Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  “The basic story is soon after the bridge was built in the 1950s, a desperate farmer threw a coin in the water and made a wish that his crop would survive the blight that had been spreading from orchard to orchard that season.”

  “Did it work?”

  “His was the only orchard to yield a full crop. Word spread.”

  She snapped a few more pictures. “That doesn’t seem like enough to start a legend.”

  “Soon after, a woman made a wish that her boyfriend would come into enough money that her parents would accept his offer of marriage.”

  “So, what, he inherited a bunch of money from his great-aunt?”

  Mark smiled. “No, but he was offered a job at a car dealership and the two married soon after. After a few years, he bought it. Wade’s Miracle Auto.”

  She’d seen the old sign in front of one of the car dealerships in town. “He got a job.” She threw Mark a challenging look. “What else?”

  “Ask around. People have wished on everything from college acceptance to babies to protection over their loved ones.” He looked around at the trees and the sky and the water. “Some people just come up here to pray.”

  “But surely not everyone gets their wish?”

  He shrugged, but said nothing, watching her.

  “You make a broad enough wish, of course it will come true,” she said. “I could wish for sunsets for the rest of my life. Voila, granted. To make a specific wish, though . . . Have you tested it?”

  “Ah, that’s the thing. You only get one wish.”

  “So if I wished we stay right here on this bridge forever and ever, then we’re stuck here? Forever?”

  “That would be horrible.”

  “The worst.” Her face warmed from the flirtatious tone in his voice.

  She approached the structure, the sound of the creek growing louder with each step. “Have you made your one wish?”

  “Almost.”

  “Almost?” She glanced back at him. “What stopped you?”

  “My mom.”

  She turned.

  He shrugged. “She brought us out here that last Christmas. The doctors had done all they could. She came out here a lot to sketch, take pictures. I think she just wanted to be here one more time.”

  “Did she make her wish?”

  “I think so. She just closed her eyes, held Dad’s hand. By the end of that few minutes, I don’t know . . . It was like this dread came over me. Like I knew she hadn’t wished to get better.”

  “Oh, Mark.”

  He set her bag on the plank floor of the bridge and, after brushing away some snow, leaned his forearms on the railing over the creek. “She finished with a smile on her face. Peaceful. I begged her to tell me what she’d wished for. I begged Dad to make his wish that she’d live.” He shook his head. “I told him if he wasn’t going to wish, then I would. I was almost a man, right?”

  Riley nodded.

  “But my mom stopped me.”

  “Why? What would’ve been the harm?”

  “She told me that you only get one real wish, and if you make it before it’s time, or if you make the wrong one, it’ll float up, but it won’t come back down. It won’t settle. It’ll itch at you and wake you at night and leave your mouth bitter.”

  Riley leaned on the rail next to him.

  He stared at the frothing water beneath them. “Dad squared me up to him and asked me if I really thought he hadn’t made every wish, said every prayer, to keep Mom with us. That hit me in the gut. Mom said she knew the wish I wanted to make, and that was enough. And you know what I thought?”

  He looked at her, and she shook her head.

  “I thought that was garbage. I decided I’d wish without them knowing. But when I tried, I couldn’t. Because what if she was right? I was scared. And ashamed and angry. I sulked all the way home. Classic teenage slamming-doors-when-I-got-home sulking. Brutal.” He shook his head, smiling at himself.

  Riley thought about her next words carefully. “But who makes the rules, anyway? As much as we’d all like to believe in wishes coming true, it does sound like nonsense. Would it have hurt anybody to just let you make your wish?”

  He watched her. “I don’t know. I would have wished for her to live, and she didn’t. Later, she found me and asked me to trust her. I told her I’d try. She was gone a month after that. On her terms. She was at peace with everything. More than anything else, that gave us peace. Which, knowing my mom, was probably her wish in the first place.”

  The sound of the creek wove its way around them, a fervent rush and bubble over rocks and under the aged beams of the bridge.

  “So it worked,” Riley said, hushed.

  He leaned against his elbow. “She hoped.”

  There it was. The hope Riley had scorned so brazenly when they’d first met. It was the very foundation of his family’s peace during the worst of times. “Mark, I’m sorry for what I said about hope.”

  He shrugged. “You had your reasons.”

  “I wish I hadn’t been so careless.”

  “Doesn’t do any good to wish backwards,” he said.

  “Is that something your dad says? Or are you just wise?”

  He turned around and leaned his back against the rail, his arms folded. “I think I’ve just learned that prayers and wishes don’t always work the way you want them to, but eventually you can say, things are okay.”

  She placed her hand on his arm, and he put his hand over hers.

  “That helped,” he said. “Later. After the fires. Once I crawled out of my hole and looked around.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. He’d been through so much. And here he was, talking about strength and peace. No wonder he’d defended hope so fiercely. She was almost jealous. “You make me want to try harder.”

  He made a sound of contempt and shook his head.

  She watched him looking out over the water, the wind playing with his hair around the edge of his hat. His silhouette against the colors in the sky.

  He spoke to the water. “Last night, realizing there might be something between my dad and Yvette . . .” He shook his head. “That threw me. Just the idea of it.” He glanced at her as if needing validation.

  “That’s understandable. He’s stayed single a long time, huh?”

  “Yeah. I’ve thought about leaving, you know, getting my own place, but part of me doesn’t want to leave him alone again.”

  She watched him, grasping for something to make him feel safe. “Yvette’s nice.”

  He smiled out at the trees. “Yeah, she’s great.”

  “She’s my best friend here besides you.”

  He remained quiet.

  “I’ve never known anyone like you, Mark.”

  He huffed a laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I can believe that.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make yourself less than you are.” She reached up, running the back of her fingers over his cold cheek. Cautiously, she lifted her other hand to the other side of his face, to where his scars were.

  His hand shot up, fingers wrapping around her wrist, stopping her movement.

  She held her ground. “You’re strong again. Be strong right now.”

  He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  This is a boundary, Madigan. Are you sure you want to cross it?

  She heard the warning in her head, but she felt the strength in his grip give way, and she couldn’t back down. She wouldn’t. He had to know.

  Her fingers touched his skin, and he closed his eyes. He drew in a breath. She paused, but he didn’t stop her. Carefully, she trailed her fingers down over his burned cheek to his jaw. She traced the pattern where smooth scar tissue turned to shaved skin. She spread her fingers and slowly moved them down the side of
his neck.

  She looked up and found him watching her. “How far does it go?” she asked.

  He hesitated, his chest rising and falling with his breath. “Down this side, past my hip,” he said. “But the graft-harvest scars . . . They had to take healthy skin from the other side so . . .” He swallowed.

  She lifted both hands, cradling his face, and he closed his eyes again.

  “Does this hurt?”

  “No,” he said quietly. When he opened his eyes, they were dark and intense. “Not yet.” He lifted his hand slowly, as if fighting himself, and touched her cheek.

  She shivered. It wasn’t from the cold.

  He smoothed her skin with the back of his hand. “How far does it go?” he asked softly.

  She suppressed a smile, even while losing her breath. “None of your business,” she managed to say.

  His brow lifted ever so slightly. He moved his fingers down along her neck. “Does this hurt?” he asked, watching her mouth.

  She trembled at his touch. “Not yet,” she breathed.

  They stood like that for a moment, touching and breathing, as the wild creek rushed below their feet.

  “Why do you call me C-fire?” she asked.

  He held her gaze, his voice soft. “Fire classification. Class C fire is an energized electrical fire. It’s tricky.” His fingers traced over her jawline. “You have to find the source and de-energize the circuit, and then use carbon dioxide to put it out.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, moving closer. “No way. No one’s ever putting you out.”

  She shook her head, breathless.

  As he bent to her, his hands slipping down her body to rest at her waist, she lifted on her toes, melting her lips into his. Her eyes closed, and she let him lead. He took it slow, but her heart sped at his touch.

  The voice in the back of her head screamed, Are you crazy?

  Apparently, yes.

  She slipped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her closer. She leaned into him, his lips soft and exploring. He lifted her enough that her toes skimmed over the wooden planks. He turned and leaned her back against one of the bridge uprights. She caught her breath as he dropped his head and kissed her neck, trailing up her jaw and finally returning to her waiting mouth—readily waiting, which was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

  “Mark,” she said, breathless between slow kisses.

  “Yeah?” he asked, his mouth roaming back toward her ear.

  “Oh—” she breathed, forgetting what she was going to say. She felt him smile against her skin.

  “What was that?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Mm—” Seriously, what was she doing trying to think right now?

  Madigan, you need to back off right this instant, so help me. Danger! Danger!

  “Go away,” she whispered, and Mark’s head came up.

  “What?” he asked, setting her on her feet.

  “No, no, no, I wasn’t talking to you.” She reached for him again.

  He watched her, catching his own breath. “Then who were you talking to?”

  She swallowed and clasped her hands behind his neck. “The voice in my head.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “What was it saying?” He leaned toward her again, eyes on her neck.

  “Nothing important.” His lips touched her skin, and her eyelids fluttered. “At least, not at the moment.”

  “When will it be important?” he murmured.

  “Probably later . . . sometime.”

  He nibbled her earlobe, sending an electric current down her entire left side. “Sounds important,” he whispered. He pulled himself away and met her gaze. “Maybe you should listen.” He studied her, serious, waiting for a response.

  Again, she reached and touched his scars, forming her hand to the contours of his face.

  This time he didn’t flinch. He leaned carefully into her palm. His words were low and soft. “Why are you doing this, Riley Madigan? When leaving is still on your mind?”

  She shook her head, not knowing the answer, not wanting to tell him he’d made it easy to fall for him. His soulful eyes watched, waiting, reaching to hers for an honest response.

  “Because you have to know,” she whispered. “You’re no monster, Mark Rivers. You never could be.”

  He lowered his gaze, and they stood together for several moments while she wondered if she’d said the right thing. He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. A cold breeze blew around them, pulling at her hair, uncertainty nudging from the corners of her thoughts. But everything between them stayed warm and close.

  Finally, he spoke. “So . . . the kiss was okay?”

  She smiled at the simplicity of his question. “Yeah, it was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Toe-curling.”

  He grinned. “I . . . I had to practice, you know.”

  “What?” She laughed.

  He nodded against her head, becoming serious again. He ran his fingertips through her hair. “I worried. Not just about eating or drinking from a cup again.” He watched her lips as he spoke. “But about . . . in case I ever . . . if anybody would—”

  She breathed, shaking her head. “You didn’t have to worry.”

  His grin returned.

  “How did you practice?” she asked, grinning back.

  “It was more like—exercise. And I used a straw. Lots of milkshakes.”

  She laughed, reaching out to trace his lips. He playfully caught her finger in a gentle bite.

  “Whatever you did, it worked,” she said with a breathy tremble in her voice.

  She slipped her finger free and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What about the whole ‘friends’ thing?”

  Oh, sure, Madigan, now you think to ask that question.

  “You’ve used that word a lot.” He took a deep breath. “I’m finding that I like this new approach to ‘the friends thing.’”

  She couldn’t help smiling. We’re in so much trouble.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, holding her more firmly, “it gives the words ‘just friends’ a whole new meaning. Don’t get me wrong. Jay and the guys were great, but uh . . .”

  She arched an eyebrow. “No kissing?”

  “No. They didn’t smell this good, either.”

  Her laughter rose, then faded. His fingers stroked her hair again.

  “Riley, people will talk. They’ll jump to conclusions. Rumors will spread. I’m just saying—”

  “I know.” She didn’t like it. “Small town.”

  He nodded. “Small town. We’ll just have to do our best to . . . keep it real.” He looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His gaze lowered to hers. “Thanks for asking me here.”

  She fought her misgivings; her heartbeat an erratic, bewildering dance. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

  His fingers stilled. His voice grew husky. “I’m trusting you, Riley.” His lips brushed hers, the weight of his words resting on her thudding heart.

  “I’m not sure you should,” she whispered.

  “Too late,” he said with his crooked smile.

  She searched his face, recognizing that she was trusting him, too.

  “Did you get enough pictures?” he asked.

  She nodded, barely noticing the sky brightening over them.

  His gaze intensified.

  “More practice?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Lots more.”

  They picked up breakfast wraps at the Grill-n-Go and ate in Mark’s truck in front of the park. Traffic was nonexistent because of the snow and it being the morning after Thanksgiving. No Black Friday crush in this place. They’d eaten quietly, sharing glances and shy sm
iles like they were at a middle school dance and her favorite slow song was playing. After the food was gone, he pulled her onto his lap and they kissed until they heard a car drive by.

  He dropped her off at her house with a promise to be back later to help her paint the walls.

  Until then, she worked on the nativity in a blissfully happy daze. She painted Joseph, but kept pausing, brush hovering over the image, her thoughts wandering to the bridge and Mark’s mouth on hers and his whispered words in her ear. She shook the stupid grin off her face, determined to focus, only to wake up from a haze again. Finally, after discovering that Joseph’s features bore a strong resemblance to the man who’d been kissing her all morning, she set down her brush, cleaned up, and hauled her camera bag to the desk.

  Transferring the images she’d taken at the bridge to her laptop didn’t take much time. She hadn’t taken many pictures, but she had two or three good ones the kids could choose from for their projects. She downloaded a few more examples from the web as well.

  When she moved her camera bag, the volunteer firefighter forms caught her attention. She pulled the paper toward her, remembering Mark’s warning that she give it serious thought before committing. Then his other, more recent, words came back to her.

  Why are you doing this, Riley Madigan? When leaving is still on your mind?

  Her heart spluttered. After this morning, Mark would expect her to stay in Miracle Creek—even if he didn’t say so. Would things continue on their natural course? Hopefully. Maybe. She rubbed her chest where a knot grew and tightened. The sticky note with Cheri Matheson’s contact information in New Orleans caught her eye. It might as well have been a neon sign flashing Escape Exit.

  She sat back and pushed both hands through her hair. She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t looked for it. Coming here was supposed to help her get away from entanglements. From rumors and the danger of giving your heart away so it could be waved around for everyone to see, even as it was stomped on.

  Was leaving still on her mind? Maybe the better question was, was she considering staying? It had always been a possibility. Needing to establish herself in her career. The fantasy of finding somewhere to call home. A little girl’s dream. On a deeper level, she’d been seeking that, coming here to Miracle Creek. She glanced at the painting of her grandma’s house. It did look like it could belong here.