by Janet Dailey
A faraway smile lit Henry’s pale eyes. “No,” he said. “Not a single one.”
From the house, the brief hush that followed Henry’s answer was broken by the jangle of the bell that hung outside the back door.
“Lunch!” Hunter scrambled to his feet. “I hope it’s Mom’s pizza! I’m starved!” He raced out the door, sprinting ahead of Shane and Henry, who took their coats and followed him. They were halfway to the house when Shane noticed Amy wasn’t with them.
“Amy?” He paused, glancing around. “Amy, are you coming?”
When she didn’t answer, he started back. Kylie wouldn’t want her daughter left alone in a place with as many potential dangers as the machine shed.
He’d taken a few steps back toward the shed when she popped out the door. Her face wore an odd little grin. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sure. Just slow. I’m coming.” Sliding the door shut, she skipped toward him, bouncing along the shoveled path. “Let’s get some lunch!”
As Shane washed up in the half bath off the kitchen, the smell of homemade pizza made his mouth water. He couldn’t recall ever having eaten pizza that didn’t come across a counter or out of a delivery car.
Kylie was wearing one of Muriel’s old-fashioned calico aprons over her jeans and sweater. She’d taken the pizzas out of the oven and was cutting them into slices. Her blond hair curled softly over cheeks that were flushed from the heat. He remembered how she’d looked that morning, romping in the snow with her children, her face glowing, her laughter sweet on the winter air. He’d always thought she was the prettiest girl in his class. Now she’d matured into a stunningly beautiful woman.
Looking past the kitchen into the parlor, he could see the silver-foil Christmas tree, the kind that had been popular back in the 1950s and ’60s. In its day, the tree might have been called elegant. Looking at it now, hung with traditional-looking ceramic ornaments, Shane could sympathize with Amy’s tears. The tree was a sorry substitute for the real thing. But at least Muriel had made the effort.
Shane remembered his own family Christmases, the ones before his mother’s illness. The branches of the big, fresh pine tree, so tall it would barely fit beneath the ceiling, would be sagging with a glory of lights and ornaments. After her death, his father had boxed everything and taken it up to the attic, never to see another holiday.
Shane had not celebrated Christmas since.
The table was set for six with glasses of milk and a fresh green salad in a red enameled bowl. “Sit down, everybody,” Kylie said, sliding the pizzas onto a tray. “Would you believe I’m finally figuring out how not to burn things in Muriel’s oven?”
They joined hands for grace. Shane cradled Kylie’s warm fingers in his palm as Muriel said a prayer, which ended all too soon. Where, on the road to adventure, would he find the spirit of friendship and family that lingered around this simple table? He imagined the solitary meals that, in time, would all taste the same. He thought of the nights in strange beds—some of them, perhaps, with strange women.
Was Henry’s fatherly lecture getting to him?
No, he wasn’t going to let that happen.
True, he wasn’t a kid anymore. And America might not be as safe and friendly as in the old days. However, he’d treasured this dream too long to give it up. After all these years, how could he just toss it aside like an outgrown pair of shoes? As for Henry’s argument about the future, he knew he wouldn’t want to roam forever. He was bound to end up somewhere. It just wouldn’t be here, where he’d felt trapped most of his life.
As they started on salad and pizza, Amy’s piping voice broke into Shane’s musings. “So, what are we going to do tonight?”
“What do you usually do on Christmas Eve?” Muriel asked.
“We sit around the tree and take turns reading the Christmas story from the Bible,” Amy said. “Then we sing Christmas songs, have treats, and hang up our stockings. Finally we each get to open one present, which Mom picks out. Usually, it’s pajamas. We put them on and go to bed.”
“That sounds like a lovely Christmas Eve,” Muriel said. “We could do that here.”
“But we won’t have anything to open,” Amy said. “The brown truck hasn’t come back, and I’m too old to believe Santa’s on his way.”
“When our dad was home, he used to play the guitar for us to sing,” Hunter said. “He was a good singer. His songs sounded almost as good as the ones on the radio.”
“I play the guitar.” Shane could’ve kicked himself for volunteering that bit of information. “I taught myself, so I’m not very good. And I’m no singer. But if you want me . . .” His words trailed off. What had he been thinking? After Hunter’s description of his father’s talents, his own lame strumming of the half-dozen chords he knew would be an embarrassment.
“Thanks, Shane. That would be great.” Kylie sounded almost too cheerful. “Singing always sounds better with someone playing along.”
“Don’t thank me till you’ve heard me.” Shane reached for a slice of pizza, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. He could’ve spent the evening at home enjoying a beer and a good crime novel, just like last year. Instead, he’d just invited himself to a celebration that could turn out to be an emotional train wreck.
The pizza was disappearing fast. Hunter was reaching for the last slice when Muriel spoke.
“We don’t need everything perfect to have a good Christmas. We don’t even need presents. That’s not what the holiday’s about.”
“I know it’s about Jesus’ birthday,” Hunter said. “But presents make it a lot more fun.”
“Presents and a real Christmas tree.” Amy caught herself. “Sorry, Aunt Muriel. I know you did your best.”
“I remember the first Christmas after my father got this farm,” Muriel said. “We couldn’t go for a tree because it was snowing, so we decorated a big tumbleweed with paper chains. That was the year my only present was a pair of warm socks my mother had knitted. But it was a happy time. We were together as a family in our new home, on land that was—”
“Look!” Amy shouted, jumping up, toppling her chair in her excitement. “Look out the window! The delivery van’s coming down the road!”
Without taking time to excuse themselves from lunch or put on their coats, the children raced for the front door, with Kylie on their heels. After an instant’s hesitation, Shane rose and followed them out onto the front porch. Looking up the main road, he could see the brown van approaching the gate. But something wasn’t as it should be. The van wasn’t even slowing down.
“No!” Amy wailed, waving her arms as the big vehicle rolled past without stopping. “Come back here! Come back with our Christmas presents!”
“That driver doesn’t have our presents, Amy.” Kylie looked as devastated as her children. “If he’d had them, he’d have stopped here. Unless there’s another delivery today, I’m afraid we’re out of luck.”
Shane surveyed the three gloomy faces. He knew how much it meant to Kylie to give her children a good Christmas. Given more time, she might have bought a few gifts elsewhere. But the nearest town big enough to have a shopping mall was sixty miles away, on icy roads. Here in Branding Iron, there was only Shop Mart, which carried groceries, home goods, and a few items like coloring books and crayons, cheap T-shirts, baseball caps, and socks—not the sort of gifts that would light up young eyes on Christmas morning.
A tear trailed down Amy’s cheek. Hunter and Kylie looked like mourners at a funeral. There had to be something he could do to cheer them up.
“Hey, have you ever built a snow fort?” Shane seized on the first idea that sprang to mind.
Hunter shook his head. Amy blinked away a tear. “I’d rather make a snowman,” she said.
“We can do that, too,” Shane said. “Maybe your mom would like to help us.”
Kylie hesitated. “I really need to—”
“Oh, please, Mom!” Amy tugged at her hand. “It’ll be more fun with you helping.”
Kylie’s eyes met Shane’s in a flickering glance. Was it gratitude he saw in her look or plain resignation? “Sure,” she said. “But first you need to finish your lunch and help clean up. All right?”
“You bet!” Amy dashed back into the house. Hunter followed at a slower pace, leaving Shane and Kylie alone on the porch.
“Thanks.” She sounded frayed. Tired shadows framed her eyes. “I appreciate the distraction.”
“You don’t have to join us if you need a break,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve built a few snow forts in your day.”
“I have, but not with my children. I’ll see you out back in fifteen minutes.”
Shane watched her walk back inside, wondering how much sleep she’d gotten the past few nights. Too bad he couldn’t erase the worried shadows that framed her baby blue eyes. If he knew how and had the means, he would wrap up the perfect Christmas in a big red box, tie it with a ribbon, and leave it under that sad little Christmas tree. He could afford anything within reason, but the problem wasn’t money. It was circumstances he had no power to change.
The snowman was no work of art. Its head sat on its body at a cockeyed angle, and one broomstick arm was longer than the other. Its eyes were unmatched buttons, its drawn-on smile was lopsided, and the carrot Muriel had donated from the root cellar didn’t look much like a nose. But that didn’t matter because Amy had had a wonderful time building it.
Kylie stood back and watched as Shane helped her daughter add an old scarf and hat to their creation. Behind them, in the unshoveled part of the yard, Hunter had already started rolling snowballs for the fort they were going to build.
Shane had done wonders for the children’s spirits, laughing and joking with them as they played in the snow. After the disappointment of the missing Christmas package, it was the best gift he could have given the three of them.
She’d made a mistake, misjudging him at first. The bad boy she’d crushed on in high school had grown up to be a genuinely good man, responsible and giving. But that restless spirit still burned in him. Any woman who gave him her heart would be fated to have it shattered. And even if she could risk her own hurt, she couldn’t risk hurting her children.
“Come on, Mom! Help us with the fort!” Hunter called. Kylie started across the yard. She’d made plans for the afternoon, but they could wait. Right now, the important thing was being here for her family.
Plunging through the snow, she stubbed her boot on a buried rock and pitched forward onto her face. Unhurt, she tried to push herself up, but the knee-deep snow offered no purchase for her hands. She floundered like a fish in shallow water, probably looking ridiculous. As the silliness of it struck, laughter bubbled up in her throat. By the time Shane reached her, she was giggling like a fifteen-year-old.
“I’ve got you.” He caught her gloved hands and dragged her partway to her feet, but his own footing was unsteady. As he pulled her up, still laughing, she lost her balance and pushed him backward. He staggered and fell faceup in the soft snow. Kylie landed on top of him, her face a hand’s breadth from his.
Suddenly she wasn’t laughing anymore.
His dark eyes burned into hers. She saw the hunger in their depths and felt her own responding need. She was aware of his breathing and the solid, manly contact of his body against hers. The urge to lean down and kiss his firm mouth was tempered only by the awareness that her children were watching. For a fleeting moment, she forgot to breathe.
“Dog pile!” Hunter shouted, flinging himself crosswise over her back.
“Dog pile!” Amy shrilled, jumping aboard and triggering a free-for-all of flying snow, thrashing arms and legs, snow pummeling, and laughter that left them sprawled on their backs in the snow, out of breath.
Still giddy, Kylie sat up and brushed the snow out of her hair. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard,” she said.
“Maybe when we were in tenth grade and somebody put a cockroach in Mr. Pratt’s desk drawer?” Shane sat up, grinning.
“That somebody was you, Shane Taggart. I was walking by the classroom door after school and saw you do it.”
“And you didn’t tattle on me? Hey, even after all this time, I owe you one!” Shane rose to his knees and powered himself to his feet.
“Don’t remind me,” Kylie said. “I might decide to collect.”
“That could turn out to be fun. Come on.” He held out his hands. Gripped by their strength, she let him pull her up. They stood face-to-face, both of them coated with snow. Hunter and Amy were sitting up, watching. Kylie felt the rise of a long-buried memory—a memory that struck her with enough force to rock her world.
It was the dog pile game—a family game the children hadn’t played since they were much younger, back when Brad was spending more time at home. On lazy weekend mornings, Hunter and Amy would sneak into the bedroom and leap onto the bed yelling, “Dog pile! Dog pile!” It was a rude awakening, but the laughing tussle that followed left everybody in a happy mood.
Until now, she’d forgotten all about that time. But it seemed her children hadn’t—es-pecially Hunter. Had today’s laughing attack been all in fun, or were they trying to send her some kind of message? Confused and shaken, Kylie brushed the snow off her coat.
“So, is anybody still up for building a snow fort?” Shane asked.
“I’m freezing,” Amy said. “I need to go in the house and get warm.”
Kylie had begun to shiver. “I’m cold, too,” she said. “And I have things to do before Christmas Eve. So if you don’t mind excusing me . . .”
“How about you, Hunter?” Shane slid off his gloves and whacked them against his coat to knock off the snow. “Would you rather build a snow fort or go back to the shed and sort bike parts? Your call.”
“It’s getting cold out here,” Hunter said. “I like learning about the bike. Let’s try the shed.”
“Guess that settles it. We can always finish the snow fort later. Let’s go.”
Kylie watched them walk away—her son stretching his legs to match Shane’s stride. Her children had cast their votes, making it clear in their own way that they wanted Shane in their lives. Her own heart was pulling her in the same direction. But her practical, protective head was shouting, No, no, no!
She’d be a fool not to listen. Shane had made up his mind to leave. If she tried to stop him, he would only resent her for it.
Back in the house, she dried off, warmed up, and settled Amy in front of the TV soap operas, alongside Muriel, with a plate of oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk. Muriel had offered to show the girl how to crochet. Amy actually seemed interested in learning. At least it might keep her entertained for an hour or two.
Shabby and forlorn, the silver Christmas tree stood in one corner of the room. Several of the branches had been crushed and bent. Most of the fake needles had lost their glittery “snow” flocking. The traditional ceramic ornaments Kylie had collected with so much love looked sadly out of place.
Kylie slipped on her coat. Somewhere out there, within driving distance, there had to be a real, green Christmas tree she could bring home to her children. Whatever it took, she vowed, she was not coming home without one.
Grabbing her purse, and whispering to Muriel that she had an errand to run, she went outside to the open vehicle shed, where she’d parked her station wagon. Shane had warned her about her slick tires, but by now the plowed road had seen plenty of traffic between here and town. If she drove carefully, she should be fine.
The plan she had in mind was a desperate one. Schools and businesses that closed for the holidays often threw their trees out before shutting down on Christmas Eve. If she drove the back alleys, checking Dumpsters and trash piles, she’d have a fair chance of finding a fresh enough tree to tie on top of the car and bring home.
Earlier that day, she’d found a ball of stout twine in the kitchen and put it in the backseat, along with a pair of scissors for cutting it. Those items would be enough to carry out Plan A. But for
the even more desperate Plan B, she would need something extra.
Shane, Hunter, and Henry were in the machine shed where the tools were kept. But Shane’s truck was parked nearby. Kylie had noticed the toolbox under the backseat, with the padlock hanging open from the hasp. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she opened the door and slid the box out from under the seat. With a bit of stealthy rummaging, she found what she needed—a small folding saw.
Whatever it took, she reminded herself as she started her car and backed into the yard. Whatever it took, she would come home with a real Christmas tree for her children.
Chapter Eleven
Henry surveyed the piles of sorted bike parts and shook his head. “I know how much you want your bike back the way it was, Shane. But from the looks of this mess, I’d say your only chance of ever riding it again would be to go on the Internet and look for the same model. If by chance you found one, especially one with a bad motor or smashed rear end that you could buy for a song and use for parts, we’d be in business. Otherwise”—Henry shrugged—“you might as well start shopping for a new one.”
Shane had known the news was coming. But the bike was like an old friend. He couldn’t just walk away and abandon it. “Thanks, but I’m not ready to give up,” he said. “This is an old bike and a rare one. But when I go home tonight, I’ll go online and start my search. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and find something that’ll work. Meanwhile, at least I can box up these parts and haul them out of your way. The bike might as well go, too.”
“It’s fine if you leave them here,” Henry said. “There’s plenty of room. We’ll just stick everything in a corner till you’ve figured out what you want to do with it.”
“Thanks. With the ranch up for sale and a possible buyer coming in a couple of weeks, nothing’s settled right now.”
Hunter had sat in silence, listening to the conversation. Now he spoke up. “Can I ask a favor? It’s been cool helping you guys and learning about the bike parts. Can we leave them out here for a while so I can spend more time with them? Maybe one of you can even teach me a few things. I promise to put everything away when we’re done.”
