A Kiss, A Kid And A Mistletoe Bride. Lindsay Longford

Moon raised his eyebrows. “Funny. I thought you knew the old man. Don’t know where I got that idea.”

      “Neither do I.” Joe kept his face empty of expression. What Moon might know or might guess wasn’t important. Joe wasn’t about to fill him in on any details.

      He’d told Moon the truth. He didn’t know Milo well.

      Not in the usual meaning, at least.

      Moon nodded. “Anyway, if Milo’s got a health problem, he sure wouldn’t broadcast it. He’d make a joke out of it, but he’d keep any problem to himself. Milo’s good at keeping secrets.”

      Joe didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to read between the lines. Moon knew something, after all, about that night years ago, but, like Milo, he could keep a secret. “Thanks for your help, Moon.” Joe reached out to shake Moon’s ham-size hand.

      Moon’s face split into a grin. “Sure. Any old time.” His squeeze of Joe’s hand was hard enough to discourage circulation for a few minutes. As Joe started to pull the driver’s door shut, Moon rested his hand on it, stopping Joe’s movement. All the folksy drawl disappeared from Moon’s rumble of a voice as he gave Joe a keen look and said, “Merry Christmas to you and your boy.” He slammed the van door shut. “And, Joe...”

      “Yeah?”

      “Welcome home.”

      Looking at Moon’s large, sincere face, where understanding lay beneath the good-old-boy mask, Joe felt his throat close up.

      He’d felt the same way years ago when Gabby welcomed him to Bayou Bend, a place he’d never called home.

      A place he couldn’t wait to run from as fast as he could.

      A place he’d returned to because of Oliver.

      And if it killed him, he was going to make this town home for his son.

      Staying away from Gabrielle O’Shea would be part of that price, no matter how drawn he was to her sweetness.

      In the hotel later, Joe watched shadows dance across the wall. Shifting, changing, like his life, the shadows passed one after another, each blurring into the other until the original pattern was no longer visible.

      Beside him, snoring gently, small bubbles popping with each breath, his son slept. Peacefully. Securely.

      Safely.

      For the first time since he’d heard about his son, a son he didn’t even know he had, Joe slept soundly, too.

      In his dreams, pine scent and Christmas carols mingled, and he followed the glow of Gabby’s smile, like a star leading him through the darkness.

      Chapter Three

      “Here Taste.” Milo handed Gabrielle a wooden spoon dripping with broth and rice. “What do you think?”

      Gabrielle thought her dad’s face was too gray and too exhausted-looking, that’s what she thought. She kept her opinion to herself and took the spoon. Tasted. A complex mix of flavors burst on her tongue, and she sighed with pleasure. Her dad’s version of jambalaya might not be authentic New Orleans, but it was a feast for the senses. “I think it’s perfect, Pa. Best you’ve ever made.”

      “Good.” Milo snatched the spoon from her and stirred the huge pot of rice, tomatoes, chicken, broth and sausage. Pale green celery dotted the red and white. Next to the stove, piles of translucent shrimp shimmered in a heap on a bright green ceramic platter. “But it needs a touch more red pepper.”

      “Maybe,” she agreed. “But don’t make it too spicy, Pa.”

      Not looking at her, he sprinkled pepper flakes carefully over the simmering mixture. “The boy. Oliver.”

      “Oliver.” Gabby nodded. She didn’t know whether to hope that Joe and his son would ring the doorbell or hope they wouldn’t.

      Every time she thought of Joe, her tummy fluttered, her pulse raced and she felt—agitated.

      All this internal turmoil must mean she’d be disappointed if they canceled.

      Or maybe it meant she didn’t want to face the knowing glint in Joe Carpenter’s brown eyes again.

      What did she want?

      She sensed that it was crucial that she figure out for herself what she’d wanted for herself in returning to Bayou Bend.

      She looked around the homey kitchen with its worn wood cabinets and old linoleum floor. Milo’s banged-up copperbottomed pots hung from stainless steel hooks fixed into ceiling beams. On the counter over the double sink, the deep pink buds of a Christmas cactus hinted of the promise of the season, a reminder that darkness would end in light.

      Spicy scents of past and present mingled with memories in a mixture as rich as Milo’s jambalaya, scents evoking joy and laughter and warmth from earlier years.

      Like the cactus, happiness was a prickly-leaved plant waiting to bloom.

      That was why she’d come home. To find that joy she’d lost, the joy she believed in her heart Milo needed.

      What did she want?

      And where did Joe Carpenter and his son fit into the new life she was shaping?

      She wanted the best Christmas she could make, and being around Joe made her sparkle and feel alive. Made her look forward to the next hour or day, when she hadn’t looked forward to anything since her mother’s death.

      Being around Joe made her feel like the Christmas cactus, all tight pink buds waiting to burst forth.

      If he decided to take a pass on an impulsively issued invitation, she couldn’t blame him.

      But as her attention focused on the cactus buds, the truth slapped her in the face.

      She wanted him and Oliver to ring her doorbell. She wanted them in this old house, sharing the tradition of arranging ornaments to hide the bare spots on the tree. She wanted to see them spoon out heaping bowls of jambalaya and hear them sing carols around the ancient upright piano.

      She wanted all the corny, traditional trappings of the holiday, all the gaudy color and glitter and sound. She longed to surround herself with heaps of packages wrapped in shiny red-and-gold paper and elaborately tied bows.

      For whatever reason, she wanted Joe and Oliver to be part of that richness, not left by themselves to celebrate Christmas in a hotel on the highway.

      “Hope these damn shrimp taste as good as they look.” Milo held a glistening shrimp up to the light and examined it critically before adding so casually that Gabrielle was immediately alerted, “Didn’t know you know Joe Carpenter?”

      She knew what he was doing. Joe Carpenter wasn’t the real issue. Her dad wanted to talk. Like a cat stalking a bird, he’d sneak up on what he really wanted to talk about and, sooner or later, pounce.

      That’s when the feathers would fly.

      She could wait.

      Because Milo wasn’t happy with her. She was pretty sure he was ready to launch into a lecture about her return to Bayou Bend, and she was in no hurry to tangle over this particular subject with a stubborn Irishman.

      Double dose of hardheaded, is what she called him.

      “So how do you happen to know Carpenter?” He plopped a shrimp back onto the heap.

      “It’s a small town, Pa. Why wouldn’t I know him?”

      “Bayou Bend’s small, all right. Folks know everybody’s business more than they should. Seems funny, though, you knowing Joe. He’s older than you, and he left town before you were in high school.”

      “No, he left his senior year. I was in tenth grade. I used to see him around town. That’s all.” She wasn’t about to tell her dad