Their Christmas Angel. Tracy MadisonЧитать онлайн книгу.
until just a few minutes ago, Bridget was the only other woman Parker had ever looked at and felt that same pop of awareness, of innate chemistry and bone-deep attraction. It happened on the very first day he set eyes on Bridget Delaney, later to become Bridget Lennox, and every precious day they had together thereafter.
She was the woman he’d loved with every part of his heart and soul. The woman he’d had every intention of creating a long life and growing old with. The woman he still missed and longed for on a consistent, if not daily, basis. His daughters’ mother. His wife. His Bridget.
Frankly, Parker did not know what to think of having the same—and up until now, unique—initial response to Nicole that he’d had with Bridget. But he sure as hell planned on exploring that reaction and discovering if lightning really could strike twice.
Gosh darn it, where was that dog? Nicole swallowed the thick lump of fear in her throat and called out, “Roscoe! Come here, boy! Want a treat? Here, Roscoe!”
Nothing. Not a bark or a whine or a yelp of happiness.
Trudging forward, her eyes peeled as she yelled Roscoe’s name every few feet, Nicole silently admitted that bringing her dog had been an error in judgment. Oh, he’d done well at the other school events she’d taken him to—a few ball games last spring, right after accepting the music teacher position, and the outdoor fair last month—and he loved children, but she should’ve known better. Her dog had a serious case of wanderlust.
He loved nothing better than running off to explore and always took any chance given to escape. Due to this tendency, Nicole had learned to remain vigilant when she had Roscoe out of the house or her fenced-in backyard. Typically, she could keep his high-energy excitement under control. Tonight, in fact, was the first time in a long while that he’d managed to break free.
And no doubt about it, his getaway was her fault.
They had gone for a quick walk and had returned to the school about fifteen minutes before the tryouts were supposed to start, and no, she had not been paying close enough attention. They were in the auditorium, and she’d just finagled those stupid costume horns on Roscoe’s head. At the exact second she unclipped his leash, the janitor cracked open the outside door. The dog instantly lunged forward, out of her grasp and racing with the wind.
So here she was, anxiously searching for her dog while dressed as an angel, which made her decision to bring Roscoe tonight seem naive. The idea of doing so hadn’t even occurred to her until yesterday, and when she checked in with the school’s principal this morning—who’d met the happy and affectionate Roscoe several times—he’d given his consent.
She’d hoped the sight of her large, funny-looking mixed-breed mutt, with stuffed reindeer horns on his head, would make the kids laugh, helping them to relax and have fun. And if all had actually gone as planned, his presence would’ve provided Nicole with a much-needed surge of confidence and eased her nerves. Mainly because she hadn’t quite found her place in Steamboat Springs yet, or solid footing as the elementary school’s new music teacher.
The position became available only when the prior music teacher, Mrs. Engle, retired after forty years of devoted service. Everyone—the other teachers, the students and the parents—adored Mrs. Engle, and stepping into such beloved shoes was not a simple task. Especially since Mrs. Engle had always been in charge of the school’s music and drama productions.
A responsibility that now fell on Nicole’s shoulders, which was the primary cause for her anxiety. Oh, she’d directed many a recital in the past, while working and living in a suburb of Denver, and would do so again here without blinking an eye. But she’d never taken on the performance of an actual drama, and this one didn’t include so much as a note of music. To add to her nerves, she’d chosen to skip the school’s traditional presentation of the nativity story in favor of a lovely fairy-tale take on Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.
The kids didn’t know this yet, and since she’d heard a few of her students talking about how they wanted to play Mary, one of the three Wise Men or an angel, she worried they would be disappointed when they learned the roles now up for grabs were fairy-tale characters such as Rumpelstiltskin in place of Ebenezer Scrooge and Pinocchio for Bob Cratchit.
Or they might love the change. Unfortunately, since she wasn’t in the auditorium—where, at this moment, children and parents were waiting for her, likely impatient and wondering if they were wasting their time by sticking around—she wouldn’t know one way or the other until she found her darned dog. And who knew how long that would take?
Nicole hollered Roscoe’s name again, and then again. Still nothing. Wrapping her arms around herself, she shivered and tried to think rationally. Or, she supposed, like a dog.
Okay. Knowing Roscoe’s proclivity for attention, he could have already made friends with a family who lived in one of these houses, and could now be curled up—exhausted from his mad dash—on someone’s kitchen floor. Oh, Lord. She prayed that was the case. Because the possibility, however remote, of her dog being safe and sound in someone’s home alleviated the sharpest edge of her fears. Roscoe’s dog tags had all of the information anyone would require to locate her, including her name, the veterinarian’s and their individual phone numbers.
Sticking her hands into the pockets of the coat Parker had lent her—the act of an honest-to-God gentleman, by the way—Nicole shivered again and squinted through the snow, which was now falling at a brisker pace. Even with the glow of the streetlights and the houses’ porch lights, the curtain of white made it difficult to see very far in the distance.
“Roscoe!” she yelled as she continued her path along the sidewalk, every step taking her farther away from the school building. “Where are you, boy? Want a treat? Roscoe, come here!”
She stopped, listened and hoped. When her dog did not bound out of the shadows, she continued to walk and shout his name. The wind picked up speed and her halo slipped another inch to the side. Annoyed, she yanked the darned thing off her head and, very likely destroying it beyond repair, bent the halo in half and shoved it into Parker’s coat pocket.
Another bad idea, dressing as an angel.
She’d done so for the same reason she decorated her dog’s head: to help relax the kids and get them into the Christmas spirit, and the only other adult-size holiday costume the school had was for Santa Claus himself. While Nicole had nothing against the jolly old man, she had no desire to stick on a fake beard or wear that many layers of clothing.
Or, well, to be fully honest, the stuffed belly pillow had been what really put her off. Her deepest desire was to become pregnant, and the thought of seeing her stomach big and round due to a freaking pillow and not the baby she so yearned for had almost brought her to tears. Reason enough, right there, to go with the angel costume.
Another type of shiver—one of longing and anticipation—rippled through Nicole’s body. Had the procedure worked? Was she, even now, pregnant? Too soon to know, of course, as it had been only three days since her visit to the Denver fertility clinic for her fourth—and please, Lord, her final—attempt. Though, if she didn’t conceive this month, she’d try again. And she’d keep on trying until she ran out of her harvested eggs, funds or hope.
Whichever of the three came first, but more likely than not, the first.
A year ago, her doctor had hesitantly given her the go-ahead for one round of fertility injections, before her already-compromised ovarian function ceased to exist. It had worked, but she had only a limited number of eggs to work with, which meant she had a limited amount of time to conceive. But she wasn’t about to give up unless she had no other choice.
History had taught her the importance of always moving toward her goals and doing whatever she could to fulfill her wants today. Because tomorrow or next month or two years down the road could be too late. Life offered zero guarantees. Which was why she had gone through a round