Page 1 of His Christmas Love Song

ONE

Jesse’s whistling when the bomb goes off.

He’s been in a good mood ever since he realized he only has a month until his stint in the Peace Corps is up, and he’ll be returning home. It’s not that he hasn’t loved his time in Southeastern Africa—it’s been his home for nearly two years now. But he misses his family. His friends. He misses cheeseburgers. And his notebook is overflowing with song lyrics about missing them. Well, not the cheeseburgers. Though an ode to cheeseburger might make a good novelty tune.

He needs to go to home to Tennessee and work on new material if he’s ever going to make it in the cutthroat world of country music.

He misses his guitar, too. He’d brought one with him to Malawi, but it had gotten stolen within forty-eight hours. Lesson learned. The first of many. He’s loved his time working here—the people are endlessly welcoming, always appreciative of the medical care his team brings to them. He’s gotten used to the food, and as repetitive as the meals sometimes are, he’s grateful that they never have to worry about running out, not like some of the villagers in the places they go, where food isn’t something you can go to a supermarket and buy.

Yeah, when he gets home he’s going to go out for the biggest cheeseburger in Jackson, tune up his guitar, polish a dozen songs until they shine, and then he’s going to Nashville. In the past two years he’s dealt with malaria, snakes, and helped deliver six babies. How hard could it be to face down a record executive or two?

Ryan might be able to give him some pointers.

Jesse recognized him right away when he’d shown up with the most recent crop of volunteers. Jesse has been away from America for nearly two years, but Ryan Winslow had scored a top ten country hit long before that. “Cowboy Livin’” had been everywhere Jesse’s junior year of college. None of Ryan’s other songs charted as high, but Jesse still has the CD of Ryan’s debut album, Country Boy, boxed away with the rest of his stuff in his mom’s basement.

He loves Ryan’s mellow voice, admires his range that can veer from twangy to rock-screamy depending on the song. And he loves the picture on the album cover—a black and white shot of Ryan almost in silhouette—all pillowy lips and long lashes, looking more like a pin-up model than a country singer.

It’s a good look.

Ryan got a lot of attention at the time of its release for being one of the only out gay country stars, and Jesse, who’s been firmly bi since making out with Kyle Drysdale at the winter formal senior year of high school, felt like maybe he could be out and get a record contract, too.

But then life happened. He played the only gigs he could get—weekend afternoons at the steakhouse where he was also a busser. He graduated college with a halfhearted degree in business and took EMT classes because no one was interested in the demo he made with some friends in a studio he paid for with his entire graduation money.

Right before he took a job as an EMT, someone mentioned the Peace Corps, that his medical training would be useful there. Two years without having to feel like a failure because his music dreams hadn’t come true and where he could really help people? He signed up without a second thought.

He’d been so busy once he got here, learning the customs and the way the Peace Corps did things. He’d been too exhausted to think about his dreams deferred. But then he’d gotten the hang of it, gotten addicted to the buzz of helping people. Some days he has enough energy left over to think about the life he wants to have someday, and he goes and adds more lyrics to his notebook.

A famous country musician showing up at camp had been a shock. He’s younger than Jesse expected, for one thing. When Ryan’s success had come early. He wasn’t much older than Jesse’s twenty-four. He might have been on the quiet side, but Jesse learned quickly that Ryan was there to work and roll up his sleeves like everyone else. He volunteered for the regular two-year stint, too, was in Ethiopia for a year before transferring here. Jesse didn’t ask why a country star would leave the music scene for that long; it wasn’t any of his business.

He and Ryan have talked a couple of times. They aren’t friends or anything, but Jesse resolves that before he’s on the plane home, he’s going to ask Ryan for advice about breaking into the music business. And maybe for his autograph.

So yeah, he’s whistling, content with things, looking forward to the future. That’s when the SUV in front of the one he’s riding in just kind of leaps into the air—the sound of the explosion comes a split second later.

Kim slams on the breaks. “Land mine,” she yells. He can barely hear her over the ringing in his ears. Jesse’s instantly in emergency mode. He leaps out of the SUV, taking inventory as he approaches the vehicle that was hit. It’s still on its wheels, but there’s smoke pouring from under the hood, black and thick; something’s on fire. They have to get everyone out of the car. They were a two-vehicle caravan bringing supplies to a village three hours’ drive away. Just a simple delivery. Kim, Moses, and him in the rear SUV, Diego and Ryan in the lead.

Moses is already out and gone for the fire extinguisher. Kim grabs the medical kit. Diego’s gotten himself out of the driver’s side of the damaged vehicle. His face is red—blood from a head wound. He probably has glass embedded in his skin, but he was wearing sunglasses, maybe that protected his eyes. But Ryan—Ryan’s not getting out of the car. Jesse gets to the passenger door, tries the handle, but it won’t budge. He can see Ryan through the window. His eyes are closed. He’s not moving.

Jesse gives up on that door, goes to the back. It’s locked. He remembers the glass breaker he has on his keyring, uses it to smash the back window, reaches inside, unlocks the door revealing boxes of supplies. He shoves them aside so he can reach forward and unlock Ryan’s door. He doesn’t look to see if Ryan’s breathing. He opens the door carefully but quickly, unbuckles Ryan, pulls him free of the car.

There’s another small explosion, and the flames engulf the car a dozen feet behind them.

Jesse pulls Ryan as far as he can toward the other SUV where he sees Kim examining Diego, who seems disoriented but on his feet.

He looks down at Ryan, cradled in his arms, almost afraid to check for a pulse. But his training kicks in and he puts him on his back, checks his vitals. He’s breathing. His pulse is steady.

Jesse sucks in a harsh breath of relief when Ryan’s eyes suddenly fly open, bluer than anything.

“There he is,” Jesse says, smiling down at him. “Stay still. I’m gonna check you out.”

“What happened?” Ryan’s voice is weak.

“Small explosion. Diego’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Jesse talks nonsense as he runs his hands over Ryan, checking for breaks and other injuries. He’s got a goose egg near his temple. He must have smacked his head against the door or the window which caused him to lose consciousness.

“Bleeding,” Ryan says.

“No, you’ve got a big bump, but you’re not bleeding.”

“No—you. Bleeding.” Ryan’s eyes dart to Jesse’s arm.