Silhouette Christmas Stories

A recipe from Rita Rainville:

This recipe should probably be called Grandma's Graham Torte, because the only time we ever had it was when we lived in Chicago and went to visit Grandma. When I grew up, she eventually-and grudgingly-gave me the recipe. It's one of my favorites because not only is it delicious, it's easy-and when I bake, easy is a priority with me.

GRAHAM TORTE

4 eggs

1 lb (5 1/4 cups) crushed graham crackers

2 cups milk

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 cup butter or margarine

4 tsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 350° F.

Combine crushed graham crackers and baking powder.

Set aside.

In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add eggs, milk and graham-cracker mixture. Blend well.

Put mixture in ungreased 9" x 13" pan. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes. Cool.

Serve with whipped cream.

See? I said it was easy. And you won't have to worry about leftovers!

Chapter One

One alligator, two alligators…

The instant the radio died, Carroll Stilwell jumped up and mentally began counting. She freely admitted that her groan, uttered as she trotted to the bay window that overlooked both her deep front yard and that of her new neighbor, was loud, self-indulgent and self-pitying. She was entitled.

Three alligators, four alligators, five alligators…

Unconsciously using her eight-year-old daughter's favorite method of tolling the seconds, she twitched the lace curtains apart and stared across the sunlit half acre of pine trees, waiting for the rangy, broad-shouldered man to erupt out of his front door.

Six alligators, seven alligators, eight alligators…

Slade Ryan had moved into the sprawling house next door-a house much too large for a single man, everyone in the small mountain community nosily agreed-just two weeks earlier, and in that time Carroll had already devoured her month's emergency stash of chocolate-covered caramels. The tension was definitely giving her an ulcer, she brooded, morbidly prodding a slim finger at her belly.

Nine alligators, ten alii-

Even though she had kept her expectant gaze riveted on the front of his house, Carroll still winced when the sturdy oak door flew open and the big, dark-haired man exploded out onto the porch and down the stairs, heading straight for her place. He wore his work clothes-faded jeans and a maroon knit shirt. Over the past fourteen days she had learned that his appearance at her door in snug jeans and a colorful shirt meant that he had been sitting in front of the computer-at least, until the power had failed.

One part of her mind noted that he was getting faster; yesterday it had taken him eleven alligators. Another part registered the set of his wide shoulders and the long-legged stride that had all the elements of an angry stalk, despite its fluid grace. He definitely wasn't coming over for a friendly chat.

So what else was new? she asked herself wryly. With the single exception of their first meeting, every time she had talked to Slade, he had been ready to wring somebody's neck. No, not somebody's. Kris's.

Sighing philosophically, Carroll headed for the front of the house, arriving just as a fist pounded on the door. She cracked it open and looked up into furious gray eyes.

"Where is he?" Slade demanded, resting one big hand on the doorjamb.

Carroll's tentative smile widened a bit as she took in his straight, dark hair; it looked as if he had been trying to tear it out at the roots. "Now, Slade, you wouldn't hurt an old man who looks like Santa Claus, would you?"

He exhaled sharply. "Right now I'm ready to throttle an old man who thinks he's Santa Claus." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. Carroll had a strong hunch that most people ran for cover when he bit off his words that way. "Where is he?"

It didn't take even a second's thought on her part; she did what she had always done: protected her grandfather. "How would you like to talk about it over a cup of coffee and a piece of Mom's famous graham torte? She made it this morning."

He gave her a harried glance. "I don't want to be fed, I just want to stop him. He's driving me nuts!"

"It's fantastic," she forged on. "You've got to try it. You can yell at him later." She held out her hand and waggled her fingers. "Come on."

As usual with Slade, she got more than she bargained for. He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, stopping only when her soft palm rested snugly against his hard one. Startled, she looked up and met his waiting gaze. A definite mistake, she decided belatedly. His silvery eyes had the same expression of masculine hunger that she had spotted several times before. And it bothered her now just as much as it had then. She didn't need a complication like Slade Ryan in her life. No, all in all, with things as they were, it was safer to have him mad.

Besides, Carroll reminded herself as she turned and led him toward the large, cheerful kitchen, he did have a legitimate grievance. Her grandfather, Kris K. Ringle, was a man with a mission: an obsessive determination to turn their small town into a winter fairyland of twinkling lights. And he was going to do it before Christmas or bust. This Christmas. The townspeople, to a man, woman and child, were crazy about the idea, and they supported his efforts. Just as they had last Christmas, and the one before that, and the ones before that.

This year, they had even volunteered to do without electricity for a couple of hours each afternoon so Kris could test the lights he had strung all around town. And therein lay the problem. He didn't test every afternoon between one and three, just when he could no longer do his testing at night. Unfortunately, the closer Christmas came, the more frequently the need arose.

It was a cozy arrangement, the sort of thing that could only happen in a small town. The people who were at home declared a moratorium on cooking and housecleaning, using the two hours for leisure time, doing anything that didn't require the use of electricity. Even the small shops in town had rigged up various emergency alternative methods of recording sales-some of them quite creative-to use when they sold their wares to the tourists.

And in the way things had of happening, the tourists from San Diego and the surrounding cities were charmed by the spirit of small-town cooperation, and intrigued by the ruling passion of one aging, plump, determined man. The fact that he did look like Santa Claus merely added a piquant element to a good story. The early tourists had told their friends, who in turn told their friends, and now the small town had a steady stream of visitors coming to check on the progress of the lights and, incidentally, contributing to the economic enhancement of Pinetree. Since the stream swelled noticeably during the holiday season, everyone was happy with the arrangement-the chamber of commerce, the business owners, the residents.

Carroll cast an oblique glance at Slade's stubborn expression as she waved him to a chair with her free hand. Well, she amended, almost every resident. Slade Ryan, with his high-tech computer graphics and an imminent deadline, was the one glaring exception. He was definitely not a happy camper.

When Slade slid his hand to Carroll's wrist, he felt a shock jolt through her body and allowed himself the indulgence of a split-second fantasy. It was over before it was fully formed, because if Slade was anything, he was a realist. Carroll Stilwell's pulse wasn't racing because she had an uncontrollable urge to crawl all over him and drag him off to her bedroom. No, much as he would like to think it was, there was another reason.

The wary expression in her deep blue eyes said it all. As far as she was concerned, he was a stick of dynamite about to go off, and she wanted her family to be out of range when he blew.

"I don't bite," he assured her grimly.

"Really?" She raised a skeptical brow, then looked pointedly at the large hand holding her wrist captive. It was strong and tan, dusted with dark hair. When he reluctantly released her, she filled two mugs with coffee and cut a hefty piece of the torte for him. After transferring everything to the table, she slid into the chair across from him. "You could've fooled me," she told him, leaning back and eyeing him with a severe frown. "You're as cranky as a hungry bear."

Slade winced. She had a point. He was. Both bad-tempered and starved. And he'd been that way since the day after he had moved in, the day she had strolled over with a home-cooked meal, a welcome to the neighborhood, and a smile that practically knocked him to his knees. His body had gone on alert, and it hadn't eased since.

Short blond hair just skimmed her jawline. Her deep blue eyes were candid, curious and cautious. He had ticked off the first two items the instant he'd opened the door. The rest hadn't been long in coming. One glance at his expression had apparently triggered her alarm system, and her changing smile had both warned him not to get his hopes up and attempted to reassure him, just on the off chance that he had a knee-jerk masculine reaction to the meal she was offering. It told him clearly that the food was only a neighborly gesture; she wasn't aiming for his heart via his stomach.

He'd opened the door and fallen in behind her when she'd carried the steaming casserole to the kitchen. Her lance-straight back, slim waist and swaying hips had made his palms tingle. She reminded him of one of the long-stemmed mountain wildflowers, bright yellow, with a deceptive air of fragility. When she'd turned, her eyes widening at his speculative expression, the lady hadn't been pleased. With a blink of her lashes, the No Trespassing signs had been posted.

They were still up.

Suddenly, Slade was tired of the whole mess. Tired of the way she leaped protectively between him and her grandfather, tired of being on the other side of the signs. Especially tired of the edgy look she got whenever he came into sight. He swallowed a bite of the rich cake and made an appreciative sound. "How'd Christy's appointment go?" he asked casually.

Carroll blinked, surprised at his mild tone. But not being one to overlook a gift from the gods, however small it might be, she plunged into the new topic with enthusiasm. With any luck, he would forget that he'd come over ready to raise hell with Kris, she thought optimistically.

"Fine. The doctor took another X-ray and made reassuring noises, said again that it wasn't a bad break and that she's healing fast. He wants her to keep the cast on for another few weeks. I think that it's more because he knows that her only speed is fast than because she really needs it. So she'll still be thumping around on crutches for a while, endangering everyone's toes."

Slade savored her smile. It was warm and tender, not the cautious curve of her lips that she usually aimed at him. Of course, neither the warmth nor the tenderness was for him, but he would take whatever she was offering. For now. "Christy's had a rough time."

"The first day or so," Carroll agreed. "But now she's really milking the situation for all it's worth."

Slade placed his fork on the empty plate. "But think of the boon she's been to the community theater group. They have a Tiny Tim on genuine crutches."

"The whole cast is spoiling her rotten. They're also hobbling around with bruised toes." Carroll grinned. "Be warned, she's really getting into the role. In the last couple of days she's perfected a waiflike look that will have you believing she's underfed and neglected." She got up and brought the coffeepot over to the table. Filling the mugs, she said, "I've come to the conclusion that my daughter is a ham at heart."

"Maybe she comes by it naturally."

Carroll sat back down and stared at him thoughtfully. "You mean my mother?"

He nodded. "It's not that much of a leap from an artist to a budding actress. Where did Noel study?"

She laughed softly. "Upstairs." When Slade mutely pointed toward the ceiling, she nodded. "Yep. When I was a kid, Mom and Kris turned our place in San Diego into a boarding house. One of the lodgers took off in the middle of the night, leaving his paints behind in lieu of the rent. Mom decided it was an omen. She sold the house, and we moved up here, where she could be inspired."

Slade shrugged. "Whatever it takes. Apparently it worked. Her landscapes seem to be pretty popular."

"Um-hmm." Carroll didn't try to conceal her pride. "The word's finally getting around."

"Where was your dad while all this was going on?" Slade asked, finally giving in to his rampant curiosity about her. In the past two weeks, in her efforts to keep him away from Kris, she had talked at length about her grandfather, her mother and her daughter. She had said nada, zippo, about herself or the men in her life.

Now it took Slade all of three seconds to decide that he'd been patient enough. He would have preferred that she volunteer the information, but since she obviously didn't intend to, he wasn't above taking advantage of the situation. If she wanted to keep him out of the basement, away from Kris, she could damn well talk.

The smile left Carroll's face. "My father took off when I was a baby." Her tone told him that the subject was closed.

"Why?"

She shot him an aggravated glance. After seeming to weigh her options, she sighed. "Good question. He never said."

"He just left?"

"Yep. In the middle of the night, just like the lodger with the paints."

"Must have been rough."

"We managed," she said briefly.

"What happened to your husband?" He slid it in fast, before she could offer him another piece of cake or change the subject. She didn't like it, and he really couldn't blame her. Her narrowed eyes told him to go to hell.

"Are you always this rude?" she demanded, temper adding color to her cheeks.

Slade's shrug was a lazy movement of his wide shoulders. "No. Only with people who are as close-mouthed as you. And then only when it's important."

Carroll's brows rose. "Important?"

His steady gaze held hers. "I need to know just how softly I have to walk around you."

"I don't think I understand." Her puzzled frown etched two vertical lines between her brows.

More to the point, she didn't want to understand, he reflected, even as he nodded and kept his voice patient. "I want to know what happened to the man in your life. As I see it, there are several possibilities. You could have had Christy without the benefit of a wedding, you could be divorced, or you could be a grieving widow." Or you could have a lover. He was wise enough to keep the last option to himself.

Carroll concentrated on lacing her fingers around the mug. "Does it really matter which it is?"

Slade nodded again. "Yeah, it does. I'd walk more softly around a grieving widow."

"How much more?"

His sudden grin startled her and sent her pulse tap-dancing, made her resolve to tether her impetuous tongue. It also answered her question: only as much as he had to. She fussed with the coffeepot. "I don't know how we got on this subject," she said carefully, "but it's not going to get us anywhere, so why don't we just drop it? I don't need a man in my life, however he walks."

Slade took a swallow of coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. He waited until some of the tension went out of her shoulders before he asked, "So what happened to him?"

Carroll closed her eyes, her sigh a gust of irritation. When she finally turned her gaze to Slade, he was placidly drinking his coffee, waiting. And he would keep on waiting, she realized with a sudden flash of insight. Waiting and asking until he finally got an answer. The neighborhood grapevine contended that he was a top-notch design engineer, doing something hush-hush for the military on his state-of-the-art computer. She didn't doubt it for a second; he had the typical engineer's annoying habit of asking questions, then digging with pit-bull persistence to get the answers.

With an impatient wave of her hand, she gave up. "It's an old story, and a dull one. He did exactly what the other two did-walk. Only I got the courtesy of an explanation. He was looking for something."

"He had you and Christy, and he went looking for more?" Slade's gray eyes registered disbelief. "He's a fool."

Carroll stared at him. "Where were you years ago when I needed to hear that from someone besides my mother and grandfather?" she finally asked with wry humor.

"Where is he now?"

"Last I heard, he was in some over-the-hill hippie, vegetarian commune."

Her casual shrug told Slade all he needed to know. She wasn't mourning the loss of a husband. She'd had the strength to rebuild her life, and she wasn't wasting any time looking over her shoulder. If her steady gaze was any indication, she was, apparently, happy.

"You're better off without him," Slade said flatly.

She nodded. "I couldn't agree more. Actually, I feel a little sorry for him. I have full custody of Christy, and he'll never see her grow up. He has no idea what he's missing."

Slade raised his mug and sipped thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving her face. He liked what he saw. Life had made her strong, yet she still had compassion for a loser ex-husband. She wasn't bitter, but she knew her own value and wouldn't let the guy within a hundred feet of her or Christy. Which was exactly as it should be.

Carroll wasn't beautiful, he reflected. She didn't have the anorectic, hollowed-cheekbones and exotic glamor found in fashion magazines. She was small-boned and barely came to his chin. Slim, but not excessively so, with a neat little bottom that had kept him awake more nights than he wanted to count. Her steady blue gaze reflected intelligence and a lively sense of humor. Straight blond hair framed her face and usually looked as if she had been running her hands through it. No, she wasn't beautiful, Slade reflected, but the sum total of what she was had a lethal effect on him.

He leaned back and was idly considering the state of his hormones when Santa Claus threw open the door.

Chapter Two

Slade blinked at the sight before him and silently corrected himself. First you'd have to swap the old man's blue sweatsuit and hightop tennies for an outfit of red velvet, fur and boots; then he would be Santa Claus. Kris had blue eyes that actually twinkled beneath thick snowy brows, ruddy cheeks, a glistening white beard that fanned out over his chest and a frame that needed no artificial padding. He also had a booming voice and an inextinguishable supply of enthusiasm. Fanaticism might be a better word, Slade decided.

"Slade!" Kris beamed at him, slamming the basement door and pulling up a chair next to Slade's. "The very man I want to see. The word's out that you're a hotshot engineer. Exactly what is it that you do?"

After a slight pause, Slade said briefly, "Right now, I'm designing a type of radar for the military."

"Ah." Kris blinked and returned to his primary concern. "Ever do much with electricity?"

Slade nodded cautiously. "Some."

"Ha!" Rubbing his hands in satisfaction, Kris chortled, "Just what I thought. I need your help."

Eyeing the old man's expectant smile with fascination, Slade demanded, "You want my help?"

"Right." Kris nodded, pleased by what he apparently considered an eager volunteer.

"Mine?"

"Sure. Can you come down to the basement? I want to show you something."

"Wait a minute." Slade held up a restraining hand. "I have a slight problem of my own that we need to discuss."

Kris blinked, his blue eyes thoughtful. "You mean the power?"

Slade nodded grimly.

"About it going off, you mean?"

He nodded again.

Kris's face brightened. "I knew you were going to fit in around here, boy." He swiveled around to Carroll and demanded, "Didn't I tell you that you were wrong about him?" Turning back to Slade, he said, "I suppose when it went off, you knew I needed help."

"Not exactly."

"And you came right over," he continued, ignoring Slade's terse reply. "What a neighbor!"

"Kris-"

"Ready to pitch right in and help. I didn't even have to ask!" He jumped to his feet. "Well, that's the way things work sometimes. You worry and fret about a problem, and then you turn around and find the answer sitting in your kitchen." He opened the basement door. "Come on down and let me show you what I'm wrestling with."

"Kris, I'm not-"

"Teh, don't be modest," the old man urged, his cheeks rosy with barely suppressed excitement. "It should be a snap for someone like you. I know what I want. I just don't know how to get it. Come on, we've only got four weeks." Taking in Slade's puzzled expression, he added, "Until Christmas Eve." Bounding down the stairs, he called back over his shoulder, "That's when all the lights I've strung around town go on and stay on for a week."

"Well, hell." Slade glared in frustration at the empty doorway, then swung around to Carroll, his frown deepening when she grinned. "He doesn't listen."

"I know."

"The only reason I came over here was to tell him to stop that damned testing during the day."

"I know."

"What does he mean, all?"

"He's going to dazzle us in degrees. Some lights go on in two weeks, more the following week, and more-"

"I get the idea." He ran a hand through his dark hair, making it stand on end. "He's hell-bent on getting me involved in this idiotic project."

"You're absolutely right." At that point, she honestly didn't know who needed protecting, her grandfather or Slade. "Why do you think I've been trying to keep you two apart?"

"To save his neck."

Carroll nodded thoughtfully. "There is that," she admitted. "But actually, I've been thinking of you, too. I know how Kris is. He works on the premise that everyone has the same enthusiasm for his schemes that he does, and before his unsuspecting victims know what's happened, he's suckered them in."

Resting his hand on the edge of the open door, Slade said firmly, "I'm not a victim. I guess I'll just have to set him straight, won't I?"

"I guess you will." Carroll picked up her mug and made a small toasting gesture. "Good luck." Her smile was rueful. It wasn't easy to pop her ebullient grandfather's balloon, to rain on his parade. Slade would need more than luck.

When he hit the middle of the stairs, Slade caught a glimpse of Kris's workshop that made him stop in midstride. By the time he reached the bottom, he knew he had underestimated the redoubtable old man. So what else was new? he asked himself disgustedly. He had misjudged the entire family.

On the basis of a few short days of observation, he had decided that he'd moved in next to a den of dreamers. Carroll, who seemed free to come and go at will, had been his first mistake. He'd pegged her as a dazzling wildflower who apparently didn't have to worry about basics like paying rent and finding a job. Then he'd learned that she ran a flourishing secretarial service from the house, enabling her to be home with Christy and keep an eye on her flighty mother and loony grandfather.

After Christy's first visit, he'd mentally labeled her as precocious and a bit spoiled. Wrong again. She was bright, talented, articulate and fiercely loyal. She also wanted a father and had apparently set her sights on him.

His first encounter with Noel had been on his front porch. She had been gazing abstractedly through a spray of pine needles at a billowing formation of cumulus clouds, not even turning to acknowledge his greeting. His gut reaction had been that she was playing the part of a vague, eccentric artist. Another mis-take. She wasn't playing at anything; she was a vague, eccentric artist. A very good one.

And Kris? The score was now four out of four. He'd been convinced that the old man was merely a lunatic with a light-bulb fixation. Now, taking an assessing glance around the well-equipped workshop, Slade realized that neither the man-nor the problem-was that simple.

Kris was bent over a platform that took up the entire center of the basement. He waved Slade over without looking up. "Come take a look at this."

Slade hesitated, first taking in the brightly lit room. Over in one corner was a massive desk strewn with papers. Behind it, covering almost the entire wall, shelves strained under the weight of books. A power saw stood at the end of a long workbench that bristled with tools. They all looked well used. The room smelled pleasantly of wood shavings and lacquer.

Slade finally joined the other man and looked down at the platform. "My God. It's the town."

Kris slanted a look up at him and pushed his round, wire-framed glasses back up his nose. "What do you think of it?" Pride gleamed in the pale blue eyes.

"It's… magnificent." It was more than that. It was mind-boggling. Kris had contoured the hills with mathematical precision and placed each miniature wooden house with the same exactitude. Minuscule pine trees lined the streets and surrounded the homes, while a profusion of greenery represented the tangle of oaks, maples and cottonwoods that grew among the pines. It was a detailed, precise replica of the entire town; every house, every tree-at least as far as he could tell-was represented.

Trouble. He was looking at a platform full of the stuff. He was no longer dealing with something as simple as an old man's hobby, Slade realized. Nor was the operation merely a diversion to keep boredom at bay; Kris's precision work and attention to detail made that quite clear. No, what he had here was commitment and dedication, a problem of epic proportions. One massive headache.

"Kris," he said abruptly, "you've got to do something about these lights."

"Umm." The older man tilted his head and nudged a tree a bit to the left. "I know. That's why I asked you down."

"Every time the power goes out, my computer dies. When it comes back, I've lost whole chunks of my design."

Kris moved the tree back to its original position. "The trouble is, I just don't have enough juice."

"And every time it happens, I get further behind on my deadline."

Kris prodded his glasses back up his nose. "The power company's getting a tad upset, too."

"I've got a lot riding on this design."

"But I think I've figured it out."

"Kris!" Slade scowled at the portly man's backside. "Are you listening to me?"

"Why else would I ask you down here?" Kris turned and beamed at him.

If he says ho ho ho, I'm going to throttle him, Slade decided. "Then what are we talking about?" he demanded instead.

"Power, juice, electricity!" Kris clapped him on the shoulder. "You're going to show me where to put some small generators."

"The hell I am!"

"You got a better idea?" Kris's hopeful glance would have melted Scrooge.

"Yeah. Tear all the lights down and forget the whole thing."

"Umm." Kris smiled absently at the joke as he shifted another tree. "I thought maybe a generator here and another one here." He pointed to a couple of houses. "What do you think?"

Slade's exasperated gaze followed the pudgy finger. Kris was obviously an advocate of selective listening; he heard only what he wanted to hear. "It all depends on how much voltage you're using," he said reluctantly. "Do you have any idea how many lights are out there?"

"Of course."

"How many?"

"To the last bulb?"

Slade sighed. "A round figure will do."

"A little over five hundred thousand."

"Five hurt-" He stopped, astounded. "I don't believe it."

Kris shrugged apologetically. "We're still pretty small."

"You can't have that many lights out there. It's impossible," Slade said flatly.

Kris spun around and darted over to the desk. After slapping at several piles of paper, he muttered in satisfaction and pulled a thick binder from beneath a stack of catalogs. He thrust it into Slade's hands.

"Here. Take a look. Every house, every tree, every lamppost is accounted for-the number of lights and voltage for each."

He pulled out two chairs and watched with barely concealed satisfaction as Slade dropped into one and turned the pages in disbelief. "What I'm aiming for," Kris confided, "is to build up to a grand finale on Christmas Eve. Two weeks from tonight, I'm turning on the first batch. That's about half the lights and a few of the animated scenes. I've got enough juice for that. The following week I add another twenty-five percent. That's iffy. Then, the last week, on Christmas Eve, the whole kit and caboodle goes on! We'll outdo New York City. At least, we will if the power holds out. So the last two weeks are where I need a little help."

Slade shot him a skeptical look. "A little?"

Kris grinned and measured an inch of space between his thumb and finger. "About that much."

"Do you have a calculator?" Slade waited while Kris unearthed it from beneath another pile of paper, then flipped through the pages again, rapidly plugging in some numbers. He finally looked up, shaking his head." You can't do it."

"Yes I can," Kris said calmly. "I just have to find the way."

Slade handed him the notebook and calculator. "Good luck."

"I don't need luck. I need you."

"You can't have me," Slade said, holding his voice even with an effort. "I have a job. I work at it every day. If there were more than twenty-four hours in a day, I'd work longer. The reason I'm not working now is because the power went out." He glared at Kris, who was watching him with a placid expression. "Do you know why the power went out?"

"Of course!" Kris's smile said "gotcha." "Because I don't have enough juice."

Four hours later, Slade climbed the stairs to the cheerful kitchen. Pale yellow walls, oak cabinets and several large windows made the room light and airy. If Carroll had still been sitting at the table it would have been even brighter, he concluded after a quick look around.

Instead, Christy, a miniature edition of her mother, sat there. She was bent over a cup of milk, her face hidden by a fall of silvery hair-as she dipped a chocolate-chip cookie in the milk, then popped it in her mouth. When she saw him, she waved, pointed to her bulging cheeks and swallowed, wiping off her milk mustache with the tip of her tongue.

"Hi, Slade." She tilted her head and waited until he closed the basement door. "You helping Kris with the lights? He said you were going to." Pressing the tip of her finger on a crumb, she eyed it thoughtfully before swiping at it with her tongue. "He told Mom that even Santa Claus was gonna have a tough time delivering this package." Unblinking blue eyes that were a genetic gift from Kris and Carroll examined him.

Her matter-of-fact tone didn't reassure Slade. Kids often said things without even a minimal understanding of the subtleties involved. At least, he thought they did. Eyeing her waiting expression, he reflected that. he'd give a lot to know her position on the existence of Santa Claus. Did she still believe? And if she did, did she think Kris was on permanent loan from the North Pole?

"He really isn't Santa Claus," Christy said kindly.

Slade blinked. She not only looked like her mother, she sounded like her. "He isn't?"

"Nope." She offered him the plate of cookies and waited until he had selected one before she helped herself. Dipping it in the milk, she asked, "Did he say he was?"

He sat next to her. "Not exactly," he said cautiously.

"Sometimes he does," she confided before sucking the milk from the cookie. She seemed to enjoy the slurping sound. "He gets people all mixed up."

"But not you?" Slade downed his cookie and reached for another.

"Uh-uh." Her hair cascaded around her face in a silvery curtain when she shook her head. "Kris told me all about it a long time ago. The real Santa lives in the North Pole." While she chewed and swallowed, she looked up to make sure Slade was listening. Apparently satisfied by his fascinated gaze, she took up the tale. "Kris is his helper-probably his most important one, don't you think?"

Slade nodded.

"Anyway, wherever we live, that's where Kris works for him."

"What are his, uh, duties?"

Christy finished her milk and shrugged. "Whatever he has to do to make Christmas better. He said when we moved here he knew his job was to light up the town. He spends almost all his time downstairs making scenes for people's yards and for the park."

Slade snagged another cookie. "It'll take a miracle to do it the way he's got it set up."

"Kris says that a lot of times people make miracles." When Slade didn't answer, she said cheerfully, "Anyway, once all the lights are on, and the snow comes-"

"Snow?"

She nodded. "Snow."

"I didn't know it did. Snow here, I mean."

"I don't think it ever has." She slid her tongue over the milky froth on her lips. "But this year it will."

"You sure about that?"

She nodded emphatically. "Kris said so. Anyway, when it snows, Kris is going to have a huge sleigh pulled by two horses and deliver presents to everyone in town. The horses' names are Blitzen and Rudolph."

"They would be," Slade muttered. "Where do the presents come from? You're not going to tell me Kris-"

Christy shook her head again, this time impatiently. "The older people know Kris isn't Santa Claus. They're bringing the presents. But the little kids don't," she warned, "so don't tell them."

Slade raised his right hand. "I promise."

"Okay." She slid off the chair and grabbed her crutches. Slade tucked his feet safely beneath the table. When she reached the door, she turned back to look at him. "So are you?"

"Going to help him?"

She nodded, waiting. Her worried blue eyes never left his face.

"I-"

"Don't bug Slade," Carroll said briskly, appearing in the doorway. With gentle fingers, she absently smoothed her daughter's hair away from her face. "He'll do whatever he thinks is best."

"But, Mom-"

"Christy." The single word was a definite warning.

"Okay." The girl sighed and slid a gloomy look at Slade, her expression brightening only when he lowered one eyelid in a slow wink. Planting a hasty kiss on her mother's chin, she said, "I gotta go now. I told Nana I'd come up to see her."

As her daughter thumped down the hallway, Carroll said, "A word of warning. Don't encourage her. She's every bit as persistent as Kris."

Slade grinned. "Too late. She already knows she's got me wrapped around her little finger." He lifted the plate. "Cookie?"

"I'd rather have information." But she came over and took one, nibbling on it absently. "You were down there a long time."

"Yep. I was."

"Well?"

He leaned back, enjoying her impatience. "We struck a compromise."

"This ought to be good," she muttered skeptically.

"Hey, with a man like Kris, I take what I can get. He's promised to let me know when he's going to test, so I'll have time to shut down before he does any more damage. What could be fairer?"

"And in return, what does he get?"

Slade sighed in wry exasperation. "Me."

Chapter Three

The next afternoon Slade leaned back and gazed complacently at the colorful graphics on the monitor. For the first time in two weeks he looked at the image on the screen and knew that it would remain exactly where it was. Serenity, he reflected with a wry grin, was a rare and precious commodity, vastly underrated until it was gone. As if agreeing, the automatic save clicked softly and filed away the work he had done for the past fifteen minutes.

Shrugging his tight shoulders, Slade looked at his watch and realized he'd been working for five hours without a break. He didn't have to do that anymore, he reminded himself, settling deeper in the chair. Marathon sessions to cram in what he could before the aging menace next door zapped the computer were a thing of the past. Kris had promised: no more hijinks with the power. At least, not without a warning. That would do; all he needed was a running start. Even thirty seconds would give him enough time to save what he had done and turn off the machine.

With Pinetree's personal Santa finally under control, Slade reflected, maybe now he had a chance of convincing Carroll that he had more than one mood: rotten. He needed to change his image-at least as far as she was concerned. It probably wouldn't be easy.

But it would be worthwhile. Definitely. Fortunately, her daughter thought he was fine just as he was.

But when courting was a prime concern, a man needed every advantage he could get. Courting? Slade blinked thoughtfully as he mulled over the outdated word. Yes, he decided. Courting. An old-fashioned word for what he suspected was an old-fashioned woman. Home and hearth, family and loved ones, were a priority with her. It was obvious in everything she did. And after one look at her, he'd discovered that he had some very traditional values of his own.

He wanted a wife.

Not just any wife. Carroll. He wanted to be one of her priorities. Carroll. Or to be precise, Christmas Carroll Stilwell. Christy had shared that little known fact on one of her visits, adding that the name had been her grandfather's idea. He hadn't been surprised. He had also assumed that any man who would name his only child after a holiday song would flex a little muscle to carry on the seasonal tradition when his grandchild arrived. But Carroll had presumably decided that enough was enough and dug in her heels when her turn rolled around. As far as he knew, Christy was simply Christy.

Carroll. Carroll Ryan. It had a nice ring, he reflected complacently. He would get to work on it. Use some charm. That was the key. He would charm her right out of her socks. And maybe a few other things. Right. He would definitely work on it. But first… His gaze sharpened, and he leaned closer to the screen, frowning. Nope, the configuration wasn't right. He moved the cursor, his fingers speeding over the keys, modifying, realigning. A few minutes later he leaned back and reached for his calculator.

Slade was vaguely aware that outside a new din had been added to the racket of foraging birds. It began uncertainly, a brass instrument wobbling its way through the first few measures of "Taps," ending in a dissonant squawk somewhere around the ninth note. A kid with a trumpet, he decided. Practicing. He checked the calculator's digital display and groped for a pencil. Go ahead and play, kid. Hang in there. Satchmo didn't make it to the top by quitting when he hit a few sour notes.

Slade double-checked his figures. He had learned to live with noise the same way he lived with other distractions: he ignored them. Actually, he could live with anything as long as- He glanced up from the calculator and swore in a soft, savage monotone. His words were terse and distinctly Anglo-Saxon as he glared at the blank monitor. Damn it, this time the old man had gone too far!

He stalked out of the room, gathering speed as he went. By the time he reached Carroll's front's steps he had forgotten about charm and courting; his thoughts were more homicidal than romantic.

Carroll opened the door. She had something white smeared on her chin. "You thumped?" she inquired, eyeing him in resignation.

"Where is he?"

"Didn't we do this yesterday? I thought you two had agreed to a cease-fire."

"We did. He just violated the conditions," Slade told her grimly. "Where is he? "

Sighing, Carroll stepped back and waved him in. "Where else would he be?" She led the way back to the kitchen and down the basement stairs, pointing to the far end of the room where Kris was absorbed in a mass of wires that reminded her of a hoard of skinny brown snakes at feeding time. "I'm the referee and timekeeper. No hitting below the belt, and stop when someone starts bleeding." She sat on the bottom stair and watched Slade weave his way around the center platform to the end of the workbench.

"Damn it, Kris, you promised!"

Kris separated one wire from the rest and handed it to Slade. "Here, hold this." He placed the others on the workbench and studied them with a puzzled frown. "Promised what?" he finally asked.

Slade dropped the wire on the bench. "To let me know when you were going to test again!"

Preoccupied as he was, Slade's undisguised anger got through to Kris. He looked up, placid blue eyes meeting stormy gray ones. "I did. You must not have been listening."

"I have a telephone right on my desk. It didn't ring. Not once."

"Of course not," the older man agreed equably. "I didn't use the telephone."

Slade sighed sharply and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from curling around Kris's neck. "All right, I'll bite. How was I supposed to know?" He scowled at his bright-eyed tormentor. "I'll warn you right now that I'm not into ESP, and I don't believe in mind reading."

Kris smiled. "I couldn't agree with you more." He spun around and trotted to his desk. He turned back to Slade and held something aloft. "Here! This is what I used."

Slade squinted. "What is it?"

"My old cornet." Kris cradled the discolored horn in his arm like a baby. "I found it in the attic yesterday after you left and thought I'd give it a try. Different, huh?"

Slade was speechless.

"Haven't played it in years. Too many years." He shook his head regretfully. "People shouldn't put aside things that give them pleasure. They rush around too much these days-"

Slade took a ragged breath. "Kris-"

"Running here and there, spinning their wheels when they could be-"

"Kris!"

"-doing things like playing their old cornet." He patted the instrument and carefully set it on the workbench.

Slade stared, first at the old man, then at the horn. He had misunderstood. Obviously. Kris couldn't have said… "Are you telling me that you found an old horn, played "Taps" on it and expected me to know that you were going to test the lights?" he demanded.

Kris beamed. "Ha, you recognized it! I must not be as rusty as I thought. Of course that's what I'm saying. But-" he held up a pudgy index finger, then pointed at the opposite wall "-first I opened the window facing your house so you could hear me. In fact, I stood right there and blew out the window,"

Slade glanced over his shoulder at Carroll. When she just shrugged, he turned back to meet Kris's expectant gaze. Yelling at him would be like kicking a cocker spaniel. "Couldn't you have just used the telephone?" he asked with a resigned sigh.

Kris shook his head. "Can't stand the things. All they do is make a lot of noise and interrupt busy people. I never understood what possessed Bell to come up with such a nuisance. With a little more effort, he could have managed something really good."

"I'm not asking you to conduct a lengthy conversation, for God's sake! When I answer, just say you're going to test and hang up. Is that asking too much?"

Kris stared at the ceiling and smoothed his luxuriant beard. "Why don't we compromise?" he finally suggested. "When I get through playing the cornet, you'll have a full minute. From beginning to end, that should give you about two minutes. A little longer when I get to work on 'The Flight of the Bumblebee.' "

A few minutes later, safely upstairs, Slade paced the length of the kitchen. On the return trip he demanded, "Is that what he calls a compromise? I do what he wants?"

Carroll picked up a pastry bag and squeezed gently, leaving a squiggle of frosting on a piece of waxed paper. "Don't fight it," she recommended. "I speak from experience. You're not going to change him. Take your two minutes and be grateful."

He pulled out a chair and straddled it, folding his arms across the back and staring moodily at the table. It was covered with frosted cookies cut in the shapes of bells, wreaths and trees. "Has he always been like that?"

"Like what?" Carroll murmured absently, tracing a ribbon on one of the wreaths, muttering when she smudged it.

"Stubborn as a mule. Uncaring. Unaware of what's going on around him."

Carroll looked up and regarded him thoughtfully. "Stubborn, yes. The rest, no. For years he was a political cartoonist for a large newspaper. He knows better than most what reality is like. But when he retired he decided to concentrate on what could be, on the nicer things in life. That's his world now, and I'm not going to yank him out of it."

Slade watched her meticulously add ornaments to one of the trees. "You do this for fun?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

"Good question. It might be fun if I had any of Mom's talent." She made a zigzag design on a bell. "If I had my choice, I'd be curled up on the couch with a good mystery."

"Then why-"

"Because last summer Mom donated ten dozen of these little suckers to the church holiday bazaar, and now she's involved in a painting and can't do them. So I-"

"Naturally. You."

Startled by his dry tone, Carroll looked up, her brows lifting. "You sound disapproving."

His steady gaze held hers. "I think I am."

"I hate to point this out," she said reasonably, "but you don't have the right. What I do is my own business." Oh dear, she thought inadequately. Another man who has the solution to my problems.

"Supposing I say that I want the right?"

"I'd tell you that you can't have it," she said promptly.

"Why?"

"Because I like my life just the way it is. I'm independent. I do what I want. I don't need someone around who disapproves of my family and criticizes everything I do."

"Is that what your husband did?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, and for a second you sounded just like him."

"I hate to see you being taken advantage of."

Carroll concentrated on a wreath. "Offering to do something for the people I love is a far cry from having them take advantage of me. It's my choice. Mine. And I'll never turn control over to another person," she vowed with sudden heat. "Never again."

"Sounds like you got burned."

"I did." Her swift glance dared him to offer sympathy.

He didn't. "How old were you when you married old what's his face?"

"Jeffrey. Nineteen."

"Just a kid."

"I didn't think so at the time, but you're right."

"And now," he gave her face an assessing glance, "you're what? Thirty? Thirty-one?"

Scowling, she snapped, "Twenty-eight."

"And you figure you haven't learned anything in the last nine years?"

"Of course I have. Plenty."

He gave a satisfied nod. "Then you know that you're a strong woman."

Carroll glared. She really did hate arguing with logical people.

"And that marriage wouldn't mean turning control of your life over to anyone else."

"Marriage?" she asked in a startled voice. "Who's talking about marriage?"

"I am."

Carroll eyed him uneasily. Trouble, that was what he was. A big, broad-shouldered bundle of it. She'd seen it all in his speculative glance that first day, and she'd wanted no part of it-or him. Of course, that had been easy to say, but the blasted man was a walking, talking temptation. He had the kind of rugged dark looks that women fantasized about, and when he wasn't sending murderous glances at Kris, he was dangerously appealing. Why, she didn't know, because she wasn't usually drawn to engineering types. Pragmatic, honest to a fault, logical and blunt, he wasn't a man one would consider especially charming. Except, of course, for his smile. It flashed at unexpected moments, totally disarming her.

Now she eyed him suspiciously, wondering what he was up to. He didn't mean anything personal, she told herself firmly. He couldn't. He was probably going to quote some statistics about second marriages. Or something. Just in case, hoping to divert him, she asked brightly, "Are you planning to get married?"

Slade's gaze didn't waver. "I hope so."

Carroll snatched up another bell and absently frosted it. "Be sure to tell us-"

"You'll be the first to know."

He didn't look like a man who had statistics on his mind, she concluded glumly, her heart skipping a beat.

Now what? Take the bull by the horns? "Slade," she began hesitantly, "I hope you're not-"

"I am. Marriage." He grinned at her stunned expression. "You. Me. Us." He picked up a tree and nibbled on it absently. "I knew the day I met you, but I thought you might need a little more time."

Carroll's fingers tightened around the bell. Her gaze slowly rose from a handful of crumbs to his intent gaze. "More time?" she echoed. "Your idea of more time is two weeks? I think you're stark, raving mad!"

Chapter Four

"God bless us, every one.'" Christy leaned companionably against Slade's shoulder as he sat at his desk, her arm tucked through his. "What do you think? Do you like it that way? Or is this better? 'God bless us, every one'?"

Slade grinned. He couldn't help it. He should have been working, had been working, but she was collecting opinions and apparently needed his. She was so earnest. Her straight bangs framed anxious blue eyes, vividly reminding him of another pair of blue eyes that were equally concerned these days-for a far different reason.

"There're only two more," she told him. "'God bless us, every one,' and 'God bless us, every one.'"

"Why the rush to decide right now?" He ran his hand through her cornsilk hair, ending with a teasing tug. "You still have three weeks until the show, don't you?"

Christy nodded. "But we're rehearsing, and it's the very last line of the play, and since everyone in town is coming, it's gotta be a… a smasheroo."

"Smasheroo?"

She nodded again. "That's what Kris said. So which one do you like best?"

"What does your director say?"

Christy wrinkled her nose and heaved a gusty sigh. "She told me to experiment. So I have been, and now I'm collecting votes. Which one do you choose?"

Carroll had been right about one thing, he reflected. Christy was as tenacious as Kris. "They're all pretty good," he hedged, "but you missed one. How about, 'God bless us, every one'? Would that work?"

She repeated the words in a whisper, her face brightening. "Yeah!" Leaning closer, she kissed him noisily on the cheek. "Thanks. You're terrific!"

He gave her a quick, one-armed hug. "Any time. The door's always open."

Sudden doubt clouded her face. "I just remembered, Mom said I shouldn't come over here so much-that I probably bother you."

"It's nice of her to be so concerned," he said slowly, realizing with a shock just how much he would miss her unannounced visits. "You don't bother me, but she doesn't have any way of knowing that, does she? Do you suppose it would help if I told her I enjoy having you drop in?"

"I don't know. I already told her," she added in a burst of honesty, giving the floor an embarrassed poke with the tip of her crutch. "She said that Kris has already messed up your work schedule, and maybe you're too polite to tell me when you're busy."

And maybe she's running just a little scared, he concluded, narrowing his eyes. Or maybe a lot scared. Maybe what she really wanted to do was ease him out of their lives. Totally. He tugged gently at Christy's hair again, bringing her gaze back to his. "Do you think she'll feel better if I promise to tell you when I'm too busy to visit?"

She nodded, then shrugged. "I don't know."

"We'll give it a try and see how it works. If I'm in the middle of something and can't stop, I'll let you know. Agreed?" When she nodded, he held out his hand. "Let's shake on it." Once they had completed the solemn little ceremony, he smiled and said, "Be sure and tell your mother."

"Okay, but I think I'll wait a little while. She's making a gingerbread house for the bazaar, and she always gets nervous when she does that," she confided in a rush. "I'm going to stay out of the kitchen till she's done."

Outside, a cornet burst into a series of staccato squawks. Slade tilted his head, automatically reaching out to punch the save key, wondering if the agitated toots meant that Kris was beginning work on the bumblebee tune. Well, he was entitled. The day before, he had rendered a shaky but recognizable version of "Taps."

Slipping the disk into its protective sleeve, Slade grinned in anticipation. Since he couldn't work, he had an overwhelming urge to see Ms. Christmas Carroll when she was rattled. Turning to Christy, he said, "What do you say we go visit your mom?"

"The gingerbread house," she reminded him.

"Maybe I can help."

She looked doubtful, but grabbed her jacket, tucked her crutches under her arms and hopped along beside him. "I think she's worried about something," she blurted.

He glanced down at her troubled expression and slowed his pace even more. "What makes you say that?"

"Maybe it's money. That's about the only thing she gets upset about."

"Why do you think she's worried?" he repeated patiently.

"Because she's real quiet, and kinda stares at things but she doesn't really see them. She only acts like that when something's bothering her." She slanted a glance up at him. "Do you think maybe if she was married she wouldn't be upset?"

"I don't know. What do you think?" He had a strong hunch that marriage was a factor here. With a child's unerring instincts, Christy had zeroed in on the right problem; she just had the wrong angle.

"I think she feels bad because I don't have a daddy," she said with a self-important little jiggle and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "I think she'd feel better if she married someone who liked kids, don't you?" She paused thoughtfully, then said, "Especially girls. Someone big, so we could both sit in his lap. And since we all have light hair, maybe someone with dark hair. Real dark," she clarified after taking a long look at Slade's near-black hair.

"Anything else?" he asked blandly, wondering what she would do if he scooped her up and gave her a big hug.

"It would be okay if he worked at home instead of going away every day," she assured him. "Mom does that already, so we're all kinda used to it. And he shouldn't be too old. How old are you?"

"Thirty-four."

"That's a good age." She hopped a few feet on her good leg, then stopped and looked at him with a puz-zled frown. "What's so funny? Why are you laughing?"

"I have a weird sense of humor. Watch out. Don't trip over that tangle of weeds."

Once inside the house, Christy opted to visit her grandmother and warned him again about going into the kitchen. He nodded and stayed where he was until she thumped her way up the stairs; then he turned and took a good look around.

The house was decorated for Christmas.

Somehow, he realized, the simple statement didn't adequately cover the situation. Candles, greenery, wall hangings and wreaths were just the beginning. Every flat surface was covered with miniature houses, carolers and snow scenes. The large coffee table had been converted into a creche, with squads of angels and shepherds. Several snowmen looked on with interest. The floor-to-ceiling tree, almost hidden beneath an avalanche of ornaments, took up one corner of the big living room.

In the dining room he discovered more of the same. Brightly colored ornaments and candles formed a centerpiece for the table, and the walls were covered with garlands of pungent pine boughs tied back with enormous red velvet bows.

Even the kitchen had been decorated. He cast a swift glance around and decided that the brightest ornament was sitting at the table scowling at a wobbly wall on the gingerbread house.

"Who decorated the house?" he asked, pulling out a chair. "Kris?"

Carroll jumped and looked up. "I didn't hear you knock," she said pointedly.

"I came in with an escort. She warned me that you might not be in the mood for company."

"You should have listened." She squeezed a blob of frosting onto the recalcitrant wall and attempted to anchor it. "Are you trying to tell me that the decorations are a bit overdone?"

He shook his head. "Just trying to decide if it's a genetic or an environmental influence."

"Try sentimental. We just can't seem to throw any of it away. Some of the stuff is Kris's, some my mother's, some mine. Now Christy's started stockpiling things."

"Tell me about it. I think I've just been added to her collection."

"That's nice," Carroll murmured, temporarily bracing the wall with a tin canister. "There, that should hold it until it dries." She looked up and blinked thoughtfully at his satisfied grin. "You've been what?"

"You heard me." Amusement gleamed in his eyes. "She proposed."

"One of these days I'm going to have to explain to her about age differences," she muttered, wondering if her bluff would work. When his grin broadened, she knew it hadn't.

"She thinks I'm just the right age. For you."

"Oh, God."

"I didn't accept. Yet. I thought I'd better clear it with you first."

"This isn't funny, Slade. You can't encourage her when she says things like that."

"I don't think I could have stopped her. Besides, all she wants is a father."

"All? All?" She glared at him. "Maybe you've missed one of the links here. In order for her to have a father, I have to have a husband."

"No, I caught on to that right away."

"Good for you." She jumped up and collected a handful of dishes. Taking them over to the sink, she said, "I'm all for encouraging dreams, everyone's dreams. But not this one. Not for her, and not for me. I'm not about to put our futures on the line again. She was too young to be hurt when her father walked away-"

"You weren't," he said quietly.

Carroll stiffened. Grateful for the small task, she scrubbed the few dishes carefully. It was a reprieve. When she finished, he was still there, still waiting. She turned around, stormy blue eyes meeting understanding gray ones. "No, I wasn't too young. I've already told you that. Later, I got mad, but I was one of the walking wounded for a long time. No one will ever do that to Christy. At least, not while I'm around to stop it."

"Too much protection can turn people into emotional cripples," he commented. When she whirled around, outrage written all over her face, he held up a hand. "Wait a minute. Hear me out. I know you've been both mother and father to her, and it couldn't have been easy. You've done a wonderful job, one to be proud of, but you can't protect her from life. People go away, people die, and we all have to learn to deal with it. We can't refuse to trust and love because we're afraid that somewhere down the road we're going to be hurt. We may avoid some pain that way, but we miss out on a hell of a lot of pleasure."

Carroll slapped the dish towel on the counter, her eyes raking over him angrily. "That all sounds very philosophical, but unless you've gone through it, you don't know what you're talking about. Have you ever been hurt like that? Has anyone ever walked out on you, betrayed your trust? Made you feel like a gullible fool?" She took a deep breath and glared at him.

"Yeah."

Blinking uncertainly, she moved nearer and perched on the corner of the table. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. Five years ago." He gave her a level glance. "My partner walked off with our business, and my fiancee walked off with my partner."

"What did you do?"

He shrugged. "Got mad. Got bitter. Blamed them. Didn't trust a soul outside of my family. Cut off my social life and turned into a workaholic while I started over again."

"I'm sorry, Slade." Her voice was subdued. "I was mad, or I wouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have asked."

He shrugged again. "It's over and done with. Past history." He waited several moments, then shot her a swift grin. "You're not going to ask, are you?" He shook his head. "A stubborn woman. I'll tell you anyway. I recovered. Somewhere along the way, I realized that I shared some of the blame. I had been a rotten judge of character. I had known them both for a couple of years, but I didn't know them, if that makes any sense."

She nodded.

"'I have another partner now." He pushed himself away from the table. "Lecture's over," he said briskly. "Since we can't work, how about walking into town? Maybe I'll tell you how my search for a new fiancee is going."

Chapter Five

Carroll gestured toward the towering trees. "Once the lights go on, hoards of people will be driving in to see them. You can't imagine what it's like. Cars are bumper-to-bumper, snaking up one street and down the next. The traffic gets so bad most of us don't even bother using our cars, so if you have any shopping to do, you'd better hop to it." Her voice was breathless as they followed the winding road into town. "We always stock up ahead of time, as much as we can. All the store owners love the crowds, of course, and the gas station leases a few more tow trucks, because cars overheat and have to be hauled away."

It wasn't the altitude that had her gasping for air, nor was it the exercise. She was accustomed to both. It was just that she had talked, without stopping, for the fifteen minutes it had taken to walk from the house to the center of town. Babbling was more like it, she amended silently. She had covered the weather: brisk and getting cooler every day; Kris's prediction of snow: unlikely; the town: an ideal place to raise children but not big on social life; Christy's belief in the existence of Santa Claus: teetering; and Slade's lack of holiday decorations: she had some she would loan him. Innocuous fare, admittedly, but better than the alternative. She didn't want to hear about his fian-cée-past: the idiot; present: nonexistent; or future: chicken!

Carroll took a second to give herself a mental pat on the back. Her effort had been heroic, to say the least. It wasn't easy to be bright and chatty when your body was simmering with tension and-yes, damn it-a betraying sense of anticipation. If they gave medals for performance under racking circumstances, she deserved one. Maybe two.

Because Slade Ryan was nothing but pure temptation.

And she was very susceptible.

His crisp black hair was the kind that made her fingertips tingle. And for a woman who professed to be disinterested in men, she was alarmingly distracted by him. No, having Slade around for the past several weeks had proven one thing: she wasn't immune to that old devil, sex. When he was near, she almost forgot about a father who had walked away with no apparent regret, followed by a husband who had done the same. Almost, but not quite.

It wasn't that she thought he was lying; Slade seemed to be an honorable man, but she hadn't known him long enough to be certain. At any rate, if he made a commitment, he seemed to be the type who would honor it. He talked about marriage, and he probably meant it. Now. But, regardless of his present intentions, he could always change his mind. People did. Not just men, she thought, being fair: people.

And on that fragile foundation she was supposed to build a future? Trust her own future-and her daughter's-to something so uncertain? No, thank you. Slade Ryan might be the sexiest man to come down the pike in… all right, admit it, her entire life, but sexy didn't count when the chips were down. It helped, but what really counted was staying power.

Carroll wasn't a gambler. She never hid the Fact that risk-taking wasn't high on her list of priorities. She was far too practical. Too level-headed. Not very exciting qualities, she was quick to admit, but somebody in her family had to have them. At the age of twelve she had learned that both Kris and Noel were blithely indifferent to financial matters. If things were left to them, they would stuff bills and paychecks in an old box and expect some metaphysical happening to straighten out the ensuing mess. That was when she had studied a book about budgeting and learned to write checks and reconcile a bank account. As she remembered, Noel and Kris had given loud cries of joy, signed checks when requested, and otherwise washed their hands of the entire situation.

Good old steady, Carroll. She wasn't rash or impulsive. Her only legacy from Kris and Noel was her boundless optimism, the belief that things almost always happened for the best. Running her own business had merely emphasized the merits of planning ahead, being organized and adhering to a schedule. Dull, she thought glumly. Deadly dull. Whatever had made a man like Slade even look at her, much less propose marriage? She blinked. Well, he hadn't exactly proposed. What he'd done was casually drop the idea right in the middle of their conversation.

Whatever. The point was, dull or not, she was still tempted. And the sad part was, if she told her family what he wanted, she wouldn't get a bit of sympathy. Kris had taken to him like a long-lost son and would consider her insane for even hesitating. Noel wouldn't care one way or another, as long as Slade didn't interfere with her painting. And Christy? Her daughter considered him prime father material. She had taken one look at Slade and fallen in love.

And her own reaction? Carroll admitted that she was terrified. She had forgotten what it was like to have a man around, especially one who allowed his steamy glances to reveal just how much he wanted her. It had been a long time since her body had hummed with pleasure when a man looked at her. It was scary. It was exhilarating. And very frustrating. And now, if she said no, he would walk out of her life. Of course, if she said yes, he might do the same thing-just a bit further down the road.

Slade cleared his throat. "Hello? Are you in there?"

"Hmm?" She glanced up and flushed when she met his intrigued gaze. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"How hard do you think it will hit Kris when he realizes that all those lights aren't going to work?" he repeated patiently.

She stared at him. "They can't not work. He's fussed over these plans for years, ever since Christy was a baby, and he's promised that this is the year they all go on. Look over there." She waved in the direction of the park they were passing. "There are a couple of hundred trees in there, and they all have lights. Animated scenes run all the way through the place. He designed every one of them. He cut them, painted them and hooked up all the mechanical stuff in his workshop. And look at all the decorations on the homes." She shook her head. "No, the question isn't how will he take it, the question is how to make it work."

Slade swore softly. "It's not the houses that I'm concerned about. They're each capable of supporting their own lights. It's all this other stuff-the park, the trees along every road, even the streetlights! This is an old town, Carroll. When they set up shop, they weren't anticipating power demands like this. There is no way it can work." He didn't sound happy, but he spoke with flat assurance.

"Can't you do something?" Carroll winced at the outright pleading in her voice.

"I'm not a miracle worker," he told her with an exasperated sigh. "He'll be okay with the first batch of lights, and if he follows my advice and does some rewiring, he'll even make the second. But not the third. His plans for Christmas Eve are nothing but a dream."

Carroll couldn't think of a single thing to say except that she believed in dreams, that without them the world would be a bleak place. Since the thought was optimistic but not very helpful, she kept it to herself, aimlessly kicking her way through a pile of maple leaves while she mulled things over. At first she didn't hear the lingering whistle. It was a typical appreciative male whistle, the kind that women all over the world pretended to ignore.

"Hey, Blondie, how about a few fast games later?"

Carroll's welcoming smile faded when Slade turned his head slowly, his narrowed eyes zeroing in on three grinning young men. He took a deep breath and seemed to grow about a foot. He was angry, she realized, staring at the muscle flexing in his jaw. No, what he was was furious!

"Slade! Wait a minute," she whispered urgently, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, stunned by his reaction. "They're friends, Slade. Friends. They're also just kids-homesick kids, at that. They're from Camp Pendleton." She waved in the direction of the massive U.S. Marine camp less than fifty miles away. "They were part of the gang who helped Kris put up the lights."

"What does he mean, games!" He didn't take his narrowed eyes off the three, who were loping toward them with the enthusiasm of half-grown pups.

"Checkers," she said hastily, still alarmed by the tension emanating from his lean frame. "After they finished with the lights, the kids all came to the house for pizza, and I played checkers with the redhead."

"The one with the big mouth?" he said grimly.

"Slade, for heaven's sake! He was only teasing. He's a nice boy. They're all nice," she added firmly.

"Hey, Carroll, how's Kris doing? When do we get to see these famous lights?" They drew to a halt, glanced curiously at the silent man beside her, then turned back to her, basking in the warmth of her smile.

"The first batch goes on tomorrow night." She held up her hand to stop them and said, "Slade, I want you to meet Jim, Mac and Red. Kris couldn't have managed the lights without them. Guys, this is Slade Ryan, my new neighbor."

As soon as the four men had made appropriate introductory noises, Red turned back to Carroll. "We've been talking about this-" he gestured toward a bedecked row of trees "-and we figure Kris is going to have a lot of trouble with all this stuff."

The other two chimed in.

"We're ETs at Pendleton," Jim told Slade. "Electronic technicians."

Mac shot Carroll a worried look. "We were talking to one of our instructors and telling him about the setup here. He says it's never going to work."

Noel was in the kitchen, industriously crushing graham crackers with a rolling pin, when they walked in. She was wearing narrow-legged jeans and a large paint-speckled flannel shirt, and looked almost as young as her daughter.

Slade glanced at the pyramidlike mounds of golden crumbs resting on every flat surface in the room. "Starting your own bakery?" he asked pleasantly, deciding to give it one more try. He had yet to have a conversation with Noel that actually resembled a conversation.

She looked up from her task, her unfocused gaze settling on the wall beyond him. "My log looks like a crocodile."

"You've got enough crumbs here to make a dozen tortes," he persevered, slanting a mystified look at Carroll.

"A crocodile with rigor mortis." Noel shook more crackers from the box and added them to the crumbs on the large piece of foil. She attacked them so briskly that her gray bangs bounced on her forehead and her long braid swung over her shoulder and settled between her breasts.

Slade poured himself a cup of coffee and tried again. "Christy showed me your studio the other day."

"It looks like a Florida swamp."

"It didn't look that bad," Slade soothed, pushing his chair away from the spraying crumbs. "Not nearly as bad as my place gets when I'm in the middle of a project."

Carroll made a choking sound behind him.

Noel stopped abusing the crumbs and reached for a large glass bowl. She dropped in two cubes of butter and dumped sugar into a large plastic measuring cup. When she poured it into the bowl, her eyes narrowed as the butter gradually disappeared. "Snow," she murmured thoughtfully. "That could be it." She stared down into the bowl. "Yes, that's definitely it. I'll cover the damned alligator with an avalanche." She tossed the measuring cup aside and trotted out of the room.

"Was it something I said?" Slade asked wryly, watching her disappear through the door.

Carroll gazed at the piles of crumbs and gave a faint sigh. "No, you did just fine. Unless, of course, she eventually realizes that you were comparing her room to a Florida swamp."

Slade eyed her quizzically. "She was talking about a painting?" he hazarded.

Carroll nodded, adding eggs and milk to the bowl. "Right. Every time she gets stuck, she comes down here and mashes crackers. If I'm lucky, she doesn't find a solution until the torte's in the oven."

"Every time?" He gave her a doubting glance.

Carroll turned off the hand mixer. "We have a skeptic in our midst," she murmured, walking over to a large cabinet and opening the door. "Come see for yourself."

Slade came to a halt behind her. "Good God." The cabinet was full. The only item in it was graham crackers, boxes of them.

Carroll chuckled. "It's cheaper than a shrink."

Her soft laughter was the sweetest sound in the whole world. He reached for her, his hands cupping her face. When he lowered his head, she tilted hers, meeting him halfway. Her lips were as sweet and eager as he'd dreamed they would be. Her breath was as ragged as his. Her sigh, and the way her body melted against his, told him more than she wanted him to know. When he reluctantly lifted his head, she made a soft, bereft sound.

"This is only the beginning for us, honey," he muttered, running his thumb gently over her full lower lip. Over the pounding of her heart, Carroll heard Christy thump through the dining room, and alarm flared in her eyes.

"Slade!" She attempted to move away and realized that she was pinned between the cupboard and Slade's hard body. "She'll see us!"

"Would that be so bad?" But he stepped back and watched her run a shaky hand through her hair.

"Yes."

"I think you might be surprised," he murmured, smiling down at her. She might straighten her hair, but she couldn't erase the look of dazed pleasure from her dark eyes. "As I said, honey, it's only the beginning."

Christy swung through the door, her intelligent blue eyes darting from her mother's tense expression to Slade's small smile. "God bless us, every one!" she whooped.

Chapter Six

"Ha! Did you hear that? What did I tell you?" Kris gleefully smacked the workbench with an open hand and looked up from the small television, where a weatherman was drawing arrows on a map of the western states. "Cold front up in Canada, and the pressure's dropping here. Know what that means?"

"It means that you're a raving optimist," Slade muttered, turning several pages in the big notebook and frowning at the figures. "Not that it's going to snow."

"We'll see." Kris snapped off the television and turned to face the younger man. "I think you ought to marry the girl."

Slade stilled. "Which girl?"

Kris snorted. "How many are you chasing? If you're looking at any other women the way you're watching my granddaughter, we got a problem." He waited. "If you don't know how to ask her, I've got a couple of foolproof suggestions."

"No thanks." Slade met the old man's expectant gaze. "Somehow you'd manage to turn things into a three-ring circus."

"You don't seem to be getting anywhere," Kris grumbled. "Christy needs some brothers and sisters, and I need some more kids around the house. We could call one Holly, one Ivy and one Harold."

"Harold? Why would anyone name a boy-" He stopped, trying to consider Kris's unique point of view. "As in, 'Hark, the… '?" he asked suspiciously. When Kris nodded, he said emphatically, "No way. No kid of mine is-"

"It's not a name I'd choose myself," Kris agreed, "but it was the only one I could think of for a boy off the top of my head." His face brightened and he snapped his fingers. "There's always Rudolph."

Slade groaned.

"Of course, if you haven't even gotten around to asking her yet, I don't know why you're so concerned. It seems to me that you're jumping the gun just a bit."

Slade sighed resignedly. "I've asked her."

"And?"

"She'll marry me."

"Did she say so?"

"No. But she will. When the time is right."

"Right?" He paced back and forth in front of Slade impatiently. "What's to be right? You ask, she says yes, and you get to work on little Holly and Ivy. And Harold. Or Rudolph. Maybe I should talk to her."

"No."

Kris pursed his lips at the unequivocal word. "No?"

"Butt out, Kris. We'll handle this ourselves." Shooting him a narrow-eyed glance, Slade said, "I mean it. If I hear that you've said one word to her about this, I'll come down here with some snippers and make this the darkest Christmas you've ever had."

Kris ignored the threat. "Speaking of lights, what are we going to do on Christmas Eve? Are you working on it? Time's passing, boy."

Slade slammed the notebook shut and surged to his feet. "I don't know what we're going to do. You don't have a magic wand to wave over the town, and neither do I." He hesitated. "Maybe you're just going to have to settle for the lights you're turning on tomorrow."

Patting him on the shoulder, Kris said, "Don't worry about it, boy. I know you'll do it. And while you're taking care of that, I'm getting the rest organized. When the play is over and everyone comes out of the community building-the one in the park, you know-the rest of the lights will go on, and I'll come riding through the snow in the sleigh." He rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Then we'll deliver the presents and get done in plenty of time for the potluck supper and candlelight service at church. Which reminds me, I'll have to get Carroll to run a notice off on the computer and let everyone know the schedule."

"Why don't you just play 'Taps' and let them guess?" Slade asked, heading for the stairs.

Kris gave a gentle cough. "By the way, I did say we'll be delivering the gifts. Do you want to wear an elf costume and help me on the sleigh?"

Carroll tied a red ribbon around the last plastic-wrapped torte, listening to the rumble of the men's voices in the basement. Apparently operating on the theory that it was better to join 'em when you couldn't beat 'em, Slade was no longer trying to work during the two afternoon hours. The decision hadn't come easily, she remembered, grinning faintly. After three more incidents with lost design parts-two where he had been in a distant part of the house and couldn't get back in time, and once when his concentration had been so intense he simply hadn't heard the cornet-he had surrendered, claiming that it was either that or throttle Kris.

Life was getting complicated, she decided, her smile fading as she stared at the lopsided ribbon. Now he spent that time at her house, ostensibly conferring with Kris, but somehow ending up with her. And driving her crazy. He hovered, he stood too close, he sat too close, he smiled at her, his eyes smiled at her, for heaven's sake! And he watched her, and waited.

It wasn't as if he were bombarding her with proposals, she reflected, tugging at the bow. No, his approach was more subtle than she had anticipated, like that of a man attempting to tame a wild animal. He touched her, lightly, as he passed, allowing the gesture to be a hair more than fleeting, but not allowing it to threaten. When he was too close, he stretched the time just a smidgen beyond her comfort zone, then moved.

Subtle, yes. And it was working.

That and the memory of his kiss. Their kiss. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Slade had made certain that she wouldn't mistake it for a platonic, neighborly, holiday greeting. He had also brought back unsettling memories.

She had almost forgotten how it felt to have a man's strong arms wrap around her, pulling her close. Almost forgotten the convulsive movement and hardening of his body. The ache, the languid melting, of her own. The ragged breathlessness. The heat, blood racing through her veins like a runaway train. With-out a single word, he had reminded her of what it meant to be a woman. Not just a mother or a daughter. A woman.

She didn't welcome the memory. As a matter of fact, she had kept her life relatively uncomplicated and contented because she had managed to forget. Almost. The worst part was that he had brought an entirely new element into the situation. A hunger, a need to touch and be touched, that she had never felt before. Not with poor Jeffrey, not with the few innocuous dates she had allowed herself since he had left.

No, she wasn't happy with Slade Ryan. He could sell his house; he could move anywhere in the world. But she had a daughter to raise, one who was becoming far too attached to him. One who would be brokenhearted if he left. When he left. One who, since she had only one parent, needed an extra dose of stability in her life.

"Hi."

Carroll jumped. "You ought to borrow Kris's horn and announce yourself," she said crossly.

Slade leaned comfortably against the counter. "What are you going to do with them?" He nodded at the dozen tortes, wrapped and lined up on the table.

"Take them down to Lindy's boutique. She has a standing order for them."

"She must be ecstatic when Noel hits a real snag."

"Umm," She disappeared into the pantry and came out dragging a large cardboard box. "But she does her best to conceal it."

"Here, let me help." Slade swung the box up on the table.

"I'll pack," Carroll said, sliding in several tortes and adjusting some heavy cardboard shelving above them. "You can haul the box out to the station wagon."

"Grab a coat," he suggested a few minutes later, hefting the box. "It's getting cold."

Carroll buttoned her jacket as she walked down the steps behind Slade. He handled the large carton as if it were no larger than a shoebox, she noted enviously. When he slid in on the passenger side, her brows rose. A man who didn't mind being driven by a woman. Nice.

She settled behind the wheel, squinting up at the leaden sky. "Do you think it's just possible that Kris might be right? Could we really get snow?"

Slade groaned. "Don't even think it. He'd be impossible to live with. He's already bad enough."

Sliding a quick glance in his direction, she asked, "What's he up to now?"

"Aside from wanting me to wear an elf costume and help deliver presents?"

She chuckled. "You can wiggle out of that one. Christy and I are already signed up as Santa's helpers. We can get the job done."

Suddenly the idea didn't sound so bad. They could probably use some help with the heavy packages, he mused. He wondered idly what an elf costume looked like.

"We came at a good time," she told him. "The traffic doesn't get bad until the lights go on."

The lights. Always the lights. Slade leaned back in the seat, taking note of all the lights that weren't connected to someone's house. They were on more trees than he could count, running up and down streetlights, wrapped around trash cans and along the backs of park benches. Probably the only reason they weren't strung around mailboxes was due to a federal ordinance prohibiting such shenanigans.

"Here we are, and there's a parking place right in front," Carroll announced with satisfaction. "You get the box and I'll open the door."

Lindy, a slim woman with graying hair and a broad smile, beat her to the door. "Hi. Come in. You're an answer to my prayers." She stepped aside to let Slade in and waved him to the counter. "Thank God it's a big box. However many you have, I can use even more. Believe it or not, I've got a waiting list for these babies."

Carroll closed the door, stepping past a rocking horse, several homemade dolls and a baby carriage. Two of Noel's landscapes hung on the opposite wall, both marked with Sold signs. Lindy not only carried exquisite gifts, she was an outlet for the local artists and craftsmen. "At least your customers aren't standing outside pounding on the window. You've got them well trained."

Lindy opened the box with eager hands. Looking up at Carroll, she laughed softly. "I can't afford to lose any customers, and I was afraid that if they hung around here, Kris would have lights strung on them. I told them I'd call when I had the cakes in my hot little hands."

She turned to Slade and measured him with a frankly assessing gaze. Giving an approving nod, she held out her hand for a businesslike shake. "I'm Lindy Miller. No, you don't have to tell me who you are. Slade Ryan, right? You're helping Kris with the lights. He tells us you're going to get the lights turned on for Christmas Eve. We've been waiting for this for years." She took the rest of the cakes from the box and turned to Carroll. "I understand the chamber of commerce is trying to get some local TV coverage for the big event."

"TV?" Carroll asked faintly, turning to Slade. He looked as stunned as she sounded.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked.

Lindy's nod was definite. "Tom, my husband, is the treasurer. He told me that Kris came to their meeting last Tuesday and said everything was arranged. The play will end at five, we'll all go outside in the park, the lights will go on, and all the animated scenes will start up."

She gave them a droll look. "Kris has ordered snow, so it will be snowing. He'll come out with Anderson's hay wagon decorated like a sleigh-pulled by Blitzen and Rudolph, of course-and hand out the presents. That's the part they thought a news program might be interested in."

She paused to count the cakes and write a receipt for Carroll. "By the way, the chamber invited all the marines who helped with the lights up for the festivities. Those who can't get home are coming. Yesterday Tom and I spent some of the chamber's money and bought gifts for them. Naturally they're all invited to the pot-luck supper."

"Naturally," Carroll echoed, darting a glance at Slade's expressionless face.

"We'll get all their names to you before Christmas Eve," Lindy added.

"Fine."

The heavy silence in the car was finally broken by Slade, just as they pulled into the driveway. "TV? Did you know about this?"

Carroll slammed on the brakes and snapped off the ignition. "No, I didn't." Turning to him furiously, she said, "Do you really think I'd let you walk into a situation like that without any warning? What kind of a person do you think I am?"

"Loyal. To your family."

"You're right," she admitted, curling her fingers around the steering wheel. "I am. But I also have a sense of fair play. I would have told you."

"Sorry." He reached across and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "I should have known."

In silence she turned her palm up, lacing her fingers through his. "What are you going to do?" she finally asked.

In a voice heavy with defeat, he said, "I don't know. I haven't been able to convince Kris that he's asking the impossible any more than I've been able to convince you that I won't desert you the first time you turn your back."

Chapter Seven

I won't desert you.

It was a little after three in the morning when Carroll admitted the obvious: sleep was a lost cause. She tossed back the blankets, shrugged into a warm robe and quietly went down to the kitchen. A few minutes later she carried a cup of tea into the dark living room, curled up in the corner of the sofa and covered herself with a woolly afghan. From where she sat, she could see light streaming out of Slade's office windows.

I won't desert you.

He was still working. An anxious frown drew her brows together. He didn't take care of himself, she fretted. Guilt etched the furrows even deeper between her brows. If it weren't for Kris and the two lost hours each day, Slade probably wouldn't still be at the computer. But for all she knew, Carroll thought hopefully, he was a workaholic who simply preferred toiling twenty hours out of every twenty-four.

Gloom settled again. More than likely he had to be there. When he had moved to Pinetree, Slade had undoubtedly expected to be isolated, to produce quantities of work. A mountain cabin had probably seemed an ideal location. Then Kris had appeared and blown not just holes, but craters, in his schedule.

I won't desert you.

Carroll concentrated fiercely on her train of thought. Slade. Work. Schedule. Kris. Slade wasn't given to sulking or complaining. He also didn't talk much about his work. She realized with a mild sense of surprise that she hadn't the foggiest idea what he was doing over there. Oh, he answered direct questions and murmured something about radar; she had even seen the colorful graphics on his monitor, but they meant less than nothing to her. She would ask him after the holidays, she decided, sipping her tea.

So Slade would neither complain nor sulk. What would he do? Exactly what he was doing. Work every minute that he could. He would make his deadline come hell or high water. Whatever it took, he would do. And in his spare time-such as it was-he would fret about the problem that Kris had created.

I won't desert you.

She tossed aside the afghan and jumped to her feet, admitting that she had stalled as long as she could. All right! He wouldn't desert her. So he said. And he undoubtedly meant it. For now. But so had Jeffrey.

Jeffrey.

Okay, admit it, Carroll. At least to yourself. Say it just once. Jeffrey had been no more mature at twenty-two than she had been at nineteen. He'd had no more grasp of the depth of the vows he had taken than she had. They had thought they were in love. And they had been-with love, not each other.

Reality had been living in a tiny apartment that they couldn't afford, having no marketable job skills and learning that she was pregnant the third month of their marriage. Even so, reality had barely dented her optimistic outlook. "Things will work out," she had said. Repeatedly. But reality had presented a different face to Jeff, one that he found frightening. He didn't wait for things to work out. He left when she was seven months into her pregnancy; he had never seen his baby. He had never called or written to ask about her. Carroll divorced him and gave Christy her maiden name, and now there was no remnant of Jeff in her life-except for memories.

But Jeff wasn't the villain of the piece, Carroll reflected. There was no villain. He had been weak, and they had both been very young. But still, something good had come from the situation: Christy.

Carroll stared out the window at the lights slashing into the darkness around Slade's house, remembering. Something else had happened. She had grown up. She had managed to return to school and get a good grounding in secretarial work and business administration. It hadn't been easy, but with the help of Kris and Noel it had been possible. Running her own business had been her goal, and had become her achievement for the past four years.

Her life was predictable, secure, just the way she wanted it to be. She was independent and in control, also just the way she wanted to be. And she was happy. Carroll took one last lingering look out the window and turned away. She was happy.

Upstairs, she crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her ears, trying to ignore the haunting refrain that had made it impossible to sleep.

I won't desert you.

Late the next afternoon, Carroll decided to brave the evening traffic so she could drive Christy into town. They wanted to be in the park when Kris turned on the first bank of lights. It was a long-standing tradition on their part, one that not even a cast and crutches could prevent.

"Will we eat at Barney's?" Christy asked.

"Don't we always?"

"Can I get a hamburger and a malt?"

"Don't you always?"

"Then we'll walk over to the park?"

Carroll nodded. "Yep."

"Then we'll walk all through the park and look at all the scenes?"

"Um-hmm."

"The lights only stayed on a couple of seconds last year," Christy pointed out. "There wasn't much to see."

"True. We're hoping that won't happen this year."

"Then we'll go visit all the stores?"

"Every one of them. Do you have your shopping list and your money?"

Christy patted the front pocket of her jeans. "Right here."

"Good. Now all we have to do is figure out how to keep your toes warm."

"I think I've got that covered." Slade leaned against the doorjamb holding two large socks.

"Slade!" Christy turned around and beamed at him, doing a little jig, one crutch just grazing her mother's toes. "Everything's just like I told you. We're going to eat at Barney's, then go to the park, then go shopping. Aren't you glad you decided to come?"

"Very, squirt." He motioned for her to sit on the large upholstered chair and went down on one knee. Working a thermal sock over her toes and the surrounding cast, he said, "But it's your mother's party, and maybe she'd rather just go with you."

"Oh, no, she wouldn't! Would you, Mom?"

Looking from imploring blue eyes to provoking gray ones, Carroll gave up. She knew a lost cause when she saw one. "The more the merrier," she said dryly.

"Thank you." He nodded in her direction. "Dinner's on me tonight."

Christy bounced in the chair. "Great! Can I have a hot fudge sundae?"

He pulled the sock up as far as it would go, then began working a wool one over it. "You may have whatever your mother allows you to have," he told her.

"I was thinking of ordering you a vegetarian plate," Carroll warned, pulling coats, scarves, hats and gloves from the closet. "All green veggies."

Christy grinned. "They don't really have stuff like that at Barney's," she assured Slade.

They used the station wagon, so Christy would have room to stretch out her leg. For once Carroll was grateful for her daughter's nonstop chatter. She identified every house for Slade, telling him the names of the owners and all their children, describing pets when they existed.

It would have been an awkward ride without her, Carroll admitted, because Slade's words still hung heavily between them. At least, as far as she was concerned, they did. She didn't know what to say to him. Obviously something needed to be said, but just as obviously, now was not the time. Not with Christy along.

"We're in luck," Christy said to Slade as her mother pulled into a small lot by the park. "The tourists only get out of their cars to visit the stores. Then they get back in and drive around to look at the lights. They don't know that the best place to be is in the park."

"That's right," Carroll agreed. "And we don't tell them. Come on, we'd better get a move on if we're going to eat before Kris turns on the lights."

Eating at Barney's was a bit like inviting all the neighbors in for dinner, Slade decided. Almost everyone in the place was a local, and almost all of them had something to say about the Christmas display.

Lindy from the boutique stopped at their booth with a tall, slim graying man who pumped Slade's hand. "Hi, I'm Tom Miller. Lindy tells me you're the man who's helping Kris with the lights. Can't tell you how long we've been waiting for this. We all thought they were going to come on last year, and they did- for about five seconds." He shook his head. "Then we had a power failure to end them all, and we lost most of our regular lights for about an hour. Sure hope you two have it figured out this time. Did Lindy tell you about the TV coverage?"

Slade nodded. "I wish I could say that things are going to be-"

"Mr. Ryan?" An elderly woman with blue tinted hair eased in beside the Millers and gently nudged them on their way. "I'm Matilda Gateway, president of the Woman's League, and I want to express my appreciation for your efforts on our behalf. No, don't try to get up, please. It's impossible in a booth. We are all most grateful to you. Kris says your help has been invaluable. We've waited for this Christmas Eve celebration for years, and now, finally, we will have it. Imagine, it's just two weeks away!"

That was only the beginning. Slade's food grew cold as one person after another stopped by the booth with assurances that they were looking forward to the festivities on Christmas Eve.

Carroll touched his hand, wincing as it clenched into a fist. "Slade, I'm so sorry," she whispered miserably while Christy was waving to a friend. "I had no idea it would be like this."

His eyes narrowed. "Kris hasn't told a soul that there's a problem with the rest of the lights, has he? Are you finished?" he asked abruptly, looking at his watch. "We should probably start walking. At least we know these lights are coming on."

Anticipation was in the air. People streamed into the park, calling greetings and stamping their feet to keep warm. Most of them were hopeful, but as one man pointed out, they had felt the same way the past year and the ones before that. As the hour approached, silence fell.

There was a collective gasp as the lights went on, spontaneous applause as the animated scenes began to bob, teeter and whirl. It was spectacular, Slade admitted. He was impressed. So was the crowd.

There was no doubt about it; Kris had done an impressive job. Everyone in the park said so. They told Slade and Carroll and Kris himself, when he strolled grandly down the avenue. Kris beamed and promised a grand finale on Christmas Eve.

Slade stared at him impassively and muttered to Carroll, "I can't take any more of this. Let's get out of here." They wound their way through the park, Christy tucked protectively between them, heading for the stores.

"Mom, look over there!" Christy pointed. "There's Mac and Red and all the other guys. I bet they came up just to see the lights tonight. Hey, Mac!" She waved and picked up speed.

The marines, eleven of them, turned at her call, then swept forward, surrounding them. Mac grinned down at Christy. "After all our work, we had to come and see what it looked like."

"Are you coming up for Christmas Eve?" Carroll asked.

He nodded. "None of us have enough time to get home, so we'll all be here."

"We'll look forward to seeing you," Carroll told him as they all turned in the direction of the shops. "Remember, you're invited for dinner."

As they strolled down the illuminated walk, Mac dropped behind with Slade. In a troubled voice, he said, "I don't see how the old man can add another fifty per cent to all this." He gestured at the brilliant display.

"He can't."

The two men exchanged glances.

"He's really setting himself up for a fall."

"A big one," Slade agreed. "And to make matters worse, they're talking about getting TV coverage for the big event."

Mac stared at him. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

"Can't you stop it?"

Slade shrugged. "Not me. I'm new around here. This thing is like a snowball rolling downhill, getting bigger and faster with every turn. Kris wants more lights." He gestured to the people around them. "They want more lights. The whole town wants more lights. So in two weeks they're going to have TV cameras on hand to record the biggest fizzle in history."

"So what are you going to do?"

Slade swore. "What am I going to do? Nothing. Kris asked me for advice, and I gave it. I told him it was impossible."

"Then what happened?" Mac finally asked.

"He didn't believe me. He said we'd just have to find a way to make it work. I would have to find a way to make it work."

"Oh, jeez."

"Exactly."

Carroll looked at the sleeping girl in Slade's arms. "Thanks for carrying her up. I never would have made it."

"My pleasure." And it was. His arms tightened reflexively around Christy before he bent down and placed her on the bed. "Want me to make some coffee while you tuck her in?"

Downstairs, as he measured the coffee, he thought of Carroll's wary glance and resigned nod. She looked about as thrilled as someone leaning against a stone wall, waiting for the firing squad to appear. Watching the thin stream of coffee trickle into the glass pot, Slade wondered how it would feel to have her face light up when he walked into a room, to share with the rest of her family the soft look of joy that deepened the blue of her eyes.

He leaned against the counter and forced himself to relax. He would know. Sooner or later, he would know.

Chapter Eight

"Why so grim?" Carroll stood in the doorway, an inquiring expression on her face. "Something happen to the coffeepot?"

He moved aside and gestured. "It's fine. I was just thinking."

"About Kris and the lights? I'm sorry he got you involved in all this." She took two mugs out of the cupboard, and reached for the powdered cream.

"Forget the lights. Forget Kris."

Carroll's hands stilled, and he could see tension in the set of her slim shoulders. "Then what-"

"Us. You and me. Slade and Carroll."

Apprehension and relief mingled somewhere deep within her. Finally. No more waiting for the other shoe to fall. No more pretending. Now they could talk it out and put it behind them.

She chose her words carefully, the ones she had rehearsed in the dark of the night. She kept her voice firm. Friendly. Kind. "Us? You make it sound as if we're a couple. We're not. There's a Slade Ryan who lives over there-" she pointed in the direction of his house "-and a Carroll Stilwell who lives here with her family. Two separate people, Slade. Neighbors, but that's all. Please don't read any more into it than there is."

"That's all?" He flashed a smile that was a distinct challenge. "Friends? Maybe not even that, if what you say is true. Acquaintances?"

She sighed, eyeing his smile warily. It made her think of a cat about to pounce. She didn't trust him. Not at all. She might have known he wouldn't make this easy. "Friends," she murmured. "Definitely friends."

He shook his head. "No."

"No?" Her breath caught somewhere deep in her lungs.

"Uh-uh." He lounged against the counter and extended his hand. "Come here and I'll prove it."

Carroll watched the strong hand as if it were a snake. She might have known he would have something up his sleeve! In his own quiet way, Slade was just as devious as Kris. "No. I don't need proof." She snatched up the mugs, filled them and handed him one.

Calmly, he put it on the counter and held out his hand again. "All you have to do is take my hand."

"That's all?"

He grinned at her skeptical tone. "No."

"Then what?" It was like pulling teeth to get anything out of him.

"Kiss me. And then tell me we're only neighbors."

Carroll tried to add cream to her coffee and realized that her hand was shaking. Kiss him? She might as well rent a billboard advertising the fact that he was driving her crazy. She shook her head and cleared her throat. "I don't see what that would prove."

"I think you do. I think that's why you're so nervous."

"I'm not nervous!" she said stoically, then dropped the spoon and sprayed coffee all over the sink. Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a calming breath. "No." Her voice was definite. "I don't believe in playing games to solve problems."

He kept his hand where it was, waiting for hers. "It's no game, honey. This is real life. If you can kiss me and tell me it means nothing to you, I'll go away and leave you alone."

He wasn't going to move, she realized, knowing it with sudden certainty. He would stay right there, in his own stubborn way, holding out his hand until she proved that he was wrong. Once she did, he would go. Ignoring the feeling of loss that washed over her, she told herself briskly that it would be for the best.

And what would it take? Three seconds? Five? Ten or fifteen, at the most. Fifteen seconds compared to hours of silent pressure? To a life turned upside down? As far as she was concerned, there was no contest. She could do anything for fifteen seconds-hold her breath, stand on her head, anything. Even kiss Slade and convince him that she didn't feel a thing.

Slade knew from the tilt of her chin that he had won. The first round, at least. She would come to him and try to make her body lie, but it wouldn't. Because it couldn't. He knew that from their first kiss.

"All right." Carroll turned to face him, looking like a martyr being led to the lions. She stepped forward, clearly intending to give him a swift peck on the lips, faltering only when his hand reached out to grasp hers.

He stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, and brought her to him slowly, letting her feel his hunger. He slid his hands into the back pockets of her jeans and urged her closer. She was soft and warm and smelled of summer flowers.

The instant he touched her, Carroll knew she had made a mistake. She was tucked in the cradle of his parted legs, her body off balance and lying along his. He was hard and hot, and obviously not in a hurry. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder, and his big hands smoothed down her back and settled on her buttocks, pressing her closer.

"Slade-"

"Shh."

"This isn't-"

"Yes, it is."

His voice was deep, rumbling against her ear. The tip of her nose touched his neck, and he smelled of something spicy and clean and very male.

Her arms slid around him and she arched closer when his lips touched her earlobe. Shivering, she uttered a soft, throaty whimper. "No."

He chuckled. "Umm."

"I don't want this."

"You've got it."

"It's too complicated."

"We'll make it simple."

When he lowered his head, her mouth met his, willing and oh so sweet, tasting like honey. And her body didn't lie. It melted into his like sunshine, gifting him with her own special brand of warmth.

When his fingertips skimmed her hair, she sighed. He was a big man who knew how to be gentle. Quiet and intense, Slade was a man who touched emotions in her she hadn't even known she had, made her blood roar like a freight train and sparkle like wine. Slade was a man who-

Startled, she dropped her hands to his chest and pushed. He lifted his head and slowly, reluctantly, let her go. She stepped back and took a deep breath, finishing her last thought. Slade was a man who would be big trouble in her life.

Gray eyes gleamed down at her. "Well, what's the verdict? Friend, acquaintance, significant other-or husband material?"

"Don't be cute," she said coolly.

He waited.

"All right! So I was wrong."

"Ah."

"In a way."

"What way?"

"We're more than neighbors."

He smiled.

"But that's as far as it goes."

He waited again.

"I told you before. I like my life just the way it is. Peaceful, uncomplicated-"

"Dull?"

"Maybe." She stared at him. "But that's the way I like it. Darn it, Slade, we're no good for each other."

"Translated, that means I'm no good for you." He folded his arms across his chest, his level gaze a challenge.

She didn't flinch. "Exactly."

"How do you know?"

"I don't," she admitted. "Not for sure. But I'm not going to take the risk. Go back to your work, Slade. Help Kris, if that's what you want to do, but leave me alone."

He reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm going to be around for a long time. You might as well get used to me."

Chapter Nine

Slade left Carroll standing in the middle of the kitchen and walked across the pine-studded ground to his house. He looked up at the black sky and counted the few stars visible between the scudding clouds, then buttoned his shearling jacket. After opening the door and walking straight through to the office, he dropped into his chair and stared at the blank computer screen.

He didn't know if forcing a confrontation had been the worst idea he'd ever had, or the best. And if Carroll's stunned expression was any indication, he might not find out for quite some time. She hadn't looked like she was in the mood to make any rash decisions. Which was precisely as it should be, he reflected grimly. This was something she had to decide for herself. Because as much as he loved her, ached for her, there was one thing he couldn't do for her.

He couldn't give her trust.

And nothing would work for them without it. Especially not marriage. They both knew that. She believed that most men were as faithless as her father and that blockhead Jeffrey, and there wasn't a thing he could do to change her mind. He couldn't force her to believe in him. He didn't want her to marry him, then wake up each morning and look at him with eyes that wondered if he would be gone before nightfall. He shuddered. No, he could handle a lot, but not that.

Determination narrowed his eyes. Carroll didn't know it, but she needed him as much as he needed her. She needed to know that a man could love her the way he did, that he would still be around when the time came to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary. Somehow, he would convince her. He would give her a little more time if that was what she needed. Or if she needed prodding, he would prod.

Absently, he turned on the computer and reached for the disk. Once he finished the design and delivered it to his partner to begin the bidding process, then figured out what to do about Kris, he would have all the time in the world.

Kris. The old man was as much trouble as his granddaughter. More. Now he even had the U.S. Marines worrying about him. Slade leaned back and stared blankly at the toes of his shoes. The U.S. Marines. Interesting.

The screen suddenly came alive with colorful graphics. Slade ignored them, following the tenuous trail of what had to be the craziest idea he'd ever had.

The U.S. Marines?

Early the next morning, long before the rest of the family was stirring, Carroll took her cup of tea into the living room and stared out the window. That she happened to be looking in the direction of Slade's house was sheer coincidence, she told herself. It had nothing at all to do with the man himself. She always watched the sun spread its golden blanket over the hills beyond his place. The fact that there was no sun this morning, that the sky was a sullen gray, also had nothing to do with anything.

Habit. That was all it was. She certainly wasn't camped here by the window to catch a glimpse of one of the world's most aggravating men. Anyway, he was probably already at work. That was where he spent most of his time-in front of his computer. Well, after last night's little trick, that was fine with her. He could sit there until he turned green from radiation.

She took another sip of tea, frowning. No, that wasn't fair. He didn't spend every waking hour at the computer-her daughter and her father had seen to that. Each of them had infringed on large chunks of his time. And, she admitted grudgingly, he had given them more than they had asked for. Especially Kris.

Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned closer to the window. Slade's pickup truck was gone. He kept his precious Mercedes in the garage, but his pickup was always in the carport. Except for now.

Telling herself that she wasn't a bit curious, that she was only going out to get the morning paper, she set aside her cup and went to the front door. Before she opened it, she saw the note.

It was taped to one of the small glass panes in the door. Black ink, written in an aggressive scrawl, her name on the front.

Carroll, I have to go to town. Be back as soon as possible. I love you. Don't worry.

Her heart gave a little leap, which she tried to ignore. Instead, she concentrated on the last two words. Worry? Why should she worry? Men always claimed the right to come and go. Mostly go. That was fine with her. If he came back, he came back. If he didn't, what else was new?

Eight days later, Christy poked her head through Carroll's office door. "Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you heard from Slade?"

Carroll shook her head. "Not yet."

"Where do you suppose he is?" Christy leaned against Carroll and gave a forlorn sigh.

"Honey, he has a job, remember? He'll be back." Maybe.

"When?"

"I don't know."

"The play's in six days."

Carroll gave her a swift hug. "He knows that."

Four days later, Kris sat perched on the corner of her desk. "What have you heard from Slade?"

"Nothing. Why?"

He gave an elaborate shrug. "No reason."

"Come on, Kris."

He shrugged again. "The day after tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and he's going to take care of the lights."

Carroll's sigh was slightly ragged. "I don't know what to say."

Kris patted her shoulder and bounced to his feet. "Too bad he missed the second batch, but he'll be back in plenty of time," he assured her.

"Sure." If we're lucky.

"Mom!" Christy bounced into the office, her face flushed with excitement. "Look what they just brought from Patty's flower shop!" She held a white box in either hand. "This one's yours." Her blue eyes snapped with excitement. "And this one's for me."

Carroll held her box with fingers that shook. "You first," she said, smiling as Christy tore open the lid.

"Oh, look! Isn't it gorgeous?" She lifted a small-corsage with a crimson tulip decorated as a bell. "There's a card, too." She lifted a glowing face. "It's from Slade, 'for the star of the show tomorrow night.'"

Carroll opened her box and stared down at a delicate white orchid. The card said simply Save me a seat.

That was all it said, but it meant so much more. And she knew-no, she believed-that he meant every word.

She handed the box to Christy and said urgently, "Honey, put these in the fridge. I have to run into town for a minute."

Christy's eyes grew even brighter. "For more presents?"

Carroll nodded, grinning. "This one's for Slade."

The morning of Christmas Eve, Carroll held her cup of tea and looked out at the empty carport. Robe-clad and yawning, Kris and Christy shuffled in, heading straight for the window. They both turned at the same time, alarm widening their eyes.

"He isn't here," they said in unison.

This time there was no hesitation, no qualification.

"He will be," she said in a serene voice.

Later that morning, Kris received a telephone call. It was a measure of his concern that he answered without complaint. Two minutes later he charged out of the house, calling that he would see them at the play.

Later still, when Carroll drove Christy into town and parked by the playhouse, they saw that the marines had landed. Mac, Red and the rest of them, under Kris's supervision, were doing something with the lights.

Carroll hugged Christy. "Good luck, darling."

"Mother! You're supposed to tell me to break a leg."

"I'm afraid to." She tapped the cast with a grin. "You'll be wonderful." She hurried away to join the audience.

The show was just beginning when Slade eased into the seat beside her and reached for her hand. She felt the tension emanating from him and asked, "Is everything all right?"

"Keep your fingers crossed," he whispered, then settled back with a satisfied grin. He did ask one question during intermission. "What is Christy's legal name?"

A peculiar expression crossed Carroll's face. "Why?"

"Just wondering. A point of reference, you might say."

"She made me promise not to tell anyone."

"I'll take a vow of silence if I have to. Just tell me."

She swallowed. "Christmas Stilwell."

Slade's eyes closed briefly, and he muttered, "I might have known."

Thirty minutes later, with the sound of Christy's, "God bless us, everyone!" still ringing in the room, Slade jumped to his feet and led the enthusiastic applause.

As the audience straggled outside, they went backstage to collect Christy. Beside herself with excitement, she hugged Slade and announced, "I'm going to be an actress."

"You already are." He rumpled her hair. "A good one, at that." Glancing swiftly at his watch, he said, "Come on, we've got to get outside."

"Slade?" She looked at him anxiously. "Are the lights going to go on for Kris?"

He squeezed her hand. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But you know Kris. He believes in miracles. Anything can happen."

"He believes in people," Christy said firmly, clutching his hand.

When they joined the crowd outside, Carroll winced. "Oh no. Look over there."

Slade's gaze followed hers, settling on a man wielding a minicam and a woman with a microphone talking to Tom Miller. "So they got their TV coverage. Let's hope it's worth their trip up here." He swung Christy up in his arms so she could get a better view.

The crowd looked at the digital clock on the bank across the street and began a soft countdown. "Ten, nine, eight… "

"Slade," Carroll began, then stopped when he draped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer. "Thank you for the flowers."

"Five, four, three… "

He looked down and smiled.

"Two, one!"

Tears stung Carroll's eyes as a glorious profusion of color flowered to life around them. Lights glistened and glowed, illuminating the entire town. They came on, and they stayed on.

Christy turned an awed face to Slade. "I bet we could light up the whole world."

He groaned and tightened his arm around her. "Don't mention that to Kris. Please."

Carroll nudged him. "How did you do it?"

Shaking his head, he said simply, "I didn't. We can thank the U.S. Marines."

Her brows rose. "Oh?"

"I told them the problem, and they decided they could use a little positive PR. They donated the use of a diesel generator, and the boys volunteered to do some rewiring." He smiled complacently and nodded toward the minicam. "Tom should be telling the world about it right now."

The church choir softly sang "Joy to the World," and soon everyone joined in. Carroll wiped a bit of moisture from her cheek, then dabbed at the tip of her nose. She blinked and looked around her. It was. It really was!

She looked up, her eyes meeting Slade's. He grinned ruefully and shook his head.

It was snowing.

Right on schedule, Kris drove down the street, booming greetings to one and all. The hay wagon did indeed look like a sleigh. Rudolph and Blitzen, mercifully, did not look like reindeer. Eleven grinning marines sat among the pile of presents.

When Santa parked his sleigh, Slade handed Christy up to one of the marines, then found a quiet spot for himself and Carroll to watch.

"I didn't put my gift on the sleigh," he told her quietly.

"I didn't, either."

They reached into their coat pockets, and each of them brought out a small box. When they exchanged them, Slade said, "You first."

It was a ring, a solitaire diamond, sparkling and darting, reflecting the dazzling lights all around them.

"Will you marry me, Carroll? Will you trust me to love you the way you should be loved? Will you-"

She stopped his words with her fingers. "First, open your present."

He lifted the lid. Taking out a small enamel pin, he said, "A dove?"

She shook her head, smiling uncertainly. "It was as close as I could come to a homing pigeon. It's silly, I guess, but I wanted to tell you that I know you'll always come back."

He slid the ring on her finger, and they both looked up to see Christy watching, doing an awkward jig in the crowded sleigh. Carroll threw her arms around his neck and tugged, bringing his mouth down to hers. Hunger and trust and love blended in the brief kiss.

Behind them, her voice shrill with excitement, Christy called, "God bless us, every one!"

Holding Carroll tight against him, Slade asked, "How do you feel about Harold if the first one's a boy?"

"I hate it," she said promptly, her voice muffled against his jacket.

He smiled. There was hope. "Merry Christmas, darling."

"Merry Christmas."

Author's Note

One morning, lying in bed, half-awake and half-asleep, the idea for this story came to me. I thought of Kris and his lights, Noel and her painting, a girl who wanted a father, a woman afraid to love and a man who had enough love for all of them. I liked the idea and planned to do something with it. Someday. Several days later, my editor called and asked if I would like to do a Christmas story. Timing is rarely that perfect.

I love everything about Christmas.

I still look at tinsel, trees, lights, TV specials, poinsettias, garlands and wrapped presents with wide-eyed wonder. I love shopping, crowds, carols and cards with family news and special messages of love. Most of all, I enjoy family get-togethers and seeing old friends.

It's a season for dreaming and believing.

It's a season that suits me quite well because I have a lot of Kris in me-I'm big on dreaming impossible dreams and reaching for stars. And, like Kris, I believe that dreams do come true-you just have to be willing to work at them.

From me and mine to you and yours, a shower of blessings. May you have health, joy, prosperity and love. May you dream big, and may all your dreams come true.