Holiday Homecoming by Jillian Hart Page A

her shoulders so that when she reached out to take his plate, she was the most beautiful image he’d ever seen.
    Her hands were slender and fine-boned with beautifully tapered fingers. Her nails were short and painted a seashell pink. It looked as if hers would be a nice hand to hold in his.
    Not that he was looking for wife candidates. He was deeply committed to his bachelor status. Still, she was sure something, as if the light moved through her and he could see her goodness. Her kindness. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat and shrugged into his jacket. “Take good care of yourself, Kristin McKaslin.”
    â€œYou, too, Dr. Sanders.”
    The next step he took felt like a momentous one. As if he’d reached a fork in his life path offering two very different choices. It was a weird way to feel, because there was nothing consequential about opening the door and walking into the snow. Nothing life changing about zipping up his zipper and digging the keys out of his jeans pocket.
    Then why did it feel wrong, somehow? When his mom was waiting for him, and his sister was probably chatting a hundred miles a minute in the kitchen. In twenty minutes he’d be sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner.
    His feelings didn’t make sense. Not at all.
    He was just troubled about being here in Montana. Maybe that was it. As he crunched down the snowy steps and the winter air radiated through his coat to make him shiver, no other explanation came to mind. Only four more hours, he thought, glancing at his watch. His flight departed at seven-thirty—the airport had recovered from the blizzard and was up and running. He could survive until then.
    As he drove off, the day was already changing. Twilight cast a somber mood across the snow-mantled world. Making the shadows a deep blue-gray and the sky a mourning shroud as memories, cold and dark, had a hold on him and didn’t let go.

Chapter Seven
    December 3
    W ith the temperate heat of the Phoenix sun on his back, Ryan pushed hard for the last quarter mile. Jogging wasn’t his favorite thing—it made his shins hurt, his knees ache and it was plain hard work—but for some unexplained reason he looked forward to setting out on his five-mile run every day after work. Even on a perfect Saturday like this one.
    Not a cloud in the bright blue sky. The sun a friendly brightness reflecting off the miles of concrete and pavement that comprised the Scottsdale neighborhood he lived in. All different kinds of palm trees, from the short stubby pineapple palms to the tall tropical ones, waved their fronds in the breeze.
    His neighbor’s cat darted out from beneath the oleander hedges and streaked down the sidewalk and out of sight. Nothing but a blur of gray and white. Tonight,as usual, he’d terrify the poor animal, without meaning to, by opening his slider door.
    The cat napped on Ryan’s lounge-chair cushion. Not that he minded, but he would rather befriend the animal instead of always watching it run in the opposite direction.
    He understood, though. He and that cat had a lot in common. Keep your distance. Don’t trust anyone.
    He was so good, he’d perfected it into an art form.
    At the end of the hedges, he dropped into a walk. Sweat sluiced off him, but it felt good to have pushed like that. He worked indoors all day. He loved his work; he just hated being confined.
    Probably because he’d spent most of his youth outside—playing in the meadows and woods, riding his bike for miles on quiet country roads and, when he was older, working in the fields for extra money. Throughout the long years of his medical training, he’d spent endless hours indoors. He’d never acclimated to it.
    It had gotten worse since he’d been back home for Thanksgiving.
    Scottsdale had its own strange beauty. Not the rugged granite mountains and lush fertile river valley of his hometown. Still, the eerily human forms of the saguaro