Read A Christmas to Believe In Online
Authors: Claire Ashgrove
held so much back.
"Ethan." Jesse sat the controller on the carpet and
swiveled around to look at him. "It is your business. We're
family. Clint and I are just friends. That's all we've ever been
and all we'll ever
be
."
He didn't reply, but the tight lines around his mouth
vanished with the dip of his head. "You still got that wand the
pirate gave us?"
Jesse's smile widened. She picked up her controller again
and shifted back to the television. "Have. I still
have
the
wand."
"Good, cause this POS is gonna kick our ass without it."
Scowling, Jesse scolded, "Language."
"Yeah, yeah," Ethan mumbled. "Sorry, Mom."
Clint crossed one ankle over his opposite knee and reclined
in the corner of his mother's couch. He frowned as she
hobbled across the room to retrieve the picture of their father
from atop the fireplace mantel.
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"Did the doctor really say you should be walking on that,
Mom?"
"Pooh. Those doctors don't know anything anymore. If
they had their way, I'd still be in the hospital."
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Amelia King answered
to no one. She did what she pleased, when she desired, and
no amount of argument would change her mind. Certainly not
doctors who she was convinced had fancy educations without
any hint of common sense.
"Mom, use the crutches. If you don't, it'll be a wheelchair
they put you in next, because you'll crush what they
repaired."
"I'm your mother, Clinton King. Don't argue with me."
He did roll his eyes then. How many times he'd heard that,
he couldn't count. His headstrong mother would land herself
back in the hospital if she weren't careful. Man, if only Dad
were here. He was the only person who could make her see
reason.
"Don't roll your eyes at me either," Amelia added as she
eased back down into her chair. She reached across the way
and handed him the framed photograph. "This was taken in
sixty-eight. The day before your father left for 'Nam. You see
that smile on your father's face?"
Clint glanced down at the photograph and studied the man
he'd never quite been able to please. Sandy brown hair set off
a pair of bright amber eyes. Tall and stout, his frame spoke of
strength, and at the same time, hinted to an air of
dependability. They stood side-by-side, arms linked around
each other's waists. His father gazed down at his mother with
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what could be nothing less than complete devotion. Even in
the profile shot, his smile spread across his face. And though
the depiction didn't capture it, Clint knew the same dimple he
sported, tugged at his father's left cheek.
"Yeah?"
"He always looked at me that way, Clint. The day he left,
the day he came home. I don't care what you or your
brothers might think, I never questioned where I fit into his
life. Whatever happened over in 'Nam..." She paused, and a
faint frown crinkled her brow. Taking a deep breath, she
motioned for him to return the photograph. When she held it
once again, she traced a fingertip over his father's face. "If
your father needed another woman to survive that hell, I
don't hate him, and I don't hate her. And I certainly don't
hate that innocent girl."
Keeley. His newly discovered half-sister. Clint frowned. "I
don't hate her either, Mom, but that doesn't mean I want a
stranger spending Christmas with us. She might be blood, but
she's not
family
."
His mother's head snapped up, her watery blue eyes sharp
and piercing. "Blood is family. Now, I expect you to step up
and respect my wishes. You're the oldest. Your brothers look
up to you. It's what your father would have done, and he'd
want you to do the same."
An involuntary shudder crept down his spine. Once again,
thrown into a role he couldn't fulfill. He wasn't his father. Lord
knew, he'd cut off his thumbs to be able to live up to that
man's memory, but he simply couldn't. Somehow, some way,
he always fell short.
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Yet, trying to explain that to his mother would be a battle
beyond futile. She wanted Keeley in their lives, and nothing
would sway her from forcing this strange sister on them. This
Christmas would be a nightmare. More aptly, complete chaos.
With Alex's pending nuptials, and his newly discovered
daughters, the tension hung in the air. Already Clint
experienced it when Alex and Sydney bid a curt goodnight.
Add in the absence of their father, their mother's
insistence about welcoming Keeley, and the concerns Clint
harbored over his horse—the only normalcy would come from
Heath and Jesse.
Clint held in a heavy sigh and dipped his chin, acquiescing
to his mother. He stared at his hands. Even Jesse wasn't
completely normal. Not now, at least. The ease of being
around her had disappeared, replaced by a ridiculous
awareness of her that left him on edge. And now, after he'd
stupidly attempted to kiss her, a greater chasm opened
between them.
What he'd give for a homecoming like the last one. Where
his father had sat in his favorite chair and relayed stories
about his first car. Where Heath and Alex had watched bowl
games and lost their asses to Jesse's gutsy bets. Where he'd
lain on the couch, eating his mother's homemade apple pie,
and taking the cozy comfort for granted.
The sigh he'd tempered escaped. He lifted his head and
drained the last of his coffee. "I'm going to head on up to
bed."
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Standing, he shuffled his weight to straighten out his
jeans. With a perfunctory smile, he bent over his mother's
chair and kissed her cheek.
Her bony fingers clamped onto his hand. "Are you all right,
honey? I know there's lots going on right now, but are you
okay?"
No, he wasn't. Not by any means. Everything he'd thought
he'd understood had up-ended and contorted. "I'm fine. Just
preoccupied over my horse."
Amelia gave his hand a tight squeeze. "Horses have been
having babies for centuries, honey. She'll be just fine."
"Yeah." He returned her affectionate grip then let her
fingers slid from his. "You need help up to your room?"
Her sparse eyebrows puckered with a deep frown. She
glanced down at the photograph in her lap, and the hand still
holding the frame tightened. "No," she answered quietly. "I
think I'll sit here a bit longer."
Clint's chest tightened. His mother would never let on that
she missed their father. Not as long as she thought anyone
would notice. She'd never want anyone to see anything but
the false bravado she projected. Like him, they both had roles
to fill. No matter how old her sons became, she was still a
mother. Programmed to be strong in the face of adversity.
He patted her shoulder. "I miss him too, Mom," he
whispered.
Turning away, he strode for the back stairs. He took them
slowly, remembering a different time. Hell, a different place.
As he walked down the upstairs hall where he and his
brothers had grown up, low voices filtered beneath Alex's
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door. Though hushed, he caught the brittle edge to the
whispers, and he shook his head. Evidently, the tension he'd
sensed between Alex and Sydney had come to a head.
He pushed the door to his bedroom open and flipped on
the light. Other than the duffel bags tossed on the bed, it was
just as he'd left it the summer after college graduation.
Wynona Ryder still hung on the wall next to the line of
photographs taken from Clint's summer seasons on the
racetrack. His High School diploma sat in a frame on his desk,
right beside his ancient Hewlett Packard computer.
Unlike Alex's usual pigsty, everything had a place and an
order. Contrasting from Heath's wallpaper of action-movie
posters, Clint's walls were crisp and clean, save for that one
corner. A tall bookshelf near the window sat mostly bare, the
books on Thoroughbreds long ago relocated to his study in
Kentucky.
He nudged the door shut with his heel and turned the light
off. On the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark depiction of the
galaxy glowed in neon green above his bed. It made him
smile. His father had helped glue it to the ceiling when he'd
been five or six. It was the one childhood frivolity he'd never
been able to part with.
Clint moved to his bed and turned on the brass lamp atop
the nightstand. He unzipped his duffle bag and methodically
pulled out his clothes, placing them all in empty drawers. He
hung the one suit he'd brought along for Alex's rehearsal
dinner in the closet, then toed off his boots. Returning to the
dresser, he pulled out a comfortable pair of lightweight
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pajama pants and tossed them on the bed. He changed
quickly, careful to put the clothes he'd worn in the hamper.
All ingrained habits his parents had drilled into him.
Big
boys pick up their clothes, Clint. Son, I don't want to see
those clothes on the floor if I come up here later.
The moonlight caught his attention, and he gravitated to
the window to look up at the clear sky. Overhead, stars
twinkled bright. Years ago, his father had studied the
constellations with him. Somewhere around here, Clint still
had the telescope his dad gave him for his twelfth birthday.
His gaze pulled to Orion and quickly traced the mighty
warrior's belt.
An owl's muffled hoot had him scanning the trees. Light
filtered through a window on the hill. Jesse's window. He
could just make out the soft yellow in the distance.
Her delicate features rose to the forefront of his mind. Her
lowered lashes, her slightly parted lips—she hadn't turned
away. Hadn't fought at all.
He could feel the softness of her mouth, the hesitant touch
of the tip of her tongue. She would have tasted like coffee—
rich and satisfying. She might have leaned in a little closer
inviting him to more. Her hair would have slipped through his
fingers like fine silk. And her perfume... He could smell the
light scent of flowers that contrasted with the tomboy he
knew so well.
Clint closed his eyes to the unexpected tightening of his
body. His heart drummed a heavier beat, and he clenched
one hand into the thick curtain.
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A Christmas to Believe In
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Jesse and he had played in this room. The racetrack they'd
built had spanned the entire floor, covered his desk, and
canvassed his bed. They'd had spitting contests off the back
porch. How in the world had that girl turned into a woman he
couldn't get out of his head?
How in the world had she managed to replace the memory
of Matchbox cars rolling across his bedspread with a fantasy
of how she'd look tangled up in his sheets? Long legs wrapped
around him, her back arched and accenting full breasts.
Alabaster skin slipping against his.
Biting back an oath, he snapped his eyes open to squelch
the vivid picture. He tugged at his waistband to adjust the
constriction of his pants and tossed himself on the bed. This
was not good. He had to survive a week of being near her.
And if the sudden stirring of his cock was any indication of
how that would go, he'd never survive two days.
Damn it all, Heath better be able to entertain her. Alex had
his hands full, and if Clint had to, they wouldn't be spending
much time in front of the Christmas tree talking to his
mother. He'd have her up here. Locked away. Where no one
could interrupt his thorough investigation of the woman she'd
magically become.
If that happened, everything would change.
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A Christmas to Believe In
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"Ethan, I'm off! There's pizza in the freezer for lunch."
Jesse grabbed her leather bag off the couch, threw it over her
shoulder and headed for the door. One hand on the knob, she
paused to cast a worried glance up the stairs. Today marked
the first day of school vacation. It was also the first full day
Ethan would be home alone.
"Ethan?"
"Yeah?" His harassed answer carried the heavy weight of
sleep.
"Remember what we talked about. No company while I'm
at work."
"Yeah, Mom. I know."
She gnawed on her lower lip a moment, resisting the urge
to recite a litany of house rules. With a decisive shake of her
head, she turned everything over to fate and let herself out