A Child for Christmas Read online

  “Squire sings your praises, you know. At least he did all last night at supper. He’s single. Has he sought you out?”

  Rebecca blinked. Squire Clay was admittedly a handsome, vital man. But he was old enough to be her father. And she’d been very careful of any contact she’d had with the Clays of the Double-C Ranch.

  She’d chosen Weaver deliberately, deciding that the risks were worth the safety and well-being of her son, but that didn’t mean she’d be foolish enough to seek out trouble.

  She deliberately looked at the narrow gold watch circling her wrist. The diamonds circling the face glittered under the overhead light. “If there is nothing else I can do for you, I do have other business this morning.”

  “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  Truly shocked, Rebecca shook her head. She’d tried to be so careful. “You are my patient. I want to see you fully recovered from your accident.” Her ears actually started to burn at that. “‘Liking’ has nothing to do with it.”

  His beautiful, hard face lit with amusement. “You know the problem we have here, don’t you?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say,” she responded evenly.

  “Ever since I can remember, you’ve been the most interesting person I’ve met.”

  If he only knew. Rebecca managed to smile at his ironic words. “I should think everyone you meet would be of interest. The more you immerse yourself in your old life, the more familiar things may become for you.”

  “If it was my old life,” Sawyer said, “I’d still be in Maryland, apparently. I guess I haven’t been around Weaver much in years.”

  He’d certainly been absent for two solid years, Rebecca knew. It was unfortunate that had changed. But if she kept her distance, she’d also keep her secret. She’d tried, more than once, all those years ago to tell him. But he hadn’t listened. Hadn’t wanted to listen. The only thing he’d wanted had been his career.

  So if there was one thing she was determined to do now, it was to keep that truth from Sawyer Clay, one way or the other. He didn’t deserve to know the truth. Not after all these years.

  She flipped open his file and completed another office-visit form, tearing out the yellow copy and handing it to him.

  “If you’d have lunch with me, we wouldn’t have to resort to this pretense of professional visits.”

  Rebecca paused in the hallway, looking back at him. Six feet, one inch of trouble. That was Capt. Sawyer Clay. Six feet, one inch of trouble she did not need. Six feet, one inch of trouble she couldn’t afford to let get under her skin. In her head. In her heart. Never again.

  “I’m not interested, Captain Clay. I hope that doesn’t offend you. But I do not date.”

  “Pity.”

  “Depends on your perspective, I would say.”

  The dark blue eyes that roved over her were frank in their appreciation. And they did not move her one iota. No, they did not.

  She moistened her lips and turned away, heading blindly for the reception area. The sooner she got this man out of her office the better.

  “Hey, Mom, I know it’s not eleven-thirty yet, but Eric’s mom said if I get there before then, she’ll take us to the pizza parlor for lunch.”

  Her heart stopped and she barely kept from crying out to Ryan not to come into the office. But he was already there, bounding through the connecting door, exuberance in his stride. “I thought you were going to eat the lunch I left for you.”

  Ryan’s smile was wide, the dimple in his cheek flashing. “I did. But I can always eat pizza. Can’t we go a few minutes early?”

  Rebecca was painfully aware of Sawyer standing behind her. “I’m with a patient, Ryan. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

  Ryan, who knew better than to interrupt his mother with a patient unless he was personally bleeding to death, made a face. “Sorry.”

  Rebecca softened. Ryan always did that to her. He was her son. Her shining joy. “A few more minutes, okay, Ry?”

  He nodded, scooping his hair off his forehead and tugging the Mets ball cap back on his head. He started to turn back to the apartment. Rebecca started to breathe again.

  And Sawyer stepped from behind Rebecca. “Is this your son, Bec?”

  She swallowed. Hard. “My name is Rebecca. Or Dr. Morehouse. Or even Doc. Take your pick.” Sawyer stopped right next to her, his shoulder brushing against hers and she sidled to the side.

  “And what’s my name?”

  “Cap—” His smile widened when she swallowed the rest. “Yes,” she decided to answer his question. “This is my son. Ryan.”

  Her son took that moment to suddenly become the polite young man she’d always wished for. He removed his cap and stuck out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Okay, pod person.” Rebecca jostled Ryan’s shoulder before Sawyer could shake her son’s hand. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”

  Ryan rolled his eyes and managed to shake Sawyer’s hand anyway. “I know who you are. Sawyer Clay, huh? My friend Eric says you used to be a SEAL. That’s pretty cool. Was it anything like that Demi Moore movie?”

  “Ryan thinks Demi Moore hung the moon.” Rebecca put her arm around Ryan’s shoulders, casually nudging him back toward their apartment. “The only thing he knows about that movie is that he’s not old enough to watch the video.” Then she realized Sawyer didn’t have a clue who she was talking about. “She’s an actress.”

  “With phenom—” Ryan dropped his lifted, expressive hands at his mother’s raised eyebrows, and flushed. He stuck his cap back on his head. “She’s real pretty,” he finished.

  “Go get your coat and boots,” Rebecca suggested and watched until Ryan disappeared back through the connecting door. She walked over and shut it.

  “How old is your boy?”

  “Nine.” She didn’t want to discuss her son with this man. She’d have preferred it, actually, if the two had never even met. But the damage was done. And anyone in town could have told him her son’s age. “As you heard, I need to go on Mom duty for a while. So if you’ll excuse me...”

  “He seems tall for his age.”

  “You have recall over the average heights of the nine-year-old male?”

  “You really are a cool one.”

  She moved across to the coat-tree and removed his jacket, holding it out for him. “I trust you’ll let me know if you need me? Medically speaking,” she added, noticing the gleam in his eyes.

  “Medically speaking, I think my need is only growing, Dr. Morehouse.” He took the coat from her, his fingers deliberately brushing against hers. “You have a fine-looking son. You must be very proud of him.”

  Oh, this was ridiculous. She didn’t really feel her throat knotting, did she? “Thank you.” She cleared her throat of the knot that couldn’t possibly be there. “I am proud of Ryan.”

  “And Ryan’s father?”

  Rebecca shoved open the door, heedless of the brisk wind that carried snow in over her taupe pumps. “He’s gone.”

  Sawyer didn’t take the hint immediately. Rather, he ignored it. She could see that in his expression. “Divorced?”

  “My husband died two years ago,” she said coldly. “And I prefer not to discuss my private life with my patients.”

  He finally stepped through the doorway, his hand covering hers where it held the door open. “All your patients, or just me?”

  It didn’t matter, suddenly, what it revealed. She yanked her hand from beneath his warm palm, dislodging his hold on the door, as well. “Just you.”

  She pulled the door closed and snapped the lock into place.

  Knees shaking, she crossed the reception area to the connecting door leading to their private apartment. The only reason she made it was knowing that if she collapsed in one of the chairs in the waiting room the way she wanted to, Sawyer would see her, since he was watching through the windows.

  She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to see him standing there; she could f
eel his dark blue gaze burning through her lab coat and taupe sweater beneath.

  She shut the connecting door with no small amount of satisfaction. There were no windows on this side for Sawyer to see into.

  Thank goodness.

  Ryan was already bundled into his snow boots and was tugging on his thermal mittens. Rebecca pulled on her own coat and changed her pumps for more practical, lined boots. They went out the door at the back of the building—the door that, in spring and summer, opened into their own private yard, complete with tire swing for Ryan, though she suspected by now he’d figure he was too “cool” for the swing. Her Jeep was in the garage. Ryan pulled open the door while she started it up, letting the engine warm for a few minutes.

  By the time she finally pulled out and around the building, she figured Sawyer would be gone. And she was right.

  “Hey, Mom. What’s wrong with him?”

  “Who?” She turned onto Main, the central street of Weaver that ran outside her office, driving cautiously even though there was no traffic to speak of.

  “Sawyer Clay.”

  Her hands tightened over the steering wheel. She passed the high school and turned onto Third Street. “Ryan, you know we don’t discuss patients.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “He was in a car accident,” she said. Ryan rolled his eyes. He already knew that, courtesy of his grapevine source, Eric. Eric’s father owned the feed store, and if there was a central place of gossip, the feed store appeared to be it. Either there, or Ruby’s Café or Colbys. Colbys had a restaurant now as well the bar, but nobody could make the mistake of calling the place a restaurant first and foremost. It was a bar

  Rebecca hated the place, even though she personally liked Newt Rasmusson, who owned the dive. She ended up treating more injuries from the brawls that occurred inside Colbys’ walls than she wanted. It really was the only type of violence she’d encountered here in Weaver. And perhaps violence wasn’t really the correct term, either. Most of the fights involved a few whiskeys too many and someone poaching on someone else’s girl rather than the violence for the sake of violence that she’d seen too much of in New York.

  Still, she much preferred her obstetric side of things. And with the three Clay wives all currently expecting as well as a half-dozen other women in town, that area of her practice was alive and well.

  “Do you think he’s married?”

  Rebecca’s foot pressed a little too hard on the brake, and her Jeep slid a foot or so as she halted in front of Eric’s house. “What?”

  “Sawyer Clay. Do you think he’s got a wife? I bet he knows lots of cool stuff. From the SEALs and all. They’re like total warriors. Right?”

  Ryan was fascinated with the testosterone-blessed men of Weaver and the surrounding ranches. He gobbled up stuff like fishing and hunting and ranching like a starved puppy. Naturally he’d think a former SEAL would be heaven-sent. “I have no idea if Captain Clay is married,” she replied briskly. Actually, if the man had ever acquired a wife, she’d eat her hat. The man she’d known had been too single-minded to take on those particular responsibilities. “Nor do I care. I’ll pick you up at four-thirty, okay?”

  “Naw. Eric’s mom said she’d bring me back after supper.”

  “But she’s also taking you for pizza for lunch.”

  “Cool, huh?”

  “Cool,” Rebecca repeated halfheartedly. She missed her son when he was gone over supper, but she also was pleased and proud of the friendships he’d made. Spending time with these people was good for Ryan. She watched her son jog up the snow-shoveled walk to the front door, which opened before he reached it.

  She returned Eric’s mother’s wave and slowly drove back to the office.

  Sawyer Clay married? Not likely. The only thing he’d been wed to had been his precious career.

  And she knew from personal experience that nothing and no one could ever get in the way of that.

  Chapter Three

  “Why just me?”

  Even though her office was closed, Rebecca had put aside her supper to answer the phone when it rang, thinking it might be Ryan. Instead, she’d heard Sawyer’s voice on the other end.

  She now slumped down in her seat, wishing she could just hang up on him. Wondering why she didn’t do just that. “You’re very forward.” That part of his personality hadn’t been forgotten along with the memories.

  “Pushy, you mean.”

  “Take it however you like, Captain.”

  “Have dinner with me.”

  “I believe we’ve played that song already.”

  “Call me persistent.”

  She’d call him a hazard. “I’m hanging up now, Captain.”

  “Do you like a man in uniform, Rebecca?” His voice was low. Husky. And it wrapped around her despite her resistance, stilling the motion to hang up. “You keep dwelling on the Captain. Maybe I should have brought one of those uniforms with me to Wyoming. You like the shoulder boards? The collar? You just into eagles, or what?”

  She’d seen him in all manner of dress from his skivvies to full dress, long before he’d attained a captain’s rank. Even back then, in a contest between her and the uniform, the uniform won. Hands down. “I prefer civilians, Captain.”

  “What did your husband do?”

  Her fingers tightened on the receiver. “He was a neurosurgeon.”

  “Sounds...elegant. I’ll bet he owned his own tux and drove a Lincoln Town Car.”

  “He was brilliant.” And he had owned two tuxedos and driven a Jaguar.

  “What was his name?”

  “Tom.”

  “Good, solid name.”

  “He was a good, solid man.” And discussing him with Sawyer Clay seemed the height of lunacy. Tom had been everything to her that Sawyer had not. She didn’t know how she’d have gone on if Tom hadn’t been a visiting lecturer at her school; hadn’t made it a point to seek her out because of his long-standing friendship with her parents. He’d helped fit her heart back together after it had been shattered to pieces by Sawyer. He’d been there for her when Sawyer had not. He’d helped her transfer schools from California to New York, where he lived, helped her find an apartment, helped her focus on the reasons she just couldn’t curl up and die after Sawyer had finished with her. He’d understood that she couldn’t bear to remain in California where Sawyer would one day return. He’d given her his support and eventually his heart.

  She cursed the burning behind her eyes. “Goodbye, Captain.”

  “Wait—”

  Rebecca hung up. Then did the unthinkable and took the phone off the hook. It buzzed with the dial tone, then started beeping annoyingly. She turned the phone on its side and disconnected the receiver from the base. Silence.

  If she was needed, she could be paged.

  Sawyer tapped the cordless phone against his palm. He’d get to the bottom of the lovely Dr. Rebecca More-house. The challenge of the task intrigued him. Energized him.

  “What’s got you smiling?”

  Sawyer looked up to see Matthew’s wife entering the kitchen. Jaimie. She looked as if she had a basketball tucked under her bright green sweater. “When is your baby due?”

  “March.” She smiled easily at him, her person fairly vibrating with energy. “Squire is down visiting Gloria, and Matthew has succumbed to my wifely demands for pizza. We’re driving into Weaver in a half hour or so. Want to join us?”

  “As long as there are no anchovies.”

  Her head tilted. “You don’t like them?”

  “Can’t stand them.” He realized it was true. He knew he didn’t like anchovies. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

  “No, I think you’ll be remembering,” she corrected. “On our way home tonight we’re going to pick out a Christmas tree, so be sure to dress warm.”

  “Christmas tree.” Sawyer’s bit of good humor dwindled. “I wonder what I was doing last Christmas. I wasn’t here.”

  “No,” Jaimie confirmed gently. “Actu
ally, if Emily and I succeed in our plans, this house is going to see a big, old-fashioned Christmas celebration. With all the family and the children gathered together here, instead of us all doing our own thing. It will be a basically new experience for all of us.”

  “Why?”

  Jaimie hesitated, and Sawyer knew she’d been cautioned, as well.

  He shook his head impatiently. “Forget I asked.”

  “Sawyer, I wish there was something I could do to help you.”

  The horrible thing was Sawyer knew she meant it. These people, these strangers who called themselves family, would quite obviously turn somersaults if they thought it would help him. The notion of being dependent on someone else’s help, however, tasted bitter. Family, strangers, whatever. He felt like a man who was used to taking charge. Solving the problems. Not letting someone else do it for him. “Tell me about Gloria,” he suggested. “That ought to be safe enough, right?”

  So Jaimie filled him in on Squire’s occasionally storm-filled relationship with The Widow Day. How they’d met when Squire had a heart attack several years back. “He spends half his time in Casper with her,” Jaimie finished. “Unless they’ve had an argument. In which case, he’ll come storming back here, and stomp around muttering about stubborn women and such. Then he’ll cool off and trot on down there again.”

  “Doesn’t she come here?”

  “Occasionally. We all just wish he’d be done with it and marry her.”

  “Why hasn’t he?”

  Jaimie lifted her shoulders, as if to say, Who can explain Squire? “I’d better get Sarah ready to go to town,” she announced, excusing herself to tend to her young daughter. Sarah. Apparently named after Matthew’s mother, Sarah.

  His mother, too.

  Restlessness eating at his nerves, he went through the dining room, past the wide staircase and into the living room. The room, despite the welcoming furniture, seemed to shout disuse to him. What interested him, though, was the large portrait hanging over the fireplace. Sarah Clay. His mother.

  She’d been a pretty woman, he thought objectively, with her long blond hair and blue eyes. He could see the resemblance she’d passed on to Matthew and Jefferson and Daniel, too, though not quite as strongly. There was another brother, too. Tristan. He was the youngest and lived in California, so he’d managed to weasel out of Matthew that morning while they’d been freezing off their cookies in the cold dawn.