Lorraine Heath (30 page)

With the baby, she’d held hope that Dallas would come to love her—if not for herself, for the fact that she had given him a son, through her he had acquired his dream.

But the hope had died with their son.

Dallas came to her room each evening to ask after her health, but he never came to her bed. He never held her. He no longer looked at her as though she hung the stars.

And she missed that most of all.

A knock sounded on her door, and she turned from the gray skies. “Come in.”

Dallas stepped into the room. “You’re not ready.”

She glanced at the red dress he’d brought her from town. How could she wear red when she was in mourning? Or did a child who had never lived receive no mourning period?

“I’m just not up to seeing people.”

“You’ve been in this room for two weeks, Dee. If you can’t walk down the stairs, I’ll carry you, but Christmas Eve has always been a special time for my family. It’s about the only tradition we have.” His Adam’s apple slowly slid up and down. “It’d mean a great deal to me if you’d join us—if not for me, then for Rawley. I’m not sure the boy even knows what Christmas is.”

Rawley. She thought of the way he sat as still as stone and listened, barely breathing, when she read to him. “I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes.”

He nodded and left the room. Quickly she washed up in the warm water he’d brought her earlier. She brushed her hair and swept it up off her neck. Then she donned the red dress—for Dallas—a small inconsequential gift to him because she knew he preferred her in red.

She stepped into the hallway, surprised to find Dallas leaning against the wall, his head bowed. She had noticed so little about him before, but she noticed everything now.

The shine on his boots, the red vest beneath his black jacket, a red that matched her gown, the black tie at his throat.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze. At one time, she knew he would have smiled at her. Now, he only looked at her with uncertainty, a woman to whom marriage vows had chained him, a woman who couldn’t fulfill his heart’s solitary desire.

He stepped away from the wall and crooked his elbow.

Always the gentleman … even now honoring his word when she could no longer honor hers.

She braved a smile and placed her arm through his. Slowly they descended the stairs, a wall of silence shimmering between them. How could a child that she had never held in her arms, patted on the head, or kissed good night leave such an aching chasm in her soul?

They walked into the parlor and the world was transformed into gaiety. In a far corner, with red ribbons, strung popcorn and raisins, and brightly painted horseshoes decorating its branches, an expansive cedar tree brushed the ceiling.

Austin sat Indian style beside the tree, Maggie curled against his side. He took a package from beneath the tree, placed it between their ears, and shook it. Maggie’s smile grew as the rattle bounced around them.

“What do you think?” he asked. “A puppy!”

Austin chuckled. “I don’t think so.” He put the package down and reached for another.

Houston and Amelia sat on the sofa, their fingers intertwined, whispering to each other without taking their eyes off their daughter.

Rawley stood beside an empty chair, wearing a miniature version of Dallas’s jacket, vest, and tie. With his black hair slicked down, his face scrubbed almost raw, and his hands knotted at his sides, she wondered if he knew Christmas came with gifts.

Maggie squealed. “Aunt Dee, you came!” She hopped up, ran across the room, and wrapped her small arms around Cordelia’s knees. “I’m so glad.” She looked up at Dallas. “Now?”

He touched the tip of her nose. “In a minute.”

Awkwardly, Amelia brought herself to her feet with assistance from Houston. Pressing a hand to her protruding stomach, smiling softly, she waddled across the room. With tears in her eyes, she hugged Cordelia. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered.

Cordelia fought back her own tears. She had expected a Christmas filled with joy, not sorrow. As Amelia drew back, Cordelia squeezed her hands and gave her a quivering smile. “How are you feeling?”

Amelia smiled brightly. “I woke up this morning and wanted to clean the house from top to bottom. I’m so glad Christmas Eve is today when I’m not tired.”

“Me, too,” Houston said. “She wanted me to help her clean.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Dee’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, Dee.”

“Why don’t you sit over here?” Dallas said as he escorted her to the chair where Rawley stood, a silent sentinel.

Sitting in the chair, she smiled at Rawley and touched a finger to the lapel of his jacket. “You certainly look handsome.”

Twin spots of red colored his cheeks. He looked down at his boots—new boots, as shiny as Dallas’s. She had been so wrapped up in her grief that she hadn’t considered the child might need—might want—new clothes. She glanced up, wanting to thank Dallas for making certain the child was dressed as nicely as everyone else on this special day.

But he had moved away and was standing by the tree. He cleared his throat. “Our mother believed in tradition. She didn’t have many, but the ones she had always seemed special.” He met Houston’s gaze. “Austin didn’t remember the traditions because he was so young when our mother died, but Houston and I remembered them. We gave our word that we’d share them with Austin, and in time with our families. It always makes us feel as though our mother is still with us.” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, she always sang a song before we opened the gifts.”

Houston stepped up beside him. Austin picked up his violin, placed it beneath his chin, and set his bow upon the strings. With one long, slow stroke, he brought the beautiful music into the room.

Then Dallas and Houston added their deep voices to the lyrical strains of the violin.

“Silent night, holy night …”

Dallas’s voice was a rich resonance that seemed to reach out and touch every corner of the room. Houston sounded as though cattle had taught him to sing, but it didn’t matter. The words journeyed from their hearts and their memories. Cordelia sat in awe, listening as three men, three brothers, paid their special homage to the woman who had brought each of them into the world.

Dallas faltered at the words “mother and child,” and fell into silence. He looked at her, and for a brief moment she saw the raw pain he’d been hiding from her. Then Amelia’s voice filled the room as she nestled against Houston’s side and he wrapped his arm around her.

Cordelia wanted to get out of the chair, cross the room, wrap her arms around Dallas, and tell him that everything would be all right. She would find a way to make it right again, but she saw a family standing before the tree, four people who loved each other. She couldn’t find the courage to walk into their midst, to ask them to accept her as she was—broken.

A small hand found its way into hers. Smiling softly at Rawley, she wondered if he felt as though he didn’t belong as much as she did.

The voices rang out with the final words of the hymn, and as they died away, Austin took his time, allowing the last strains of music to fade.

Maggie walked up to Dallas and tilted her head back. “Now?”

He smiled warmly. “Now.”

She squealed and dropped to the floor, clapping her hands. “Now, Unca Austin, now.”

Austin set aside his violin and pointed a finger at her. “No peeking, no opening anything until they are all passed out.”

Nodding her head, she scooted up. Houston and Amelia returned to their places on the sofa, and Dallas leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

Cordelia squeezed Rawley’s hand. “Don’t you want to move closer to the tree?”

He shook his bowed head, but she could see him peering beneath his lashes at the tree.

Austin dropped to his knees and reached for a gift. “All right, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He turned the wrapped box over and over, frowning. “Mmmm … oh, wait, I see it.” He smiled broadly. “Maggie May.”

She clapped, took the gift, and shuffled her bottom over the floor.

Austin reached for another box and lifted a brow. “Maggie May.”

Maggie had six gifts beside her before Austin furrowed his brow and glared at her. “How come you’re gettin’ all the presents?”

She smiled brightly. “I was too good.” She glanced over her shoulder at Rawley. “Wasn’t you good?”

Cordelia felt Rawley’s hand flinch within hers and saw his jaw tighten. “He was very good,” she said in his defense, wishing she’d been well enough to travel to town to purchase him a gift, wondering what she might have in her room that she could give him.

“Well, I reckon he was,” Austin said. “Lookee—here. This one’s for Rawley.” He handed the gift to Maggie. “Run it over to him, Maggie May.”

Maggie popped up and brought Rawley the gift. She held it out to him, but he only stared at the small oblong box.

“Don’t you want it?” Maggie asked.

“I’ll take it,” Cordelia said and set the gift at his feet. She read the tag, grateful to Austin for remembering the child.

“I’ll be darned,” Austin said. “Rawley again.”

“Oh!” Maggie cried as she took the large flat gift from Austin and ran it back to Rawley.

“And here’s one for me,” Austin said as he started to untie the ribbon that held the paper in place.

Maggie screeched and grabbed his hand, her brow deeply furrowed. “Gotta wait.”

“Then let’s get the rest passed out fast.”

She helped him, laying presents at the grown-ups’ feet. Cordelia looked at her two gifts. One from Austin. One from Houston and Amelia. She had lost her enthusiasm for the season when she’d lost her child, but judging by the number of gifts appearing, she assumed Dallas hadn’t. Watching him as he stood apart from the gathering, she thought she could tell when a gift from him was handed off to someone. A warmth touched his eyes, as though he were pleased that he could give abundantly to those he loved.

Yet she received no gift from him.

“What in the heck is this?” Austin asked as he pulled a large wrapped box from behind the tree. Maggie’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a large circle. “Goodness gracious, it’s for Rawley,” Austin said. “Help me shove it over to him, Maggie May.”

They both made a great show of pushing the package across the room. When they stopped, Maggie planted her hands on the box and leaned toward Rawley, tipping her head back. “You musta been gooder than me.”

Austin clasped his hands together. “That’s it. Let’s see what we got.”

Austin hurried across the room and began to tear into his presents as though he were the same age as Maggie.

Cordelia heard quiet footsteps and glanced up. Dallas stood before her, holding a small wrapped box with a tiny red bow on it.

“It’s just a little something,” he said. “I was afraid it might get lost under the tree.”

With trembling fingers, she took the gift, carefully untied the red ribbon, peeled back the paper, and opened the box. A heart-shaped locket was nestled between cotton. Tiny flowers had been engraved over the gold. Tears burned the back of her throat as she looked up at Dallas. “I … I didn’t get anything for you,” she whispered.

“Under the circumstances, I didn’t expect you to.” He crouched in front of Rawley. “You gonna open your presents?”

Rawley stared at Mr. Leigh, and then dropped his gaze to the wrapped boxes, trying to believe they were really for him, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to leave them as they were, carefully wrapped with his name on them, the only true gifts he’d ever received in his life.

“I always start with the smallest,” Mr. Leigh said as he picked up the first gift Rawley had received and held it toward him.

Rawley’s mouth went dry. He had to confess first. They’d take the presents away, but he had to tell Mr. Leigh the truth. “I wasn’t good.”

Mr. Leigh rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his black mustache. Rawley had figured out that he did that when he was thinking hard.

“There’s a difference between being good and doing bad things. Sometimes, a person does something because he doesn’t have a choice. He might not like what he did … but it doesn’t make him bad.”

Rawley had done a lot that he didn’t like. Mr. Leigh shook the box beneath his nose. It rattled something fierce. “Austin, did you put a rattlesnake in here?” Mr. Leigh asked.

Austin was shoving his hand into a new glove. He looked up. “Don’t tell him. It’ll ruin the surprise.”

Mr. Leigh lifted a brow. “What do you think?”

Rawley wrinkled his nose. “Thought rattlers slept in winter.”

“Maybe you’d better open it and see.”

Rawley nodded and took the gift. His fingers were shaking so badly that he could barely grab the tiny piece of string. He pulled the bow free and moved the paper aside. Then holding his breath, he lifted the lid and peered inside. “Holy cow,” he whispered.

He’d never seen so many sarsaparilla sticks in his whole life—except at the general store. He didn’t know much about counting but he knew a hundred was a big number so he figured he had at least a hundred sticks in that box. He’d be an old man before he finished eating them.

“You can eat them anytime you want, Rawley,” Austin said, wearing a big grin.

“Can I eat one now?” he asked.

“You don’t have to ask,” Mr. Leigh said. “They’re yours to do with as you want.”

His. A hundred sarsaparilla sticks. Maybe more. His mouth watered as he took one from the box and slipped it into his mouth. The tangy flavor washed through him. He looked at the lady. She had tears in her eyes. He figured she wanted a sarsaparilla stick, too, but it didn’t look like her boxes were the right size to hold one. He knew what it was to want—and to never have. He held the box toward her. “Want one?”

More tears filled her eyes along with the glorious smile she gave him as she reached into his box. “Thank you.”

He’d done that. Made her smile. He’d never in his life had anything but misery to share with people. He felt warm inside knowing he had something good he could share, even if it meant he wouldn’t get to eat them all. He shoved the box toward Mr. Leigh. “Want one?”

Mr. Leigh smiled, too, as he took a stick and put it in his mouth. Rawley wondered if Mr. Leigh’s mustache would smell like sarsaparilla after he’d eaten the candy.