Snowbound Bride-to-Be (4 page)

Strange it would be her. The women he had been attracted to in the past were as superficial as he was. He had liked women who wore clingy clothes, and push-up bras, who glittered with makeup and jewelry, and who intoxicated with expensive scents.

Emma had probably wiggled by his defenses simply because he would have never thought to erect that particular wall against someone like her: makeup-free, tangled hair, lumpy jeans, grandma sweater. And defiantly set on letting him know she
believed
.

Still, regardless of how she had done it, it had happened. That faint stirring of something, that felt like life. Trying to call him back.

To a place, he reminded himself sternly, that was gone.

He shut down what he was feeling, quickly, but he could not shut down the acknowledgment that it had been a first. He did not feel ready for firsts: to laugh again, to feel again.

Because somehow even contemplating the possibility of firsts, of returning, felt like some kind of betrayal, as if it minimized who Drew and Tracy had been and what they had meant to him. And maybe because it would require him to do what could not be done: forgive himself.

So, in a different lifetime, when he had been a different man, Ryder might have followed that thread of attraction to see where it would lead.

But he already knew Emma was hurt, had already seen
secrets in her soft eyes that she probably would rather he not have known.

And the man he was now was so damaged that he knew he could only hurt her more. His hardness felt as though it would take all that was wondrous about her—such as this childlike delight in Christmas—and curdle it, like vinegar hitting milk.

It was all the smells in here, pine and pumpkin, all the decorations, her ridiculous hat making her look like an emissary from Santa, that were bringing up these uncomfortable thoughts. For the most part, Ryder was successful at warding off the worst of it.

Still, that all this had flooded in within moments of entering this place troubled him. He would probably be better off sleeping in his car than taking refuge here.

He’d known as soon as he stepped under the roof of her porch that this place posed a peculiar kind of danger to his armored heart. As if to confirm that suspicion, he had spotted the letters, peeking out from under the boughs of the wreath.

Believe
.

The sign had made him want to head back to his car, find shelter elsewhere.
Believe in what?

If he’d been by himself, he would have gone back to the car, found a pub, preferably with a pool table and a big-screen TV, to while away the hours in before the road reopened.

But he wasn’t by himself, and the fact that he wasn’t changed his ability to choose.

Every single decision Ryder made had to be run through the filter of what was best for Tess. Obviously it wasn’t a place with a pool table, however comforting he would have found a rowdy male environment.

What was best for Tess? In the long run? He knew people wondered if he could possibly be the best guardian for her. Some of the bolder ones had even hinted that the most loving
thing to do would be to find her a real family, a mother who could actually get a comb through her hair, who would enjoy the intricacies of those silly, frilly, small dresses.

But his brother and Tracy had wanted him to have her. He’d been stunned that they’d had a will, that they had appointed him guardian.

Despite the fact he knew himself to be terribly flawed, Ryder could not ever let her go. Tess was what was left of his brother. He was fierce in his protection of her. He hired a nanny who looked after the baby details—hair, baths, clothes—but Mrs. Markle had abandoned him for Christmas to be with her own family.

His initial awkwardness with the baby had quickly given way to absolute devotion. What was left of his heart belonged firmly to that little spark of spirit that represented all that was left of Drew and Tracy’s great love for each other.

“I can show you to a room, or take you through to the kitchen to get something to eat first.”

Tess had nursed a bottle in the car, but could use something solid. But Ryder realized he was also starving. And exhausted from fighting with the roads. If he had something to eat and a nap, he would be ready to leave here the second there was a break in the weather and the roads reopened.

“Something to eat sounds good.” He could feel his own caution, as if even agreeing to have something to eat was tampering with forces he was not ready to tamper with.

“It must have been a nightmare out there,” his hostess said, still lugging Tess, leading him down a narrow hallway that ended in a swinging door. She gave it a push with her hip.

“A nightmare,” he agreed. “Hell, only the cold version, decorated in white.”
Something like her inn.

She didn’t miss the reference to white decorations, and he
saw her take his comment like a blow, as a personal insult. Too sensitive. Was that why she’d been hurt?

“Nothing against white decorations,” he said curtly, his insincerity just making everything worse.

Vinegar and milk
, he told himself.

He wanted to say he wasn’t hungry, after all. Wanted to retreat to a room, hoping it wouldn’t be too overwhelmingly Chrismasified, but the truth was, now that he was not battling his way through terrible conditions, he was ravenous.

And even if he wasn’t, the baby had to eat something out of one of those little jars of mash he carried with him.

His initial relief that the kitchen was an oasis of “not decorated” evaporated. The smells were intense in this room, as was the atmosphere of country cheer and charm: sunshine-yellow walls, white cabinets, old gray linoleum floors polished to high gloss. But, like the door handle falling off, he could see hints of problems, frost on the inside of the windows, a tap dripping.

A huge plank harvest table dominated the room and was covered in platters and platters of cookies.

On a closer look, there were cookies shaped like trees, and cookies frosted in pink, Santa cookies, and chocolate-dipped cookies, gingerbread men and gingerbread houses.

“You weren’t kidding that you were expecting guests,” he said. “How many?”

“I was hoping for a hundred.”

He shot her a wary look at the disappointment in her voice. “You were expecting a hundred people here tonight?”

“The opening night of Holiday Happenings,” she said, and he did his best to remain expressionless at how horrifying he found that name. She took his silence, unfortunately, as an invitation to go on, even though her voice had begun to wobble.

“There’s a pond out back. There was going to be skating.
And bonfires. A neighbor was going to bring his team of horses. Clydesdales.” Something was shining behind her eyes.

He thought, again, of the kind of women he had once dated. Five-star meals, gifts of diamonds, evenings that ended in hot tubs. Not Holiday Happenings kind of women.

Emma’s disappointment was palpable. He hoped, uneasily and fervently, she wasn’t going to cry. Nothing felt like a threat to him as much as a woman’s tears. Tess already knew, and used it to her advantage at every opportunity.

“Sorry,” he said, gruffly, whether he meant it or because he hoped saying something—anything—could curb her distress, he wasn’t sure.

“Things will be back to normal by tomorrow,” she said, “Holiday Happenings is going to happen.”

This was said fiercely as if she was challenging him—or the gods—to disagree with her. He wasn’t going to, but the gods seemed to enjoy a challenge like that one.

It was Tess who took Emma’s mind off her weather woes. Apparently the baby was tired of looking at the embarrassment of riches around her, and tired of the adult chatter.

She began squealing and pointing at various cookies and nearly wiggled herself right out of Emma’s arms.

“WA DAT.”

“Want that?” Emma guessed, mercifully distracted. “She’s hungry.”

“Or could squeeze in a cookie after demolishing a ten-course meal,” he said, thanking Tess for evaporating the tears that had shone so briefly behind those eyes.

“Can she have one, daddy? Or does she have to have healthy stuff first?”

He frowned. Let it go? He wasn’t going to be here long enough for it to matter, was he? Correcting her meant reveal
ing something more of the private life, fresh with tragedy, that he kept so guarded.

On the other hand, revealing the fact he was not Tess’s father seemed safer than returning to the possibility the weather could ruin her plans for Holiday Happenings.

If he never heard the words
Holiday Happenings
again, he would be just as happy. It was worth it, even if it revealed a little of himself.

He realized he had not introduced himself.

“I’m Ryder Richardson,” he said, not trying to disguise his reluctance, “I’m Tess’s uncle. Her guardian.”

“Oh.”

It asked questions, none of which he intended to answer. He stuck out his hand, a diversionary tactic to stall questions and to keep her mind off her failed evening.

She juggled the baby, and took his hand. As soon as he felt her hand in his, he knew he’d made a mistake. Her hand slipped inside his, a perfect fit, softness intermingled with surprising strength.

He felt the
zing
of the physical contact, steeled himself against it.

She felt something, too, because she froze for a moment, stared up into his eyes, blinked with startled awareness. And then she pulled her hand away, rapidly.

His eyes went to her lips. Once upon a time, a long time ago, when he was a different man in a different life, he had known other diversionary tactics. Most of them involved lips. His and hers.

Now as profoundly committed to taking his wandering mind off lips as he was to taking Emma’s mind off personal questions and the weather, he held out his arms, and Emma gave Tess back to him.

Babies were the grand diversion when it came to women.
One look at Tess’s hair should take Emma’s mind irrevocably off her crushed hopes for the evening, and maybe off that sizzling moment of awareness that had just passed between them.

He propped Tess on the edge of the plank table, removed the blanket, pulled Tess’s little limbs from the car coat he’d had her in. Last he fumbled with the ridiculously hard-to-reach snap on the stupid snow hat that he had put on the baby out of a sense of wanting to do the responsible thing before they left on their road trip.

That was the worry part. A snow hat inside the car. In case
. Well, that, and to cover the mess of her hair in case they stopped anywhere along the way. The cop might have even looked at him differently if he had spotted the baby’s hair.

If you can’t even look after her hair, how can you be trusted with the larger picture?

“I hate this hat,” he muttered, though what he really hated was that question.

“Why’s that?”

“It never seems to go on right.”

“Ah.” It was a strangled sound.

Ryder shot her a look. She was smiling, biting back a giggle.

He glared at her. He disliked merriment nearly as much as Christmas, especially when it was at his expense and made him feel self-conscious about his baby skills. “Is something funny?” he asked, annoyed.

She held up a finger, letting him know that soon she would be in control of herself. Really, she looked like an evil elf, gasping. The more she tried to stop laughing, the more she couldn’t, as if his disapproval was making her nervous. Which was good.

“You…have…it…on…backwards.”

He could look at it in a different way. Not that she was laughing at him, but that he’d succeeded. The sparkle of tears were gone from her eyes, replaced, that quickly, with the sparkle of laughter.

Only he hadn’t really succeeded. Because he could clearly see she didn’t look like an evil elf, after all. The laughter chased some shadow from her eyes, making them even prettier, and the smile made him even more aware of the sensuous lilt of those puffy lips.

He’d been here less than ten minutes, long enough to know he hated the White Christmas Inn and everything about it.

Ryder looked away from her, frowning. He stepped back from Tess and studied the hat. “I’ll be damned. It
is
on backwards. No wonder it was so hard to work with.”

A respected architect and he couldn’t get a hat on right. He was learning babies were an exercise in humility. Experimentally, he turned the headgear around the right way, admired it, allowed a small whisper of pleasure at this tiny discovery.

“It was the placement of the pom-pom that threw me,” he decided gravely.

“Of course,” she said, just as gravely.

“Now I won’t have to buy another hat,” he said, allowing that little whisper of pleasure to deepen.

He saw Emma’s look, and was astounded at how his pride was stung at her misinterpretation. “Not because I can’t afford another one,” he said sharply, “because you cannot imagine how terrible it is being the sole man shopping in the baby department.”

Tess was crankily trying to pull that hat back off.

“It doesn’t look like she likes hats, anyway,” Emma said.

“Until she lets me comb her hair, she wears hats.” He took
the hat back off and stepped aside, letting Emma see for the first time what was underneath.

If she started laughing at him again, he was going to pick up the baby and head back into the storm, knock on the door of the first house in Willowbrook that had no Christmas decorations and beg for sanctuary from the storm.

But Emma didn’t laugh. Her gasp of dismay was almost worse.

Hey, it’s not as if your hair is all that different
.

But Emma’s hair
was
different from Tess’s. Emma’s curls looked as if she had
tried
, maybe too vigorously, to tame them. He felt that inexplicable urge to touch again, focused on his niece’s hair instead.

Tess’s white blonde hair did not look as if it had been combed since the day she was born, even though it had only been two days. Her hair looked like it belonged to a monster baby.