A Broken Christmas by Claire Ashgrove Read Free Book Online Page A

what happened nine months ago that he wouldn’t speak to Walsh? Conner’s voice echoed in her head as she pulled down coffee and filter. It was bad, Aims. Real bad.
    Even Conner refused to offer so much as a hint. When she’d pressed him for more, he had shaken his head and suggested they go get Starbucks—his way of diverting conversation. Entirely strange behavior for Conner.
    Going one step beyond that, when she’d hit the end of her rope during the divorce and contacted Major Renfield, he’d given her the party-line of Classified. When the Major could talk, he would.
    Something had happened over there. Something unrelated to her divorce that was slowly tearing Kyle apart—she’d stake her life on that.
    While the coffee pot brewed, she smoothed her hands down the front of her pajamas. “I’m beat, Kyle. I’m going to bed. If you can manage the stairs, you’re welcome to your side of the bed.”
    He didn’t even look up as he replied, “Good night.”

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
    Aimee awakened to the sound of sleet on the windowpane. The pillow beside hers was empty, as she’d expected it would be. Still, she’d hoped to wake up beside Kyle, and the barren mattress filled her with disappointment. She longingly ran her hand over his untouched pillow.
    Six years. Four of which had been the happiest of her life.
    She shook off the rising despair with a slight shake of her head and tossed her legs over the side of the bed. No moping. With Christmas fast approaching, she had things to do. She hadn’t finished her shopping—frankly, Kyle’s impending return took precedence over ticking off items on a list. Conner’s mother wanted to join them for Christmas dinner, which meant including Conner as well. While Kyle would fight that idea, Aimee intended to plan a menu she could adapt at the last minute if he changed his mind.
    Not that Kyle changing his mind was likely. He’d spent nine months avoiding Conner. Chances of him suddenly welcoming him with open arms were slim to none.
    All of which spelled disaster. Add in Kyle’s attitude, and Christmas felt more like a night with Scrooge than any joyful dinner with Tiny Tim.
    Deciding a shower could wait until after breakfast, Aimee pulled on her robe and trudged barefoot down the stairs. Kyle lay on the couch, half tucked beneath the cushions for warmth. The pitiful way he’d crunched himself away from the chilly overnight temperature in their house had Aimee returning up the stairs for the heavy quilt she’d made last summer. When she’d realized he would be awake a good deal longer last night, she should have turned the heat up. But habit, coupled with their mutual preference to sleep in colder temperatures, overrode common sense.
    She lugged the quilt back downstairs, carefully pulled the cushions off his legs, and tucked him in. Normally a light sleeper, the fact he didn’t wake, told her he hadn’t been asleep long. She ran her fingers affectionately through his cropped dark hair, then smiling, wandered to the kitchen where she pulled six eggs and a package of sausage from the fridge.
    Taking great care not to make too much noise, Aimee cracked the eggs and dumped them into a bowl. Scrambled were his favorite. The comfort food ought to tame his inner bear when he awakened. If not, fresh coffee would.
    She poured out last night’s half-empty pot and carried the used filter to the trash. There, a handful of torn up photographs in the top of the can gave her pause. Curious, she fished the pieces out before dropping the filter in.
    As she sifted through the tattered images of his team, a frown tugged at her forehead. His team—why would he throw these out? Why tear them up? She shuffled through the colorful stack once again, suspicion growing that he’d pulled some of them out of the scrapbooks. The bright blue sky in several pieces distinctly reminded her of the last batch he’d sent home.
    Her frown deepened, and she went to the table to