A Father for Christmas: A Veteran’s Christmas, #1 Read online

  Didn’t make sense. A woman as beautiful as she should have plenty of well-heeled men volunteering to take the position of stepfather for that sweet little girl.

  A rent-a-cop tapped Tyler’s shoulder. “Move along. You’re not here for the Santa line, you have to stay outside the play area.”

  Tyler shrugged away from the guard without answering. He browsed by the Holiday Express train. Nope, he definitely wasn’t interested in taking a ride. It reminded him too much of the train set his father used to set up every Christmas before he’d disappeared during the First Gulf War.

  Tyler wandered toward the towering Christmas tree, craning his neck to see the star at the top. Whenever his father had been home for Christmas, Tyler had been the one who had sat on his broad shoulders and placed the star on the tip-top branch. He and his mother would have decorated the tree from the bottom up, hanging ornaments and stringing the lights, but they could never reach the top. His mother would take the golden star out of the box and place it on the mantle, waiting for the family to gather around the tree. There’d be popcorn and Christmas carols, and once his father stepped through the door, he’d pick Tyler up and hand him the star. Everyone would clap and cheer as Tyler mounted the star. It had made him feel the same as if he’d scored a game winning touchdown.

  They never had another tree after his father disappeared and was later found dead.

  “Mister, can you please take a picture of us?” A young woman waved her hand in front of Tyler and gestured to her group of friends.

  “Sure, no problem.” He took her phone. “Where’s the shutter button?”

  “On screen,” the woman replied. “Tap the target.”

  “Sure.” Showed how long he’d been gone. When he was deployed to Afghanistan after 9/11, the phones had push buttons and no camera feature. He shot a few poses for the family and handed the fancy contraption to the woman.

  After they gathered their coats and bags from the floor, he noticed they’d left a takeout container. He picked it up and looked around, not spotting them. Not that he tried too hard. He was hungry, and the food smelled delicious. It was Chinese take out, orange chicken and chow mein. A wrapped almond cookie sat in one of the pockets of the container.

  His mouth watering, Tyler swiped a fork and napkins from a nearby concession stand and sat on a bench under the massive Christmas tree. He gave thanks and dug in.

  “Papa? Can I have a cookie?” a tiny voice squeaked in close vicinity. It was the little girl who’d asked for a father for Christmas.

  Tyler glanced around, but didn’t spot the girl’s mother. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s looking for you, but I found you sitting under the big Christmas tree just like Santa pwo-mised.” The girl beamed expectantly at him.

  “Well, it isn’t Christmas yet. Still two more weeks.” Tyler wiped his lips with a napkin. “Let’s see if we can’t find your mother.”

  “Okay, Papa.” The girl put her hand in his. “I can’t wait to tell her, Santa got you for my very own.”

  Tyler wanted to let her hand go. This wouldn’t look good. He hastily replaced the lid on the takeout container and dangled the almond cookie. “Here, you can have the cookie, but you have to help me find your mother.”

  “Yay!” the little girl squealed, snatching the cookie. She ripped the wrapper and took off, running. “Mama, I found him.”

  Tyler pitched the rest of the food into the trash and loped after her. She could get lost in this crowd, and he wasn’t sure he spotted her mother anywhere.

  Sure enough, the little girl’s glee turned to confusion and then fear as she whipped her head back and forth, crying, “Mama? Mama?”

  The cookie dropped to the floor, and her eyes grew big. She paused to take a large breath, the kind children did right before letting out a loud scream.

  Tyler reached for her hand. “Honey, don’t be afraid. I’m sure your mother’s looking for you.”

  “Mama,” she yelled, screwing her fists into her eye sockets.

  Several bystanders glared at him, rocking from one foot to the other, as if deciding whether to intervene or not. A woman whipped out her cell phone and snapped a picture. Great. Just great. He was about to be reported as a child kidnapper. Why couldn’t he have left it to the rent-a-cops? Except who knew whether they had criminal backgrounds?

  “Papa!” The girl launched herself at him, hugging him around his legs. “Mama got lost. We need to put up posters. Offer a reward.”

  The bystanders who had been watching Tyler smiled and shrugged with relief, apparently convinced the child was in no danger.

  Tyler had no choice but to play along. The number one rule, whether in a war zone in Afghanistan or homeless in the good ol’ US of A was to not draw attention. Walk as if you belonged and blend in with the background.

  “Where shall we start, missy?” Tyler swung his arm alongside the girl. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  The girl giggled. “Didn’t Mama tell you? Or Santa?”

  “Uh, I must not have been paying attention.”

  “It’s Bwee, and I’m four.” She held up four fingers.

  “Okay, Miss Bwee.” He couldn’t help smiling. “Where did you lose Mama? Was it near Santa’s Throne?”

  “No, Mr. Candy Man.” Bwee who was probably Bree crossed her arms and tilted her jaw with a bossy pout. “I want red and green candy cane.”

  “So your mother was paying for the candy cane and disappeared?” Tyler led her toward the direction of the Christmas candy display. “Which one?”

  “That big one, red and green. Please, Papa? Can you buy it?”

  Big blue eyes peered at him as if he were a hero. How could he say no? Except for the price tag. Five dollars. Tyler dug into his pocket. He had a couple of bills from tips he collected helping elderly people carry their groceries into their apartments. Counting the change carefully, he assembled five dollars and gave it to the candy man.

  Again, Bree’s delighted smile wobbled his insides, reminding him of outings with his father—duck hunting, fence repairing, fishing—following his father’s footsteps.

  In retrospect, it had all been useless. Ten years in a war zone could not atone for his father’s death or make up for the fact he’d sent him away. If he hadn’t called his father a hero and looked up to him as a warrior, he would have listened to his mother and not re-enlisted.

  His father’s last words rang through his mind. “Son, I’m gonna make you proud of me, because I’ll always be your hero.”

  3

  ~ Kelly ~

  I stare at the wall full of security monitors, praying I can spot Bree. Next to me, a team of security personnel look over the shoulder of the guy at the control panel. He flips through the camera angles, responding to commands to zoom in, turn, pan.

  It’s hard to see a child walking among all the adults. Would the kidnapper have changed her clothes already? Maybe put a wig on her?

  I vocalize my concerns to the chief of security.

  “That’s a possibility,” he replies. “We’ve set up checkpoints at all the exits. He won’t get far.”

  “What about the one leading to the subway? There’s one underground that steps directly onto the train.”

  “You mean BART?” the man at the console replies.

  Right. BART is short for Bay Area Rapid Transit. In New York, we simply say subway or train.

  “Of course that’s what I mean,” I snap, irritable now. “He could have taken her anywhere by now.”

  “True, but we’re capturing every exit on the video feed.” He points to a monitor showing the exit to the train station.

  All I see are masses of people, some wheeling strollers and others holding children wearing winter coats.

  “How can you see inside the strollers? Shouldn’t you have a guard inspect every child?”

  There’s a loud thump as the heavy steel door opens. Two San Francisco police officers follow a security guard. They remove their caps and
shake my hand, introducing themselves.

  I’m questioned and repeat everything that happened starting with Bree’s visit to Santa, but they want me to go further back.

  “Are you involved in a custody dispute?”

  “Do you have any reason to suspect someone of taking an interest in your child?”

  “Have you seen any suspicious people following you around before you visited the mall?”

  “Do you have enemies?”

  The first three questions are a definite ‘no.’ Not a chance, but that last one? Who can truly know? I can’t imagine my coworkers at the bank, even the interns I screwed out of a job, would waste their time trapping my child. I haven’t dated since college, so there’s no lurking ex-boyfriend, nor have I made any friends or enemies during my short prison stint. The girls in the cleaning crew have no idea of my past life as a banker, and no one at church envies the hard life I live.

  The police tell me they’ve set up a press conference and ask me to rehearse what I’m going to say while I wait for the camera crew. They access my Facebook account to download pictures of Bree, and I call my mother, asking her to meet me at mall security. I’m thankful she’s the calm, collected type, well, except for musical performances, but she assures me she’s on her way to stand by me when I hold the press conference.

  I have no clue what I’m going to say. It’ll be one of those tearful appeals, the kind I always turn away from when it was someone else. I wring my hands, worrying the tissue paper into shreds, willing myself to hold it together, to concentrate on the security screens.

  My eyes flash from the train to the Santa Throne to the coffee shop to the center court. A broad-shouldered man walks around the giant Christmas tree holding hands with …

  “There!” I point to the screen. “That’s Bree. She’s with that man.”

  The people in the room spring into action. They speak on walkie-talkies, lock the camera onto the man and zoom in, while others rush for the door. I scramble after them, in the wake of the two police officers.

  The chief of security tries to hold me back. “Let the police handle it. It could be dangerous.”

  “No way am I going to let that man hurt my daughter.” I take off running after the officers who move quickly toward the tree.

  The crowds of people part when they see the officers with their hands over their holsters. My heart jumps to my throat. What if Bree’s caught in the crossfire?

  “Hands up,” the police shout. “Let go of the child.”

  The man slowly raises his hands. I rush toward Bree, calling her name.

  A guard grabs my arm. “Stay back until they get the situation under control.”

  “Bree, Mama’s here. Come here. Everything’s going to be okay.” I entreat her, but she stands still.

  What’s wrong with her? She has her arms locked around the man’s legs.

  He’s a large fellow, scruffy with dirty blond hair, wearing carpenter pants and a black T-shirt under a worn khaki raincoat. Typical child molester profile.

  The officers move in and cuff him as I pry Bree’s arms from his legs.

  He says nothing, his dark blue eyes fixed on me, as if I’m his target in all of this. Could he be a disgruntled former employee? Maybe one of the analysts I backstabbed on my way up the corporate ladder?

  “That’s my papa,” Bree yells. “We was looking for you.”

  “He’s her father?” the head of security says. “I thought you said there’s no custody issue.”

  I stand to my full height, picking up Bree. “He’s definitely not her father. Do your job and lock him up.”

  I glare at the man, noting his unkempt appearance. “You better not have hurt my daughter, or you’ll have hell to pay.”

  “But Mama,” Bree lisps, now sucking on a red and green candy cane. “Santa pwo-mised. Can we take Papa home?”

  I hug and kiss Bree, shuddering at the thought of this animal hurting my precious baby. “Not right now, sweetie. Nana’s waiting for us at church.”

  “Ma’am,” the police officer says. “Are you filing charges against this man? He says he found your daughter and they were looking for you.”

  “Did it look like they were looking for me?” I turn Bree away from him. “He bought her a candy cane. He was obviously luring her away with him.”

  “Is that true?” the officer asks the man.

  “I bought her the candy, but I was helping her find her mother.” The man, who’s still handcuffed, points his chin at me.

  “Why didn’t you turn her over to mall security?” the police officer asks.

  “Bree wanted me to find her mother.” He has the audacity to wink at me. “And I wanted to meet the lovely lady and be her hero.”

  “Papa!” Bree says. “Santa gave me a papa. Puhwease? Can we take him home?”

  Her cuteness draws chuckles from the guards around us. A female spectator comments, “I’ll take him if you don’t want him.”

  “Am I free to leave?” the man asks the officer.

  The officer turns to his partner who has the man’s ID. “What do we have here?”

  “Uh, name’s Tyler Manning,” the second officer reads from his tablet computer. “No arrest record. Army Rangers, medical discharge from service in Afghanistan.”

  “Tyler Manning?” My mother’s voice reaches me as she grasps my arm. “Aren’t you the young man who gave up football to fight the war on terror?”

  Tyler nods, and a grin splits his decidedly too rugged and much too handsome face. “Yes, ma’am, that would be me.”

  The tide shifts among the officers and onlookers. Several bystanders snap pictures of Tyler with their camera phones.

  “Are you pressing charges?” the officer says to me. “You got your daughter back.”

  “Only because I happened to spot him on the security camera. Otherwise, he would have gotten away with her.”

  “He was only trying to keep her from getting lost,” a female voice cuts in. “I saw them. The little girl asked him for a cookie.”

  I get the distinct impression I’ve been outgunned by the dazzling, roguish charm of the former football player. The officers are looking at him slack-jawed and wide-eyed as if wishing they could ask for his autograph.

  The tension breaks when Bree holds her arms to Mr. Manning and says, “Nana, that’s my papa. See? I told you I have a real papa, not a fake one like on TV.”

  Everyone laughs, and the officer removes the handcuffs from Mr. Manning. The crowd of shoppers surge to the war hero, asking for his autograph or posing to take pictures with him.

  One man who styles himself a reporter takes a video while saying, “A good Samaritan almost got arrested today when he helped a little girl find her mother. It turns out he’s none other than Tyler Manning, former Stanford quarterback who was drafted by the Raiders before joining the Army to fight for our country.”

  “Let’s go.” I weave with Bree and my mother through the gathering crowd.

  “Miss? Miss?” Another man trains his smartphone at me as if it were a microphone. “Any comments? Is Mr. Manning your daughter’s father?”

  “I’ve never seen the guy before.” I sidestep the amateur reporters and head for the exit. “Mr. Manning is the last guy I want around my daughter.”

  He might have gotten away with attempted kidnapping due to the stupidity of hero worshippers. Arrogant jerk. Who does he think he is to flirt with me and claim Bree wanted his help so he could meet me, the so-called lovely lady?

  And the way his voice caressed me, and the slow wink, as if he knew exactly who I am? Creepy. Where could I have crossed paths with him? No way are my insides jiggling with jolts of electricity because of his charmed offensive. I’m not that kind of ditz to be affected by a mere hunk of a man.

  Thanks to him, I almost lost my most precious daughter. That’s enough to unsettle even the iron maiden herself.

  “Kelly,” my mother says, taking out her car keys. “Why were you so rude to Mr. Manning? We�
��ll never make it to church on time now.”

  “Mama?” Bree asks. “Is Papa coming to church?”

  “He’s not your father.” My breath seethes through my teeth. “You’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “Do I get a time out?” She sucks on the blasted red and green jumbo candy cane. “I’m sowrry.”

  “Never, ever run off from me.” I hug her tight. “Remember the story of the big bad wolf pretending to be grandma? That man was tricking you. You don’t have a father. You have me and Nana.”

  Teary blue eyes blink, large like saucers. “Santa pwo-mised. He did.”

  4

  ~ Kelly ~

  “I’m in front of your apartment with the baking supplies, but I can’t find a parking space.” I cradle the phone between my jaw and shoulder. Mother’s always doing these things to me. Last minute. Today it’s picking up baking supplies for the bake sale to benefit the homeless shelter.

  “Just double park,” she replies. “Bree and I will come out and help.”

  “Stay where you are.” I glance up and down the busy street. It’s evening already and my cleaning shift starts in an hour. “Let me find a side street. I don’t like Bree darting out into traffic.”

  Has Mother forgotten how unpredictable a four-year-old can be? She can sound logical and reasonable, but she’s only parroting back whatever instructions I give her. Doesn’t matter how many stranger danger classes I enroll her in, she’s always making exceptions.

  He’s not a stranger. He told me his name.

  I asked if she’s dangerous. She says she’s nice.

  But he might be my father.

  My stomach curdles at that last one. How can I explain to her that she truly does not have a father? After we returned from the mall, she threw a tantrum when she realized her designated father was not coming home with us.

  Thankfully she’d forgotten about him the very next day, but she’s back to sucking her thumb and hugging her fuzzy yellow blanket.