Christmas At Copper Mountain (A Copper Mountain Christmas)

by Jane Porter

  Downstairs, she opened the door, and blinked at the bite of cold wind. It’d stopped snowing hours ago but tiny flakes swirled and trembled around them as the frigid gust of air sent the powdery snow tumbling from the trees to the ground.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, pulling her sweater closer to her body as she glanced from the blond man to the two children at his side. The children, dressed in school uniforms, looked half-frozen without proper winter coats, their navy wool blazers with the red and gold school insignia on the chest, inadequate for the low Montana temperature.

  “I’m Sheriff O’Dell,” the man said, introducing himself, before pointing to the kids. “These two look familiar?”

  Harley glanced down at the two pre-adolescents, the boy with dark hair, the girl’s a light reddish brown. Both of their pale faces were lightly freckled. “No,” she said, confused. “Should they?”

  The sheriff frowned. “They say they belong here.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “We live here.” She pushed past Harley to enter the house, her back pack knocking the door wide open. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Dad?” Harley repeated, hugging the wall, watching the boy follow the girl in.

  “Yes, Dad,” the girl replied, glaring at Harley. “Brock Sheenan. Heard of him?”

  Harley blinked, taken aback. “Uh, yes. Of course. I’m his housekeeper—”

  “Where’s Maxine?” the girl interrupted. “Don’t tell me Dad got rid of Maxine?”

  “No,” Harley answered, bundling her arms across her chest, shocked, chilled, unable to process that Brock had kids. He’d never once mentioned kids to her. “She took a personal leave but will be back in January.”

  “Good.” The girl’s narrowed gaze swept Harley. “’Cause for a minute there I thought Dad had a girlfriend.”

  Harley stared at the girl, absolutely blindsided. “And you are...?”

  “Molly,” the girl said promptly. “And that’s Mack.”

  “We’re twins,” Mack said, giving Harley a shy smile as he set his back pack down in the hall. “Don’t mind Molly. She was just born this way.”

  “Shut up, Lady Gaga,” Molly retorted, punching the boy’s shoulder, but it wasn’t very hard. “And I got us home. You didn’t think I could.”

  “Well, actually Sheriff O’Dell got us home—”

  “From Marietta. But I got us to Marietta from New York,” she flashed, nose lifting. “And that was the hard part.”

  “Just glad we’re here.” Mack glanced around. “Where is Dad? Is he here?”

  “No,” Harley said shivering. She honestly didn’t know what to make of any of this. “He should be back anytime though. I’d actually expected him before now.” She gestured for the sheriff to enter the house so she could close the door.

  “Is he out of town?” The sheriff asked, taking off his hat as he entered the house.

  “No. He’s... out on the property.” Harley grimaced. “On horseback.”

  The sheriff frowned but the kids didn’t look perturbed. Mack actually nodded. “He’s probably looking for a cow,” he said.

  Harley glanced at the boy. “Yes.”

  “That’s Dad. He can’t sleep if he thinks one of them might be in trouble.”

  The sheriff looked from the kids to Harley. “So I can leave them here with you? I’ve got a little girl of my own at home with a sitter, and I ought to get back... if you’re okay here.”

  Harley looked at the pale, wan faces of Brock’s twins. They were obviously exhausted. And cold. “Yes,” she said, wondering just what the story was here. Surely Brock should have mentioned that he had kids arriving tonight...

  Surely he should have mentioned he had kids...

  Surely at some point in the hiring process someone should have mentioned that he had kids...

  The Sheriff reached into his pocket and gave her his card. “If there’s a problem, you’ve got my number, and the office number. Call me.”

  Harley thanked him for his time and assistance, and then he was off and the front door closed again behind him, leaving her alone with the two kids in the hall.

  For a moment they all just stood there and then Harley drew a deep breath, not at all sure what to say, but something needed to be said. “This is a surprise. Your... dad... didn’t mention you were coming.”

  The twins exchanged glances. For a moment there was just silence. Then Mack spoke. “Dad didn’t know we were coming... now. He’s uh... going to be... surprised.”

  Brock was going to be surprised?

  Things were getting even more interesting. “So he didn’t expect you?” Harley asked,

  Mack shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  The kids glanced at each other again. Molly made a face. “School doesn’t get out for the Christmas for another week.”

  “Ten days, actually,” Mack muttered.

  Harley’s eyebrows lifted. “And you go to school where?”

  “New York.” Mack looked up at her from beneath his lashes. He had a mop of thick, dark hair and his dark brown eyes were exactly the same shade as his father’s. Definitely Brock’s boy. “It’s a boarding school.”

  “Which we hate,” Molly said fiercely, shortly, shivering. She had dark shadows beneath her blue-gray eyes that made her freckles stand out even more. “So we’re home.”

  Harley gazed down at the children, thinking they couldn’t be much older than ten or eleven. “And you got to Marietta from New York on your own?”

  They nodded in unison.

  “We took a train and then a bus.” Molly sounded proud, even though she was still shivering. “But now we’re broke.”

  Harley still had a dozen more questions but realized they weren’t important now. The kids were freezing and had to be hungry and tired. “Grab your back packs. Show me your rooms,” she said, unable to imagine the kids in the two guest rooms on the second floor, rooms she kept clean and pristine with daily dusting but it was impossible to picture the kids in those rooms. They were handsome enough rooms, but totally impersonal.

  Upstairs, Harley’s heart fell as Mack opened the first door on the right. “My room,” he said, swinging his back pack onto the full size bed with rustic headboard. The walls were recycled barn planks, just like her room and a red, taupe, and green Native American blanket covered the duvet. A framed antique flag hung on the wall and some old iron brands hung on another wall and those were the only decorative elements.

  Harley had been in this room daily and it had never once crossed her mind that it belonged to a child. Where were the toys and posters and framed pictures? Where were the bright colors and fun pillows and stuffed animals?

  “This looks so adult,” she said, trying to sound complimentary, even as she remembered the murals she’d painted in her own children’s rooms, and the colorful matching duvet covers and shams she’d sewn to match the murals. Each of her three had picked out his or her own theme: Ariel and Under the Sea, Peter Pan and Never-Never Land, The Cheshire Cat from Alice and Wonderland.

  Molly smothered a yawn. “Dad doesn’t do baby-stuff.” She gestured toward the door. “Let me show you my room.”

  Mack followed them down the hall, and the three entered the second bedroom.

  Molly switched on the light. “This is my room,” she said. Her back pack fell to the floor with a dull thud.

  Harley could see it was a slightly more feminine room. The headboard was an old European piece from the 1800s. Harley imagined the tall, austere headboard had come over with a German or Scandinavian immigrant family. The linens were pale and a deep red velvet tapestry blanket was folded across the foot of the bed. An antique oval mirror hung on one wall. A small framed quilt hung on another wall.

  “Very pretty,” Harley said, heart falling a little more, because the rooms were comfortable and the furniture was solid and the linens were attractive. But the bedrooms lacked life and warmth. They needed photos and knick knacks and posters to make the space personal. The twins we
re pre-teens. Shouldn’t their bedrooms reflect their style?

  She turned to look at the kids. They were drooping with cold and exhaustion. She hadn’t planned on children being here, but now that they were here, she couldn’t ignore them. Not when they looked so pitiful. She drew a quick breath, mustered a smile. “Why don’t you two shower and change and get warm, and I’ll go make you something to eat?”

  Mack nodded eagerly. “Yes, please. I’m starving.”

  “Haven’t had dinner,” Molly said.

  “Or lunch,” Mack added.

  The kids exchanged quick glances.

  “Or much of anything since we left the school yesterday,” Molly said wrinkling her nose.

  Harley felt her insides tighten, churn. These kids had been through a lot and it troubled her but right now the most important thing was getting them warm and fed. “Grilled cheese sound all right?” she asked.

  Both kids nodded.

  “Good. I’ll bring dinner trays up to your rooms, okay?”

  “Okay,” Molly said.

  Mack shook his head. “We can’t.” He looked at Molly, and shook his head again. “You know we can’t eat in our rooms. It’s one of Dad’s rules.” He glanced to Harley, his expression apologetic. “We’re only allowed to eat at the dining room table.”

  “Not in the kitchen at the counter?’ Harley asked, trying to figure out the rules, because there seemed to be quite a few of them.

  “No.” Mack shrugged. “But it’s okay. Some people never eat at the dining room table together. We’re lucky we do.”

  For a moment Harley didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. Her lips eventually curved into a reluctant smile. “You’re right. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  It was close to one when Harley heard heavy footsteps on the back porch. She’d curled up in the rocking chair next to the kitchen fire and had dozed while waiting for Brock’s return.

  The stomp of his feet outside the kitchen door woke her. She was on her feet in a flash, opening the door to greet him.

  “You’re back,” she said low, indignantly. She couldn’t help it. It’s been a long, worrying night. And it was all his fault.

  He knocked the snow off his hat and looked at her where she stood in the doorway. “Yes.” His lips curved grimly. “Disappointed?”

  She wrapped her arms around her to stay warm, her breath clouding in little white puffs. “No. Relieved.” She drew her arms even more tightly across her chest. “You have kids.” The words tumbled from her. “Two. A boy and a girl.”

  His eyes narrowed. He frowned, creases in his broad brow. “Yes.”

  “They’re eleven.”

  His frown deepened. “They’re twins.”

  “Mack and Molly.”

  His black brows flattened as he shrugged off his snow crusted coat and hung it up on the peg outside the kitchen door. “And this is important... why?”

  Her jaw tightened. Of course he’d say that. Tonight as she’d sat in the rocking chair she’d thought about everything that had happened today and it struck her that Brock wasn’t reserved. He was rude. “It’s important because they’re here.”

  His dark gaze shot past her to the dimly lit house. “Here?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sheenan. They arrived this evening around eleven, while you were out.”

  “At the house?”

  “Yes. They’re upstairs sleeping now. I fed them dinner and put them to bed.”

  “Huh,” he grunted, stepping around her to enter the house. Make that, push his way into the house.

  Just as Molly had when she’d arrived.

  Harley bit her lip, thinking that Mack might have inherited his dad’s dark good looks, but Molly had his personality and temper. She followed him into the kitchen where he dropped his damp felt hat on the counter and tugged off his leather work gloves. Melting snow dripped from the hem of his chaps.

  His gaze was fixed on the hall with the view of the staircase. “Sleeping, you said?”

  She battled her temper, closing the kitchen door and locking it with the dead bolt. “I hope they’re sleeping. It’s almost one in the morning.”

  He said nothing to this, crossing to the fireplace to sit down in the rocking chair she’d just vacated. He worked one wet boot off, and then another. The kitchen’s lights were turned low and the kitchen was shadowy, save for the red glow of the fire which still burned with a good-sized log. “You kept the fire burning,” he said.

  “You weren’t home,” she answered, standing next to the counter, watching him, thinking that everything had changed. Her feelings about being here had changed. She didn’t want to be here anymore.

  For a moment there was just silence and she curled her fingers into the edge of her fuzzy sleeve, making fists out of her curled fingers.

  She should just go to bed right now, before anything else was said.

  She should just go to bed before she said something she’d regret.

  But she couldn’t make herself walk out. Couldn’t leave. She was still too upset. Too shocked. Too worried.

  Brock Sheenan was a widower, with kids, and his kids were good kids but they were lonely and homesick and being raised with a lot of tough love. Harley came from a strict Dutch family. She understood rules and order but she’d also been raised with plenty of affection, and laughter, and fun.

  After sitting with Mack and Molly while they wolfed down their grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, Harley wasn’t sure the twins had known a lot of hugs and kisses and laughter.

  And that ate at her.

  It ate at her after they’d gone to sleep. It ate at her as she sat in the rocking chair. It ate at her now.

  Brock leaned back in the rocking chair, his big shoulders filling the entire space, his chest so broad it made the oversized rocking chair look small. “Spit it out,” he said.

  Harley’s fists squeezed tighter. “Spit it out?”

  His dark head inclined. “You’re obviously dying to say something. So say it. I’m tired. Hungry. I want to eat and go to bed.”

  She drew a breath and fought for calm. She had to be calm. Men didn’t like hysterical women. “You didn’t mention them, Mr. Sheenan.”

  The rocking chair tipped back. He looked at her from under very dark lashes, his dark gaze almost black in the shadowy kitchen. “I didn’t know they were coming.”

  “But you never mentioned them.”

  “So?”

  “So? I’d think you’d mention it when applying for a housekeeper. The agency never mentioned kids. You never mentioned kids. But you have kids, two of them, and they’re here for the holidays.”

  His brow lowered. “They shouldn’t be here yet.” He paused, thought. “What is the date?”

  “December 8th. It’s a Sunday.”

  He said nothing.

  She swallowed her impatience. “I arrived a week ago today, on the first. I’ve been here a week.”

  Frowning, he gazed at the fire. “They weren’t supposed to be here until the nineteenth. That’s when school gets out for the holidays,” he added, half under his breath.

  “Does it not... worry... you that they’re here?” she asked. She waited for him to say something. He seemed in no hurry to speak, so she pressed on. “Does it not trouble you that two eleven-year-olds, who go to school in New York, are on your doorstep in Montana at eleven at night?”

  “It most definitely concerns me,” he said finally, looking at her. He rubbed a hand slowly across his bristled jaw. “But you said they were asleep. What do you want me do? Go haul them out of bed and interrogate them in the middle of the night?”

  Her eyes burned and she looked away, staring into the glowing embers of the fire. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be part of this. She didn’t want children or Christmas or a pirate for a boss.

  “No, of course not,” she said, her voice dropping, deepening. “I just... don’t understand. How you could not know the kids were missing from school. Shouldn’t the school have called you? Shouldn�
��t you have been on a plane the moment you heard that no one could find your twins?”

  He closed his eyes, grimaced. “The school probably did call. I’m sure if I checked my phone there would be messages. But I rarely keep it on me as it doesn’t work in the back country so no, I don’t pay much attention to it.”

  Or your kids, she wanted to add.

  She didn’t.

  Her fingers twisted, tugging on the fuzzy sweater sleeve. “But why would you never mention them to me? Why would you never once mention that those two guest rooms were actually your children’s rooms and you expected your kids home on the nineteenth for their school holiday?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

  She bundled her arms across her chest, cold, so cold. “How could they not matter?”

  He leaned forward, his dark gaze skewering her. “I did not say they didn’t matter. I said I didn’t think it mattered if you knew.” His jaw hardened and a small muscle popped in his square jaw, near his ear. “And don’t do that again. Put words in my mouth. I may not be president of the PTA, but I love my kids.”

  “Then why don’t you have any pictures of them? Why don’t you have any of their artwork framed? Where are their books and toys—”

  “I don’t like clutter.”

  “What about them? What about what they like?”

  “Pardon me?” He was on his feet, towering over her.

  Her heart raced, blood roaring in her ears. He didn’t just look like a savage with the fire’s flickering flames casting a glow over his hard features, he sounded like a savage, too. But she wasn’t intimidated. She’d been through far too much in life to be intimidated by an eccentric mountain man. “You never once mentioned them to me in a week of working here. I had no idea that those two bedrooms I was dusting every day were your children’s rooms. I had no idea that two eleven-year-olds would be showing up here on the nineteenth for their Christmas holidays.”

  “Clearly their arrival has upset you.”

  Harley’s lips tightened. Her heart thudded uncomfortably hard. “No. They haven’t upset me. You have upset me.”

  “Me?”