Daddy’s Christmas Rescue

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Blake

My crew knew to hold off anything until I’d done the last walk-through.

Not just the demolition, obviously for safety, but a final sign off.

That was how I’d ended up with Biscuit—the half-starved mutt who’d stared at me with those huge brown eyes like he’d already given up on being wanted.

Sam, the local vet, fixed him up. Biscuit lived like a king now.

I should’ve been living just as well. But the house I went home to every night stayed too damn quiet.

The house had been warm last night, but only because I kept it that way for Biscuit.

In the summer he came to every site with me, but it was too cold this time of year.

He was waiting for me, tail thumping against the tile, wagging like he was made of springs.

I dropped to my knees and held out my arms. He barreled straight into me, tongue out, pink and ridiculous against my jaw.

“Miss me?” My voice came out rough, stupidly hopeful.

Biscuit whined and pressed his head against my chest. I held him for a long minute, letting the ache in my shoulders bleed out. He didn’t care that I was too big, or that I didn’t talk enough, or that I had a temper.

He just cared that I came home.

I hadn’t expected to be thirty-seven and alone except for a dog. I hadn’t expected to run Dad’s company, either. He built it from the ground up—Weston Construction—every beam and nail by hand. He died on-site. Electrical fault, instant. No warning. No goodbye.

The insurance company promised Mom they’d take care of everything. She believed them — hell, we both did. That was before I learned what words like policy exclusions and claim disputes really meant.

They stalled. They delayed. They found loopholes no human being could’ve predicted. “Technical discrepancy,” they said. “Missing documentation.”

Dad had done everything right, and they still walked away smiling. Crooks in suits.

By the time the final denial came through, the business was hanging by a thread. Mom tried to hold it together by taking double shifts, stopped eating right. The stress did what the grief hadn’t. The stroke came a year later, middle of the night.

And all because some insurance fat cats decided she wasn’t worth the payout.

I rebuilt the company, but I rebuilt it angrily. And careful. I didn’t trust paperwork, or people in nice offices, or anyone who smiled while they shook your hand.

I tried to picture what it would be like to come home and have someone waiting. Not a dog—a person. Someone who didn’t mind the silence. Someone soft. Someone who needed taking care of, who wouldn’t flinch if my voice came out too rough, who’d see through all the armor and not run.

“Weston, you walking through or can we go ahead?” Dave called from outside. The crew was itching to wrap up—three days left before Christmas break, and everyone was already halfway gone in their heads.

I wasn’t. Not after the way my chest had felt all morning, tight and heavy. I shook it off and stepped into the building.

The smell hit first—stale cigarettes, damp insulation, old wood swelling with rot.

My boots echoed across the bare concrete, the sound bouncing through the empty shell of rooms. The men waited by their trucks, watching the door.

I didn’t call them in. Tradition said we never did the final sweep together, and instinct—my dad’s voice in the back of my skull—told me to keep them out this time.

A flash of red on the floor stopped me short.

A satin ribbon. Clean, bright, wildly out of place in a building moments from demolition. Too delicate for any of the guys. Too small for my hands. My gut tightened, that familiar prickle deep in my spine—the one that had kept me alive more than once when I was deployed.

“Hello?” My voice echoed off drywall and exposed beams. “Anyone in here?”

Silence answered, but not the harmless kind. This silence crept up the walls and under the skin, the sort that made you listen harder, breathe quieter.

I moved through the rooms the way Dad had drilled into me since I was old enough to help—check corners, look for movement, feel the air shift, trust the instinct that whispers before logic catches up.

The quiet had teeth.

“Listen,” I said, low and steady. “If you’re in here, you’re not in trouble. But you need to come out. It’s not safe. We’re setting charges soon.”

Nothing. Just the building settling around me.

Then—a sound so small most people would’ve missed it. A whimper. Thin, scared, raw.

You don’t forget how to hear fear once you’ve learned.

I followed it to a cardboard box shoved behind a door, taped and torn like someone thought they could hide inside the walls and vanish.

I crouched, keeping my voice as gentle as a man my size could manage. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

A pale hand slipped out, trembling. Small. Not a child’s, but close enough that my chest pulled tight. The scent of fear hit me next—sharp and unmistakable.

I set the ribbon where she could see it and eased back. The box shifted, scraping against the floor, and then a face appeared.

A woman. Young. Small and exhausted, bruises blooming across her cheek, hair tangled and held back with a matching ribbon. Dust streaked her skin like she’d crawled through the world on her knees. Her eyes locked on the ribbon like it was the only thing tethering her to herself.

“I’m Blake,” I said quietly.

She didn’t answer, but when I held my hand out—open, palm up—she snatched the ribbon and clutched it like a lifeline. Another bruise marked her ankle. No coat. No bag. Just a thin sweater. She wouldn’t have made it through the night.

“You can walk out, or I can carry you,” I told her, keeping my voice firm but steady. “Either way, sweetheart, you’re coming somewhere warm. I won’t let you get hurt.”

She flinched at the promise, like kindness confused her.

“What’s your name?” I asked softly.

A long moment passed before her fingers slipped into mine—ice-cold, bird-light.

“Holly,” she whispered.

“Good girl,” I murmured without thinking—and the way she softened told me it was exactly what she needed to hear.

She was folded tight in that box, knees to chest. I lifted her slowly, keeping her close but giving her space, and she pressed her cheek to my arm. I held still, letting her decide how close to be.

Outside, the crew fell silent. I wrapped my jacket around her, watching it swallow her whole, and she clung to the fabric like armor.

I settled her in my truck. She curled up instantly, ribbon wrapped around her finger, trembling easing only when the heater kicked in. We sat there watching the building come down, the demolition thundering through the cold air. She stared like she wasn’t sure whether to be afraid or relieved.

“Who can I call for you?” I asked.

She sank deeper into my jacket. “I don’t… have anyone.”

“Friends?” I kept my tone even. Calm mattered.

A small shake of her head.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she whispered. “I know I don’t look it.”

“No,” I said, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “You don’t.”

Her breath hitched. “I’ll go. I won’t cause trouble.”

Christ. Like existing was a burden.

I exhaled slowly. “Sweetheart, the only place you’re going right now is somewhere warm. You’re coming home with me. We’ll figure the rest out after you eat and sleep.”

She nodded—too fast, too trusting—and instinct clawed at me to warn her not to trust men who took charge. But she needed steadiness. Someone who wouldn’t drop her. Someone who wouldn’t hurt her.

“Good girl,” I said again, softer. She melted into the seat like the words wrapped around her.

On the drive, she whispered her name again—Holly—stronger this time. She twisted the ribbon the whole way, grounding herself with it.

I should’ve called the cops. Should’ve followed protocol. But she looked like someone who’d learned to fear uniforms more than fists.

So I gave her what I could control—heat, food, quiet.

Back home, Biscuit lumbered over, massive and gentle. Holly threw her arms around his neck, burying herself in his fur. Biscuit leaned into her, patient, letting her cling.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked, voice barely there.

“Because you needed me to.”

Her eyes shined, but she just whispered, “Thank you.”

That was enough. I didn’t make speeches. I made plans.

“Tonight you stay here,” I told her. “Tomorrow, we figure out where you want to go. You tell me what you need.”

She curled up on the couch under my old army blanket, rough wool and all, holding it like it was safety.

I stood watching her breathe, pretending I believed my own words about “tonight.” Truth was, there was no universe where I let her walk back toward whatever had bruised her.

Someone had hurt her. Badly.

And if they ever came near her again, I’d ruin them without hesitation.

Protecting people like Holly—that was the part of me I tried to leash. The part that steadied, soothed, commanded. The part that didn’t tolerate fear in someone small and trembling.

She wasn’t just another stray from a job site.

She was breakable.

She was mine to keep safe until she learned how to breathe again.

Maybe I was making a mistake.

But hell if I cared.