Christmastime on Donner's Mountain

by Laura Strickland

  She hadn’t come home for that anyway—she’d come for this old man, damn him.

  Rob stuck his head in through the doorway and swiftly eyed up the situation. Not known for his empathy at any time, he nevertheless grimaced and said to Becca, “Want to come down and help me decorate the tree?”

  “We don’t have a tree,” she answered swiftly, sliding her hand out from under Gramps’.

  “We will soon enough. You get out the ornaments, and I’ll clear space in front of the parlor windows.”

  Becca shot a look at her grandfather, assessing his reaction. She and Rob had promised each other, if not the old man, a complete last Christmas. And yes, that included a tree.

  She stood up from the bedside chair, bringing the bowl of soup with her. “Okay.”

  Out in the hall she asked Rob, in a whisper, “What good’s a tree in the parlor if he’s stuck in that bed?”

  “We’re bringing him down on Christmas Eve, if I have to carry him. And it’s all going to look—” Abruptly, Rob’s voice failed him; he cleared his throat before going on. “It’s going to look like it used to. That means Gran’s ornaments on the tree and her knick-knacks on the mantel. Got it?”

  “Yeah. But where are we getting a tree?”

  “Jack’s running one over. I swung by the lot when I went to the drugstore this morning. He said he’s got extra help today and doesn’t mind.”

  Jack. The last person Becca wanted to see. “I wish you hadn’t done that. You know we have a history.”

  Rob grimaced at her. “True, sister, but in case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t about you—not even a little bit.”

  ****

  Jack Donner eyed the old farmhouse as he climbed the steps to the door. It looked a lot rougher than it had back when he’d been seeing Becca, the clapboards molting and the remaining white paint faded to gray. One of the railings that edged the steps sagged, and the door itself wore a crazy pattern of crackling.

  This, he told himself as he rapped at the rough panel, would be a test for him—a good one. Seeing Becca unexpectedly last night had been difficult. He needed to find out if he could face her in daylight without flinching.

  Time heals all wounds and wounds all heels. The old adage zinged through his head even as he stood in the frosty air, so cold it stung, listening to raised voices from inside.

  Had Becca been a heel to him? Oh, yeah. Did he want to see her wounded? Hell, no.

  The door swung open, and he froze where he stood, like a raccoon on an icy road with a semi bearing down on it. Because there she stood in front of him and helpless attraction came in a surge.

  She’d always had his number, had Rebecca Monroe. Other women were just women; Becca appealed to him on a subatomic level that made even his cells take notice.

  She wore a patterned Nordic sweater all deep reds and blues. Old and soft-looking, it molded to her body, as did the aged jeans that fitted her long legs. Her face, with its clever lines and angles, appeared older. Tiny lines lodged at the corners of her eyes and hovered at either side of her mouth. Whatever she’d been through since they parted, it had left its mark.

  Her eyes…still wary, still wild. The clear light coming from behind him showed up their odd, green-brown color and the specks of gold.

  “Hi. Sorry Rob made you traipse way out here when you’re so busy. Come in.”

  He stepped into the narrow hallway that fronted the house, still staring at her. “You cut your hair.” The words came from him involuntarily. She used to wear it in a long braid that reached the middle of her back. One of his most vivid—and erotic—memories remained that of him unbraiding it and running his fingers through the heavy tresses before he made love to her.

  She made a face. “Years ago.”

  “It looks good.” And it did, a feathery cap that sought to soften her edginess. He wondered if she could do anything to herself that would render her unattractive to him. He hurried on, “Where do you want the tree? I’ll haul it in for you.”

  “Rob’s clearing a spot in the parlor. Want some help?”

  “I’ve got it. Be back in a jiff.”

  He ducked back out the door and jogged to his pickup, cursing his awkwardness. He hadn’t pictured it this way, driving out here. He wanted to be all confident and easygoing, longed to prove to Becca and to himself she no longer affected him.

  Big failure on his part, he admitted as he lifted the tree from the truck bed and propped it on one shoulder. Yet a lot of water had flowed under the bridge since he and Becca split. He was no longer the same person he’d been. No doubt she’d also changed radically.

  He’d do his good deed, ask after her grandfather, and get the hell out of here. He didn’t give a damn about the old days. This was about self-preservation.

  Chapter Three

  “So how’s your grandfather doing today?”

  Becca looked up from struggling with the cantankerous tree stand and bit her lip. She’d murder Rob when she got her hands on him—the slower and more painful death the better. Her rat of a brother had disappeared almost as soon as Jack brought the tree into the house, leaving the two of them alone.

  The last place she wanted to be.

  “Like I said last night, he’s dying.”

  “There must be some hope.” Jack delivered the hackneyed line with simple sincerity. How could she have forgotten? Jack the optimist, Jack who always looked at the positive side.

  It had taken her influence to kill that. Or maybe she hadn’t, because here he stood looking at her with those earnest blue eyes, boots planted on the carpet and hat in hands.

  He still wore his hair on the long side, kissing his collar. It had tangled when he hauled off the hat and now stuck out in several directions. She had a mad impulse to smooth it back down and mentally told herself to back off.

  “Not this time. His heart’s worn out. And he doesn’t want to die in the hospital. He’s convinced Gran’s here, waiting for him.” Abruptly, Becca’s throat closed. She cursed herself because she couldn’t afford to crack in front of this man. Who knew what might come pouring out if she did? Confessions and longings.

  She straightened from her place at the foot of the tree. “It’s hard to think of my grandparents as lovers.”

  “Why? I can imagine them moving out here as a young couple—living the dream. Your gran was a great lady.”

  “Yeah. And Gramps was always a pain in the backside, like me.” Selfish and difficult to please. “I’ll bet, when she passed on, she ran as fast and far as she could.”

  Jack shook his head. “I doubt it. The heart…”

  He never got to finish. Rob burst into the room carrying a hammer and a length of rope.

  Becca turned on him in relief. “I can’t work this darned tree stand, Rob.”

  “Neither could I—that’s why I left you to it. We’ll probably have to tie the damn tree to the wall. Just so it doesn’t fall down before Gramps sees it.”

  “Let me,” Jack said. “I’m a past expert.”

  “But don’t you need to get back to the tree lot?” Becca protested weakly. Don’t let him stay, don’t let him…

  “That’s okay. It’s Saturday, so I have Billy Connor there helping out. I can spare the time to get you set up.”

  “I’ll go make some hot chocolate.” Becca retreated while Jack wrestled the tree into its stand. Even from the kitchen she could hear him and Rob laughing together. The sound of Jack’s laughter brought back more memories, ones she didn’t want to face.

  Even at her worst moments—when she felt restless and tied up in knots—he’d been able to lighten her mood and make her laugh at his nonsense.

  She leaned over the fragrant pot of chocolate warming on the stove and asked herself how she could have given that up, given it away—for what?

  By the time she carried the chocolate into the parlor, the two men had the tree up and the star on top. They stood conversing, rocking on their heels the way men tended to do.

  “
Sorry to hear that,” Rob said as Becca came in, and her attention quickened. What had she missed? “I’ve been through my share of relationships, but I never married.”

  Married? Becca’s stomach clenched and fell like an anvil. Her gaze darted to Jack’s hand, looking for a ring, but he had his fingers tucked into his pockets.

  Well, of course he’d married—a man like him with so much warmth and so much love to give.

  She pasted a bland look in her face. “What’s this?”

  Rob answered, “Jack’s marriage—it ended in divorce.”

  The tray bearing the chocolate wobbled so violently in Becca’s hands she had to set it down hastily.

  Jack’s blue gaze met hers, honest and full of pain. “Only lasted two years before she left me. Guess it’s my M.O. when it comes to relationships.”

  “I’m sorry.” And she was. “Any kids?”

  “No, thank God. It’s just me and Gyp up at the cabin.”

  “Gyp?”

  “Worthy successor to Henry. Remember Henry?”

  “Of course.” The big, burly half-malamute had been their constant companion back when they were together. Becca’s legs quivered, and she sank into a chair. “Henry died?” Foolish tears came to her eyes. She hadn’t cried over Gramps—not yet—and prided herself on having a heart of stone. But this news got to her.

  “He was twelve. Had trouble walking any distance, and then he had a stroke. Died in my arms there in the cabin.”

  “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.”

  For the first time his gaze fled hers. “If you come up to the cabin, I’ll show you his grave.”

  If she went to the cabin. Would she? Did she dare? She said nothing.

  “I had a lonely few months before Gyp showed up. Limping on a sore paw and half starved. Didn’t trust me at first, but I kept at it. Figured Henry sent her, the way animals do.”

  “What breed is she?”

  He grinned, and dimples flashed in his cheeks. “God knows. Looks like she was put together from spare dog parts—legs too short, head too big. Might be part shepherd, part border collie—and part corgi.”

  “We’ll have to arrange a meet ’n’ greet,” said Rob, busy rooting among the boxes of decorations. “Bec, do you know where the rest of Gran’s ornaments are?”

  “Didn’t I bring them all down?”

  “I can’t see the glass angels.”

  “They were always in that green box.”

  “Look,” said Jack, “I’ll leave you to it—better get back to the lot.”

  “Hey, thanks for your help, man.” Rob slapped Jack on the shoulder. “Listen, with your parents moved away, why don’t you join us for Christmas Eve? It’ll be just the three of us, and you’re welcome.” Rob grinned. “Of course, Becca and I are cooking, so I can’t promise the food will actually be edible.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Jack shot Becca a questioning glance. “This is going to be a special Christmas for you guys. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “Intrude, heck—you’re one of our oldest friends. Right, Bec? You have other plans, Jack?” Rob demanded.

  “Well, no.”

  “Can’t have you sitting up in that cabin all alone. And you can bring Gyp.”

  “Not sure about that. She still growls at strangers sometimes.”

  “Just like Gramps. And Becca. She’ll fit right in.”

  Jack grinned and pulled his hat on over his tousled hair. “Thanks, I’ll think about it. Bye for now, Becca.”

  “Bye, Jack, and thanks for the tree.”

  Rob followed Jack out, and Becca sat where she was, tasting her own pain. Seemed saying goodbye to that man never got any easier.

  Chapter Four

  “Jack Donner, I hope you saved the perfect tree for me.”

  Jack spun when hailed from behind. Early evening had brought a small crowd of folks for last-minute purchases. Only two days left till Christmas.

  When he saw who stood at his shoulder, his heart sank. “Hi, Carrie. I have a good selection left. But I thought you preferred an artificial tree.”

  “I decided to go for the real thing this year.” A decided sort of woman was Carrie Foster, and Jack very much feared she’d decided on him sometime last summer. At least that was how long she’d been pursuing him.

  A lot of men wouldn’t complain; in fact any sane man would slow down and let her catch him. She worked as a receptionist over at Brewer Trucking, and the drivers there talked about little else. With her glossy dark hair and seductive brown eyes, she had only to smile in order to raise temperatures. The long legs didn’t hurt, either.

  Too bad Jack wasn’t interested. He couldn’t even say why.

  He summoned up a smile. “Well, tell me what you’re looking for.”

  Her eyes sparkled. She let her gaze wander up and down his body before she said, “I usually like ’em big. But my apartment’s pretty small, so nothing over five feet.”

  “I may have just the thing. Follow me.”

  “Anywhere.”

  Jack wished he could think of a tactful way to set Carrie straight. After two failed relationships in a row, he sure wasn’t looking to get involved again. Hadn’t she heard? When it came to love, Jack Donner was a pariah.

  “These are the smallest we have. Good thing you came now; I’ll probably be sold out before Christmas Eve.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “That one’s pretty.”

  “Concolor fir. Don’t know if you can see it in this light, but the needles have a kind of frosted effect.”

  “Sold. I don’t suppose you’d be a prince and carry it for me?”

  “Sure.” Jack hoisted the tree off its stake and tapped it on the ground to dislodge any loose snowflakes. It had started snowing again, and unless he was mistaken, it looked like business this time. “Where’s your car?”

  “Oh, I didn’t bring my car. I walked over here. My apartment’s just across the square. Do you mind?”

  Jack sighed inwardly and hoped she didn’t pick up on his annoyance. He just wanted to get home before the storm lowering over the mountains hit—to be alone with Gyp and the fire. But he shouldered the tree with good grace and called to Billy, who’d stopped by after school, that he’d be right back.

  He followed Carrie through the snow, past the gazebo strung with lights, and down a side street. To his dismay he learned Carrie lived on the top floor of a tall, narrow house. He dragged the tree up without complaint and waited while she paid him, adding a generous tip.

  “Thanks, Carrie. And if I don’t see you again before the holiday, Merry Christmas.”

  She stepped up to him. “Oh, don’t be so quick to leave. Not before I thank you properly. Let’s get you out of that damp jacket.”

  “Uh—” Hastily, Jack looked away from the promise in her dark eyes. “I have to get back to the tree lot.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “We’re really busy tonight.”

  “Well, how long till you close? Come back after. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Can’t, Carrie, really. There’s some weather coming on, and I have Gyp waiting for me.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That goofy-looking mutt?”

  The distaste in her voice made it easier for him to say, “I think you’ve read me wrong anyway. I’m not interested in…well, I’m just not interested.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a lousy track record when it comes to relationships. Don’t want to go there again.”

  “I see. Well, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “I really doubt it. In fact I can guarantee I won’t,” he swore devoutly, unaware the night just ahead would make a liar of him.

  ****

  By the time he sent Billy home and closed up the lot, snow was falling heavily over the town. It looked pretty—like a Christmas village—but Jack knew how treacherous the uphill road to the cabin could get. With the heater of his aged pickup going full blast and the wipers clacking, he choked u
p on the steering wheel and took it slow and steady, the way his dad had taught him.

  Once he left the lights of Crawford behind, he might have been driving through virgin wilderness. Except…when the road narrowed and the trees closed in, blocking out the wind, he thought he caught one or two glimpses of tire tracks ahead of his, barely visible under the snow.

  No—couldn’t be. Nobody came up here but him. Must be his own tracks from earlier, when he drove down.

  The road steadily worsened, and he slowed to a crawl, which kept him from plowing into the rear of a vehicle he encountered around a bend, half-slewed onto the shoulder.

  He tromped on the brakes, and his truck slid also, stopping mere inches from the other vehicle’s bumper. Heart pounding, he swore and climbed out.

  At least three inches of snow covered the abandoned car, but he recognized it for the Monroes’ old wagon. He knocked the snow from the driver’s window with one gloved hand but found nobody inside. And there—he saw the faint depressions left by footsteps leading away toward the cabin.

  He found her on the rough-hewn log porch, pacing up and down impatiently, hands thrust deep into her pockets. He took the last few yards at a jog, emotions in a tangle, fighting to discipline his immediate reaction.

  Becca here. Alone with him. And a storm closing in.

  It didn’t help that he could hear Gyp barking from inside. The dog knew somebody intruded on what she considered Jack’s territory.

  “Becca? Are you all right? I found your car—”

  She swung to face him. He couldn’t see much of her, muffled up in a coat and hat, but her body stiffened.

  “I’m okay. Damn car stalled on me, and I couldn’t get it to start again. Plus I think I’m off the road.”

  She sounded as disgruntled as he felt. Barely a foot from her, he stood and considered his options. First he called to the dog inside, “All right, Gyp—it’s me.”

  Gyp stopped barking and began to whine instead.

  “Want me to go see if I can get the wagon started, Becca? Here, I’ll let you inside and you can get warm while you wait.”