s a nice thought, but some of us are more imperfect than others. It keeps us from being our best.”
“Maybe that’s ’cause you’re meant to be something else.”
Clearly, he meant for his calm, rational explanation to make her feel better about her lingering injuries. He didn’t mention God by name, but the silver cross on the chain around his neck filled in the blanks nicely for her. While she respected his right to hold that faith, his comment sparked a flame of resentment she fought to control. “Maybe I wanted the chance to choose for myself.”
All her life, she’d done everything her Sunday-school teacher had taught her to do. She went to church, said all the prayers, sang all the hymns. She’d worked relentlessly to polish the talent God gave her until it shone as brightly as any stage lights in the world.
And then He took it all away.
Lying in that lonely hospital bed, she begged Him to help her, to make everything the way it was before. And what happened? Nothing.
She didn’t trust herself to speak calmly right now, but from the sympathy in Jason’s eyes, she might as well have told him her whole tragic story.
“We don’t always get what we ask for, Amy.”
“Tell me about it.”
More worked up than she’d been in a long, long time, she marched away from him and yanked open the door to escape into the only part of her world she still understood.
* * *
The rest of his day at Arabesque passed by in silence. Except when he was hammering or drilling, anyway. Other than that, Amy avoided him with a deftness that impressed and saddened him all at the same time. He’d been around enough wounded people in his life to recognize the regret that trailed after her, darkening her eyes with the kind of unrelenting sorrow he could only begin to imagine.
He’d just met her, but he instinctively wanted to do whatever he could to pound down the road ahead of her to make it easier for her to walk. The women who usually appealed to him were engaging, uncomplicated types who didn’t eat much and laughed easily. Something told him Amy Morgan was complicated by nature, which should’ve been an enormous red flag for him.
Unfortunately, it only made him wonder what it would take to make her laugh. Then again, he thought as he packed Fred’s tools into their cases, maybe he was getting ahead of himself. After all, he’d barely been able to tease a smile out of her, and they’d been together most of the day.
Stopping by her office, he knocked on the frame of the open door. “Everything’s put away, so I’m gonna get outta here before your students show up. I’ll be back Monday with those extra pieces we talked about.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. Have a good rehearsal.”
Since he was out of things to say, he waved and began backing away. When she called out his name, he paused in the hallway. “Yeah?”
“Things were so hectic today, we never settled on your hourly rate.”
“I thought we agreed on zero.”
Narrowing her eyes, she tilted her head in a skeptical pose he suspected was fairly common for her. “I assumed you were joking about that.”
“Nope. I’m sure Fred wasn’t charging you, so since I’m filling in for him, it wouldn’t be right for me to do it.”
“Where I’m from, strangers don’t do things for nothing.”
“Huh,” he said with his brightest grin. “And here I thought we were friends.”
While he watched, the brittle cynicism fell away, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a wry grin. “I should warn you, I’m not the easiest person to be friends with.”
“That’s cool. I like a challenge.”
Before she could warp their light exchange into something heavier, he turned and headed for the front door, whistling “Jingle Bell Rock” as he went. When the orchestral holiday medley coming over the studio speakers increased in volume, he knew she’d heard him and was registering her disapproving opinion of his taste in Christmas music. Didn’t matter a bit to him, he thought as he stepped from the studio. So they didn’t enjoy the same kind of tunes. It wasn’t as if he was going to marry her or anything.
Outside, he paused to take in the view of his hometown at the holidays. While he’d been gone, he’d seen plenty of towns, big, small and everything in between. He recalled most of their names, but none had ever measured up to Barrett’s Mill for him. At first glance, this Main Street resembled so many others, lined with buildings constructed in a time when skilled craftsmen took great pride in building things that would last forever.
The structures had a solid look to them, which gave the village a quaint, old-fashioned appeal for residents and visitors alike. Especially this time of year, when each business went all out to win the Chamber of Commerce award for best commercial decorations. The jewelry store’s front window was dominated by a glacial scene that had sparkling rings and earrings pinned into the fake waterfall. Next to it, a shop that sold office supplies had set up a huge pile of brightly wrapped gifts, with a few open at the front to display the latest gadgets you could find inside. Every window was rimmed in lights, and on a cloudy day like today they gave off a cheerful glow that looked like something straight out of a holiday movie.
Across the width of the street, volunteers had strung the lighted garlands and wreaths the same way they’d done for generations. For as long as Jason could remember, when those festive greens went up, he knew Christmas was right around the corner. Even when he’d lived out West, he’d come back home every year, even if it was only for a few days. As he got older, reconnecting with those lifelong memories comforted him, no matter what might have gone wrong for him elsewhere.
He recognized a few of the people out window-shopping and lifted a hand in greeting before climbing into his truck. Actually, it was one of the mill trucks, older than dirt and held together by rust and a lot of prayers. Paul had gotten it running over the summer and offered it to Jason when he finally broke down and bought a pickup manufactured in this century. To start it, Jason usually needed a screwdriver and a boatload of patience. Since it hadn’t been idle all that long, he took his chances and turned the key. Nothing happened at first, but when he gave it another shot, the engine whined a bit and caught. Pumping the gas pedal, he let the motor settle into the throaty rumble that told him it would keep running long enough for him to get where he was going. Usually.
As he made his way toward the edge of town, the pavement gave way to gravel, and he turned in by the sign Jenna had made to mark the very first business in town: Barrett’s Sawmill, Est. 1866. He felt a quick jolt of pride, recalling how his older brother, Paul, had left his wandering ways behind and come back to reopen the bankrupt family business. Now a humming custom-furniture manufacturer, they made things by hand the old-fashioned way, in a mill powered by its original waterwheel.
It was a far cry from the lumber camps Jason had been working at the past couple of years. About half as exciting, he mused as he parked next to Chelsea’s silver convertible, but way safer. Before he’d even closed the driver’s door, baying echoed from behind the mill house, and a huge red bloodhound raced out to meet him.
“Hey there, Boyd.” He laughed as the dog leaped up to give him the canine version of a high five. “What’s shakin’?”
The dog barked in reply, letting him go and racing around him in circles all the way up to the front porch. Inside, Jason paused outside the office’s half door and waved in at his newest sister-in-law. “Hey, Chelsea. How’re the numbers looking this week?”
Beaming, she gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I love Christmas shoppers. They need things fast, and they’re willing to pay extra for quick delivery.”
Jason groaned, only half joking. “Sounds like we’re gonna get real busy.”
“I wouldn’t take up any new hobbies,” Paul advised from the open sliding door that led into the rear of the mill. Wiping grease from his hands on a rag, he went on. “This is supposed to be your last Saturday off till the end of the year. What’re you doing here?”
“Making a Christmas tree.”
Chelsea laughed. “Doesn’t God already take care of that?”
While Jason explained what he was up to, he kept things vague to avoid creating the wrong impression about his situation with Amy. Despite his best efforts, though, Paul’s expression grew increasingly suspicious.
“Uh-huh.” Dragging it out longer than usual, he folded his arms in disapproval. “Now, how ’bout the truth?”
“That is the truth,” Jason insisted, as much for himself as his nosy brother. “The lady wants a tree and a nice arch overtop, so I’m making them for her. And for the kids. They’re working hard on their show, and they deserve a big audience. I figured it’s a nice, Christmassy thing to do.”
“It’s very nice.” With her kitten, Daisy, cradled in her arms, Chelsea came out to back him up. Sending a stern look at her husband, she smiled at Jason. “I’m sure she really appreciates your help.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Paul cautioned her. “He’s got a weakness for pretty faces and sad stories.”
“I do not,” Jason protested. Paul raised an eyebrow at him, and he decided it was pointless to argue. “Okay, you’re right, but this time’s different.”
“How?”
He didn’t want to lie, but it wasn’t his place to air her personal history, so he hedged, “Amy was advertising for a carpenter to replace Fred, and the job’s easy enough. Everyone else in the family does work for the church or charities this time of year, and I’ve been looking for a way to pitch in somewhere.”
“You’ve been doing that ever since you moved in with Gram and Granddad.” Paul rested a hand on his shoulder with a proud smile. “His cancer’s getting worse every day, and she needs your help after Mom goes home for the night. We’re all grateful to you for stepping up like that.”
The praise settled well, and Jason smiled back. “That’s why this project is so great. Working at Amy’s, I’ll be five minutes away if they need me. The show’s the week before Christmas, so my part’ll be over soon enough.”
“You realize you’re doing an awful lot of work for a woman you met—” Pausing, he chuckled. “When did you meet her, anyway?”
“This morning, after you and I had breakfast at the Whistlestop. She was decorating out front of the dance place, and since she’s new in town, I went over to say hi.” When Paul leveled one of those big-brother looks at him, Jason let out a frustrated growl. “You’re acting like I proposed or something.”
“Well...”
“That was a long time ago,” Jason reminded him, poking him in the chest for emphasis. “I learned my lesson with her, and I’ve got no plans for making that mistake again anytime soon.”
“I have to ask,” Chelsea interrupted. “Who on earth are you talking about?”
“Rachel McCarron,” Jason replied with a wry grin. “It didn’t work out.”
“That little minx took off with your best friend and your truck,” Paul reminded him, as if he’d lost his memory or something. “Oh, and the ring. Nice girl.”
“Whatever.”
Paul opened his mouth, then closed it almost immediately. Jason didn’t understand why until he noticed the chilly stare Paul was getting from his wife. It reminded him of Amy’s disapproving looks, and he smothered a grin. He’d never had the opportunity to compare one woman with another this way. If he could somehow figure out what was going on in their heads, it might actually be entertaining.
“Fine.” With a look that was half smile and half grimace, Paul stepped back to let Jason into the working area of the mill. “Whattaya need?”
Chapter Three (#ulink_961ffba1-aca2-5a6c-8d78-d818e4fb2b1a)
Monday morning crept by at a pace that would have embarrassed the slowest turtle on earth. Banished to her office at the rear of the studio by her carpenter, Amy chafed impatiently and tried not to check the old schoolhouse clock on the wall every two seconds.
She was dying to see what he’d come up with for the entryway. Before she went completely bonkers, she decided it was better to distract herself until he was finished. She could use the free time to inventory her costume collection, assessing what Aunt Helen had on hand so she could determine what they needed to buy for the cast.
Because the studio had been built on her aunt’s stellar reputation as a dance instructor, Amy had insisted Aunt Helen remain a silent partner in the business. So every decision was a “they” situation, which was new for someone who’d spent most of her life focused on her own career. It was one of many changes Amy had encountered since coming back to Barrett’s Mill after so many years away.
Like Jason Barrett.
The man couldn’t be any more different from her ex, and she couldn’t help but compare the two. A dancer himself, Devon hadn’t been able to cope with the somber prospect of being shackled to a wife who was so limited physically. He bolted shortly after her grim final diagnosis, taking his great-grandmother’s engagement ring with him.
Since then, the men who’d crossed her path had been either medical professionals or old friends who viewed her as more of a younger sister than a romantic interest. Heartbroken by Devon’s betrayal, her new hands-off status with the male species actually suited her just fine. She had no intention of letting another one close enough to hurt her by taking off just when she needed him most.
Not that Jason fell into that category, she reminded herself as she eased out of her chair. In a few short days, he’d proven himself not only respectful but dependable, two qualities she valued in anyone. On her way into the storeroom, she made several attempts to classify him based on other guys she’d known, but came up empty. Then she heard his teasing voice in her mind.
And here I thought we were friends.
Smiling to herself, she decided he was indeed her friend, one she might enjoy getting to know better. After all, she mused as she began pairing up satin slippers, you never knew when a big, strong carpenter might come in handy.
From the doorway, she heard a low whistle and turned to find him staring into the oversize closet. “It looks like a cotton-candy machine blew up in here.”
The comment was so spot-on, she couldn’t help laughing. “I guess it does. That’s what happens when you cast too many sugar-plum fairies.”
“How many extra do you have?”
Glancing up, she quickly did the math. “Ten, I think.”
“Why didn’t you just make them something else? Save yourself a little netting?”
“Because all the girls wanted to be Clara or a sugar-plum fairy. For this production, no one’s en pointe, and only Heidi Peterson could manage the basics for Clara. That means I need lots of these,” she added, fluffing the layers of pink tulle hanging on the rack.
Something in his expression shifted, and he took a step inside the cramped room. “You mean, you adjusted the traditional cast so they could play the roles they wanted?”
