Bringing Home Christmas

by Vicki Hinze

  “Yes.” What was his point?

  “It didn’t,” he confessed. “It happened the night I sent you that voice mail. The one still on your phone.”

  He had seen it when he’d borrowed her phone at the bonfire. And he’d listened to it, or he wouldn’t know it was that specific message. “Your accident happened then?”

  He nodded. “My injuries were extensive. The doctors told me I’d never walk again. Zero odds, they said.” He let her absorb that. “I didn’t take the news well. In that state, I knew the only thing I had a right to marry was a wheelchair.”

  “That’s when you sent the text.”

  He nodded. “It took time to accept. Longer than I had, actually. The clock ran out on the wedding. I had to do the right thing.”

  “The right thing?” She frowned at him. “Abandoning me was the right thing? Shutting me out?”

  He covered her hand on the table with his. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t want my limitations to become your burden. That’s why I sent the text. I didn’t abandon you or shut you out, Lauren. I set you free.”

  “No. No, David, you didn’t.” A hard knot swelled in her throat. “No woman considers being dumped by text the night before her wedding being set free.” Of all he could have said, this she couldn’t have expected. “You should have told me.”

  “I couldn’t,” he said. “I know you. You would have stuck with me no matter what. I couldn’t face what I had to face knowing you were with me out of pity.”

  She thought a long moment. Then another longer one. If their positions were reversed… “I understand why you did what you did, but that was my decision to make. You should have trusted me to make it.”

  “You would have stayed.” His voice sounded tight.

  “Of course, I would have stayed.” Honestly. “I loved you.”

  “You deserved better. More than I was capable of giving. You deserved a man not looking at life in a wheelchair.”

  “I wanted you. On your feet or in a wheelchair—it wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “It mattered to me.”

  “I see now that it did.” He didn’t fear she’d walk on him. He feared she wouldn’t. “You threw us away, and yet here you are walking.”

  “With a cane, yes.”

  “How did you go from a man with zero chance of walking again to a man walking with a cane?” She sipped water to ease the ache from her throat. “Multiple surgeries, you said.”

  “Six, to be exact. All experimental and none of which doctors had a high degree of confidence would actually make a difference. But coupled with a year of intense physical therapy, they did, and finally, I stood up. Another couple months, and I took my first step.” He managed a trembly smile. “The doctors were shocked. A miracle, they said.”

  The thought of him struggling through all that, day after day. It made her heart hurt. “So, when you got proficient on the cane, you came to Holt Ridge.”

  “I did. But you’d been gone for a long time by then.”

  “Yet you stayed.”

  “To reflect and for the quiet.”

  He needed to belong. To heal.

  “I couldn’t try to win you back. Not after what I’d done.”

  “You knew I would have forgiven you, David,” she said softly.

  He stilled. “The scars are horrific.”

  “And?”

  “I wanted to be the man you remembered. Not the man I’d become.”

  Down deep, she understood that. Imagined how he’d agonized over two bad choices and no good ones. “What about what I wanted?”

  David frowned. “Your mother and I have had many conversations about that. You seemed happy in Atlanta.” He looked away. “You deserved the best. Not me. Not the remnants of what I was and would never be again.”

  “Is that all of it?” she asked. “Do I know the whole truth now?”

  He nodded, not meeting her eyes.

  She scooted her chair closer and clasped his face in her hands. “I love you, David Decker. I will always love you.”

  He dragged in a sharp breath and slowly let it out. “I’ve always loved you, too, and I always will.”

  Smiling, she kissed him and then wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “It’s true,” he whispered at the cay in her neck.

  “What is?”

  “At Christmas, we do return to the things we hold closest in our hearts.”

  Her mother’s words. Again.

  “Thank you for coming home, Lauren.” He squeezed her close.

  “Yes, Vanessa.” Barbara Pope’s voice carried to Lauren. “She took the risk. He told her the truth. And from the looks of things, I’d say everything is going to be just fine.” Barbara laughed, hard and deep.

  Lauren snorted. “Did I tell you I found the plans in Mom’s She Shack. She’d already done everything she had us do.”

  He grimaced. “Um, actually, that wasn’t her.”

  “What?”

  He hiked a shoulder. “I hid the plans out there.”

  “You didn’t. You had no idea I was coming back here. I didn’t even know it.”

  “When your mother got the infection, I knew you would come. Just as I knew she’d count on you to do the festivities and not Caroline.”

  “That explains why when I mentioned finding the plans, she was lost,” Lauren said. “She covered for you, though.”

  “I knew she would.” He smiled.

  “How did you know she would?”

  “Simple logic.” He shrugged. “Holt women are notoriously loyal. They’re trusted with secrets—even if they don’t know whose secrets they’re keeping.”

  She had, so he’d been right, but that didn’t explain his actions. “Why would you do that—remove the plans from her file?”

  “To spend as much time with you as I could. I hoped…”

  “For a Christmas miracle?” she suggested.

  “Another one, yes.” He looked into her eyes. “But this has worked out better than I dared to hope. I didn’t think for a second you’d still love me.”

  The wonder in his voice set her heart to soaring. Them, together, that was a miracle. The miracle of bringing home Christmas…

  Baxter’s Favorite

  Cranberry and Orange Zest Stuffing

  Serves 8-10 (without snitching)

  Ingredients:

  10 cups dry bread cubes

  1-3/4 cups chopped pecans

  1 cup dried cranberries

  8 tablespoons butter

  3 celery stalks

  1-1/2 sweet chopped onions

  1/4 cup chopped parsley

  1 tablespoon sage

  1 tablespoon thyme

  1 tablespoon salt

  1 teaspoon black pepper

  1 1/2 - 2 cups chicken broth

  1 orange sliced (or peeling grated for the zest, if preferred)

  Instructions:

  Preheat oven to 350°F.

  Mix bread cubes, pecans and cranberries.

  Butter a 9x13-inch baking pan.

  Melt remaining butter and toss in the celery and onions. Sauté two to three minutes, then add parsley, sage, thyme, salt and pepper. Mix well.

  If you opted for grated orange peel, add it to the mixture. If you opted for orange slices, insert them into the baking pan (or the turkey cavity, if you’re stuffing the turkey).

  Add the broth to the mixture and stir. Use a little more or less to get the dressing to your desired texture. (Go a little wet to allow for baking.)

  Empty mixture into baking pan and bake uncovered about an hour, until a light golden brown.

  Very Important Note:

  If you have a pup like Baxter, remove him or her from the kitchen before you get the stuffing out of the oven, and keep him out until you’ve secured the stuffing. Enjoy!

  Sneak Peek: Deep Freeze, STORMWATCH series

  Copyright © 2019 by Vicki Hinze

  PORTAL 3 NEWS

  Darcy Keller stood on the side of the road
in the blowing snow and checked her earpiece, watching for her cameraman’s cue. He counted down the last three seconds on his fingers. The anchor at the station segued to Darcy for the live shot.

  “A severe weather alert has been issued for our viewing area. Holly is the worst storm in eighty years, and she’s earning the title,” Darcy began. “Fatalities and extensive damage are being reported in Montana.

  “This morning, an abrupt jog has turned the storm to Colorado. Specifically, onto you, Portal. The weather is deteriorating rapidly. As you can see behind me, whiteout conditions are already occurring. High winds and a mix of snow and ice are making travel extremely dangerous and next to impossible. Authorities are advising you get where you’re going now and settle in.

  “For the last several hours, flights have been halted in Denver and diverted to Portal International Airport. We’re about five miles from PIA now, and it’s taken hours to get this far. All along our path, we’ve witnessed cars spinning and sliding off the road. An eighteen-wheeler jack-knifed near the intersection of Interstates 25 and 76. The driver is critically injured. Stranded motorists have abandoned their vehicles and are seeking shelter on foot despite being warned to stay with their vehicles. Temperatures are plummeting. We expect subzero within the hour. Roads are closed to all but emergency vehicles and will remain shut until after the storm passes. The National Guard has been activated to assist stranded drivers but, be warned, if the winds get much higher, they too will be sidelined, as will emergency responders.

  “Over 1800 flights have been cancelled at DIA in Denver. Now, I’ve just been advised, the diversionary airport in Portal has closed. With over 5,000 stranded travelers, Portal International is well over capacity. Our crew has been trying to make the typically thirty-minute trek from the station to PIA for over two and a half hours.

  “At the moment, authorities are uncertain how many are without power, though they expect the number will be extraordinarily high by tomorrow morning due to ice and near hurricane-strength winds.

  “We’ll be onsite at PIA—Portal International—with live updates as soon as possible. Authorities urge residents to exercise extreme caution. In all of Portal’s recorded history, we have not seen a storm like this. It’s critical to your safety and your family’s that you listen to the authorities. Follow their advice. Hunker down, Portal. And stay tuned for the latest weather alerts.

  “A personal observation: Conditions are already rough out here. They are going to get a lot worse before they get better. Avoid taking risks, check your emergency supplies, and stay safe. Remember, things can be replaced. You can’t.

  “This is Darcy Keller for Portal 3 News. Back to you in the studio…”

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuesday, December 17th

  1440 (2:40 PM)

  Why do weathermen and women stand outside in near hurricane-strength winds, blowing snow and ice, to relay Emergency Weather Alerts, reporting dangerous weather conditions, and urge residents to stay indoors?

  Emma Miller stood in a cluster of stranded travelers staring up at the TV screen in the Portal Airport terminal unable to think of one good reason for a person to put themselves through that misery. From Darcy Keller’s involuntary twitches, the ice pelting her stung through her heavy red coat and the hood covering her head. Worse, she was clearly pregnant. A couple standing near Emma questioned the wisdom of Darcy Keller being out in the storm, risking a fall or injury. Silently, Emma agreed. The ice was slick. The heavy scarf at Darcy’s neck draped down the front of her coat, and she wore a hood and gloves and boots so the only exposed skin was on her face, yet the cold air fogged her breath to the point viewers couldn’t clearly make out her features.

  From the advisory, it didn’t appear Emma or any of the other passengers diverted from Denver to Portal were going anywhere anytime soon. Figured. At least the plane had landed before the airport shut down.

  Emma had been exhausted before getting on the plane, though the adrenaline rush had gotten her this far on the long flight. When taxiing in, she had spotted a hotel attached to the last terminal by a long breezeway, but odds were it was already booked or there wouldn’t be so many people staking out sections of floor in the airport terminal itself. Every seat was taken and most of the floor, too.

  She searched her jacket pockets. Found her phone and half a tin of cinnamon Altoids. No purse, no money, nothing but the clothes on her back and the ticket and ID she’d had the foresight to stash in her slacks’ pocket before making the rescue attempt. Darcy Keller had been right. It was going to be a rough couple of days.

  Emma walked on from the gate area, looking for a less populated spot with at least semi-privacy to phone in a report to Home Base. The second terminal was as crowded as the third had been, and the first, Terminal A, was even worse than B or C. The din of voices droned a constant hum that hung in the air. She pressed to the northern end of an area identified by signs as “the Main.” It was a broad and expansive opening defined by overhead, tented awnings, a food court and clusters of shops. Midway through it, she spotted a blessedly empty alcove and ducked into it, then retrieved her phone and contacted Home Base.

  “Silencers. Liz speaking. How may I direct your call?”

  Seeing the young redhead in her mind, Emma spoke softly. “Liz, it’s Emma.” Why was the Director of Operations answering the phone rather than the receptionist, Billie?

  “Are you on the ground?”

  “Yes, but not in Denver.”

  “They diverted you to Portal, correct?”

  “Yes. And as soon as we were wheels down and landed, they shut the airport.” Emma scanned the crowd rushing the food court. “Any chance you can get me some transportation out of—”

  “None,” Liz said, cutting her off. “You’ve been diverted.”

  Spotting an older silver-haired man with a thick briefcase and stooped shoulders, Emma visually followed him from an outlying sportswear store to the food court. Definitely browsing. “We’ve established that, Liz.”

  “I don’t mean the flight. I mean, we—Silencers—have diverted you.”

  Surprise streaked through Emma. They were reassigning her to another security detail assignment already? She hadn’t yet gotten home from the last one, and it had been grueling. Hostage rescue operations were always rough. “To where?”

  “You’re there. Portal International Airport.”

  “Seriously?” More perplexed than anything else, Emma inhaled deeply and caught the scent of lemon. She looked up and sure enough, there was a vent overhead. Why anyone, especially in an airport, would mask scents, she had no idea. It was a prime violation of protocol and an opportunity for unsavory types to insert bio-contaminates.

  “Seriously,” Liz said. “Look at it this way. You’re stuck there anyway. At least you’ll be busy during the storm.”

  “There are thousands of people crammed into this facility, Liz. Surely PIA has its own security team.” Every international airport did these days.

  “It does,” she agreed. “But your assignment isn’t to secure the facility or the people.”

  That disclosure made Emma’s mission as clear as mud. Briefcase Man reappeared with coffee and a pretzel. “What am I securing then?” Emma couldn’t imagine.

  “Just let me tell you, okay? I’m slammed here today—Billie is out until God knows when with the flu—so I need to streamline for efficiency.”

  Emma didn’t sigh. She wanted to, but she didn’t. “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “Use your same cover. Investigative journalist for American National Reporters—and no Loeb Award nominations this time. The director is still freaking out over the notoriety on your first mission.”

  Emma nearly had been booted from Silencers’ training program over that. Security Specialists were most effective if forgettable and unnoticed. According to Liz, Emma’s looks were Strike One against her. The award nomination, a huge Strike Two. If she got a Third Strike, she would be kicked out of the program. It was that simple.
Everything she’d been working toward these past three years would be gone in a snap. No discussion. No reprieve. And no exceptions. Her fingers curled tightly around the phone. “I understand.”

  “Stay put under the tent in The Main. That’s an area with stretched canvas overhead in the main terminal.”

  She’d seen the signs. “I’m there now.”

  “Good.” Liz sounded relieved further explanation was unnecessary. “Apparently, a lot of construction’s going on there.”

  “Noted that on the way in. Looks especially comprehensive on Levels Three and Four.”

  “It is, or so we’re told. Heavy renovations. Fortunately, you’ll be located elsewhere in the facility, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

  Regardless of where you were located in the facility, those open construction areas created worrisome vulnerabilities. Emma refrained from saying so.

  “Your point of contact will retrieve you in fifteen minutes. Six-two, one-ninety, blue eyes, hasn’t shaved in a few days, but he’s a good-looking guy. His name is Dr. Gregory Martin.”

  Checking her watch beneath her black coat sleeve, Emma stilled. “Dr. Gregory Mason Martin?” Her throat thick, she waited for Liz’s response. Dread churned with curiosity in her stomach.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  A shiver coursed up Emma’s backbone. Of all the people in the world, why him? The entire mission just wrapped up had been like this. She hadn’t been able to catch a break with both hands and a net.

  “Bio-containment expert. He runs the high-containment facility there that only a few know exists.”

  Emma frowned into her phone. “There’s a high-containment lab here, in this airport?” What genius did that? Airports being terrorist targets had required they be hardened, but, good grief. Bio-contaminates in an airport? That was just insane.