A Gift for All Seasons

“Ask me,” April said softly, electricity jolting through her.

Patrick’s eyes jerked to hers. “What?”

“Ask me out.”

“April—”

“Nothing fancy,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate. Because she wasn’t. Really. “Dinner at Emerson’s. Maybe a movie. If things work out …” Her heart thumped against her sternum. “Maybe a good-night kiss at the end.”

Oh, dear. Poor baby actually flinched. And not, she didn’t think, because he found the idea appalling. Strange, and wonderful, the feeling of power that gave her. Frowning though he was.

“I thought I made it clear—”

“What’s clear,” she said with remarkable calm, considering, “is that there’s something humming between us. Agreed?”

Dear Reader,

I was just starting to develop this story when I started watching Season 13 of Dancing with the Stars. And within minutes of “meeting” JR Martinez, the severely burned Iraq War vet who went on to win the coveted mirror ball trophy, I had my hero. JR’s drive to push himself past what some might have seen as limitations—and his undeniable sex appeal as a result—was a true joy to watch. And served as an incredible inspiration for my own Patrick Shaughnessy.

Not that Patrick’s quite in the same place JR is, attitudewise. At least not when his story starts. But that’s where cute little April Ross comes in. Because the brand-new innkeeper is determined to smack some sense into Patrick. To make him accept that her heart is far bigger than the three acres she’s hired him to landscape, big enough to love him and his little girl both. Add to that a huge Irish-American family, equally determined to see their Patrick return to a normal life after the combat injury that’s left him scarred, both physically and emotionally, and you have a story about giving and loving and never giving up that’s just perfect for the holiday season.

Enjoy!

Karen Templeton

Since 1998, two-time RITA^>® Award winner and Walden-books bestselling author KAREN TEMPLETON has written more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon. A transplanted Easterner, she now lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats and whichever of her five sons happens to be in residence.

Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Jessica Scott,

who took time out of her own writing schedule to help me get the army details right. At least, I hope I have. Thanks, hon!

A weeper by nature, April Ross was the type to keep tissues at hand in case a coffee commercial took her by surprise. And, granted, the past several weeks had been an emotional roller coaster ride of reunions and massive renovations and reassessments of what she wanted from life. But to find herself nearly in tears—April dug in the only real designer purse she’d ever owned for one of those tissues and blew her little ice cube of a nose—over a bunch of plants?

Beyond pitiful.

Especially since she’d been the one who’d said, “What’s the big deal? You go to a nursery, you pick out some trees, hire a couple dudes to stick ’em in the ground, done.”

No wonder her cousins had rolled their eyes at her.

Now, huddled inside her thick cardigan against the bay wind shunting through the garden center, she turned on the heel of her riding boot and marched past a mess of pumpkins to the checkout area, where the bundled-up, gray-bearded black man behind the register released a soft chuckle.

“Somebody looks a little overwhelmed,” he said in the relaxed Maryland shore drawl that immediately evoked memories of those childhood summers. “Not to mention half-frozen. So first off, step closer to the heater—go on, I’ll wait—then tell me how I can help. I reckon I know pretty much everything about whatever’s in stock. You got questions, you just go ahead and ask.”

April’s eyes welled again, both at his kindness and the lovely heat waves rippling from the nearby metal obelisk. “What I’ve got,” she said as she removed her gloves, stretching her cramped fingers toward the heat, “is three acres of dirt and renovation mess that needs landscaping. By the middle of December, when my first guests arrive.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “You the gal who’s fixing up the Rinehart place?”

“That would be me.” April tucked her wind-ravaged hair behind her ear, then extended her slightly warmer hand. “April Ross.”

“Sam Howell. It’s a real pleasure, young lady.” Sam shook her hand, then crossed his arms high on his plaidjacketed chest. “Three acres, you say—”

A child’s excited squeal cut through their conversation. Grinning, Sam hustled from behind the counter a moment before a tiny, dark-haired blur slammed into him. After a fierce hug, the little girl backed up, all pink-cheeked adorableness in bright blue tights and a puffy purple jacket, and April’s breath left her lungs.

“Daddy said I could pick out a punkin for Halloween!” she said, then planted a mittened hand against the front of the counter to awkwardly lift one glittery-sneakered foot. “An’ I got new shoes! See?”