Keeping Christmas. Marisa Carroll
and respect for her memory kept them to a minimum in his vocabulary. This time, the single syllable was heartfelt and he repeated it.
“Damn. She thought I was going to hit her,” he growled beneath his breath.
He cast aside the piece of wood he held and skimmed the ground with his left hand, seeking another scrap, but it was not to be. And then he stood, a thought piercing his mind. There were any number of likely prospects in the woodshed, just beyond the outhouse. Tomorrow he’d find one and spend some time with Maggie. He’d carve her a cat, and get her to talk to him.
Long strides carried him from the stand of peach trees toward the house. The thought of the girl there was a lure he could not resist. “I only want to help her,” he whispered staunchly to himself. And his pace increased as he walked.
Perhaps she was still in the kitchen.
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