Remembering You

  A reader-favorite story of love and loss from #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson

  Previously published in 1996 as New Year’s Daddy

  Veronica Walsh is haunted by the memory of her late husband, after losing him years ago in a ski accident. Now she focuses solely on her daughter, Amy, certain that no man could ever fill the void in her broken heart—until Travis Keegan comes along.

  Travis has been burned before—his ex-wife walked out on him, and his son Bryan is heading down a bad path. Desperate to make up for his past mistakes, Travis moves them to an old mountain lodge right in Veronica’s backyard. Sparks fly when the single parents meet, but can either of them ever truly leave their past behind?

  Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author LISA JACKSON

  “[B]estselling Jackson cranks up the suspense to almost unbearable heights in her latest tautly written thriller.”

  —Booklist on Malice

  “When it comes to providing gritty and sexy stories, Ms. Jackson certainly knows how to deliver.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Unspoken

  “Provocative prose, an irresistible plot and finely crafted characters make up Jackson’s latest contemporary sizzler.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Wishes

  “Lisa Jackson takes my breath away.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller

  Also available from

  Lisa Jackson

  and Harlequin HQN

  Suspicions

  Disclosure: The McCaffertys

  Confessions

  Rumors: The McCaffertys

  Secrets and Lies

  Abandoned

  Strangers

  Sweet Revenge

  Stormy Nights

  Montana Fire

  Risky Business

  Missing

  High Stakes

  Secrets

  REMEMBERING YOU

  Lisa Jackson

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I GOT A letter for Santa Claus!” Amy sang out as she burst through the door. A four-year-old dynamo with black curls that had fallen from her ponytail and were now dusted with snowflakes, she torpedoed into the cabin as she peeled off her jacket and backpack.

  Through the open door, Veronica spied her sister Shelly’s huge Chevy wagon idling near the garage that they’d converted into a warehouse. In the paddock nearby her horses sniffed at the snow covered ground searching for a few blades of grass.

  “Gotta run, Ronni, the twins are starving,” Shelly yelled, waving through the open window of her car. Her boys, Kent and Kurt, were arguing loudly enough to wake the dead.

  “My turn tomorrow,” Veronica called and in a plume of blue exhaust the old station wagon lumbered out of sight. Closing the door behind her, she saw her daughter delving into the front pocket of her backpack. “What’s this about a letter?”

  “For Santa,” Amy repeated, retrieving a single sheet of paper with a Santa sticker in one corner and a four-year-old’s uneven scrawl across the page. “Come on, Mommy, we gots to put a stamp on it and mail it.”

  “First take off your boots and tell me about preschool today, then we’ll mail the letter in the morning.” Veronica poured a cup of coffee and settled into a corner of the couch, where she patted a worn cushion to indicate a spot for her daughter.

  She was glad to have Amy home. It was early December and all afternoon she’d felt ill at ease on the mountain where she worked as part of the ski patrol. There had been record-breaking snowstorms in the Cascades this year and more skiers than ever were gliding down the slopes, challenging the mountain. Thankfully, despite her premonition, there hadn’t been a serious accident on the mountain today. Still, she was cold deep in her bones, though she’d left Mount Echo nearly an hour before.

  Amy’s eyes, so like her father’s, sparkled. “Promise you’ll mail it?”

  “Cross my heart,” Veronica replied with a laugh as she dragged a finger over her chest in an exaggerated motion. No matter how melancholy Ronni felt, Amy had a way of making the gloom disappear.

  “Okay!” The little girl dashed across the room, her stockinged feet sliding on the hardwood until she reached the braided rug. The cabin they lived in had no formal rooms, just living areas separated by sparse furniture groupings. Everything on and around the blue-and-white rug was considered the living room, the rest of the downstairs was the dining room and kitchen. A small half bath was located on the far wall and the loft above supported a bedroom, full bath and open den area where Veronica slept. The mountain home was small, but cozy, and big enough for the two of them. “Miss Jennie helped me with it.”

  Miss Jennie was Amy’s preschool teacher. A patient woman of about twenty-five, Jennie Anderson was a godsend on the days that Veronica worked in her small mail-order shop in her garage-warehouse, shipping a variety of Northwest items to eager customers.

  “So, I suppose you told Santa what you want this year,” Veronica prodded, her gaze straying to the boxes of ornaments and lights that she’d hauled out of the attic and stacked near the bookcase. Christmas. It used to be her favorite holiday, but ever since Hank’s death… She closed her eyes for a second, refusing to dwell on the past.

  “I want a puppy,” Amy said, climbing into her mother’s lap while the fire crackled and hissed behind an ancient screen.

  “Oh, now there’s a surprise!” Veronica teased as she kissed the curly hair of Amy’s crown. “You’re like a broken record when it comes to a dog. We’ve already got the horses.”

  “But I want a puppy!”

  “I know, I know.” Ronni tried a different tack. “Anything else on your list?”

  “A daddy.”

  “A what?” Veronica silently prayed she’d heard incorrectly.

  “A daddy, like all my friends have.” Amy said the request matter-of-factly, as if her mother should be able to see the perfect logic of it all. “Then you wouldn’t have to be alone.”

  “I’m not alone,” Veronica protested. “I’ve got you.” She squeezed her daughter and Amy giggled, then squirmed off her lap to run to the bathroom.

  Veronica was left with a cooling cup of coffee and a Christmas wish list she couldn’t hope to fill. She stared at the crayon-written letters and sighed. Sooner or later this was bound to happen, but she’d been counting on later. Much later. She’d been married to Hank, her high school sweetheart, three years when she’d learned she was pregnant. Their happiness had been complete. Tears shimmered in her eyes when she remembered Hank’s reaction to the news that they were going to have a baby, how his handsome mouth had stretched into a smile and the sound of sheer joy when he’d laughed out loud, grabbed her and twirled her off her feet. She’d counted herself as one of the truly blessed people in the world. Amy’s birth had been incredible. Hank had been with her in the delivery room and when he’d first held his little daughter, he’d cried silent tears of joy.

  Then, within a year, he was dead, her life shattered with no way to put the jagged and crumbling pieces together again.

  Veronica closed her eyes. Maybe no one was supposed to be as happy as they’d been. Maybe everyone was s
upposed to suffer, but it wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. Big, blond, strapping Hank should have lived until he was in his nineties. Instead, he’d been cut down at twenty-six. Almost four years ago. Four long, lonely years.

  He was simply irreplaceable.

  She blinked rapidly and told herself that it didn’t matter. Even if Amy wanted a daddy, they could do very well without one. Veronica had long ago determined that she could be both mother and father to her little girl. She held her cup to her lips and grimaced when she noticed she was shaking.

  Amy was back quickly and scrambling onto the couch.

  “Did you wash your hands?” Veronica said automatically.

  Amy nodded and Veronica saw that her daughter’s fingers were still wet. One thing at a time. They’d tackle drying those little fists another day.

  “Hey, lookie!” Amy was standing on tiptoe on the cushions of the couch, leaning against the back pillows, her nose pressed against the glass as she stared outside. Veronica twisted to squint through the frosted panes. Icicles glistened on the eaves of the porch and snow touched by silvery moon glow blanketed the ground. “Lights,” Amy said. “New lights.”

  She looked through the branches of the trees and noticed the warm glow of lamps shining from the house across the lake. “Well, what d’ya know? Someone must be staying at the old Johnson place.” That thought bothered her more than it should have, she supposed, but she couldn’t help her dream of someday owning the old lodge by the lake and converting it into a bed-and-breakfast inn. The lodge had special memories for her, memories she knew she would cherish to her dying day. Her father had been caretaker of the grounds and she’d grown up swimming in the smooth water of the lake and chasing her sister through the long grass of the shoreline. In winter, her father would let them build camp fires on the beach and cross-country ski along the old logging roads.

  “It’s creepy there!” Amy shuddered theatrically at the mention of Johnson’s property.

  Ronni laughed. “No,” she said, squeezing her daughter, her melancholy chased away by Amy’s analysis of a place she found absolutely charming. “It’s just that the house is big and rambling and has been vacant for a long time. Believe me, with a lot of money and a little bit of elbow grease, it would be the nicest place around for miles.”

  Amy wrinkled her nose. “Elbow grease?”

  “It means hard work. The old lodge needs TLC—that means tender loving care.”

  “I know that. But it has cobwebs and broken windows and probably snakes and bats and ghosts!” Amy said, obviously remembering the walk they’d taken down the winding lane that ran past their property and ended up at the Cyrus Johnson estate.

  Veronica had ignored the No Trespassing signs and helped Amy over the gate so the little girl could observe ducks and geese gather on the private lake. It had been early morning, they’d watched in awe as the sun rose over the mountains, chasing away the shadows of the land as a doe with her speckle-backed fawns drank from the water. An eagle had soared high overhead and on the ground chipmunks had scurried for cover.

  But Amy remembered the spiders and imagined the ghosts of the rambling old lodge. She’d never wanted to go back to the lake again, and Veronica, hoping her daughter would outgrow her fears, never mentioned that it was her secret dream to buy the place someday—to create the same haven for Amy that had sheltered her. Even the old caretaker’s house could be rented out—maybe to Shelly.

  The Johnson property had been on the market for nearly a year and no one had shown any interest. A real estate agent and friend of Veronica’s, Taffy LeMar, had promised to call if she heard any gossip about a serious buyer.

  Not that Veronica had any real hope of owning the hundred-plus acres. As rundown as it was, the lodge and property were worth over half a million dollars. Financially she was doing all right but she couldn’t hope to secure such a large mortgage.

  “I wonder who’s inside?” Veronica thought aloud. Apparently not anyone who was taking up permanent residence, or Taffy would have called her. But Veronica was left with an uneasy feeling—that same inexplicable sense of dread that had clung to her all day.

  “Ghosts and witches,” Amy insisted. “That’s who lives there!”

  “I don’t think so.” Rubbing her chin, Veronica tried to imagine who would move into a drafty old lodge in the middle of winter. They were probably just renting it for a week or two—an eccentric couple looking for a rustic retreat for the holidays. Or they could be trespassing. The electricity wouldn’t be turned on but they could use kerosene lanterns for light, a camp stove to cook on and camp fires for warmth. Water would be the only problem as the pump was probably fueled by electricity, but they could always carry buckets from the lake. She gave herself a swift mental kick for letting her imagination run away with her—she was as bad as Amy.

  “Creepy,” Amy said again before being distracted by the sparkling ornaments. She dashed across the room and searched through two boxes of Christmas decorations before dragging out a piece of red tinsel and draping it around her neck like a glittery feather boa. “Look at me, I’m a Christmas tree.”

  Veronica grinned widely. “No way. You’re an angel.”

  “Not an angel.” A look of sheer vexation crossed Amy’s small features. “A tree.”

  “You need a star on top, don’t you?”

  Amy’s eyes rounded. “Do we have one?”

  Shaking her head, Veronica said, “I can’t remember. Seems to me it broke last year when I was putting it away. We might have to buy a new one.” That thought brought her no joy. All the Christmas ornaments she had she’d bought with Hank. Their first tree had been a little tabletop pine with one strand of lights and a few red balls that reminded them both of the animated tree from “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” and each year they’d purchased a larger tree and picked out new decorations. Each Christmas Eve, they had opened a small gift in their stockings, which traditionally had been a special ornament with the date inscribed across it. Once the stockings were empty, they hung their new little decorations on the tree, sipped mulled wine and made love beneath the branches. With only the light of a few candles on the mantel and an old afghan and each other for warmth, they had stayed awake until midnight when it was officially Christmas Day.

  A deep, grieving sadness stole through her heart as it always did this time of year. If it weren’t for Amy, she’d chuck all her Christmas traditions. Oh, Shelly would probably demand their little, fragmented family still get together. But Veronica was certain that were it not for her daughter, she would probably just give Shelly, her sister’s husband and the boys each a gift certificate to their favorite store, forget the cards, decorations, stockings and tree, fly away for the holidays and spend the last two weeks of the year soaking up the sun somewhere, lounging around a tropical pool, sipping iced tea and pretending that the Christmas season had never existed.

  “Can I buy the new star?” Amy asked, dragging her back to the here and now.

  “Sure you can. Whatever star you want,” Veronica replied, forcing a note of gaiety into her voice. “I bet we’ll be able to find one at the church bazaar. Now, come on, you can help me make dinner.”

  Amy followed her into the kitchen area, tinsel dragging on the floor after her like the train of a bridal gown.

  “Can we have macaroni and cheese tonight?” Amy had asked the same question every night for the past five.

  “I was thinking about turkey soup and hot bread. See, I was cutting up carrots when you came home.”

  Amy wrinkled her nose. “Don’t like—”

  “We’ll even add this pasta I bought,” Veronica added quickly, forestalling her daughter’s protests. “Here, take a look.” Reaching into her cupboard, Veronica pulled out a wrapped package of red, green and yellow pasta shaped like miniature Christmas trees.

  Amy’s mouth rounded into a gasp
of pleasure. “Can I do it?”

  “You bet. When the broth’s boiling and if you’re very careful so you don’t get burned, you can help me by tossing in a handful or two.”

  “I can do it,” Amy vowed. She threw another loop of tinsel around her neck and pushed a chair near the counter all the while singing the first few words of “Oh, Christmas Tree” over and over again.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe there’s no cable,” Bryan grumbled for the dozenth time. At fourteen, he seemed to think it was his God-given right to watch MTV around the clock. He adjusted his Seattle Mariners’ cap, twisting it so that it was on backward, the bill pointing down his back, his brown hair poking out around the edges.

  “No TV, period,” his father reminded him as he lugged a basket of kindling and set it near the river-rock fireplace which rose two full stories to the ceiling. The place was dusty, drafty and needed so much work that Travis second-guessed himself for the first time since moving from Seattle. The rooms were barren and the moving van wasn’t scheduled to show up for a couple of days so he and Bryan planned to work together—kind of a father-and-son project—to put the old house in order before their things arrived. So far, the son part of the team couldn’t have been less interested.

  Travis had decided they’d shore up the sagging porch, clean the floors and windows, determine how much rewiring and new plumbing was needed and just spend some time getting to know each other again—to make up for lost time.

  Bryan dropped his basket onto the hearth and glanced up at the chandelier, which was constructed of deer antlers that supported tiny lights, most of which had probably burned out years ago. “This place stinks. It looks like something out of The Addams Family!”

  “You don’t like the haunted-house ambience?” Travis asked, smiling and dusting his hands. The kid needed to be jollied out of the bad mood that he’d hauled around with him for the past week.

  “I hate it, okay?”

  Boy, Bryan was pushing. Travis told himself not to explode and tell his son to find a new attitude. “It’ll be great if you give it a chance.”