2

 

Skull-splitting pain shot through Dean’s head. The supple body beneath him wriggled. Muffled shrieks reverberated through the snow. Was she hurt? He pushed up on his arms to relieve her of his weight. She was no bigger than his pinky, and he didn’t want to crush her.

He opened his eyes. The light hit him like a sucker-punch to the face.

Frosted in snow, she flipped over and brushed off her nose. “Are you crazy?”

He pointed to the solid limb with the circumference of a small tree, which snapped from the weight of snow and ice, falling at least twenty feet. The simple act of pointing sent more pain radiating through his body, pinning him back to the ground.

Through blurred vision, he watched her examine the tree then study her yard.

“You saved me.” She focused on him, and her eyes grew wide. “Oh my goodness, you’re bleeding.”

Dean raised his head. Red rivulets of blood absorbed into the snow, giving the appearance of a cherry Slushie.

“I’m fine.” Liar. He could feel every nerve ending in his brain. Warm blood trailed down his temple.

She hovered over him and wrapped her mitten-clad hands around his cheeks. “No, you’re not.”

Using her teeth, she snatched off her mitten and pressed it against his forehead, inflicting more agony. With her other hand, she clasped his and lifted it to press against the wound. Her hand was so warm.

The earth wobbled and spun like a Tilt-O-Whirl at the county fair. He fell onto his back, hoping to balance his equilibrium.

“Hold this.” She hopped to her feet.

“Where’re you going?”

“To call 9-1-1.”

Ridiculous. Dean chuckled then winced in misery. “No, just…give me a minute.” He fought a wave of nausea. “What did I hit?”

She settled back down beside him. “It happened so fast I can’t be sure, but I believe you busted your head on a landscaping rock.”

He followed her finger to the splotch of crimson on a boulder lining the sidewalk. How did he end up over here? He must’ve hit the rock and bounced off.

Dean remembered the day his dad brought the blasted things home. At twelve, with muscles the size of spaghetti noodles, he’d been afraid of dropping one on his foot. He never expected to meet one with his face, though.

“I really think you need to see a doctor. Let me drive you to the hospital.”

He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, his left hand still holding her mitten against the gash. His pulse pounded in his teeth. Snow froze to his jeans.

She knelt in front of him. Her delicate brows scrunched together forming grooves. Sandy-blonde hair framed her pink tinted cheeks. Brown doe eyes stared back at him. The Simpson twins were right—a natural beauty.

The thought kicked his chest, adding to his agony. Biting back a groan, he stood to go, wavering when he reached full height. She tucked her body beneath his arm for support. The top of her head met his chin, making her tall by most standards.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” She led him to her back door, taking baby steps.

Dean’s legs obeyed, but his heart protested. His brain was on the fence. He turned to go. “I’ve got work to do.”

She tightened her grip. “You’ve got an ostrich egg growing on your forehead. It’s not safe to leave you alone. You might have a concussion. It’s either my house or the hospital. Take your pick.”

Bossy woman. His head rang louder than the bells of Notre Dame, and he didn’t possess the strength to argue. But the closer his feet got to the house, the tighter the memories gripped his throat until he thought he’d suffocate.

 

****

 

Darcy blew out a loud breath. “Here, sit down. I’ll get you some aspirin.”

He fell onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. Darcy grabbed a bottle of pills, a first-aid kit, and a warm washcloth from the upstairs bathroom. Her breakfast churned in her stomach. Blood always made her woozy, but she had to help him. He’d saved her from a major injury.

Back in the kitchen, she placed two white capsules in front of him, along with a bottle of water she pulled from the fridge. “How’re you feeling?”

No response.

Stupid question. “Take these.” She prodded the medicine at him. “I’m Darcy Carr, by the way. Your new neighbor.”

He took the pill bottle from her hand, shook out two more, and downed the aspirin along with half the water. “Dean.” He cleared his throat. “Dean Whitfield.”

The deep timbre of his voice warmed the kitchen.

“May I?” She held up the washcloth.

He half-nodded.

She eased the mitten from his skin and tossed it into the trashcan. The flow of blood had decreased enough for her to tend to the injury. She dabbed the washcloth over the smeared spots of dried blood. He jerked away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Almost done.”

With a deep breath, he leaned forward and rested his head back into her hands.

When she’d finished cleaning the wound, she threw the bloodied rag in the kitchen sink, removed her coat, and tossed it on the back of a chair. It slid off and coiled on the floor. Darcy wrapped his face in her hands. “Well, Dean Whitfield. Thank you.”

His five o’clock shadow was rough against her hand, but his skin beneath the stubble was soft. Dark brown eyes—almost black—liquefied her legs. His brown locks were rumpled, and his nose was slightly crooked. He was handsome and strong and…injured. Not just his head, but his heart. She could sense the sadness hidden deep, see it layered in his eyes.

Dean swallowed, shifting his Adam’s apple. “You’re welcome.”

She blotted a cotton ball soaked with peroxide on his split skin. “I think it looks worse than it really is. I don’t believe you need stitches. It’s not very deep.”

He drummed his fingers on the counter, drawing her attention to his left hand.

No ring. Good sign. There you go again, Darcy. And you wonder why men turn tail and run when they see you coming. Can you say desperate?

She tore open the adhesive bandage, splintering the silence. Applying it to the small cut, she pressed carefully. “Well, soldier, I believe you’re going to live.”

Nothing. Not even a grin.

“Can I offer you something to eat? Coffee? Tea?”

He barely shook his head.

Slow down, Dean. I can’t keep up with all your chatter.

She leaned her elbows on the counter. “So, obviously, I just moved here. Born and raised in Morgantown, Pennsylvania. I had a wreath business back home that steadily declined with the economy. Online sales are thriving, though. Drove through here on a visit to Maine last summer, and thought it might be a good place to relocate the shop.”

Stop rambling. “I’ll be selling my wreaths at Sugar Plum Flowers and Candy Cane Crafts, as well as hosting how-to classes in the parlor. What’s your story?”

He blinked.

Come on, Darcy, you’re losing him. Should she break out the defibrillator?

Dean scanned the room. “Big house for one person.”

He speaks! Only to remind her how very alone and very single she was. “I looked at several available places, but there were things about this house I fell in love with. Impractical as it is, I had to have it.”

His shoulders perked, and he sat a little straighter. “Like what?”

“Like this kitchen.” Her gaze floated upward. “Just look at that copper ceiling. It’s exquisite. Every time I walk in here it’s like stepping into an issue of This Old House magazine. If I ever meet the genius responsible, I might just kiss him.”

Dean propelled from the stool. The legs screeched along the black and white tile and threatened to topple backwards. He righted the chair and moved toward the door. “Thanks for, uh, everything.”

She stuffed her hands in her back pockets. “Thanks for saving me from becoming a pancake. I’ll stop by and check on you later. In case of a concussion and all that.”

“No need.” His gaze held hers a beat longer before he disappeared through the door, engulfing the room in a blast of winter air.

Her mother had always warned her about talking too much.

 

****

 

Dean stood at his workbench, a copper sheet wrapped around a domed anvil. Every time he struck the metal with his rubber mallet, a stick of dynamite blasted in the knot on his head. He could still feel Darcy’s warm hands on his face. Smell the cottony scent of her perfume.

Mallet to metal, he caught his thumb in between.

Growling, he slammed the tool on the bench and raked his fingers through his hair. Maybe he did have a concussion. Her touch awakened feelings in him he thought he’d buried long ago. He didn’t like it.

A rap sounded at the door. His neck and shoulders stiffened, followed by his jaw, adding to the torture in his head. It was Darcy; he just knew it. He pictured her standing on the opposite side of the door, huddled against the bitter wind under his porch light. Another knock.

Good grief. He dodged the mess on the floor and swung open the door. “Mom, Dad.”

Icy air invaded the room.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Mom’s smile faded. “What on earth did you do to your head?”

“Bar fight.”

Mom swatted his stomach. “Very funny.”

Snow drifted to the ground, illuminated by the street lights. “What are you doing out? You should be home.”

“I needed to pick up a few things in town. Your dad wants to visit with you while I run my errands.”

Dean stepped aside, stretching the door wider.

Dad shuffled in, and Mom guided him to the nearest chair. She unbuttoned his coat then hung it on the wooden peg beside the door. Her petite hands rested on her thick waistline. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She shook her finger in a silent scold. “I’ll be back in a little while.” Mom tightened her hood around her silver-streaked hair and kissed Dad’s cheek. “Keep an eye on him.”

She hitched her thumb at Dean. Another blast of cold air swept through the room as she left.

Dean’s hero, once able and strong, was now withered and frail from the stroke. He appeared much older than his fifty-five years. It didn’t seem right for such a good man to be treated that way. Then again, God allowed a lot of things he didn’t care for.

“W-w-what really happened to your h-h-head?”

“My new neighbor was salting her sidewalks when a good chunk of the old oak tree decided to break loose. I managed to get her out of the way in time.” He pointed to his head. “My purple heart.”

“S-s-should’ve cut it back y-y-years ago. What’cha w-w-working on?”

The wood bench creaked under Dean’s weight. “Twelve inch by seven kettle. The Holly’s ordered two.”

Quiet stretched between them. Dean dug his thumb into the palm of his hand. The men had never been at a loss for words before Bethany died. Since then, he struggled to talk to anyone. Even himself.

“How’s the new medicine working out?” Dean finally managed.

Dad gave an awkward shrug. “M-m-makes me tired.” Shaky hands retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket. He blew his nose. The sound echoed through the room like a foghorn. “Son, we need to t-t-t-talk.”

Dean had talked more today than he had in weeks. “What’s on your mind?”

“The ch-ch-charity auction.”

Dean’s gut clenched. “What about it?”

“It’s in y-y-your hands n-n-now.”

Dean stood and paced the length of the workbench, crunching metal shavings beneath his boots. “I can’t, Dad.”

“Y-y-you have to, son. Everyone’s c-c-counting on you.”

“They’ll have to get someone else from now on.”

Dad slapped his palm against his knee, bulging veins through the thinning skin. “Our family’s done it for over f-f-fifty years. You will carry on the t-t-tradition.”

Dean squeezed his fingers around the mallet handle. Every year his dad—as his father before him—made a copper star for the town Christmas tree that the mayor auctioned at Town Hall after the live nativity in the church sanctuary. The sculptures always brought good money which was donated to a worthy cause. Not this year.

“D-D-Dean, I didn’t pass the shop to you so you c-c-could hole up in here. I know you m-miss her. We all do. But it’s been long enough. You’ve got to start l-living again.”

Wood hitting against metal vibrated through his veins. If felt good to take his emotions out on something. After a minute-long tantrum, he stopped for fear of ruining the piece. “I can’t.”

Dad shook his head. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

Dad rose from the chair with more strength than Dean had seen in months. “Charity is your duty, as a C-C-Christian.”

Dean threw the mallet on the workbench with more force than he’d intended. “What’s my other duty as a Christian, Dad? To be OK with God taking my pregnant wife away from me? Am I just supposed to accept that? Forgive me if I don’t want to celebrate the birth of someone else’s child when I’m denied my own.” He met his dad’s angry stare. “I can’t do it.”

Dad’s pale lips puckered.

Dean fetched the mallet. Dad didn’t understand. No one did. That’s why Dean kept to himself. He continued to shape the piece with aggression.

“H-H-He can handle it, you know.”

The mallet paused mid-air. “What.”

“God. He’s strong enough to endure a-anything you give Him. Anger. R-r-resentment. Sorrow. T-t-tell Him how you feel—He can handle it. J-j-just talk to Him.”

Rest assured, God didn’t want to hear what Dean had to say.

Dad lowered back onto the chair with an oomph. “Y-you can live dead, or you can d-d-die living. What’s it going to be?”