Christmas On Crimson Mountain. Michelle Major

you both in the New Year. You’ll be back in California and—”

      “She doesn’t want me.” Ranie looked miserable. “No one does now that Mom is gone. That author guy is just one more.”

      “It’s not you.” The words were out of April’s mouth before she could stop them. She hated seeing the girl so sad.

      “You’re lying.” Ranie didn’t even pause as she made the accusation and paced to the corner of the room. “Everyone loves Shay.”

      “Something happened to Connor Pierce that makes it difficult for him to be around young kids.”

      “What happened?” Ranie stepped forward, hands clenched tightly in front of her. This sweet, hurting girl had been through so much. Once again, April wanted to reach for her but held back. She shouldn’t have shared as much as she had about Connor, but she couldn’t allow Ranie to believe she was expendable to everyone she met. At least this way, Ranie could help shield Shay, keep her out of Connor’s line of sight.

      April met Ranie’s clear blue gaze. “His wife and son died in a car accident a few years ago. The little boy was five at the time.”

      “Shay’s age,” Ranie whispered. The girl’s eyes widened a fraction.

      Good. The news was enough of a shock on its own. April didn’t have to share anything more. Not the images she’d seen online of the charred shell of a car after the accident and fire that had killed Connor’s family. Not the news report that said he’d also been in the vehicle at the time of the crash but had been thrown clear.

      She hoped he’d been knocked unconscious. The alternative was that Connor Pierce had watched his family die.

      * * *

      Connor glanced at the clock on his phone again, staring at the bright numbers on the screen, willing them to change. When they did and the numbers read 6:00 on the dot, he jumped out of the chair in front of the desk, stalked toward the door, then back again.

      He knew April was in the kitchen, had heard her come in thirty minutes ago. He’d been staring at the clock ever since. Minutes when he should have been working, but the screen on his laptop remained empty.

      Every part of his life remained empty.

      When his editor had suggested taking two weeks at a remote cabin to “finish” his manuscript, Connor hadn’t argued. He hadn’t wanted to explain that he still had over half the story to write. It had even made sense that a change of scenery might help him focus.

      That’s how it worked with writers, right? A quiet cabin in the woods, an idyllic setting to get the creativity flowing. What Connor understood, but wouldn’t admit, was that his inability to write came from the place inside him that was broken. There was simply nothing left, only a yawning cavern of guilt, regret and sorrow. Emotions he couldn’t force himself to mine for words to fill a manuscript, even one that was seven months past due.

      He shut the laptop and headed downstairs, the scent coming from the kitchen drawing him forward. That was as unexpected as everything else about April Sanders, since food was no longer something from which Connor derived pleasure. He ate for energy, health and to keep his body moving. He didn’t register flavor or cravings and lived on a steady diet of nutrition bars and high-protein meals that were bland and boring.

      Nothing about April was bland or boring, a realization that fisted in his gut as she turned from the stove when he walked into the room.

      “How’s the writing going?” she asked with a smile, as if they were friends. She wore a long-sleeved shirt that revealed the curve of her breasts and waist, with a pair of black yoga pants that hugged her hips. April was slim, with the natural grace of a dancer—someone aware of her body and what it could do. Her hair was still pulled back, but the pieces that had escaped to frame her face were curlier than before.

      “I could hear the kids playing outside,” Connor said, and watched her smile fade. This was who he was now, a man who could suck the warmth out of a room faster than an arctic wind.

      “We stayed on the far side of the caretaker’s cabin and the girls weren’t loud,” she answered, pulling a plate from a cabinet.

      “I still heard them.”

      She glanced over her shoulder. “Were you pressing your ear to the window?”

      He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Not his ear, but he’d held his fingertips to the glass until they burned from the cold. The noise had been faint, drifting up to him only as he’d strained to listen. “Why were they outside? It’s freezing up here.”

      “Shay wanted to play in the snow.” April pulled a baking tray out of the oven and set it on the stove top. “They’re from California so all this snow is new for them.”

      “Join the club,” he muttered, snapping to attention when she grabbed a foil-wrapped packet on the tray and bit out a curse.

      She shook out her fingers, then reached for a pair of tongs with her uninjured hand.

      He moved closer. “You need to run your fingers under cold water.”

      “I’m fine,” she said, but bit down on her lower lip. “Have a seat and dinner will be—”

      He flipped on the faucet as he came to stand next to her. Before he could think about what he was doing, Connor grabbed her wrist and tugged her the few feet to stand in front of the sink. He couldn’t seem to stop touching this woman. He pushed up her sleeve and positioned her hand under the cold water from the faucet. “If the burn is bad enough, it will blister your fingertip.”

      “I wasn’t thinking, but I’m not hurt,” she said softly, not pulling away.

      She was soft against him, the warmth of her both captivating and an irritation against the shell he’d wrapped around himself. She smelled subtly of lavender, and Connor could imagine April standing in a field of it in the south of France, her red hair a beautiful contrast to the muted purple of the plants. Fanciful thoughts for a man who’d become rigid in his hold on reality.

      “It’s better to be safe.”

      He didn’t want to examine why he kept his grasp on her wrist and why she didn’t pull away. She wasn’t going to blister—the burn from the foil was a surface injury at most. That meant... He met her gaze, gentle and understanding, then jerked away as if he’d been the one scalded by the heat.

      “What do you know about me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

      She took a moment to answer, turned off the tap and dried her hand before looking up to him. “Only what I’ve read in old news reports.”

      Gripping his fingers on the edge of the granite counter, he forced himself to ask, “And what did they tell you?” He’d purposely not read any of the press after the crash.

      “Your wife and son were with you during the promotional tour for your last book release three years ago. There was a car accident on the way to an event—another driver crossed the median and hit you head on—they were both killed.”

      “We all should have died in that wreck,” he whispered.

      “You were thrown from the car. It saved your life.”

      She didn’t dispute his observation, which he appreciated. Part of why he’d initially cut so many people out of his life after the accident was that he couldn’t stand hearing any more theories about why he’d lived while Margo and Emmett had died. That it was fate, a greater plan, some universal knowing to which he wasn’t yet privy.

      Connor knew it was all nonsense. If there had been any sense in the tragedy, it would have been for him to perish while his beautiful wife and innocent son survived. Anything else was blasphemy as far as he was concerned.

      “Unfortunately, it did,” he agreed, wanting to shock her. He’d spent hours wishing and praying for his own death in the months after the accident. His whole reason for living had