by Jillian Hart
A mild case of frostbite. His blood was warming his extremities, that explained his physiological symptoms. He’d be lucky if he didn’t come down with pneumonia. He wasn’t a greenhorn; he was a Montanan, born and bred. But it had been oblivion he’d been seeking when he ran out into the storm. The cold had frozen him down to the soul.
He’d skied with all his might, skidding down gullies and kicking up hills by memory. The years he’d been away had seemed to fall away, and he’d known where the fences were that separated fields and marked property lines. He’d known the deep irrigation ditch siding the country road he’d used for the last quarter-mile stretch. He’d found his way, succeeding in losing his pain.
For a while.
But he was thawing. So was his pain, which coursed through him like the blood in his veins. His fingertips seared and throbbed. Nothing serious, so he ignored it and wrapped his hands around the big stoneware mug with hollyberries rimming a Christmas scene.
He’d been wrong to come here. He’d tried to get away from the holiday memories in his mom’s house, but this was no better.
Did the McKaslins know how to do anything halfway? Christmas was everywhere, from the ten-foot tree decorated like an interior designer had gotten hold of it, piled with gifts beneath, to the wreaths on the walls. Twinkle bulbs raced along the ceiling and cast light like stardust onto a snowy Christmas village on the mantel. Peppermint-striped candles sat in snowflake-shaped holders, and the scents of pine and wood smoke grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.
Voices rose from the kitchen. Gruff male voices followed by the clink of metal hitting the floor. Before the past could jerk him backward in time, the fire popped like a gunshot and Kristin leaped up to sweep the burning spark off the carpet and onto the stone hearth. The ember glowed brightly, pulsing with light and dark.
With the present and the past. Ryan realized he’d been holding the cup in midair, so he took a big gulp. Chocolaty and sweetly frothy, it burned him from his tongue to his stomach lining.
Kristin settled back to her spot on the floor, cringing from the sounds from the kitchen. Dad had offered to help Zach put Allie’s new tricycle together. Judging by the sound of things, there were a few problems.
A horrible clash of metal reverberated through the house followed by the angry sounds of displeasure coming from her dad. She heard Zach’s frustrated comment on the inadequacy of the directions and a missing screw. There was a bang of the back door, the eerie howl of the wind.
Dad was probably going to search through the garage to see if he had something in his toolbox that would work. She hoped he bundled up first. She took her mug with her as she crossed to the window. There was nothing—only night reflected back to her in the shine of the glass and the glow from the tree lights. Ice clung in filmy streaks along the edges of the panes.
“The storm’s getting worse.” Ryan spoke behind her. He’d come without a sound. The light from the tree and the fire lapped around him, stroking the long neat lines of him, of his breadth, his height. A substantial man, even in shadow. “Maybe I’d better get home before—”
The wind punched the house with a fury that rattled the windows. That seemed to move the entire structure an inch off the foundation. Black pellets scoured the glass and the sudden chill penetrating the window had her shivering.
“Maybe I won’t be heading home just yet.” Ryan’s hand settled on her shoulder.
Comfort. That’s what his touch gave her. Not a friendly kind of comfort, or a brotherly kind of steadiness. The weight of his palm on the curve of her neck, the heat of him, the might. He felt powerful enough to protect her from the wind and darkness, the cold and the night. Her entire being sparkled in the silence that seemed to fall between them.
There was only him, the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his socks on the carpet as he shifted his weight to draw her away from the cold. The winter-and-man scent of him and the faint hint of fabric softener on his shirt. The shadows in her heart seemed to fade, and the ache vanished.
Dad, raking snow out of his hair, stepped into the archway. The wind was too loud to have heard him come in, but there he was, safe and sound, his dear face chapped red from his trek outside. “Ryan, you’d best stay here for a bit. And whatever you do, don’t go skiing back. I’ll leave my keys on the counter. You take my truck, you hear? It’s four-wheel drive. It’ll get you home safe.”
“Thanks, Mr. McKaslin. I appreciate it.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about tri-cycles, would ya? I’ve worked on farm machinery all my life, and Zach’s a mechanic. You’d think between the two of us, we could put a kid’s trike together.” Dad shook his head, managing a smile.
But he looked weary. And old. Her daddy was looking old.
When had that happened? Kristin went to him, feeling as fragile as glass. Although they rarely spoke of it, this time of year was hardest on him, too. “You look like you need a cup of cocoa and some help. You’re in luck.”
“I’ve been known to be handy with a wrench, in a pinch.” Ryan’s deep voice vibrated through her, and it felt as if for an instant they were connected.
Maybe it just felt that way because they were united in purpose. Kristin made cocoa and gave her opinion on various interpretations of the instructions while the men worked. Dad, with tension etched deep into his face. Zach, frustrated and checking the time as the evening vanished. Ryan looking less troubled with something to keep him busy.
Yet she could still feel his sadness as if it were her own.
There had been something calming about the frustration over the construction of the tricycle. Ryan rubbed at the tension in his neck from leaning and twisting trying to get the handlebars in place. It had taken a mechanic, a farmer and a surgeon nearly forty minutes to reach success. Zach had left with a perfect pink-and-white trike covered with a tarp in the back of his truck.
“Well, good night to you, young man.” Mr. McKaslin set empty mugs on the counter, lost in shadows. “I’m goin’ on up to bed. Don’t you forget to take my truck.”
“Thanks, sir.” The winds were dying, the blizzard beginning to wind down. He needed to get back, it was nearly midnight. Since the phone lines were dead and his cell wasn’t picking up a signal, his mom was likely to be worried about him.
Celebration marked this room, too. The kitchen and eating area were huge and homey. Multicolor twinkle lights flashed in a cheerful rhythm from the archways and the tops of cabinets, threading over plant shelves and draping from valences. A ceramic nativity scene waited patiently on the polished wood of the window seat. Why the sight of the porcelain mother and child made Ryan’s chest hurt, he didn’t know. Too many feelings, too much regret? Probably.
There was something about this house, too. This home with its feeling of family in the very air. Of closeness. He could sense what tomorrow would be like. Of the women laughing and working and filling up the kitchen, preparing the Christmas meal. The little kids underfoot, with new toys and limitless energy and munching on those great Christmas cookies. The shouts of the men in the living room and the sound of a game would fill the house.
He remembered on Thanksgiving how it was. A family come together to celebrate.
His chest felt wide open. He’d been wrong to come. Wrong to stay. Foolish to think that he could escape by coming here. Blindly, he grabbed his dad’s old coat from the back of the kitchen chair, where it had been drying. He’d come here for a reason.
He unzipped the side pocket, where a small thin box was buried. It had been there all day. He’d grabbed it when Kendra had been by to pick him and Mom up in her sleigh, and he’d totally forgotten. And by the looks of it, it had survived.
It wasn’t the only thing in his pocket.
Ryan set aside the box. His heart began to pound in double rhythm. His fingers fumbled as he withdrew the envelope. Ryan was written in a man’s hand— Dad’s handwriting—on the front.
Why hadn’t he noticed this before? Hands shakin
g, knees weak, he sank into the nearest chair. His fingers working the card loose from the envelope without thought. In the glow of the twinkle lights, he saw it was a card meant for a kid. There was a cartoon dog on the front and big block letters proclaiming, Happy Birthday to the Best Son Ever!
Oh, God. Why hadn’t anyone found this? Ryan put it down. Picked it back up. It looked as though there was handwriting inside the card—more of Dad’s handwriting.
He squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath. Freezing every emotion inside him before he broke apart. Before the little boy inside him could remember.
He concentrated on the faint clink and clunk from the next room. The rush and rustle wrapping paper made when it was unrolled. The snap of Scotch tape. The squeak of a bow as it was stretched and twisted. Kristin must be wrapping last-minute gifts. He could hear her gentle frustration, “Mickey! I don’t need any help, thank you very much!”
The ripple of her chuckle was warm and wonderful. Soft as silver it seemed to hook his senses. The ice scouring the siding faded to silence until there was only the rustle of her graceful movements, the pad of her step on the carpet. It was too late to hide the card or the emotion leaving him unable to move.
He didn’t look up to acknowledge her presence. He could see the black toes of her boots at the far edge of his vision. She’d stopped to lean against the arched doorway. Her nearness breezed over him like a touch against his skin.
“It looks as if we were on the same wavelength.”
At the sound of her voice, he dragged his gaze upward. He felt raw, wide open, unable to close down his heart or call up his defenses to protect him from her. The sight of her standing like a dream in the decorated archway, the gentle lights twinkling over her like star shine, took his breath away.
She looked like perfection just standing there, in a simple red sweater and jeans belted at her slim waist, a fuzzy gray cat cradled in her left arm, a small wrapped gift in the other. She arched one eyebrow, awaiting his answer.
His mind was a blur. “What?”
“Exchanging presents. I’ve got one for you. I’m guessing that one’s for me.”
Words tore like claws in his throat. Unable to speak, he watched, unable to stop her, as she padded toward him. It felt as if her every step closer was a raw scrape against his exposed heart. Something thudded against the card in his hands. A water droplet. A second. A third. The envelope slid from between his fingers and sailed to the floor, skidding to a halt at Kristin’s feet.
“What’s this?” She knelt, back straight, keeping the kitty balanced. The paper rasped against the linoleum as she rescued the envelope.
He hung his head, unable to make the wetness in his eyes go away.
Or the explosion inside his heart. What he ought to do was to suck it up, paste a normal look on his face, so she couldn’t guess what was going on. Give her the gift, tell her goodbye and march straight into the night. Keep on going until the night numbed him enough so that he could go home, go on with his life per usual.
The card trembled in his hand.
He couldn’t let her see. Couldn’t let her in. She’d want to soothe him, comfort him with platitudes, and what good would that do? His dad was forever gone. It would never be okay. Never be anything but an unhealed wound inside his heart.
Kristin’s hand covered his.
He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t make himself push her away. The pain swelled in his chest, like a wave breaking against the shore.
“This is from your dad.” She sounded gentle. “Where did you get it?”
He scrubbed his eyes, willing the pain away. Failing. “In the pocket. It was his coat.”
“Did you read what he wrote?”
He breathed in. His entire being shuddered. Hot grief burned on the back of his eyelids. No, he didn’t want to read it. He couldn’t bear to bring in any more pain. He was drowning in it. It did no good to dig up the past. To look back at what could never be changed.
“I think you should.” Her words came softly. She held open the card.
He yanked it from her grip. His eyes couldn’t focus at first. Head down, he jammed it into his pocket. “I’d best be going.”
“You want to open your present first?”
She was remarkable. That’s what she was. He swiped his eyes with his fingertips, hiding the fact that his face was wet, and did the best he could to turn away. He felt trapped in purgatory with the past a heavy rock around his neck, drawing him down an endless hill and he was helpless to stop the fall.
“Ryan, you’re not okay. Why don’t I drive you home?”
He was at the back door. He didn’t remember standing up. Walking away. Crossing the room. He leaned his forehead against the cold panel of glass and willed the sob building in his windpipe to stay down. But it was rising up. He couldn’t let it.
She was behind him, her hand on his back. A calm steady comfort that he didn’t want and couldn’t stomach. But he needed it like air.
“No, I’ll be fine.” He was relieved that his words sounded normal. A little strained, but good enough. He looked down to find Pete’s truck keys in his hand. There was nothing to do but leave, while he still had a scrap of dignity. “Merry Christmas, Miss McKaslin.”
She slid the gift into his pocket. “Merry Christmas, Dr. Sanders. Drive safe. It’s cold out there.”
The thick layer of clouds broke apart, sending the snow scattering. A white shaft of moonlight lit the steps ahead, as if to guide him. Kristin watched him slip away, a tall hulk of a man in the parka he didn’t bother to zip, and that worried her as she held the door after him.
She could feel the weight of his pain like the press of the frigid air. A pain that staggered her, and as she closed the door, she felt the furnace kick on and the rush of hot air at her ankles. Mickey squirmed in her arms, he wanted down, so she released him.
The grief inside her crescendoed—and it wasn’t her own. She could feel his pain. It was odd, as if he were a part of her. She couldn’t explain it as she brushed tears from her eyes. Please, Father, help him to read the card. Comfort him.
There was no answer as the big shadow of a man ambled down the walkway and toward the garage. He vanished from her sight, but she could feel him still in the center of her heart. So much agony. She rubbed her sternum with the heel of her hand.
Maybe she’d been wrong in letting him go. But he was so capable and he’d stood so strong and straight. As if he didn’t need her. Why would he? They weren’t even friends, not really.
A blur of movement caught her gaze. There he was, inside Dad’s truck. He’d pulled the vehicle out of the garage and, judging by the plume of exhaust, was letting the motor warm up a little before taking off.
The needle on the thermometer tacked on the trunk of the snow-draped maple pointed toward the low minus twenties. Way too cold to take off after him. He sat straight and tall behind the wheel, silhouetted by the slice of moonlight through the clouds. He looked all right.
She didn’t know what to do. Only moments ago he’d been seated in the dark, his head bowed, pain radiating off him. She remembered how one drop had marked the card he’d handed her. One tear.
She wasn’t sure how to handle that at all. He’d been so restrained then, as he was now, a shadow in the night as he leaned forward, probably to adjust the defroster. He straightened, and the pain inside her swelled until her ribs ached.
Was it her pain? Or his?
Was it possible to feel someone else’s emotions?
She didn’t know. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see. Ryan’s head bowed forward. Was he reading the card? She reached for her coat and let her heart lead her into the cold and night.
Chapter Ten
The past was like a monster reaching out of the dark to choke him. Ryan tossed the child’s birthday card on the bench seat. He couldn’t look at it. He wasn’t a coward or anything, but what was the point? Molten hot emotion built in his chest, threatening to erupt and h
e couldn’t let it. There was no point in giving in to something that couldn’t be changed.
What he needed to do was to go home, go to bed, make it through the day and pray for a reason to leave ahead of schedule. Maybe he’d call in for messages. See if there was some emergency he could volunteer for, so he could head home.
He could leave all this behind. Wouldn’t that be better? Yeah, he’d give anything right now to be able to be in Phoenix. There were no memories of Dad there. Nor the wild beauty of Montana’s icy winters. Just temperate sunshine and rustling palm trees. Yep, that’s what he needed.
A knock on the window came out of nowhere—and sent waves of adrenaline sparking through his veins. The door opened before he could react, and a hooded figure tumbled inside along with the frigid air. Kristin.
“Hey, there.” The door shut, and she shivered in her coat and gloves. She didn’t appear to notice he wasn’t in the mood for company. “I haven’t been in this kind of cold since last Christmas. I figure I might as well drive over with you and bring the truck back.”
“No way. Then you’re out here alone with all this snow. The roads haven’t been plowed yet.”
“I’m a Montana girl. What’s a little snow?”
Silvered by the moonlight, framed by the night, she looked as beautiful as a dream. He swore he could feel more than her physical closeness. Her sympathy, soft as the tiny bit of moonlight reflecting on the miles of snow, chased away the dark. Eased the shadows.
Shame twisted bitterly in his stomach. He couldn’t believe how he’d acted in front of her in the kitchen. He’d been way too vulnerable.
Way too…weak.
That’s what it was. He’d lost his dad as a kid. Sure, it had devastated him, but life went on. Worse tragedies happened every day. He was a man now. A man didn’t go around crying like a little boy over what could never be changed. Right?