by Jackie North
"Let me turn off some of these lights," said Kyle, using the same voice he'd used on the phone that Clayton knew meant he was being babysat, though at that moment, Clayton didn't mind a bit. "And take off your boots and coat and holy fuck, no gloves, no hat, no scarf? What were you thinking? What if you'd had an accident and had to walk for help? Oh, never mind, here—"
Warm, gentle hands guided him to the couch, and he was sat down and his coat was being pulled off him quite carefully. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with his cold, dry hands, and tried to figure out what was sparkling all around him.
As his vision cleared, he realized he was seeing garlands of silver and gold on a real Christmas tree, as well as above and around the brick fireplace and along the wooden mantle. The tree was gently decorated, soft as a hand-drawn Christmas card, with silver tinsel, bubbling candles, blue and red and green balls, the whole of it encircled with tiny little yellow-white lights that quietly blinked on and off in a soothing sequence.
The entire room looked like it had been decorated by someone who loved Christmas. Someone who knew all the touches, the garland, sprigs of real fir tree to make it smell nice, and last but not least was the cheery sparkle of a real fire in a real fireplace. Everything was real, nothing was fake, and Clayton could hardly believe he was here at last.
"Wow," he said, and to make sure his admiration was quite plain, he said it again. "Wow, this is amazing. I thought rooms like this only existed in Hallmark movies."
"Nice, huh?" asked Kyle, handing Clayton a cup of coffee. "That's got some brandy in it, so drink up."
Clayton took the cup, warm in his hands, and sipped at the coffee. It warmed a trail down his throat and into his belly. He let the moment happen, where the warmth blossomed into something good and safe, and he took a deep breath, the first one since Sundance.
When he looked up, blinking, he saw Kyle for the first time. He'd wondered what Kyle had looked like, and nothing in his mind had been able to conjure up compared to the reality.
As Clayton had imagined, there was an expression of worry as Kyle looked at him, but this was framed by shaggy russet hair, and there was a slight twist to his mouth that created a smile that was sweet and hopeful at the same time. His face was all angles, and there was a lovely blush on his cheeks, perhaps from the warmth of the room, or the presence of a stranger.
But it was those eyes of his, wide open eyes that held an innocence, an air of expectation, as though the world was a good place with interesting things to do and see. No sadness, only joy.
All at once, Clayton felt his eyes grow hot and he scrubbed at them with his free hand, digging his fingers in to stop it. It'd been so long since he'd been in a room like this, or been with someone who looked at the world, at him, like that. So long, so, so long—
"You okay?" asked Kyle, quite gently.
Clayton shook his head, choking on his own breath as he wiped his eyes. Keeping them closed, he took a good, long slug of the brandy-laced coffee. He shook his head as he swallowed, feeling again the blossoming warmth inside him, telling him that he'd come out of the cold in more ways than one.
"Yeah," he said, lying. "Listen, I should call my sister, let her know where I am."
He opened his eyes. Kyle had drawn back a few paces, giving Clayton his space. Behind him glittered the room decorated for Christmas, and from somewhere Clayton couldn't see, the kitchen maybe, came the sound of Christmas music, turned down low.
"Where's your phone?" asked Kyle. "Is it still in your car?"
"I don't know," said Clayton. He wiped his upper lip and struggled to compose himself, took another swallow of coffee, and let out a long, low breath. "Look, if you can give me the knife and sheath, I'll be on my way."
"No," said Kyle. "I'm going out to your car to get your phone, you're calling your sister, and then you're spending the night."
"I don't want to impose," said Clayton as he watched Kyle shrug on his thick down coat. Kyle was on the slender side, broad shoulders, narrow hips, so the coat was swallowing him, though it looked warm and just the right kind to wear in Colorado during the winter.
"Too bad for you," said Kyle, zipping the coat shut. "The nearest motel is half an hour away, and that's in good weather. Besides, you are in no shape to do any more driving."
"But—" sputtered Clayton helplessly. He didn't want to impose, but his body wanted to believe what Kyle had just said. That he'd be able to stay the night, on the couch maybe, and that he could, in a little while, close his eyes and sleep until the vision of never-ending snowfall that was stamped on the back of his eyelids was erased away.
Thus, in spite of his fervent desire to get up and get his own damn phone, he stayed on the couch, snow dripping from his hair, the warmth of the room erasing the chill from his bones, his skin. He watched the fire dance in the fireplace, all golden and red-hued, and the sparkle the flames cast on the garlands and the tinsel. He was catching his breath, he could feel it, and his body's tension was easing bit by bit.
Kyle came in the front door and shut it carefully behind him, then took his coat off and hung it on a hook next to Clayton's coat. He toed off his boots, and came over sock-footed to the couch, holding out his hand.
"It's broken," said Kyle. "I think it must have fallen in the snow and hit some ice when you got out of the car."
"No," said Clayton, though it was easy to see that it was true.
As Clayton took the phone from Kyle's outstretched hand, he ran his thumb across the shattered glass that was once a protective screen he'd bought especially for the phone. Beneath the screen, the phone was black as pitch. Melted snow dripped from the corners.
"Damn it."
He looked up at Kyle and thought he'd forever remember the expression on Kyle's face, the round blue eyes, the way the firelight flickered on his face, shimmered in his hair. Clayton shook his head, knowing that he was very tired, too tired to keep such thoughts at bay, thoughts he should keep at bay, but then he stopped himself. In a room like this, maybe it was okay to have a little hope that everything would turn out all right.
"Can I borrow your phone?" asked Clayton, his voice a little husky. "Just to call Sarah."
"Sure," said Kyle and without hesitation, he grabbed his silver phone from the little side table next to the couch and handed it to Clayton.
Clayton tapped Sarah's number into the phone, and realized that the phone told him it was 11:37 at night when she answered.
"Hello," said Sarah, her voice a little tired. Clayton quickly realized she'd answered the phone without recognizing the number, which explained the wariness in her greeting.
"Sarah, it's Clayton," he said quickly.
"Where are you?" asked Sarah. "Are you near? I've got the front porch light turned on."
"I'm in Orchard," said Clayton. "It's west of Greeley, and I'm not going to make it to Parker tonight."
"I'm glad you stopped, if you're that far away," said Sarah, and Clayton could hear it in her voice that she meant it. "Are you in a motel?"
"No, I'm at—" Clayton stopped, though he was not sure why. "Somebody answered your Craigslist ad, and I'm at his house."
"What?" asked Sarah with a shriek that made Clayton wince and pull the phone away from his ear. "You're not supposed to go to anybody's house from Craigslist, you're supposed to go to a coffee shop or someplace with lots of people, otherwise—"
At that moment, Kyle came up to Clayton, and with both hands, held out a box lined with gold and white tissue paper. Inside the box was the bone-handled Bowie knife and beaded sheath, safe as could be. The leather was softly yellow, and the beads twinkled in the lights from the Christmas tree.
"It's fine," said Clayton. "I've got Shawn's gift right in front of me, it's fine. This guy, Kyle, didn't know that it was stolen and so he doesn't want a reward—"
"Tell her you're spending the night here," said Kyle, half whispering.
"And I'm spending the night here," said Clayton obediently.
"Let me ta
lk to him," said Sarah, and Clayton, instantly recognizing her older-sister-I-will-protect-you voice, held out the phone to Kyle.
Kyle handed the box to Clayton, who handed the phone to Kyle and took the box in both hands, placing it on his lap. The tissue paper rustled, and the scent of leather rose up. He ran his fingers gently across the beadwork and smiled. Then, at the anxious tone of Kyle's voice as he spoke to Sarah, he snapped his head up.
"No, no, it's nothing like that," said Kyle. "I honestly didn't know—"
Kyle's eyes were wide as he listened, his whole body at attention.
"My name is Kyle Tobin," he said. "I'm a software developer and I live in Orchard, Colorado, and no, I don't have any nefarious designs, not about your brother, or about anything. You can call the county sheriff and ask him. He knows me. Call Sheriff Bob. He knows everybody in town, and they can all tell you—"
Clayton put the box on the couch and got up and took the phone from Kyle's hand.
"Hang on, now, Sarah," he said, as firmly as he could, so she would know he meant business. "Kyle's a good guy, I can tell. He's not going to murder me in my sleep, so I'm not going to end up on the news. Besides, I can take him. He's half a head shorter than me and about twenty pounds lighter—"
"Hey, now," said Kyle, sputtering a bit.
"So I am going to sleep on his couch—"
"In the spare bedroom," said Kyle, dipping his head as he whispered this quickly.
"In his spare bedroom and then when the roads are plowed, I'll head home for Christmas. Okay?"
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.
"Are you sure?" asked Sarah, her voice shaking a little. "Look, it's almost midnight, and I've been so worried about you, and the weather reports look so awful. I don't mean to be mean, but it means so much having you here for Christmas. I just want you safe."
"I am safe," said Clayton, looking around the warm room that was bright with firelight and Christmas decorations, and which, he now realized, smelled like cloves and cinnamon and honey. "I'm so safe you wouldn't even believe it. The drive was hell, but I've got a place for the night, and in the morning, well, in the morning we'll figure it out. I'll call you, okay? But you need to get to bed. Let me talk to Luke, is he awake?"
"Yes," said Sarah, and she sighed. "Here he is."
"Hey, Clayton," said Luke in that hearty way of his.
"How is she?" asked Clayton.
"She's good," said Luke. "Worried but good. And listen, if it takes you a few days to dig yourself out of wherever you are, we'll hold Christmas for you."
"What about Shawn?" asked Clayton. His heart ached with the thought of doing that to a kid.
"We'll let him open a present each morning and afternoon until you get there. He'll have time to play with everything he's getting, and it'll be great. We'll save the Xbox for last when you get here, okay?"
"Okay," said Clayton. His throat felt thick and once again, his eyes felt hot, and all of his feelings rushed at him, each one of them aching with how important this was, that this Christmas be the start of something new for him and Sarah and her little family. Then he realized that Kyle was watching him with wide blue eyes, and he swallowed, blinking fiercely. "You all get some rest, and I'll call you in the morning," he said to Luke.
"Sounds like a plan," said Luke. "But seriously, Christmas will wait. There's no point in you driving on roads that are less than optimal."
"Okay," said Clayton again. "Talk to you tomorrow."
"Okay, bye," said Luke.
Clayton clicked the phone off with his thumb and handed it to Kyle, who stood there with it in his hand for a minute, before nodding.
"Are you hungry?" asked Kyle.
"I don't know," said Clayton. "I bought a tuna sandwich but I forgot to eat it. It's probably frozen in the car by now."
"What have you eaten today?"
"Some beef jerky, some powdered donuts," said Clayton. "Mostly I drank coffee."
Now Kyle shook his head, as if in dismay over Clayton's lack of sense, and Clayton got the feeling that Kyle was about to go into babysitting mode. Which would be okay. Clayton found himself almost leaning in to the litany of care and generosity that he was sure Kyle was about to deliver.
"I'm going to show you to the guest room, and then you can take shower while I heat up some beef soup with noodles. It'll help you fall asleep."
"How's that then?" asked Clayton.
"You will have a full stomach, you'll have eaten some protein instead of just sugar," said Kyle.
"Got any goat milk?" asked Clayton before he could stop himself.
"As a matter of fact, I do," said Kyle with a lift of his chin. "I stocked up for this blizzard so I wouldn't run out."
Clayton nodded, and then held out his hand as if to tell Kyle that he could lead the way. But then Kyle pointed at Clayton's feet, and his lace-up work boots that were dripping melted snow on the braided rug.
Obediently, Clayton undid the laces, and then carried the boots to the little mat by the door where Kyle's own boots were. Then, sock-footed like his host, he followed Kyle down a short hallway that went between the kitchen and the decorated living room.
There, Kyle switched on the lights. The guest room was small, but the bed looked soft with a line of fluffy pillows leaning against the wooden headboard, and a snowflake decorated quilt over what might turn out to be a pile of thick, woolen blankets. He'd be as warm as a rabbit in a winter den.
"That's the guest bathroom there," said Kyle, pointing. "Plenty of towels and whatever you need. Where's your stuff?"
"In the car," said Clayton. "I'll go get it."
"You will not," said Kyle, sternly. "You are the guest. I'll go get it, you take a shower, and after we'll have some soup, okay?"
"Can I even argue with you about this?"
"Maybe another time," said Kyle. "For now, you need to do as you're told. You've got circles under your eyes that are so dark it looks like somebody drew them with black ink."
Clayton nodded, and Kyle went out of the guest room. Clayton could hear him stomping on his boots to go out in the snow and cold once more, and slowly took off his socks and started unbuttoning his flannel shirt. Then, when Kyle dropped off the green duffle bag, he closed the door behind him as he left.
Clayton reached out a hand.
The bag was ice cold to the touch, and he shivered, thinking of Kyle braving the storm so his guest wouldn't have to. Well, with a host as nice as that, with such beautiful blue eyes, Clayton was going to be as obedient as he ever had been. He started shrugging off his clothes as quickly as he could, grabbed his toiletries from the duffle bag, and started the shower. Stepping into the stream of hot water, he sighed.
Maybe his Christmas plans weren't going as he'd thought they would, but maybe they'd turn out all right after all. And how could they do otherwise, in a house like this, which looked and smelled just like Christmas. Everybody he knew was safe at home, and as for Kyle—
Clayton closed his eyes and turned his face up into the warm water that was coming down like a comforting rain. He didn't know what to make of Kyle, but everything about him had been good, so good, that arriving at the small house overlooking the South Platte River was like its own kind of miracle that Clayton had not been expecting. Maybe that he didn't even deserve. But he'd find out soon. After all, he was stuck in this little holiday box of a house that seemed stocked to the roofline with a sense of wonder, of warmth, of welcome. Well worth the twelve-hour drive in a blizzard, for sure.
Chapter 7
Clayton vaguely remembered eating beef noodle soup, and he vaguely remembered going back to the guest room, but he didn't remember turning off the light, getting into bed, or falling asleep. But it was morning and he was standing next to the bed where he'd slept so soundly it barely looked like he'd disturbed the bedclothes at all.
Through the half-drawn blinds over the long window, he could see that it was still snowing. Sideways. A vague grey glow came into t
he room, and though it might have cast a chill over the air, it was obviously struggling against a very good furnace, because Clayton was warm. Even barefooted, he was warm. Where the hell were his socks?
Wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, he stumbled out of the guest room, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went down the dimly lit short hallway to the kitchen. Where, in a blaze of warmth and comfortable smells, Kyle was standing at the white stove, which was a gas range, as evidenced by the blue and orange flames.
He'd obviously shaved and showered, for his face was clean and clear, and there was a bit of a nick along his jawline, and drops of water clung to the ends of his shaggy, russet hair. He was cooking something in a pan, and there was an honest-to-god pot of coffee percolating on the stovetop.
"I hope you like oatmeal," said Kyle, looking up at Clayton with a smile on his face. "I was going to make pancakes, but it seemed like the morning for this, so here we are."
"Are you making bacon, too?" asked Clayton as he came a step closer.
"Yes," said Kyle in a way that made it seem as though Clayton was a crazy person for questioning this. "Of course. Bacon, oatmeal, coffee, and fresh oranges. What better breakfast is there than that?"
"None that I can think of," said Clayton.
He'd evidently stepped into a dream state where everything was so carefully thought out it was almost unreal. Normally his mornings consisted of running out of his small apartment to grab something from the nearest fast food place, and then doing the same during the day while driving his rig from location to location. Shaving time on each delivery in every way he could, which included not sitting down at a table to eat. Which was, evidently, the very thing they were going to do that morning.
"Go on and sit down," said Kyle.
"I should help," said Clayton, though he didn't have the first notion what he could help with.
"The kitchen is small enough that I can manage, thank you," said Kyle. "You may note the abundance of food, which is due to the fact that Brent and Richard were supposed to be here, and aren't able to make it, and so—"
