With Christmas in His Heart. Gail Martin Gaymer

her small bag on a table beneath the window. Will again. He was like a woodpecker—irritating but intriguing.

      Winter sunshine spread a spiderweb design on the table’s wooden top. She wandered to the window and pushed back the lacy curtain. Will stood below just inside the stable doorway with a horse, saddled and ready to ride. Knowing he couldn’t see her, she watched him staring into space as if his mind were faraway.

      Seeing him with the horse, his hand on the reins, brought the same gentle cowboy to mind. She grinned at her imaginings. She’d daydreamed as a teenager but not as a woman with brains in her head.

      A ragged sigh escaped her. What was it about the handsome man that she disliked? From the moment she’d laid eyes on him, he’d set her on edge, and it made no sense. She could only reason she was killing the messenger. He’d picked her up at the island ferry—a place she hadn’t wanted to come.

      She let the curtain drop and reminded herself the visit was only a week—eight days at the most. She had her laptop and her cell phone. Though it wouldn’t be easy, business could be conducted that way, she hoped, for a short time.

      She thought of her friend, Ellene, who’d had a similar gripe earlier in the year when she was stranded on Harsens Island in Lake St. Clair. She’d blown off Ellene’s concern about island life, and now her friend was married to Connor and lived there. Amazing what love could do.

      Love. She didn’t really like the word. She’d been bitten too badly to trust. At thirty-nine, marriage seemed an unlikely prospect.

      Christine returned to the window and peeked out. Will had vanished from the doorway. She could see the horse’s imprints in the mounting snow. Perhaps he’d gone to work. Good. He needn’t worry about her grandmother any longer now that she was there. He could spend the whole day at his job.

      Stained glass. A businessman and a creative type. He seemed too—she couldn’t find the word—too lackadaisical for a man who had to make a living running a business. Why hadn’t he dropped her off and gone back to work instead of making them hot chocolate?

      The delicate stained-glass angel filled her mind—a perfect gift for her grandmother, who’d always been a strong Christian. She could only deduce Will was a believer.

      Sadness wove like tendrils into her conscience. She was a believer, but—but what? “Admit it,” she mumbled. “The Bible says faith and actions work together, and faith is made complete by a person’s good deeds.”

      Letting the thought fetter away, Christine slipped back the curtain again and scanned the yard. She had an empty feeling, thinking about her lack of compassion for others. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She just didn’t take the time.

      She backed away and turned her attention to her luggage, slipped her pants into a drawer and her sweaters into another, then hung up a few items. Easy when she knew how to travel light. She pulled up her shoulders and drew in a lengthy breath.

      “Be nice,” she whispered to herself. The man had been kind to her grandmother. The next time she saw him she knew she should show her gratitude.

      She left the bedroom and descended the staircase into the large foyer. She loved her grandmother’s house with all the nooks and crannies of an elegant Victorian home. So many lovely homes had been built on the island in the late 1800s.

      The first floor greeted her with silence. She paused to listen. Still hearing nothing, she crossed the tiles to the living room doorway and saw her grandmother seated where she’d left her, her head resting against the wing of the chair. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm.

      She studied her grandmother’s face a moment, the classic lines—a well-sculpted nose, wide-set eyes as green as a new leaf, a full mouth that always curved upward into a pleasant grin, her mother’s features in her grandmother’s face.

      Christine smiled at her grandmother’s quiet beauty. Even though the stroke had left its mark, she felt confident her grandmother would get well.

      “Nice smile.”

      Christine’s heart jolted, and she swung toward the window seat that looked out to the garden. She poked her index finger into her chest. “Me?” she whispered, not wanting to wake her grandmother.

      He gave a quiet chuckle and tilted his head toward the sleeping form. “She’s not smiling so it must be you.” His voice was hushed, and he glanced toward her grandmother as if to make sure he hadn’t awakened her.

      Christine tiptoed across the carpet and settled onto the next window seat. “Why are you sitting in here?”

      “Waiting for you.”

      “Me?”

      Will tilted his head. “She’s sleeping so I’m not—”

      “Waiting for her, I know.” The man confounded her. “Why are you waiting, and where’s your horse?”

      His eyebrows raised, and she realized she’d given herself away.

      “You were watching me?”

      “No. I happened to look out the window.”

      He flashed her a teasing smile. “Daisy’s tied up outside ready to go. I thought you might need something in town.”

      She frowned, looking for his motive.

      Will rose, his grin fading to match her scowl. “I’m trying to be nice. I want you to feel welcome.”

      “I always feel welcome at my grandmother’s.”

      “But I’ve never seen you here in the past year and a half. Maybe since you’ve visited last, she’s moved the silverware to a different drawer.”

      His barb added another notch to her guilt. “I can find the silverware. Thank you.”

      He shook his head and strutted to the doorway. “Have a nice day.”

      “You too,” she said, thinking hers would be nicer with him gone, but the thought gave her a kick. She was being so unfair. Jealousy? Was that it? Was she being that childish about ownership of her grandmother? The idea hounded her as she hurried from the room.

      “Will,” she called, having distanced herself from the living room doorway. She headed in the direction she suspected he’d gone. “Will.”

      He didn’t respond, and she dropped her arms to her sides.

      “You called?”

      Her neck jerked upward, and she looked at him near the back hallway. Now facing him, her apology knotted in her throat. “Look, I’m—I’m sorry. It’s not your fault that I’m here. It’s no one’s fault. My parents planned their trip, and my grandmother didn’t know she was having a stroke. I—” She stopped not knowing what else to say.

      He looked at her questioningly. “It’s okay. Sometimes things happen that we don’t expect, and it’s difficult to adjust plans. My parents like planning everything to the letter. My father wishes I would, but I don’t. As he would say in the words of Shakespeare, ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’”

      “You’re quoting Shakespeare?”

      He laughed, and the look in his eyes unsettled her. His rich smile reflected in the sparkling blue of his iris. “Like everyone, I took English lit at university.”

      “You were a college man?”

      His smile faded. She studied him, curious why her question had triggered the negative look.

      He seemed to regroup. “For nearly three years.”

      No degree? “What was your major? Art?” she asked.

      “Business.”

      Business. She drew back, startled by the new information. “So where does the art come in?”

      His eyes drifted, and she could see he was uncomfortable with the probing.