The Christmas Family. Linda Goodnight

special needs in other ways, but this was a rule for all children, not just Lila.

      “I’m really sorry about this, Christina. Lila’s been doing so well.”

      “She has. Don’t worry about it this time, but if she regresses, we’ll need to talk again.”

      “I understand.” Truly she did, but this was the only preschool in town that accommodated Abby’s long hours and odd work days. Plus, Lila loved it here. Abby wasn’t sure what she would do if she had to find another placement.

      “Lila is waiting in my office,” Christina said. “She was very upset.”

      Abby hurried to the office and found her red-eyed daughter sitting with her small legs dangling from an adult chair. Chin on her chest, mouth tilted down, Lila was the picture of dejection.

      Abby’s heart broke at the sight. Her chest clutched as she gathered her child into her arms. “Hey, jelly fingers. Mom’s here, and I brought your favorite outfit to change into.”

      “My jammies?” Lila asked hopefully.

      Around a lump in her throat, Abby managed a chuckle. “We’ll get into those after a bath at home. Okay? For now, how about your pink princess set?”

      Lila sniffed, long and shuddery, and nodded her head.

      Abby gathered her child into her arms and carried her to the bathroom to change, and then they headed home.

      The usually chatty Lila said little in the car, though Abby tried to start distracting conversations about Christmas.

      “Lila,” Abby said, as they pulled into the blacktop drive and parked. “Accidents happen. Miss Jan said to remind you of that. You’re doing great, and I’m proud of you.”

      “Will I ever be big like other kids?”

      Unexpected tears jammed the back of Abby’s nose and throat. She’d been dealing with the effects of Lila’s mild spina bifida for years, but, instead of getting easier as Lila grew old enough to notice the world around her, the task became harder.

      “You will always be the most awesome Lila in the world.”

      For now, this was enough to bring the faintest glimmer of a smile to her daughter’s face. But how long before a nonanswer was not enough?

      Heart heavy, Abby gathered her child into her arms and started to the house. As she stepped up on the porch, keys in one hand and Lila on her hip, the board she’d warned Brady Buchanon about gave way.

      Her foot caught in the broken board and Abby struggled to maintain her balance. Struggled and failed. Instinctively trying to protect Lila, she twisted to the left and tumbled onto the porch in a heap. She lost her grip, and Lila hit the wooden porch and started to cry.

      “Are you hurt? Oh, baby. You’re okay. You’re okay.” In a panic, Abby scrambled to her feet and pulled Lila into her arms, searching for blood or bruises. With her nerve impairment, Lila didn’t always know when she was injured.

      Once she was certain no real emergency existed, Abby opened the door and carried Lila inside the living room. Both of them were shaking. She had never dropped her daughter. Never.

      Lila curled up on the couch and sniveled. This hadn’t been her best day.

      Abby scooted onto the couch beside her daughter and laid her head against Lila’s. “I’m sorry, baby. Do you hurt anyplace?”

      “Uh-uh. Can I have a drink?” The usually sunny child sounded so small and pitiful Abby wanted to cry.

      “Sure, you can.” Abby pushed off the couch and went into the kitchen, adrenaline still pumping from the scare. “Stupid board. Stupid old house. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

      As she railed against the accident, she opened the cabinet for a glass, and another chip of paint fell from the overpainted wood.

      She needed a new house. A place that wasn’t a danger to Lila.

      Abby leaned her forehead against the cabinet and fought off the surge of pride. Brady Buchanon’s voice played in her memory. He could give Lila something she needed.

      As hard as it would be for Abby to accept charity again, this wasn’t about her. This was about doing the right thing for Lila.

      She dug in her pocket and pulled out the card with the blue Buchanon Built logo and Brady’s number, and resigned herself to a little more humiliation.

       Chapter Three

      “You have to be kidding me?” Grimly, Brady leaned a shoulder against one unfinished wall of gypsum board, his cell phone pressed against his ear. He gripped the device as if he wanted to strangle someone. Which he did. “When did this happen?”

      He listened as his father railed against yet another act of vandalism against one of the company’s building sites. No one could figure out why Buchanon Built was being targeted, but someone seemed to know when a home-in-progress would be devoid of workers.

      “I’ll sleep here if I have to, but this project is not going to be damaged.” Brady shuddered at the thought. They’d chunked thousands into this showplace along Crystal Ridge. A break-in could set them back for months and cost them more than the insurance could cover.

      His father ranted, growing louder by the minute, as if the situation was entirely Brady’s fault.

      “Right. I hear you, Dad. Call Leroy at the police station. He knows about the others.”

      When he tapped the End key a few minutes later, his blood boiled and his finger trembled. What a lousy day. The trenchers had hit an electric cable and downed all the power in the Huckleberry Creek addition. A frame carpenter had been taken to the ER with appendicitis. Dad was furious over the lack of a plumber on the Edwards house. And now this. Another Buchanon Built home damaged by thugs.

      He ran a hand over the top of his head and debated on a trip to the damaged site or staying with this project for the remainder of the day. Not much he could do over there until the police had made another useless investigation. Dad was already there and mad enough to spit nails faster and harder than an air gun.

      Here was preferable at the moment.

      From the back room, a table saw revved up in a high-pitched wail. The twins were on it, trimming out the bedrooms in a unique routered design created specifically for this house by the Buchanon brain trust.

      His phone vibrated again. Brady groaned. Loudly. Please. Not more trouble.

      “Hello,” he growled into the mouthpiece, daring the caller to give him one more bit of bad news.

      No one said anything for a couple of seconds, and then a very hesitant female voice asked, “Is this Brady Buchanon?”

      A pleasant voice, sweet and warm and womanly.

      Nice. But who?

      His brain played mental gymnastics as he softened his reply, “Yes, this is Brady. May I ask who’s calling?”

      “Abby Webster. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

      He almost laughed. She didn’t know the half of it. “Not at all. What can I do for you, Abby? Maybe a little remodel work?”

      He couldn’t help it. He was born to be pushy when he wanted something. She’d probably turn him down again, but he had to try.

      “Actually—” there was that hesitation again “—yes.”

      The word hummed through the cyberspace connecting them. She’d said yes?

      “You changed your mind? May I ask why?” A smile lit his insides, erasing some of the lousy, lousy events of the day. Teasing, he said, “Was it my charm, or my pretty brothers? Or maybe the double order of French toast?”

      He