by Cara Colter
And then the real magic of Christmas happened. Jamey was put in front of a small pile of gifts, wrapped in butcher’s paper.
He was thrilled that he was allowed to rip and tear. The contents of the first package spilled out—she had wrapped up his little wooden puzzle for him.
“Regifting,” Ty said with a shake of his head.
“What would you know about regifting?” She laughed.
Jamey was way more interested in the paper anyway. He shredded it, and then moved on to his next package. A pair of Onesies fell out.
“Is that an elf suit?”
“I bought it before I came. Isn’t it cute? He can wear it over to your dad’s this afternoon.”
Something in him froze. He’d told her everything. Surely, she didn’t think he was going to go over there!
He’d trusted her. He’d thought she got it.
Now, looking at her, he wondered what he had expected. For her to choose a side? And for it to be his side?
To be understood, he realized. His expectation, his wish had been to be understood.
He had trusted her with his deepest hurt. He had told her about the man who had stolen Christmas mornings like this one from him. It was as if she hadn’t heard a word, lost in her Pollyanna world. If she had heard what he was saying, she would know he didn’t want to be around his father.
She was helping Jamey unwrap another parcel, taking a teddy bear from it, wagging it at him.
She didn’t even know she had hurt him. Which was good. She never had to. It had stopped snowing. If he worked at it, today could be her last day here.
For a hallelujah moment it felt very flat.
“I’m going to go feed the horses and cows,” he said. “Then I’m going to make a start on the driveway.”
“It’s Christmas!”
“I know.” He deliberately turned his back on the magic that had very nearly caught him with its spell.
* * *
“I’ve got to check the turkey,” Beth said.
It was a perfect Christmas moment: fire blazing in their hearth, Beth murmuring about the turkey, Hunter Halliday holding Jamey on the old wooden rocking horse he and Beth had given them.
It was the perfect Christmas, except for one thing: as soon as they had arrived, Ty had cast a glance toward the house, then headed for the machine shed. Moments later they had all heard a tractor start up.
“He’s not coming in,” Hunter said, casting her a glance. “You might as well relax.”
“He’ll come in for dinner, won’t he?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it.”
“It’s Christmas,” she whispered. “I had hoped something would happen.”
“Something did happen,” Hunter said.
She liked him so much. She didn’t know why he had kept those letters from Ty. But she also didn’t know why Ty didn’t just ask him. There had to be a reason. When she saw Hunter playing with Jamey she felt she could see who he really was.
And it was a man who loved deeply and completely, not someone intent on stealing his son’s happiness.
Why couldn’t Ty see that?
“You said something happened,” she said to Hunter. “What?”
“You said he gave your baby his saddle.”
“Yes, he did. I don’t know why. It’s not like I have a pony.”
“Don’t ever get a pony!” Hunter said. “Mean-spirited little rascals! Now, let me tell you about a gift like a saddle. It’s not a saddle. It’s a wish for your little boy. It’s a hope that his future holds a good horse. Long rides. Camping under starry skies. The companionship of hard men who have your back. Someone to teach you to be a man.”
Amy felt tears in her eyes. “You gave him that saddle once, didn’t you?”
“And my daddy gave it to me.”
“We can’t take it then! It’s a family heirloom.”
“It’s not about the saddle, Amy. It’s about the wish. Ty hasn’t made one of those for a very long time. So, maybe while you were waiting for one miracle, another came in the back door.”
“Ty told me you didn’t have any religion,” she said.
“Don’t need religion to see a miracle. Take me in this chair. I think I see some pity in your eyes.”
She was embarrassed. “I just see the man you once were and know it has to be hard for you.”
“Here’s the thing—when I got hurt, Beth was my nurse in the hospital. Wouldn’t have met her unless it happened.
“And here’s the other thing—that boy of mine was killing himself on anger and self-pity and I didn’t know how to bring him home.
“So, I could have my legs, but no Beth. And I could have my legs, but I would have put my son in the ground by now. So I can’t walk. Maybe I didn’t get the miracle I wanted, but I sure as hell got the one I needed. Lost my legs. Found my heart, got my boy back.”
The tears that clouded Amy’s eyes began to fall. She wiped at them.
“Don’t go crying, now. Beth’ll have my hide.”
“Dinner’s ready.” Beth called. “Amy, will you tell Ty?”
She pulled on her boots and coat and followed the freshly plowed drive. He was a long way down it, and she waved her hands at him.
He turned off the tractor.
“Come eat. Beth has put a lot of work into dinner.”
He looked as though he was going to refuse, but then didn’t. She wanted the man he had been last night. So open to her. But he wasn’t. He was remote and closed, and she wanted to weep at her loss. After a while, Amy wished he had stayed outside on the tractor.
He was ruining everything with his sour look and his terse way.
And right after dinner, he wanted to leave, even though Beth had the cards out and Amy thought it would make Christmas absolutely perfect to stay and play cards and laugh and get to know each other deep into the night.
The sleigh ride home didn’t even seem magical. Jamey was crabby until he finally went to sleep.
“Your dad really cares about you,” she finally said. “I think it’s time to bury your hatchets.”
“Yeah, in each other’s skulls,” he muttered.
“Stop it!”
He squinted ahead silently.
“Have you ever just asked him? Why would he do that? Why would he keep those letters from you?”
“Do you think any reason why would be good enough?” he asked quietly. “I’ve been watching you with your baby. I see what that relationship between a mother and a child is. If it was you and Jamey, could any reason someone kept him from you be enough?”
“You need to forgive him,” she said softly, imploringly.
“Don’t presume to know what I need. And you don’t seem like any kind of expert on forgiveness yourself.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “I have forgiven Edwin.”
“Edwin?” he snorted. “It’s not Edwin you haven’t forgiven. It’s yourself. You were so sold on your own fantasy world that you put the blinders on when it came to the man you picked. Because you wanted something so badly. That’s what you can’t forgive.”
She felt stunned by how clearly he had seen her.
And by the truth of it.
And by the fact that making a mistake on Edwin had not killed that fantasy at all. Here she was, in love again!
Still willing to overlook glaring faults—his stubbornness, his hard heart—to have her fantasy. Of home. And family. And love.
“You know I could overlook a lot of faults, Ty, but you being mean to a cripple? That speaks to your character!”
“Yeah, well, if my dad ever heard you call him a cripple, you’d be off his Christmas list, too.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No.
You’re missing the point. Why would I care if you overlooked my faults or not? That would imply some kind of vision for the future. And I don’t have one. Not with you.”
That hurt! And she saw that he had intended for it to hurt. But as mad as it made her, he was absolutely right.
She had no business thinking about a future that included him. She had a lot of work to do. All of it on herself.
As they pulled up to his barn he glanced over.
“Well, would you look at that?”
She looked and saw a long line of headlights moving slowly up the driveway.
“Neighbors,” he said. “Plowing me out.”
“Does that mean I can leave?”
Why did he hesitate before he answered? “Yeah, you can leave.”
“Good!”
She grabbed Jamey and, ignoring the pain in her hand, leaped off the sled. She could not bear Ty touching her, helping her. She was going to be off the Halliday Creek Ranch before he even unhitched the horses.
CHAPTER NINE
TY knew as soon as he walked in the house that she was gone. He could feel the emptiness even before he saw all the things had been taken.
He had tried to drive her off with those last cruel words.
He went to his front window, and could see her little red car going down his freshly plowed driveway. He could see she had it so packed full of stuff that she couldn’t even see out her back window.
Ty fought the desire to go after her, to follow her at a safe distance, to make sure she didn’t get lost again, to make sure she made it safely to her destination.
But wouldn’t it be better for all involved if she didn’t know how much he cared? He didn’t ever want her to come back here. Because how could you not pick up the gauntlet she had laid down? He would have to be a better man if he wanted a future with her.
And then he saw them.
He didn’t know where they had come from. He thought he had stuffed those letters in his riding jacket pocket.
But there they were on the kitchen counter, the envelopes yellow, that blue ribbon tied around them.
He went and touched them. He told himself just to throw them out. That nothing could be gained by reading them again.
Except, he had been seventeen when he’d read them last.
And full of emotion. Anger. Bewilderment. The loss of something he had held on to and wished for his whole childhood.
He took the letters, tossed them on his dresser and went to bed. The first thing he thought of in the morning was Amy. The second was Jamey.
The third, before he was even out of bed, was the letters.
Suddenly, he knew he needed to read these letters now, not as a kid, but as a man.
He took them, went and made coffee, sat in his house that was too quiet and too empty, and pulled out the first letter.
An hour later, he set the last one down, squeezed the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and his index finger.
When he was seventeen, he had read these letters and he had been as blind as Amy had been when she married her husband, he had wanted something so badly.
All he had seen was his mother’s love for him and how his father had thwarted him. Now, older, wiser, he saw something completely different.
Every letter started with the same line.
Hi, Ty. Are you missing me?
And now he saw what he had not seen all those years ago. Not once did she say she was missing him. Not once. And that little blue ribbon held a dozen letters, which averaged out to less than one a year. The letters rambled on about things that would hold no interest to a child, her shopping trips, her travels, her concerns with weight, and hairdos and gym routines and boyfriends.
As an adult, Ty saw things he had overlooked when he’d first read them. He saw a certain sly undermining of his father: claims she wrote lots of letters and that his father probably withheld them. That she sent cards and gifts for his birthday or Christmas, but she was sure his father could not be trusted to pass them on.
How could he have missed this when he first read those letters?
And then he realized, he hadn’t. At some level he had recognized the truth staring straight at him.
He’d been abandoned. And she didn’t care about him. Not even a little bit.
And at seventeen, he hadn’t been able to handle what that had opened up inside of him. So much easier to be angry at his father. So much more powerful a feeling than to face the sadness of it all. To face the real ending of his wish. If he could convince himself that she was the one who had been wronged, then she could still be the good person he had imagined.
He remembered, as a kid, hearing the word amnesia for the first time. That such a condition existed had made him ecstatic. It would explain everything. And excuse everything.
Now, having reread the letters, Ty saw the truth. His mother had walked out. She hadn’t cared about the child she had had. She had not thought about him, or wondered about him, or dreamed of coming to tuck him in or make him cookies. She had not had amnesia. His father had played only the smallest role in her abandonment of her child.
At seventeen, he had not been able to face that reality.
Amy was right.
Kind, gentle, sweet Amy was right.
He needed to ask his dad the one simple question. Why? And he realized why it had been so hard to do that. Because part of him had known it had nothing to do with his dad. He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he had to ask it anyway. It was time to man up.
He was glad his road was clear and he could drive to the old homestead place. It felt as if taking the sleigh there would pull what was left of his heart right out of his chest. All he would think of was her, and her awe of the experience, and that little baby with them.
When he arrived, he knocked on the door and his father told him to come in. He was obviously alone. Of course, it was the first day in several that the roads had been open. Beth was no doubt taking advantage of it to restock the household.
His father looked eagerly over his shoulder. “Where are Amy and Jamey?”
“Gone. The roads opened. And I doubt if she’ll be back. She was good and mad when she left.”
His father nodded. “Karma’s a bitch,” he said.
“Amy didn’t think I’d given you a fair shake. She said all I had to do was ask.”
“So you’re only here because Amy thinks you should be?”
“No. I’m here because I think I should be.”
His dad nodded, satisfied.
“Why?” Ty asked softly. “Why didn’t you give those letters to me? I read them again. I think I know the answer, but it’s time to hear your side of it. I should have asked a long time ago.”
Ty tossed the letters down in front of his father. He watched as his father picked them up with worn hands, turned them over, something resigned in his face, but strong, too, ready to weather the storm.
“Were there more of these?” Ty asked.
“No. I tied up everything that came with a ribbon to give to you. Someday.”
“Were there cards and gifts? For my birthday? For Christmas?”
“No, son. There weren’t. Not ever.”
It was as he had suspected when he’d read the letters; a lie contrived to cast a bad light on his father. Or maybe to convince a child—not that hard to do—that she was not the negligent one.
He dropped into the chair across from his father. “I need you to tell me.”
His dad glanced at him, and something flickered in his eyes. Ty was ashamed that he was able to recognize it as hope.
“Tell me about my mother,” he said softly.
And his father sighed and glanced at him again, then nodded. “All right. But maybe I need to tell you about me
first. I’m just a simple man, Ty. Hardly been off this ranch, don’t have a whole lot in the tool kit to help me handle things that are complicated. I think you figured out I’m not really a man of letters. School was hard for me.”
“Yeah, I figured that out,” Ty said.
“I was married before your mama, you know that.”
“For the longest time I thought Ruth-Anne was my mother,” he said. “That’s whose picture you had on the mantel and in your wallet.”
He was taken now with the look on his father’s face, an almost dreamy look at the mention of Ruth-Anne.
“We were sweethearts from middle school. We got married right out of high school. I was only eighteen. You know that never should have worked, but damn, it did. We thought we were going to have us a pile of kids, but for whatever reason, she couldn’t. I suspect now it was a warning that something was wrong, but that warning took twenty-five years to play out.
“Aw, Ty, twenty-five of the best years. Working together. Playing together. Filling all those spaces where the kids would have been with each other.”
Ty was staring at his father, trying not to let his jaw drop.
“She died of cancer after we’d been married twenty-five years. I can’t even tell you about that kind of pain, so bad it was a mercy when she finally went. And then my world opened up to a whole new kind of pain. I didn’t know what to do with it. She’d been my earth. Everything.
“So I drank and lived hard and reckless and on the very edge, hoping the man upstairs would get the message and take me, too.
“But he dint. Nope. Those years are a blur of bad living, like attending a never-ending party in hell. I hooked up with your mama. Oh, boy. I’d met a woman who could match my hard living and raise me some. Her name was Millicent, though she never went by anything but Millie.
“And then, just like that, the party was over. She told me she was pregnant.”
He cast Ty a long sideways, measuring look.
“I want to know it all,” Ty said, reading reluctance in his father’s expression.
His father nodded, as if deciding something. “She said she’d decided to get an abortion. She said she’d had an abortion before. That it was no big deal.”
