“I’ll break a trail for you. Stay in my tracks and keep your speed up so you don’t get bogged down,” Bryce said.
Gillian was not affronted by the directives. If something were to happen and they became stuck in the snow, it would take an inordinate amount of energy to dig out the machines. And if, for some reason, they couldn’t break free, they’d have to spend the night in the middle of nowhere waiting for help to arrive.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bryce barked.
A little over an hour later, they emerged from a heavily wooded area into an open meadow where Gillian recognized a couple of familiar landmarks. She began to breathe more easily. Cresting a nearby hill soon after, she caught her first glimpse of the ranch and was flooded with love for a place she was convinced was the most special in the world. Through the falling snow, it looked more like a Currier and Ives engraving than an actual home where people lived. A curl of smoke coming out of the chimney reassured her that even if the avalanche had cut off all electricity and telephone service to the house, at least her father was warm and cozy.
She wished she could say the same about herself. No matter how advanced the technology, top-of-the-line equipment and thermal clothing were still no match for prolonged exposure to the piercing cold in this part of the country. She was pretty sure that her hands, which she had wrapped around the heated handlebars, were the only parts of her body that weren’t chilled to the bone. Never had Gillian seen a sweeter sight than the Moon Cussers’ sign marking the entrance to an estate that had been passed down from one Baron generation to the next. Constructed of ancient logs, the original house qualified for the National Historic Register. Numerous additions over the years remained true to the integrity of the structure and only added to its value and beauty.
Parking their snowmobiles by the hitching rack out front, Gillian was too cold to pay attention to the symbolic clash of past and present. She and Bryce tarried only long enough to drape their helmets on their handlebars before heading for the front door, which swung open before they could reach it.
“I’ll be damned!” said the grizzled man who stood waiting for them in the doorway. A wide smile graced his weathered features. “You made it after all. I was just about to call Search and Rescue to go looking for you.”
“That might not have been such a bad idea,” Bryce said as he stomped the snow off his boots.
John Baron may have shrunken a little since the last time he’d embraced his daughter, but even at a gnarled six foot one he was still a big man with the spare frame of someone who’d worked hard all his life. Gillian’s greeting was muffled in his shoulder as he enveloped her in one of his famous bear hugs. He smelled of flannel, pipe tobacco, Old Spice—and home.
“Dad!”
That little word was almost too big to fit through Gillian’s throat. Brushing a kiss against the stubble of his cheek, she closed her eyes against the tears welling to the surface. Just stepping through the front door made her feel like daddy’s little girl all over again. Safe and sound.
She was sorry that she’d let her own insecurities keep her away for so long. “Come on in. You’re letting all the warm air out,” he said, ushering them inside.
Gillian watched as he shook hands with Bryce. His father’s eyes reflected the sincerity of the welcome as the two renewed their unique bond with the time-honored gesture of respect. In these parts, a firm handshake was still as good as a signed contract.
“You have no idea how much it means to me that you’re here,” John said. “It just doesn’t feel like the holidays without family around.”
The comment warmed Gillian in a way that no heater ever could. Frankly she’d been a little worried as to how she might be received. The last time she’d spoken to her father on the phone, they’d fought bitterly. John Baron never bothered hiding the fact that he thought Gillian had made a terrible mistake divorcing the man he considered a son.
“What took you so long?” he wanted to know.
“That’s a story that will take some time to do justice to. Do you mind if we have something hot to drink before launching into it?” Bryce asked.
John was anxious to hear all about it. While he went into the other room to fix them a hot toddy, Gillian shed her layers of cold, wet clothing in front of the roaring fireplace. Bryce dug his cell phone out of a zippered pocket and speed dialed his fiancée before he even bothered to take off his boots.
Gillian didn’t want to eavesdrop, but he practically had to shout to overcome the static on the line. He walked over to the front window in the hopes of improving the reception.
“Hey, baby, it’s me,” he said in the breezy way of a man in love. “The good news is that we made it to the ranch all in one piece. The bad news is that it might be awhile until I can get out of here. I hate to tell you this, but there’s been an avalanche and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back in time for Christmas. I’m sorry.”
Gillian felt like taking the phone from him and apologizing to Vi herself as an image of Robbie’s disappointed face flashed before her eyes. She really did feel terrible about taking Bryce away from his new family. She couldn’t help but notice how careful he was to downplay the most upsetting details about their journey to spare his fiancée any unnecessary worry—details that included a kiss that Gillian could still feel.
“I’ll do everything in my power to get home as soon as I can,” he promised. “I want to make sure that everything is settled here before we leave John all alone here again. It may take a couple of days before the trail is safe to travel. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Forest Service doesn’t come in with some dynamite to try to knock the snow loose from the peaks to prevent other avalanches like the one we outran today.”
The expression on his face gave no indication that the woman at the other end of the conversation was nothing but Saint Vi, Gillian thought.
“I love you, too,” Bryce said before disconnecting.
Gillian turned away so he couldn’t see what effect those words had upon her. She’d never been the jealous type, but it was hard not to resent the happiness that Bryce had found.
By the time her father returned with three steaming mugs, she was soaking up the heat from the fire and trying to rub some warmth back into her frozen derriere. Certain that Vi would never present herself in such a ridiculous fashion, she was glad that Bryce refrained from making any jokes about her unfeminine long johns.
While he filled John in on the details of their harrowing adventures, Gillian savored her drink. Staring out the front window, she watched as big, wet snowflakes covered the world with nature’s lace. In the fading light of shortening winter days, the pine trees cast long shadows across the front yard.
And across her thoughts.
Rolling her cup between her palms, Gillian wondered how she could possibly broach her concerns about her father’s well-being without getting him all riled up in the process. Although he’d agreed to talk to Bryce and her about his health, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t put up a fight.
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed,” was John’s assessment when Bryce had finished the story.
Taking a deep breath, Gillian saw an opportunity to plunge into territory where even angels dared to tread.
“While we’re on the subject of dangerous scenarios, it worries me to think about you all alone and cut off from the world,” she said. “What if something awful were to happen when nobody was here to help you?”
“Then I’d die a happier man than I would as an invalid in some old folks’ home,” he said unequivocally.
Ignoring the warning glance her father slanted her way, she continued. “That won’t change the fact that your family is worried sick about you.”
Her father bowed his neck. “Listen here, missy. I didn’t ask you to come here to fret over me. I just want you and Bryce to help me put some matters to rest. That’s all. Nobody’s putting me out to pasture.”
Gillian didn’t appreciate his scolding tone. W
hy should she be made out to be the bad guy just because she had the audacity to express her concerns? Having already lost so much, she couldn’t bear the thought of losing her father, as well.
“And don’t forget that Dustin’s still around,” he added with a huff, referring to the ranch foreman who lived in a smaller house nearby on the property. “He and Bette check in on me just about every day.”
Gillian was on the verge of saying that every other day wasn’t good enough when Bryce jumped in with a question she presumed he asked simply to change the subject.
“How are the Nickelsons doing anyway?”
Although the tension in the room eased as the conversation took a less contentious path, Gillian wasn’t sure she approved. The issue of how much longer her father could continue to live on his own in such a remote location would have to be addressed sooner or later. Bryce might very well think that she was borrowing trouble too readily by bringing it up so soon, but she’d never been much for putting off the inevitable, no matter how unpleasant it might be. Including filing for divorce so soon after Bonnie’s death.
“Dustin and Bette dropped off a Christmas tree just this morning,” John said, pointing to a massive blue spruce propped up in a corner of the room. “It’s a little more than I’m up to this year so I’m hoping you two don’t mind decorating it. It looks like we’ll have plenty of time to enjoy it.”
It was the first time Gillian had ever heard her father acknowledge any physical limitations, and she felt bad about secretly questioning his motives in bringing the two of them back here. The scent of Christmas in the air took her back to a time when she’d loved the holidays. Since Bonnie’s death, she couldn’t bring herself to buy a tree let alone decorate one. She’d thought about investing in an artificial tree, a little one that wouldn’t demand much from her. Certainly nothing that would require digging through boxes of ornaments for fear of stumbling on any marked “Baby’s First Christmas.”
She pinned a bright smile on her face and said, “Sure, Dad. That sounds like fun.”
“I’ll bring the decorations down from the attic tomorrow if that’s where you still keep them,” Bryce offered.
Trimming a tree was the least they could do for a man who had done so much for both of them, especially if this proved to be her father’s last Christmas at the ranch. Gillian recoiled at the thought. As spry as ever, he looked better than she’d expected. From the way Stella talked, though, death was practically knocking at his door.
Was it possible that her sisters had misjudged his health?
Gillian didn’t even want to entertain the possibility that Bryce was right about them exaggerating his condition simply to benefit their own personal agendas. If the chili he served for dinner that night was any indication, his stomach at least was holding up as well as those of men half his age. The food was just as hot and spicy as Gillian remembered. Being home seemed to sharpen all her senses; while she wasn’t sure she wanted to awaken her appetite so completely, she didn’t have much choice in the matter.
Sitting across the table from her in a pair of form-fitting jeans and a dark turtleneck, Bryce looked even more handsome than she remembered. The lines of experience that once eluded his youthful face had turned him into a ruggedly good-looking man. Gillian knew that most women would line up to offer him what she had once held so dear. An idealistic romantic, she’d asked him to wait until their wedding night to consummate their vows.
And had not been disappointed by what an amazing lover he’d proven to be.
Even if the kiss they shared in the woods was borne out of the relief of surviving a near-death experience, it still had the power to rekindle a passion she’d thought had died long ago. Gillian was afraid that such longings might well stir a blaze that, left untended, would burn with an intensity that knew no bounds—and had the power to destroy everything in its path.
“It’s way past my bedtime,” her father said, admitting to yet another sign of advancing age.
Gillian glanced at her watch. It was barely eight o’clock. As he struggled to get out of his chair, she cringed to hear his bones creak and was surprised when he headed in the opposite direction of his bedroom.
“I converted the downstairs den into my living quarters last month,” he explained, “so I don’t have to deal with the stairs. They were getting to be too much for me. You two take the rooms upstairs. Bryce can have mine, and you can sleep in your old room.”
Those rooms were right next to each other, and Gillian would have liked a more respectable distance between the two of them for the duration of their stay. She dismissed the temptation to blame the sleeping arrangements on a misguided attempt by a romantic old fool to force a reconciliation between her and Bryce. Clearly, if her father moved downstairs because he was having trouble navigating the stairs, Stella and Rose weren’t entirely mistaken in their assessment of his failing health.
When John stumbled suddenly, Gillian felt instant repentance for ever doubting his motives. She jumped to her feet and rushed to his side.
“Let me help you,” she insisted.
He accepted her assistance with uncharacteristic meekness. “Did I mention how glad I am you’re here?” he asked.
Gillian nodded.
“Me, too.” She was a little surprised she meant it. “I’d forgotten how much I missed home.”
John smiled. There was less censure than longing in his voice when he added, “There’s a lot to be missed around here if you’ll just give yourself permission to remember them.”
Making their way down the relatively short hallway to a separate section of the house, Gillian couldn’t help worrying what would happen should something befall her father out here all alone.
“I’d die a happier man than one locked up in an old folks’ home….”
Remembering the conviction in those words, she wondered if there could be a finer gift than allowing someone you love to live life on his own terms. Gillian was relieved to see that her father’s quarters were just as nice as the rest of the house. She also noticed that he’d ordered a new recliner, one with a lift kit built in to help him get in and out of it.
An old friend awaited John on his bed. A graying Irish setter lifted his head off the pillow and wagged a tired tail in acknowledgment of Gillian’s presence.
“Padre!” She rushed over to embrace the beloved pet that had been part of their family for the better part of two decades.
The old dog barked without getting up and licked Gillian’s hand in appreciation at the affection she lavished on him.
“I can remember when he was just a pup,” she said, finding it hard to believe he was still with them.
“Poor old guy’s just about blind,” John told her. “He’s losing his teeth, too. In fact, he’s not much use around here anymore. Probably not worth that expensive soft food I buy him. I know I should probably put an end to his suffering, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.”
His voice quivered a little as he added, “I’d like to think somebody would do the same for me when the time comes that I’m no longer good for anything.”
Tears sprang to Gillian’s eyes. “Don’t talk like that,” she scolded. “And don’t worry about Padre. It’s no bother taking care of those we love.”
She heard the echo of what Bryce told Robbie on the phone back in the taxi. Although she shared her father’s views on quality of life, she wanted him to understand that there was a good deal more to love than sentimentality alone.
“A person, or a dog’s worth for that matter, can’t be measured by how productive he is or how much trouble he becomes.”
Gillian understood how important it was to protect those she loved from all the practical people who coldly devalued the contributions they made over the course of a lifetime.
When her father kissed her good-night, he passed on some words of advice. “I know life dealt you an unfair hand, honey, but remember, Bryce is a good man and time really does heal all wounds.”
Too tired to expend the energy to argue, she quipped, “If only it would wound all heels.”
She patted his hand lovingly and was surprised at its papery texture.
“Just don’t go getting your hopes up for something that’s not ever going to materialize, Dad.”
Gillian headed back the same way she’d come, wondering all the while how she was going to manage being confined in close quarters with the only man she’d ever loved and hated with equal measure.
When she returned to the family room, she was grateful to find a fresh log on the fire and the room empty. All she had to do now was slip into bed without disturbing Bryce.
And letting him slip uninvited into her dreams.
Seven
Bryce saw little need to stoke the fire before turning in. Just thinking about how sexy Gillian looked in those ridiculous pink long johns made him hot all over. Frustrated by his lack of willpower, he figured the smartest thing he could do was to forget about his ex’s luscious body, tuck himself into bed and fall sound asleep for the next ten or twelve hours. He doubted that would prove too difficult after a day in which he’d been more successful outrunning an avalanche than his emotions.
It didn’t take him long to unpack the few things he’d brought along. Since he preferred sleeping in the nude, he hadn’t minded that there wasn’t room to pack pajamas. Slipping between the cold sheets of John’s king-size bed, he was surprised when sleep eluded him in spite of his exhaustion. He’d hoped to be blissfully unconscious before Gillian returned to rattle his world through walls that were too thin to protect him from his own wicked imagination.
Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating one of many pictures of Virginia Baron scattered throughout the house. A woman of striking good looks, she exuded the same aura of gentleness that first attracted Bryce to her daughter. Had she lived, Bryce wondered if she could have somehow managed to do for Gillian what he himself could not: coax her out of the same grave in which they’d buried Bonnie. Bryce thought it tragic that John never found anyone to take his beloved wife’s place. What a terrible waste that such a vibrant man couldn’t bring himself to remarry.
The Millionaire's Miracle Page 5
