Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (25 page)

In fact, because of the transient nature of her and her husband's military careers, Captain Louella Dawson took great pains to always maintain their family traditions, including a passed down recipe for hot buttered cranberry and orange scones.

Granted, her mother's skill as a combat medic was more laudable than those of being a cook, but that didn't stop her. And those scones, which had been a family recipe for longer than anyone could remember, had become as much a part of the Dawsons' winter wonderland as Santa Claus himself.

When Chloe had talked to her parents last week, they'd been thrilled that two of their three children would be with them for the holidays. As much as Chloe would have liked to have been one of those kids, she didn't have the money for airfare to Fort Drum in New York, which was where her parents were currently assigned. And even though they would have gladly shelled out the money for her travel, Chloe needed to be independent and demonstrate that she was capable of managing her own life—as well as her diminishing bank account—even if that meant being alone during the most wonderful time of the year.

Well, maybe not
alone
.

“I'm back,” she called.

Joe really ought to be in bed, resting, but the smell coming from the kitchen told her he'd kept himself busy—too busy—while she'd been gone.

“I'm in here,” he said.

She followed the sound of his voice, as well as the mouthwatering aroma, and found him standing at the stove, peering into a pot.

She probably ought to chastise her patient for overdoing it, especially after he'd assured her that he wouldn't, but she was too hungry and too impressed with what he'd done to make a big deal about it.

“You obviously know how to cook,” she said, as she entered the kitchen with the grocery bags in hand. “Maybe you worked in the mess hall when you were in the service.”

He turned and flashed a handsome grin. “Marines call it the chow hall.”

He certainly seemed to remember some things—like military terms.

“Is cooking another memory?” she asked.

He shrugged, then cocked his head as if he was thinking over the possibility. “No, just common knowledge, I guess.”

“Nevertheless, something sure smells delicious.”

He wiped his hands on a dish towel, then took the bags from her and placed them on the counter.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just messing around.”

“You're supposed to be resting.”

“I must've rested too much this morning. I don't think I'm used to sitting around doing nothing all day.”

Chloe looked at the way his biceps filled out the borrowed Future Farmers of America T-shirt she'd found in Dave's drawer.

Ever since she'd seen his bare chest, she'd found it impossible to stop thinking about his chiseled torso or the way his muscles rippled. He certainly looked like a man who was used to action and lots of it.

In fact, she could easily envision him lifting weights, running or kickboxing if he needed an outlet for his energy. But she never would have expected to see him in the kitchen, creating something that smelled so good that her stomach was growling.

“So you decided to do some cooking?” she asked.

“Well, I started to, but then I realized I didn't have all the ingredients I needed.”

“You should have called me on my cell. I could've picked them up while I was at the market.”

Joe turned off the fire on the stove. “I didn't want to bother you. Plus, I didn't know if the stores in Brighton Valley would carry what I needed. Besides, when Tomas and I brought in those Christmas decorations earlier, he mentioned that his wife had bought more than they needed last weekend. She was going to make some of the dough tonight, and he promised to bring some to me tomorrow.”

The small town didn't boast a mega supermarket, but they usually kept most staples in stock. “What is Tomas supposed to bring you?”

“Masa. It's a corn dough made from hominy.”

“What exactly are you trying to make?”

“Tamales,” Joe said simply, as if he was making something as ordinary as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“You actually know how to make tamales?”

“Strangely enough, that's another thing I know how to do. Don't ask me why because I doubt that I used to make Mexican food as a sergeant in the Marines. But when I saw all those ornaments and the nativity set, all I could think of was tamales. I must associate them with Christmas. So I decided to make some. We can eat a few tomorrow, then freeze whatever is left and have them as part of the holiday meal.”

“That makes sense. I associate cranberry-orange scones with Christmas because it was a holiday tradition for my family. But...” Chloe trailed off, not wanting to risk offending her guest, who was eager to have at least a small tidbit of information from his past.

“But what?” he asked.

“Well, it's just that most of the families I know who make homemade tamales for Christmas are Hispanic. But Wilcox doesn't really strike me as a typical last name.”

“That's something I thought of, too. But, let's face it. My coloring would indicate that there's some ethnic blood running through my family tree. Also, when Tomas was here earlier, he said something in Spanish. I not only understood him, but I responded.”

“In Spanish?”

“Yes, so either I was adopted or my mother was a lovely little señorita who married Mr. Wilcox, which is what I'm leaning toward since I obviously grew up with that heritage.”

Chloe bit her cheek so that she wouldn't reflect how sad she felt about him not having any idea who his family was, especially at this time of year. She might live far away from the Dawson clan, but at least she knew where she belonged. Joe didn't even have that.

Yet instead of blustering in frustration or sinking into a depression, the guy was in here, floating around her kitchen, trying to make the best of whatever miniscule detail he
could
recall.

She liked knowing that he was a glass-half-full kind of person. Kevin Boswell, her ex-boyfriend, had always been such a pessimist, thinking the world was out to get him. And Dave, even though he wasn't ever anything more than a friend, was always so melancholy and down that Chloe's spirits sank whenever she was around either of them.

“So, how does one make tamales?” she asked.

“I had to double-check on the internet, which brought up more recipes and instructions than you can believe. And although there are lots of different methods, the one that seemed the most familiar is a two-day process anyway. So tonight I cooked the filling with some pork I found in the freezer. We can eat some of that over the rice I made.”

“Boy, you have been busy,” Chloe said, her admiration growing.

“I hope you don't mind me making myself at home.”

“Of course not.” How could she when she saw the excitement in his eyes, something she hadn't noticed before?
“Mi casa es su casa.”

He chuckled at her attempt to speak Spanish. “Tomorrow, when Tomas brings me some masa and some corn husks, I'll be able to make the dough and assemble everything together.” He replaced the lid on one of the pans he had on the stove.

She liked seeing him comfortable in the kitchen, but she was even happier to know that he'd be spending one more day in the house and not out on the ranch, trying to attempt more strenuous chores. This way, he felt useful, and they were both winners.

As she began to put away the groceries she'd purchased earlier, Joe zeroed in on the sugar, vanilla, oranges and dried cranberries.

“Is that for the scones you were talking about?” he asked.

“Yes, I thought I'd make them this evening.”

“I don't suppose you'd be willing to make some cookies one of these days.”

“Of course. I have some great family recipes. It wouldn't be Christmas without a variety of goodies.”

At that, his eyes brightened like a child standing in front of a bakery display case.

“You must like sweets,” she said.

“I think you're right.”

Another memory, it seemed. But not one they could build upon.

“Do you like to bake?” he asked.

“Yes, especially at this time of year. That's why I wanted to make the scones tonight. We always used to eat them when we decorated the house for Christmas.”

In all honesty, Chloe would much rather spend the day baking than making a holiday meal.

“You mentioned being hungry,” he said, “and dinner is ready. Do you want to eat before you make the scones?”

“It won't take me long to whip up the dough—unless you're too hungry to wait.”

“I'm okay. I ate the rest of the tuna salad for a late afternoon snack. Computer sleuthing is hard work.”

“How did that go, by the way?” Chloe wished she would've thought of looking him up online yesterday, but living out at the Rocking C full-time was like being in a technological time warp.

She was usually so busy with the chores and managing the ranch that she rarely had a chance to use the old computer. She'd often thought of how getting a newer modem or laptop would help streamline the day-to-day management of the ranch, like paying bills, ordering merchandise, and cutting checks to vendors and their two employees. But at the end of the month, she couldn't justify the expense. So she was left with the antiquated system Teresa Cummings had set up at least a decade ago.

“My search went about as well as I expected,” Joe said. “A big fat nada on any information about me, but I did learn some interesting things about Brighton Valley.”

While she mixed the ingredients for the scones and Joe wiped down the countertops, he filled her in on what he'd discovered online.

She set the oven timer just as he finished washing the mixing bowl and the pots he'd used.

“By the way, I hope you don't mind that I got into the pantry and the freezer without asking if it was okay.”

She laughed. “Even if I'd had plans to use that pork you found in the freezer or the rice and beans, I'm too hungry to object.”

As he placed the bowls of food on the table, she set out the plates and silverware. Then they both took their seats.

After eating the first delicious bite and savoring the taste, she said, “You must be a chef or something in your real life. This is way too good to be chow-hall fare. What'd you put in the sauce?”

“I just threw in some seasonings I found in the spice cabinet.”

He'd certainly made himself at home in what she'd once considered her domain, but if he could whip up meals like this, she'd be the last one to complain. Besides, it had been ages since someone had cooked for her. And if truth be told, she liked being a guest instead of the hostess.

As they dug into their meal and silence stretched between them, she couldn't help letting her thoughts drift to Sam, Ethel and the other patients on the third floor of the Sheltering Arms. And as she did, her worry grew.

She had to do something, but what? She no longer worked there, so her hands were tied.

“What's wrong?” Joe asked.

Had her heavy thoughts been so obvious? “Why do you ask?”

“You seem sad and preoccupied.”

“I visited my friends at the nursing home today and...” She paused, wondering how much to divulge. If she confided too much in him, she'd have to tell him about being fired. And then she'd have to defend her actions, or risk having him think she was a flake or a screw up or worse. And she didn't like the idea of him questioning her abilities. So she finished the sentence she'd started. “It just makes me sad. That's all.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me, too.” Eager to change the subject, she added, “I picked up a Christmas tree while I was in town. Maybe, after dinner, you can help me bring it inside and decorate it.”

“Sure, I'd be glad to.”

As she dug back into the scrumptious meal Joe had cooked, she pondered her usual holiday traditions. Yet for some reason, she didn't seem quite as lonely as before. Nor did she think she would miss the family Christmas in New York as much as she'd once thought she would.

She might have wanted to help Joe get through the holidays this year, but now it seemed that
he
was helping
her
.

And she looked forward to creating a few new Christmas memories—with him.

Chapter Six

T
he night sky provided a clear view of the stars as Joe went out to get the tree from the back of the ranch pickup.

He took a moment to study the constellations, noting both the Big and Little Dippers. Apparently he had at least some astronomical knowledge, which was another tidbit of information that hadn't been completely lost to him.

For some reason, he felt oddly at home on the Rocking C. He knew where to find things, like the mop he'd used earlier today and the ladder he'd needed so he and Tomas could climb into the hayloft for the Christmas decorations. He'd even walked right up to the container of oats and molasses, popped open the lid and scooped out a handful to feed as a treat to Lola, the mare.

In spite of the fact that Hernandez, the Rocking C foreman, hadn't given him any reason to believe he'd ever stepped foot on the ranch before, Joe still couldn't seem to kick that uncanny feeling that he had.

But if so, he didn't have a clue what the circumstances had been.

Had he worked here? Maybe even lived here? If not, he must have visited Dave and his family at least once.

As he walked out to the pickup Chloe had driven to town earlier, a crisp winter breeze stirred up the ranch scents that seemed more and more familiar.

In spite of what Hernandez had said, somewhere along the line, Joe
had
been here.

His boots crunched along the graveled drive as he headed toward the faded green GMC Chloe had parked near the barn. Hell, even that weathered old truck looked familiar. Had he driven it before? Or had he just ridden in it?

“The tree is in the back of the pickup,” Chloe had told him before heading to the kitchen to check on the scones baking in the oven.

Sure enough, there it was.

He reached in, grabbed the tree by the trunk and pulled it out. As he shook out the branches, he caught the scent of pine, which didn't provoke any memories.

He had to have celebrated Christmas before. He had a tamale recipe to prove it. He cursed the amnesia that plagued him while he carried the six-foot tree into the house. Then he placed it in the stand that had been stored in the loft with all the other holiday decorations.

Joe had no more than stepped back to check out his work when Chloe carried in a tray with two steaming cups of hot cocoa and a plate of scones.

“It's a bit crooked,” she said.

“I can fix that.” Joe made a few minor adjustments in the stand, then tilted the trunk slightly to the left.

“That's better,” Chloe said as she set the tray on the coffee table. “I'll get some water to fill the reservoir. Then we can get started.”

After she returned with a plastic pitcher, she knelt and watered the tree. When she finished, she stood and brushed her hands against her denim-clad hips. Then she began to unpack the red and green plastic storage boxes.

First they strung the lights, tiny, multicolored bulbs that blinked on and off. The ornaments came next. While they worked, they'd stop long enough to nibble on the warm, buttered scones and to sip the hot chocolate.

Joe couldn't say whether he'd ever decorated a tree before, but doing so with Chloe sure felt like a first.

“Oh, look,” she said as she unwrapped the tissue from an angel. “This is the perfect tree topper. Don't you think?”

Actually, just hearing her ooh and aah over the various ornaments while her eyes lit up like a hopeful child made the entire evening seem perfect. And he couldn't help but smile. “You bet.”

“Can you reach to put it up? Or should I get a chair?”

“I've got it.” He took the angel from her hands and put it in place.

With that done, they both stood back and studied their handiwork.

“It's beautiful,” she said, her eyes glistening.

She
was beautiful—even in jeans. And he couldn't help thinking that she belonged here—on the ranch, decorating a tree and making a memory.

When it was all over—not just Christmas, but his amnesia—he'd have to ask her out, just to see her all dressed up. Maybe he'd take her to that Italian restaurant...

Wait. He could almost see an actual place in his mind, a quaint restaurant with a European flair—a mural of Venice hand-painted on a white plaster wall, dark wood tables covered with white linen, a bud vase with a single red rose, a flickering candle... Where was it? When had he seen it?

“What do you think?” she asked.

About
her?
About taking her out for a romantic evening on the town?

“I love Christmas,” she said, drawing his thoughts back to reality and the subject at hand.

But he still couldn't help allowing his own musing to drift back to the romantic fantasy. “All we're missing is a little mistletoe to hang over the doorway.” She flushed, and he was tempted to draw her to him anyway, to kiss her senseless. In fact, as she lifted her eyes to his, as their gazes locked, desire flared.

He had no business following through on it, though. He didn't even know where he'd been, let alone where he was going. But if she didn't stop looking at him like that...

Oh, what the hell.

“Then again, something tells me I've never needed any prompts.” He stepped forward, placed his hands on her cheeks. He waited a moment, taking the time to study her eyes, her expression, checking for any sign of protest.

Instead, her chin lifted and her lips parted.

That was all the invitation he needed.

* * *

As Joe lowered his mouth to hers, Chloe's heart soared in anticipation. She really shouldn't kiss him, although for the life of her, she could no longer come up with a good reason to object. Instead, she slipped her hands around his neck and stepped into his embrace.

His lips brushed hers tentatively at first, then a second time. The whisper of his breath, the promise of what was to come, sent her senses reeling, and she was soon caught up in a swirl of heat and desire.

Goodness. The man might not recall a lot of things, but he certainly knew how to kiss.

As their tongues met and mated, she lost herself in his musky, mountain fresh scent and in his sweet, chocolate-laced taste.

Did she dare put a stop to it? Or take him by the hand and lead him to one of the bedrooms?

In truth, with her knees about to give out on her, she doubted whether she could urge her feet to take a single step.

When they finally came up for air, she had to hold on to him so she wouldn't collapse into a heap on the floor.

“I was curious,” he said, his breath warm against her face. “So thanks for indulging me.”

She'd been curious, too, but she was even more so now. Not about kissing, but about what other heart-spinning, soul-stirring talents Joe might have. Needless to say, he would make an incredible lover.

“Well,” she said, “now you know.”

“Yes, but it opened a whole other world of questions.”

She released her grip on his shoulders and took a step back. “Maybe so, but I don't think we ought to ponder the answers right now.”

“You're probably right.” He let his own hands slip down her back, his fingers leaving a trail of heat, until he released her altogether. “You'll have to forgive me. I should have known better.”

“There's nothing to be sorry for. I could have resisted.”

Oh, yeah?
a small voice asked.
That's not true
.

Okay, so she'd been a willing participant—and an active one at that.

Joe turned away and strode to the stone fireplace, where Dave's photo sat on the mantel. The young man in uniform seemed to be watching them.

Something told Chloe that Dave hadn't intended for his buddy and the woman he'd thought of as “his girl” to...

What? Kiss? Become involved?

Fat chance of that happening. Chloe was in no position to strike up a romance with anyone. Not until she moved on and established herself as a nursing student at the junior college in nearby Wexler.

And Joe had to feel the same way, since his future was even sketchier than hers—at least, until he could remember his past.

His gaze drifted to the other photos on the mantel, as if they could somehow provide him with his missing identity. She suspected that he was having some of the same thoughts she was, the same concerns.

“Would you like some more cocoa?” she asked, pretending as if the kiss hadn't happened, as if she wasn't confused by all the feelings and desires it had sparked.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Why not indeed? They obviously needed a distraction or something to help them cool off. She offered him a smile. “I'll just be a minute.”

“While you're gone, I'll see if there are any good movies on television.”

She supposed that watching TV was as good an idea as any. Yet as she left Joe to surf the channels, her thoughts made a complete one-eighty.

Too bad she wasn't free to pursue the attraction that raged between them. But only a fool would pin her hopes and dreams on a man who knew nothing about his past, very little about his present and had no idea where the future would take him.

* * *

A noise—either real or imagined—jolted Chloe from a sound sleep, and she shot up in bed, her heart pounding as though it might jump out of her chest. She scanned the room, her eyes desperately trying to adjust to the darkness.

She didn't hear anything but the tick-tock of the clock on the bureau, so she assumed all was well and that she'd only been dreaming. That, she supposed, was the result of being overly tired.

She and Joe had turned in just before eleven o'clock. Yet, try as she might, she couldn't find a comfortable spot on the mattress. At least, not while their blood-stirring kiss continued to haunt her thoughts.

As it was, she hadn't drifted off to sleep until well past midnight.

“No!” Joe yelled from the guestroom down the hall, setting Chloe's fight-or-flight response on high alert.

“Fall back!” he shouted.

He must be having a nightmare. She glanced at the clock on the bureau. It was 3:17.

“Don't!” Joe called out again.

She threw off her blankets, rolled out of bed and hurried down the lighted hallway to the room where he slept. She stood before the closed door for a moment, her escalated pulse throbbing, her fist lifted and prepared to knock.

A moan sounded from within, and she rapped lightly.

Instead of answering, Joe yelled, “Down, dammit. Get down!”

Was he dreaming? Or was he reliving a memory?

She opened his door, allowing the light from the hall to spill inside, and watched as he thrashed around on the bed.

“Medic,” he groaned.

She crossed the hardwood floor in her bare feet, then touched his shoulder, felt the warmth of his skin, the bulk of his muscles.

“Joe?” she said softly, not wanting to startle him.

Still, he lurched up on the mattress, the blanket dropping to his waist. His chest was broad—and bare—his breathing ragged. He glanced around the room as if desperate to make sense of it all.

“It's okay,” she said. “You were having a nightmare.”

Although his eyes were open and she suspected he was awake, he couldn't seem to blink away the fear, the confusion.

Her hand lingered on his shoulder, then trailed down a bulging biceps—the one with the military insignia—until it rested on his forearm.

Finally, his gaze cleared and he zeroed in on her, snagging something deep inside and giving it a squeeze.

“Where am I?” he asked.

Her heart went out to him. “You're at the Cummings ranch. And you were...dreaming.” She reached for the glass of water he must have placed on the bedside table before retiring this evening and handed it to him.

She watched him take a long swig, watched the muscles along his throat contract. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” He raked his hand through his hair.

“I can understand,” she said. “But maybe if you do, I can help you to make sense of it.”

He set the water glass on the nightstand, his fingers trembling a bit as he did. Then he reached for her hand and gripped it tightly in his. “Don't leave yet.”

She wouldn't consider abandoning him in a strange house and an unfamiliar bed, especially after everything he'd been through. So she took a seat on the mattress.

With his free hand, the one she wasn't holding, he threw the covers off his left leg, which was the one farthest from her hip. Then he reached down and massaged his knee. Was he wearing briefs or boxers under the blanket that barely covered him now? She supposed it didn't matter. Yet she couldn't help wondering if he was naked.

She glanced down at the flimsy gown she wore, wishing she'd taken the time to throw on a robe. But she'd been so startled by his outburst, so concerned about him, that she'd rushed to his side without thinking. That shouldn't be a problem, though. Joe was probably so caught up in that frightening nightmare that he hadn't noticed. Or maybe he didn't care either way.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked.

He stretched out his left leg, extending his knee. “About the day I got this injury, I think. Although I can't be sure.”

“From the words you said, I gathered that you were on a battlefield. You even called for a medic.”

“Yeah. I was in battle. And Dave was with me.”

“So you were in the same platoon?”

“I'm not sure about that. Maybe. But I was looking at that photo of him on the mantel earlier and trying hard to remember his face. So it's possible that his image only infiltrated my dream. And that none of it had been real.” He blew out a ragged sigh. “But as much as I hate living with amnesia, I hope it wasn't a memory. I'd rather not think that I actually lived through that.”

She could understand how he felt. But in a way, she hoped he had. And that the other memories would soon follow.