of a successful mission. She was too worried Bill would end up hurt or dead. That could happen one of these days, but still...
Time to change the subject before she laid on another guilt trip. He didn’t want to end up letting her down again. “This morning I put up the Santa you brought over. Got the lights strung on the eaves, too.”
“Wonderful. How’s the tree coming along?”
Two ornaments—a snowboard and a snowshoe—hung from the branches of a seven-foot noble fir. Bill had a box full of more ornaments, but he’d gotten bored trimming the tree. Decorating with a sexy snow bunny for a helper would have been more fun. “The tree’s coming along. I’ve even got a present under there.”
He wasn’t about to tell his mom the gift was a wedding present for Leanne Thomas and Christian Welton, two firefighters getting married on Saturday. Soon Bill would be the only member of their crew still single.
He didn’t mind.
Marriage was fine for other people. Somehow his parents had remained together in spite of spending so much time apart. Maybe when Bill hit forty he would reconsider matrimony as an option. Then again, maybe not. He didn’t need another woman dependent on him, like his mom. A woman who would think he wasn’t a good enough man, husband, father, and kept waiting for him to screw up.
“I’m happy to finish decorating your tree,” Mom said.
He had no doubt she would happily show up to decorate his whole house, wearing an embroidered Christmas sweater and jingle bells dangling from her earlobes. With her husband away most of the time, she focused her attention and energy on Bill. Always had. After she’d miscarried during a difficult pregnancy, she’d turned into a hovering, don’t-let-the-kid-out-of-your sight, overprotective mom. His turning eighteen, twenty-one, thirty hadn’t lessened the mother hen tendencies. “Give me another week.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” She made a smacking sound, her version of a good-night kiss over the phone. “Sleep well, dear.”
“Will do.” Too bad he’d be sleeping alone. Stormy nights were perfect for going to bed with a hot woman. But the December dating deadline—the second Monday in December, when men stopped seeing women, in order to avoid spending the holidays with them—had passed. Even friends with benefits expected more than he was willing to give this time of year. “’Night, Mom.”
He placed the phone on the end table, sat in the recliner and took a long pull of beer. This year’s seasonal brew from the Wy’East Brewing Company went down smoothly.
He glanced at a photograph hanging on the wall—of Jake Porter, Leanne, Nick Bishop, Tim Moreno and himself at Smith Rock during a sunny day of rock climbing in central Oregon. He raised his bottle in memory of Nick, who’d died during a climb on Mount Hood’s Reid Headwall at Christmastime nine years ago.
Wind rattled the windows.
Storm, storm, go away. Billy Paulson wants to play.
He downed the rest of the beer.
Game highlights gave way to a sports talk show.
He flipped through the channels, not bothering to turn up the sound. News. Chick flick. Syndicated comedy. The same boring shows.
Bill heard what sounded like a knock.
No one would be out tonight. Must be a branch against the house.
Another knock.
He stood.
The knocking continued. Rapid. Loud.
Not a branch. More like someone in trouble.
Bill ran, opened the door.
Cold wind slammed into his body. Bits of ice pelted his face. Swirling snow blinded his eyes.
He blinked. Focused.
A woman stood on the porch. A woman holding a bunch of blankets. A woman covered with snow.
Bill ushered her inside, then closed the door.
Dark, wet hair obscured her face. Her teeth chattered. Her jeans and jacket were soaked. She wore wet gloves.
He brushed snow off her jacket, icy wetness chilled his palms. “What’s going on?”
“S-slid into a s-snowbank.”
“Were you buckled up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No. Air b-bag.”
“Back or neck pain?”
“No.”
“Does anything hurt?”
“F-f-face was b-burning. H-hard to breathe. B-but that’s better now.” She shivered. “Just c-c-old.”
Bill pushed the wet hair off her face to get a better look at her.
Wide amber eyes. Flushed cheeks. Runny nose.
Full, generous lips.
The kind of lips a man, at least this man, dreamed about tasting and kissing and...
Her lips trembled.
Focus, Paulson. “Let’s get you out of that wet jacket.”
She held out the pile of blankets. “M-m-my s-son.”
Adrenaline shot through Bill. He grabbed the child and laid him on the rug in front of the living room fireplace. “Is he injured?”
“I d-don’t think so.”
Bill peeled away the wet top covering. “How old is he?”
She struggled out of her gloves and pink fleece jacket, nothing more than a waterlogged sponge now. “Three.”
Another blanket came off, this one dryer than the last. “What’s his name?”
The woman slipped off canvas sneakers. She wasn’t wearing socks. Not exactly dressed for the weather. What in the world was she doing driving around in a snowstorm?
“Liam.” She stepped away from the puddle of water pooling by her shoes. “I’m G-Grace. Grace Wilcox.”
“Bill Paulson.”
“Mommy,” a small, scared voice said from beneath a blue fleece blanket.
Grace kneeled next to the boy. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt. Goose bumps covered her arms. “R-right here, honey.”
Bill raised the blue blanket. “Liam?”
A small boy with dark hair and pale skin looked up with quarter-size blue eyes. He wore red mittens and forest-green footie pajamas.
Bill
