A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology (7 page)

On the stroll back to the house, Ham offered
Dorothy his bed. A vision of the army cot she’d glimpsed earlier in
the bedroom lent conviction to her refusal, which he accepted with
ill-concealed relief.

“But you’re my guests.” His smile wavered.
“I’m an old fool, never thought about where you’d lay your
heads—”

“I’ll handle the sleeping arrangements,” Rob
said, his voice firm. “Don’t worry, Ham, we’ll be fine.”

Overhead, stars winked in the evening sky
while the sounds of their footsteps punctuated desultory
conversation until they arrived back at Ham’s house.

Dorothy took up her host’s earlier offer and
soaked as much of her weary body as was possible in the tiny
bathtub, tracing the hard water lines on its porcelain sides with
her fingertip. Closing her eyes, she visualized the snatched, sweet
moments when they’d made love while Rob was on the medical school
treadmill, interludes that had dwindled into rare physical
intimacy. By her continued insistence that she be placed first,
she’d only pushed him further and further away.

Her parents’ wealth and social status must
have birthed fears in Rob that he wasn’t good enough, but she
didn’t realize the truth until her careless words uttered in
frustration and loneliness had torn their marriage apart.

Plucking at the chain, Dorothy lifted the
plug. Water swirled and gurgled into a cyclone shape above the open
drain, a grim parallel to a marriage’s destruction. She’d never
realized it before but such images were everywhere. Dorothy sighed,
realizing with a shiver that a degree in literature hadn’t equipped
her for anything but seeing literary references in everyday
life.

Hoping Ham had already gone to bed, Dorothy
slipped on one of Rob’s tee-shirts instead of the negligee she’d
planned to wear. Although Ham had bragged about “birthing more
hosses, calves and puppies than there’s tumbleweeds on the
prairie,” she didn’t want the poor guy scandalized by the sight of
his granddaughter-in-law’s bare legs.

When she emerged, she saw Rob kneeling near
the couch. “Ham didn’t have any extra blankets so I went next door
and borrowed a couple of sleeping bags.”

He’d zipped the two together and arranged
them on the floor. Turning out the overhead light, he joined
Dorothy on the makeshift mattress. With an apology in his voice, he
said, “Ham was so excited to know we were coming that he didn’t
stop to think about where we’d sleep. If Rose were alive, our every
need would have been anticipated.”

She heard a yearning in his voice and
whispered, “Rose?” This was the first spontaneous remark he’d made
in weeks, a light gleaming through a chink in the fortress
walls.

Rob hooked his wrist behind his head. “My
grandmother. A gal from a Boston family of bluebloods who somehow
ended up on a ranch with Ham. But she was practical and according
to Ham, she learned fast. Sounds like she handled all the details
while Ham did the dreaming. But they were so close, so in love. I
remember thinking as a little kid that my house would be like
theirs.”

His voice roughened and he hurried on. “They
lived in a cottage on the other side of this town. After her death,
Ham sold everything they owned and bought this shack. Everything in
the other house reminded him of Rose.”

Just like everything in their house reminded
her of Rob, plagued her with bittersweet memories. The sachet of
dried rose petals that she’d brought on this trip was the remainder
of the two dozen roses, their stems bound in a silver ribbon,
delivered the morning after she’d accepted Rob’s proposal. It
wasn’t until months later she’d learned that her starving medical
school student fiancé had pawned his winter coat to afford the
roses.

Roses. Rose. Rob’s grandmother had given up
her life for her husband. What had Dorothy ever given up?

“It’s your fault,” she muttered to
herself.

But Rob heard and misunderstood. “You mean,
the baby?” He snorted. “Be spontaneous in your sex life, that’s
what you told me that marriage counselor said. Look where that got
us!”

A child needs a loving, stable home, not the
raveled strands that bound her to Rob. His indifference to the news
of her pregnancy had shaken her belief that the dying embers could
be fanned into flame. The only thing he’d done on this trip
regarding her pregnancy had been a couple of curt reminders to
drink the bottled water he’d brought, to remain hydrated.

Insects buzzed outside; she longed for a
breeze to stir the curtain at the window. Marriage counseling had
come too late, she realized with the heaviness of sorrow. Rob felt
bound to her by the new life and not by love.

Although she could feel the heat radiating
from Rob’s body, the distance between them seemed so great he might
as well be sleeping in Minneapolis. The last year of stifled and
pent-up communication separated them. The air remained breathless;
a faint whiff of mosquito repellant rose from the material beneath
her cheek.

Rob grunted, gave a soft snort before
beginning to snore. Had other women lain beside him and watched him
sleep, stroked back the rebellious lock of hair which fell across
his left eye after making love?

Dorothy longed to believe that infidelity was
responsible for his remote gaze—she could fight back against
another person. But she knew in her heart that Rob remained
physically faithful to his marriage vows. The love and cherish part
had been ripped from the service, however...

Unable to bear the proximity to her lost
dreams, Dorothy got up with careful movements to avoid waking Rob
and wandered to the front door, which Ham had left ajar after
locking the screen door. Gazing out at the darkness, Dorothy tried
to empty her thoughts and relax.

“What’s wrong?”

At the sound of Rob’s voice in her ear,
Dorothy shied like a startled horse and his warm hands closed on
her bare arms, steadying her.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

She knew he referred to the baby and wished
for one moment that he cared about her. “Just needed to change
position—“

Breaking off, she stared at the colors that
spattered the night sky, dissolving and reappearing. “So
beautiful,” she murmured. “Achingly, gorgeously beautiful. . .”

“Why do you think they have a special called
“The Northern Lights” at the cafe?” His breath, ice cream sweet,
stirred her hair. “Rose and Ham enjoyed living here. Ham said they
used to walk after dusk and dance along with the Northern
Lights.”

“How romantic,” Dorothy whispered, her heart
aching. She no longer wanted to force a confrontation but just
wanted to turn and find that his arms were waiting for her.

For a moment, his hand cupped the nape of her
neck and then it slipped away. “We’d better get back to bed. Such
as it is.” After a moment, he said under his breath, “I never
should have agreed to let you come.”

“So I wouldn’t see your grandfather? Wouldn’t
tempt you to love me again?” But the words remained unspoken, a
leaden weight in her heart. She stood until the lights vanished,
wiping the tears away with the sleeve of Rob’s borrowed shirt,
before going back to join him on the sleeping bags.

This was the first time she’d ever touched
one of these things. Rob used to enjoying camping out, loved the
Boundary Waters, according to Ham’s conversation this evening. But
had she ever asked what he preferred for vacation instead of
insisting they go skiing at a Vail resort? Couldn’t she have
offered to do those things with him?

Combined with her demands that he choose her
over his passion for his work, she didn’t need a therapist to tell
her what went wrong. Unfortunately, none of the professionals
seemed to have an answer on how to repair her marriage. Wishing she
could travel back in time and take her newfound wisdom with her,
Dorothy fell asleep.

Crackling static awakened her from a dream of
dancing ice cream cones. A sheet covered her bare limbs. Tasting
fuzziness inside her mouth, she realized the sounds came from the
old Philco radio on the sideboard. Dorothy yanked the sheet up to
her shoulders and, rolling over, she squinted through a curtain of
hair at their host.

Ham sat at the card table, with his back to
her and his attitude of intense concentration. When Dorothy cleared
her throat, he spun around, cheeks burning, averting his eyes from
her sheet-wrapped form.

“Up already?” Shoulders hunched, he addressed
his words to the couch.

Rob groaned, stood, and twisted. Stretching,
he rubbed the tortured muscles of his lower back. “Lying on your
floor felt worse than bending over an operating table for ten
hours, Ham. And where’s that garbled static coming from?” He
clapped his hands over his ears.

“Hog and cattle reports. I allus listen first
thing. ‘Bout time you was stirring. Let you sleep this long cause I
knowed you was both tuckered out.”

Draping the sheet toga fashion around her
body, Dorothy bent to lift a change of clothes from her overnight
bag, Her lips curved in a smile when a shrill whistle came from a
bird outside the window and Ham hollered, “Don’t mind him’, he
ain’t whistling at your legs. He does that every morning to make
sure I’m up.”

She slipped into the bathroom to change.
Dressed in shorts and a stylish maternity top, Dorothy came out in
time to see Ham place two glasses of water on the card table next
to bowls of cereal. Rob, shirtless, stood by the lumpy couch. Her
husband’s body was anything but lumpy! She swallowed at the sight
of his lean, yet muscular abdomen. Delectable as a piece of gourmet
chocolate—she wanted to touch him, stroke his supple skin and press
kisses against the strong line of his jaw.

How could he not want her as well? She closed
her eyes against the overwhelming pain.

Biting her lip, she watched Ham look over the
table with the care of a hostess checking on the place cards. “I’ll
get your water in a minute, Robbie,” he promised.

Rob pulled a tee-shirt over his head, the
bristles on his jaw scraping against the cotton fabric. “Since
we’re having cereal, Dorothy and I don’t need water.”

“Suit yerself. This stuff’s powerful dry
without it.”

“We prefer milk.” Rob took the few steps into
the kitchen and returned with a carton. Opening the top, he tipped
it and something resembling a lump of cottage cheese slid out and
plopped in the middle of Dorothy’s bran flakes, sending them flying
like dried out leaves in a gust of wind. Dorothy recoiled, gagging,
from the sour smell arising from the bowl.

“Ham, this milk has turned!” Rob exploded,
squinting at the freshness expiration date. “This expired over two
months ago.”

“Them little numbers don’t mean much,” Ham
said with his voice defensive. Then he brightened. “Wait, we had
that big storm last month, lots of thunder and flash. Lightning
must have clabbered the milk.”

It wasn’t the lightning that had clabbered
Dorothy’s appetite. Choking, she ran for the bathroom.

After recovering, she and a subdued Ham sat
on the couch while Rob cleared out the refrigerator, expressing
scientific amazement over the variety of bacteria growing on the
discarded items. Then he left for the nearest grocery store to
stock up on food supplies and baking soda.

Dorothy’s nausea had subsided, but Rob
insisted she remain behind near the bathroom. His threats to hire
someone to drive Ham to the store once a week, “if you can’t make
arrangements on your own” had sobered his ebullient grandparent
considerably.

“Rob’s just worried about you not getting the
proper nourishment or coming down with food poisoning,” Dorothy
offered. “He’s afraid that you’re not taking proper care of
yourself.”

They’d moved outside in the shade, Ham seated
in front of the sawhorse, his worn rag tracing circles on the aged
darkened saddle leather.

“I know.” He sighed. “Guess it’s easier to
order pizza than to fix my own chow.”

A car rumbled by then silence. Ham dabbed his
rag into the can of polish and shook his head. “Truth is, it’s plum
difficult to walk into a kitchen, any kitchen. Reminds me of
Rosie.”

“What specifically reminds you of Rosie,
Ham?”

“A sink ‘cause I can still see her washing up
dishes. Pots and pans. She was allus rattlin’ pots and pans, baking
bread, flipping batter cakes for Sunday breakfast...”

Dorothy noticed the trembling of his gnarled
hands and looked away, respecting his privacy. Plucking a blade of
grass from the sparse lawn, she watched a ladybug stroll down the
green gangplank until it descended to the ground with the dignity
of a matron stepping off a bus.

“Why did you give up being a cow puncher,
Ham? Cows started hitting back?”

His wheezing chuckles brought an echoing
smile to Dorothy’s face, but her thoughts were still centered on
Rob. Why was she obsessed with breaking through her husband’s
protective reserve, attempting to force an admission that he wanted
to end their marriage? Just flogging a dead horse, as her host
would say.

A bee zoomed past Dorothy’s knee, trailing a
buzz like a mini sonic boom, pausing to fuss around the purple cup
of a wild violet.

“T’was hard to give up ranchin’,” Ham said at
last. “Riding fences, sitting up all night with a foal that’s
poorly, driving cattle to market. . . ” A playful wink. “Hard to
give up all that fun. But when Rose started increasing with our
first, Robbie’s Uncle Peter, Doc Baker, took me aside and said it
would be a rough birthin’. No hospital within a hundred miles of
our ranch. So I sold out for little more than buzzard bait.”

Dorothy rubbed her knee, still stiff from a
night on the wooden floor. Rob wouldn’t sell his beloved ranch for
her. He’d buy her a ticket and put her on the first train going
back East. . . “How did you make a living?”