LITMIR.BIZ

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      Again, Emma felt a tickle of laughter. And again it was cut off before it materialized, because of the unwanted softness for him when she thought of him being called Mama. It was a startling contradiction to the forbidding presence of him, ridiculously sweet.

      Even though she knew it was none of her business, she had to know.

      “Where is her mother?”

      Something shot through his eyes with such intensity it sucked all the warmth from the room. It was more than sadness, for a moment she glimpsed a soul stripped of joy, of hope. She glimpsed a man lost in a storm far worse than the one that howled outside her door.

      “She’s dead,” he said quietly, and the window that had opened briefly to a tormented soul slammed shut. His voice was flat and calm, his eyes warned her against probing his soul any deeper.

      “I’m so sorry,” Emma said. “Here, let me take her while you get your coat off.”

      But when she held out her arms, she realized she was still holding the broken door knob.

      He juggled the baby, and took the doorknob with his free hand, his gloved fingers brushing hers just long enough for her to feel the heat beneath those gloves.

      Effortlessly, he turned and inserted the knob in the door, jiggled it into place and then turned back to her.

      His easy competence made Emma feel more off center, incompetent, as if her stupid doorknob was sending out messages about her every failing as an innkeeper.

      “The coat rack is behind you,” she said, and then added formally, as if she was the doorman. “Is there luggage?”

      “I hope we won’t be staying long enough to need it.” He handed the baby to her.

      Me, too, Emma thought. The baby was surprisingly heavy, her weight sweet and pliable as if she was made of warm pudding, boneless.

      The wind picked that moment to howl and rattle the windows, and it occurred to Emma she might be fighting temptation for more than a few hours. It was quite possible her visitors would be here at least the night. Thankfully she thought of the crib she had found so that the babies who came Christmas Day would have a place to nap.

      The baby regarded her warily, scrunching up her face in case terror won out over curiosity.

      “How old is she?”

      “Fourteen months.”

      “What’s her name?” Emma asked softly, grateful for the baby’s distraction against the man removing his jacket to reveal a dark, expensive shirt perfectly tailored to fit over those impossibly broad shoulders, dark trousers that accentuated legs that were long, hard-muscled beneath the fine fabric.

      “Tess,” he provided.

      “Hello, Tess,” she crooned. “Welcome to the White Christmas Inn. I’m Emma.”

      “The White Christmas Inn?” the man said, “you aren’t serious, are you?”

      “Didn’t you see the sign on the driveway?” Just this morning, she had placed the word Christmas over the word Pond, the letters of Christmas just the teensiest bit squished to make them fit.

      “I saw a sign, I assumed it was for the inn, but most of it is covered in snow and ice.”

      “The White Christmas Inn. Seriously.”

      He groaned, softly.

      “Is there a problem?”

      His answer was rhetorical. “Do you ever feel the gods like to have a laugh at the plans of human beings?”

      Even though he obviously expected no answer, Emma responded sadly, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

      The White Christmas Inn.

      Ryder Richardson had no doubt the gods were enjoying a robust laugh at his expense right now. When he had headed out on the road tonight, he’d had one goal: to escape Christmas entirely. He had packed up his niece, Tess, and that amazing mountain of things that accompanied a traveling baby, with every intention of making it to his lakeside cottage by dark.

      The cottage where there would be absolutely no ho-ho-ho, no colorful lights, no carols, no tree, no people and especially no phone. He had deliberately left his cell phone at home. Ryder Richardson could make Scrooge look like a bit player in the bah-humbug department.

      He was not ashamed to admit to himself he just wanted to hide out until it was all over. Until the trees were shredded into landscape pulp, the lights were down, there was not a carol to be heard, and he could walk along a sidewalk without hearing bells or having complete strangers smile at him and wish him a Merry Christmas.

      Ryder looked forward to the dreary days of January like a man on a ship watching for a beacon to keep him from the rocks on the darkest night.

      In January there would be fewer reminders and fewer calls offering sympathy. The invitations to holiday parties and dinners and events designed to lure him out of his memories and his misery would die down.

      In his luggage, he had made a small concession to Christmas. Ryder had a few simple gifts to give Tess. He had a soft stuffed pony in an implausible shade of lavender, new pink suede shoes, for she already shared a woman’s absolute delight in footwear, and a small, hardy piano-like toy that he was probably going to regret obtaining within hours of having given it to her.

      He had not brought wrapping paper, and probably would not give Tess the gifts on December twenty-fifth, taking advantage of the fact that at fourteen months of age his niece was not aware enough of the concept of Christmas to know the difference.

      This would be his year of reprieve. Next year, Tess would be two at Christmas. It wouldn’t be so easy to pretend the season didn’t exist. Next year, she would probably have grasped the whole concept of Santa, would want things from Ryder. Would he be able to give them to her?

      As he turned back from the coat rack, through the open archway from the foyer into the living room, he caught sight of the fire burning brightly in the hearth at the White Christmas Inn, the huge tree glowing, top to bottom, an ethereal shade of white.

      Despite steeling himself against all things Christmas, the scene called to him, like the lights of home calling a warrior back to his own land. For a disturbing moment he felt almost pulled toward that room, the tree, the promise it held. Hope.

       CHAPTER TWO

      HOPE. The word burned in Ryder’s heart for a second or two, not bright and warm, but painful. Because that was what he was intent on quashing in himself. He was a warrior who had glimpsed the lights of a home he could never go back to.

      The socks that hung from the mantel, cheerful, were what triggered the memory.

      Without warning—for the memories always came without warning, riding in on a visual clue or a scent or a sound he could not control—a picture flashed in his mind of different socks on a different mantel nearly a year ago. Those socks, bright red, with white fur cuffs, had names on them.

      Drew. Tracy. Tess.

      Ryder could see his brother, standing in front of those socks, holding the tiny baby way above his head, bringing her down, her round belly to his lips, blowing, the baby gurgling, and Drew looking as happy as Ryder had ever seen his brother look.

      A shudder rippled through Ryder, and he looked deliberately away from the socks that hung on the mantel of the White Christmas Inn, picked up the baby bag that he had dropped on the floor, shrugged it over his shoulder.

      In a few days, a year would have passed, and Ryder’s pain had not been reduced. A reminder about the danger of hope. There was no sense hoping next year would be better.

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