Bring Me Home for Christmas

amused him a great deal.
    “Not very busy this morning?”
    “Not on Thanksgiving. We stay open regular hours, but there isn’t usually much business. Anyone who wanders in here after two in the afternoon is forced to join us for turkey. No one pays or leaves my bar hungry on this day.”
    She smiled at him. “That doesn’t surprise me. Where’s Jack?”
    “He’ll come in a little later. The kids will nap and play in my house while we’re getting ready for a big crowd out here.”
    “Do you need me to help?” she asked.
    Again the smile. “No, Becca. I think I need you to have some breakfast. I hear you’re going out to the river with them.”
    “Denny insists.”
    “You won’t regret it. Let me bring you something to eat. Eggs, just about any way you want. Cereal. Toast. Bacon. I’m not making pancakes today….”
    “A couple of eggs, scrambled, bacon, toast. And thank you.”
    Before her breakfast was even delivered, the guys—minus Denny—came in, seemingly none the worse for their night of drinking. They were scruffy as hell; apparently no one thought it prudent to clean up before getting in the river. It made sense on a practical level, but she wrinkled her nose at her brother.
    “What?” Rich said.
    “After fishing, before Thanksgiving dinner, give yourself a good once-over, please.”
    “See, this is the trouble with having girls on a fishing-hunting trip,” Rich complained.
    Preacher was just delivering Becca’s eggs. “There will be women at the table today,” he said. “Do exactly what she says. Smell lots better. Eggs?” he asked them.
    “Thanks,” came three replies.
    Then Denny burst through the door. He saw Becca sitting at the bar, eating her breakfast, and let out his breath. “You did it again,” he said.
    She nodded, chewing a mouthful of eggs. “On my butt. Perfectly safe. Have some breakfast.”
    He leaned close to her. “I wish you’d just let me help.”
    “I will,” she said softly. “When I need something, I’ll ask.”

Eight
    When they got to the river, Becca was completely surprised by how engrossing she found the whole experience. There were seven men already standing along the river, waders held up by suspenders. They didn’t acknowledge the newcomers at first, but eventually each one gave a rather solemn nod toward them. They were completely absorbed in their sport. Their art.
    Fly-fishing was a beautiful thing to watch. Their lines soared in arcs and S shapes, in high curves or powerful torpedo-like shots over the water. As they plied their lines and multicolored flies, salmon fled upstream, sometimes clearing the water, sometimes jumping up small waterfalls. She saw a couple as they were caught, good-size fish.
    But that wasn’t the only thing that enchanted her. The wide river as it flowed between towering pines backed by rising mountains… It was stunning. The landscape appeared both dangerous and breathtaking. The river was awesome in its beauty and the trees were enormous. The sounds were enthralling; all she could hear was the whirring of reels, rushing of the river and splashing of fish. Large fish.
    Of the four young Marines, Denny was the best at this art. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Not only his mastery fascinated her, but his physique and confidence. She hadn’t remembered him well enough, she decided. Either that, or he’d grown much taller and broader. And this skill with the rod and reel—he’d never mentioned fly-fishing when they were together. This must have come from Jack, the man who was almost his father.
    He was so beautiful. So at home up to his knees in water, sending those colorful flies over the river. She loved watching the play of muscles across his back, in his shoulders. And then there was that perfect booty. Oh, my, that body… That was the body that taught her about sex, that showed her how to have pleasure and how to give it. She shivered.
    She stayed mostly in the truck, her leg elevated, but from time to time she couldn’t resist and carefully got out just so she could breathe the air, get the full view, stand closer to the river to hear the sounds. The men were quiet, while the whirring, rushing and occasional splashing provided the background music. They didn’t even shout at a catch but rather made low congratulatory sounds. The man nearest the one with the catch might step closer and offer the net in assist, but that was all. It was a quiet, solitary, peaceful, plentiful sport.
    She loved