Christmas In Snowflake Canyon

THREE MORNINGS LATER, Genevieve was still annoyed with Dylan, with Natalie, with her parents—with the world in general—as she dressed carefully for her first day at A Warrior’s Hope. She really had no idea what to expect or what she might be asked to do, which made it difficult to determine appropriate attire.

She finally selected black slacks and a delicious peach cashmere turtleneck she’d picked up at a favorite little boutique in Le Marais. Probably overkill, but she knew the color flattered her hair and eyes.

Or at least it usually did. Unfortunately, it clashed terribly with the overabundance of Pepto-Bismol-pink in Grandma Pearl’s hideous bathroom.

This was her least favorite room in the house. How was she supposed to apply makeup when this washed her out so terribly? If she could afford it, she would renovate the entire room, but she doubted her budget would stretch to cover new bathroom fixtures.

She was just finishing her second coat of mascara with one eye on her watch when chimes rang out the refrain of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.” Grandma Pearl’s ghastly doorbell. She shoved the wand back into the tube and hurried through the house, curious and a little alarmed at who might be calling on her this early in the morning.

“Good. You are home.” Her mother beamed at her as soon as Genevieve opened the door.

“Mother! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, that awful doorbell! Why haven’t you changed it yet?”

“I’m still trying to figure out how. Seriously, why are you here?”

“I’m on my way to the salon. When you were at the house the other day, I couldn’t help noticing your nails. Horrible shape, darling. I thought I would treat you to a mani. I’ve already made the appointment with Clarissa. She had a tight schedule but managed to find room first thing this morning. Won’t that be fun?”

Her mother gave her a hopeful look and Genevieve scrambled for a response. Since the end of her engagement—and the subsequent death of all Laura Beaumont’s thinly veiled ambitions to push them both into the higher echelons of Denver society—Genevieve’s interactions with her mother had been laced with heavy sighs, wistful looks, not-so-subtle comments about this gathering, that event.

Being married to one of the most financially and politically powerful men in small Hope’s Crossing wasn’t enough for Laura. She had always wanted more. When she was engaged to Sawyer and she and Laura worked together to create the wedding of the century, Genevieve had finally felt close to her mother.

She had missed that closeness far more than she missed Sawyer.

“I can’t,” she said regretfully. “I’m starting my community service today.”

Laura gave a dismissive wave of pink-tipped fingers that looked perfectly fine to Genevieve. “Oh, that. Well, you can just start tomorrow, can’t you? I’m sure they won’t mind. I’ll have your father give them a call.”

This was her family in a nutshell. Her mother didn’t understand anything that interfered with her own plans, and when she encountered an obstacle, she expected William Beaumont to step in and fix everything.

When Gen’s younger brother, Charlie, had been arrested for driving under the influence in an accident that had actually resulted in the death of one of his friends, William had been unable to prevent him from pleading guilty. Charlie had served several months at a youth corrections facility, and Laura hadn’t spoken to her husband for weeks.

Now both of their children had been embroiled in legal difficulties. She imagined Laura found it much easier to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.

“I don’t believe it’s that simple, Mother,” Gen said. “It’s court-mandated. I have to show up or I could go to jail.”

Laura pouted. “Well, what am I supposed to tell Clarissa? She’s expecting us.”

How about the truth? That you see the world only the way you want to see it?

“Tell her I have another obligation I couldn’t escape. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Laura gave a frustrated little huff. “I was looking so forward to finding a moment to catch up with you. We hardly talk when you call from France. I can’t say I agreed with your father’s decision to cut you off financially. I tried my best to talk him out of it. I told him you were having a wonderful time in Paris, that you needed this time and why shouldn’t you take it? As usual, he wouldn’t listen to me. You know how he can be when he’s in a mood. Still, I told myself at least this would give me the chance to spend a little more time with you, darling.”

Her parents drove her crazy sometimes...she couldn’t deny that. These past two years away had helped her see their failings more clearly, but she still loved them.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could go,” she said, not untruthfully.

“I understand. You have to do what you must. I’ll see if I can reschedule for tomorrow.”

“Mother, I’ll be going to the center tomorrow, too. And the day after that.”

“Every day?”

Laura obviously didn’t quite grasp the concept of a commuted sentence. “I have a hundred hours of community service to complete in only a few weeks. Yes, I’ll probably be going every day between now and Christmas.”

“This is what happens when you decided not to have your father represent you. He could have had the whole misunderstanding thrown out.”

Like Charlie’s little “misunderstanding” that had killed one girl and severely injured another? William had been helpless to fix that situation. Charlie had taken full responsibility for his actions and had come out of his time in youth corrections a different young man, no longer sullen and angry.

“It’s done now,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I really need to go or I’ll be late for my first day.”

“Well, will you come back to the house instead of staying in this horrible place? Then I would at least have a chance to catch up with you in the evenings.”

Again, her mother saw what she wanted to.

“I can’t. My evenings will be spent here, trying to do what I can to prepare this house for sale. Dad didn’t give me any other choice.”

“He has your best interests at heart, my dear. You know that, don’t you?”

“He might have thought he did. We have differing opinions on what the best thing for me might be.”

Not that anything was new there. Her father had notoriously found her lacking in just about every arena. He thought she had been wasting her time to obtain a degree in interior design, nor could he see any point in the sewing she had always loved or the riding lessons she tolerated.

The only time either of her parents seemed to approve of her had been during her engagement.

“Will you at least go to dinner with us this weekend? With Charlie back in California for his finals week, the house is too quiet.”

“I’ll try,” she promised. She ushered her mother out with a kiss on the cheek and firmly closed the door, practically in her face.

After Laura drove away, Genevieve hurriedly grabbed one of the totes she loved to make and headed out the door, fighting down a whirl of butterflies in her stomach.

For two days, she had been having second—and third and fourth and sixtieth—thoughts about this community-service assignment with A Warrior’s Hope. She couldn’t think of a job less suited to her limited skill set than helping wounded veterans. What did she know about their world? Next to nothing. Most likely, she would end up saying something stupid and offensive and none of them would want anything to do with her.

A hundred hours could turn into a lifetime if she screwed this up.

By the time she drove into the parking lot of the Hope’s Crossing Recreation Center in Silver Strike Canyon, the butterflies were in full-fledged stampede mode.

She was five minutes early, she saw with relief as she climbed out of her SUV and walked into the building.

Construction on the recreation center had been under way during her last visit home for Pearl’s funeral. The building was really quite lovely, designed by world-renowned architect Jackson Lange. Created of stone, cedar planks and plenty of glass, the sprawling structure complemented the mountainous setting well for being so large.

It also appeared to be busy. The parking lot was filled with several dozen cars, which she considered quite impressive for a weekday morning in December.

She wasn’t exactly sure how A Warrior’s Hope fit into the picture, but she supposed she had a hundred hours to figure that out.

The butterflies went into swarm-mode as she walked through the front doors into a lobby that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the hotels at the ski resort.

She stood for a moment just inside the sliding glass doors, hating these nerves zinging through her. Spying a sign that read A Warrior’s Hope at one desk, she drew in a steady breath in an effort to conceal her anxiety and approached.

The woman seated behind the computer was younger than Genevieve and busy on a phone call that seemed to revolve around airline arrangements. She held up a finger in a universal bid for patience and finished her call.

“Sorry,” she said when she replaced the phone receiver on the cradle. “I’ve been trying to reach the airline for days to make sure they know we need special arrangements to transport some medical equipment when our new guys arrive next week.”

“Ah.” Gen wasn’t quite sure what else to say. “I’m Genevieve Beaumont. I believe you were expecting me.”

The woman looked blank for a moment then her face lit up. “Oh! You’re one of the community-service people. Spence said you were coming today. Our computers have been down. No internet, no email, and wouldn’t you know, our IT guy is on vacation. I’ve been so crazy trying to track down somebody else to help I forgot you were coming. I’m Chelsea Palmer. I’m the administrative assistant to Eden Davis, the director of A Warrior’s Hope.”

“Hi, Chelsea.”

She didn’t recognize the young woman and couldn’t see any evidence Chelsea knew her—or of her—either.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about computers, do you?” the woman asked hopefully.

Gen gave a short laugh. “On a good day, I can usually figure out how to turn them on but that’s the extent of my technical abilities. And sometimes I can’t even do that.”

Chelsea gave her a friendly smile. She was quite pretty, though she wore a particularly unattractive shade of yellow. She could also use a little more subtlety in her makeup.

Gen certainly wasn’t going to tell her that. Instead, she would relish the promise of that friendly smile. Around Hope’s Crossing, she found it refreshing when people didn’t know who she was. Here, many saw her as snobbish and cold. She had no idea how to thaw those perceptions.

She had loved that about living in Paris, where her friends didn’t care about her family, her connections, her past.

“Thanks anyway,” Chelsea said. “I’ll figure something out. My ex-boyfriend works in IT up at the resort. He agreed to come take a look at things.”

“Even though he’s an ex?” She hadn’t spoken with Sawyer since the day she threw his ring back at him.

“I know, right? But we left things on pretty good terms. He’s not a bad guy.... He was only a little more interested in his video games than me, you know? I decided that wasn’t for me.”

“Understandable.”

Chelsea’s gaze shifted over Gen’s shoulder and her face lit up. “Hey, Dylan! Eden said you would be stopping in this morning.”

“And here I am. Hi. Chelsea, right?”

“One two-second conversation in line at the grocery store and you remembered my name.”

Gen didn’t like the way all her warm feelings toward the other woman trickled away. Friends weren’t that easy to come by here in Hope’s Crossing. She certainly couldn’t throw one away because she was feeling unreasonably territorial toward Dylan, even if she had been the one shackled to the man.

She didn’t blame Chelsea for that little moment of flirtatiousness. Dylan still needed a haircut. Regardless, he looked quite delicious. Even the black eye patch only made him more attractive somehow, probably because the eye not concealed behind it looked strikingly blue in contrast.

She thought of that moment when she had nearly fallen on the ice a few days earlier, when he had caught her and held her against his chest for a heartbeat.

And then the humiliation of his words, basically accusing her of being so shallow she recoiled in disgust when he touched her, which was so not true.

“Genevieve.” He again said her name as her Parisian friends did and for some strange reason she found the musical syllables incredibly sexy spoken in that gruff voice.

“Is that how you say your name?” Chelsea asked in surprise. “I though it was Gen-e-vieve.”

She managed to tamp down the inappropriate reaction to the man. “Either way works,” she said to Chelsea. “Or you could simply call me Gen.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

The young woman turned her attention back to Dylan. She tucked her hair behind her ear—her pointy ear, Gen thought, before she chided herself for her childishness in noticing. She was a horrid person, as superficial as everyone thought.

“We’re all so excited you’re finally coming to help us,” Chelsea said. “Eden has been over the moon since she heard about your, er, little brush with the law.”

“Good to know I could make everybody’s day,” he said dryly, but Chelsea didn’t appear to notice.

“It’s going to be perfect,” she exclaimed. “You’re going to be great! Exactly what we need.”

She had said nothing of the sort to Genevieve, yet another piece of evidence in what she was beginning to suspect—that her presence was superfluous here, an unnecessary addendum. The organizers of the program wanted Dylan to help out at A Warrior’s Hope because of his own perspective and experience. She, on the other hand, was little more than collateral damage.

“Where is Eden?” she finally interjected.

“She’s at the pool with Spence and our new program coordinator, Mac Scanlan.”

“I thought Eden was in charge,” Genevieve said.

“Technically, she is. She’s the executive director, in charge of fundraising, planning, coordinating events etc. We just hired a new person to actually run the activities. He’s spending the day familiarizing himself with the facilities. She told me to send you to the pool the minute you both arrive.”

Which had been several minutes earlier, but who was counting?

“Thanks,” Genevieve said.

“I’m supposed to make you ID badges first, but we’ll have to do that later, when my system is back in action. You know where to go, right? Through the main doors there and down the first hall.”

Dylan seemed reluctant to move. Apparently Genevieve would have to take the lead. She followed Chelsea’s directions, aware of him coming up behind her.

“You made it,” she said to Dylan as they entered the hallway.

“You didn’t think I’d show?”

“Given your general reluctance to this whole idea, I guess I wouldn’t have been surprised if you had decided you’d rather go to jail.”

“I’m still not discounting that possibility.”

She smiled a little. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Chelsea’s right. You are in a far better position than anybody else, especially me.”

“So everybody says. I’m not seeing it.”

“You know what it’s like to be injured in battle, to have to rebuild your life.”

“Right. I’m doing a hell of a job, aren’t I?”

Genevieve flashed him a quick look. “Better than I would in your situation,” she answered truthfully.

“You would probably start designing a fashion line for one-armed pirate wannabes and go on to make millions of dollars.”

She laughed. “The only one-armed pirate wannabe I know doesn’t seem particularly interested in fashion.”

He gave her a mock offended look. “What do you mean? I wore a bolo, didn’t I? I thought I was going for the hipster look.”

“Or something,” she answered.

He snorted but said nothing as they moved toward the door at the end of the hall where she could see the flickering blue of water.

“You were wrong the other day,” she said when they nearly reached it.

He paused and gave her a curious look. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’m wrong about a lot of things.”

She fiercely wished she hadn’t said anything but she couldn’t figure out a way to back down now.

“Er, you implied I flinched away when you touched me—that I was, I don’t know, disgusted or something because you’re, er, missing your arm. That wasn’t it. You just...” Her voice trailed off.

“I just...” he prodded.

“You make me nervous,” she said in a rush. “It has nothing to do with any eye patch or...or missing hand. It’s just...you.”

His eyebrow rose and he studied her for a long moment, so long she could feel herself flush. “How refreshingly honest of you, Ms. Beaumont.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I’m— What’s the word you used? Er, chickenshit.”

He laughed as she pushed open the door to the pool area and the sound echoed through the cavernous space.

Several people congregating beside the pool looked over at the sound and Genevieve recognized Spence Gregory and Dylan’s sister, Charlotte, as well as a man in a wheelchair and another woman she didn’t know.

“I wasn’t sure you would make it,” Spence said to Dylan when they reached them, holding out his hand. After a slight pause, Dylan took it.

“Why does everybody keep saying that?” he asked.

“No reason.” Charlotte hugged him and he gave her an awkward sort of pat with his right arm.

“I’m so glad you agreed to do this,” his sister said.

“You made it impossible for me to refuse, didn’t you?”

“Don’t blame me. It was all Pop’s idea, and Andrew’s the one who ran with it. Though I probably should confess that Spence might have mentioned to Harry Lange how much we’d like to have you volunteer here and I believe Harry might have mentioned it to Judge Richards during one of their poker games.”

Charlotte stepped away from her brother and gave Genevieve a cool smile. “Hello, Genevieve. We’re glad you agreed to help, too. We have a strong core of volunteers already, but we’re always glad for more.”

Genevieve had enough experience with polite falsehoods to recognize one when she heard it. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Charlotte probably blamed her for her brother’s troubles in the first place.

“I’m happy to help.” She was an old hand at polite falsehoods herself.

Spencer Gregory stepped up. “Good to see you again. I didn’t have the chance to say hello when we saw you at the airport last week.”

He really was gorgeous up close. She didn’t follow baseball but she knew Smokin’ Hot Spence Gregory was a nickname given only in part for the man’s fastball. Oddly, despite those long lashes and that particularly charming smile, he didn’t make her nerves flutter at all, unlike others in the room she could mention.

“My father loved to tell business associates from out of town how you used to be our paper boy.”

“I hope I was a good one.”

“The best, according to my father.”

Spence smiled and gestured to the other two people. “Dylan, Genevieve, this is Eden Davis, our executive director, and Mac Scanlan, who just started this week as our program coordinator.”

“What is your role at A Warrior’s Hope?” Genevieve asked, trying to keep things straight in her head.

“I’m the director of the entire recreation center. A Warrior’s Hope is only one part of what we do here.”

“But it was his idea and he’s the fundraising genius behind it.” Charlotte smiled with far more warmth than she had shown Genevieve. Spence aimed that charmer of a grin down at her, and even if she hadn’t seen them together at the airport, she would have easily picked up that the two of them were together.

The once-fat-and-frumpy Charlotte Caine was involved with Smokin’ Hot Spence Gregory. She still couldn’t quite believe it.

“It’s become Charlotte’s baby, too. She organizes all the volunteers.”

“What do you think we’ll be doing?” she asked. “I’m really good at filing, correspondence, that kind of thing. And I’ve had a little experience with fundraising for a few charities my family supports.”

“Just for the record, I’m not good at any of those things,” Dylan offered.

Charlotte gave her brother a sly smile. “I’ve got just the project for both of you. Yesterday Sam Delgado, our contractor, and his crew put the finishing touches on several cabins for our guests. The first group to use them will be coming in first thing Monday morning. Before they arrive, we need to decorate the cabins for Christmas. That’s where you two come in.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THIS WAS HIS version of hell.

Yeah, he had spent a combined total of six of the past ten years in the Middle East through his various deployments, four of those in direct combat. He was a trained army ranger, sent in to dangerous hot spots for difficult missions.

He had seen and done things that kept him up nights—and had spent months in rehab, a very special kind of misery.

He would rather go back to living in a tent where the sand seeped into every available crevice, wearing seventy-five pounds of gear in a-hundred-twenty-degree weather without showering for weeks, than endure this torture his wicked sister had planned for him.

He stood in a large storage room in a back corner of the recreation center surrounded by boxes and crates.

“Isn’t there something else I could be doing right now?” he asked, with more than a little desperation.

“I can’t think of a thing,” Charlotte said cheerfully. “We want these cabins to be perfect, a home away from home for these guys—and one woman—while they’re here. We want to make this a perfect holiday.”

He wanted to tell his sister she was wasting her time, but he had already tooted that particular horn enough.

“We’ll do a fabulous job. Don’t worry.” Genevieve beamed with excitement. Why shouldn’t she? This was probably right up her alley. Hang some lights, put up a few ornaments. Nothing so uncomfortable as actually talking to any wounded veterans—present company excluded.

He remembered what she had said earlier—that he made her nervous and it had nothing to do with his physical disfigurements.

He didn’t believe her. Not really. How could he? She was a perfect, pampered little princess and he was scarred and ugly. They were Beauty and the Beast, only this particular beast couldn’t be twinkled back into his old self, the one without missing parts.

“I’m sure you will, Genevieve,” Charlotte was saying. “You have such an instinctive sense of style. When I heard about your little, uh, legal trouble, I knew you would be perfect to help us get the cabins ready for their first guests.”

Genevieve looked surprised and flattered at Charlotte’s words. “I graduated with a degree in interior design,” she said. “Eventually I hope to open my own design firm.”

“Then you really are perfect.”

“I’ll do my best. I saw some really beautiful lights in Paris. They had these little twinkly snowflakes and each one was unique. They were stunning. You don’t have anything like that, do you?”

Charlotte pressed her lips together to keep in the smile he could see forming there. “We didn’t buy our lights in Paris this year,” she said with a dryness he wasn’t sure Gen would catch. “You’ll have to be content with the cheap ones from the big box store.”

“I suppose we can make those work,” she answered.

“You’ll have to, I’m afraid.”

“What about the trees?”

“Also from a big box store. But they’re all prelit, which is a big plus.”

“We’ll make it wonderful. You’ll see. Won’t we, Dylan?”

“Wonderful,” he repeated. Why did he suddenly feel as if he’d been dragged by a couple of high-school cheerleaders to help decorate for a homecoming dance?

He could really use a beer right about now.