Yuletide Hearts by Ruth Logan Herne

their callousness affect the boy who lingered within. Most days. “No one’s here right now.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œWorking.” Matt jerked a thumb west. “I bought Cobbled Creek from the bank. Hank and his buddies are helping me get things winterized.”
    Don lifted his chin, surprised. “You own Cobbled Creek?”
    â€œYes.”
    Don passed an aging hand across the nape of his neck. It didn’t tremble. A good sign, Matt supposed. “Hank was hoping to buy it back himself.”
    Matt stayed quiet, his silence punctuating the obvious.
    â€œYou need help over there?”
    A part of Matt’s gut seized. Another part froze. Did the guy who walked out on an eight-year-old boy who’d known him as dad just ask for a job?
    Matt conquered his instincts and shook his head, wondering if he could locate a punching bag nearby. “Got it covered,thanks. Hank’s invited me to stay here.” He waved a hand, indicating the house. “Until I get the model certified.”
    Don’s expression hinted the sorrowed man within. But Matt had endured more sorrow than a kid should ever have to, so Don could just take his angst and—
    â€œâ€¦forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us… ?.”
    The sweet words of The Lord’s Prayer proved wickedly hard to follow right now. Matt would discuss that with God later, but for the moment… “I’ve got to get back to work.”
    â€œOh. Sure.” Don hauled his wet hat back onto his balding head with two hands. “I’ll get on, then.”
    He’d put on weight. And lost hair. And his teeth could use work. Matt saw all that and tried to equate it with the guy who played catch with him in the backyard. Who took him to Little League games to cheer on the home team. Who promised him the world until the day he realized he had no legal responsibility for Matt and walked out the door, never to be seen again.
    Old anger resurged, too sharp to be considered controlled.
    But Matt managed it. As he led the way out, he waved toward the subdivision again. “I expect this will take a while.”
    â€œI see.”
    Don’s expression said he understood what Matt didn’t say. Keep your distance until I’m out of here. He nodded. “Good luck on your project.”
    Matt refused to acknowledge that. He didn’t need luck; he had faith. He didn’t need handouts; he needed workers. And God himself knew that Matt didn’t need a pretend father hovering on the outskirts of his life, one who should have been holed up in Florida collecting unemployment checks until spring.
    If I was a father…
    Whoa. Matt put the brakes on that train of thought in whip-cord fashion. He carried enough bad genes to ruin a dining room table full of kids, so the idea of procreating?
    Wasn’t gonna happen.
    Nope, he’d stop the craziness of passing on Neal’s and his mother’s self-absorbed genes right here. He had his work. His company. His service buddies. And a host of construction people in the northern section of Allegheny County admired him for his pledge of excellence and work ethic.
    His brother, Jeff, and his new fiancée, Hannah, could produce the next generation of Brennan blood.
    Guilt speared him as he approached 17 Cobbled Creek Lane. His grandfather had loved his Latino heritage. And he’d married an Asian woman who taught at a local preschool until her untimely death from ovarian cancer. Matt only knew her in pictures, but Grandpa’s praise painted a rosy picture.
    And his mother had been beautiful. But looks only go so deep, and if he had to hunt two generations back to find goodness in his family tree, that was too far. Being upfront about that saved a whole lot of wasted time and emotion.
    He parked the truck, climbed out and ducked inside the house, damp chilled air surrounding him.
    Comfort later. Work