The Christmas Ranch. RaeAnne Thayne

be tight. He had been in the kid’s situation when he was young, lost and afraid with no safe harbor. The only difference was that Rafe had had a little sister to worry about, too.

      He could completely relate to his nephew’s stress and uncertainty that resulted in behavior issues.

      His mother had been wild and troubled—giving birth to two children from two different men, neither of whom had stayed in the picture long.

      She would clean up her act and regain custody of them for a few months and then something would happen—an unexpected bill, a bad date, even somebody making an offhand comment in the grocery store—and she would fall off the wagon again. All her hard work toward sobriety would disintegrate and they would end up with their elderly grandmother or their aunt, who had been busy with her own family and a husband who hadn’t wanted the burden of two more mouths to feed.

      A boy should never have to deal with the burden of his mother letting him down, time after time.

      More than anything, he wished he could spare Joey that. Since it wasn’t possible, he would do his best to provide the kid a stable home environment while his sister was in prison—and if that meant trying to figure out how to provide nutritious meals without burning them, he would do it.

      He opened the cupboard and was looking for the bottle of spaghetti sauce he knew he had purchased earlier in the week when the doorbell suddenly rang.

      Oh, yay. Maybe when he wasn’t paying attention, his subconscious had called for pizza delivery.

      He headed to the kitchen and opened the door, only to find someone else unexpected.

      It was her. The blond and lovely Hope Nichols, who dredged up all kinds of disastrous memories he had buried a long time ago—and who made him feel even more lousy at this whole parenting thing than he already did.

      She beamed at him, disconcertingly chipper. “Hi. It’s Rafe, right?”

      He felt big and stupid and awkward next to all her soft and delicate prettiness. “That’s right. Rafe Santiago.”

      She was probably here to give him the bill for the broken window. What other reason would she have for showing up at his doorstep on a Tuesday evening?

      “May I come in? It’s freezing out here. My body still hasn’t acclimated from the desert.”

      “Oh. Yeah. Of course. Come in.”

      He held the door open, kicking aside the backpack Joey had dropped after school that afternoon.

      She sniffed and blinked a few times. “Wow. That’s...strong.”

      The house—which was clean and warm but not very homey otherwise—smelled like charred red sauce, he suddenly realized with chagrin.

      “Kitchen mishap,” he said, embarrassed. “I was making spaghetti sauce and forgot to stir. I just tossed it out but I’m afraid the smell tends to linger.”

      She gave him a sympathetic look. “Been there, more times than I can count. I’m a lousy cook.”

      “We could start a club.”

      She grinned. “Except we’ll be very clear that our members are not to bring refreshments to meetings.”

      He couldn’t help smiling back. “Definitely. We’ll put it in the bylaws.”

      She paused, then tilted her head. “Do you need a little help? Maybe it’s like grammar, you know? Two negatives making a positive. Maybe with two lousy cooks working together, we can come up with something a little more than halfway decent.”

      “English and math in one paragraph. You must be a teacher.”

      “Well, I have dual degrees in art history and education. I should also add that while I couldn’t bake a decent chocolate cake if cannibals were waiting to nibble off my arms if I didn’t deliver the goods, I do make a kick-ass red sauce.”

      Was she really offering to help him fix dinner? Okay, that was unexpected...and a little surreal.

      He ought to politely thank her for the offer and send her on her way. He really wasn’t in the mood for the messy conversation about her parents he knew they needed to have—but he had also spent the past few weeks with very little adult interaction and he was a little desperate to talk about something besides Star Wars and Ninjago.

      “Couldn’t hurt. Between the two of us, maybe we could come up with something Joey might actually eat. So far, my efforts in that direction have fallen pretty flat.”

      “Excellent. Let’s do it.” She reached to untwist her multicolored scarf then unbuttoned her red wool peacoat. Beneath, she wore a bright blue sweater that matched her eyes. She looked bright and fresh and just about the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

      After an awkward moment, he reached to help her out of it, with manners he had forced himself to learn after he joined the military.

      Up close, she smelled delicious, some kind of exotic scent of cinnamon and almonds, and she was warm and enticing.

      He told himself that little kick in his gut was only hunger.

      He took the coat and hung it on the rack then led the way into the kitchen. “Where do we start?” he asked.

      She paused in the middle of the kitchen. “First things first. If you don’t mind, I’ll just rinse out the rest of this saucepan before the fumes singe away more of my nasal lining.”

      “Go ahead.”

      She headed to the sink and ran water in the sink to flush it down then started opening cupboards and pulling things out. “So where is the little snowball-throwing champion?”

      “Next door. Playdate with his partner in crime.”

      “Is this the infamous Samantha?”

      “The very same. Last night we had a talk with her and her parents about the dangers of throwing snowballs at cars. It should now be safe to drive through the neighborhood.”

      “Whew. That’s a relief.” She started mixing things in the now-clean saucepan. “So what’s the story here, if you don’t mind me asking? Where are Joey’s parents? I would love to hear they’re on an extended cruise to the Bahamas and you’re just substituting in the parental department for a few days.”

      His mouth tightened. “I wish it were that straightforward.”

      It really wasn’t her business but the truth was, he didn’t have anybody else to talk to about the situation and found he wanted to explain to her.

      “Joe’s dad took off before he was born, from what I understand. I don’t know the details. I was overseas.”

      “Military?”

      “How did you know?”

      “The haircut sort of gives it away. Let me guess. Marines.”

      “Close. Navy.”

      For reasons he didn’t want to look at too closely, he didn’t mention he had been a SEAL. It was a snap decision—similar to allowing her into his house and his kitchen. If he mentioned it, she might more easily make the connection between him and that rebel camp in Colombia and he couldn’t see any good reason to dredge up the painful past they shared while they seemed to be getting along so well.

      “Ah. A sailor.” She seemed to accept that with equanimity. “So Joey’s dad isn’t in the picture. What about his mom?”

      He pulled a large pot out to boil water for the pasta. Again, he debated what to tell her and then decided to be straightforward about this, at least. “It’s a rough situation. My sister is in trouble with the law. She’s in jail.”

      “Oh, no!”

      He could have left it at that but he was compelled to explain further. “Last week she pleaded guilty to a multitude of drug charges, including distribution