Page 33 of A Ranger for Christmas
“I don’t mean to give you a hard time. She’s more than welcome. And like I said, I like her.”
He set his cup down. “But . . .”
“I just worry for you. You like her. A lot. Whether you admit it or not. And I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
A smile tugged the edges of his lips. “You’re looking out for me?”
“Yeah, that’s what family does. We look out for one another. I don’t want you to get your heart broken.”
He and Marisa were from different worlds. Chemistry in a bedroom didn’t mean any kind of commitment. But he knew they were right for each other.
“Right now she needs you. She’s hurt and she’s scared. But when she gets back on her feet, she’ll go scrambling back to her world, and you’re going to go back to yours. Like oil and vinegar, they mix when shaken, but after a while they separate and return to where they came from. Sooner or later you’re going to get called away. And she’s going to end up back on one of her jungle digs.”
“Why don’t you stop thinking? Let’s see how it plays out.”
“I’m all for letting it play out. Just keep your guard up, big brother.”
Marisa and Lucas were both quiet in the car. For a long time, she stared out over the dusty land dotted with scrubby trees that reminded her of an old man’s scruffy beard. Texas wasn’t a lush or easy land, but it had a beauty that she’d always found hard to resist.
She thought about that night she was driving to her father’s house. The sun had set, and she’d been disappointed that her first trip out of the city in over a year had been blanketed in darkness. She’d yearned to see the rolling countryside and the bright sunshine and, for the first time in a long time, she’d realized she needed to push away from her buried ruins and dusty documents and step into life. But, of course, she’d been late because she’d been working. Always working.
Marisa again questioned her choices when she’d stood in Sherry’s house last night. The home was full of life. It was a happy place. Connected.
Feeling Lucas’s gaze slide from the road to her face, she heard herself saying, “Your sister has a lovely home.”
The sound of her voice eased some of the tension in his body, as if he’d worried she’d slipped away from him for good. “She does. She has a knack for making anyone feel part of the family.”
Her mother had never had stews simmering on the stove or cookies in the oven. “No one can out-Christmas Sherry.”
He smiled. “I told you.”
She thought of her mother’s paltry collection of lights and decorations that still remained in the box. She wanted to love Christmas and wanted to embrace the holiday. But each time the season approached, she drew deeper within herself, counting the days to the New Year and the end of the holiday reverie. What kind of person didn’t like Christmas?
She closed her eyes and pushed aside questions she could not answer. Her focus shifted to what she could fix. Her memory. The accident and the documents.
As she allowed the tension to seep away like water from a cracked urn, she cleared her mind and collected the broken pieces of the night of the accident. But as much as she stared at the pieces and searched for the missing ones, she could not create a coherent image.
“You’re trying to remember?”
“Yes. But no matter how often I assemble or reassemble the pieces, I can’t create a recognizable picture.”
The seat leather creaked as he settled back in his seat. “Were you playing music on the radio?”
She opened her eyes and studied his profile. His was not a classically beautiful face. Too many flaws to approach beauty. But there was an energy, a strength that made him far more appealing than the most perfect statue of a Mayan god. And when he smiled . . . well, her knees went just a little weak. “What does that have to do with remembering?”
“It’s just a simple question. Music?” When she continued to stare at him, he said, “Close your eyes. Music.”
She closed her eyes and let her mind drift past the broken pieces that refused assembly. In the distance she heard the faint sound of a strumming guitar mingled with the deep melody ofa man’s voice. A smile tipped the edges of her lips. She’d been listening to country-western music. Despite all her connections to the ancient civilizations, she loved country music. “Willie Nelson.”
“Willie Nelson.”
Laughter rose up in her. “Crazy.”
“I never figured you for a fan.”
“I’m not all dusty documents and dead languages.”
“I know you aren’t.”
