Rescued by Christmas

by Erika Marks

  Jackson frowned, panic and dread flaring hot. “This Friday?”

  “No, the Friday two years from now. Of course this Friday!”

  His heart thundered. That was only a few days away.

  “Congratulations, man. You wanted a Christmas album and now you’ve got one. Legal is pulling together a new contract. It should be ready by the time I pick you up at the airport. How soon can you get a flight out? Tonight would be best. Give us a day or two to work out the kinks of the material before the studio musicians come in.”

  Jackson swallowed and looked around the room, trying to find some anchor for his spinning thoughts.

  “Jacks, buddy, are you there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he said quickly, hoping his voice made his answer sound more excited than he felt.

  “Then I’ll get you a flight out tonight.”

  Tonight? Panic fired across his scalp. “Better make it first thing tomorrow. They’re saying there could be a storm moving in this afternoon.” Hey, this was Colorado, right? There was a good chance it wasn’t a total lie.

  “Tomorrow morning, then,” said Ted. “I’ll send you the flight info when I get it. In the meantime, polish up those pipes of yours and get ready to celebrate Christmas early, my friend.”

  One more night. That didn’t give him much time to make things right with Oliver.

  Hanging up, his mind swung back to Miranda’s answer when he’d asked how they planned to get rid of Santa without Oliver knowing: I figured you would just leave in the middle of the night while Ollie’s asleep. In the morning, I can tell him Santa had to get back to the North Pole. He won’t think twice about it…

  The only problem was, Jackson didn’t want to sneak off.

  And what about making things right with Miranda? His offer to help her save her rescue organization had been a sincere one—just as sincere as the kiss he’d finally planted on those gorgeous lips of hers. So why had she rebuked both?

  Well, maybe not both. Her refusal of his donation to build a new stable had been indisputable, but her response to his kiss had been far more ambiguous. He’d felt her body rise against him, felt her lips soften. When he’d drawn back, he swore she kept her mouth hard against his, urging him to stay, which he had, gladly. He’d felt her hands climb his chest, felt her fingers grab his T-shirt and twist the fabric hungrily. When he’d pulled away, she’d looked up at him with longing, not regret.

  And yet, she’d fled. From his kiss, from his offer.

  And then this morning, she’d taken off at six thirty, despite telling him she never left before seven.

  Now Jackson was looking at his own departure—it was also earlier than planned.

  If this was goodbye—and God, he hoped it wasn’t—then he wanted it to be real.

  He wanted to be real.

  Rummaging through his bag, he found his shaving kit, the one he’d been dying to bust open as soon as he’d climbed into the Range Rover on Thursday evening, and carried it to the sink.

  Lathering his jaw, he told himself that the truth would be the best gift he could give Oliver and Miranda. He’d give Oliver a better gift than just hope.

  He’d give something he never gave anyone: a guarantee.

  Chapter Twenty

  Miranda wanted to pretend she didn’t feel anything when they approached the house and saw the Range Rover still parked, but her heart fluttered disloyally. It wasn’t the only betraying part of her; all day at the clinic, despite her best attempts to stay focused on her work and think of solutions to her problem of a stable, her brain continued to insist on rolling back to memories of Jackson’s offer, Jackson’s kiss—offer, kiss, offer, kiss—as rhythmic and unyielding as an ocean surf. Complicating things, Temple’s points that morning continued to ring back to her too.

  “Mom, can I go see Twisty?” Oliver’s question tugged her back to reality. She smiled over at her son as they took the path to the house, grateful for the grounding.

  “Sure, bud—let me get these groceries into the fridge and I’ll meet you over there.”

  Miranda watched her son tear around the house, headed for the barn. Inside, she half-expected (half-hoped?) to find Jackson in the kitchen as they had the night before, making dinner again, but the house was quiet, the only smell that of their Christmas tree—a perfectly festive, earthy smell, but somehow not as pleasant as simmering tomato sauce.

  After the food was put away, Miranda pulled on her barn coat and stepped out the slider, marveling at how much snow still remained on the deck. Coming into the stable a few minutes later, she squinted briefly, her eyes needing a moment to adjust from the blanket of white to the darker interior. Blinking down the corridor, she could make out the shapes of Oliver and Jackson outside Twisty’s stall and she walked toward them then stopped.

  It took several seconds for her to understand what she was seeing—Jackson, his white hair now a flawless, deep brown, and his jaw bare—then a few more to comprehend what these alterations meant.

  Blood rushed to her forehead.

  “Mom!” Oliver charged toward her. “Mom, guess what? He isn’t Santa! His name is Jackson and he sings songs. He said he knows Santa, and that Santa asked him to fill in for a little bit, but that he’s not the real Santa. But guess what else?” Her son’s eyes blinked up at her pleadingly. Miranda had to force herself to breathe. “He’s going to build Twisty and everybody a new stable so they can all be together—right here!”

  Her gaze snapped up to Jackson, her heart thumping against her ribs. Outrage and dread burned her cheeks.

  Oliver continued to burst with his news. “I just told Twisty he’s getting a new home and he’s sooo happy! Now I’m gonna go back to the house and make a poster for his stall!”

  Before Miranda could call out to stop him, her son raced out of the barn, leaving the door wide open behind him.

  “Miranda…”

  She whirled on Jackson, the flush of hurt and anger so fierce now she was sure she was feverish with it. “How could you tell him?”

  “I had no choice. I got a call from my agent. The record company wants me there tomorrow to record a last-minute Christmas song.”

  “So just because you have more important plans now, you decide to go ahead and break my son’s heart without warning me?”

  “I was planning on you both coming in together. But he came rushing in first and saw me standing here, and the way he looked at me…” Jackson rubbed his neck. “It just came out.”

  “And telling him about the stable? Now he’ll be doubly crushed when it doesn’t happen.”

  “Well, that’s really up to you, isn’t it, Miranda?”

  She held herself, feeling suddenly sick to her stomach. “We talked about this. We agreed we weren’t going to tell Ollie. That it would be easiest if you just left without saying goodbye.”

  “I never agreed to that, Miranda. And exactly who would that have been easier for? Maybe you and me—but I’m not sure that would have been easier on Oliver.”

  Miranda looked up at him hotly. “How would you know what’s easier for him?”

  “Give him a little credit, Miranda. Let him learn to find faith. The real kind that comes from in here,” he said, clapping a hand over his heart. “Not in some guy who comes around once a year.”

  “It’s easy to make speeches, Jackson. But you don’t have kids. You don’t know what it’s like to be the only person in their world. To know that when you just want to sit in the bathroom and bawl your eyes, you can’t, because there’s no one else to fill in. That it’s all on you, all the time.”

  “You’re right—I don’t know,” he said. “But I do know that I watched my mother do it all alone—and I watched her push away every decent guy who came along wanting to help her. Just because she didn’t want me or my brother hurt—when all we wanted was for her to be loved.

  “Don’t put that on your son, Miranda. Don’t make him your excuse for not wanting to risk love, Miranda.”

  Tea
rs needled the edges of her eyes. She bit at her lip to stem them. “I don’t need your charity, Jackson Wilder.”

  “I’m not offering charity, Miranda. I’m offering support. There’s a difference.”

  “Not to me.”

  She marched back toward Twisty’s stall, wishing she could slip inside and hide behind Oliver’s beloved horse, but the minute she reached for the latch, Jackson’s hand came up over hers.

  She spun around to face him, startled to find his gaze firm and earnest on hers.

  “You may think I’m just feeding you a line, but last night…my whole stay…has meant a great deal to me. I was starting to think maybe it meant something to you too. I know it meant something to Oliver.”

  Miranda considered him harshly, wanting to dispute his claim, to tell him he had no understanding of her son, but she knew Jackson spoke the truth: Oliver had savored their time together.

  And, Miranda realized with a lump in her throat, so had she.

  But none of that, not the crackling fires, or the decorated tree, or the beautiful song he had shared with her, erased the simple fact that he was still a stranger, brought to them, to her, by mistake.

  She bit at her lip, determined to stem the tears that welled. She’d been such a fool to let herself think this had been some kind of Christmas magic. All her life she’d seen proof that depending on someone only brought disappointment.

  She rolled back her shoulders and raised her chin, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her. “You were stranded here, Jackson,” she said tightly. “There was nothing intentional in this. It was pure accident.”

  He searched her face, his eyes so tender that Miranda feared she might lose her resolve.

  “You’re right, Miranda. I may have arrived here by accident, but I stayed on purpose.”

  When Jackson reached out to caress her cheek, it was all she could do not to press her face into his palm.

  Instead, she turned away. The open barn door beckoned and she walked toward it, stopping only briefly in the doorway to say over her shoulder, “Goodbye, Jackson.”

  *

  There wasn’t much to pack. Despite feeling as if he’d settled into Miranda and Oliver’s home as well as he’d ever settled into a place, Jackson had only a few items to scoop up as he toured the office. Her father’s bomber jacket and guitar he’d laid on the cot. A quick scan of the desk and he slowed. Oliver’s picture—he’d nearly forgotten it. He walked to the desk and picked up the snow scene, smiling down at the tufts of cotton. Carefully he slid the boy’s gift between the layers of clothes and zipped up his duffel.

  Taking one last look around the room, he swung the bag over his shoulder and headed out the door.

  Only to stop in his tracks when he saw Oliver standing in the corridor, waiting for him.

  “Why do you have your bag?” The boy’s voice was a familiar mix of matter-of-factness, and wonder.

  Jackson felt his whole body crack with remorse. He knew better than anyone how much it hurt to have someone leave without saying goodbye. And he’d been about to do the same thing to Oliver that his dad had done to him. Of course it was a thin comparison. He and Oliver had known each other only a few days, compared to the five years he’d known his dad, but still the realization stung.

  “I have to get back home,” Jackson said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do before Christmas.”

  Oliver’s tiny brows crinkled under his bangs. “But you’re not Santa, so what kind of work do you have to do for Christmas?”

  Smart kid. Jackson was going to miss him.

  He swallowed, feeling another knot of regret start to twist behind his ribs. “Because I have a song I have to record. So I can share it with everyone in time for Christmas.”

  “What kind of song?” Oliver asked.

  “A love song.” Jackson smiled, recalling his night in front of the fire with Miranda. “Ask your mom about it. I played it for her.”

  “Yuck.” Oliver wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like kissy songs.”

  Jackson laughed. “I didn’t either when I was your age.”

  “But why can’t you share your song from here?”

  Just like when Oliver had peppered him with questions by the tree about how he planned to save Twisty, Jackson found himself struggling to find the right answers all over again.

  But this time, he didn’t have any pat answers.

  “Because sometimes people have to go away, Oliver. Even when they don’t want to.”

  “So you don’t want to?”

  Jackson dropped down to his heels, eye to eye with Miranda’s son. “I think I screwed up things with your mom.”

  Oliver shrugged. “So say you’re sorry. That’s what my teacher, Miss Linda, always says.”

  “She sounds like a smart lady.”

  “She is.” The boy’s eyes suddenly welled. “Does this mean Twisty isn’t getting a new home?”

  Another crack of regret. This time Jackson was sure one of his ribs had broken.

  “I’d sure like to give him one, Oliver. But that’s up to your mom.” He gave Oliver’s tiny hand a shake. “You take care of yourself, okay? And thanks for letting me share Christmas with you.” Jackson rose and picked up his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder and heading for the door.

  Almost there, he heard Oliver call out, “Hey, Mr. Wilder?”

  Jackson stopped and turned back to Oliver.

  “How did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Jackson asked.

  “Make Twisty all better? You’re not Santa and you still did it.”

  Now it was Jackson’s turn to feel the sting of building tears.

  He sniffed hard then shook his head. “I didn’t do a thing, Oliver. It was all Twisty. He got better because he knows he has a friend like you. And he knows the two of you have a lot of adventures ahead of you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Christmas Eve

  Miranda gave the woeful-eyed beagle a gentle pat then turned to face his seventy-nine-year-old owner who stood on the other side of the exam table, her heavily ringed and scarlet-nailed fingers fluttering wildly. “I swear I only let him have one bowl, Doctor!”

  Miranda rolled her lips together, needing a moment to measure her reply. After taking a deep breath, she managed a polite but firm smile. “We talked about this, Mrs. Stillwater. No more sugar cereal for Wilson. Even one bowl can upset his senior stomach.”

  The old woman in the peach jogging suit let go a heavy sigh. “He just loves them so,” Mrs. Stillwater said, pushing her thin lips out in a childish pout. “You try saying no to that face.”

  Miranda smiled. “I’ve got a charming little boy at home—it’s not easy, I know,” she said, helping both beagle and owner out of the exam room.

  When the two had finally toddled out to the parking lot, Temple snapped the lock on the front door and joined Miranda behind the reception desk. “Is it too early for eggnog?”

  Miranda scanned next week’s schedule, hoping they were looking at another full load. In the past two weeks, the constant stream of patients had been a blessing, keeping her mind too occupied with fur balls and ear infections to mull over the way Jackson Wilder had exited their lives; not so unlike the way he’d entered it, though that realization hardly provided her any comfort. In the wake of his departure—Oh who was she kidding? She was the one who’d told him to leave—Oliver had bounced back remarkably well. Miranda suspected Twisty’s full recovery was the reason, and she herself had certainly found great joy in the horse’s improvement too.

  Still she lay awake at night, thinking about what might have been. Sometimes she convinced herself she wished Jackson Wilder had never crashed his Range Rover in the first place. But most of the time, she found herself swallowing the sour taste of regret.

  Once or twice, standing in line at the grocery store, she’d thumbed through the tabloids, wondering if there might be some mention of him, but when she came across a picture, she always closed the magazine, confusion an
d longing swirling. How could that be the same man who had cooked her and Oliver spaghetti and meatballs? Who’d serenaded them with her father’s guitar? Who’d hugged her so tightly as they’d sailed through the snow, over and over?

  The reception area clear, Temple reached across the desk to turn up the radio while they tidied up. The last bars of “Jingle Bell Rock” rang out.

  Temple rolled her chair closer to Miranda, settling her chin in her upturned palms. “Are you sure you and Ollie won’t have dinner tonight with me and my mom? I already made her promise not to serve that ramen noodle Jell-O mold.”

  Miranda laughed. “You’re sweet. But we’ll be fine. I told Ollie he could stay up and watch It’s A Wonderful Life.”

  Her tech remained undeterred. “At least promise me you won’t come into the office tomorrow,” Temple said, her gaze narrowed with warning. “I swear I’ll call the cops and report you for trespassing if you do.”

  “Nice try, but I’m pretty sure I can’t be arrested for trespassing on my own property.” Miranda rose to clean up the back but stopped halfway out of the room, catching the all-too familiar chorus on the radio: When the sun came out, I wrote your name in the snow, hoping you might see… Maybe it’s something about the season, but I’m asking Christmas to rescue me…

  “It’s Jackson Wilder’s song!” Temple appeared from the back and reached across the desk to turn it up. Miranda shot her a pleading look, which her vet tech appeared determined to ignore as she dropped into the other empty seat and sighed wistfully. “I still can’t believe I met that guy,” she said. “Or that he kissed you and offered you a new—” Seeing Miranda’s tight expression at last, Temple let the rest of her exclamation fade off with a rueful frown. “Never mind. Sorry, sweetie. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Miranda offered a stoic smile. “It’s fine, really.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I’ve gotten to the point now where I look back and decide it was all just a dream. A drawn-out, snow-filled dream.”

  When Temple didn’t immediately reply, Miranda glanced back to the reception desk and found her vet tech staring at the entrance. “Well then we must both be asleep, because I think your dream is at our front door.”