Holiday Homecoming (10 page)

There was only him, the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his socks on the carpet as he shifted his weight to draw her away from the cold. The winter-and-man scent of him and the faint hint of fabric softener on his shirt. The shadows in her heart seemed to fade, and the ache vanished.

Dad, raking snow out of his hair, stepped into the archway. The wind was too loud to have heard him come in, but there he was, safe and sound, his dear face chapped red from his trek outside. “Ryan, you'd best stay here for a bit. And whatever you do, don't go skiing back. I'll leave my keys on the counter. You take my truck, you hear? It's four-wheel drive. It'll get you home safe.”

“Thanks, Mr. McKaslin. I appreciate it.”

“You wouldn't happen to know anything about tri-cycles, would ya? I've worked on farm machinery all my life, and Zach's a mechanic. You'd think between the two of us, we could put a kid's trike together.” Dad shook his head, managing a smile.

But he looked weary. And old. Her daddy was looking old.

When had that happened? Kristin went to him, feeling as fragile as glass. Although they rarely spoke of it, this time of year was hardest on him, too. “You look like you need a cup of cocoa and some help. You're in luck.”

“I've been known to be handy with a wrench, in a pinch.” Ryan's deep voice vibrated through her, and it felt as if for an instant they were connected.

Maybe it just felt that way because they were united in purpose. Kristin made cocoa and gave her opinion on various interpretations of the instructions while the men worked. Dad, with tension etched deep into his face. Zach, frustrated and checking the time as the evening vanished. Ryan looking less troubled with something to keep him busy.

Yet she could still feel his sadness as if it were her own.

 

There had been something calming about the frustration over the construction of the tricycle. Ryan rubbed at the tension in his neck from leaning and twisting trying to get the handlebars in place. It had taken a mechanic, a farmer and a surgeon nearly forty minutes to reach success. Zach had left with a perfect pink-and-white trike covered with a tarp in the back of his truck.

“Well, good night to you, young man.” Mr. McKaslin set empty mugs on the counter, lost in shadows. “I'm goin' on up to bed. Don't you forget to take my truck.”

“Thanks, sir.” The winds were dying, the blizzard beginning to wind down. He needed to get back, it was nearly midnight. Since the phone lines were dead and
his cell wasn't picking up a signal, his mom was likely to be worried about him.

Celebration marked this room, too. The kitchen and eating area were huge and homey. Multicolor twinkle lights flashed in a cheerful rhythm from the archways and the tops of cabinets, threading over plant shelves and draping from valences. A ceramic nativity scene waited patiently on the polished wood of the window seat. Why the sight of the porcelain mother and child made Ryan's chest hurt, he didn't know. Too many feelings, too much regret? Probably.

There was something about this house, too. This home with its feeling of family in the very air. Of closeness. He could sense what tomorrow would be like. Of the women laughing and working and filling up the kitchen, preparing the Christmas meal. The little kids underfoot, with new toys and limitless energy and munching on those great Christmas cookies. The shouts of the men in the living room and the sound of a game would fill the house.

He remembered on Thanksgiving how it was. A family come together to celebrate.

His chest felt wide open. He'd been wrong to come. Wrong to stay. Foolish to think that he could escape by coming here. Blindly, he grabbed his dad's old coat from the back of the kitchen chair, where it had been drying. He'd come here for a reason.

He unzipped the side pocket, where a small thin box was buried. It had been there all day. He'd grabbed it when Kendra had been by to pick him and Mom up in
her sleigh, and he'd totally forgotten. And by the looks of it, it had survived.

It wasn't the only thing in his pocket.

Ryan set aside the box. His heart began to pound in double rhythm. His fingers fumbled as he withdrew the envelope. Ryan was written in a man's hand— Dad's handwriting—on the front.

Why hadn't he noticed this before? Hands shaking, knees weak, he sank into the nearest chair. His fingers working the card loose from the envelope without thought. In the glow of the twinkle lights, he saw it was a card meant for a kid. There was a cartoon dog on the front and big block letters proclaiming, Happy Birthday to the Best Son Ever!

Oh, God.
Why hadn't anyone found this? Ryan put it down. Picked it back up. It looked as though there was handwriting inside the card—more of Dad's handwriting.

He squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath. Freezing every emotion inside him before he broke apart. Before the little boy inside him could remember.

He concentrated on the faint clink and clunk from the next room. The rush and rustle wrapping paper made when it was unrolled. The snap of Scotch tape. The squeak of a bow as it was stretched and twisted. Kristin must be wrapping last-minute gifts. He could hear her gentle frustration, “Mickey! I don't need any help, thank you very much!”

The ripple of her chuckle was warm and wonderful. Soft as silver it seemed to hook his senses. The ice
scouring the siding faded to silence until there was only the rustle of her graceful movements, the pad of her step on the carpet. It was too late to hide the card or the emotion leaving him unable to move.

He didn't look up to acknowledge her presence. He could see the black toes of her boots at the far edge of his vision. She'd stopped to lean against the arched doorway. Her nearness breezed over him like a touch against his skin.

“It looks as if we were on the same wavelength.”

At the sound of her voice, he dragged his gaze upward. He felt raw, wide open, unable to close down his heart or call up his defenses to protect him from her. The sight of her standing like a dream in the decorated archway, the gentle lights twinkling over her like star shine, took his breath away.

She looked like perfection just standing there, in a simple red sweater and jeans belted at her slim waist, a fuzzy gray cat cradled in her left arm, a small wrapped gift in the other. She arched one eyebrow, awaiting his answer.

His mind was a blur. “What?”

“Exchanging presents. I've got one for you. I'm guessing that one's for me.”

Words tore like claws in his throat. Unable to speak, he watched, unable to stop her, as she padded toward him. It felt as if her every step closer was a raw scrape against his exposed heart. Something thudded against the card in his hands. A water droplet. A second. A third. The envelope slid from between his fingers and sailed to the floor, skidding to a halt at Kristin's feet.

“What's this?” She knelt, back straight, keeping the kitty balanced. The paper rasped against the linoleum as she rescued the envelope.

He hung his head, unable to make the wetness in his eyes go away.

Or the explosion inside his heart. What he ought to do was to suck it up, paste a normal look on his face, so she couldn't guess what was going on. Give her the gift, tell her goodbye and march straight into the night. Keep on going until the night numbed him enough so that he could go home, go on with his life per usual.

The card trembled in his hand.

He couldn't let her see. Couldn't let her in. She'd want to soothe him, comfort him with platitudes, and what good would that do? His dad was forever gone. It would never be okay. Never be anything but an unhealed wound inside his heart.

Kristin's hand covered his.

He couldn't look at her. He couldn't talk. He couldn't make himself push her away. The pain swelled in his chest, like a wave breaking against the shore.

“This is from your dad.” She sounded gentle. “Where did you get it?”

He scrubbed his eyes, willing the pain away. Failing. “In the pocket. It was his coat.”

“Did you read what he wrote?”

He breathed in. His entire being shuddered. Hot grief burned on the back of his eyelids. No, he didn't want to read it. He couldn't bear to bring in any more pain.
He was drowning in it. It did no good to dig up the past. To look back at what could never be changed.

“I think you should.” Her words came softly. She held open the card.

He yanked it from her grip. His eyes couldn't focus at first. Head down, he jammed it into his pocket. “I'd best be going.”

“You want to open your present first?”

She was remarkable. That's what she was. He swiped his eyes with his fingertips, hiding the fact that his face was wet, and did the best he could to turn away. He felt trapped in purgatory with the past a heavy rock around his neck, drawing him down an endless hill and he was helpless to stop the fall.

“Ryan, you're not okay. Why don't I drive you home?”

He was at the back door. He didn't remember standing up. Walking away. Crossing the room. He leaned his forehead against the cold panel of glass and willed the sob building in his windpipe to stay down. But it was rising up. He couldn't let it.

She was behind him, her hand on his back. A calm steady comfort that he didn't want and couldn't stomach. But he needed it like air.

“No, I'll be fine.” He was relieved that his words sounded normal. A little strained, but good enough. He looked down to find Pete's truck keys in his hand. There was nothing to do but leave, while he still had a scrap of dignity. “Merry Christmas, Miss McKaslin.”

She slid the gift into his pocket. “Merry Christmas, Dr. Sanders. Drive safe. It's cold out there.”

The thick layer of clouds broke apart, sending the snow scattering. A white shaft of moonlight lit the steps ahead, as if to guide him. Kristin watched him slip away, a tall hulk of a man in the parka he didn't bother to zip, and that worried her as she held the door after him.

She could feel the weight of his pain like the press of the frigid air. A pain that staggered her, and as she closed the door, she felt the furnace kick on and the rush of hot air at her ankles. Mickey squirmed in her arms, he wanted down, so she released him.

The grief inside her crescendoed—and it wasn't her own. She could feel his pain. It was odd, as if he were a part of her. She couldn't explain it as she brushed tears from her eyes.
Please, Father, help him to read the card. Comfort him.

There was no answer as the big shadow of a man ambled down the walkway and toward the garage. He vanished from her sight, but she could feel him still in the center of her heart. So much agony. She rubbed her sternum with the heel of her hand.

Maybe she'd been wrong in letting him go. But he was so capable and he'd stood so strong and straight. As if he didn't need her. Why would he? They weren't even friends, not really.

A blur of movement caught her gaze. There he was, inside Dad's truck. He'd pulled the vehicle out of the garage and, judging by the plume of exhaust, was letting the motor warm up a little before taking off.

The needle on the thermometer tacked on the trunk of the snow-draped maple pointed toward the low minus
twenties. Way too cold to take off after him. He sat straight and tall behind the wheel, silhouetted by the slice of moonlight through the clouds. He looked all right.

She didn't know what to do. Only moments ago he'd been seated in the dark, his head bowed, pain radiating off him. She remembered how one drop had marked the card he'd handed her. One tear.

She wasn't sure how to handle that at all. He'd been so restrained then, as he was now, a shadow in the night as he leaned forward, probably to adjust the defroster. He straightened, and the pain inside her swelled until her ribs ached.

Was it her pain? Or his?

Was it possible to feel someone else's emotions?

She didn't know. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see. Ryan's head bowed forward. Was he reading the card? She reached for her coat and let her heart lead her into the cold and night.

T
he past was like a monster reaching out of the dark to choke him. Ryan tossed the child's birthday card on the bench seat. He couldn't look at it. He wasn't a coward or anything, but what was the point? Molten hot emotion built in his chest, threatening to erupt and he couldn't let it. There was no point in giving in to something that couldn't be changed.

What he needed to do was to go home, go to bed, make it through the day and pray for a reason to leave ahead of schedule. Maybe he'd call in for messages. See if there was some emergency he could volunteer for, so he could head home.

He could leave all this behind. Wouldn't that be better? Yeah, he'd give anything right now to be able to be in Phoenix. There were no memories of Dad there. Nor the wild beauty of Montana's icy winters. Just temperate sunshine and rustling palm trees. Yep, that's what he needed.

A knock on the window came out of nowhere—
and sent waves of adrenaline sparking through his veins. The door opened before he could react, and a hooded figure tumbled inside along with the frigid air. Kristin.

“Hey, there.” The door shut, and she shivered in her coat and gloves. She didn't appear to notice he wasn't in the mood for company. “I haven't been in this kind of cold since last Christmas. I figure I might as well drive over with you and bring the truck back.”

“No way. Then you're out here alone with all this snow. The roads haven't been plowed yet.”

“I'm a Montana girl. What's a little snow?”

Silvered by the moonlight, framed by the night, she looked as beautiful as a dream. He swore he could feel more than her physical closeness. Her sympathy, soft as the tiny bit of moonlight reflecting on the miles of snow, chased away the dark. Eased the shadows.

Shame twisted bitterly in his stomach. He couldn't believe how he'd acted in front of her in the kitchen. He'd been way too vulnerable.

Way too…
weak.

That's what it was. He'd lost his dad as a kid. Sure, it had devastated him, but life went on. Worse tragedies happened every day. He was a man now. A man didn't go around crying like a little boy over what could never be changed. Right?

“Go back in the house, Kristin.”

“No. I was feeling lonely tonight, so I thought I'd join you.”

“How can I say this nicely? I want to be alone.”

“Too bad. Are you going to drive or do you want me to?”

He looked her up and down, as if he wasn't sure what he was going to do.

Kristin's pulse skipped. Was he angry at her? Or was she right in thinking that he was the one who didn't want to be alone? Seconds ticked into minutes as the defroster began to kick out warm air and the clouds overhead sailed in front of the moon, blotting out the light. Leaving only the soft luminescence from the dash controls to see by.

“Stay if you want to.” He sounded careless, but he wasn't.

No. Kristin's chest ached with a building pressure. Hurting for him, she opted for silence as he put the truck in gear and hit the headlights. Twin shafts of brightness lit their way as the truck shot forward.

Snow swirled on the ground, drifting, disguising the familiar curve of the driveway. But Ryan forged a path where the road used to be, handling the truck with expert patience whenever the tires lost traction. Without a word, he drove the half mile to his mom's driveway, where the snow had drifted into the cut of the hillside to block the roadway.

He eased the pickup around and pointed her homeward. “I'll hike it the rest of the way.”

“It's too cold to walk. You're not dressed for this weather.”

“I know what I'm doing. I'll make it in just fine.” He set the emergency brake, leaving the truck in neutral. “I don't feel right about letting you drive back.”

“I know what I'm doing.” She repeated his words. “Apparently we're two people who don't need any help from anyone. Or one another.”

That cracked the tension tight around his jaw. A hint of a grin hooked the corner of his mouth. “I'm glad we understand each other.”

“Right.” She flicked off her hood, since the cab was growing warmer. “Are you going to read your card?”

“That's none of your business.”

“True. It's strange, don't you think, that your mom kept your dad's coat—that coat—for so long?”

“I see where you're going with this. And no, Mom's practical. She said to me this morning, before we went out tree cutting, that she knew one day I'd need his coat. The one I brought up from Phoenix wasn't warm enough. That's why she kept it. Just in case. Mom's like that.”

“Didn't you notice the card earlier? You could have felt it in the pocket any other time.”

“It's a thick goose-down parka. I couldn't tell it was there.”

“So why did you find it when you did?”

“Because I was getting your gift out of the pocket. I know what you're doing, and you're wrong. God isn't trying to tell me something. It's a coincidence. It's just a card.”

“It's from your father.”

He appeared so strong and steady, as if made from granite. A shadow in the darkness, he lifted the card between two fingers and stared at the colorful front,
hardly visible in the dash lights, but substantial nonetheless.

“I'm done with the past. There's nothing there for me.” He stuffed it into his pocket, out of sight.

To be forgotten? Her heart breaking, she felt the wash of his grief. She'd known that devastating pain once, too. Did she tell him what had helped her? Or was he right, that it wasn't her business?

It was as if an angel whispered in her ear and she spoke without knowing what she was saying—she reached across the void between them and brushed a kiss to his cheek. A buzz of sensation flitted through her entire being. The part of her heart that could feel his strengthened.

She leaned back, spinning with the feel of his five o'clock shadow and the clean scent of him. “We're a product of our past. You never accepted your father's death, did you?”

“What was there to accept? It happened. There's nothing I can do to change it.”

“No. But you carry that loss with you. I know I do. I wrestled with it for a long time. I just wanted my sister back. My family had fallen apart. Mom had sunk into a depression so deep, we didn't think she'd ever come out. Dad just drifted away. Deciding not to cope at all. He just…kept his distance.”

“Sometimes that's the best way. Keep away from what's hurting.”

“Yes. That's why I moved to Seattle. Part of the reason.” She closed her eyes. Thought of the day that had
just passed, different because Allison wasn't there. “Nothing is the same. We've all dealt in our own way. I think my sisters are compensating for the past by marrying and having kids.”

“Compensating?”

“Trying to recreate what was lost. We were all so close back then. Our family had a real togetherness. Summer vacations and weekend trips up into the woods to camp. Going to watch both Michelle and Kendra compete—they barrel raced. Friday night gatherings and Saturday horse rides and picnics after church on Sunday. Making snowmen and hiding presents around Christmastime and spending Christmas Eve at the piano while Mom played carol after carol. We'd sing until midnight—”

Grief vised her chest, like an iron band twisting tighter with each breath. “Then there was the plane accident. Allison and Kirby were headed with the church group for a retreat.”

“I remember.” Ryan's baritone rumbled deep with sorrow. With understanding. “You were lucky Kirby survived.”

“We were all so grateful. And at the same time, destroyed. Allison was gone, and our family shattered. As strong as our parents' marriage was, it couldn't stand that loss. And the rest of us just did the best we could. Sometimes the pain feels so fresh. Like on holidays, like tonight. I can't look back because it hurts. I'm sad that nothing is the same. That the future will be forever changed.”

Ryan swiped his hand over his face. “Look, I can't do this. I've got to go. Good night.”

“Ryan—”

It was beyond rude and he knew it. But he was breaking inside and he had to go. He'd rather face the frigid cold and the hopeless night than to let her in. Let her close. She was coming after him. He could see her in the brief shine of the dome light, which was illuminating the honest compassion on her sweet face. It was too much—too honest, too intimate and too close to breaking open the scars inside him.

He winced as he slammed the door shut, the pain so stark it was as if the grief inside him had broken his ribs. The brief shine from the dome light faded, leaving only the haunting shadow of Kristin, her jaw falling open with surprise at his behavior.

And he hated it. He didn't know what was happening to him. How would someone as perfect as Kristin understand? He sank into snow up to his thigh. Stepped again, cold sliding through his clothes. He cut through the beams of the headlights and faced the dark. Headed to a place that hurt as much as it sheltered. But it was better than going back, although something inside him felt stretched, as if an unseen force was pulling him back. Holding on. Never letting go.

Was it Kristin? Why could he still feel her kiss on his cheek? Not even the icy wind was able to numb the tingle on his skin. The night could not diminish the glow in his spirit when he thought of her.

Look after her, Father. Please.
Ryan couldn't turn
around, but he could feel her watching him. Praying for him. He had to keep going—it felt as if his survival depended on it. On putting as much distance as he could away from her. Away from her kindness. Her caring. Her softness.

How had she gotten so deep into his soul? He only knew he didn't want her there. He didn't want anyone that close. He tromped through the drifting snow, sinking and struggling. It was tough going, but he didn't care. He just wanted as far away from her as he could get. His heart was bursting, his spirit fracturing and he was thankful when the shadows swallowed him from Kristin's sight. He heard the truck's idle change—she was shifting into gear. The increased hum of the engine reverberated through the silent night as she gave it enough gas to pull out onto the lonely road and then the sound faded into nothing.

Only then did he turn and watch the faint beam of taillights grow smaller in the vast darkness until they disappeared. He was alone, and the bitter cold hadn't eased the agony inside him. Hadn't erased the grip Kristin had on his soul.

With his step crunching on the new snow, Ryan's breathing came loud as the night seemed to draw more silent. As if it lay in quiet anticipation. He'd never heard such silence. Endless and echoing and hushed.

By the time he'd made it to the back steps, he was frozen clear through. His hands and feet were numb. His face chapped and burning. The card and gift in his pocket felt like lead weights, growing heavier with every step he took.

He'd been so wrong to run to her tonight. That's what he'd done, wasn't it? Hauling his tail through a storm to the warmth of her presence. Why had he done it? It had made sense at the time, but now—now everything was worse.

Grateful for the porch light guiding him in, he stumbled up the buried porch steps, kicking snow away as he went. It had drifted up against the back door, even though Mom had probably cleared it away before she went to bed. He grabbed the shovel leaning against the siding and gave a few swipes to clear a path.

Not that the inside of this house was a sanctuary. If anything, his chest hurt worse. His heart broke apart even more. He kicked out of his boots, his numbed feet feeling thick and unresponsive. His fingers were no better. He headed straight to the woodstove in the corner, which crackled and popped as it radiated wonderful heat.

Unzipping, he sank onto the hot floor bricks and let the warmth wash over him like bliss. He was so cold, he couldn't feel it. His entire body started to shiver.

Okay, he'd been desperate to go out in the cold dressed like he was. Even his bones felt frozen. He thought of Kristin when he climbed to his feet. The clock said ten minutes to midnight. That meant she ought to be just about home now. The roads were pretty much impassable. He never should have agreed to let her come. If he'd been in more control of his emotions, he certainly wouldn't have allowed such a thing.

And at this late hour, he couldn't call and wake up the entire house to make sure she was safe.

Worry churned through him. He grabbed a cup from the cupboard and filled it with water, hating his clumsy movements. He heated water in the microwave and dug through the drawers until he found where Mom kept the tea. She had a whole drawer full of different boxes of the stuff.

He grabbed a fruity-flavored one, dunked the bag in the steaming water. Just cupping it in his hands made him feel warmer. He drank it right there in one long draw and refilled the cup and nuked it again.

He felt marginally better. Still shivering, the minute and a half it took for the machine to ding felt like an eternity. He watched the wall clock's hands move closer to midnight.

The ringing phone surprised him. With adrenaline still knocking through him, he grabbed the receiver before it could ring again. “Kristin?”

“Just checking to make sure you made it indoors safely,” she answered.

Relief slid through him that she was also okay. He stopped quaking. Then again, it might have been from the hot tea. The microwave dinged in the background. He couldn't think of what to say other than,
Sorry I was a moron and ran off like that. Sorry I couldn't handle finding a piece of paper in my pocket.

But she spoke, breaking the silence between them. “Well, I just wanted to ease my mind. I had visions of you frozen in a snowbank in midstride. When I got home, the thermometer read twenty-four below. I shouldn't have let you walk off like that.”