Christmas With the Conroys

By Jennifer Lowery

When a blizzard strands grinchy pararescueman, Jensen Hartley at the festive home of Holly Conroy he isn't prepared for the overwhelming holiday spirit the Conroy family pours on him. He doesn't do holidays, but something about the Conroys make him long for things he vowed never to want again.

Holly Conroy loves the holidays. Christmas, especially. This year, she gets more than she asked for when a handsome stranger shows up at her door in the middle of the worst winter storm she'd seen in years. She only hopes he can survive being stranded with her jovial family during the holidays.

Christmas with the Conroys is a fun holiday read, full of family, romance and delectable food. As an added bonus you get some of the recipes from the story! So snuggle in with your favorite blanket, a cup of hot chocolate and enjoy this entertaining holiday story and some recipes to add to your holiday baking list.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Lowery
• Release date: Oct 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386242000

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Jensen Hartley could drop into a hot zone and save a life, but navigating the back roads of Cedar Falls, Michigan in a blizzard at night made him feel foolishly inept. His older model SUV plowed through bumper high snow as he tried to keep it in the rapidly disappearing tracks made by the vehicle in front of him. He could barely see the taillights in the blinding snow.

Somehow he’d missed his turn. Blame it on the storm or the fact he had never been to Michigan, but either way he couldn’t turn around. There hadn’t been a driveway for miles and in this amount of snow going back wasn’t an option.

Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids. Thirteen straight hours of driving was taking its toll, but he pushed it down and focused on the road.

The car in front of him hit its brake lights, fishtailed around a sudden curve, and did a three-sixty spin in the middle of the road.

Jensen cursed, tapped the brakes, hit a patch of ice and began a skid of his own. Keeping his eyes on the car that had plunged off the road, he turned into the slide and felt the wheels grab. Heavy snow pulled him toward the ditch and no amount of maneuvering stopped him from plunging into the ravine.

With a jolt he came to a stop, the sound of his breathing filling the cab. Wind howled past the windows. Wipers slashed furiously across the frosted windshield, the heater unable to keep up with the frigid cold outside.

Damn, he muttered and turned off the headlights since the engine had stalled from the three feet of snow burying it.

The sound of a car horn snapped his head up. Spurred into action, he pulled the door handle, but it jammed. He slammed his shoulder against the door three times before it finally opened enough for him to slide out. Fresh snow drifted through the opening and covered him past his knees when he landed. Bitter cold wind cut through his jacket and stung his face.

His SUV was buried to the hilt. There would be no digging it out tonight. Spending the night inside was dangerous in these conditions. With luck there was a house somewhere down the road. Someone had to live out here. Or, maybe, the other car wasn’t buried as deeply and could be pushed out.

He reached inside and grabbed his duffle bag, then shouldered the door closed and searched the darkness for the other car. Just down the road he saw it. The horn had stopped, but the lights were still on and stuck practically straight up in the air.

Snow swirled viciously around him as he slogged through drifts that reached his thighs. It pulled against him like quicksand until he reached the car tracks and followed them to the vehicle buried nearby.

As he approached the Cadillac, a woman stumbled onto the road, her long coat dragging in the snow. Her red scarf and matching hat shone in the taillights, illuminating a prim, elegantly aged face. When she saw him she clapped a hand over her chest.

Jensen’s first thought was that she was having a heart attack. He lunged to her side, prepared to lower her to the ground, and begin CPR. Ma’am? he questioned. Are you all right?

A delicate gloved hand squeezed his arm. My…my husband. He’s in the car. He’s bleeding. Please help him.

Wait here. He dropped his duffle next to her heeled leather boots, and headed for the car. He slipped and slid down the ravine to the driver’s side door, wet snow soaking his clothes. Without gloves to warm his hands, he struggled with the door handle, a chill working its way through his clothes. Snow swirled around him, kicked up by the wind, making visibility nearly zero.

A man slumped behind the wheel; blood seeping down the side of his face. After a quick assessment Jensen decided the cut wasn’t deep, just bleeding profusely as head wounds often did. He couldn’t rule out a concussion as he reached to pull him from the car.

The man’s eyes opened. He looked at Jensen, then at the empty seat beside him. Pauline? he asked. Where is my wife?

She’s waiting on the road, Jensen assured him. She’s fine.

The man nodded, winced, and touched the cut on his forehead with a leather glove. I lost control of the wheel.

Dangerous out here. Your head is bleeding, but it’s not serious. Are you hurt anywhere else?

No. Just a headache. We should get out of this storm. My son is a mile up the road.

Jensen helped the man out of his car, noticing he wore shiny leather shoes instead of winter boots, and a long trench coat along with a charcoal gray flat cap. He reminded him of a character out of a Charles Dickens novel.

Thank you for stopping to help us. He held out a hand. Allen Spencer.

Jensen Hartley. They shook hands. We need to get walking. Won’t take long for hypothermia to set in. Do you need anything out of your car?

Just our bags in the trunk. What branch of the military are you in, son?

It shouldn’t surprise him when civilians guessed he was military, but it did, every time. Master Sergeant and pararescueman. Retired. A wave of anger rode over him as he retrieved the expensive suitcases. He hated adding ‘retired’ to his title. Would give anything not to say the word or for it to be true.

He helped the man up the hill. Allen Spencer may be silver-haired, but he was in good shape. He climbed through deep snow with the vigor of a man half his age.

Allen! Pauline Spencer met them on the road. She reached for her husband’s hand. Thank heavens you’re all right.

I told you not to fuss, Allen told his wife. This young man got me out of the car. Pauline, meet Jensen Hartley of the US Air Force.

Military? Are you home for the holidays, Jensen?

Jensen shook the woman’s hand. No ma’am. Allen saved him from having to explain he had no family to come home to. Hadn’t in a very long time.

We need to get moving, darling, before we freeze to death. Allen wrapped his arm around his wife.

But, you’re bleeding.

Just a scratch. Start walking, my love.

Upon Allen’s insistence, Jensen handed him one of the three suitcases and picked up his duffle. He dug out a flashlight and used it to light the way. Wind ripped at their clothes as they plodded through thick, wet snow. Within minutes his feet were numb. He could only imagine what Pauline’s feet felt like. Those fancy boots she wore were not made for walking in this weather. Down Fifth Avenue, maybe.

In all honesty none of them were dressed for the weather. Wind drove icy snow into their faces, and kicked up drifts to cover the tracks made by earlier travelers. Jensen ended up carrying all the bags so Allen could assist his wife, who wasn’t faring well in her dress coat and boots. When a mailbox came into view they all breathed a sigh of relief. Being in the military, Jensen was accustomed to harsh environments. This couple, however, was not.

Pauline murmured a prayer of thanks as they headed down the drifted over driveway. Tall, snow covered pine trees lined both sides and partially blocked the wind, giving them a reprieve. A short walk led them to a cheery, two-story farmhouse that lit up the night. Three cars and one SUV sat in the driveway, each buried in snow. An old fashioned lamp post