A Little Bit of Holiday Magic. Melissa McClone

the army rang her doorbell to tell her Damon, her Ranger husband, a man she’d loved since she was fifteen, had been killed in Afghanistan. Damon had saved three soldiers before dying, but the word hero could never fill the gaping hole his death left in her and their son’s life. A hole still present two and a half years later.

      Damon had always said, “It’ll be okay, babe.”

      She repeated his words. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.”

      All she had to do was find shelter. Get Liam out of the cold. Everything else could wait until daylight.

      Grace looked around.

      Snow and trees.

      That was all she could see.

      Stupid snow and stupid trees.

      Driving across country from Georgia to Oregon two weeks before Christmas had been stupid. Sure, she’d finally graduated college, but she should have stuck it out another few months until the weather improved.

      What was I thinking?

      Making new Christmas memories, not dwelling on old ones. Ringing in the New Year in a different place, not wondering what might have been. Meeting new people instead of saying goodbye to old friends transferring out of the Rangers or heading downrange on another deployment, not knowing who wouldn’t be coming home this time.

      Snow coated her jacket and jeans. Her hair, too. Her gloved hands tingled. She shoved them in her pockets.

      “I’m sorry.” Her teeth chattered. She blinked away tears. “Should have stayed in Georgia.”

      It’ll be okay, babe.

      Grace wished she could believe things would be okay. She glanced back at the truck. At the light illuminating cab. At Liam.

      No giving up.

      The snow helped the burning sensation on her skin. She wasn’t coughing. It no longer hurt to breathe. All good things. And this road had to lead somewhere, to people, right?

      She forced her tired legs forward to find help, her feet completely covered in snow. Wetness seeped into her shoes, sending icy chills up her legs.

      Grace glanced back at the truck, not wanting to lose sight of her son. Looking forward again, she shielded her eyes from the snowflakes coming at her sideways like miniature daggers. She scanned right to left.

      Snow, trees and...

      Santa Claus?

      She blinked. Refocused.

      A lit-up Santa beckoned in the distance. Beyond the figure was a house strung with multicolored Christmas lights.

      It’ll be okay, babe.

      It was going to be okay. At least for tonight. Grace looked up into the swirling snow. “Thank you, Damon.”

      * * *

      “No worries. I have power, Mom.” Bill Paulson walked out of the kitchen holding a bottle of beer in one hand and the phone against his ear in the other. “This is your third call tonight. It’s late. Go to bed. I’ll be by in the morning to plow your driveway. I have to check the rental properties, too.”

      “Unless the snow keeps falling.”

      Her hopeful words were not unexpected. His mom preferred him stuck inside and safe, rather than on another outdoor adventure. She seemed to forget he was thirty-three, not thirteen. Though, admittedly, sometimes he acted more like a kid than an adult.

      “It better stop snowing.” He sat in his favorite chair, a big, comfortable leather recliner. Sports highlights played on the TV, with the volume muted. Flames danced and wood crackled in the fireplace. “I don’t want to lose another day on the mountain.”

      A drawn-out, oh-so-familiar sigh came across the line, annoying him like a tickle in the throat before a full-blown cold erupted. He loved his mom, but he knew what was coming next.

      “There’s more to life than climbing and skiing,” she said.

      “You don’t climb or ski.”

      “No, but you do.”

      “My life rocks,” Bill said. “There’s nothing like helping people in trouble get down the mountain, or carving the first tracks in two feet of fresh powder, then crawling into a comfy, warm bed after a day on the hill.”

      Especially if he wasn’t alone. Which, unfortunately, he was tonight.

      “You’re headstrong like your father. Always off doing your own thing.”

      Bill knew that disapproving-mother tone all too well. He’d grown up hearing how much he was like his dad, a man who was never around to support and love her. But this was different. His mom didn’t understand the pull of the mountain. The allure of the adrenaline rush. The satisfaction of a successful mission. She was too worried Bill would end up hurt or dead. That could happen one of these days, but still...

      Time to change the subject before she laid on another guilt trip. He didn’t want to end up letting her down again. “This morning I put up the Santa you brought over. Got the lights strung on the eaves, too.”

      “Wonderful. How’s the tree coming along?”

      Two ornaments—a snowboard and a snowshoe—hung from the branches of a seven-foot noble fir. Bill had a box full of more ornaments, but he’d gotten bored trimming the tree. Decorating with a sexy snow bunny for a helper would have been more fun. “The tree’s coming along. I’ve even got a present under there.”

      He wasn’t about to tell his mom the gift was a wedding present for Leanne Thomas and Christian Welton, two firefighters getting married on Saturday. Soon Bill would be the only member of their crew still single.

      He didn’t mind.

      Marriage was fine for other people. Somehow his parents had remained together in spite of spending so much time apart. Maybe when Bill hit forty he would reconsider matrimony as an option. Then again, maybe not. He didn’t need another woman dependent on him, like his mom. A woman who would think he wasn’t a good enough man, husband, father, and kept waiting for him to screw up.

      “I’m happy to finish decorating your tree,” Mom said.

      He had no doubt she would happily show up to decorate his whole house, wearing an embroidered Christmas sweater and jingle bells dangling from her earlobes. With her husband away most of the time, she focused her attention and energy on Bill. Always had. After she’d miscarried during a difficult pregnancy, she’d turned into a hovering, don’t-let-the-kid-out-of-your sight, overprotective mom. His turning eighteen, twenty-one, thirty hadn’t lessened the mother hen tendencies. “Give me another week.”

      “We’ll talk tomorrow.” She made a smacking sound, her version of a good-night kiss over the phone. “Sleep well, dear.”

      “Will do.” Too bad he’d be sleeping alone. Stormy nights were perfect for going to bed with a hot woman. But the December dating deadline—the second Monday in December, when men stopped seeing women, in order to avoid spending the holidays with them—had passed. Even friends with benefits expected more than he was willing to give this time of year. “’Night, Mom.”

      He placed the phone on the end table, sat in the recliner and took a long pull of beer. This year’s seasonal brew from the Wy’East Brewing Company went down smoothly.

      He glanced at a photograph hanging on the wall—of Jake Porter, Leanne, Nick Bishop, Tim Moreno and himself at Smith Rock during a sunny day of rock climbing in central Oregon. He raised his bottle in memory of Nick, who’d died during a climb on Mount Hood’s Reid Headwall at Christmastime nine years ago.

      Wind rattled the windows.

      Storm, storm, go away. Billy Paulson wants to play.

      He downed the rest of the beer.

      Game highlights gave way to a sports talk show.