Holiday Homecoming (9 page)

“I noticed.” Kristin trekked beside him, working harder to keep up with him. The snow was deep and dangerous. While they weren't in the mountains, snow pack avalanching off the ridge nearby had them sticking to the thicker woods, where the trees offered protection.

Though it made it tougher to hike. She pushed aside a branch, and snow cascaded down on her, slipping between her collar and the back of her neck. Talk about freezing. She shivered. “I don't know if they're trying to pair us up or give us hypothermia.”

“Yeah, notice how they didn't offer us one of those thermoses your sister brought with her. Hot chocolate?”

“And coffee.” Kristin knew from experience. “When we were kids, Mom would bundle all of us up and Granddad would come by on his sled. Gramma was the one who brought the hot drinks then, and a bag of homemade Christmas cookies, too, and we'd sing carols all the way up and all the way back. But things change.”

“People leave you.”

“Yep. First Granddad. Then Allison. You said it doesn't seem right without your dad. That's the way it is with me, too. I don't know how my sisters do it. They go on, they get married, have kids. I don't know. I guess they've coped with it in their own ways, but I can't pretend Allison didn't die. It's like saying she didn't exist, that she didn't matter.”

“Yeah.” Ryan sounded choked. “Yeah.”

Because it hurt, she said nothing more. Let the cold chap her face and burn down her throat when she breathed. “What about that one?”

“I think it would be just the right size for Mom's living room. Here, let me get this contraption started.” Pointing the tip downward, safely away from their feet, he yanked on the starter. The small motor coughed before it started on the second pull. The earsplitting whine shattered the serenity.

Kristin held the shoulder-high cedar by the trunk, as Ryan knelt to dig the saw into the bark at the snow line. The vibration rocketed through her arm until the tree came loose. The roar died, and Ryan set the saw aside as she kept the young tree from falling on its perfect branches.

Yep, he was a Montana boy at heart, just as he'd said. He handled the chain saw with the same competence that he did everything.

When he helped her lay the tree gently on its side in the snow, the solid length of his arm bumped hers. He was one hundred percent substantial man. Dependable. Amazing.

Was it her imagination, or was her pulse skyrocketing?

He hiked the chain saw up by the handle. Snow clung to him everywhere—hair, jaw, shoulders and thighs. “Your family wouldn't happen to have an extra pair of cross-country skis, would they?”

It took a few seconds for her brain to register his
question. “Uh, in the garage. I'll check when we get back.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Mom sold my old pair at a garage sale, like ten years ago.” He trudged toward a huddle of firs. “These trees are about eight feet. Think your sisters would like them?”

Kristin squinted at the threesome of evergreens. It was easy to imagine each proudly bearing twinkle lights on their tender branches.

By the time they'd cut all three trees, she and Ryan were working together as a team. She held the tree, he used the saw, and they stacked the trees carefully to keep the limbs and needles from being damaged.

“Can I ask you something pretty personal?” Beneath the arching pines and reaching cedar, he looked more dream than man as the sunlight faded, leaving him in shadow.

She felt rooted in place as snow began to pummel down, tapping on her coat, catching in her hair. It was as if a veil shrouded them, and although their mothers and Kendra were just on the other side of the rise, maybe ten yards away, the curtain closed around just the two of them.

It felt as if they were the only two people anywhere.

Did Ryan feel this, too? She swallowed. “What do you want to know?”

He leaned so close all that separated them was the snow-filled air. “You lost your sister years ago. How can you do it? Come back here and go on. How did you make everything okay?”

“It's not. It will never be fine again.”

“Then how can you come home year after year? How do you get past it? I—” Pain lined his face, shadowed his eyes, tensed his jaw.

He was talking about his father. Sympathy tugged in her chest and she reached out. His arm was iron solid beneath her fingertips. The image of him that night when he'd helped the car-accident victim arrowed into her mind. He'd been awesome. She'd never have guessed he had wounds of his own that would never heal.

She knew exactly what that felt like. “I—”

“Ryan? Kristin?” Mom's voice carried on the rising wind. “Where did you two get off to?”

Kristin withdrew her hand as her mother trudged into sight, but it was too late. Mom was already grinning from earmuff to earmuff. “Interrupted you, I see. Ryan, be a dear and come with me. We've found the perfect tree for my living room.”

Mary joined them, and there was Kendra leading the double team of horses. Kristin stayed behind, insisting on helping load the trees, while Ryan stepped through the mist and disappeared. She and Kendra loaded the cut trees with care, while Mary broke out the thermoses.

Although Ryan was no longer beside her, Kristin could feel the echoes of his pain. Of his grief. Or maybe it was simply her own.

Mary talked of her daughter Mia who was expected home today, and of the candlelight service at the church
tonight. Hopefully the storm wouldn't make the roads treacherous.

When Ryan returned, breaking through the curtain of snowfall with the tree hefted on his wide shoulder, she looked away. Willing her pulse to slow to normal, she quieted the beat of sympathy for him in her heart.

She didn't want to talk about the past or her family's loss. The storm blew hard from the north, the arctic winds chasing them down the hillside and through the fields to the ranch house on McKaslin land.

She couldn't endure the hope on her mom's face as she watched them so carefully for the tiniest signal that a romance was about to blossom between them. Ryan seemed quiet and he didn't meet her gaze as he unloaded the tree meant for the living room. He carried it inside, and she took the chance to dash to the garage. Finding an old pair of Dad's skis, which he never used anymore, she secured them on the sleigh.

By the time Ryan stepped out of the house, she was heading back to the garage for the big storage bins of ornaments. He drove off in the sleigh alone on the bed, his big feet dangling off the back as the whiteout conditions stole him away.

While she untangled tree lights, hung delicate glass balls, or even when she'd plugged in the star atop the tree, he never left her thoughts.

Nor did the ache within her. It felt as if he'd put another one there, deep into her heart where she could take no more. As Bing Crosby sang of a white Christmas, the daylight waned. The blizzard struck hard
against the northwest walls of the house, cutting off the outside world. She wondered if he was thinking of her.

 

“Oh, now it feels like Christmas.” Mary Sanders stepped back to study her workmanship. The multicolored lights twinkled on boughs of evergreen. Little toy soldiers and jolly Santas and heavenly angels hung from the tips of every branch. At the top, the same angel his father had bought the year before he died glowed with a bright assurance.

Christmas has never been the same without you, Dad.
Ryan rested his face in his hands. The feelings rising within him were too much. He tried to shut down, but couldn't. They were too powerful. A train of images chugging through his brain. Dad, young and tall and alive, kneeling down before a Christmas tree in the same corner of the same living room, his voice a low baritone and warm with affection. “Let's see what else Santa brought. Here's a present for you, Ryan. And look, Mia, this one's for you.” His little sister, preschool age with brown ringlet curls, took the package with her eager hands.

Another Christmas. Another image. Of Dad seated on the floor beside him, the fire roaring in the stone fireplace, puzzling out the deluxe train set Santa had brought. So much track, so many crossings and bridges. By the time Mom had the Christmas ham out of the oven for the noon meal, a train tooted as it raced on the track lapping the living room and winding around the huge dollhouse, where Mia was busily setting up furniture.

The last Christmas with Dad. He'd been laid off, and they'd done without a lot of gifts, but Santa had come through. Ryan hadn't thought of it at the time, but he realized now how tight his father had to scrimp and save, and how much he'd had to sacrifice to make sure there were gifts beneath the tree. Ryan had been speechless with joy when he saw his dream gift—a sleek black bike with the knobby tires and shiny chrome. And his elation intensified listening to Mia squeal with delight over the array of Barbie stuff she'd gotten.

That was the year he'd learned there was no Santa Claus. When he'd asked Dad, his father had said gently, “There is if you believe.”

He'd always resented that his dad had lied about it. He knew there was no jolly man in a red suit that came down the chimney. Dad had died a month later and taken the last of Ryan's illusions.

“Tired?” Mom ruffled his hair, running her fingers round the cowlick in the center of his head as she'd done all his life.

Tired? Hardly. His soul felt weary.

“Here, have a candy cane.” She held out a red-and-green-and-white-striped candy. “Spearmint. Your favorite.”

“Thanks.” He took the treat and tore off the wrapper while his mom sat down beside him.

“I don't see you in my living room nearly often enough.” Mom sounded serious, the way she did when she was about to give one of her wise-mother lectures.

He didn't think he could take it. Everywhere he
looked were memories of Dad. Wearing his coat today had been too much. He felt as if he were ready to explode like a keg of old dynamite. “Don't start, Mom. You know I have a hard time around the holidays.”

“I know you were close to your father. So was I, you know.” Her love was patient and warm, like a candle glowing in the dark, like hope in the midst of despair.

Lord knew how she'd been that light for him, as a boy, broken to the soul over his dad's death. He'd been too young to understand it well. Only that his father was gone. That there would be no more early-morning treks into the marshes, no more tracking the white-tailed deer.

No more magic winter mornings as calm as heaven's grace.

No more family.

They'd scrambled and fought to survive for so long, to keep hold of the house and food on the table, that there had been no time for grief.

He'd lived his adult life the same way. Little time for play, less time for living. He remained, deep inside, that same little boy trying to survive. To do his best to help provide for his mom and sister. Even now after the crisis had long passed.

“Your father watches over us, I know he does.” Mom rubbed away the tears from her eyes. “Heaven knows if anyone deserves to be an angel, it was that man. The best husband a woman could ask for.”

“The best dad.”

“I know this stubbornness of yours, of not finding a nice girl and settling down—”

“No, please.” Pain clawed through his chest with sharp talons, leaving him ragged and bleeding. “I tried that. I wasn't any good at it. Francine wasn't at fault. She was a great person. I just—”
Can't get close to anyone.

He couldn't let his mom any closer, either. Panic had him launching out of the recliner and across the room. The tree lights blinked in a merry rhythm, sending enough light to guide him through the dark room and into the kitchen. Where a plate of Mia's favorite iced Christmas cookies waited, a treat for when she finally arrived.

“Ryan.” Mom followed him. Love was in her voice—and concern. “Where are you going?”

“Mia's here.” At least he figured the twin beams slicing through the whiteout were his sister's. She was home safe, finally, and Mom could devote all her motherly energies to Mia. Good. Because he was going out.

He grabbed the coat and elbowed open the door. Bitter wind needled through him as he struggled into the parka. He didn't care about the worsening storm or the dangerous temperatures. As Mia's old Toyota skidded to a stop in the driveway, he knocked on the back-quarter panel.

The trunk lid popped with a tired groan. He grabbed the heavy suitcases and book bag and hauled them into the back door. He ignored his mom's distress over him and kissed her on the cheek.

“Take care of Mia,” he said as he grabbed gloves
from the hooks over the furnace register. “She's had a long hard drive. I'll be fine.”

He steeled his heart against the sadness on Mom's face and the confusion on his sister's as he strode away into the snowy night.

“W
hat are we gonna do about Mom and Dad's present?” Michelle whispered when Dad disappeared into the kitchen to answer the knock at the back door. “Karen, Kirby and Kendra kept calling me, like I'm supposed to know. I've got, like, no clue what to do.”

“Me, either.”

Kristin managed to breathe around the knot in her throat. The one that came from watching her parents all evening. How they ignored each other. How they spoke to one another, when at all, tersely. How much distance they kept—Mom in the kitchen or in her chair by the fire, Dad on the couch. Finally Mom had retired upstairs to read in bed, and hadn't bothered to glance in her husband's direction as she left the room.

“Tell me again why you got married?” Kristin asked her baby sister.

“I was forced at gunpoint.” Pretending to be totally serious, Michelle stole another macaroon from the plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of her. “Hmm. I
love these and, lucky for me, I'm eating for two.” She smiled. It was not a superficial grin, but one that came from deep within.

True happiness. Okay, so her sisters were happy with their lives and marriages. Fine. She understood that. But what about down the road? Romantic love didn't last. It was a bright fire that quickly burned out, and then, from what she could see, there was only darkness and ashes. Silences that felt razor sharp.

No, she wanted a life built on a more solid foundation than that.

“I hear you and Ryan are getting pretty tight.” Michelle waggled her eyebrows. “It was all Mom could talk about on the way to church.”

“And on the way back.” Kristin leaned forward on the couch, studied the colorful choices on the cookie plate and chose a red-sprinkled Santa. “What happened between Mom and Dad? I thought they were doing better.”

In the kitchen, Dad's voice rose in greeting, his words indistinguishable over the noise of the TV.

“I don't know. They were doing better. Having grandchildren was starting to really bring them together, or so I
thought
. Anyway, who knows? Dad is closed up tight. And Mom refuses to talk about it. Believe me, I tried.
You
should go talk to her.”

“Okay.”

“Good. That's probably my husband. I'm going to take my daughter and another one of these—” She stole a macaroon from the plate. “I'm outta here. Merry
Christmas. We'll be over after Emily unwraps all her loot from Santa.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Michelle lifted Emily's carrier from the floor, where she slept peaceful and warm in her pink flannel sleeper. Her golden curls were mussed, corkscrewing around her cherub's face, making her look angelic.

Brody poked his head around the corner to wish her a Merry Christmas and to take his sleeping daughter from his wife. His strong arm wrapped around Michelle's slim shoulders, drawing her close, and they walked away together into the brightness of the kitchen and out of sight, blessed by the halo of twinkle lights spanning the arched doorway.

They looked like a team. Like a unit. Together and happy.

But hadn't Mom and Dad been the same way once?

Voices rose from the kitchen—probably Karen's husband, Zach, come by to fetch the present Mom and Dad had been hiding for them. Not in the mood for network television, Kristin grabbed the remote and clicked off the power.

Silence settled into the room like the snow outside. The white lights on the fragrant fir tree glowed pure and true. The glass balls reflecting a thousand pinpricks of light. The star topping the tree shone in memory of the star burning brightly centuries ago on this very night.

Minnie hopped soundlessly onto the cushion and curled into a ball on Kristin's lap. She threaded her fin
gers through the cat's silky fur and was rewarded with a contented purr.

How can you come home year after year? How do you get past it?
Ryan's question troubled her in the quiet moments. She'd been able to put it aside as she and Mom decorated the tree and then hurried to put supper on the table on time. Michelle and Brody had joined them, with little Emily, who kept them entertained as she banged in rhythm on her high-chair tray to the Christmas songs Michelle had been teaching her.

It had been a busy night. First, there were the dishes, and a quick change of clothes and the journey to church in the near blizzard conditions. Then, the service and the traditional gathering of the entire clan, cousins and all, at the cousin's restaurant. And finally, dessert, gift exchange and then the drive home.

She'd hardly had a moment to herself, but now that she did, Ryan's question troubled her. She missed her sister. She missed the family she used to have. The closeness. The happiness. Was that why her sisters had all married? In the attempt to find that time again?

And if so, then how long would it last? Didn't they know you couldn't trust someone else to build your life around? That standing on your own two feet was the best bet?

“Wow. You look deep in thought.” A man's broad silhouette ambled from the bright kitchen. Ryan. “I'm interrupting.”

“No. Come in. Have a cookie. I didn't hear you drive up.”

“That's because I skied.”

“You know there's a blizzard out there, right? They closed down, like, half the county roads.”

“I
am
a little cold. Oh good, a fire.” He crouched down in front of the hearth—all six feet plus of him. Orange light danced across him and he held out his hands. “Wow, that feels good. I saw you with your family at church tonight. I tried to catch up to you, but there were too many people.”

Kristin gently scooted Minnie into the crook of her arm and made her way over. She snagged the cookie plate as she passed by. “I didn't see you or your mom.”

“We came late. Sat in the back. We didn't want to leave home until we heard from Mia.”

“Was she driving home from school?”

“Oh, I love these.” He grabbed a gingerbread man decorated in colorful icing. After his first bite, he moaned. “Anyway, yeah, she's home safe and sound. I was pretty worried about her.”

“Sisters are pretty precious.”

“That they are.”

And here she was trying not to think about Allison. She slid the plate on the corner of the hearth. “You've got to be freezing. I can feel the cold radiate off you.”

“Yeah, I stopped feeling my toes halfway here.”

“And why didn't you turn around and head home?”

“It's complicated. I guess I just needed a friend.”

“Then you're in luck. First, we'd better warm you up. We have tea, coffee or cocoa.”

“You said the magic word. Do you have marshmallows?”

“What's cocoa without them? Just a cup of chocolate. Sit down.” She curved around the hearth, laid the cat on the nearby recliner and swept from the room, leaving him alone in the shadows.

But not in the dark. White twinkle lights draped from the window valences to circle the room. Bigger bulbs decorated the ten-foot fir that he'd cut for Mrs. McKaslin. Elegance was the word he'd use to describe the tree. Fragile white glass balls and handblown glass angels.

When he got up to take a closer look, he realized there were words etched into the glass. “In memory of our own angel, Allison, Christmas 2000.” Another bore the current year. Another nearly eight years in the past. Mrs. McKaslin must have hired a local artist to make an ornament every year for a daughter she still loved.

Yeah, that was the problem, wasn't it? Love died with the loved one, and then where did that leave you? Cold through to his soul, he retreated to the fire where it seemed the heat couldn't touch him. Where the light couldn't find him.

Kristin returned. She set a tray on the coffee table, kneeling to unload it. Two steaming oversize mugs. Spoons. A plastic bag of marshmallows. Her movements caught his eye. A Polaroid picture was propped against a crystal candlestick holder.

He leaned closer to get a good look. A preschool blond-haired little girl with the bluest eyes. McKaslin
eyes. She was dressed in red velvet and white lace. Her baby sister—a year-old identical replica—stood beside her, ringlet curls bobbing. Next to them, frozen in the act of stomping his foot hard on the floor, was a dark-haired boy.

Two other smaller girls completed the photograph. Michelle's year-old daughter, who looked exactly like her mama. And a small infant lay cradled in a car seat carrier—the newest addition to the family. A new generation of McKaslins.

“Little Caitlin. She belongs to Kendra and Cameron, but I stole her as much as I could today.”

“A little fond of your sisters' kids?”

“You could say that. They're all so precious.” Kristin sank to the floor beside him, the soft fuzz of her sweater's sleeve an intimate brush against his wrist as she leaned in to study the picture.

A gold cross on a chain fell out from the neckline of her sweater and swayed back and forth, drawing his gaze. He admired her heart-shaped face, the firelight in her hair, the delicate cut of her neck, shoulders and arms.

Vanilla tickled his nose and a roar filled his ears. A strange, bittersweet yearning broke through the ice around his heart and punched him. Left him without breath. Awareness zinged through him, surging through nerves and veins, warming him from his chest outward. What was wrong with him? Maybe he was more hypothermic than he thought.

Kristin scooted the plastic bag across the table. “Add
more marshmallows. You don't have enough melted fluff in that cocoa. True cocoa enjoyment is all about proportion. Tons of chocolate. Tons of melty marshmallows. There are scientific studies proving the healing benefits of it.”

“I think I read one just last week in one of my medical journals.”

“See? Cocoa makes everything better.” Kristin swirled the spoon through her brimming mug, mixing melted fluff with the rich milky chocolate.

It was his senses mixing, too. He couldn't tear his attention away from the dazzling highlights glinting in her hair, shining a hundred different shades of gold in the glow of the fireplace and the faint shine of the lights from the Christmas tree behind her.

It had been a bitter-cold journey through the dark, that was all, that was why he was feeling this way. The warm room, the steaming cocoa and Kristin's brightness combined against the cold that ached in his bone marrow had him hurting.

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.