Home for Christmas (5 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

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Later that afternoon, Hunter took Miranda’s hand as they crept away from the Johnsons’ front porch. Inside, they’d could hear movement, but he’d decided to risk dropping off the surprise package anyway.

The front door banged open.

Hunter snagged Miranda around the waist and pulled her around the corner of the Johnsons’ house.

She giggled and he pressed a gloved hand gently over her mouth. “Quiet now,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ll give us away.”

Around the corner, he heard one of the Johnson boys whooping with excitement. “Santa Claus came, Pa!
Santa
came! Come see!”

Miranda relaxed against Hunter’s chest. He felt her lean against him with a quiet acceptance that stirred his blood and made his pulse quicken. He eased his hand away from her mouth, settling it on her shoulder, enjoying the feel of her gentle movements as she drew breath. He brushed his lips over her hair, aching with the pleasure of holding her, wanting taste her kiss.

The screen door banged shut as more of the Johnsons gathered on the porch, ripping into the packages.

Distracted by Miranda’s body tucked against him, he couldn’t concentrate on the Johnsons’ tumble of conversation, filled with exclamations of delight and wonder. Miranda smelled of fresh soap and vanilla.

His heart thudded dully against his ears, blocking out all rational thought. Before he could think it through, he nuzzled her ear and pressed a kiss to her neck.

“I see him!” One of the Johnson boys shouted.

Hunter tensed and Miranda chuckled softly, breaking the spell. She indicated the youngest Johnson boy standing barely in their line of sight on the front yard, pointing skyward.

“I see Santa’s sleigh!” the kid bellowed, frantic with excitement. “There, that little speck goin’ over our house!”

“That’s a
swallow,
Jimmy. A little bird.” But even the ten-year-old sounded unconvinced, as if he wanted to believe.

Miranda shifted slightly and rested her head on his shoulder. The unspoken affection rushed through him as if lightning had struck the ground at his feet.

“Who do you suppose?” Mrs. Johnson asked. “Look at this. Socks. Candies. Three pair of mittens and three stocking caps. And
oranges.
”

Hunter smiled as he visualized Mrs. Johnson sniffing the fragrant citrus. He heard her rustle through the crate and its layers of surprises. In the yard, the boys made snowballs and pelted each other with the ammunition.

Hunter eased his arms about Miranda and hugged her against his chest.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Johnson said on a rush of air. “This is one of Nance’s, I know it.”

“We’ve never bought a goose from him.” Johnson didn’t sound pleased. “How can you be certain?”

“I saw them for sale at Murphy’s.”

“This is too much. We can’t accept it.” Pride echoed in his words. “Nances need the coats and meat as much as we do.”

“For all we know, someone bought the goose from Nances, and it’s not the Nances at all that we owe our thanks to.”

“We’ll just have to do something in return. I still think it was Celia Nance. The woman is generous to a fault. You and the boys ride over there and take them the two apple pies I made for our supper. Let them see the boys in their new coats. Let them see the happiness on your faces. That should be a good start at showing them our gratitude.”

“Let’s go,” Hunter whispered in Miranda’s ear. He took her hand and led her back to the woods where they’d left the sleigh. “We’ll be out of sight before Johnson gets his boys loaded up.”

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Certain the slim leather-bound volume of poetry he’d purchased in Denver had fallen onto the floor, Hunter lifted the quilts to peer beneath his bed. It wasn’t there. He was certain he’d left the book on the bedside table when he’d unpacked. He’d read a poem or two and skimmed the others before bed last night. He pulled the little table away from the wall, but it hadn’t fallen behind.

He leaned back on his heels and scanned the room. The book wasn’t anywhere obvious. The dresser top was free of clutter, the chair empty, his satchel already put away. He remembered hiding the other gifts he’d purchased in Denver in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

He pulled open the drawer and pawed through the neatly folded clothing and found the new tablecloth for his mother at the bottom, but no book. Beneath the tablecloth, the soft cotton yarn he’d bought for Viv lined up in a neat row.

Frustrated, he opened another drawer and dug through the pajamas he never wore. He dumped handfuls of clothes onto the floor in a hurry to reach the bottom of the drawer.

His mom knocked on the open door. “Will you deliver Christmas cookies to--” She took in the clothing littering the usually tidy floor. “Are you ill?”

“I think I’m going to be.”

She scooped up an armload of pajamas and folded them on the bed. “What’s the matter?”

“Have you seen a book of poetry? I thought I left it on the bedside table.”

She made a fuss over checking the heat of his brow with the back of her hand. “Poetry? You must be ill.”

Irritated, Hunter brushed her hand away. “I’ve got to find it.”

“What’s wrong? Why do you need the book?”

“I bought it for Miranda.”

He recalled, with vivid detail, the day she’d recited Sainsbury’s
Soliloquy of Spring
in school. Her passion for the words and the story they told had awakened an attraction in him that he’d never managed to douse. She loved the poem. That much was obvious.

The moment he found the rare volume of Sainsbury’s poetry, he knew he wanted to give it to Miranda for Christmas. And somehow, he’d managed to lose it just hours before he had planned to give it to her.

His mother slowly folded a pajama shirt and added it to the tidy stack on the foot of his bed. “Miranda’s not the kind to need
things
. Although she’d probably enjoy a holiday visit, I don’t think she expects either of us to give her anything.”

“I want to.”

Indecision flickered through her eyes.

“What?” He watched his mother hesitate, as if she had something to say, but thought it wiser to keep it to herself. “Don’t you think I should give her a present?”

“Just be careful, won’t you? She’s finally home, and I’m sure we’re poor reminders at best.”

Hunter didn’t want to be a reminder. A flash of emotion, dangerously close to anger seared through him. He didn’t want to be second best, a mere substitute for Warren. Every time she looked at him, did she see Warren?

He wished everyone could forget Miranda had pledged herself to his brother. Why couldn’t they see past what had been? It was over, done with, of little import now. No one seemed to have a problem with Warren having a family; it was time for Miranda to claim those blessings, too.

“I’m glad to see she’s home,” his mother said softly as she placed the tidy stack of pajamas back in the drawer. “I thought I’d pay her a visit and tell her so.”

His mother never visited anyone during the holidays without taking along a token gift--cookies or fresh bread or an embroidered kitchen towel. “Do you have a gift for her?”

“I embroidered a set of pillowcases that were to be a wedding gift. They’ve been waiting in my cedar chest and I still want her to have them.”

She sounded wistful, as if she still missed Miranda. He knew his parents had loved her like a daughter. Yet they adored Viv and knew she and Warren were happy together. It wasn’t that they wished he hadn’t married Viv--only wished they hadn’t lost Miranda in the process.

He vaguely remembered his mom stitching a fancy
K,
for Kendall, onto pillowcases to give Warren and Miranda. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“They’re just pillowcases. She’ll marry someday, and they’ll be a lovely addition to her trousseau.”

The thought of intentionally reminding Miranda of the broken engagement didn’t sit well. But his mother had always been diplomatic, gentle, accepting. He knew she’d handle the visit and the gift with finesse.

Hunter had to find the book. He couldn’t add his name to the gift of pillowcases from his parents, not when he knew the book would please Miranda. “I found the perfect gift for her, and it’s missing. I need to find it.”

“Sainsbury?” His mother took the book from his bookshelves.

Relived, Hunter accepted the book and sat on the edge of the bed. Good. He leafed through the pages. He couldn’t wait to present it to Miranda. He hoped she’d recite part of the poem for him.

“I put it away this morning. I wondered about your sudden interest in poetry.” His mother paused in the doorway. “Just as I wonder at your not-so-sudden interest in Miranda Finlay.”

<><><><>

Determined to enjoy every last minute with her family, Miranda attended the Christmas Eve service. After all, she was home for Christmas for the first time in three long years.

Her fears had waned. She was stronger than she’d supposed.

It was time.

As she entered the church with her parents, brothers, sisters, their spouses and children, she drew a fragrant breath, laced with pine and cinnamon. Hundreds of candles, perched on every flat surface, gave off golden light.

The reverend’s wife coaxed music from the aging organ. Evergreen boughs adorned the end panels of each wooden pew, adorned with silver bells and velvet ribbons.

Stepping inside this building reminded her of every Christmas she’d spent here as a child.

It was the first time she’d entered the building since the day of her canceled wedding.

An odd mix of nostalgia stole the pain and embarrassment of that last visit. She squeezed Jessie’s hand. She’d done the right thing in coming. She belonged here, with her family, enjoying this holy night.

Although it occurred to her Warren might be there, she found she didn’t need to search him out. If she saw him, she’d give a polite nod and leave it at that. She doubted anyone expected anything further from either of them.

Besides, in this crowd, on this holy night, she’d be lost in the music and scripture and joyful celebration. She’d be safe.

Her family crowded into three pews, midst the neighbors already seated. Miranda waved in greeting to several people she hadn’t seen since leaving home.

Before Miranda could sit, Warren’s parents hurried down the aisle. Miranda’s breath hitched. She caught herself looking for Warren, but found Hunter stood alone behind his parents, dressed handsomely in a dark suit, his white shirt glowing in reflected candlelight. His smile offered her a bit of strength.

Warren’s mother clasped Miranda’s hand between her cold ones. “You’re looking well. Hunter told me you were home for a few days. I’m glad.”

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Kendall.” The name
Mother
Kendall hovered on her tongue. She’d used it often. The name fit. They should have been her in-laws. They’d meant so much to her, and she hadn’t written to them after leaving home.

Realizing she’d turned away from them, when they would’ve remained her friends, brought a sense of shame. She should have kept in touch.

Mother Kendall squeezed Miranda’s hand, then glanced up at her husband. He patted Miranda’s shoulder awkwardly.

Miranda had loved these two like her own parents–-seeing them now, she realized she still did. “It’s wonderful to see you both. You look well.”

The reverend’s wife segued easily from a carol into the strains of
Silent Night
, the traditional beginning to the annual candlelight service. The congregation stood. Miranda wished for more time to talk to the Kendalls.

The older woman pulled Miranda close in a hug. “I hope you’re well, my dear. We’ve missed you.” She sniffed, eased away, and made her way across the aisle to her own seat.

Miranda sat on the end of the pew, glanced over at Hunter, seated across from her. He smiled at her, his warmth of greeting genuine and warming her clear through.

Reverend Gilbert led the congregation to sing
Silent Night.
Oh, it felt wonderful to be home! The music fed her soul, sharpened the sweetness of her homecoming.

As the second verse began, a young family made their way up the aisle and Hunter stepped aside to let them past.

Miranda realized with a start that Warren had joined his family. He ushered Viv into the pew with a gentle touch to her back. As Viv stepped past him, Miranda caught a glimpse of her rounded figure. Warren carried a little boy on his arm, bundled up tight against the winter cold.

Miranda’s heart hammered against her breastbone. The sweet hymn of praise echoed in her ears.
Shepherds quake at the sight!

Heat suffocated the air from her lungs as she watched Warren smile at Hunter, clasp his hand in a firm shake and move past.

Glories stream from heaven afar; Heav’nly hosts sing Alleluia!

She’d planned to greet Warren civilly, with some measure of indifference. Because that’s all she felt for him anymore. Just passing concern, as she would for any of the Kendalls. They were her neighbors, after all, and she’d moved beyond their past. It wasn’t as if they’d ever been married, for heaven’s sake. They shared no children, hadn’t even begun to build a life together. They’d merely considered doing so.

So why did she tremble? She clenched her hands onto the pew before her. Seeing Warren as a husband and father stung. She glanced around at the neighbors, humiliated all over again. What must they think?

Mary Beth’s arm tightened about Miranda’s shoulders. Belatedly, she realized her sister had spoken.

The hymn echoed in her mind, a striking contrast to the turmoil in her heart.
Love’s pure light.....

“What?” With her ears still ringing, she turned to her sister.

“Are you all right?” Mary Beth pressed her cheek to Miranda’s.