Taking a deep breath for courage, she knew one way or the other she had to tell him. Even an irresponsible scoundrel deserved to know he had fathered a beautiful little girl who wanted nothing more than to meet him.

“Just don’t hurt her,” she whispered. “Because if you do, I’ll kill you for it.”

*   *   *

O’Connell came awake slowly to the smell of bacon and coffee, and the sound of children laughing outside his door. At first he thought it was a dream.

How many times had he yearned to experience just such a morning?

Many more times than he could count.

“Catherine, do I need to set extra plates for whoever was at the door last night? I didn’t know if he, she, or them stayed, or what.”

He heard Catherine’s mumbled reply through the walls, but couldn’t make out any of her words.

All of a sudden the memory of the night before came crashing back through him.

It had been real. All of it. This was no dream. He was, in fact, sleeping in Catherine’s bed on Christmas morning.

O’Connell leaned his head back into the pillow as an overwhelming joy ripped through him. He felt like shouting or singing or doing something. Anything to celebrate such a glorious event.

Impulsively, he pulled Catherine’s pillow to him and inhaled the fresh sunshine smell of her. Intoxicated, he listened to the children sing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” as someone jingled china and silverware.

“It’s not a dream,” he whispered.

He laughed softly as raw euphoria invaded every piece of him. He had his Christmas miracle.

Smiling, he rose from the bed and dressed, then made the bed up. Catherine had always complained he twisted the sheets into knots and she hated a messy bed.

This would be his gift to her.

He left the room warily and made sure no one spied him lest Catherine have some serious explaining to do. The last thing she needed was a tarnished reputation, and the last thing he needed was nosy questions he couldn’t answer.

He saw the stairs behind him and made like he was coming from one of the rooms upstairs.

As he drew flush with the kitchen door, he saw Catherine standing in front of the stove, frying eggs.

He delighted at her trim form. She’d left her hair long in the back with a braid wound about the top of her head to keep it out of her eyes. Her dark green dress hugged every one of the curves he had feasted on the night before. And a white shawl draped becomingly over her shoulders.

Never had he seen a more glorious image, and he wished he could stay here forever.

“Rebecca?” Catherine called, stepping back from the stove and looking out the doorway on the opposite side of the room. “Are the children still outside?”