Poppy heard the schedule planned. Her smile didn’t disappear, but Sam saw her close her eyes tight for the breadth of a second. Quickly, though, she grabbed a big sweater, wrapped it around her, and walked them both out into the snow-peppered night. Effusive hugs had to be repeated. Both women ran back to give Sam an extra hug as well.

  Darn, but they were cute. Cute as fresh air and real as sunshine. Really special, really engaging—but challenging in ways he’d never anticipated.

  Their car started, the lights went on, and Cam backed out of the driveway. Sam finally had two seconds to grab Poppy and pull her into his arms. She’d been standing out there with no covering but a sweater. She was freezing. Less so when he tugged her closer. Tight closer. He blessed her forehead with a kiss, and then her lips.

  She melted into him, releasing a fifty-pound sigh. “Sam. I’m so tired I can’t see straight.”

  “Which is why I’m going home tonight. Definitely not what I’d planned or hoped for, but I’m about positive you’ll be asleep as soon as your head hits a pillow. Any pillow.”

  “You thought they were going to be evil, didn’t you?” She lifted her head.

  “No. Well. Maybe a little. Maybe I thought they were going to be bratty divas, constantly drawing attention to themselves, manipulative, conniving, selfish, demanding—”

  “Stop.” Her face was wan from tiredness, but she still let out a laugh. A short one. “I was afraid I gave you that impression. I never meant to. They’re wonderful. I love them so much. But I can well imagine that you felt thrown into a swimming pool of pure estrogen.”

  “Poppy. I liked them both. Really.”

  She lifted up on tiptoe and kissed him again. “I did try to tell you. They’re not the problem. I’m the problem. I’m the one who needs fixing.”

  He’d known her how long? Long enough to fall in love, but apparently not long enough to understand her situation. Seeing the three women together was unexpectedly illuminating. Poppy fit back into her family dynamic like pulling on a snug kid glove. Her sisters adored her, counted on her to be their mentor in chief, their supporter through thick and thin. She was the glue who held them together.

  Sam couldn’t think of a single reason why the two sisters would want the pattern to change. It worked well for them when they were kids, and it still worked now. It was only Poppy who looked as if she’d just survived a tornado, as exhausted as the woman he’d met on that first night.

  “You know what? There are answers for this, Red. But it’s too late tonight to get into all that—and you need to get inside where it’s warm.”

  She nodded, but still said, “Really? Do you have some ideas?”

  Hell, no. His best idea was riding in on a white charger—or with his wolf dog sidekick—and chasing away anyone who tried to use her. That would have been fun. That, he would have known how to do.

  Right now, Sam wanted nothing more than to go inside with her, and make love until dawn. But . . . he needed to think.

  Love had power. He believed that. Just maybe, though, they loved her too much. Poppy was the only caretaker the sisters had ever known. She’d slipped into the role of a mom before she’d even hit puberty. They saw her as strong as stone—because she was strong as stone.

  Sam got it. He just wasn’t sure how to help someone who was actually even more stone-headed than he was.

  And Christmas Eve was only a couple days away now. Poppy’s free time disappeared after the holiday. That didn’t mean they had to stop seeing each other—but together time would be harder to manage. And she so obviously didn’t want to go back to her “regular” life—and regular patterns—without getting a handle on how things could change for the better.

  Sam wanted to input something that mattered to her. To show her that he could be a partner through even tough times.

  “Bubbles.” He snapped his fingers. The wolfhound took one look at his face and bounded for the truck. She knew when it was time to go home.

  Chapter Eleven

  POPPY SLEPT DEEPER than a tired puppy, but she woke with a start. Watery sunlight peeked through the old curtain, but there wasn’t a peep of wind. She couldn’t fathom what wakened her.

  But then her ears picked up sounds. Whispers and tiptoes emanated from the living room. A giggle, quickly hushed. Something weighty was being pushed on casters—old casters, that squeaked. Overlying the sounds were smells—fresh coffee, cinnamon, bacon.

  She peeled out of bed and grabbed a robe as she aimed for the doorway.

  “Poppy! Darn it, did we wake you? We were trying to be quieter than mice!”

  “You didn’t wake me, but . . .” Her sisters both showed guilty expressions, but behind the fake remorse was plain-as-day excitement. They wanted her to be happy, happy they’d found her, happy at the Christmas they were putting together for her.

  “Didn’t you both tell me that you weren’t coming back until tomorrow afternoon?”

  “That’s what we thought. But when we got home, Cam got a message that her school was closing early for the holidays because of some furnace crisis. And nobody minded if I took an extra day off.”

  “We both figured our coming early would help you,” Cam said. “We can get more Christmas prep done. You can just curl up on the couch.”

  They both looked expectant. Hopeful. They wanted her to be happy so much that Poppy already felt exhausted. For a moment she was too overwhelmed to even speak.

  The cottage had been taken over. How they’d brought in a tree without her hearing was a mystery. It was artificial, already dancing with lights. On the floor were three open boxes of their handmade ornaments, ready to dress the tree.

  The kitchen counter space was crammed solid with holiday debris. Their mom’s sacred serving dishes had become part of the sisters’ traditions—like the Santa Claus cookie tray, the cut-glass salad bowls, the peace-on-earth mugs. And squished on the table were the cookie-making supplies—bowls, cookie sheets, colored sprinkles, butter, cinnamon, sugar, mixing spoons. Not counting what had already fallen on the floor.

  Ten pounds of potatoes sat lonely by the back door. There was no space for them anywhere else.

  When Poppy still hadn’t said anything, Marigold said softly, “Are you angry with us, Poppy?”

  “Not angry.” Her voice came out thick and rusty. “But carrying all this stuff here—it would have made so much more sense to just do it at home. My house. Cam’s house. Dad’s house. Anywhere but here.”

  Marigold’s eyes welled up. So did Cam’s. No one moved. And no tears spilled, but they were close.

  Poppy was so close to just . . . letting it all out. Getting mad. Getting it over with. She did not want this messy, noisy, exhausting Christmas they were putting together. Not this year. She loved the mess, the noise, the post-Christmas crash. But all these years, she’d tried hard to hear what her sisters needed, to come through for them. But she wanted to believe, needed to believe, that they’d try to hear her and what she needed.

  Yet somehow it all clogged in her throat, the way it had before. It just refused to come out. Their faces looked just like, years ago, when she’d had to tell them there was no Santa Claus.

  She couldn’t do it. Wreck their Christmas. Make them feel guilty for all this effort and work they’d gone to, so they could give her a special holiday.

  “You know what?” Poppy said gently. “Right now, let’s just put everything aside and just create a Christmas together. But maybe, all three of us could think about how all this became so upsetting—for all of us. Think about it. And then come up with some ideas about how to fix this so it doesn’t happen like this again. Okay?”

  Cam piped up. “Okay. I’ll take charge of dinner! I figured we’d do the recipe with the brown sugar coating the ham? Unless you want to do the one with root beer. I bought root beer, just in case.”

  Marigold followed up. “We figured we’d do the tree and cookies today. And the planning for specifics. Then do the last grocery run and other prep stuff tomorrow. We can do everything much simpler than we usually do.” Marigold was already opening the ornament boxes, taking out her favorites—the bright, splashy ones.

  “We’ve been arguing about the salad. Marigold always wants the same old fresh-strawberry and sour cream one with the marshmallows. I’m thinking we should go with the seven-layer salad. Maybe the colors aren’t as Christmasy, but the tastes are fresh? Where everything else is cooked, so it’s nice to have a contrast with colors and textures.” Camille, predictably, had cornered her favorite ornaments. She liked the tasteful ones—the ruby and emerald velvet balls, the Victorian ones with lace and satin ribbons. She could spend long minutes placing them just so on the tree.

  “We both think we should have sweet potato pie for dessert. The recipe with the condensed milk. You know. Where we made it by mistake the first time and have loved it that way ever since?” Marigold found an old favorite, a Santa ball, and placed it center-tree.

  “But we could make a lemon meringue pie for dessert, too. Just for fun. Or a red velvet cake—one pie, one cake. That’s a better balance?”

  “We keep debating about the vegetable. I think it should be fresh beans with the cranberries and bacon. She thinks we should have the same old ancient beans and French fried onions—”

  “Because everyone always loves it,” Cam said. “No matter how many times we have it, nobody ever gets tired of it. And then there’s potatoes. We can do the traditional cheesy potatoes? Or we could do scalloped potatoes, but the apple/scalloped recipe, not the usual one.”

  “Or we could do the dish where we slice the potatoes really thin, put it in a glass pie pan, layer it with cheese and herbs and butter and stuff, then turn it over when it’s done? It really looks terrific—”

  They both stopped talking abruptly. Looked at Poppy.

  Cam finally said slowly, “Do you want us to disappear, Poppy? Just call it quits for this year?”

  Poppy wanted to kick a wall. Or kick herself. Or run outside and hide under a giant snowball.

  She didn’t want to hurt her family. She never wanted to hurt her darn family. That’s how all this had started. Mom dying. Mom, who was everything to all of them. Her, stepping up because there was no one else who could. Because she wanted to be like her mom. Because she wanted to protect them all. Because she wanted them to know that they could count on her no matter what.

  She didn’t want anything to change any more than they did. But she’d started to worry she was too darned tired these days . . . to count on herself.

  * * *

  AS SAM TURNED into Poppy’s drive, he was whistling. Some dumb old song about Mama kissing Santa Claus, but only Bubbles could hear him and she hadn’t started howling. Yet. She did better with Sam’s whistling than his actual singing, but she still sensed something good was up.

  And it was. He had two pairs of snowshoes in the back, subzero warm mittens for Poppy, and ski poles for both. His sister-in-law had pitched in a pair of boots and three pairs of ski socks—since he didn’t know Poppy’s shoe size, they figured the choice of socks would enable her to fit in the snowshoes no matter what.

  She was going to love it. Exploring the snowy woods. Enjoying the day, the winter, the bright sunshine. After yesterday, he determined that a break was called for—an emotional rest time—a rejuice-the-heart time. A day plastered with smiles was what he had in mind . . .

  Until he abruptly saw the red car.

  They were back. The sisters. The sisters who’d claimed they weren’t coming back until tomorrow afternoon.

  He left the snowshoes and gear in the truck, guessing there’d be no way to use them, not today. The tallest sister, Marigold, must have spotted him from the window, because both sisters opened the door before he and Bubbles got close enough to knock. Bubbles got the first round of hugs and kisses, but the magpies drew him in with the same exuberant affection.

  Apparently the sisters had been sharing old funny holiday stories, and once they wrapped his hands around a mug of coffee, they regaled him with more of the holiday tales.

  They started with the first year Poppy made a turkey. No one told her there was a bag inside the turkey. The bird was still edible, but the sisters considered it a family obligation to tease her about it every year.

  Then there was the year the mashed potatoes turned into rocks.

  And then there was a year they didn’t have a tree, so the girls went out to find one. They ran across a fallen tree in the woods—a little one that was straggly and saggy and clearly had no future of anyone appreciating it. But they did. They filled every hole with dolls and toys and stuffed animals.

  Poppy finally surfaced—she was right there, in the kitchen area—but she’d been bending over the oven. When she stood up, she was carrying two cookie sheets with hot pads. “I’ve been trying to say hello! But as you can see, we’re in the middle of bedlam!”

  Yes, he could see the chaos. See the flour streaks on her face. See her private smile for him—and yet both frustration and anxiety in her eyes. “Hey, I’m good with bedlam. My mother always said that three boys meant constant bedlam. We just thought it was normal.”

  “Can I get you two to deal with the cookies? The ones that are cool go in the tins. Except for the ones you sample. I’d just like a break for a couple seconds.”

  That was exactly what Sam thought. That she needed a break. He announced, “Poppy and I are taking out the trash.”

  Poppy’s jaw dropped—but then she grinned. “That’s what I was thinking. We keep accumulating bags of trash around here.”

  “So I’ll do the brawn. And Poppy’ll tell me where to go.”

  “Exactly,” Poppy affirmed. “We’ll be right back.”

  Bubbles glanced their way but made no attempt to follow them. There was food in sight, after all, and two extra females to fawn over her. The dog clearly had her priorities. Poppy grabbed her parka, Sam grabbed his.

  She charged out the door, spun to the left, did a quick turn at the end of the house.

  “There’s no trash back here,” he noticed.

  “No windows either. We’re out of sight.” She swooped on him. Small as she was, she knew her way around swooping. She framed his face with her freezing cold hands. “My sisters are like taffy. They stick.”

  “I can see that.”

  “We’ll never get a chance to talk if we don’t create one.”

  For once, Sam really wanted to talk. That long stretch of time yesterday he’d spent with her sisters had troubled him. Questions started to itch in his mind, questions that he really wanted to ask her about. But right then he was positive that talking was the last thing on her mind.

  Poppy was pretty persuasive. Or possibly he was entranced at finding himself being persuaded so easily.

  She whispered his name, calling him like a siren in the wind, snaring him with her lips, the tilt of her face, those gorgeous sassy eyes. She went up on tiptoe to kiss the tip of his nose, each cheek, lick his lower lip—slowly—then nuzzle more schmoozy kisses on his neck.

  Then she wanted to talk. “Don’t let this scare you, Sam. I don’t want you to worry about it. But I still want to tell you that I feel . . . lit up . . . when I’m around you. Higher than champagne and starlight. It sounds nuts, but I keep feeling this downright tingle all the way down to my toes. You think I’m coming down with something?”

  “I do. I think it’s a serious illness. And I’m having some of the same symptoms. Getting a little worried about it.” She started it. But if she was going to kiss him all over, Sam figured he was justified in turning her ideas on her—with one exception. He lifted her up, laid her against the back wall of the cabin, homed in for a honey soft kiss. To start with.

  “Sam! Poppy! Sam! Can you hear me? I think we blew a fuse! We lost power. I don’t know where the box is in this place!”

  “Wow,” Sam whispered. “That peace sure lasted a long time. Poppy?”

  She turned quickly.

  “Why on earth are they here so early? Did they call you?”

  She shook her head, her bright smile fading. “They came early to help put together Christmas. To help me any way they could.”

  He cocked his head. “I don’t suppose you could just put on your Scrooge hat and tell them to flake off?”

  She gulped. “Whew. Sometimes you’re pretty blunt.”

  “I know. It’s one of my character flaws.”

  “Actually, I like it. Straight honesty works better for me than candy-wrapped sweet talk.” She hesitated. “Besides which, I think you had a good idea. A really good idea. Only I don’t seem to have a Scrooge hat, Sam. I don’t even know where to buy one.”

  “Aw, Red.” His hand was cold, but he still had to touch her. Her cheek, the side of her head, slide his fingers into her hair. “You’re tough, you know that? You’re strong. You just don’t seem to have a mean bone in your entire body. Sometimes there’s just no way to solve something nicely.”

  There. He’d coaxed a smile from her again. “Honest to Pete, I think I could handle a serial killer. A snake in a closet. A bear in the kitchen. But I just can’t seem to be mean to my sisters. And you know what? I do know that’s what I have to do. And I will. As soon as I figure out how.”

  He scooped an arm around her. “I guess we could enroll you in a meanness class, but I’m afraid you’d just flunk. But maybe it could help if we figure this out together.”

  They hiked back inside. Sam took on the blown fuse. In the dark, the sisters discussed whether they’d turned on too many appliances—the stove, the fridge, the coffee maker, the washing machine, the dryer, the microwave, the Christmas lights.

  “You think?” Poppy asked wryly—but Sam had the problem fixed so fast they were back to the Christmas-creation projects in no time. Orange cinnamon cookies showed up on the counter to cool. Then sugar cookies heaped with sprinkles and frosting and about everything else.

  Sam was the elected taste tester. A tough job, but he was man enough to do it.

  Cam elected herself the list maker for the serious grocery trip. Sam and Marigold set up the table and chairs, just to see where it was all going to fit. Poppy made hot cider, did several loads of dishes, made decisions—sweet potato pie and a small red velvet cake, the ham crusted in brown sugar and tea, the apple/scalloped potato casserole that their grandmother used to make. Then they needed an inventory of dishes, bowls, silverware.