It's a Christmas Thing

by Janet Dailey

  “But I wouldn’t be in the way. All I want to do is play with Snowflake.” Tears welled in her big brown eyes. The sight of those tears tore at Rush’s heart. None of this mess was her fault.

  Should he tell her that her mother was back from the cruise, and that Andre was out of the picture? Should he tell her that as long as her mother approved, she could take the kitten home with her?

  No, that would be a mistake, Rush told himself. Until everything was settled, it would be cruel to get her childish hopes up—and right now, nothing was settled.

  “After your nap, how would you like to go to the mall?” he asked her. “There’s a store there where you can choose your own toy animal, get it stuffed, and even buy clothes for it. You could pick out any animal you want. How does that sound?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want another animal. It wouldn’t be the same.”

  After Clara went down for her nap, under a quilt on Rush’s bed, he put on his jacket and walked out onto the porch. The ranch was quiet today, the cut trees all sold except for the few that were left at Hank’s. The sleigh rides were on hold until after Christmas, when they’d start up again and continue as long as the snow and customers lasted. Today the partners were resting and cleaning up after the sale season.

  The dark sky and sighing wind matched Rush’s mood. He was at a crossroads in his life, with no good choices ahead. Somehow, there had to be another way to resolve this godawful mess.

  Something warm and damp touched his hand. He reached down and scratched Bucket’s head. “Looks like we’re both in trouble, boy,” he murmured. “Too bad you can’t tell me what to do.”

  Just then Travis came out on the porch, holding his cell phone. “This call’s for you,” he said, thrusting the phone at Rush.

  “On your phone?” Rush asked.

  “Yeah. It’s Maggie. She’s on the warpath. You’d better take it.”

  What else could go wrong in his life? Rush took the phone. “Maggie? What is it?”

  “I just spoke with Tracy.” Maggie’s voice fairly crackled with annoyance. “You and I need to talk.”

  “Here?” Rush was still stunned.

  “No. Not at the ranch. Buckaroo’s. Twenty minutes. Be there.”

  Rush handed Travis the phone. “That’s one tough woman you’ve got there.”

  Travis grinned. “We’ll keep an eye on Clara till you get back.”

  As he drove, Rush turned on the wipers to brush away the fine-grained snow. Maggie would probably take a piece out of his hide for hurting Tracy. Fine. Let her. He deserved it. And he had nothing to lose except what he might have already lost.

  Maggie’s old Lincoln was parked outside Buckaroo’s when he arrived. He walked through the door to see her sitting in the corner booth with two cups of coffee in front of her. As he sat down, she scooted one in his direction.

  “Maggie, there’s been a misunderstanding,” he started to say.

  “Shut up, Rush.” She shoved a sheet of white copy paper across the table. “Don’t say another word until you’ve read this.”

  Rush picked up the paper, skimmed the short text. Then, as his heart climbed into his throat, he read it again, carefully. It was the answer he needed, the answer that could save him—if it was real.

  He looked up at Maggie. “Where the hell did you get this?” he demanded.

  “Tracy found it online a few weeks ago. She gave me this copy as a backup, to make sure someone would have it, in case—”

  “In case what?”

  “In case it might be needed later on, when she wasn’t around. At the time, there was no reason to believe it would ever be useful. Now all that has changed.”

  Rush forced himself to stay seated and keep his voice calm. Maybe this was why Maggie had chosen to meet him in a public place. “And this is real? A real law?”

  “It is. I double-checked it myself.”

  “So, if Tracy had this, why in blazes didn’t she tell me about it this morning?”

  “Maybe you should ask Tracy that question. You two should try talking to each other instead of just jumping to conclusions. I have a feeling you’ve both got some explaining to do.” Maggie laid a bill on the table, stood, buttoned her jacket, and walked out.

  * * *

  Tracy was dozing on the couch when the doorbell rang—jangling repeatedly and insistently. She jerked fully awake and sat up, dislodging Rainbow, who jumped to the floor and fled down the hall.

  “Let me in, Tracy!” Rush’s voice cut through the door like a power saw. “I’ve got questions, and I need some answers.”

  He sounded angry. But Tracy wasn’t feeling like Little Miss Sunshine herself. Bracing for a battle, she opened the door.

  Rush’s eyes blazed as he thrust a sheet of paper into her face. “Why did I have to get this from Maggie?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you give it to me this morning?”

  Tracy let him in and closed the door. Her reply met his fire with ice. “When you gave me your news this morning, I thought you’d already made up your mind. You certainly sounded that way.”

  “Damn it, I was drowning. I was asking for help and support, maybe some solution for resolving this crazy mess—a solution you had and didn’t think to give me.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want it. I know you, Rush. You’d do anything for Clara, even go back to her mother and try to make the marriage work. I knew you were making a sacrifice, but I told myself that you were making it for your family, and that you believed you were doing the right thing. Giving you an alternative—I was afraid that giving you that document would only make your decision harder.”

  The paper fluttered to the floor as his hands clasped her shoulders, almost hurting. “Tracy, I’ve been through hell, trying to find a way to be there for Clara without losing you. I love you. I would never walk away from the life we could have. I’d have told you that, but you threw me out before I could explain.”

  “I love you, too. And if you’d explained, I’d have given you the document.” She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “We’re a couple of idiots,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know it,” she whispered. “But at least we’re a pair.”

  Their kiss was long, deep, and full of promise—a promise of lifetimes together, building a future, raising a family bound with ties of love.

  As he released her, Tracy glanced around the room. “I know what this place needs,” she said. “A Christmas tree!”

  Epilogue

  Christmas, that same year

  Rush and Clara came to Tracy’s house to celebrate Christmas morning. Under a gloriously lit tree, they sat on the floor and opened their presents.

  Clara gave each of them the Christmas cards she’d made, which would be saved on the refrigerator and cherished always. When Rush unwrapped the photo of Clara, from the mall, he was visibly moved. Telling her it was his best gift ever, he gave her a big hug.

  Tracy’s and Rush’s gifts for each other were practical, hastily bought items—warm hats, scarves, and gloves. Next year, they could buy something costlier and more meaningful. For this year these simple things would be enough. This was Clara’s Christmas. The important gifts were for her.

  Clara opened Tracy’s gifts first. She loved the snow globe and the books. But there was more to come.

  The first gift from Rush came in a big box. She opened it to find a cowgirl hat and a pair of cowgirl boots. “This gift has a special meaning, Clara,” he said. “It means that, yes, you’ll have to go home to your mother. But every year, you can come back here at Christmas and in the summertime to be a cowgirl again.”

  Clara squealed with joy at the news, even though she was too young to understand the implications. Two days ago, Rush had called the private number of Sonya’s lawyer, who’d agreed that Rush would have a good case for partial custody if he chose to take it to court. The lawyer had persuaded Sonya to avoid a costly trial and give Rush visitation rights tw
ice a year. As for the question of Rush’s going back to her, Sonya had already moved on. She was dating a man she’d met on the cruise.

  “One more present.” Rush handed Clara another box and helped her open it. Inside was a small, sturdy pet carrier.

  “What’s this for?” Clara asked.

  “It’s for your next present. Wait here.” He disappeared down the hall and came back with a lidded box. Something was moving inside it. He set it on the floor. “Open it, Clara,” he said.

  She raised the lid with a little cry. Happy tears flowed down her cheeks as she picked up Snowflake and cuddled him close. “He’s yours,” Rush said. “You can take him home with you in the carrier. You can even bring him back if he turns out to be a good traveler.”

  Clara jumped up and hugged Rush. “I love you, Daddy,” she said. “I knew that Santa couldn’t bring my miracles, but I never gave up. I knew that you could do it.”

  While Clara played with her kitten, Tracy went into the kitchen to check the turkey she was roasting for Christmas dinner. Travis, Conner, and Maggie would be over later to share it with them.

  As she closed the oven, Rush slipped his arms around her from behind and nuzzled the back of her neck. “I hope she doesn’t expect miracles from me every Christmas. That’s a pretty tall order.”

  Tracy laughed. “Shall we share the other surprise, that she’s going to be the flower girl at our wedding this summer?”

  Rush turned her around and kissed her. “That can wait,” he said. “I think we’ve had enough surprises for one Christmas.”

  Please read on for an excerpt from HART’S HOLLOW FARM by Janet Dailey, available now!

  For some folks in small-town Georgia, Hart’s Hollow is a forsaken farm that has seen better days. But for the Hart family matriarch, it’s a home worth fighting for . . .

  From the moment Kristen Daniels arrives at Hart’s Hollow, something about the place speaks to her soul. So when seventy-three-year-old Emmy Hart asks Kristen to help return the farm to its former glory, Kristen accepts—despite her fears about getting involved with Emmy—or the two kids in Emmy’s care. Then there’s the matter of Emmy’s ruggedly handsome grandson, who stirs feelings Kristen believed were long gone . . .

  When Mitch Hart left Hart’s Hollow at age eighteen, he thought he’d kicked the red dust off his boots forever. But his heart bears the scars of his violent upbringing and his mind aches with the loss of the sister he couldn’t save. Now he’s determined to see his orphaned niece and nephew settled in a better life. Emmy’s ideas about saving the farm for the family’s sake only convince Mitch that his grandmother is as crazy as everyone in town suspects. Everyone except the blond beauty helping her sow the land. Something about Kristen’s mix of spirit and vulnerability has Mitch sticking around. And soon enough he’s working by Kristen’s side, and wondering if he’s gone a little crazy himself—crazy in love. Because suddenly he’s hoping he might just find happiness in the very home he left behind . . .

  Kristen Daniels stood at the mouth of a red dirt road. The long path in front of her sloped eastward, weaving its way through sprawling fields to meet dark, low-lying clouds on the horizon. Warm late-afternoon sunshine peeked between the gathering masses and dappled the flat landscape. The spring breeze, a gentle whisper for the past hour, intensified. It kicked up a cloud of dust that drifted across the road, sparkling briefly in the sunlight, before a massive cloud rolled in and covered the sun completely.

  Stomach dipping, Kristen glanced over her shoulder at the isolated stretch of Georgia highway she’d been traveling for hours. The paved road was unlined, the white and yellow markings having faded long ago, and the worn edges were either buried beneath weedy overgrowth or cracked beyond repair. With no cell service, landmarks, or street signs, it was impossible to tell if she’d made it to the right place—if there even was such a thing.

  At this point, one road would serve just as well as the other. So long as she kept moving in the opposite direction from the life she’d had three years ago when she was twenty-six and optimistic. When she’d been sure, without a modicum of doubt, that life had more to offer if she just believed and prayed and hoped. Even when the devastating truth had literally stared her in the face.

  All the way up until the day she’d had to bury her five-year-old daughter.

  The straight line of ragged pavement warped into the distance, making the earth feel as though it tilted beneath her feet. Her stance faltered, and she strained to hold on to the empty numbness she’d clung to for more miles than she’d ever be able to count.

  “You break down?”

  Kristen started, the shout and slow crunch of gravel beneath tires jerking her to alertness. A rusty truck idled nearby, the male driver leaning out the window, studying her.

  The wind blew harder. It swirled her long hair around her neck and spit grit in her face, stinging her eyes.

  “No.” Teeth clenching, she blinked hard and dragged her forearm over her dry cheeks. “Just trying to figure out where I am is all.” She gestured toward her beat-up Toyota parked at the edge of the dirt road. “Do you know the name of this road?”

  The older man laughed and scrubbed the heel of his hand over his stubble-lined jaw. “It ain’t got a name. It’s just one long driveway.”

  “To where?”

  “Hart’s Hollow.” He shook his head, his salt-and-pepper hair falling over his creased brow. “Doubt that’s the direction you wanna go. There’s nothing out there.”

  Kristen fumbled in her jeans pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper. She pressed it flat against her thigh, then smoothed the edges that flapped in the wind.

  Wanted: Jane-of-all-trades. Hard work. Decent pay and board. Hart’s Hollow Farm. 762 Hart Rd. Stellaville, Georgia. See Emmy Hart, owner.

  “Hart’s Hollow Farm?” she asked. “Could you please tell me if I can find Emmy Hart there?”

  “Yep, that’s the place.” He cocked his head to the side, a slow grin appearing. “And Emmy’s there all right.”

  Kristen nodded, stuffed the paper back in her pocket, then headed toward her car. “Thank you.”

  “Might want to make it a quick visit.” Squeaky gears shifted, then the truck rolled forward as the man tipped his chin toward the overcast sky. “If those clouds open up, that clay’s gonna turn to sludge and that low car of yours won’t make it out. You don’t want to be stuck in a storm with Emmy Hart.”

  Her steps slowed. “Why?”

  “She’s ornery enough to make a saint cuss. My own mama—good Christian woman—says she’s the damn devil.” He laughed again and revved the engine. “Good luck to you.”

  The big truck moved swiftly down the center of the worn highway.

  Kristen returned to her car and, after staring at the red path through the dusty windshield for a few minutes, decided a lot of nothing—even if it was owned and run by an ornery devil—was preferable to sleeping in the backseat and going hungry for the second day in a row. She didn’t do charity and needed a job. The last farm where she’d worked for a year had gone belly-up due to drought and financial woes, and this position was the only promising one she’d come across that offered the silent, wide-open space she’d grown to crave.

  It was, at the very least, worth checking out. Especially since she’d spent the last of her emergency stash on a full tank of gas to make the drive.

  She cranked the engine and drove slowly down the driveway. The deep ruts in the dirt rattled the bottled water in the cup holder and bounced her around in the driver’s seat. The bottom of the car thumped over a pothole, metal scraping the firm ground.

  Wincing, she slowed the car even more and continued to creep along. A tall pole stood near a bend in the road. She leaned closer to the window, squinting up at the makeshift birdhouse. Several battered gourds hung from the top rack, but one dangled loosely at half-mast and the thick shell clanked against the pole with each gust of wind. There were no purple martins perched on the rack, just two buzza
rds circling high above the stripped fields, swooping low in tandem with the air current.

  Reaching the final leg of the circular driveway, she eased around a sharp curve, then stopped the car abruptly at the edge of lush grass. Large oaks towered toward the stormy sky, framing an aging two-story farmhouse with a wide front porch and large windows. Tall, red chimneys were aligned on each side of the white structure and Gothic trim along the porch roof added an elegant air.

  Kristen whistled low as she climbed out of the car. “Nothing out here, huh?”

  That wasn’t altogether accurate. She strolled across the expansive lot, her tennis shoes squashing the soft grass and thunder rumbling overhead. The magnificent oaks swayed with the approaching storm, their leaves ruffling. Ducking beneath the lower branch of one, she reached up and trailed her palm across its rough bark as she passed.

  Tall and sturdy. Broad, thick trunk. Long, sprawling branches.

  “You’ve been around a while haven’t you, beauty?” Kristen whispered.

  She looked at the house, its details clearer from this vantage point. Time and the elements had chipped the white paint of the house and faded the deep red tones of the chimneys. The wooden front door had lost its luster and a hole was punched through the flimsy screen door covering it. An orange cat weaved in and out of the exquisite—but rotted—porch balusters.

  Rather than strengthening with age like the old oaks, the structure presented a tired, resigned veneer. One at odds with the sweet aura of home beckoning from the wide, welcoming steps. One which clearly said the glory days of this house had passed.

  Her fingertips jerked at her sides as she imagined breathing it back to life on canvas—a dab of yellow ochre here and there to recreate the shingles, long sweeps of ivory to define the walls, several pushes and drags of crimson to erect the chimneys. The structure was so reminiscent of the house she’d dreamed of as a child, when she’d lived in shelters and longed for a home—and family—of her own.