The Kidnapped Christmas Bride

“All we need are some stockings and Santa can come,” Trey said.

“Santa will find us here?” TJ asked.

“Of course.” Trey paused. “If you were a good boy. Were you a good boy this year?”

TJ was silent a long moment. “Most the time,” he said finally, his voice uncertain. “Does that count?”

Trey laughed. “Absolutely.” He glanced at McKenna, still grinning. “Don’t you think, Mac?”

“Yes. When it comes to you two. It’s got to. Otherwise, we’d never have Christmas or visits from Santa Claus.”

*

Late that night, after dinner and dishes, they sat in the living room admiring the tree, enjoying the fire. Trey told TJ stories about when he was a boy and how he and his brothers would go look for the perfect tree and how they’d always end up fighting and one or more would return home with a bloody nose, or worse.

TJ loved the stories, and he asked questions about who was stronger—Uncle Brock or Uncle Cormac, and who ran faster, Uncle Troy or Uncle Dillon, and McKenna sat curled up in one of the threadbare armchairs listening to Trey answer all of TJ’s questions. He was so patient with his son, so incredibly sweet, and it moved her more than words could say.

Lawrence had tolerated TJ but he’d never loved him. He’d never enjoyed him. He’d never cared about the things that interested TJ…not the way Trey did.

And she got the feeling watching Trey with TJ that if he’d met her, and she’d been a single mom to TJ, Trey would have cared about her son. He would have tried to not merely parent him and keep him safe, but would have laughed and played. Trey would always engage and entertain. Trey would make a child’s life…fun.

And fun mattered.

Happiness mattered.

Safety and stability was important, but what was a stable, safe life without humor and excitement and pleasure?

One of the reasons she’d loved Trey was that he’d always made her laugh. He’d made her giggle and smile and feel good.

Those things mattered.

Watching Trey and TJ together now she felt as if she could see Trey, truly see him, all the way through to his soul.

And no, his soul wasn’t shiny and silver bright, but tarnished like the vintage balls on the tree, and perhaps even bruised and broken, marked with jagged cuts and welts and scars.

Yet for all those scars and dull marks, there was something so very beautiful in him. He was alive, and strong, and deep.

But then, wasn’t that the appeal from the beginning. That he was flawed and real? That he was open and honest? Human.

He’d never tried to cover up his weaknesses. He’d never sugar-coated anything for anyone, and he certainly had never pretended to be a perfect man, one of those romance novel heroes….all good and pure, the idealized boyfriend every girl wanted.

No. He wasn’t that great, stand up guy.

But it hadn’t mattered. She’d loved him anyway, as even broken and flawed, he’d felt like hers.

She’d been the one to seduce him. She’d been the one to push his buttons, wanting him to treat her like a woman, not a girl. Wanting him to be hot and demanding, sensual and physical.

He’d wanted to marry her ever since he graduated from high school. He’d wanted to do the right thing by her, but she refused to marry him until he stopped fighting and drinking and driving and staying out late causing trouble with ‘the boys’. She didn’t like that he was one person with her, and then this street-tough alpha with everyone else. Why couldn’t he be as kind and charming with everyone as he was with her? Why couldn’t he try harder to fit in? Settle down? Be good?

They’d fought about his behavior for years…

Don’t cause trouble. Don’t stay out too late. Don’t drink too much because you’ll just end up doing something stupid…

But he liked who he was and he wasn’t interested in changing. He enjoyed all the things she was afraid of…the fist fights, the late nights, the rowdy groups of guys he hung out with. He enjoyed being tough, strong, slightly dangerous.

“This is who I am,” he’d told her more than once. “This is what I am.”

“Someday something will happen,” she’d answer. “Someday something beyond your control.”

And then it had happened. The fight at the Wolf Den, with its disastrous results. Bradley Warner had died after falling and striking his head on the edge of the bar, and Trey was arrested and charged with manslaughter.

It didn’t matter that Trey had intervened to protect Bradley’s pregnant girlfriend from Bradley’s fists. It didn’t matter that witnesses said that Trey had only thrown a few punches and had never lost control. It didn’t matter that Trey was supposed to be the good guy and Brad was the bad guy. Because Brad died and Trey was responsible and Trey had to pay.

There were consequences for fighting.

Consequences for not following rules.

Consequences for being tough and physical and fearless.

For the past two years McKenna had told herself that she was rejecting Trey because she didn’t want TJ to grow up like him, but suddenly she knew she’d wronged them, both of them.

There was so much good in Trey, and so much good in TJ.

She couldn’t reject one without rejecting the other and suddenly she wasn’t so sure that being good, being safe, was the right answer.

She didn’t want to be stupid and didn’t want danger, but she wanted more than safe, wanted more than predictable.

She wanted teasing and smiles, love and laughter.

She wanted her heart back.

She wanted her life back.

She wanted Trey and TJ together.

With her.

Together a family with her.

But she was scared. She was scared that if she let down her guard, if she allowed Trey back in, something bad could happen—again—and she could lose him, and her heart, and her happiness all over. Again.

Chapter Twelve

‡

McKenna woke up to the incessant trilling and drumming of a bird outside her cabin window. It had been going on and on and she’d tried to ignore it and fall back asleep but it wasn’t happening, not while the bird kept thrumming and kuk-kuk-kuking outside the window.

Climbing from bed she went to the small window and pushed back the shutter. She shivered in her pajamas, which was really just a man’s t-shirt, X-Large, and craned her head to try to find the offending bird. The sun was just starting to rise and she couldn’t see a bird, but she could still hear it, kuk-kuk-kuking, over and over.

McKenna bumped into Trey in the hallway. He was fully dressed and she tugged the hem of the t-shirt down, trying to cover herself.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“What time is it?” she asked, thinking t

hat the t-shirt had seemed perfectly roomy and modest last night but seemed to cover far less of her now.

“Not quite six.”

“I didn’t want to be awake this early,” she answered, smothering a yawn. “But there is the most annoying bird outside—”

“Our resident woodpecker. I heard it, too.”

“It’s been making noise half the night.”

“The pileated woodpeckers do. Our woods are full of them. They love the old growth trees.”

“Great.”

He must have noticed that she kept tugging on the hem of her t-shirt. “Aren’t you wearing panties?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You’re acting excessively virginal, Mac,” he said, sounding amused.

“Be quiet. Go shave. Or better yet, be useful and make some coffee.”

“I have, and it’s waiting for you, Princess. Or was I supposed to bring it to you in bed?”

“No.” And yet the moment he said the word bed, her imagination sparked, creating all sorts of wanton images in her head. Images she didn’t want or need. Because when it came to making love with Trey, reality was so much better than fantasy. He was that good. And he felt that good, and no, she’d never slept with any other man than Trey, so she didn’t know if it’d be that good with someone else, but honestly, she hadn’t wanted to find out.

Trey had been her only one.

Although once she married Lawrence, she would have obviously had to make love to him. She suppressed a faint shudder. She hadn’t been looking forward to that.

Although she was pretty sure he had.

She crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her breasts. “Did any of your brothers ever leave a robe behind?”

“Nope, but I did find an old wool cardigan. It’s huge, XXL, and rather moth eaten but it could be a robe on you.”

“I’ll take it. Thank you.”

She was in the kitchen filling her cup when he returned with a grey, beige and cream knit sweater with an Indian motif.