Christmas in Destiny

by Toni Blake

  A few nights later, Shane sat at Grampy Hoskins’ old Formica kitchen table eating dinner—again. Tonight old-fashioned chicken and noodles from the Crock-Pot, good for a wintry night.

  Grampy had invited him, so he’d accepted—a hungry man couldn’t really afford to refuse, after all. But also turned out the old man was decent company—a damn sight better than sitting alone in the rooms above the store.

  “You said Edna has you over for dinner sometimes,” Shane remarked as he bit into a freshly buttered biscuit. “You ever invite her over here?”

  Grampy’s thick white brows knit. “Over here? No.” He’d sounded like it was a preposterous idea.

  “I’m just sayin’—for an old guy, you’re a pretty damn good cook.”

  Grampy waved away the compliment. “It’s the slow cooker does the work—not me.”

  Shane just shrugged. “Good eatin’, no matter who’s doin’ the work,” Shane told him, “and maybe Edna wouldn’t mind a home-cooked meal she didn’t have to make herself.”

  Now Grampy arched a brow. “What’s got into you all the sudden?”

  And Shane sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

  Grampy eyed him curiously. “Don’t get me wrong, but you just ain’t struck me as the sort to sit around thinkin’ about what other people might like or not like.”

  Shane turned that over in his head. Maybe caring for his father had made him that way for a while, a little more considerate—but then he’d stopped. And Grampy’s observation was on the money—it wasn’t Shane’s nature. Because he was a bad egg. So he said to Grampy, “You’re right. All you damn nice people around here must be rubbing off on me. Forget I said anything.”

  Huh, why had that popped into his head—that he was a “bad egg”?

  But, ah, he remembered now—his father had once confided to him that his mother had said that. On the long drive to Montana. Your mama wanted you gone, Shaney, just like she wanted me gone. Thinks you’re just a bad egg, no good in ya. But that don’t matter none to me, Shaney, I still love ya. And I’m not all that much of a good egg myself, so me and you, we’ll stick together. Me and you against the world, huh? We’ll get us a new start, just the two of us.

  And that was how it had always been. As an adult, looking back, Shane could see his father hadn’t instilled many values in him—truth was, his father had gotten them to Montana on money stolen from his employer at the time, a tire shop owner who’d trusted him too much with the till.

  But Shane had been as glad as he was scared and hurt upon finding out he was such a burden that his mom didn’t want him anymore. Glad somebody loved him. Even if his father had always been stealing something here or there to get them by. He’d taught Shane that it was okay to take from people who had more than you—“since they probably just took it from somebody else,” his dad was fond of saying.

  Shane understood now that wasn’t true. Growing up had shown him that . . . and shown him, too, that maybe his dad never really had grown up in some ways. And so he’d tried to earn an honest living as much as possible, keep both him and his pop afloat as best as he was able.

  They’d run with a crowd that made it easy to do the wrong thing, but he’d tried to find balance there—at least as well as a guy could who’d been deemed trouble before he was even ten years old.

  And so maybe making that long return trip to Ohio from Montana had somehow brought back memories of the drive in the other direction, like the “bad egg” one.

  “You do any cookin’?” Grampy asked.

  Shane shook his head, then shoveled a forkful of chicken and noodles into his mouth. “Nope.”

  “Easier than you’d think with a Crock-Pot. You maybe oughta think o’ gettin’ yourself one when you get where you’re goin’.”

  Shane considered the idea for a moment—but Miami was hot, and food like this wouldn’t make much sense there. And he’d probably be too busy anyway. With the fast cars and fast women and all. Though . . . maybe all that had somehow started sounding a little less exciting since his last phone call from Donnie V.

  After dinner, they opened up a holiday tin covered with polar bears and snowmen to have some of Edna’s gingerbread for dessert, which she’d given Grampy at the tree-lighting gala. “Damn, this is good,” Shane remarked. He’d never really eaten gingerbread before—gingerbread cookies, and houses, but not real gingerbread.

  “Edna’s a fine baker for sure,” Grampy said.

  And Shane tilted his head and asked Grampy something he’d been wondering. “About Edna—you, uh, ever think about trying to get you some of that?”

  Grampy looked confused. “Some o’ what? Her gingerbread? Already got some.” He gave the slice in his hand a little shake.

  After which Shane couldn’t hold in a small laugh. “That’s not what I meant. I meant . . .” He reached for a more old-fashioned way of saying it. “You ever think about dating her?”

  At this, Grampy jerked to stiff attention, clearly even more shocked at this suggestion than the last one. “Why, no. I told ya, Edna’s my dearest, oldest friend.”

  “Uh, maybe that’s my point. You already know you get along with her. And she’s an unattached woman and you’re an unattached dude, so I’m just doing the math is all.”

  “But her late husband, Eddie, was my best friend. So it don’t seem right.”

  “How long ago’d he die?” Shane asked.

  “Reckon . . . twenty-five, maybe even thirty years now.”

  Shane just blinked. “Dude. I was a little kid then.”

  “So?”

  “So it was a damn long time ago. I think it’d be okay for you two to hook up. If you wanted to, I mean.”

  Across the table, Grampy stayed silent for a moment, appearing to think that over.

  Finally, Shane asked, “Are you telling me you’ve really never thought about this before? In all these years?”

  Grampy nodded. “Can’t say as I have.”

  Shane sighed. “Well then, maybe it’s a bad idea. Seems like if you had those kinds of feelings for her, it would have crossed your mind by now.”

  So it surprised the hell out of him when Grampy lifted a hand and said, “Well now, just hold your horses there for a minute and let me ponder this.”

  Which made Shane laugh again and inform him, “I think you’re into her and you don’t even know it. Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something in your face right now I haven’t seen before—a little light in your eye. I think you’re way into Edna, dude, and you’re just now figuring it out.”

  This made the old man flatten out his lips between his white mustache and beard. “Well now, you might be puttin’ the cart ahead of the horse there, son—and maybe you best just stop lookin’ at me tryin’ to figure out what’s goin’ on inside me. But . . . like I said, just let me ruminate on this awhile.”

  And suddenly Grampy Hoskins seemed . . . a little nervous. Like a kid with his first crush. Shane wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it himself—but hell, it was almost . . . cute or something. Even though Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought anything was cute.

  Well, other than little miss Candy Cane. At moments anyway.

  Mainly the ones where she wasn’t acting like he was the scum of the earth.

  “So while you’re here,” Grampy said then, “what say you help me get my sleigh in the yard?”

  Shane squinted. “Your what?” Was he hearing things?

  And Grampy just laughed, leaning back in his chair to pat his belly under the bib of his overalls. “My sleigh. Got a real nice one—out in the barn.” He pointed over his shoulder—but Shane had only been to Grampy’s house after dark, so he didn’t know there was a barn. “I put it in the front yard as a Christmas decoration every year—even since I quit puttin’ up a tree, I still bring out the sleigh. Folks enjoy it—it’s a Destiny tradition.”

  Together, the two men put on their coats, and G
rampy grabbed a couple of flashlights from a drawer to help them make their way on a path already well beaten down in the snow. Once there, he undid a paddle lock, swung open a wooden door, and flipped a few switches until dim lights came on, inside and out.

  Before Shane stood a shiny red sleigh worthy of Santa himself.

  “Damn,” he said. “Nice.”

  Coming from Montana, he’d seen a few sleighs hitched up here and there over the years, but he’d never had occasion to actually get this close to one, and it felt a little like he’d stepped into a Christmas card. “Does it work?” he asked. “I mean, do you ever use it? Take a sleigh ride like they talk about in songs?”

  “Hell yeah,” Grampy said, surprising him with the vigor of the answer. Then he slanted a look in Shane’s direction. “Don’t tell me you ain’t never been on a sleigh ride before?”

  “Um, nope.”

  Grampy just shook his head, like it was a shortcoming. “One o’ life’s simple pleasures, son.”

  “Sounds cold,” Shane thought out loud.

  “That’s why the good Lord made blankets and hats,” the old man told him. Then grinned. “Let’s hook up the horse and take her for a spin out the ridge.”

  Shane just stared, nonplussed. “You have a horse? And a ridge?”

  Grampy looked at him like he was slow. “Yes, I have a horse and a ridge.”

  Shane defended himself with widened eyes. “I’ve never been here in the daylight, so how would I know?”

  A moment later, Grampy led Shane out along another well-trodden path in the snow to another barn—bigger, in fact—with a horse inside it. Along with horse smell. “This here’s Charley. Get it? Charley Horse.”

  The horse was sizable and stout, sporting a thick brown winter coat—with a white star on his forehead. Grampy showed Shane step by step how to harness the docile beast and get him attached to the sleigh. Shane didn’t suspect it was a skill he’d need in Miami, but he could tell Grampy was enjoying the teaching of it, so he pretended to enjoy the learning.

  Grampy explained to Shane that the back barn door opened into a meadow where Charley grazed in better weather and that other than being watered and fed, he mostly took care of himself. “But as you might expect, he’s been spendin’ the better part of his time inside since the storm hit.”

  Grampy soon climbed up onto the sleigh’s black leather seat and motioned Shane to join him.

  Shane wore a zip-up hoodie under his coat, and he pulled the hood up as Grampy gave a soft, “Get up,” snapping the reins. Already he was pretty sure he was right—this was gonna be cold. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  But soon he realized he couldn’t keep them there—he needed them to hold on for dear life because for being a staid, quiet type of old man, Grampy was driving this thing like a bat out of hell.

  “Damn,” Shane muttered under his breath as they picked up speed on a straight stretch. The moon shining on the snow was the only thing lighting the way on Grampy’s ridge and this seemed dangerous as hell.

  “Grab hold o’ somethin’ and don’t be a wimp, boy,” Grampy said. “I ain’t no Sunday driver.”

  Shane did as he was told, cold hands or not. With one he gripped the seat and with the other a small rail in front of him. Cold air bit at his face as Grampy snapped the reins harder and yelled, “Hyah!” Like he was a damn barrel racer or something.

  As Charley picked up speed, pressing through the snow, which seemed less deep here—maybe from wind on the ridge—the sleigh seemed to fly and even caught a little air a time or two. Shane wasn’t sure whether to be invigorated or to fear for his life, but he eventually opted for the first, just continuing to hold on tight.

  Soon enough he found himself laughing—at the whole damn thing. Who’d have thought he’d find himself soaring through the night on a sleigh with an old man at the reins in the middle of nowhere when he’d expected to be in Miami by now? And who’d have thought he’d actually be enjoying it? Next to him, Grampy wore a big smile, too, and Shane was glad to see the old guy having some fun.

  After a brisk and wild few minutes, Grampy pulled up on the reins and eventually brought the horse to a stop. They’d gotten far enough from the house and barns that no lights could be seen at all but for the winter moon and stars overhead. Grampy turned to him with a sly look unlike anything Shane had witnessed on his face before. “Reckon you think I’m some ole stick-in-the-mud codger, but who’s the stick-in-the-mud now, m’boy?”

  Shane couldn’t argue with that.

  That was when Grampy looked like he’d just gotten a great idea. “Want to drive us back?”

  “Not really.”

  To Shane’s surprise, Grampy just laughed, then shoved the reins into his hands anyway. “Let me show ya how to drive.”

  “I’m not sure I want—”

  “Shush, and listen,” Grampy said. Then instructed him on how to guide the sleigh, whether he wanted to learn or not.

  So Shane listened, did what the old man told him, and soon had them and Charley starting gingerly back along the path they’d just carved on the ridge. “There ya go,” Grampy said softly. “You got it. Now keep ’er goin’. And don’t be afraid to pick up a little speed—this ain’t a parkin’ lot.”

  Shane just cast the old guy an amused look of warning, then refocused on the path before him as he got used to driving the sleigh.

  “So . . . you and the Sheridan girl?” Grampy asked out of the blue, sounding hopeful.

  This earned Grampy another sideways glance. “Nope, she still hates my guts.”

  “That’s a shame,” the old man said. “She’s a perty one. Sweet, too.”

  “And tomorrow,” Shane informed him, concentrating on his task as he spoke, “I’m supposed to help her set up for a town Christmas party.”

  “Biggest shindig in Destiny and most always a good one,” Grampy said, then sounded pleased with himself as he added, “I’ll be playin’ Santa Claus.”

  Shane shot him a look from behind the reins. “I’m not sitting on your knee, old man.”

  Grampy let out a belly laugh at that. And they rode in silence another moment before he asked, “So if she didn’t hate your guts, would you . . . wanna get you some o’ that?”

  Now it was Shane who laughed. Grampy was catching on.

  Then he thought it over and conceded, “Maybe.”

  Nine

  “I know what you’re feeling. I won’t ever tell a soul. Hope to die, I won’t.”

  George Bailey, It’s a Wonderful Life

  Candice had a plan in place. She’d spent time at Miss Ellie’s the past couple of days getting the party mapped out in her mind, letting the pieces come together. She’d made lists and diagrams. She’d called on Jenny to help organize refreshments, and as promised, Mike and Logan had spent yesterday clearing snow while she had instructed them on the task—even if Mike had groused a little, Logan had been his amiable self and told Mike to, “Shut up and do what the lady says.”

  Mike had once made her mother cry by giving her a speeding ticket. But in fairness, her mother was a terrible driver. And she’d decided to let the grousing go both because Mike, for all his hotness, could just be a bit of a hard-ass who probably only a woman with a personality as strong as Rachel’s could live with, and because Candice knew all the guys were overworked right now, doing their normal jobs plus helping with repairs plus handling the extra activities and duties that Christmastime brought.

  Being at the party site the last two days had also, of course, meant spending time with Miss Ellie, who was severely hard of hearing yet pleasant to be with otherwise. For a woman in her nineties, she was always of cheerful disposition and wearing a smile. And she seemed excited about having the party at her cottage. “We should have started this years ago!” the old woman exclaimed when Candice had first arrived. “Thank you for organizing it, dear!”

  Today Shane was due to bring over party supplies from the church and community building. They wouldn’t set up
all the tables inside Miss Ellie’s house just yet, but they could erect the ones in the garden, unload the space heaters the town council had bought for the event, and generally get everything ready that could be gotten that way in advance.

  And she was going to be more polite to him this time. Because he was right—she treated him like a criminal for no reason. Or, well, she had a reason, but she supposed “he has the same bad-boy demeanor as my loser ex-boyfriend from a million years ago” was a silly one. So . . . potent as that might feel to her, she had to let it go now. That didn’t mean she was going to take Tessa’s advice and put the moves on the guy or anything, but she could be cordial to him. Normal.

  Miss Ellie’s Christmas tree had long since been up and decorated, along with the rest of the house, making the lovely old-fashioned Victorian cottage the perfect setting for a Christmas get-together. Now she and Shane had to do the rest.

  She’d just heated some hot chocolate on Miss Ellie’s stove for the two of them when she heard a vehicle pull into the driveway. She steeled herself as she handed Miss Ellie’s mug to her and awaited the knock on the door. You can do this. Just ignore that he’s hot and scary. Even if the scary is for a different reason now—he’s scary because a part of you does totally want to put the moves on him. Yes, just ignore that. For the good of the town, the good of the party. Be the normal woman you usually manage to be. Even if your heart is beating way too hard right now.

  When the knock came at the door, she nearly threw her own mug up in the air, somehow surprised even though she’d known it was coming. And her heart beat harder still. This is ridiculous. Why does he make me so nervous?

  She set her cup aside on a doily and blinked once, twice, as she went to answer, somehow feeling as uneasy as she had the last time—up the road at her house during the blizzard. Maybe because now his hotness—something about sexy eyes and dark hair and quiet masculinity—was so obvious to her. How had it even been a question before?

  Fear. And shock. Those changed things.

  But now he just looked plain sexy. In a wintry, cuddly way. His dark hair touched the collar of his coat, a hood hanging out the back, and the dark stubble on his jaw gave her the unexpected urge to touch it. With her fingertips. The mere thought of which made her pull in her breath.