12 Gifts for Christmas

by Various

  “Why didn’t you?”

  More silence. Then: “According to my mother, I’m a self-involved fool who doesn’t know a good thing when she sees it.”

  “I take it I’m the ‘good thing’?” he said, smiling despite the heaviness crushing his chest.

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Going after what you want doesn’t make you self-involved,” he said quietly. “And after watching you with Casey … No. I have nothing but respect for your mother, but she’s definitely got the wrong end of the stick there.”

  “What about the fool part?”

  He smiled over at her. “Now, there, I just might have to agree with her.”

  “Yeah,” she said, and sighed. “Me, too.” A moment later, she said, “So. Talk to me.”

  “About?”

  “Whatever you’ve taken such great pains to avoid over the past few days.” She glanced at him. “Carole, especially.”

  “You don’t—”

  “Yes, I do,” she said gently. “I’ve unloaded to you plenty. Your turn.”

  So he did. And as the miles passed, Nolan was amazed to discover that the more he talked about his wife, the smaller that hole in his heart became. When he spoke about Casey, though …

  “Sorry,” he said when his throat tightened. “It’s just … Case and I haven’t spent a night apart since his mother died.”

  Evie let out a soft moan then unlatched her seat belt to slide across the bench. She fastened the middle seat belt and leaned against him, her hand lightly clasping his knee. “I’m honored,” she said quietly. Several more miles passed before she said, “I don’t suppose there’s a fireplace in this house?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Why? Are you cold?”

  Scooching closer, she inched her hand up his thigh. “No,” she said, sounding like the daring, sparkly eyed Evie of old, and Nolan bit his tongue to keep from making some lame comment about their going out with a bang.

  Evie watched the shadows play across Nolan’s bare back as he stoked the waning fire. They’d had goodbye sex before, of course—sex pulsing with anger and sorrow and frustration. This time, though … The frustration was still there, she supposed, but the past hour had been more about the unexpected thrill of running into an old friend. She gave a short laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Nolan said, pivoting toward her, unconcerned as ever about his nakedness. And let it be hereby noted that the intervening years had been extraordinarily kind to him.

  Lying on her stomach atop the comforter they’d dragged off the queen-size bed, Evie smiled at him. “We are, I suppose. Being so civilized about this and all.”

  Nolan stretched out beside her, his head planted in his palm as his fingers rippled down her spine. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not feeling terribly civilized right now.”

  “This was your idea,” Evie said, in one motion pushing him onto his back and straddling him, shivering in anticipation of his touch. He smiled when her nipples beaded and he bent forward to take one in his mouth. He knew exactly how hard to tug, to suck, to tease. And maybe it was sappy, but it was true—there’d never been anyone like him, no one who even bothered to remember from one time to the next what she liked, let alone after ten years.

  “I know,” he murmured, lifting her off, laying her on her back. She shivered again, opening to him, smiling at the gentle puffs of warmth on her skin as he traced old, familiar paths with his mouth, his tongue. “But I’d forgotten how good you feel … and taste … how good you make me feel—”

  “Don’t spoil it,” she said, tears crowding her eyes.

  “Not to worry,” he said, tonguing her until she climaxed so hard she thought she’d have a stroke. She’d barely caught her breath before he spread her knees and sank deep inside her, deeper than anyone else, ever. Maybe living in the burbs wouldn’t be so bad if I had this to look forward to on a regular basis, she thought. Then all thought was banished by another explosion of heat and light and love, this one even more spectacular than the first.

  Afterward they clung to each other, silent and still, as the fire burned down, leaving nothing but ash and a weird, unfamiliar sensation in the center of Evie’s chest. Her forehead crimped and she rummaged around in her brain until finally, she figured out what it was.

  Contentment.

  Nolan held her until she was all cried out.

  He found Evie outside the next morning, wearing his Broncos jacket over her turtleneck and jeans, watching the sun come up over the still, cold lake. Barefoot, his corduroy shirt half-unbuttoned, he threaded his arms around her waist from behind and she leaned into his embrace. A good sign, he thought.

  “I can’t tell you the last time I made love four times in one night,” he mumbled into her hair and she laughed softly. “But I’m pretty sure it was with you.”

  “Same here.” She paused, then said, “Funny how I’d assumed—”

  “What?”

  “That … before, it was just because it was still so new. That we were so new.”

  “The young and the horny?”

  “Something like that, yes.” She turned in his arms, honesty raw in her eyes. “That wasn’t it, was it?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Curling into his chest, Evie tucked her head under his chin. “I was wrong. There’s nothing even remotely civilized about this.” Nolan shut his eyes against the pain of the truth of their circumstances.

  Her breath warm against his neck, she said, “You didn’t bring me here to say goodbye. You were hoping I’d change my mind.”

  Half smiling, he pressed a kiss into her hair. “Can you blame me for trying?”

  She reared back to give him a sad smile. “Since it almost worked … no.”

  Nolan’s heart jolted. “Almost?”

  Evie lowered her eyes to his chest. “It really is like we just picked up where we left off. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but …” She lifted her gaze. “But then, it never was about a lack of love.” His shirtfront clutched in her hands, she shook her head, tears brimming over her lashes. “And it still isn’t.”

  Nolan lightly kissed her mouth then let her go, turning to face the lake, barely aware of the chilly breeze. Fingers shoved into his pockets, he said, “I’d never try talking you out of doing whatever you need to do. But it just seems to me …” He turned back. “Sweetheart, trying to be yourself shouldn’t mean losing yourself in the process.” At her wide eyes, he plowed ahead. “You’re not really doing what you want to do—you’re doing what you think you’re supposed to be doing in order to get there. Wherever there is.”

  “Nolan—”

  “I’m not finished. I really do want you to be happy, Evie. Sure, in a perfect world, that’d be with me and Casey. But if that’s not to be …” He sucked in a breath. “I can deal with that. What I can’t deal with is knowing that you’re not happy. If you’re half as lonely as I am, I know how much you’re suffering. And I just want you to be really sure what you’re putting yourself through is worth that.”

  She couldn’t have looked more hurt if he’d actually smacked her, and he felt like dirt. But if he had to let her go—again—the least he could do was be up-front with her.

  It may not have been the gift she’d expected, but it was the only one he had.

  The next couple of days were a flurry of last-minute shopping and cooking and clandestine wrapping, keeping Evie busy enough to ignore the constant thrum of regret following her last night with Nolan. And it kept her mother too busy to ask questions about the same thing. Still, Nolan’s words churned relentlessly in her brain, as though if she just thought about them long enough and hard enough, some magic solution would eventually work its way to the surface.

  But here it was Christmas Eve, the night of miracles, and the only thing churning was Mama, all aflutter about the church’s annual children’s pageant, even though she’d been in charge of the thing for at least a hundred years.

  “Where the Sam
Hill are the angel wings?” she now muttered as she zipped past Evie in the church hall, crawling with all manner of very excited shepherds, angels and stable critters.

  “You mean these?” Evie said, holding up the pitiful conglomeration of chicken wire, construction paper and glitter she’d worn herself more than twenty years ago.

  “Land, yes,” Mama said, snatching them out of Evie’s hands and zooming to the other side of the room, where a bell undoubtedly tinkled soon thereafter.

  “Is Miz G. okay, Miss Evie?” a tiny blonde lamb asked, tugging at the sparkly Christmas sweater Mama had thrown at Evie earlier with a barked, “Wear this!”

  Smiling, Evie squatted in front of the child and straightened out crooked lamb’s ears as she willed the child’s innocence to soothe her tattered soul. “Yeah, she’s fine,” Evie said, wrinkling her nose. “She just wants everything to be perfect, ‘cause it’s Christmas Eve and all.”

  “Me, too,” the little girl said seriously. Evie laughed and gave the kid a quick hug, thinking how seeing the world through children’s eyes always renewed her spirit. Casey, in particular, had such a quiet sense of wonder about him. And the thought tickled … wouldn’t working with kids be great—?

  “Evie! Thank goodness!”

  She stood as the choir director bore down on her, robe and jowls flapping. “Krissy Stevenson’s got the flu! Please tell me you can sing ‘O Holy Night’!”

  “Oh! Um, sure. As long as Florence lowers it by a third—”

  “Bless you!” The man’s bony body sagged in relief. “Here,” he said, shoving the royal-blue robe into her hands before flying off again. Around her, she heard the murmurs build and swarm—Evie Gallagher was going to sing, wasn’t that wonderful, it had been so long… . She looked up and saw Mama looking pleased enough to burst. And it hit her, with an almost blinding flash, what had really been missing from her life these past ten years.

  The solution was so obvious, so right. Her heart pounding, she scurried into the ladies’ room, digging her cell phone out of her pocket while simultaneously fighting her way into the blue robe. But before it could ring, Mama stuck her head inside and yelled, “What the Sam Hill are you doing? They need you in the sanctuary, now!”

  “But I thought you said we weren’t gonna see Evie again?” Casey said from the backseat as Nolan careened through the Vegas-worthy streets, trusting that the Gallaghers hadn’t given up on a tradition of forty years.

  “I didn’t think we were,” Nolan said distractedly as he pulled into the church’s parking lot, finally finding a space in a galaxy, far, far away. He swung open Casey’s door and hauled him into his arms to hotfoot it across the lot. “But then I remembered her family’s here every Christmas Eve, and I thought you might like it. I don’t actually know if we’ll see Evie—”

  “But you hope so, huh?”

  Nolan smiled at his son. From the moment the revelation of what he had to do hit him not a half hour before, he’d felt as though fireworks were going off in his chest. “Yeah. I do,” he whispered as they slipped into a pew near the back of the sanctuary.

  “Look, Dad—Evie’s gonna sing!”

  He’d forgotten how incredible it was to watch her in all of her glory. Her voice was deeper, richer, than he remembered. He noticed how … tranquil she seemed. At peace. With her decision? He wondered. Well, good, he thought, bolstered. That should only make things easier, right?

  The minute the service was over Nolan grabbed Casey again and made tracks for the church hall, which was packed with people. And Evie was short. Suddenly, though, the seas parted, and there she was, staring at him, shocked. He saw her mouth his name, then burst into the brightest smile he’d ever seen. A minute later, they’d forged toward each other through the chattering, laughing crowd to meet in the middle of the room, where they both started talking at once.

  “No, no, listen,” Evie said, beaming, her hand tight in his. “I tried to call you earlier but then I had to fill in for the soloist and—” She waggled her free hand.

  “Never mind. You were right—I had lost myself! I’ve been going about this the wrong way completely! And if we hadn’t run into each other … if you hadn’t had the courage to say all that …”

  Biting her lower lip, she shook her head. “It was never about being famous,” she said into his eyes. “It was about doing what I loved. About being appreciated. And I can do that anywhere, right? Even …” Her smile broadened. “Even in Denver. In fact, maybe I can start my own theater one day! One with an awesome children’s program,” she said, ruffling Casey’s hair. Her gaze swung back to Nolan’s. “So I’m calling my agent first thing after Christmas, telling him I’m not coming back.” Then she frowned. “Why are you laughing?”

  Nolan slipped an arm around her waist and whispered in her ear, “Because I’d just decided to look for teaching posts in L.A. Because I can teach anywhere, too.”

  Evie pulled back, her eyes popping. “You’d do that for me?”

  “I’d do anything for you,” he said, and her eyes got all shiny.

  “Even … marry me?” she said.

  “Done,” he answered, and then he kissed her.

  “Hey,” Casey said, yanking on his hand. “What’s going on?”

  His heart about to burst, Nolan smiled as he gazed into Evie’s eyes. “I think I just got you a new mom for Christmas.”

  “Yes! This is the best Christmas ever!” Casey cried, loud enough to turn heads in a twenty-foot radius.

  Laughing, Nolan yanked Evie close, making her squeal. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

  She threw her arms around his neck. “You, too,” she said, peace and joy and love shining in her eyes, a promise that they’d never let each other go ever again.

  The best Christmas ever, indeed.

  Cherokee Christmas

  Sheri Whitefeather

  About the Author

  SHERI WHITEFEATHER lives in a cowboy community in Central Valley, California. She loves being a writer and credits her husband, Dru, a tribally enrolled member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, for inspiring many of her stories.

  Sheri and Dru have two beautiful grown children, a trio of cats and a border collie/queensland Heeler that will jump straight into your arms.

  Sheri’s hobbies include decorating with antiques and shopping in thrift stores for jackets from the sixties and seventies, items that mark her interest in vintage Western wear and hippie fringe.

  To contact Sheri, learn more about her books and see pictures of her family, visit her website at www.sheriwhitefeather.com.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “ARE you sure you want to do this?” Traci Calhoun asked her six-year-old son.

  Parker bobbed his head, reddish-blond hair peeking out from beneath a knit cap, a down jacket buttoned to his chin. The heater in Traci’s old Camaro was on the blink again, the defroster blowing cool air. “It’s Christmastime, Mom. And he’s all alone.”

  “Of course, you’re right. What was I thinking?” The daughter of a pastor, she had raised her son well. But today, she wished he wasn’t inclined to extend his goodwill to the outskirts of town. To the elusive stranger who had moved into Orchid House.

  The lone mansion sat on a hill, the woods looming behind it. As the house came into view, she told herself to relax. The ghost stories about Orchid House were legend in Wileyville, but what bothered her most was why Daniel Crow felt compelled to live there, secluded from the rest of the world and shrouded in mystery.

  She parked in front of the mansion. It looked like a Southern plantation, completely out of place on the fringes of a small Pennsylvania town.

  Parker reached for the cookies, the gesture rife with anticipation. “I heard he’s a real live Indian, Mom.”

  And that was a source of fascination to her son, Traci thought. One of the reasons he insisted on paying Daniel Crow a visit. “I know, but I think he might prefer to be called an American Indian, rather than a real live one. Of course, there’s always Native Ame
rican. I get a little confused about what’s politically correct these days.”

  “Huh?”

  The boy made a curious face, and she realized she had spoken over his head. Truthfully, she didn’t know what Daniel Crow preferred. She didn’t know anything about him, aside from the adjectives others had used to describe him.

  Tall. Dark. Lean. Mean. Moody.

  Unfortunately they weren’t the kinds of words that welcomed a woman, a child and a tin of gingerbread.

  A brick walkway led to the front door, twin columns standing guard. An abundance of foliage fought to survive the winter, making the mansion look even more ominous. Supposedly the scent of orchids haunted the lonely halls, a perfume that lingered from the female ghosts who resided there.

  Traci knocked, and her son shifted his feet in the brisk morning air.

  Within minutes, Daniel Crow answered the summons. No one spoke, including Parker, who was known for being chatty. The man they had come to see was tall and intimidating. His hair, as sleek and black as a raven’s wing, fell onto broad shoulders.

  But it was his eyes that caught Traci’s attention. As dark as his hair, they revealed not even the slightest flicker of emotion. Nothing, she thought, and wondered what secrets they chose to hide.

  “May I help you?” he said finally, his voice tinged with a husky Southern drawl.

  Clearly awed, Parker offered the decorative tin.

  Hesitating for a moment, Daniel accepted the gift. Appearing confused, he held the container without opening it.

  “Cookies,” Traci explained.

  Those black eyes met hers, drilling her with a hypnotic stare. Why hadn’t anyone described him as captivating? Or striking? The kind of man who made a girl forget to breathe? Refined yet rugged, he exuded an odd blend of Southern grace and Native roots. His posture was long and almost lazy, yet his features were stern and proud.