Wrapped Up In Christmas

If ever Bodie was going to tell Sarah about his quilt, now was the perfect opportunity. He could explain about her quilt. Her note. Her impact on his life. That, like her aunt, she helped so many people, too.

She’d helped him. Maybe she’d be glad to hear that. Maybe it would help.

But he hadn’t planned to tell her about the quilt he treasured even more after getting to know the woman who’d made it. What would be the point?

“I imagine she was very proud of you.”

How could her aunt not have been proud? Sarah was the best person he knew. Good, wholesome, unjaded by the cruelties of the world. He wanted to protect that. To protect her from the things he’d seen and done. To wipe away the sadness in her eyes.

Sarah nodded. “She was proud, but always pushed me to do my best. She believed in serving others and lived her life doing so.”

“Nothing wrong with that life philosophy if you’re able to do it.”

“As a young widow, she took care of her in-laws and then, much later, she took care of me.”

“She never had children of her own?”

“No. They’d planned to start a family after Roy came back from the war.”

“But he never came back,” Bodie finished for her.

She gave him a trembly smile. “Did you fight in any wars, Bodie?”

Not ones where the enemy fought out in the open. His enemy had always been hidden, avoiding open battlefields and attacking from the shadows, hiding among the innocent and wreaking destruction on their lives.

Taking the lives of his brothers in arms.

His stomach knotted. His vision blurred. His fingers dug into his palms as his hands clenched.

Bodie closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Fighting the shadows, he opened his eyes, met her still-watery gaze.

“Well, I guess I did mean to pry,” she corrected. “I’m curious about you, about your time in the service.”

“I didn’t fight in a war like your uncle Roy.”

“But you did fight?”

Tapping his fingers against the kitchen island, he shrugged. “Every soldier is in a battle against terrorism.”

She nodded as if she understood, but he doubted she did. He doubted anyone did unless they’d lived it.

“You were a good soldier.”

He’d thought so, but then he’d awakened to screams, awakened to die inside even though his body had somehow managed to survive. A good soldier would have protected his unit.

His gaze shifted to hers. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I know you.”

“You’ve known me a couple of weeks,” he said. “You know very little about me, much less whether I was a good soldier.”

“Knowing a person is about so much more than just time.” She put the dishtowel on the counter and closed the few steps between them. Reaching out, she touched his chest with her pointer finger. “I know what’s in here. It tells me that you live by a high code of ethics.”

Her finger burned through his shirt, warming the flesh as if she touched him with a branding iron.