Sugar Plum Season. Mia Ross

make her feel better about her lingering injuries. He didn’t mention God by name, but the silver cross on the chain around his neck filled in the blanks nicely for her. While she respected his right to hold that faith, his comment sparked a flame of resentment she fought to control. “Maybe I wanted the chance to choose for myself.”

      All her life, she’d done everything her Sunday-school teacher had taught her to do. She went to church, said all the prayers, sang all the hymns. She’d worked relentlessly to polish the talent God gave her until it shone as brightly as any stage lights in the world.

      And then He took it all away.

      Lying in that lonely hospital bed, she begged Him to help her, to make everything the way it was before. And what happened? Nothing.

      She didn’t trust herself to speak calmly right now, but from the sympathy in Jason’s eyes, she might as well have told him her whole tragic story.

      “We don’t always get what we ask for, Amy.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      More worked up than she’d been in a long, long time, she marched away from him and yanked open the door to escape into the only part of her world she still understood.

      * * *

      The rest of his day at Arabesque passed by in silence. Except when he was hammering or drilling, anyway. Other than that, Amy avoided him with a deftness that impressed and saddened him all at the same time. He’d been around enough wounded people in his life to recognize the regret that trailed after her, darkening her eyes with the kind of unrelenting sorrow he could only begin to imagine.

      He’d just met her, but he instinctively wanted to do whatever he could to pound down the road ahead of her to make it easier for her to walk. The women who usually appealed to him were engaging, uncomplicated types who didn’t eat much and laughed easily. Something told him Amy Morgan was complicated by nature, which should’ve been an enormous red flag for him.

      Unfortunately, it only made him wonder what it would take to make her laugh. Then again, he thought as he packed Fred’s tools into their cases, maybe he was getting ahead of himself. After all, he’d barely been able to tease a smile out of her, and they’d been together most of the day.

      Stopping by her office, he knocked on the frame of the open door. “Everything’s put away, so I’m gonna get outta here before your students show up. I’ll be back Monday with those extra pieces we talked about.”

      “Thank you.”

      “No problem. Have a good rehearsal.”

      Since he was out of things to say, he waved and began backing away. When she called out his name, he paused in the hallway. “Yeah?”

      “Things were so hectic today, we never settled on your hourly rate.”

      “I thought we agreed on zero.”

      Narrowing her eyes, she tilted her head in a skeptical pose he suspected was fairly common for her. “I assumed you were joking about that.”

      “Nope. I’m sure Fred wasn’t charging you, so since I’m filling in for him, it wouldn’t be right for me to do it.”

      “Where I’m from, strangers don’t do things for nothing.”

      “Huh,” he said with his brightest grin. “And here I thought we were friends.”

      While he watched, the brittle cynicism fell away, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a wry grin. “I should warn you, I’m not the easiest person to be friends with.”

      “That’s cool. I like a challenge.”

      Before she could warp their light exchange into something heavier, he turned and headed for the front door, whistling “Jingle Bell Rock” as he went. When the orchestral holiday medley coming over the studio speakers increased in volume, he knew she’d heard him and was registering her disapproving opinion of his taste in Christmas music. Didn’t matter a bit to him, he thought as he stepped from the studio. So they didn’t enjoy the same kind of tunes. It wasn’t as if he was going to marry her or anything.

      Outside, he paused to take in the view of his hometown at the holidays. While he’d been gone, he’d seen plenty of towns, big, small and everything in between. He recalled most of their names, but none had ever measured up to Barrett’s Mill for him. At first glance, this Main Street resembled so many others, lined with buildings constructed in a time when skilled craftsmen took great pride in building things that would last forever.

      The structures had a solid look to them, which gave the village a quaint, old-fashioned appeal for residents and visitors alike. Especially this time of year, when each business went all out to win the Chamber of Commerce award for best commercial decorations. The jewelry store’s front window was dominated by a glacial scene that had sparkling rings and earrings pinned into the fake waterfall. Next to it, a shop that sold office supplies had set up a huge pile of brightly wrapped gifts, with a few open at the front to display the latest gadgets you could find inside. Every window was rimmed in lights, and on a cloudy day like today they gave off a cheerful glow that looked like something straight out of a holiday movie.

      Across the width of the street, volunteers had strung the lighted garlands and wreaths the same way they’d done for generations. For as long as Jason could remember, when those festive greens went up, he knew Christmas was right around the corner. Even when he’d lived out West, he’d come back home every year, even if it was only for a few days. As he got older, reconnecting with those lifelong memories comforted him, no matter what might have gone wrong for him elsewhere.

      He recognized a few of the people out window-shopping and lifted a hand in greeting before climbing into his truck. Actually, it was one of the mill trucks, older than dirt and held together by rust and a lot of prayers. Paul had gotten it running over the summer and offered it to Jason when he finally broke down and bought a pickup manufactured in this century. To start it, Jason usually needed a screwdriver and a boatload of patience. Since it hadn’t been idle all that long, he took his chances and turned the key. Nothing happened at first, but when he gave it another shot, the engine whined a bit and caught. Pumping the gas pedal, he let the motor settle into the throaty rumble that told him it would keep running long enough for him to get where he was going. Usually.

      As he made his way toward the edge of town, the pavement gave way to gravel, and he turned in by the sign Jenna had made to mark the very first business in town: Barrett’s Sawmill, Est. 1866. He felt a quick jolt of pride, recalling how his older brother, Paul, had left his wandering ways behind and come back to reopen the bankrupt family business. Now a humming custom-furniture manufacturer, they made things by hand the old-fashioned way, in a mill powered by its original waterwheel.

      It was a far cry from the lumber camps Jason had been working at the past couple of years. About half as exciting, he mused as he parked next to Chelsea’s silver convertible, but way safer. Before he’d even closed the driver’s door, baying echoed from behind the mill house, and a huge red bloodhound raced out to meet him.

      “Hey there, Boyd.” He laughed as the dog leaped up to give him the canine version of a high five. “What’s shakin’?”

      The dog barked in reply, letting him go and racing around him in circles all the way up to the front porch. Inside, Jason paused outside the office’s half door and waved in at his newest sister-in-law. “Hey, Chelsea. How’re the numbers looking this week?”

      Beaming, she gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I love Christmas shoppers. They need things fast, and they’re willing to pay extra for quick delivery.”

      Jason groaned, only half joking. “Sounds like we’re gonna get real busy.”

      “I wouldn’t take up any new hobbies,” Paul advised from the open sliding door that led into the rear of the mill. Wiping grease from his hands on a rag, he went on. “This is supposed to be your last Saturday off till the end of the year. What’re you doing here?”

      “Making a Christmas