Home For Christmas

Prologue

Nancy McGuire allowed the strange sound of Russian to flow over her as the house mother and the translator conversed.

Glancing around, she noted the house mother’s office was neat and tidy, but sparse. The translator had indicated the budget was stretched to the breaking point.

Her gaze strayed to a collage on the wall. Hundreds of photos of children, some candid, some posed, most smiling broadly, attested to the orphanage’s success in finding adoptive homes in the U.S.

Nancy shifted, crossing her legs. Her foot bounced as if she were some sort of marionette. How ironic that her husband’s death should have jump-started her decision to adopt a child. Even more ironic that the sale of their house had financed her endeavor.

In some small way, it took away the sting of Eric’s betrayal. And allowed her to heal.

Leaning forward, she doubted her excitement could be contained another second. She’d been waiting for this moment her whole adult life and now that it was here, she could scarcely breathe.

A knock sounded at the door and the house mother rose. Opening the door, she stepped aside as an assistant carried in a toddler.

The assistant placed the child on Nancy’s lap and said something in Russian.

Nancy’s eyes blurred as she cradled the little girl as naturally as if she’d held her every day for the past fourteen months. Her breasts tingled as if responding to memories of breastfeeding this child. Nancy stared into the baby’s solemn brown eyes and time seemed to stand still. There was an instant connection, a peace she’d never known before. It was the overwhelming certainty of being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. She’d waited all these years for this moment, this girl. Her daughter.

Brushing a silky brown lock of hair from the toddler’s forehead, she stumbled over the Russian greeting, "Zdravstvujte, Tatiana."

Tatiana smiled shyly, then patted Nancy’s face. Mama? The word was heavily accented and probably coached, but it still brought a lump to Nancy’s throat. She’d nearly lost hope of ever hearing a child call her that.

Yes, Mama’s here, baby. Everything’s going to be all right.

Chapter 1

Tatiana was mid-temper-tantrum when the new guy entered the Parents Flying Solo meeting. Nancy McGuire didn’t pay much attention. Kneeling by her daughter, she was too busy trying to catch a flailing fist before it connected with her nose.

Shh, Ana, she whispered. The plea sounded ragged and desperate, even to her.

Two large, tanned hands grasped Ana beneath her arms and lifted her in the air. Hey, there, little sweet pea, what’s the problem?

Ana stilled, probably from the shock of a tall stranger holding her above his head.

Nancy paused, too. The man’s slow drawl brought a longing for home so intense she almost doubled over. And an idiotic longing for a man she couldn’t have. Ever.

Rising, she said, Please put down my daughter. Now.

The stranger set Ana on her feet. Tantrum apparently forgotten, Ana zipped off in search of playmates.

Frowning, Nancy wondered if Emily’s son, Jason, would keep as close an eye on the two-year-old as he’d promised.

Little spitfire, isn’t she?

Ana has a mind of her own. I try to encourage her to be her own person. So she wouldn’t grow up trying to please a man and lose herself in the process.

Tipping his head, he said, Then you’ve succeeded.

Nancy wasn’t sure whether his comment was tongue-in-cheek, so she decided to simply take it at face value. Good. Because children, girls especially, should be encouraged to seek, explore, achieve.

I agree with you. He looped his arm over the shoulder of the thin teenage girl beside him. I’m Beau and this is my daughter, Rachel.

The girl stiffened, crossing her arms over her chest, glaring at him until he released her.

Nancy murmured an acknowledgment as she scanned the room for Ana. She exhaled in relief when she saw Jason helping Ana select a cookie from the refreshment table.

"I agree with you, but I want Rachel to be independent and use good manners."

Nancy bristled. He was probably another one of those parents who thought she should be able to control her own child. That Nancy wasn’t doing her job properly if Ana didn’t mind her one hundred percent of the time.

Okay, maybe Nancy secretly wondered if she was doing her job properly. She’d be the first to admit to a certain feeling of ineptitude when Ana pitched a public fit. But she was not about to confide in some know-it-all redneck.

Her voice was icy when she said, She is a normal twenty-one-month-old child, testing limits. I’d appreciate it if you would keep your opinions to yourself.

Whoa, lady, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just being friendly, tryin’ to make it to the refreshments without getting nailed in the family jewels. I remember when my daughter was about that height. He shuddered, his eyes twinkling as he nudged Rachel.

Daaad, she whined, and slouched away, slipping into a crowd of kids.

The man’s smile was probably intended to charm, but it merely put Nancy on her guard. Surveying his lanky frame from the tips of his Roper boots to his mussed dark brown hair, she doubted his sincerity. I think you might want to watch your knees instead. I, for one, am not interested in your family jewels and my daughter isn’t nearly tall enough to damage that area. Otherwise, she’d be tempted to offer Ana a cookie if she’d make the cocky cowboy sing soprano.

The man shrugged, as if to say there were plenty of women who were downright fascinated by his anatomy. Then he turned and headed toward the refreshment table.

Emily Patterson came up to Nancy and whispered, He’s a looker, isn’t he?

I guess.

You weren’t very friendly.

I’m here to network with other parents, not to pick up some lonesome cowboy.

Oh, I guarantee that one’s not lonesome. Maybe you need your eyes checked.

And maybe you need your head checked. Nancy smiled to soften her words. You’ve got four kids to feed already and he looks like he has wild oats to spare.

Emily winked, her round face and dewy complexion giving the impression she was no more than a teen. A few strands of silver through her brown ponytail were the only signs she was approaching forty. Well, he can sow those oats at my house any day.

Nancy chuckled in spite of herself. You’re an original, you know it?

Yes. And I know you need more fun in your life.

Fun? The concept seemed foreign. Her life revolved around Ana and seeing that her every need was met. Fun is highly overrated.

Just because you’ve been burned once doesn’t mean you have to give up on men completely.

I wasn’t just burned, I was roasted, toasted and annihilated.

Hmm. Are you sure that’s not just an excuse?

Nancy shifted. You sound like my mother. So what if it is an excuse? There are worse things than being single. At least this way I know there are no surprises.

Oh, but surprises can be wonderful. Two of my children were surprises.

Nancy raised an eyebrow. My point exactly.

No, Nancy had lost her taste for surprises the day she’d found out there was another woman who claimed to be Eric McGuire’s wife. The same day, coincidentally, that Eric had turned up dead.

Rachel nibbled on a cookie, watching her dad work the room. The meeting was lame. The people were lame. And Rachel would rather have been anywhere else.

But since her dad didn’t trust her, she was stuck here with the little kids. Like that two-year-old drama queen who watched her with big, dark eyes.

Rachel turned her back on the kid.

Why couldn’t her dad have believed in her enough to let her stay home?

Home. Whatever that meant.

There had been a time when she’d felt like she’d had a home. Not like some kids had—a mom, a dad, brothers and sisters. Meals, picnics, movies, vacations together.

For as long as she could remember, it had just been her and Mom. Every once in a while Dad would blow into town. Laughing, fun Dad. He’d taken her to great places, stuffed her full of junk food, bought her a bunch of things, and then, poof, he was gone. She’d stare at his picture to convince herself that he was real—not just a fabulous dream.

And then two months ago, her mom had sat her down for one of those serious talks. The don’t-do-drugs or don’t-have-sex-till-you’re-thirty kind. But her mom’s ultra serious tone should’ve warned her it was way worse than the don’t-do-drugs talk.

This conversation had started out with her mom telling Rachel how much she loved her. Nothing too scary there. Until she said Rachel’s dad wanted her to go live with him. And Mom thought it was a good idea. Total shocker, but kinda nice to know Dad wanted her. Still, her friends were in Texas, and all she’d ever known was Texas. She’d asked her mom to tell her dad, thanks but no thanks.

Mom had made it clear refusal wasn’t an option. A week later Rachel stood in front of a motel-room door, waiting for her dad to answer. And when he did, he’d gone completely pale, as if he’d seen an alien.

Well, it hadn’t taken a brain surgeon, or even an honor student, to figure out Dad hadn’t had a clue she was coming. For the first time since the Easter Bunny, Mom had lied. Lied. And that could only mean one thing—Mom didn’t want her anymore. Nearly as bad, Dad didn’t want her, either.

Rachel was distracted from her moping by a small hand patting her knee.

The little girl with the big, brown eyes murmured, Sad.

Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with her sleeve. Yeah. Sad.

Beau knocked on the bathroom door, trying not to lose patience. Come on, sweet pea, you’re gonna be late for school.

I look like a geek. Uniforms are stupid.

Sighing, he figured he’d have to endure another replay of Rachel’s fashion woes. You look fine.

No, I don’t. I look like some kind of preppy loser.

Then you’ll blend in with the rest of the preppy losers.

Daaad.

If you want a ride, you better get out here in five minutes. Otherwise, you take the bus.

The bus. A fate worse than death to a high school freshman. Beau didn’t know much about raising a teenage girl, but he had a pretty good idea only the losers, preppy or otherwise, rode the bus.

Sure enough, Rachel was waiting by the front door, backpack slung over her shoulder, expression sullen, when he was ready to leave.

He complied with her request and dropped her off a block from school so he wouldn’t embarrass her. Beau hoped it was just the fact that she was a teen and he was a parent and not that she was ashamed of him. He might be a redneck son of a bitch at times, but he loved his daughter like crazy and would rather cut off his left arm than hurt her.

When ex-wife number one, Laurie, had dumped Rachel and her suitcases three months ago, he hadn’t seriously noted his ex’s muttered threats about sacrifice. The only thing that really stood out in the whole surreal conversation was one sentence. I raised her the past fourteen years, you can raise her the next four.

And that’s how he’d become a full-time father and certified lunatic.

Nancy paced outside the dealership and glanced at her watch. Their ad said they opened at 8:00 a.m. It was now ten after eight. She pulled on the door handle one more time to make sure it was locked, despite the low lighting inside and lack of activity.

Sorry, I’m late, ma’am. I had to get my daughter to school.

She stifled a groan. The cowboy from Parents Flying Solo trotted in her direction, his boots replaced with athletic shoes.

You’re late.

Are you always this observant?

Nancy opened her mouth to blister his thick hide, but noticed the twinkle in his eyes. That and his crooked smile defused her anger. No, usually I require coffee first.

Good thing I make a killer cup of coffee. He stuck out his hand. Beau Stanton, I believe we met at the Parents Flying Solo meeting?

She accepted his handshake. Nancy McGuire. For some reason, he didn’t seem quite as annoying today.

Nice to meet you. He fished a large key ring out of his pocket and opened the glass door. Let me turn off the alarm and then you can come on in. You can tell me what kind of car you’re looking for while I make coffee.

Following him into the showroom, she admired a convertible BMW, red of course. It looked like fun.

There was that word again. She needed safety and stability for Ana, if not herself. Lord knew Eric had been fun. Faithful would have been nicer.

Shaking her head, she wandered toward a minivan.

I never figured you for a minivan kind of woman.

Turning, she raised an eyebrow. Oh. And what kind of woman do you think I am? Damn, it came out almost flirtatious when that was the last thing she intended.

He looked her up and down, much as she’d done to him the night before at the meeting.

Nancy’s cheeks warmed. She was accustomed to male attention, even after she’d traded low-cut T-shirts and jeans for tailored pantsuits. Her conservative look was more consistent with her new life as a successful real-estate broker than aging prom queen trying to hold on to her husband.

Why did this man bring out the extremes in her? Last night, his cocky attitude had made her mad enough to spit nails. Today, she was experiencing the forbidden thrill of the chase. She did not want male attention. She did not need male attention. And if she repeated the mantra to herself enough times, maybe she would believe it.

Beau let out a low whistle under his breath while he absorbed the woman’s sultry question, What kind of woman do you think I am? It was a loaded question, a little like, Do I look fat in this dress? No matter which way he answered, he was toast. Darlin’, I tell my daughter women can be anything they want to be. President, rocket scientist or the best damn mom on earth. It’s just a matter of wanting it bad enough. I’m betting you’re a success at whatever you do.

Mentally congratulating himself on his smooth escape, Beau poured two cups of coffee and handed one to her.

She crossed her arms. "Why couldn’t I be president and the best damn mom on earth? The two aren’t mutually exclusive."

Uh-oh, they were back in dangerous territory. He was supposed to sell her a car at a hefty profit, not debate women’s rights. Darlin’, let’s go look at that minivan.

Two hours later, Beau was sweating bullets and crunching numbers like crazy. Lady, there’s no way I can sell the minivan to you for that price. We’d lose money.

No, you won’t. She pulled a sheaf of papers from her cavernous purse and showed him the reasons he could sell her a minivan at that price.

Running a hand through his hair, he did some quick mental calculations. His commission would be practically nonexistent, but it was nearing the end of the month and one more sale would pretty much clinch Salesman of the Month. The prize, a big-screen TV, would more than make up for the lost commission.

You drive a hard bargain. But you’ve got a deal.

She smiled. Not the tight, polite smile she’d given earlier, but a joyous, triumphant smile that lit up her face like a Christmas angel.

Beau sucked in a breath. If she’d smiled like that in the beginning, the minivan would have been hers in half the time. And that was a very, very bad sign.

Beau reminded himself of his responsibilities. There was only one female in the whole wide world he could allow himself to obsess over these days, even if his body told him otherwise.

Chapter 2

Beau sidled into the Parents Flying Solo meeting almost a week later and scanned the room. He exhaled with relief. Nancy McGuire wasn’t there.

He’d have been able to spot her halo of long, blond hair anywhere. Or her smile. Or her extremely lovely body.

Beau shook his head. He had a young, impressionable daughter to raise. His playing days had to be firmly in the past. But Nancy made him respond physically whether he wanted to or not. Worse, she challenged every brain cell he had. Contrary to his rough exterior, he read voraciously and could carry on a conversation about world politics or great philosophers as well as the next guy. He just chose not to let on most of the time.

No, it was better if he didn’t run into Nancy. A man had only so much self-control, and he, it seemed, had less than most. He had three ex-wives to prove it.

Beau absently fingered the business cards in the breast pocket of his western shirt. His reason for joining Parents Flying Solo was to network, plain and simple. If he wanted to hang on to the job that allowed him to stay in town with his daughter, he needed to keep generating more sales than the owner’s cousin.

So Beau concentrated on his personal three Ms: mix, mingle, make eye contact. Hey, how’s it going? He greeted a man he’d met the week prior. Chip? Trey?

They chatted for a few moments when the group leader, a balding, middle-age man, signaled for quiet. I attended a Parents Flying Solo summit last weekend and gleaned a few tips on increasing participation. It’s been brought to my attention that some of the members are too shy to utilize the group phone list. This is an important resource during those times when you need to talk to another adult or you think you’ll lose your mind. The leader chuckled and so did Chip or Trey or whatever his name was.

Beau found himself nodding. He sure could have used another adult to talk to when he’d first found himself the sole parental unit responsible for a teenage daughter.

A few other groups in the region have had success with the buddy system. Each member is assigned a buddy to help him or her through the rough spots. He picked up a basket and held it aloft. "Here are names of all our members. Pairs will be assigned randomly. I’m asking you to leave personal likes and dislikes at the door and make the buddy system a success. Each and every member has the potential for learning and teaching."

Glancing around the room, Beau was relieved Nancy still hadn’t appeared. And a little disappointed, too. But that was the old Beau. The new Beau was all business.

Yeah, right.

The group leader pulled names from the basket. Some announcements were met with dead silence, as if Snidely Whiplash had been paired with Dudley Do-Right or worse, the lovely, innocent