href="#litres_trial_promo">Dear Reader
Chapter One
High above Snowglobe, Montana, Amy Caldwell’s blue Ford Focus wound round and round the narrow road as she made her way into the valley nestled snugly between two snowcapped mountains. As if the creative hand of God had reached down and given the earth a loving shake, snow swirled upward in a constant circle so the small picturesque village of tiny stores and houses was forever captured in time and space like a snowglobe.
The colorful scatter of buildings and snow-kissed evergreens rested inside a bowl of milk-white snow. Smoke curled from rooftops and pulled Amy in like a long-lost friend. Her heart leaped at the sight.
“Home.” The word tasted foreign on her tongue. If all went as planned, she was home to stay.
Time and distance and a growing faith may not have healed the heartache she’d left behind, but it was time to let go, to come home, to do this one thing that her mother asked. At least she would no longer have to face Rafe Westfield and his betrayal.
When her car reached the village, she turned onto Main Street and headed straight for The Snowglobe Gift Shoppe. She parked in a slant at the curb and slammed out of the car, eager as her boots crunched on fresh, powdery snow. Before she reached the glass-fronted shop, a slender woman in dark slacks and a red scoop neck pullover rushed out the door, her shoulder-length black hair flying.
“Mom!” Amy said just as she was enveloped in a hug that smelled of hothouse roses and potpourri. At fifty, Dana Caldwell’s Spanish rose beauty still made Amy wish she looked more like her mom and less like her absentee father, the golden boy who had turned out to have brass feet.
“You made it. I was starting to worry.”
Amy smiled. Her mother always said that. “Safe and sound. And excited.”
“Are you? Oh, honey, I’m so ready to retire.”
“Semi-retire. You’re not leaving me alone with this store.”
Dana laughed. “Well, not yet. But you know the retail gift business as well as I do. Better. You have a degree!”
The degree in marketing meant more to her mom than it did to Amy or to her employers in Spokane. Former employers, she thought with a happy little step as her mom looped their arms together and tugged her into the shop.
Gently played symphonic Christmas music practically sucked her inside, alluring and lovely. Amy closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the warm, welcoming scent of Christmas past and present. “I love this smell.”
For as long as she could remember, cinnamon and pine, snow and flowers, and this shop with snowglobes and poinsettias in the vast picture window had meant Christmas.
“Christmas is the best smell of the year.”
They both giggled and hugged once more, a spontaneous action Amy knew would be repeated time and again. Her mama was a hands-on kind of woman.
Amy stepped away from her mother’s embrace to survey the gloriously decorated store.
“The shop looks amazing.” She turned a slow circle, examining every detail. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it look bet—”
The word died an abrupt death, jammed down into her throat like a fist.
“Hello, Amy.” The gently masculine voice was as familiar as Christmas and as unwelcome as a lump of coal.
Amy’s heart jerked against her rib cage.
Rafe Westfield, the man who’d taken her heart and then handed it back again, leaned against the glass-topped counter. Bundled to the ears in a sheepskin jacket, and out of place amidst the singing Santas and dainty angels, he was handsomer than ever. His brown hair had grown out from the last time she’d seen him, after the recruiter had buzzed him bald, and now lay in gentle waves above a forehead no longer smooth and boyish but creased with fine worry lines. If anything they made him more rugged, more delicious.
Like his mouth. He had the most perfect lips a man could have, the bottom full and curved with the top a long, low M like the mountains surrounding Snowglobe. She remembered the feel of that mouth, the kisses they’d shared when he’d loved her. Or claimed to. He never really had; she knew that now. If he’d loved her, he would not have joined the military against her wishes.
She licked her own lips, gone bone-dry.
“Rafe?” she managed. “What are you doing here?”
She’d worked hard to let go of the bitterness, to forgive and move on, but in one moment, the old feelings came rushing back like a tidal wave.
“I live here,” he said. Below a slash of dark brows, his winter-blue eyes were solemn and aloof. The sparkle was gone, the teasing glint, the ready smile. He had changed. But then, so had she. Amy was no longer the gullible little college grad who’d dreamed of nothing but being Mrs. Rafe Westfield and making a home in Snowglobe, Montana.
“No, you don’t,” she insisted. “You can’t live here. You’re in the marines. You’re in the Middle East somewhere.”
“Was. Now I’m home.”
Home? He was calling Snowglobe home? The flutter of panic that had started way down in Amy’s belly soared through her bloodstream. He couldn’t be here permanently. Not if she was.
“What happened to your military career?”
The career that was more important than a life with me.
A muscle above one cheekbone flinched. It was the only indication that her question had hit a sore spot.
“Three tours was enough.” Abruptly he turned to the counter and collected two giant pots of scarlet poinsettias. To her mother, he said, “I’ll drop these off on my way.”
“Thanks for doing that, Rafe. The shop’s so busy, I’m not sure when I could get out there.”
“No problem.”
Then, exactly as he had five years ago, he turned and walked out the door.
“Mother!” Amy spun around, fingers gripping the counter’s edge. “What is he doing here?”
With mild reproof Dana said, “You’re repeating yourself, Amy. Rafe has lived in Snowglobe all his life, just as you have.”
“That’s not true. He left. He said he wasn’t coming back. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her mother pretended to rearrange a lighted ceramic village behind the cash register. “If I recall—and I do—you forbade me to ever speak his name again. You said the relationship was done and over with and you wanted to move on. And you did.”
“You should have told me anyway,” Amy answered, feeling unreasonable and petulant.
“Would you have come home? Would you have agreed to take over the shop?”
