The Herald Angels Sing

by Roxanne St Claire

  Bark! The Herald Angels Sing

  A Dogfather Holiday Novella

  Book 8

  Roxanne St. Claire

  Bark! The Herald Angels Sing

  THE DOGFATHER BOOK EIGHT

  Copyright © 2018 Roxanne St. Claire

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author, roxanne@roxannestclaire.com.

  Table of Contents

  BARK! THE HERALD ANGELS SING

  Copyright

  Don’t miss a single book in The Dogfather Series!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Fall in love with The Dogfather Series…

  The Barefoot Bay Series

  About the Author

  Don’t miss a single book in The Dogfather Series!

  Available now

  Sit…Stay…Beg – book one

  New Leash on Life – book two

  Leader of the Pack – book three

  Santa Paws is Coming to Town – book four (a holiday novella)

  Bad to the Bone – book five

  Ruff Around the Edges – book six

  Double Dog Dare – book seven

  Bark! The Herald Angels Sing – book eight (a holiday novella)

  And coming in 2019

  Old Dog New Tricks – book nine (Daniel’s story!)

  And yes, there will be more. For a complete list, buy links, and reading order of all my books, visit www.roxannestclaire.com. Be sure to sign up for my newsletter to find out when the next book is released! And join the private Dogfather Facebook group at https://www.facebook.com/groups/roxannestclairereaders/ for inside info on all the books and characters, sneak peeks, and a place to share the love of tails and tales!

  Chapter One

  “Where is everyone?” Pru plodded through the empty house, dismayed to find every room deadly quiet. No laughter, no talking, and, weirdest of all, no barking.

  “In the living room.”

  Finally. Gramma Finnie’s voice through the hall was music to Pru’s ears, making her stride faster toward the living room to find her great-grandmother settled on a sofa, surrounded by red, green, and gold wrapping paper and dozens of holiday-styled ribbons.

  “Oh no ye don’t, child.” Gramma Finnie leaned over the table and made a feeble attempt to use her narrow frame to cover a few of the items laid out for wrapping. “You can’t come in here when this elf is working.”

  Pru stifled a laugh and pretended to cover her eyes after taking a peek. “Just hide the makeup bag and sparkly cell phone case and, oh please, God, tell me those Shopkins are for seven-year-old Christian and not fourteen-year-old me.”

  Gramma Finnie’s deep-frown wrinkles grew even deeper. And frownier. “The makeup bag is for your mother, the cell phone case for your aunt Darcy, and…you don’t collect those crazy critters anymore?”

  Pru heaved the most dramatic sigh of pure discontent she had in her, and after one semester in ninth grade, where dramatic sighs were as common as black eyeliner and subtweets, she could deliver an Oscar-worthy exhale.

  It must have worked, because Gramma backed off from her loot, her blue eyes pinned on Pru with intensity. “That doesn’t sound like Christmas cheer.”

  “Oh, it’s Christmas? That’s right. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, not that anyone cares around here.”

  Gramma’s tiny jaw dropped open. “Prudence Anne Kilcannon.” She rolled Pru’s given name with a little thicker brogue than usual, a surefire way to know this mother of two, grandmother of ten, and great-grandmother of three-and-counting wasn’t at all pleased. “What would make you say such a thing?”

  Pru considered how much she should confide. Gramma Finnie might be eighty-seven and hold the unrivaled status of Pru’s favorite person on the face of the earth, not counting Mom, but the elderly matriarch of the Kilcannon clan never tolerated disrespect or an unkind word about a single member of her brood.

  “Nothing,” she murmured. At Gramma’s doubtful look, she added, “I just combed this whole house, and not a creature is stirring,” Pru explained. “Not even a dog. Where is everyone?” And by everyone, she meant her mother.

  “Out and about and doing the things that make Waterford Farm the best canine training and rescue facility in the world,” she said brightly.

  “On Christmas Eve eve?”

  “Oh, they’re all taking next week off for your mother’s wedding, so everyone’s squeezing in last-minute things.”

  Pru swallowed at the mention of the very thing that had her feeling squirrelly today. “Mmm,” she said, hoping that didn’t give anything away. “Like what?”

  “My son, who really should run for mayor of Bitter Bark, had a holiday gathering of the Cultural Advisory Committee in town, so Rusty must be in the kennels for company.”

  “Isn’t Linda May Dunlap on that committee?” She waggled her brows. “I still think Grandpa kind of likes her.”

  Gramma tsked. “I don’t know, and I promised your father I wouldn’t partake in the meddling of his personal life that his own children and grandchildren are merrily betting on. He’s still not ready, nor should he be rushed. If and when the right lady friend comes along, he’ll know it.”

  Pru shrugged. “Mom thought it would be nice for him to have a date for the wedding.” And speaking of her mother… “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Darcy’s swamped with last-minute holiday haircuts today, so Waterford’s dog grooming studio is packed. All of your uncles are working with trainers to finish this group and send them home for the holidays. Your uncle Aidan and soon-to-be aunt Beck have flown that little Chihuahua to a forever home in Savannah and won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Rudolf?” The thought of the rescue that had recently come to Waterford—and, of course, got named for the season—made her smile. “I loved that dog.”

  “Aye, he’s a gem. Someone is going to have a good Christmas when they find that treasure under the tree.”

  Pru nodded, but her mind went back to her original problem, because Gramma actually hadn’t solved it with her long explanation of everyone’s whereabouts. “But where’s Mom? She isn’t in the vet office, and she’s usually here on Fridays. And Trace wasn’t training the service dogs.”

  “Are you always going to call him Trace?” Gramma asked. “Because on December thirtieth, he’s officially your dad.”

  “He’s been officially my dad for fourteen years, Gramma, only we didn’t know it,” Pru reminded her. “And I tried calling him Dad after they got engaged. Sounded weird. He’s just Trace. But he’s not here, either. Or Meatball, but he’s probably wherever Trace is.”

  “Meatball’s in the kennels. Molly and Trace went to meet with the wedding planner.” Gramma mumbled the
words and noisily shook out some tissue paper in a lousy effort to cover up what she was saying.

  But Pru heard, and hurt. Of course Mom was with the wedding planner—the professional wedding planner. Funny, Pru never dreamed of getting jealous about the appearance of a man—her missing father—who suddenly took her immediate family from a happy twosome to an even happier family of three. But that darn Cassie St. Croix had to show up, and now the green-eyed monster had a solid hold of Pru.

  Even the wedding planner’s name irritated Pru, and the amount of time she spent with Mom was literally ridiculous. All Mom ever talked about was Cassie. Cassie wants to do this with the candles, and Cassie thinks white poinsettias are better than red, and Cassie said we should—

  “Pru?”

  She shook off the thoughts and looked at Gramma, who was eyeing her with those wise, discerning Irish eyes blurred by bifocals and age, but they still never missed a thing. “Tell me your troubles, wee one.” She patted the sofa in invitation. “Unless you’re feeling too grown-up to be called wee.”

  If she were a grown-up, she’d be part of the wedding planning. Heck, she’d be the wedding planner. Instead, she was treated like the flower girl instead of the maid of honor.

  Gramma rubbed the cushion with one of her knotted, spotted but oh-so-soft hands. “Come along, lass.”

  Pru couldn’t resist the invitation to cozy up to the tiny woman who smelled like talcum powder and had a freakish knowledge of clever Irish sayings that always made things better. Rounding the coffee table, Pru glanced at the array of gifts, her attention slipping to the little purple Shopkins box.

  “I do still kind of like them,” she admitted with a dry laugh.

  Gramma just smiled. “Good. I’ll put one in the makeup bag that really is for you but is supposed to be a surprise.”

  Pru settled on the sofa and flipped up the half-open lid of Gramma’s laptop, which rested on the next cushion. “Did you finish your Christmas blog?”

  The older woman lifted a slender shoulder covered, as always, in a soft, silky cardigan. “I have what is apparently called writer’s block. Nothing inspires me this Christmas.”

  “How is that possible?” Pru asked. “Just look around this room.”

  They both did, taking in the insane amount of holiday decorations draped throughout the formal living room of the big farmhouse. The space was out of the way of the main traffic and largely ignored unless the entire family had converged for Wednesday or Sunday dinner, and someone needed a quiet space to talk or rock a baby.

  But after Thanksgiving, this high-ceilinged formal living space became Christmas Central for the ever-growing Kilcannon family and friends. The feature, of course, was a ten-foot live tree, cut from Waterford’s woods, laden with ornaments that dated back nearly sixty years, or more if you added in Gramma’s crystal snowflakes from Ireland. Lights sparkled on the tree and around the windows, ribbons twirled the fireplace columns, and every surface was adorned with an angel, Santa, or a little drummer boy.

  The Nativity set had a place of honor on a Victorian chocolate table that had belonged to one of Pru’s great-great-grandmothers from County Waterford, where her grandpa Seamus had lived before he and Gramma bought these hundred acres and named the homestead after that very place.

  They’d raised Pru’s grandfather, Daniel, and his sister, Colleen, in this house until Grandpa married Grannie Annie, and then the next generation of Kilcannons raised their six Kilcannon kids in this house, including Molly, Pru’s mother.

  Along the mantel, there were so many stockings, they barely fit. Seventeen in all, Pru knew, because she’d hung every one herself, all with names hand-stitched by Gramma.

  “So much Christmas history in this room,” Pru mused. “That alone should inspire you.”

  Gramma gave a little sniff and shudder. “Sixty-four Christmases here. Or five. I’ve lost count.”

  Oh, that didn’t sound at all like Gramma. “What’s wrong?” Pru asked, leaning closer.

  “Oh no.” Two gray eyebrows rose. “You first. What’s troubling you?”

  Pru flicked her wrist to dismiss the inquiry. “Oh, you know, just the ‘will Santa come or not?’ blues.”

  Gramma snorted at the obvious lie. “He came early and filled up this table.”

  Pru lifted the makeup bag that would soon be hers, remembering she and Mom had seen it in La Parisienne when they were shopping for Darcy’s gift last weekend. Pru loved the glitter that spelled out Good Vibes and had no doubt Mom had gone back in and bought it for her. So why wasn’t Mom wrapping it?

  Because she was with Cassie St. Croix. At the rise of bitter jealousy, she looked away, not wanting to tell even Gramma Finnie, who knew her inner soul what she was feeling.

  Then one slightly crooked finger reached over and touched her chin, turning Pru’s face until their gazes met. “I’ll go first, then, and maybe you’ll tell me the truth.”

  Pru stayed silent, staring at Gramma Finnie.

  “I’m dying,” Gramma confessed in a hush voice.

  Pru blinked, drew back, and blinked again, and then she felt the blood drain from her head so fast, it left her a little dizzy. She could handle a lot of things—even this wedding—but not…that. Never that. Not yet. Not…no.

  “Are you sick?” Pru barely whispered the question, it scared her so much.

  “I’m healthy as a horse.”

  Pru searched her face, not finding a clue on the network of familiar wrinkles. “Then why are you…”

  “I’m dyin’ of boredom, child.”

  “Oh.” Relief rocked her down to her toes. It was Gramma being Gramma. Not serious. “Then you need to do something.”

  “Can’t. I’m too old.” The response was simple and pure and a little heartbreaking. Pru had never, not once, heard Gramma complain about her age. About anything, to be fair. She was optimistic, but grounded, and if she had the aches and pains that plagued most eight-seven-year-olds, no one knew it. Even Pru, and they told each other everything.

  “You’re not that…” At Gramma’s notched brow, Pru’s words trailed off. Okay, she was old. “But you said you’re healthy,” she finished.

  “Mmm.” She nodded and patted her soft white hair. “Fit as a fiddle.”

  Thank God. “And I know I’ve heard you say ‘the older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune,’” Pru reminded her gently. “In fact, you cross-stitched that on a wall hanging for one of your church friends’ birthday.”

  “Ruth Blair.” Gramma pursed her lips. “She died last June.” At Pru’s incredulous look, she laughed. “She was near a hundred, though.”

  “So you have plenty of time,” Pru insisted, as much to comfort herself as this woman who made the “great” before grandma seem like the world’s biggest understatement. Gramma Finnie was so far beyond great, it defied description.

  “That’s all I’ve got, child,” she said with uncharacteristic sadness. “Time. Time to think about the past, which is what old people do, and hope there’s a future, which will be brief no matter what happens during it, and live in a present that is as dull as dirt.”

  Pru’s jaw literally fell so hard it almost hit her chest. “Dull? How can you even say that? You are the glue that holds us together, the heart of this family, the keeper of memories, the speaker of sayings, and the best storyteller in the world. Plus, Gramma, you have actual followers on your blog. Real people who care about what you think. They write to you and tell you that you inspired them or made them shed a tear. What on earth could be more useful than all that?”

  It was Gramma Finnie’s turn to flick a dismissive wrist. “It’s all the same. Every day. I never go anywhere anymore. Never do anything but church. Why, child, there was a time when I lived for the next adventure around the corner.”

  Pru searched her face, scouring the crinkled cheeks and thin lips and seeing nothing but honesty in her faded blue eyes. “Then get unbored, Gramma Finnie,” she said. “You’d be the first to tell me to that problems
need fixin’, not fumin’. Or some such thing.”

  She shook her old white head. “As if it would be that easy.” She snorted. “They rarely let me drive, you know, not even to choir on Friday nights, like I used to.”

  Pru knew who they were—her mother, Trace, all four of her uncles, and, of course, Gramma’s son, their patriarch, Grandpa Daniel Kilcannon.

  “They don’t let me drive, either,” Pru said.

  “You’re fourteen and have no license.”

  Pru rolled her eyes. “I’ve been driving that Jeep around Waterford since I was eleven,” she said. “But every time Uncle Garrett catches me, he gets so mad.”

  “And every time I even look at the keys to my car, someone swoops them out of my hand and offers to take me wherever I need taken.”

  “So you’re too old and I’m too young for anything fun.”

  “’Tis our lot in this life, it seems. So, enough about me. What has you fretting, child?” Gramma squeezed her hand. “Or is there a lad on your mind? A dustup with your lassies?”

  She shook her head and glanced at the doorway, wanting complete privacy before she confided, which, of course she would. “It’s the wedding,” she finally admitted.

  “Your mother and Trace’s wedding?” Gramma seemed shocked. “You’re not happy your birth parents have found each other and are marryin’? Why, it’s one of the Dogfather’s greatest success stories.”

  Pru smiled, acknowledging the fact that her grandfather had earned a nickname for pulling strings like the classic Godfather—but the strings he pulled invariably led to love. Six times he’d succeeded now, somehow managing to help all his kids find love. In the case of Pru’s mother, Molly, he’d managed to reunite a single mom with the man who’d fathered her child and disappeared for fourteen years. And none of them had ever been happier.