Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  “Why do you ask?”

  Yvette wasn’t a gossip, and Riley respected her for that. She wouldn’t share anything Riley didn’t need to know, but she would give her the truth.

  “He followed me to my house tonight and scared the heck out of me.”

  “After the play? But why would he do that? I mean, I can understand being scared, I guess. It’s a little startling at first. But what did he want?”

  Riley paused. “What do you mean you can understand being scared? Has he followed you home?”

  Yvette covered her mouth. “Oh, heavens, no, I didn’t mean that. I’m just saying that it doesn’t sound like something Mark would do. Are you okay?”

  Riley couldn’t help the twinge of anger growing in her gut. “I’m fine. But what if I wasn’t? What if something had happened and he’d done something? Is this the kind of town that holds their heroes”—she made finger quotes—“so high they’re immediately exonerated of all guilt?”

  Yvette frowned, watching her. “What exactly happened?”

  Riley covered her eyes. “It’s all so lame.” She told her the story, and as she did, she became sure of the stupidity of it all.

  “I guess he wanted to ask me to paint him something for Christmas, and for some reason that was difficult for him. And I, obviously, misunderstood. I’m a single woman living on my own. I had to think like that in LA, Denver. Anywhere.” She picked up an onion ring, but then set it down. “Am I that unapproachable?”

  “Maybe with a baseball bat in your hands,” Yvette suggested.

  Riley smiled at her.

  Yvette sighed. “Honestly, that doesn’t sound like Mark Rivers. At least the old Mark. Good family. Good kid. Top of everything. So much going for him and a smile that stole hearts in a second.” She paused. “He’s been through a lot. I’m not saying you had no reason to be concerned. His actions were . . . odd. But truly, I’m not putting him on some heroic pedestal. He’s kept to himself after those horrible fires. Considering his situation, I’m not at all surprised he has trouble approaching anyone. Especially a woman like you.”

  Riley raised her brow. “Like me?”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the number of eligible males in this county turning their heads your way. That thick black hair of yours and big green eyes.”

  Great, just what Riley wanted to hear. Not the compliment to her hair, but that “eligible males” part. Yvette was divorced. And Riley knew her friend would be happy to settle down with an eligible male again. “Settling down,” however, was not in Riley’s scope at all. Not after what happened in LA.

  “And you’re smart but unpretentious,” Yvette continued, “all jeans and big sweaters over a rockin’ figure, kickin’ around in your Chucks. This is a small town, Riley. You’re new and noticeable. Speaking of which—my son will be home from his deployment in six months, you know. He can’t be more than three years younger than you.” She winked.

  Riley chuckled. “Great. And congratulations.”

  Yvette grinned.

  Riley drew her arm around the middle of her “rockin’” figure. Her mother called it “shapely.” Riley called it “can I please find a pair of jeans to fit my hips and my waistline?” Her father—well, her father photographed movie stars.

  “If I’m so approachable then why would Mark Rivers have a problem talking to me? He doesn’t seem to be short on looks or brains—aside from the stalking thing. In fact, for a moment there I thought he might be . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, flirting with me. I didn’t know whether to smile or swing.” She shook her head. “It was dark, and tensions were high.”

  Yvette seemed to choose her words carefully. “Mark was in a serious accident a while back. He saved lives, but he was critically injured and another firefighter—his best friend—died. And while he was fighting fires miles away, his family orchard here was nearly lost. It struck him down for sure. He’s barely begun making appearances in town. If he was trying to get up the nerve to ask you for something—in person—well, that’s a big deal.”

  Riley stared at her shake, this new information weaving its way into the old. Weaving its way around the guy in the truck. It explained a lot.

  Yvette took one of Riley’s onion rings. “No one will blame you for being extra vigilant. Especially at night in a new place, even in our very small town. The world is what it is.” She dipped the ring in ketchup. “All I’m saying is that you need to make up your own mind about Mark Rivers.”

  Riley stared at the wall of vintage album covers, replaying the evening’s events in her head through a new lens.

  After a contented sigh that only eating a good onion ring could evoke, Yvette pushed the basket closer to her. “Here. You need these.”

  Riley didn’t argue.

  Mark drove down the dirt road to the new outbuilding site in the dark hours of the morning in a frustrated stupor. He’d barely slept. Next to him, his dad pointed out potholes—each one too late—and remarked on the good ol’ days.

  “Being up this early kinda makes you wish you had a cow to milk.”

  Mark threw his dad a dubious look and hit another pothole. The truck rocked.

  “Good gracious, son, you trying to break some sort of record?”

  “Maybe if you put in a decent road, I wouldn’t have to treat this stretch like a godforsaken minefield.” He swerved, barely missing another dip. “It’s dark out,” he added.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” his dad replied. “You want this road improved, you do it. Great idea. You can start as soon as the outbuilding’s done.”

  Mark kept his grumbling to himself. It wouldn’t do any good. He pulled into the clearing and parked, his headlights shining on the site. He’d have to keep them on until the construction lights were plugged in. Soon they’d have motion-sensitive floodlights on the building. But first they had to put up walls and a roof.

  Mark hadn’t told his dad about his run-in with the art teacher. When he’d asked why Mark was home later than expected, he’d just said he’d gone for a drive. Now, after going over and over in his head what he should have done differently, he knew he couldn’t talk to his dad even if he wanted to. The nativity, if it were to happen, had to be a surprise. Mark hadn’t thrown the idea away. Yet.

  Something about the way Riley Madigan had looked at him during their confrontation had struck Mark. The street had been dark, and she probably hadn’t seen him clearly in the truck. But still, she hadn’t flinched, or worse, looked at him like he was an injured puppy. She’d just held her bat and dared him to move.

  He couldn’t help the smile that came to the corner of his mouth.

  “You okay?” his dad asked.

  Mark rubbed his eyes. “No. Man wasn’t made to work before sunup.”

  His dad positioned a construction lamp and flipped it on.

  “Gah.” Mark turned, blinking in the sudden brightness.

  “Behold,” his dad said. “The sun.”

  “Nice,” Mark said, pulling on his gloves. He went to turn his truck lights off, pulling his coat collar a little higher. Even with his hood pulled over his beanie, the chill crept in.

  “So, Lester called last night,” his dad said.

  Mark stopped. “Yeah?” he asked without turning around.

  “Yep. Wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

  Since when was Lester Healy his babysitter? Mark waited, measuring how much more to ask. A few moments ticked by. “Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  Mark allowed his shoulders to relax.

  “Who’s Riley Madigan?”

  Mark froze again. “Uh, I don’t know.” That was the truth, sort of. He didn’t know her at all.

  “Hmm. Lester says there was a misunderstanding between the two of you.”

  “Is that right?�
� He reached into his truck and turned off the ignition.

  “Yep.”

  Mark picked up his tool belt and a box of nails. “Anything else?” He didn’t want to give anything away if Lester had kept things to a minimum. When he’d mentioned the nativity to Les, he’d specifically said it was meant to be a surprise. But more than that, he didn’t want his dad to know what an idiot he’d made of himself.

  “No. And maybe it’s none of my business.”

  Mark cinched his belt on his hips and climbed the ladder to the spot where he’d been working the afternoon before. “Maybe.” He’d become really good at this game. If he didn’t want to answer, he didn’t have to. “It was just a misunderstanding. Mistaken identity.”

  “She thought you were someone else?”

  Mark considered that option. “Yep.” Riley Madigan had thought he was a stalker. “It’s fine.”

  “Okay.” His dad left it alone, and Mark finally focused on the work and keeping his hands warm in the morning chill.

  “Nice for you to be talking to a woman, though.”

  Mark just about hit his fingers with the hammer. “Dad. Knock it off.”

  “I hope you were nice. Les said she’s new in town. Single. Smart. Is she good-looking?”

  Mark scowled. Like that even mattered anymore. “She’s a teacher, and she looked strong.” He hadn’t been able to keep from stealing glances at the fierceness in her eyes. When he wasn’t watching the bat.

  “Bodybuilder, eh?”

  Mark laughed outright. “Dad. Let me work.”

  Friday morning, Mark stood in the back of the bakery, hands shoved into his coat pockets, waiting to order his fritters. The temperature had dropped, and the forecast was teasing the idea of snow, but the bakery was warm and full of people. Still, Mark kept the hood of his sweatshirt up. The counter was on the right side of the bakery, so his right side faced the door and anybody coming in. He didn’t like startling people.

  “Uncle Mark, why is it taking so long?” Ivy asked, pulling on his elbow, waving their ticket in the air.

  “Because they like to make little kids wait,” he teased. “If you’d stayed home, I’d have our order by now.”

  She looked skeptical. “I’m not little.”

  “Little enough for me to do this.” He scooped her up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Ivy squealing with giggles.

  “Put me down,” she said.

  “What’s the magic word?”

  “Please.”

  “Nope.”

  Whenever Ivy was home from school for a teacher prep day, he took her along to get fritters. Ivy made everything easier.

  “Donuts,” she tried again.

  “Nope.”

  The bell jingled on the front door, and he felt the too-familiar sensation of being stared at.

  “Pickles,” Ivy squealed.

  Mark lowered Ivy to the ground.

  She scrunched up her nose. “The magic word was pickles?”

  He lowered his head, allowing the hood to fall forward a little more, and smiled at her. “This time it was.”

  The bell jingled again.

  “Mark!”

  He peered up. Nate Crandall and Gus Pratt hailed him and walked around a few customers to join him. As they approached, he spied Riley Madigan by the door; she averted her eyes.

  “Mark, good to see you out and about.” Nate fake-punched him in the arm. He looked down. “Hey, Ivy, what’s up?”

  Mark had known Nate since fourth grade, and Gus since freshman year in high school. Nate was in Spokane now, and Gus was in Wenatchee just down the valley, but they’d both visited him in the hospital and then again after he’d moved in with his dad for recovery. The three of them—plus Jay—had spent most of high school trying to figure out cars, girls, and life in general.

  “What are you guys doing home?” Mark asked.

  Nate shrugged. “Came to see my little brother play in the game tomorrow. Joslyn is having a girls’ weekend with her sisters in Seattle.”

  Mark shook his head. “I’m still not used to the idea of you being married. I’m sorry I missed the wedding.”

  “No worries. You were a little busy.”

  Nate had married last year in Pashastin, right in the middle of a round of Mark’s painful skin grafts.

  Gus folded his arms. “Oh sure, he gets off easy.”

  Nate turned to Gus. “Dude, you were forty minutes away. You could’ve at least come to the reception.”

  “I told you, I had to take my grammy to Emerald City Comic Con. You try turning down a ninety-year-old woman who demands to see Zachary Quinto. It’s not like I could’ve dropped her off at the door with her walker and her Iron Man compression socks.” He waved to the air. “Bye, Grammy. Pick you up at ten. I’ll meet you out here by the giant Eye of Sauron.”

  Mark stifled a laugh.

  “Okay, fine,” Nate said, chuckling. “Grammy wins.”

  Gus winked at Ivy. “She always does.”

  Ivy giggled.

  “You going to the game, too?” Mark asked Gus.

  “Naw, I’m helping my parents get the vines mounded before winter sets in. My in-laws have the kids; Heidi needed a break.”

  Mark nodded, sobered. Gus’s parents had lost an entire vineyard to the fires. They’d been able to replant early this spring but the young vines needed to be heavily mulched for winter.

  “How is Heidi?” Mark asked.

  “Good. Baby has another month so she’s getting the house ready and generally going nuts.”

  Ivy swung on Mark’s arm. “Is she having a boy or a girl?”

  Gus grinned. “Which do you think it is?”

  “Umm . . . a girl!”

  Gus made the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong. Try again.”

  “A boy?”

  “You got it.”

  “I guess boys are cute, too.”

  “Oh, they are, are they?”

  Ivy shook her head. “Baby boys.”

  Mark half-smiled at the exchange. He sensed he was still being watched. Closely. He dared a glance in the direction of Riley Madigan and caught her gaze. He would’ve looked away immediately, except that she didn’t look away first. People usually did. She continued to study him, her expression one of questioning more than morbid curiosity.

  And then she smiled.

  Mark dropped his gaze and smiled back. Sort of. He suddenly felt like swinging Ivy up in the air again and laughing at her squeal. And letting Riley Madigan look on.

  Thankfully, he wasn’t given the chance.

  “Number twenty-seven,” Lette Mae called. “Mark, that’s you, hon.”

  Ivy jumped toward the counter, and Lette Mae handed the bag of fritters to the girl while Mark paid.

  “I threw in an extra one just for you, Tootles.” She winked at Ivy.

  “What do you say?” Mark prompted his niece.

  “Thank you,” Ivy sang.

  Mark took her hand. “Thanks, Lette Mae.”

  “Don’t be a stranger. Number twenty-eight?”

  Just as Mark and Ivy turned, Riley stepped toward the counter. To avoid colliding, Mark had to yield, giving her his right side. He quickly ducked his head. “Excuse us,” he muttered.

  “My fault. Too eager to get to the Bavarian cream.”

  He raised his gaze at the normalcy of her comment.

  She met his eyes easily. “I’m a sucker for Bavarian cream.”

  For reasons beyond his comprehension, he said, “I’ll have to remember that.”

  Her eyes narrowed a fraction, but not in anger. It was that thing she’d done the other night. Daring him to move.

  “For the next time you’re waving a bat in my direction,” he said.

  Her mouth twitched into a smile. He nodded
goodbye, trying desperately to ignore that warm mix of awkward and pleasure in his gut.

  She stepped up to the counter to collect her order.

  “Hey, Mark,” Nate called. “We’re having a bonfire at my folks’ house tonight. You should come.”

  Mark froze. Any pleasure he’d felt shattered on the floor. Gus immediately hit Nate in the arm.

  “What was that for?” Nate asked Gus.

  Gus gave Nate a significant look that Mark both appreciated and despised. But he didn’t blame either of them.

  “I might have to pass on that,” he was able to say. “But thanks.”

  Understanding broke across Nate’s face. He slapped his forehead. “Dude.”

  Mark raised his hand. “Tell Joslyn I said hi.” He looked at Gus. “And Heidi. Good to see you guys.”

  Gus waved.

  As Mark opened the door, the bell jingled, and Ivy asked, “Why don’t you want to go to the bonfire?”

  He held his breath, then let it out. “Because fire and Uncle Mark don’t get along too well these days.”

  “Aww,” she said, clearly dissatisfied. “Dumb ol’ fire.”

  “Yep.” The door closed behind them. “Dumb ol’ fire.”

  Riley both liked and loathed prep days. She got a break from the usual daily grind and was able to plan assignments and inventory materials. It also meant hours of teacher instruction and menial tasks like grading projects and entering those grades into the computer.

  But as she drove to school, her mind wasn’t on the stack of game boards she’d had the kids design for their mixed-media unit, or the box of clay and glazes she needed to order, or even the photography club proposal she was considering.

  It was on Mark Rivers.

  The bakery had been cheery and bright with customers. A far cry from that night on her dark street a week ago. She’d recognized the hooded figure right away but was captivated by the small girl who flitted and jumped around him as they waited, pulling on his arm and calling him “Uncle Mark” all while he absently twirled her around and . . . smiled.

  And then his friends had entered, and he’d lifted his face and . . .