“I’m Amy Mitchell.”
The blush made her look pretty. And vulnerable. He didn’t want to take her hand, because despite her effort to be brave she still looked a breath away from crying, and the baby was still watching her intently, waiting.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he said, even though she wore no wedding band. He took her hand.
Ty knew instantly why he had resisted taking it. Amy Mitchell’s hand in his felt tiny, soft beyond soft. The touch of her hand, his closeness to her, made him aware of his bleak world in ways that made him uncomfortable.
Her eyes were not brown, as he had initially thought from across the room, but a kaleidoscope of greens and golds, shot through with rich, dark hints of coffee color.
Now that she didn’t feel she had her back against the wall, with a home invader coming at her, her eyes were soft and worried. Her honey-in-a-jar hair was scattered about her face in a wild disarray of curls that made him want to right it, to feel its texture beneath his fingertips.
Ty Halliday’s world was a hard place. There was no softness in it, and no room for softness, either. There was no room in his world for the tears that shone, unshed, behind the astounding loveliness of her eyes; there was no room in his world for the bright, hopeful lights of the Christmas tree.
The baby, eyes shifting from him to his mother and back again, suddenly relaxed. “Papa,” he cooed, and leaned away from his mommy, reaching for Ty.
Ty took a defensive step backward.
There was no room in his world for such innocence or trust. All these things were as foreign to Ty as an exotic, unvisited land.
He realized he was still holding Amy Mitchell’s hand. She realized it, too, and with a deepening blush, slipped it from his.
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered. “I have GPS.”
She said that as if her faulty system or reading of it was the cause of the stain moving up her cheeks, instead of her awareness of him.
And maybe it was.
But he didn’t think so.
Still, he focused on the GPS, too, something safe in a room that suddenly seemed fraught with dangers of a kind he had never considered before.
The faith city folk put in their gadgets never failed to astound him, but aware she was still terrifyingly close to the tear stage, he tried to think of a way to phrase it that wouldn’t wound her.
“It wouldn’t be the first time GPS got people into trouble in this country,” he said after some thought.
“Really?”
Obviously, she was pleased that hers was not an isolated case of being misled by her global positioning system, and he could have left it at that.
Instead, he found the worry lines dissolving on her forehead encouraging enough to want to make them—and the possibility of tears—disappear altogether.
“One of the neighbors found an old couple stranded in George’s Pass last year. They’d been on the news. Missing for a week.”
But instead of being further reassured that her mistake was not all that uncommon, Amy looked aghast. He remembered the locked doors and saw her considering other scenarios. Disastrous possibilities flashed through her eyes as she considered what could have happened to her if she had followed her GPS instructions somewhere other than his driveway.
Which just served as a reminder that he could not really be trusted with soft things or a woman so frightened of life she locked everything all the time and was ready to defend herself with a lamp if need be.
She marshaled herself and turned away from him. She plunked the baby down on his padded rear and began to whip around the room, picking up baby things, putting them in a pile. Given the short amount of time she had been here, the pile grew to a mountain with astonishing swiftness.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Halliday. We’ll go right away. I’m so embarrassed.”
If he had thought she was blushing before, that had only been a hint of the main event.
Amy Mitchell was turning a shade of red that matched some of the lights on the tree. Was that a smile tickling around the edges of his mouth? He tried to remember the last time he had smiled.
Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town had made him smile, he decided. He’d reread that a week or so ago.
No doubt his current good cheer was because his visitor was so intent on leaving. There was no need to tell her to pack her baby and get the hell out of his house. She was doing it all on her own.
“It will take me a minute to gather my things,” she said, all business and flurrying activity. “I’ll leave the groceries.”
“Groceries?”
“Oh, I stocked the fridge. I thought I was going to be living here, after all.”
“You’re not leaving the groceries,” he said.
“Oh, no, really. You didn’t have a thing in your fridge. That’s part of why I thought I was in the right place. Nothing in the fridge, no tree up, no socks on the floor.”
She had been in his bedroom.
“Really, I didn’t think anyone had lived here recently.” She shot him a look that was faintly accusing and faintly sympathetic. “It certainly didn’t look as though anyone lived here.”
“I don’t need your groceries,” he said a bit more tightly than he intended. He was so hungry, and whatever she had in the fridge would be better than the tin of stew he had planned on opening. But to admit that might invite more sympathy, and he definitely didn’t need her sympathy.
So his place looked unlived in. So it wasn’t going to be the featured house on Cozy Country Homes. So what? It was a place to hang his hat and lay his head. He didn’t need more than that.
Or at least he hadn’t felt as if he had for a long, long time. But there it was again, unwanted, uninvited emotion whispering along his spine.
Yearning. A wish he had managed to bury deep to have something that he did not have.
“I started to unpack. I’ve got some things in the bedroom,” she explained as she scurried around the room, the remnants of her embarrassment making her awkward. She dropped a baby puzzle on the floor, and the wooden pieces scattered.
He just knew she had been in there, in his bedroom. And he knew, suddenly, why it bothered him, too. That could move yearning in a whole other direction if he let it, which he wasn’t going to.
He hadn’t allowed himself feelings for a long, long time. It must be the Christmas tree, the baby, the scents, the astonishing discovery of a woman in his house, his own exhaustion, making him oddly vulnerable, making him aware of a hole a mile deep where his soul should be.
He watched Amy Mitchell, on her hands and knees, picking up the pieces of the puzzle, stuffing them into a box. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the baby roll off his rear end onto all fours.
With startling speed and unsettling determination, he crawled across the floor, making a beeline for Ty.
Ty stepped out of his way. The baby followed like a heat-seeking missile locked on target.
“Papa!” he yelled.
“Where is his papa?” he asked, deftly sidestepping the baby one more time.
CHAPTER TWO
“SO, that’s what they call the Texas two-step,” Amy said, rocking back on her heels to watch, after something in Ty’s tone had made her look up from where