The Herald Angels Sing

by Roxanne St Claire

Gramma and Pru stared at each other. Should they stay? Go? Run? Risk their lives or the dogs’? What was the right thing to do? When they didn’t follow him, he bent down again.

  “Please, angels.”

  With that single word, he walked away and started hauling the dog up the hill, leaving Gramma and Pru holding three squeaky, whimpering, freezing pups in blankets.

  “Did he call us…”

  “Angels,” Gramma confirmed. “’Tis the season for them.”

  Pru sat frozen—literally and figuratively—in the driver’s seat. “Gramma, we can’t. We don’t know him. He could hurt us. You might not even make it up that hill. We can’t leave the car and just follow a stranger.” It all went against everything Pru had ever known or done, and each realization ratcheted up her paralyzing horror. “We just can’t—”

  “We can’t let these puppies die,” Gramma said, her voice stern and unwavering. “Come on, Pru. The adventure is over. Now we have a job to do. You heard the man. He thinks we’re angels. Let’s act like it.”

  Pru swallowed. “I’m scared, Gramma.”

  She reached out a chilled and knotted hand and touched Pru’s face. “Don’t be scared. I have a good feeling about this.”

  Well, Pru didn’t. Trusting Gramma, she pushed out of the seat, careful to squeeze the puppy in her arms, Pru pushed up. “Okay,” she muttered, her voice thick. “This time you’re in charge, Gramma. I’m not as mature as I’ve been pretending to be.”

  “And I’m not as reckless.”

  Pru lifted a brow. “Fearless, Gramma Finnie. You are fearless, not reckless.”

  They climbed onto the crunchy snow, and Pru used her hip to close the car doors, not even bothering to lock them. They trudged side by side behind the mountain man carrying a dog whose blood dripped into the snow.

  Pru kept her pace slow, somehow staying with Gramma but not losing sight of their guide.

  In less than five minutes, he stopped, rounded a grouping of trees, and continued along what was probably a path, but it was currently covered with several inches of snow. They were past the foothills now, into the mountains, and deep into woods.

  This was like a bad, bad fairy tale, only there was no prince, good queen, or happy ending in sight. Still, they stayed close behind him, pine trees brushing their coats as they navigated their way farther into the thick darkness. The snow-covered world smelled like cold and pine, as icy as the snowflakes that hit their faces and hid their trail.

  How would anyone ever find them? Pru literally felt herself sway as her head grew dizzy with fear, and that sickening sensation of danger seeped hot adrenaline into her blood.

  How was Gramma so cool about this? She trudged on, holding her puppies, not even slipping in her little granny boots. Right at that moment, Pru had never loved her more. Never realized how strong and noble and truly powerful that little old lady was.

  “I want to be just like you,” Pru whispered. “When I’m eighty-seven, I want to be you.”

  Without turning her head, Gramma let a slow smile pull at her lips. “’Tis a lot of time until that season, child.”

  Pru caught the sentiment, but heard a breathless note she didn’t like. “Uh, excuse me, sir? Mr. Cutter, sir?”

  He didn’t stop or turn.

  “Are we almost there? Because my great-grandmother is closer to ninety than eighty.”

  Gramma Finnie huffed. “I’m fine.”

  “And I’m only fourteen,” she added.

  He didn’t say a word.

  “Yesterday, we were moanin’ about our ages,” Gramma whispered under her breath. “Today, you’re throwin’ numbers around like they can save our lives.”

  “I just want him to have pity on us, the old and the young.”

  Gramma snorted. “He called us angels, lass. Never you mind. We’re doin’ the right thing.”

  She sure hoped so, because if she actually came out of this alive, Mom and Trace would probably kill her. She didn’t even want to think about what Mom might be going through right now. The whole family.

  “We’re almost there,” the man called out.

  “Almost where?” Pru fought the whine in her voice, but it came out anyway.

  “You’ll see.”

  Oh God. That did not sound good.

  * * *

  Still standing in the doorway of Emerald Isle Jewelers, Trace took Molly’s hands, gently easing them to his chest. “Think, babe. You’re sure she didn’t mention where she was going while they waited for this pin to be fixed?”

  “She said…” Molly squeezed her eyes shut and, for the twentieth time, tried to replay the brief phone conversation, clinging to Trace’s strong grip as she dug into her memory banks. She’d been angry and scared and hadn’t listened to Pru. “They were going to get the dog cleaned up!” Her eyes popped open as she remembered. “That’s what she said.”

  “Then they went to Melanie’s place,” the jeweler said. “It’s called Squeaky Clean K-9s, and it’s right around the corner on Mistletoe Road. If they’re still open, they might know more.”

  “Dog groomers probably know the owner of the dog they found,” Trace said, already pulling her away. “And will know where they went. Come on.”

  “Hurry,” the man said. “The Elf Parade is starting, so everyone’s closing up early for Christmas Eve.”

  Once again, Molly’s heart soared like a roller-coaster car chugging up the track. She thanked the man with a spontaneous hug and wished him a merry Christmas, then clung to hope and Trace as they navigated the crowded streets full of tourists and holiday cheer.

  But it was nearly impossible to move, as legions of green-hatted elves snaked from one side of the street to the other, tossing candy and calling out to the crowd. A jolly old St. Nick came marching down the sidewalk, his arms locked with not one but two Mrs. Clauses, along with way too many grown men wearing reindeer hats and bright red noses.

  Carols blared from invisible speakers, only slightly louder than the blood rushing in Molly’s ears, while thousands of lights blurred and danced as more tears filled her vision.

  But nothing stopped Trace. Not the Santa with two wives, or dozens of elves, or slightly inebriated Rudolfs. He squeezed Molly’s hand and threaded the obstacles like…like…well, like a man determined to find his missing daughter.

  For the first time since Trace showed up on her doorstep, Molly realized exactly why God gave kids two parents. She could not have handled this, but he would carry her over that parade if he had to, and she loved him so much, she started to cry all over again.

  “Come on.” He tugged her along, oblivious to her meltdown of affection for him. “I see Mistletoe Road.”

  When they rounded the corner, they found the groomers…and a big old Closed sign on the front door.

  “Ugh!” Molly dropped her head back as her heart hit bottom again.

  She could feel the same frustration vibrate through Trace, who whipped his head left and right and practically sniffed out a solution to the problem like the service dogs he trained. Then her gaze moved to a flyer in the front window with four dogs and phone numbers under each, landing on a border collie with one brown eye and one blue one. Instantly, Pru’s words came back to her.

  Oh, Mom, this dog is so cute…She’s a border, with one blue and one brown eye…

  “That’s it.” Molly pointed to the dog. “That’s the dog they found. Named Queenie. We better…” Her voice trailed off. “Why isn’t there a phone number?” she practically wailed as she scanned the page, trying to figure out why the dog owner had no number.

  “There’s a name,” Trace said, leaning closer. “William Cutter. We just have to find William Cutter.” Once again, he turned and peered into the crowds lined up on either side of the street. “There.”

  “You found him?” she gasped.

  “Someone who might know.” He pointed to a jolly-looking woman with long silver-streaked black hair tumbling from a Santa hat, waving her hand to guide people to open spa
ces along the parade route. “Town volunteers know everyone.”

  Knowing that was true in Bitter Bark, Molly seized this new hope as they made their way over and Trace went right up to the woman.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Do you happen to know where William Cutter lives?”

  She drew back, frowning and fighting a surprised laugh. “The nutcase up on the mountain?”

  Nutcase? That didn’t sound good.

  “Where does he live exactly?” Trace demanded.

  She shook her head. “Can’t rightly say, as I don’t think anyone’s ever dared go to his house. You sure you want to?”

  “My daughter and her great-grandmother may be returning his dog to him.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the grooming business. “Queenie? She has—”

  “Really bizarre eyes. Yeah, that’s his dog and the only reason he comes into town, but we all sort of keep a wide berth around him, if you get my drift.”

  Molly did not want to get that drift. “Is he dangerous?” she asked.

  The woman shrugged slowly and lifted both brows. “Depends on who’s asking. He’s crazy as a loon, so I guess that makes him dangerous enough. Wouldn’t want my daughter locked up with him.”

  Molly almost reeled. “Please. Where can we find him?”

  “Take the main road out of town, follow it, oh, ten, twelve, fifteen miles? A good bit. Look for Hillbrook Farm, which is really a local honey stand now. Poor Dave Hillbrook got so sick, and his kids—he has six, you know—had to—”

  “Where is Cutter’s house?” Trace sliced into her story with enough urgency that the woman nodded in apology.

  “Take a left after the stand onto a dirt road. Just follow it into the woods.”

  “And?”

  “And…hope for the best.”

  Molly almost howled in agony at that, but Trace muttered a quick, “Thank you,” and once again grabbed Molly’s hand, this time to rush back to the Jeep. “When we get in the car, text everyone where we’re going. Tell them to meet us there. Call the local sheriff. And please, God, tell me one of your brothers has a gun.”

  She just stared at him. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, man who spent fourteen years in prison for accidentally killing someone while defending someone else.”

  His jaw locked for a moment as he stared straight ahead. “And I’ll spend the rest of my freaking life there to save my daughter and grandmother.”

  She honestly couldn’t argue with that.

  Despite the crowds, snowfall, and sense of impending doom, Trace drove as sanely as a man could. They narrowly missed another car changing lanes, fishtailed on some ice, and broke the speed limit more times than Molly could count, but they made it out of town. About seven miles away, she lost cell service, and that meant she was out of touch with her family, all of whom were somewhere behind them, making the same trek.

  “There! There’s a farm stand,” Trace said, pointing to a battered sign on the side of the road.

  “Does that say Hillbrook Farm?” Molly squinted through the falling snow. “Does it?” Then something red fluttered in the breeze. “What is that?”

  They both stared at the splash of color hanging from a tree, the bright red completely out of place in the snow-covered woods.

  “Is that…”

  “It’s the scarf I gave Pru last Christmas!” Molly actually screamed the announcement. “She’s guiding us to her.”

  Trace threw her a look, silent, the expression in his dark eyes still a mix of terror and determination. “I hope so.”

  If not, then…no, Molly didn’t want to think about what some local lunatic could do to her daughter and grandmother. No, she’d concentrate on the hope that scarf gave her. Holding that hope with everything she had, her head grew lighter. Her stomach queasy. And her heart felt like it might actually thump out of her chest.

  Without a word, Trace took the next left a little too fast, revved the truck up a snow-covered hill, and rounded a corner. There, he slammed on the brakes at the sight of a maroon sedan half on the road, half in a ditch.

  “Gramma’s car!” Relief rushed over Molly so hard and fast, she couldn’t breathe. Her hands were shaking as she yanked at the door handle and climbed out of the Jeep, noticing that Trace was even faster and out of the driver’s seat first.

  She slipped on snow and ice, but righted herself as she rushed to follow him to the car, stretching both arms to fill them with the two people she loved so much as he yanked open the front door.

  Before she reached him, he whipped to the side and threw the back door open, too, but stood, silent and still, staring in.

  She heard him mutter a curse, then forced herself to get next to him so she could see in the back. A blanket, wet, sticky, and covered in…

  Oh, God.

  Her head grew light, and suddenly darkness closed in around her.

  “Trace…” She whispered his name as a wave of dizziness and nausea threatened. “Is that…”

  But he was stumbling away, walking with his head down, then he fell to his knees and lifted some snow.

  “There’s a trail of… Oh my God, Molly, there’s so much…”

  Blood.

  That was Molly’s last thought before she crumpled to the ground.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pru wasn’t prepared for the Christmas cabin in the woods that Bill Cutter called home. It was literally the last place she’d ever expect this gruff Marine sniper to live. The A-shaped wooden structure was as heavy with colored lights as it was with snow, trimmed like the gingerbread house she helped her little cousin Christian make a few days ago. And through the front window, a fully decked-out Christmas tree glittered like Santa himself had decorated it.

  So how dangerous could the mountain man actually be if he was that full of the holiday spirit? Strange, yes. Unexpected, definitely. But he wasn’t going to kill…angels.

  He used his shoulder to shove open the front door and marched inside without issuing an invitation to follow. But they did, and both Gramma and Pru had to stop and let their jaws drop open in surprise.

  This room rivaled the Kilcannon living room for Christmas spirit, with lights everywhere and red ribbons, big bows, bells, garlands, and so many angels, and two stockings hanging from the mantel, where a few logs glowed from an earlier fire. And in the dining area, a life-size Nativity scene, complete with hand-carved Mary and Joseph statues and a couple of shepherds, took up almost the entire space.

  Where the manger should be, a large whelping box crafted from a wood-slatted container rested, fully lined with plush blankets, pillows, and a well-chewed bunny rabbit slipper.

  On the front of the box was a gold crown and the word Queenie.

  Ooookay.

  This man might look like a hardened criminal and live like a loony tune, but he obviously held a high regard for his dog and her litter, and the holiday. Didn’t that tell Pru enough to feel safe?

  She’d grown up around a lot of men who were mushballs when it came to dogs—maybe not quite this extreme, but what about her own father? Wasn’t she the one who’d misjudged Trace Bancroft as a killer when the ex-con showed up at Waterford? But then she’d seen him nearly crack in half when he thought Meatball might die.

  First impressions could be wrong…she hoped.

  After Bill Cutter laid Blue in the box and adjusted the blankets around her, he straightened slowly, turning to let his bloodshot gaze shift from Gramma to Pru. “I’m Cutter. You saved Queenie.”

  His voice was thick, as if he fought tears, which explained the red-rimmed eyes in a way that made Pru’s heart slide around in her chest.

  “Not yet, we haven’t,” Pru said. “Her next pup is breech, and I think it’s a big one. If it isn’t turned, Blue, er, Queenie could bleed hard as it comes out.”

  As if to prove her point, Queenie whimpered and started panting louder, almost as if she’d gotten a second wind now that she was home.

  “There, now.” Gramma went to the
whelping manger to gently settle the two new pups next to their momma. Pru leaned over and added the last one to the pack.

  Gramma stroked them all, her old hand settling on the panting mama. “There we go, lass. You can do it, Blue.”

  “Her name’s Queenie,” Bill said under his breath. “And I’m Cutter.”

  “’Tis Blue to me,” Gramma replied, lifting her chin and looking up a good foot at the man. “And we might need some professional help to have this last pup. You have a doctor on hand?”

  He looked at her like she’d asked if he had a few Martians in the back room. The two of them just stared at each other until the silence went on a little bit too long.

  “You save her,” Cutter ordered. “You, little old angel.”

  Gramma snorted a soft laugh. “S’pose I’ve been called worse.”

  “Do you want me to, Gramma?” Pru asked, kneeling next to the box. “I can.”

  Very slowly, Gramma lifted a hand, still staring at their host. Or captor, depending on how you looked at the strange situation. “We’ll do it together, Pru.”

  Suddenly, Cutter turned and grabbed a fluffy red and green pillow from the sofa and put it on the floor for Gramma to kneel on. She thanked him with a nod and held up her hands. “I need to wash up. And is it possible you have any latex gloves? What about a proper first aid kit? A bottle of lidocaine might actually save the day.”

  He blinked as if the requests had thrown him completely.

  “I’ve been around farm animals my whole life, and my son and granddaughter are vets.”

  Another blink.

  “The animal kind,” Pru added, sensing that vet meant something else to this Marine.

  “The dog needs a C-section,” Gramma said. “And if we attempt that, she’ll die. But if you don’t want to call a professional, we’ll try to turn the pup and hope for the best.”

  His only answer was a simple nod.

  “Come on, Pru. Let’s wash up.” Without waiting for him to answer, she headed to the kitchen, which was partially visible through a doorway, and Pru followed.

  There were even more Christmas decorations in there, including angel-themed hand towels that Pru used to dry off after thoroughly scrubbing her hands.