Читать книгу Mistletoe Bride - Linda Varner - Страница 9

“Okay. You don’t have to go if you promise me that you won’t play with matches, stick anything in your nose or ears, drink poison or open the door to strangers.” Ryan Given, now hesitating on the threshold of the motel room he’d just rented, hated leaving his son, Sawyer, alone for even a second. It was something he hadn’t done since they’d found one another.

“Aw, Dad,” responded the boy, who lay sprawled on his stomach on one of the beds, his nose a couple of feet from the television set. “That kind of stuff is for kids. I’m eight years old.”

“So you are,” Ryan hastily murmured, properly chastised. Though his fingers itched to tousle Sawyer’s dark hair affectionately, he wasn’t that comfortable with the boy yet, so dared not. Instead, he stepped into the freezing cold night and shut the door firmly behind him. Sawyer would surely be okay for the fifteen minutes required to walk to a nearby café, pick up their take-out dinner and walk back to the motel. In fact, he’d probably be okay for longer than that. He was damned mature for his age.

Grinning with fatherly pride—a novel experience—Ryan sidetracked to the narrow metal strongbox hidden behind the seat of his pickup truck, where he’d stashed their traveling cash. He tucked a couple of ten-dollar bills into his wallet, then headed to the café where a long overdue hearty meal awaited. He and Sawyer had been on the road ten hours, with only quick snacks to nourish them. Both wanted the works tonight: salad, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, homemade cloverleaf rolls with lots of real butter, apple pie and ice cream….

Ryan swallowed hard and stepped faster, his face stinging from the brisk winter wind. Wishing for his sheepskinlined jacket, which hung in the motel room, he noted how dark it was for 7:30 p.m.—black as pitch, thanks to heavy snow clouds—then glanced toward his destination, the Clearwater Café. Though a tree-tangled shortcut obscured his view of the building, Ryan could tell that vehicles filled the back parking lot. He couldn’t help but wonder why all these people weren’t at home, spending Christmas Eve with their families.

Ducking to avoid a low-hanging limb, Ryan entered the shadowy no-man’s-land that would save him steps, according to the motel desk clerk. Almost instantly, he stumbled over a rock, invisible under the patchy snow underfoot. Then a frozen tree branch slapped his cowboy hat off his head. Staggering like a wino on a cheap drunk, Ryan reseated his hat, then forged a path through the gnarled branches by pushing them, crackling and popping, away from his face.

So much for saving steps, he thought as his hat left his head again. Cursing his bad luck, Ryan bent to retrieve it. He heard the snap of a frozen twig. He sensed that he was not alone.

“Who’s there?” Ryan blurted out, words that barely left his lips before he saw a blur of motion and felt pain shoot through his head.