That Holiday Feeling: Silver BellsThe Perfect HolidayUnder the Christmas Tree

by Debbie Macomber

“Yeah? I’m not, I guess,” he said, sitting down on the raised hearth on the other side of the box. He reached in and picked up a puppy. “I don’t like product in my hair.”

  “Your hands clean?” she asked him.

  He gave her a startled look. Then his eyes slowly wandered from her face to her chest and he smiled slightly. “Um, I think you’re moving,” he said. “Or maybe you’re just very excited to meet me.” And then he grinned playfully.

  “Oh, you’re funny,” Annie replied, reaching under her sweater to pull out a tiny squirming animal. “You make up that line all by your little self?”

  He tilted his head and took the puppy out of her hands. “I’d say at least part border collie. Looks like mostly border collie, but they can take on other characteristics as they get older. Cute,” he observed. “Plenty of pastoral breeds around here.”

  “Those two are the weakest of the bunch, so please be careful. I’m waiting for the vet.”

  He balanced two little puppies in one big hand and pulled a pair of glasses out of the pocket of his suede jacket. “I’m the vet.” He slipped on his glasses and, holding both pups upside down, looked at their eyes, mouth, ears and pushed on their bellies with a finger.

  She was speechless for a minute. “You’re not old Doc Jensen.”

  “Nathaniel Junior,” he said. “Nate. You know my father?” he asked, still concentrating on the puppies. He put them in the box and picked up two more, repeating the process.

  “He…ah…My folks have a farm down by Alder Point. Hey! I grew up there! Not all that far from Doc’s clinic and stable. Shouldn’t I know you?”

  He looked over the tops of his glasses. “I don’t know. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Well, there you go. I’m thirty-two. Got a few years on you. Where’d you go to school?”

  “Fortuna. You?”

  “Valley.” He laughed. “I guess you can call me old Doc Jensen now.” And there was that grin again. No way he could have grown up within fifty miles of her farm without her knowing him. He was too delicious-looking.

  “I have older brothers,” she said. “Beau, Brad and Jim McKenzie. All older than you.”

  At first he was startled at this news, then he broke into a wide smile. Then he laughed. “Are you that skinny, fuzzy-haired, freckle-faced, tin-mouthed pain in the neck who always followed Beau and Brad around?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him.

  “No,” he said, laughing. “That must have been someone else. Your hair isn’t pumpkin orange. And you’re not all that…” He paused for a second, then said, “Got your braces off, I see.” By her frown, he realized he hadn’t scored with that comment.

  “Where is your father? I want a second opinion!”

  “Okay, you’re not so skinny anymore, either.” He smiled, proud of himself.

  “Very, very old joke, sparky,” she said.

  “Well, you’re out of luck, cupcake. My mom and dad finally realized a dream come true and moved to Arizona where they could have horses and be warm and pay lower taxes. One of my older sisters lives there with her family. I’ve got another sister in Southern California and another one in Nevada. I’m the new old Doc Jensen.”

  Now it was coming back to her—Doc Jensen had kids, all older than she was. Too much older for her to have known them in school. But she did vaguely remember the son who came with him to the farm on rare occasions. One corner of her mouth quirked up in a half grin. “Are you that little, pimply, tin-mouthed runt with the squeaky voice who came out to the farm with your dad sometimes?”

  He frowned and made a sound. “I was a late bloomer,” he said.

  “I’ll say.” She laughed.

  Nate was now checking out his third set of puppies.

  “Why don’t I remember you better?” she mused aloud.

  “I went to Catholic school down in Oakland my junior and senior year. I wasn’t going to get into a good college without some serious academic help, and those Jesuits live to get their hands on a challenge like me. They turned me around. And I grew five inches my first year of college.” He put down the puppies he’d been holding and picked up the first one. He became serious. She noticed a definite kindness, a softness, in his expression. “Annie, isn’t it? Or do you go by Anne now?”

  “Annie. McKenzie.”

  “Well, Annie, this little guy is real weak. I don’t know if he’ll make it.”

  A very sad look came into her eyes as she took the puppy from him and tucked him under her sweater again.

  Nodding at her, Nate said, “As much incentive as that is to live, I don’t know if it’ll do. How long were these guys outside before someone found them?”

  “No one knows. Probably since before sunrise. Jack was in and out all day, fussing with the tree, and he never saw anyone. His little boy crawled under the tree and came out holding a puppy. That’s how we found them.”

  “And what’s the plan now?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Want me to drop them off at a shelter for you? Then you don’t have to witness the bad news if one or two don’t make it.”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I mean, that’s probably a bad idea. Some of the shelters over on the Coast are excellent, but you know what it’s like this time of year. All those people adopting cute puppies for Christmas presents and then returning them in January. And returning them is the good scenario. All too often they’re neglected or abused. Wouldn’t it be better to take care of them until reliable homes can be found?”

  “Who, Annie?” he asked. “Who’s going to take care of them?”

  She shrugged. “I have a small house in Fortuna and I work all day.”

  “What about the farm?” he asked.

  She was shaking her head before he finished. “I don’t think so. My dad’s arthritis is bad enough that he slowly sold off the stock and my mom runs around like a crazy woman taking care of all the things that wear him out.”

  “Your dad’s Hank McKenzie, right? He gets around pretty good for someone with bad arthritis.”

  “Yeah, he’s proud. He doesn’t let on. But it would fall to my mom and I can’t ask her to take on eight puppies. And the whole family is coming home to the farm for Christmas. All thirteen of ’em.”

  “Well, Annie, I can’t think of many options here,” he said. “I know a few vets in the towns around here and I don’t know one that would take this on. They’d put ’em in a no-kill shelter.”

  “Can’t you help? You and your wife?”

  He smiled at her. “No wife, Annie McKenzie. I have a real nice vet tech who’s going to keep an eye on the stable while I’m out of town over Christmas, but that’s the only help I have out there, and she doesn’t have time to add eight puppies to her roster.”

  “Jack!” Annie called. She stood up. “Can you come here?”

  Jack ambled over, wiping his hands on a towel.

  “We have a situation, Jack,” Annie said. “Dr. Jensen can’t take the puppies and get them through this rough patch. He offered to drop them off at a shelter, but really, that’s not a great idea.” A couple of people had wandered over to listen in to the conversation, eavesdropping and making no bones about it. “I’ve volunteered at some of those shelters and they’re awesome, but they’re really, really busy at Christmastime. A lot of animals get adopted for presents, especially the really young, cute ones like these. You have no idea how many people think they want a fluffy pet for little Susie or Billie—until the first time the dog thinks the carpet is grass.”

  “Yeah?” Jack said, confused. A couple more people had wandered over from the bar to listen in to the conference.

  Annie took a breath. “It’s bad enough animals get returned. The worst case is they’re not taken care of properly, get neglected or abused or get sick and aren’t taken to the vet because the vet costs money. Sometimes people are embarrassed to return them and admit it was a mistake. Then they just take t
hem to animal control, where they’re on death row for three days before…” She stopped. “It can be a bad situation.”

  “Well, what are you gonna do?” Jack said. “Better odds than freezing to death under a Christmas tree.”

  “We could take care of them here, Jack,” she said.

  “We?” he mimicked, lifting a brow. “I see you about four times a year, Annie.”

  “I’ll drive up after work every day. They’re kind of labor-intensive right now, but I’ll tell you exactly what to do and you can get—”

  “Whoa, Annie, whoa. I can’t keep dogs in the bar!”

  An old woman put a hand on Jack’s arm. “We already named ’em, Jack,” she said. “After Santa’s reindeer. At least the ones we could remember. Little Christopher already asked Preacher if he could have Comet. ’Course no one knows who Comet is yet, but—”

  “There’s no mother to clean up after them,” Nate pointed out. “That means puppy excrement. Times eight.”

  “Aw, that’s just great,” Jack said.

  “Don’t panic,” Annie said. “Here’s what you do. Get a nice, big wooden box or big plastic laundry basket. You could even put a wooden border around a plastic pad from an old playpen, then toss an old blanket or a couple of towels over it. Pull the blanket back to feed ’em the formula and cereal every few hours. Or feed a couple or three at a time outside the box so you can wipe up the floor. Trade the dirty towels for clean ones, wash one set while you use the other, and vice versa. Oh, and at least two of these little guys need a lot of encouragement to eat—the eyedropper gets ’em going. I could take the littlest, weakest ones to a vet but, Jack, they’re better off with their litter mates.”

  “Aw, f’chrissake, Annie,” Jack moaned.

  “You can just grab someone at the bar and ask them to take a couple of minutes to coax some food into a sick puppy,” she said hopefully.

  “Sure,” the old woman said as she pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I’ll commit to a puppy or two a day.”

  “Annie, I can’t wash towels with puppy shit on ’em in the same washer we use for napkins for the bar.”

  “Well, we did at the farm. My mom sterilized a lot,” she said. “Bet you washed shitty baby clothes in the same…Never mind. If you just get the towels, bag ’em up in a big plastic bag, I’ll do it. I’ll come out after work and spell you a little, take home your dirty laundry, bring back fresh every day.”

  “I don’t know, Annie,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Are you kidding?” Annie returned. “People will love it, keeping an eye on ’em, watching ’em plump up. By Christmas, all of them will be spoken for, and by people who know what to do with animals. These little guys will probably turn into some outstanding herders around here.”

  “Nathaniel, did you put her up to this?” Jack asked.

  Nate put up his hands and shook his head. He didn’t say so, but she did have a point. Adopted by a town, these puppies would get looked after.

  “I can’t say yes or no without Preacher,” Jack said, going off to the kitchen.

  Annie smiled crookedly as she listened to the people who had followed Jack to the hearth, muttering to each other that, sure, this plan could work. They wouldn’t mind holding a puppy every now and then, maybe donating a blanket, getting a puppy to eat, wiping up the floor here and there.

  When Preacher trailed Jack back to the box of puppies, his six-year-old son was close on his heels. Jack tried to speak very softly about what all this would entail, but Christopher didn’t miss a syllable. He tugged at Preacher’s sleeve and in a very small voice he said, “Please, Dad, please. I’ll help every day. I’ll feed and hold and clean up and I won’t miss anything.”

  Preacher pulled his heavy black brows together in a fierce scowl. Then, letting out an exasperated sigh, he crouched to get to eye level with the boy. “Chris, there can never be a dog in the kitchen. You hear me, son? And we have to start looking for homes right away, because some may be ready to leave the litter sooner than others. This has to be real temporary. We prepare food here.”

  “Okay,” Chris said. “Except Comet. Comet’s going to stay.”

  “I’m still thinking about that. And I’ll have to look up on the computer how you take care of a bunch of orphaned pups like these guys,” Preacher added.

  Annie let a small laugh escape as she plucked the smallest, weakest puppy from under her sweater and put him back in the box. “Well, my work here is done,” she said with humor in her voice. “I’ll try to cut my day as short as I can at the shop, Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Annie, they’re not your responsibility,” Jack said. “You’ve already been a huge help. I don’t really expect you to—”

  “I’m not going to turn my back on them now,” she said. “You might panic and take them to the pound.” She grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Two

  The puppies were found on Monday and Nate managed to stay away from the bar on Tuesday, but by Wednesday he was back there right about dinnertime. He told himself he had a vested interest—they might be about a hundredth the size of his usual patients, but he had more or less treated them. At least he’d looked at them and judged the care Annie recommended to be acceptable. In which case he didn’t really need to check on them. But Jack’s was a decent place to get a beer at the end of the day, and that fire was nice and cozy after a long day of tromping around farms and ranches, rendering treatment for horses, cows, goats, sheep, bulls and whatever other livestock was ailing.

  But then there was Annie.

  She was no longer a skinny, flat-chested, fuzzy-haired metal-mouth. Something he’d been reminding himself of for more than twenty-four hours. The jury was still out on whether she was a pain in the butt. He suspected she was.

  She was tall for a woman—at least five-ten in her stocking feet—with very long legs. That carrot top was no longer bright orange—maybe the miracle of Miss Clairol had done the trick. In any case, her hair was a dark auburn she wore in a simple but elegant cut that framed her face. It was sleek and silky and swayed when her head moved. Her eyes were almost exotic—dark brown irises framed by black lashes and slanting shapely brows. And there was a smattering of youthful freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheeks, just enough to make her cute. But that mouth, that full, pink, soft mouth—that was gonna kill him. He hadn’t seen a mouth like that on a woman in a long time. It was spectacular.

  She was a little bossy, but he liked that in a woman. He wondered if he should seek therapy for that. But no—he thrived on the challenge of it. Growing up with three older sisters, he’d been fighting for his life against determined females his entire life. Meek and docile women had never appealed to him and he blamed Patricia, Susan and Christina for that.

  The very first thing Nate noticed when he walked into the bar on Wednesday was that Annie was not there. He smiled with superiority. Hah! He should have known. She talked Jack and Preacher into keeping eight tiny puppies—a labor-intensive job—promising to help, and was a no-show. He went over to the box and counted them. Seven. Then he went up to the bar.

  “Hey, Jack,” he said. “Lose one?”

  “Huh?” Jack said, giving the counter a wipe. “Oh, no.” He laughed and shook his head. “Annie took one back to Preacher’s laundry room for a little fluff and buff. He mussed his diaper, if you get my drift. It’s the littlest, weakest one.”

  “Oh,” Nate responded, almost embarrassed by his assumption. “He hanging in there?”

  “Oh, yeah. And wouldn’t you know—Christopher has decided that that one is his. Comet. Annie tried to talk him into falling in love with a stronger, heartier pup, but the boy’s drawn to the one most likely not to make it.”

  Nate just laughed. “It was that way for me,” he said. “I was older, though. We had the most beautiful Australian Kelpie—chocolate brown, silky coat, sweet face, ran herd on everything. My dad had her bred and promised me a pup. Out of her litter of six, I picked the runt
and practically had to hand-feed him for weeks. The other pups kept pushing him off the tit. I was fifteen and, probably not coincidentally, also small for my age. I named him Dingo. He was big and tough by the time I was through with him, and he lived a long life for a hardworking Kelpie. We lost him just a few years ago. He lived to be fifteen. ’Course, he spent his last four years lying by the fire.”

  “You’d think a boy would pick the strongest in the pack.”

  “Nah.” Nate snorted. “We don’t feel that strong, so we empathize. Can I trouble you for a beer?”

  “Sorry, Nate—I wasn’t thinking. Fact is, I’ve been sitting on our nest on and off all day. I have a whole new appreciation for what you do.”

  “Have they been a lot of trouble?”

  “Well, not really, just time-consuming,” Jack said. “They eat every three hours or so, then their bedding has to be changed, then they nap, then they eat. And so on. Kind of like regular babies. Except there are eight of them and half of them need encouragement to eat. Plus, every so often, you have to check that they’re not too warm or too cold. I don’t want to freeze ’em or cook ’em. And the bar’s getting lots more company during the day—visitors to the litter. Since they’re here, they decide to eat and drink—more serving, cooking and cleanup than usual. Other than that, piece of cake. And if I ever find the SOB that left ’em under the tree, I’m going to string him up by his—”

  “Well, hey, Doc Jensen,” a female voice sang out.

  Nate turned to see Annie come out the back of the bar, Christopher trailing so closely that if she stopped suddenly, he’d have crashed into her. She carried a furry ball of black and white that fit perfectly into her palm. Looking at her, he realized he hadn’t remembered her quite accurately. Or rather, quite enough. Tall, curvaceous, high cheekbones, soft dark auburn hair swinging along her jaw, long delicate fingers…She was beautiful. And her figure in a pair of snug jeans and turquoise hoodie with a deep V-neck just knocked him out. Where the heck had this girl been hiding?

  And why was he, a man who could appreciate cleavage and tiny bikinis, suddenly seeing the merits in jeans, boots and hoodies?