The Perfect Gift

“Thanks again, Rory.

For everything,” Goldie said.

He stared at her for a moment, then waved goodbye and left.

Goldie closed her eyes and remembered the hominess of Rory’s rambling farmhouse, the cute grins of his two boys—wait, the cute grin of the youngest boy, since the older one had seemed a bit sad—and the way Rory’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. And she imagined the kind of woman who could be part of that lovely picture. The kind of woman who baked cookies and kept the house neat and played kick ball with the boys in the backyard. That kind of loving, caring, motherly type of woman.

And then she reminded herself that she’d come to Viola, Louisiana, to help her grandmother, not get involved with yet another man who probably didn’t know the meaning of the words trust and commitment.

No matter how kind Rory Branagan had been, and no matter how much her heart was telling her that this man might just be different from all the rest.

LENORA WORTH

has written more than thirty books, most of those for Steeple Hill. She also works freelance for a local magazine, where she had written monthly opinion columns, feature articles and social commentaries. She also wrote for the local paper for five years. Married to her high school sweetheart for thirty-three years, Lenora lives in Louisiana and has two grown children and a cat. She loves to read, take long walks and sit in her garden.

The Perfect Gift

Lenora Worth

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.

—James 1:17

To the Unity Sunday School class—

for all their good and perfect gifts.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

The man and the two little boys stared down at the disheveled woman asleep on the big Ultrasuede couch in their living room.

“Is she a princess, Daddy?” six-year-old Tyler asked, his dark eyes going wide. “My friend Emily is always talking about princesses. She’s a girl, though.” He shrugged. “I don’t know much about that kind of stuff.”

“She’s not a princess, silly,” his older brother, Sam, answered with ten-year-old authority. “And she shouldn’t be here. Isn’t it illegal to enter someone’s house when they’re not at home, Dad? Besides, she’s ruining our couch with her wet clothes.”

Rory, still in shock from finding the woman there in the first place, stopped staring and went into action. “It’s okay, Sam. She looks hurt.” He gently nudged at the woman’s arm. “Ma’am, excuse me? Wake up, okay?” When the woman didn’t move, he panicked. “Lady, can you hear me?”

“She’s asleep,” Tyler pointed out. “Maybe she needs a blanket.”

Rory pushed away the blanket his son offered. “Let’s make sure she’s all right first.” He bent and carefully rolled the woman over from her stomach to her back, then felt for a pulse along her neck. She had a pulse. That much he knew. He could feel it through the softness of her skin. And she was wearing an intricate gold-chained square locket that fell across her V-necked sweater with each movement of her breath.

“Is she dead?” Sam asked, his curiosity with all things crime-related making Rory wince. The kid had been that way since his mother had been killed three years earlier in a convenience-store robbery.

“No, son. She’s breathing. But something is definitely wrong.”

Rory carefully examined the woman for broken bones or any other signs of injury, then turned her face around so he could inspect it. And that’s when he saw the blood matted in her dark blond hair just above her left temple.

“She don’t look so great,” Tyler remarked.

“No, she doesn’t,” Rory replied, grabbing his cell out of his pocket. He immediately called 911 and explained the situation. “We found a woman in our house, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. She needs medical attention.”

After giving his address to the dispatcher, Rory hung up and turned to his two quiet, curious sons.

“Now you can hand me the blanket, Tyler.”

His son shoved the plaid comforter toward him, the boy’s big eyes wide with wonder—and a keen interest. “Daddy, if she lives, can we keep her?”

Chapter One

Two hours earlier

Icy rain pounded the windshield then fell away like tiny diamonds from a broken necklace.

“It never sleets in South Louisiana!”

Goldie Rios hit her hand on the steering wheel of her compact vehicle, wondering how a perfectly good Saturday in early December had gone from a day of Christmas shopping and a late dinner to driving down this dark, deserted road all by herself.

Nervous and tired, she grabbed the locket she always wore, clutching it briefly with one hand before taking the wheel of the car back with a tight grip. Oh, yes. She remembered with belated bitterness how her day had gone from bad to worse. She’d just dumped another loser of a boyfriend, and right in the middle of a swanky uptown restaurant at the mall near Baton Rouge. The whole place had gone silent, the only sound Goldie’s seething response to Loser Number Five’s whining excuses for being seen with another woman one hour before he’d met Goldie for dinner.

The woman was not his sister, his mother, his aunt or his niece. And Goldie was pretty sure she wasn’t his grandmother, either, since the cute blonde clung to him in a way that bespoke intimacy rather than family bonds.

She should have listened to her friend Carla—before Carla called her from the other end of the mall and told her to casually walk by the pet store. She’d warned Goldie that this one was too smooth, too confident and too good-looking, but Goldie wasn’t good at listening to other people’s advice. Carla was right. He was in the pet store, buying a cuddly Chihuahua while he cuddled the cute blonde.

Busted.

Goldie watched, horrified and hurt, from behind the Gingerbread House at Santa Claus Lane, while the man she’d been dating for six months kissed another woman. And bought her a dog. He’d never once offered to buy Goldie a dog. In fact, he’d told her he was highly allergic to animals. So after waiting for him to meet her for dinner, Goldie smiled, chatted with him, ordered spaghetti and meatballs and then “accidentally” dumped half her meal onto his lap before telling him that they were finished. It was a standard metaphoric mode of dumping a boyfriend, but now she understood why a lot of women took this route. It made a statement to the world and it made her feel good.

Or at least it had until she’d left the mall in tears.

After driving for an hour in rain that turned to sleet, she’d realized she’d somehow missed the main exit to Viola, Louisiana. Now she was trying to get home through the back way. Bad idea on a night like this and considering she wasn’t all that familiar with the roads around here. If she hadn’t been so depressed and distracted, she might have thought long and hard about the sanity of taking this remote shortcut. Too late now.

Easing the little car along, Goldie sent up a prayer for safe travels while the radio personality announced yet another road closing due to icy conditions.

“If you’re inside, stay there,” the perky broadcaster advised. “If you’re traveling, stay on the main roads.”

Goldie sputtered a reply. “You don’t say.”

She was not on a main road. And the sleet was getting heavier while the temperature was dipping below freezing. Soon these roads would be slick with ice. Her cell phone rang but since she had both hands glued to the steering wheel and the service out here was questionable at best, Goldie ignored it. Probably Carla calling for details about the breakup. Or maybe Grammy wondering why she wasn’t home yet. But she didn’t dare talk on the phone and drive in this mess at the same time.

Goldie listened as the “Jingle Bells” ring tone died down, her eyes misting as a wave of loneliness hit her square in her soul. “I guess I’ll be alone again this Christmas,” she said out loud just to hear herself talking.

No puppy dog for her. And no more snuggling or cuddling with Number Five, either. Five losers in five years. Could her life get any worse? She’d been making the same old mistakes with men since she’d graduated from college and worked in Baton Rouge. Now she’d just have to focus on doing her weekly column on being organized long-distance from Viola while she stayed with her recuperating grandmother through the holidays. In spite of coming here to help Grammy and in hopes of finding some true meaning in her life, Goldie was as confused as ever. Some advice columnist she was. How could she tell other people how to stay focused and organized when she couldn’t even keep a man? When would she find what she was looking for—that perfect fit in a relationship?

And why did that matter so much, anyway? She’d never been one to chase after the dream of marriage and family the way some of her single friends did. By Goldie’s way of thinking, relationships were highly overrated. So why did she keep dating the wrong men? Maybe so she could break up with them and prove her theory? And keep her heart safe in the process?

She held to the steering wheel as she came to a curve, the trees crouching across the road causing her to lose sight of the asphalt. And that’s when she hit the patch of slick black ice. The car lurched then shimmied before suddenly changing direction. Screaming, Goldie tried to remember how to steer into the skid, but it was too late. Her car kept slipping and sliding until it went into a careening, screeching turnaround. She looked up, her scream now locked inside her throat, as the car headed right toward the wide trunk of an ancient cypress tree.

The alligator was cooperating. The humans all around the eight-foot reptile, however, were not.

“I want him gone, Rory.”

“Me, too. I can’t sleep at night, knowing that creature is hibernating right here at my dock. Rory, can you just take him outta here?”

Rory Branagan shivered in his waterproof work boots and his insulated raincoat. His gaze moved from the sedate alligator buried in a self-made bunker of water and mud near the bank to the couple standing in the icy wind. In the yellow glow from the security light, he could see the fear in the couple’s eyes. “I understand, Mr. Johnson. But this gator is just doing what alligators do in winter. He’s hunkering down for a good long rest.”

Alfred Johnson kicked his cowboy boots into the sleet-covered grass near the shallow pond behind his house. “His snout is sticking up out of the water. ’Bout scared my poor wife to death. He coulda grabbed little DeeDee and ate her whole.”

“He’s not that hungry right now, sir,” Rory observed, shaking his head. “And your poodle shouldn’t be out here near the water anyway.” At least not on a night like this one. And surely these nice people knew that if they lived on a bayou, they were bound to see alligators.

“Good thing I was holding tight to DeeDee,” Mrs. Johnson stated, completely ignoring Rory’s advice. “Now, it’s too cold and wet out here to be arguing. Are you gonna rustle this thing outta here and get him away from my family?”

Rory looked down at the big leathery snout sticking out of the water, thinking Marge Johnson might be petite but she was fiercely protective of the things she loved. That included her family and that barking pile of white fur she called DeeDee. Well, he couldn’t blame the woman.

“I think this one here was ‘icing’ his snout because of the sleet and this frigid water, Mrs. Johnson. He probably wouldn’t hurt you as cold as it is out here, since he’s not interested in food right now. But if this weather clears and we get some warmer days after Christmas, he could pose a problem.”

“So get him,” Mr. Johnson instructed, his tone as sharp as the crystals of sleet hitting Rory’s broad-brimmed rain hat. “I don’t want that gator showing up for Christmas dinner later this month.”

“And I don’t want him around my grandbabies,” Marge insisted, shaking her head, her hair so stiff with hair spray Rory could see tiny ice particles shimmering like a crown on her head. “We’ve got kids coming home for the holidays and I’ve got too much to do. I can’t be worried about my grandchildren out here by the water.”

Rory nodded, steeled himself against a messy job and thought it was nights such as this that made him wish he was in another line of work. But his job as a nuisance hunter for the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries paid the bills. And he loved his work on most days. This wasn’t a typical day in Louisiana, though. It rarely got this nasty around these parts during the winter. But the sleet was getting heavier by the minute. The forecast for the next couple of days didn’t look promising. A rare but sure ice storm was coming, whether Rory liked it or not.

And that old gator was getting real cozy in his nice little cave here on the shore of Mr. Johnson’s shallow, marshy pond. If Rory didn’t help the poor creature, Mr. Johnson might take matters into his own hands and just shoot the reptile. Rory’s conscience couldn’t allow that to happen. Nor could his job with the state.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rory told Mr. Johnson. “Let me just go to my truck and get my equipment.”

“Fair enough,” Mr. Johnson replied, satisfied for now at least. “Go on inside, Marge. You’re shivering in your wader boots out here, honey.”

Rory stomped up the slope toward the driveway, listening to Marge’s concerned questions as her husband guided her back to the house. His vibrating cell phone made him stop at the back of the truck.

“What’s wrong?” Rory asked into the phone. The call was from his house and that meant trouble. Having two boys ages six and ten with no mother always meant trouble.

“It’s all right.”

As always, his mother’s voice was calm and firm. “Mom, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I just wanted you to know that we’re headed over to my house. The boys were getting bored waiting on you and I need to get home anyway to bake cookies for the youth Christmas party at church this Tuesday. Now I have two eager helpers. We’re going to make some with cinnamon and sprinkles and lots of icing. That’s where we’ll be. I offered to let them spend the night but they wanted to be home with you in case this sleet turns to snow. Something about making a gigantic snowman first thing in the morning. You can pick them up when you’re done.”

Rory smiled at his sons’ high hopes. “Are you sure you can make it back in this weather?”

“Rory, I’ve lived on Branagan Road for over thirty-five years. I think I can drive the mile from your house to mine, son.”

“Of course you can.” His mother didn’t take any bunk and she sure didn’t listen to anyone’s advice. And that was one of the main reasons Rory loved her.

“Don’t worry so much,” Frances Branagan declared. “Now let me get on home before it does get worse.”

“Thanks,” Rory said, appreciation coursing through his chilled bones. “You’re my favorite mom, you know that?”

“I love you, too. Be safe.”

He hung up, spoke a prayer of gratitude for his dear patient mother and then set about figuring how to wrestle the unfortunate alligator snoozing down in the pond.

Goldie’s feet were cold. She sputtered awake, then groaned as she glanced around. She was in her car, in the dark, on an unfamiliar road. And her head hurt with all the viciousness of two fencers slicing each other to the death, the clanging and banging of her pulse tearing through her temple with each beat of her heart.

She’d wrecked her car. In the ice storm!

Moaning, she pushed at the air bag surrounding her, glad that it had at least saved her from going through the windshield. Then she touched a hand to her head. It was wet and sticky with blood. Weak and disoriented, she groped for the seat belt then after slipping it loose, moaned again when the restraint lifted from her bruised midsection. Automatically reaching for her locket, she clutched it tight. She had to find her phone and call for help.

Her phone, which earlier had been in the seat with her purse, was nowhere to be found now. And she was too dizzy to go digging under the seat.

What should she do? She had to call someone. With great effort, she tried to open the door. After what seemed like hours, the door cringed ajar and a blast of arctic air flowed over Goldie’s hot skin. Taking in the crunched front end of her car, she held on to the door as light-headedness washed over her again. She managed to stand, to find her purse. But the phone was lost in the recesses of her shopping bags, notebooks and laptop case. And even if she could find it, she probably wouldn’t have very good service.

Goldie gave up on the search and, still woozy and confused, stood and glanced around the woods. She saw a light flickering through the trees.

“A house,” she whispered, her prayers raw in her throat. “Maybe someone can help me.”

Without giving it much thought other than to find warmth and aid, she slowly made her way along the icy road, her purse clutched to her chest, her head screaming a protest of swirling pain. It was the longest trek of her life and none of the walk made any sense to Goldie. Her brain was fuzzy and her pulse was on fire with a radiating pain. All she could think about was getting out of this freezing sleet.

“Must have a concussion,” she voiced to the wind.

When she finally made it to the front door of the house, she was cold, wet and numb with shock. But she knocked and fell against the cool wood, her prayers too hard to voice.

No one came to the door.

So, desperate and beyond caring, she pushed away from the door and continued along the wraparound porch, holding the fat wooden railing until she reached the back of the big farmhouse. Then she fell against the glass-paneled door of the inviting home. Her eyes tried to focus on the Christmas tree sitting in front of the large bay windows and the embers of what looked like a recent fire sparking in the big fireplace.

Goldie wanted that warmth. So she knocked and tried to call out. But no one answered. With one last hope, she jiggled the handle, thinking to herself that she was about to do some serious breaking and entering if she couldn’t get any assistance.

And then, the door flew open and Goldie fell through, landing on the cold wide-planked wood of the floor. With a grunt of pain, she crawled to a sitting position then kicked the door shut. Her gaze scanned the big, cozy room and landed for a quick, painful moment on the massive couch across from the still-warm fireplace.

That big brown sofa looked like paradise right now. She’s just rest for a minute, then figure out what to do.

Seeing stars that weren’t on the tree, Goldie crawled over, pulled herself onto the cushioned pillows and grabbing her beloved locket to hold it close in her hand, and promptly passed out, facedown.

Chapter Two

She had to be dreaming. Goldie sighed in her sleep, glowing warmth moving through her tired bones. She squinted toward the face hovering over her.

The man had dark brown hair and pretty golden eyes but the frown on his face made him look fierce and almost savage. What was he doing in her dream?

Goldie’s eyes flew open, pain shooting through her temple like an electrical charge when she tried to sit up. “Where am I?”

“It’s okay,” the fierce-looking man assured her, pushing her down on the soft pillows. “The ambulance is on its way. You’re going to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Goldie tried to sit again but the room started spinning and she felt sick to her stomach. Falling back on the pillows, she asked, “What’s wrong with me?”

“You gotta boo-boo.”

She closed one eye then slanted the other one toward that tiny voice. A miniature version of Fierce Man stared at her with big, solemn eyes.

“What kind of boo-boo?” Goldie asked, not so sure she wanted an ambulance or an audience. “What happened?”

“You’ve been in an accident,” the man recapped, shooing the little tyke out of the way. “You hit your head.”

For a minute, Goldie just lay there staring at her surroundings. This was a nice enough place, but she had no idea how she’d wound up here. “Where am I?”

“This is my house,” the man explained. “But don’t worry about that right now. Do you remember anything?”

“No.” Goldie closed her eyes, hoping that would help the dizziness spiraling through her brain. “I don’t know.”

“Did you walk here or drive maybe?”

And then she remembered she’d been in a car. Images of that car swirling out of control rushed through her mind. “Yes. Yes. I was in a wreck on the road.” She took a deep breath to stop the nausea rising in her stomach. “I lost control and then my head hurt so much. I couldn’t find my phone so I got out of the car and I saw the light.”

“You broke into our house,” came yet another male voice. A different one. This one was more pronounced and angry.

“No, the door was open,” Goldie replied, deciding to look at Fierce Man instead of that accusing little person, whoever he was.

The man glanced from Goldie to the boys huddled around her feet. “Did MeeMaw forget to lock the back door?”

The bigger of the two boys shook his head then looked down at the floor. “No, sir. She told me to do it. I was the last one out. I thought I heard it click.”

Goldie watched, triumphant because she’d told the truth and now so had the real culprit, as the man’s brooding frown changed to a look of complete understanding and forgiveness. “It’s okay, son. That old door sticks all the time. I need to see about making it more secure. That happens to me a lot, too.”

Goldie thought that was the sweetest thing, the way this man was shouldering the blame for the malfunctioning back door. “I’m glad it wasn’t closed,” she remarked on a raw spasm of pain, hoping to ease the boy’s embarrassment. “I was so cold. And my head hurt a lot.”

“So she didn’t break in,” the tiny one mouthed to the older one, obviously his brother since they looked almost identical. “You need to tell her you’re sorry.”

“I thought she did,” the older one revealed, his hands fisting at his sides. “It looked that way.” He didn’t say he was sorry.

“Okay, you two. Enough,” the man interceded in an authoritative voice. “Step aside and give the nice lady some space.”

The boys backed away, their eyes curious and cute.

“I’m so sorry,” Goldie apologized to the man. “I didn’t mean to pass out on your couch.”

“You’re hurt,” he replied, cutting her the same slack he’d just allowed the boy who’d accidentally left the house unlocked. “Just lie still until we can get you some help.”

“How long have I been out?”

“I’m not sure,” the man answered. “We got home about fifteen minutes ago. Do you remember anything else?”

She moved her head in an attempt to nod, but the pain stopped her. “My car hit a patch of ice and went sliding right into a tree. A big tree.”

“Could have been worse,” the man theorized, surveying her. “I think you’re okay except for the bang on your head. Must have hit the steering wheel pretty hard.”