Page 3 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
Back home, Biscuit lumbered over, massive and gentle. Holly threw her arms around his neck, burying herself in his fur. Biscuit leaned into her, patient, letting her cling.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked, voice barely there.
“Because you needed me to.”
Her eyes shined, but she just whispered, “Thank you.”
That was enough. I didn’t make speeches. I made plans.
“Tonight you stay here,” I told her. “Tomorrow, we figure out where you want to go. You tell me what you need.”
She curled up on the couch under my old army blanket, rough wool and all, holding it like it was safety.
I stood watching her breathe, pretending I believed my own words about “tonight.” Truth was, there was no universe where I let her walk back toward whatever had bruised her.
Someone had hurt her. Badly.
And if they ever came near her again, I’d ruin them without hesitation.
Protecting people like Holly—that was the part of me I tried to leash. The part that steadied, soothed, commanded. The part that didn’t tolerate fear in someone small and trembling.
She wasn’t just another stray from a job site.
She was breakable.
She was mine to keep safe until she learned how to breathe again.
Maybe I was making a mistake.
But hell if I cared.
Chapter two
Holly
I didn’t know what I expected. Maybe for him to drive a few blocks and let me out. Or to pull over somewhere and call the police, even though he’d promised not to. But he didn’t do either. He just started the truck and let the heater run. Didn’t say a word.
The air filled with warmth. Not the weak kind that barely touched your fingertips, but real heat that seeped into your bones and made you ache from remembering what comfort was supposed to feel like. My toes thawed first. Then my hands. I didn’t realize how cold I’d been until I stopped shaking.
I tried to breathe normally but I couldn’t. My chest fluttered like a bird trapped behind glass. I wasn’t even sure what scared me more—him, or the way safety could sneak up on you after you’d forgotten what it was.
He was huge. Everything about him said strength, steadiness, control. Even the steering wheel looked too small in his hands. But he didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t look at me too long. Just drove slow, careful, like every turn mattered.
I wanted to say thank you again, but my throat locked. The words felt dangerous, like if I spoke them, I’d owe something I couldn’t pay back. I had to hide but how long could I stay that way?
“You warm enough?” His voice startled me. Low and rough, but not unkind.
I nodded, even though I was still trembling. I’d crawled into that box knowing the night would freeze me solid. I almost hadn’t cared. But I didn’t want him to think I was ungrateful. Ungrateful girls ended up alone. That was one of the lessons that stuck.
“Good,” he said. And that was it. No more words for a while—just the steady hum of the heater and the soft growl of the engine beneath it. He’d turned off the radio. For me, I guessed.
My mind wouldn’t stop running circles. What if this was a trick? What if he called the cops anyway? What if he meant well now, but changed his mind later?But he didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press. Just kept his hands steady on the wheel like he meant every quiet thing he did.
Snow started falling somewhere along the drive, not enough to cover the world, just enough to make it look softer than it really was. When we finally stopped, I saw a house through the window. Not big. But warm-looking. The porch light was golden, and there were old-fashioned colored Christmas lights strung along the eaves. My chest twisted, tight and confused. Hope or dread—I couldn’t tell them apart anymore.
He shut off the truck and sat for a second, thinking. Then he looked at me. “All right, Holly. Let’s get you inside.”
He came around to my door and opened it, waiting like I had a choice. I tried to get down on my own, but my legs folded halfway. He caught me before I hit the ground—solid, steady, like it was nothing.“Easy,” he said quietly. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
