Any Given Christmas

by Candis Terry

  “Maybe. But you were consistent on this one. You used to say that if I wanted something bad enough, I had to be ready to work hard for it because it wouldn’t just fall in my lap.”

  “And I was right.” She gave a little jerk of her head that wiggled her gray bun. “You put everything you had into an already God-given talent and look where it got you.”

  “That might be the problem. I’m not used to being told I can’t have something without it becoming a huge challenge.”

  “And you’re afraid that because Emma told you no, you see her as just a mission you need to overcome to prove her wrong?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What if she’s more?”

  “How do I know?”

  “You won’t unless you give it your best effort, will you?”

  “I think she’s pretty done with me.”

  “I . . .” His mother paused, looked heavenward, then back at him. “Oh . . . Son, I think you’ll be surprised at how receptive she’ll be. In fact, if I were you, I’d quit all this hemming and hawing and get in there in a hurry.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Right now, Dean,” she said and disappeared, taking her blue-tinted glow with her.

  Yes, ma’am. Dean grabbed the pastry box, stepped out into the icy air, and knocked on Emma’s door. He waited several heartbeats, raised his hand to knock again, and the door opened.

  Emma stood there in her usual cartoon PJs. Her face red and blotchy. Her eyes swollen. She trembled and a huge sob wracked her chest.

  Dean looked down.

  In her arms she cradled her very limp and very lifeless cat.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dean had been hit by thousands of pounds of flesh. He’d been pile-driven into the ground. And he’d sat silent as a doctor told him his injury could be a career-ender. But he’d never felt as helpless as he did at that moment.

  Emma’s face crumpled. Her beautiful mouth wobbled. “He licked my hand,” she whispered between sobs. “Closed his eyes and just . . . quit purring.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.” Dean stepped through the doorway, set the pastry box on the table by the door, and drew her into his arms. The weight of her dead cat pushed against his abdomen while he tucked Emma’s head beneath his chin. She sobbed into his shirt with her broken heart and he rocked her until her tears subsided to sniffs and dribbles. Then he kissed her on her forehead and took the burden of her heartache from her arms. “Let me hold him for you, honey.”

  The cat was heavy and limp, and as much as Dean hated cats, this one in particular, he wished the furry beast would just open his mismatched eyes, put on his evil cat scowl, and meow, “Just kidding,” for Emma’s sake.

  Dean moved to the sofa and sat down, gingerly holding her beloved pet as she sat down beside him and stroked the cat’s smooth white fur with her trembling fingers.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him, Dean.”

  “I know, honey. You loved him. He knew you loved him.”

  She nodded and her barely controlled tears broke free. “He and I have been together for so long.” She sniffed. “I found him that night, you know. After the bonfire. I realized I couldn’t let my Memaw know what had happened. I didn’t want to worry her or upset her.”

  “But you needed her, Em.”

  Her long, delicate fingers continued to stroke the cat’s fur. “I couldn’t think straight. So I went to the school. That’s when I found Oscar. He was hiding behind a trash dumpster. When I tried to lure him out, he hissed and spat at me like some big ferocious lion. But he was just a little kitten with a big attitude.” Her lips tilted into an unsteady smile. “So I named him Oscar the Grouch and I tucked him inside my shirt and held him close to my heart all the way home. We’ve been together ever since.”

  She leaned down and kissed the cat between his ears.

  Something inside Dean broke. He realized that when Emma loved, she loved with her whole heart and soul. And any man she loved had better be damned deserving.

  He looked down at the motionless cat in his arms. “What do you want to do with him, honey?”

  “It’s late.” She glanced across the room at the white iron clock on the wall. Her chin quivered. “I guess I’ll have to wait until morning to take him into the vet to have him . . . cremated. I guess I can just . . . wrap him in a blanket until then.”

  She stood on shaky legs and Dean reached out and took her by the hand. “I have a better idea. Go get his favorite blanket.”

  Without hesitation she disappeared into her bedroom. When she returned she handed him an old fuzzy blue blanket with shredded edges. “I used to fold this up so he could sit on the windowsill and watch the birds fly by.”

  Dean spread the blanket out on the sofa and gently laid the cat on top. “Those are all the great things you’re going to remember about him.”

  “I know.” Emma dropped to her knees and curled her fingers in his fur. “I’m so sorry, Oscar. I didn’t know you were sick.”

  “He was just old, honey.” Dean reached down, brought her to her feet, and wrapped her in his arms. “He knows you wouldn’t ignore him. You took great care of him.”

  “When he licked my hand,” she said, her watery gaze seeking solace, “he was really saying goodbye. Wasn’t he?”

  Dean’s heart gave a hard twist. “I’m sure in his own cat way he was letting you know how much he loved you.”

  She nodded against his shirt and he felt the warm wet from her tears. He stroked her soft hair and wished there was something he could do to bring the cat back. “I think Oscar deserves a really nice place to rest.”

  “Where?”

  “If you can hold him close to your heart for one more ride, I have a place in mind I’m sure Oscar will love.”

  It had taken a ride on a snowmobile up Deer Lick Trail to the widest pine tree Dean could find in the moonlight. At the top of a rise he’d found a soft spot beneath the umbrella of a huge pine and a bed of needles. There he dug a hole for Emma’s beloved cat. Emma had given her pet a last kiss on his head, then together they’d wrapped him tight in his favorite blanket and buried him. They’d covered his grave with a pile of rocks to protect him and so Emma could always find her way back to visit.

  Together they stood beneath the pine. Dean wrapped her shivering body in his arms and he held her close. “He’ll like it here. He can watch the birds fly all over the place. Maybe even chase a few.”

  She nodded against his chest. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  When she looked up at him beneath the glow of the moon, he could almost read her mind.

  “Why don’t you stay with me tonight, Em? You don’t need to go home to that empty house.” He tucked a lock of her silky hair behind her ear. “You can have my bed. I’ll sleep down the hall.”

  Silently she nodded. He helped her back through the snow to the snowmobile, where she climbed on the back. He’d barely gotten the engine started before he felt her lean into him and wrap her arms around him. Her body trembled all the way back to his house.

  They parked the snowmobile in the garage and he led her upstairs. He removed her coat and boots, pulled back the covers, and tucked her into his bed. While he stacked some logs in the fireplace and struck the match he could feel her quiet gaze on him.

  “Dean?”

  He turned. Beneath the comforter she looked so small and sad his heart broke.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered and reached out her hand.

  “Then I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone, honey.” He pulled off his boots, stripped down to his boxer-briefs and T-shirt, took her hand in his, and crawled in beside her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her back against his chest. Her breath caught on a silent sob. Dean stroked her hair until finally the tension left her body and he knew she’d fallen asleep.

  In his arms she felt warm and wonderful, and he hoped that somehow he’d given her a li
ttle peace of mind in taking care of her beloved pet in a dignified manner. But the way she’d turned into his arms at the grave and sobbed against his chest might haunt him forever. All he could think at that moment was how she must have cried the night she’d mistakenly given herself to a selfish boy who didn’t value her. She’d been so young and innocent. And so all alone. Yet her only thought at the time had been to protect her aging grandmother and a small helpless kitten.

  Close to midnight he pressed his lips against her soft hair and didn’t find it at all unusual that the pillow was wet with tears.

  Hers.

  And his.

  Morning light filtered through the bedroom drapes when Emma woke surrounded by Dean’s warmth and comfort. Judging by the stiffness in her right side, she guessed they hadn’t moved all night.

  Before she’d met Dean she’d never woken in a man’s bed. He was the last man she’d ever have imagined waking next to. This morning, even with the sad ache weighing heavy in her heart, she was glad to be there. Glad to know when she’d opened the door with her dead cat in her arms, Dean had cared enough not to run. Even though she’d previously pushed him away. She’d be forever grateful that he’d helped her when she’d been sad and didn’t know what to do. Dean Silverthorne had offered a safe haven from her sorrow.

  Behind her he came awake slowly, his breathing less languid, his heartbeat picking up its pace. Instead of stretching and slipping away, he held her close, leaned over, and kissed her cheek.

  “You awake?” His voice was rough with sleep.

  She nodded.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m sad.”

  “I know, honey.” His fingers stroked her hair. “What can I do to help?”

  She sighed. He’d given her so much last night. She missed her cat, but she knew she had to move forward without him. “Do you have eggs?”

  “Yes.” He smiled against her shoulder. “And I can make a mean Denver Omelet.”

  She rolled to her back and looked up into his green eyes. “Do I look like total crap?” she asked, knowing her eyes were swollen and red.

  Slowly he shook his head, his gaze dropped to her lips, then back up to her eyes. “You look beautiful to me.”

  “My no-makeup, bed-head, slept-in-my-clothes appearance doesn’t gross you out?”

  He chuckled. “It’ll take a hell of a lot more than that to make me squeamish.”

  “Then I’ll take you up on that omelet.”

  “Perfect.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. Something moved and shifted like a swarm of butterflies in her chest.

  Without warning or pageantry, Emma fell heart over heels in love.

  A week later Emma stood in front of her class and tried to convince the group of five-year-olds to settle down. At the same time she also tried to convince her heart not to put any more thought into Dean’s constant yet very unusual and distant attention.

  He’d taken her home the morning after Oscar died and told her to call him if she needed him for anything. She’d been tempted to pick up the phone several times to tell him exactly what she needed. Each night he’d call before she’d gone to bed to check and see that she was okay.

  On Wednesday night he’d asked her to dinner and convinced her to stay on the board of directors. The late-night cookie-baking session at the Sugar Shack was strictly for discussing a fundraiser idea he’s come up with. The invitation for lunch at the lodge house? Merely a means to review the renderings the designer had come up with for the guest cabins.

  Dean Silverthorne, player both on and off the football field, had not given one single indication that he was interested in her in any way other than as a friend and a member of the organization he’d created.

  He’d kept his hands and lips to himself, and he’d not uttered one suggestive word. In the past week, she’d learned that for such a solid man he had soft spots all over the place. Especially if it had anything to do with family or the children he intended to help. He’d been relentless in his pursuit of information and guidance in both the planning and design of the new organization.

  The sweat effort he’d put into regaining the strength in his shoulder? Amazing. On several occasions he’d asked her over to help with some paperwork while he worked out his shoulder. On those same occasions she’d found herself using any lame excuse she could to enter his exercise room. Any excuse to see his big rugged shirtless body and defined abs in a pair of workout pants that hung low on lean hips over muscular thighs. She could spend all day watching his muscles bulge and contract as he lifted the free weights. When he’d finish his workout, he’d wrap a towel around his neck and shoot water from a plastic bottle into his mouth. If she was lucky some of that water would drip from his bottom lip and slide down the smooth contours of his chest and hard stomach. Her mouth would water and her hands would tingle as she’d look at that perfect physique and remember how it had felt against her, pressed into her, bringing her more pleasure than she’d ever thought possible.

  He’d spend hours working all those muscles, relentlessly advancing his workout though he’d yet to throw a pass.

  Especially not at her.

  So when the door to her classroom opened and he stood there in his Kodiak parka with a big grin, she had to wonder why.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Silverthorne?” she asked, keeping it light and professional.

  He gave her a nod, then slid his gaze out over the classroom of kids who wondered why he hadn’t come bearing cupcakes like last time.

  “Who’s up for a field trip?” he asked.

  All little hands raised, except Brenden Jones. So intent on his sketch of a field of flowers was Brenden that he didn’t acknowledge anyone new had even entered the room. Dean strolled to the table where Emma’s blossoming student sat bent over his work. Dean tapped on the table and Brenden’s head came up.

  “How about you, Brenden? Would you like to go on a field trip?” Brenden gave an enthusiastic nod and Dean’s grin grew even wider. “Great, then everybody grab your coats and let’s go.”

  Twenty-four chairs scooted against the tile floor and made a huge racket as the kids jumped up and scrambled for the alphabet coat rack on the wall.

  “Whoa,” Emma said. “You can’t just take a group of kids out of school, Dean. You have to let the office know. Permission slips have to go home for their parents to sign and—”

  Dean lifted his hand. “Already taken care of. All papers have been signed and Mrs. Mayberry has already filed them. The bus is outside.”

  “Why didn’t you discuss this with me ahead of time?”

  “It was a surprise.”

  Emma tilted her head as pure excitement danced in his eyes. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

  “It’s not what I have up my sleeve.” He grabbed her coat off the hook and settled it over her shoulders with a gentle squeeze. “It’s what I have in my barn.”

  A rocky bus ride and several renditions of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt later, the Deer Lick kindergarten class clamored out of the big yellow bus door and dashed toward the big red barn behind the Clear River Lodge.

  “Slow down, you guys,” Emma called as Dean helped her down the steps.

  “Let ‘em go, Em. They’re excited.”

  “I have to admit, I am too.”

  “Good.” One corner of his beautiful mouth curled upward. “I like it when you get excited.”

  Her head whipped around to find that familiar flirtatious gleam in his eyes. She smiled. Ah. He was back. She’d missed flirty Dean. Not that she didn’t admire his serious side. But oddly enough, she missed his bigger-than-life personality.

  Once he saw she was stable on her feet and wouldn’t slip on the icy drive, he rushed ahead of her to open the big double doors. With a whoosh, the interior of the barn was revealed along with the sounds of goats and cows and chickens and horses—and even a llama Dean introduced as Hal.

  The kids scrambled, some holding Dean’s hands as they ma
de their way inside where the scent of hay tickled Emma’s nose. The superstar quarterback led them toward a big man at the opposite end of the barn. Emma recognized him as Buck Doody, a sweet-souled farmer who last year had lost a large portion of his land to the bank and his wheat crop to a fungal disease. Buck had seven children, all under the age of twelve, and a wife who spent most of her time canning vegetables and chasing kids. The Doody family had fallen on hard times, and by the smile on Buck’s face, Emma knew that Dean had just relieved some of the man’s financial pressure.

  “How many of you kids have animals like these at home?” Dean asked his eager audience. A few hands shot into the air.

  “We got goats but they’re mean,” said Emily Anderson.

  “We got chickens,” said Tristan Roberts.

  “Ah,” Dean grinned, “But can you catch your chickens?”

  “If we chase ‘em till they get tired.”

  “Then I think these chickens might be better. Go ahead and see if you can catch one.”

  Tristan looked up at Dean to see if there was some kind of trick, but Dean just stepped back while the boy finally walked over to where several hens pecked at the ground. As soon as Tristan got close a fat Rhode Island Red spread her wings and squatted until Tristan picked her up. The boy’s small hand smoothed over her shiny feathers. “She’s nice.”

  “All these animals have been hand-raised. None of them are mean; they want you to pet them.” That’s all it took for the kids to scramble in twenty different directions. Whether they lived on a farm or in a subdivision, they all were eager to get up close and personal with their farm friends.

  “There’s one just for you, Brenden,” Dean said to the boy who’d stood still while the others had run off.

  Her most challenging and inspirational student looked up, but he did not make eye contact. Dean waved him toward a stall near the back of the barn. “His name is Blue,” Dean said, and gave the gray gelding a pat on the rump. “And he’s looking for a special little boy like you to help brush his coat. See how fuzzy he is?”