âLet me seeâyou donât like to say âMerry Christmasââ¦â
He pulled his chin away, but she cupped his strong jaw and kept him facing her. The late-night shadow of his beard was scraggly and dark and added an air of menace to him.
âYou donât like anyone hinting that youâre a good cop who KCPD could still use and you donât like admitting when you have feelings for someone.â Holly stroked her thumb across his lips. This guy made her toes curl inside her socks and brace for trouble.
The elevator hit a gentle bump and slowed its descent. âAm I pretty clear as to what your words are telling me?â
He opened his mouth, about to deny the truth.
Instead, he reawakened his dragonâs heart with another kissâ¦
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldnât express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident âgrammar goddess.â This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.
For the Class of 1978. Fulton High School,
Fulton, Missouri. Happy Anniversary to us. Anytime a place can take a shy girl and give her a place to shine, a place to be inspired by talented, dedicated teachers, and a place to make dear, lifelong friends and memoriesâyou know itâs a good place. Thank you.
April
ââ¦And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.â
âI hope you find peace, Dad.â Edward Kincaid turned away from the funeral service in the distance and limped back up the sloping hill of Mt. Washington Cemetery to his own hell. It wasnât the first time heâd been to a ceremony to bury a fellow cop. But it was the first time heâd shown up for one without wearing his own uniform or badge. And it was the first time heâd shown up to bury his own father. âI donât know how. But I hope you do.â
Edward couldnât feel the cold rain seeping through his hair and running down his scalp. But he felt the chill of the April day down in his knitted bones. He could barely make out the lyrics of the song his youngest brother, Holden, was singing. But he felt the mournful melody deep in his soul.
His mother and brothers, colleagues from the KCPD and more family friends than he could count were gathered on the opposite side of the copse of evergreens and ash trees to his back. But here were the only two people he wanted to be with right now. With his cane sinking into the mud, he awkwardly knelt down in front of the pink marble gravestone and wiped the rain away from the words carved there.
Beloved Wife. Beloved Daughter.
Cara and Melinda Kincaid. He should be in the ground beside them. Instead of them.
Tears burned in his eyes, but he didnât shed them. He was all cried out months ago.
He heard the minister talking. Heâd gotten this far. If he was going to do this thing, if he was going to face those mourners, heâd better get moving.
âI canât stay today, girls,â he whispered. The thick, moist air swallowed up the gravelly rasp of his voice. âBut I wantedâ¦I wanted you to know that Iâm sober today. Iâm doing it for Dad. I wish Iâd been strong enough to get my act together for you. Iâm going to do right by himâby you, too. I threw out the bottles the night I got the call aboutâ¦his murder. Thatâs five days sober. Iâm going to make it one more.â One day at a time was what his AA sponsor kept telling him. One day was about all he had in him anymore. âI promise.â
Melinda would have jumped up and thrown herself into his arms to congratulate him. Despite her young age and her disability, his daughter had always been intuitive about moods. She knew when her daddy needed a hug, when he needed to be left alone, and when he needed someone to cheer him on and make him smile.
Five days without a drink wasnât much for a man whoâd been trying to numb his brain and heart since Christmas Eve, the first anniversary of their deaths. But Melindaâs pure love would have made him feel as though five days was the entire world. Cara would have been a little more low-key about the whole thing, saying something that would keep him from getting a big head about his accomplishment. And later, sheâd find a way to congratulate him privately, personallyâand very thoroughly. His two girls would have inspired him to live better than he had been, try harder than he knew how, feel more than heâd ever thought possible.
If only his wife and daughter were still with him. He didnât want to be at the cemetery. He didnât want to accept another deathâespecially not this one. He didnât want to feel a damn thing.