One Imperfect Christmas (24 page)

“My entire life just passed before my eyes, but I'll live.” He smiled hopefully and tried not to think about how stiff and sore he would be tomorrow.

Natalie nodded in understanding and turned Rocky toward home. Barely lifting his head from the grass, Pokey followed.

“I had kind of a different ending in mind, though,” he said.

Natalie abruptly halted her horse and looked back at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

His throat closed. “Nat, I miss you. Why can't we work things out?”

“Please, Daniel, don't start—”

“Why? Why do you keep pushing me away? Last night—”

“Last night was a mistake. Just like always, we couldn't keep from fighting. That's the story of our lives, and I'm sick of it.” She drove her heels into Rocky's sides and cantered down the hill toward the stream crossing.

Daniel labored to get the stubborn Pokey moving faster, but the speed demon of ten minutes ago now seemed content with a slow, lumbering walk, pausing often to jerk the reins from Daniel's hand by diving for a clump of grass. By the time they reached the barn, Rocky had been brushed and turned out in the paddock. Natalie was nowhere to be seen.

Hart emerged from the tack room as Daniel dismounted. “So how'd it go, pardner?”

“It didn't.” His leg muscles trembled as he tried to find his balance on solid ground again. His thighs felt like they'd been wrapped around an elephant.

Unfastening Pokey's bridle, Hart cast Daniel a regretful look. “I gathered that after Natalie got here a full half-hour ahead of you.”

“Is she still around?” He fumbled with the clasp of his riding helmet.

“Uh, no. Said she had a few things to catch up on before work tomorrow.”

“That figures. And Lissa?”

“In the house playing cribbage with Dad. Natalie thought Lissa could ride home with you and save you a trip to pick her up later in town.” He hefted the saddle off Pokey's back and headed into the tack room.

“Well, that certainly keeps the afternoon from being a total waste.” Disappointment clung to him like the sweat-muddied dirt beneath Pokey's saddle blanket. He followed Hart into the tack room and tossed the damp blanket onto an empty rack.

Hart clapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. I really hoped after last night, you might find an opening.”

“She's just not ready.” He stared toward the house. “And I'm beginning to think she never will be.”

Natalie settled stiffly into her desk chair on Monday morning. Her “horse muscles” screamed at her in protest for months of neglect. Yesterday had been a good day, though. At least it started out that way. Riding with Lissa, she felt a closeness with her daughter that she hadn't experienced in … okay, if she were completely honest, probably not since the separation.

Natalie rotated her shoulders in each direction in preparation for another marathon computer session. Her thoughts wouldn't cooperate, however. Why did Daniel have to show up at the farm and give Lissa more false hope? When Natalie returned to the barn without Daniel, Lissa had barely spoken a word to her. The familiar look of disillusionment shone through accusing eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Without warning, Deannie appeared across the desk from Natalie, jolting her back to the present. “You have a sunburn.”

“Do I?” Natalie barely glanced at Deannie and powered up the computer. Then, remembering the task she'd given her partner's niece on Saturday, she held her breath and glanced up furtively. “Please don't tell me you found more errors.”

“Nope, not a one. Here are the proofs, with five sets of initials on each copy, just like you asked.” Deannie plopped a stack of file folders on the desk.

Natalie closed her eyes in sweet relief.

“By the way, I heard you had dinner at Adamo's Saturday evening. How was it?”

Natalie's eyes flew open. She spent about two seconds wondering which of her acquaintances at Adamo's had informed Deannie she'd been there—Alan, the egotistical Top Gun delivery driver, no doubt—then another half-minute wondering why her dinner plans should interest anyone else in the first place. “Fine. Dinner was perfectly fine.” She cocked an eyebrow and dared her assistant to say more.

“Oh.” Deannie pushed out her lower lip. “That's it? Fine?”

“Look, Deannie.” She placed both palms on her desktop and forced a calm she didn't feel. “I know you mean well, and I'm sorry if I'm not as friendly as I could be. It's just that I've got a job to do, and lately it hasn't been going very well.”

“Yeah, I know.” Deannie meandered over to the desk. She opened one of the folders she'd just returned and idly ran her finger along the proof copy. “Oh, my. What is this?” She bent over for a closer look.

Natalie followed the girl's gaze to the inside text of a custom Christmas card Natalie had designed for Andrew Pennington, a local attorney:

May your holidays be bright with promise,
Your New Year full of hope.
Blessings of the season,
Awesome Painter, Attorney-at-Law

Natalie's mouth dropped open. Her throat felt like she'd swallowed a fat, pigment-slathered paintbrush. “But—but you had five people initial—”

“Oops.”

“I don't know what's going on around here, but I will find out.” Natalie stood. Any second now, she'd be hyperventilating. Her stress level had just pegged into the red. She needed air.
Now.
She headed for the door.

“But what about the card?” Deannie blocked Natalie's way. “Mr. Painter's secretary—I mean, Mr.
Pennington's
—is probably on her way over here now.”

Natalie squeezed her eyes shut, her only thought the effort it took to take the next breath.
In … out … in … out.
When a semblance of control returned, she steadied her gaze on her wide-eyed assistant. “Do you know anything about desktop publishing?”

“Um, a little. Why?”

“If I give you my password, can you open the file and fix it?” How hard could it be? All she had to do was correct two little words. Natalie could always change the password later.

“Oh, sure, you bet.” With a grin, Deannie planted herself in Natalie's chair and poised her fingers over the computer keys. She looked up expectantly. “But … just in case … where can I find you if there are any more problems?”

Natalie didn't want to hear about any more problems— ever again. But this annoying little warning bell in the back of her mind clanged with unsettling urgency. Something told her the real problems hadn't even begun to surface. Before she could change her mind and eject Jeff Garner's charity project from her office—and her life—once and for all, she grabbed a pen and scribbled on a notepad. “Here. The Painter—
Pennington
—password and my cell number.”

Without looking back, she reached for her purse, yanked her down-filled jacket off the coat tree, and marched out of the office.

Belinda Morgan rested her hand in her husband's, quietly drawing strength from its solid feel. If only she could speak, tell him again how much she loved him. If only she could reach up and smooth his wrinkled brow and kiss away the worry lines on his forehead.

She'd lost track of how long she'd been here, confined in this bed of scratchy sheets over a lumpy mattress, trapped in a body that didn't pay any more mind to her than that contrary old nanny-goat Hart used to chase around the farm as a boy. She thought she recognized the brushed cotton gown she wore as one of her own. It smelled faintly of her favorite lemony laundry soap … but those stains—how did they get there?

I must get this off and wash it before … before …

Seemingly of its own volition, her head rocked back and forth against the flattened foam pillow.

“It's okay, darlin'.” Bram stilled the motion with a touch of his hand. He held her face so her eyes looked directly into his. “I've been thinking. I want you to come home.” His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. “Home for Christmas.”

Christmas?
Oh, Bram, is it Christmastime already? Why, sweetheart, there's so much to do. Have you cut the tree? Oh, please tell me I haven't missed Natalie Rose's birthday. And the nativity scene, the star …

What was that awful moaning sound, and why did her husband look at her that way, as if he couldn't understand a word she said?

“Please, honey, lie still. Here, let me … ” He plucked a tissue from the box on the bedside table and dabbed at the corner of her mouth.

Did you know Lissa visited me the other morning? She brought me watercolors. I'm so out of practice, though, made such a mess. Last time I held a paintbrush—oh, surely not more than a few days ago?

But no, no. So much time had passed, so many wasted months trapped in this bed, this prison, this
nightmare.
At least she'd finished Bram's and Natalie's gifts before her body mutinied. She'd planned to start on Hart's the very next week.

Oh, dear Lord, it can't be Christmas already! Please give me more time—

“It won't be easy, I know,” her husband went on.

She tried to keep her tired eyes on him, drink him up like warm cocoa on a cold winter morning. How she adored the shock of gray hair falling across his forehead like an apostrophe, the barn smell she could never quite launder out of his frayed flannel shirts. She knew if she could peer far enough over the edge of the bed, she'd see his stained work boots and pick out the scrape across the right toe where Rocky had stomped on Bram's foot not two days after he'd bought those boots.

“But I've been asking around, and I've found a home-care nurse who's available.” His voice cracked, and Belinda almost couldn't bear the sound of it. “Darlin', I just can't leave you here any longer.”