Читать книгу The One Winter Collection - Rebecca Winters - Страница 46

“WHAT happened to your dad?” Amy asked.

The horses were more eager to get home than they had been to leave, and it was necessary to have a firm hand on the reins to keep them in check. The snow was falling lightly again, too.

Ty glanced at her. He was aware that she hadn’t wanted to leave his dad and Beth, aware of the reproving look she had cast at him when he’d refused lunch.

His father had worked his charm on her. The old bastard could be charming when he set his mind to it. He’d never been short of female companionship.

“He’s an old-style cowboy,” Ty said, stripping his voice of any emotion. “They bronced out horses. Throw a saddle on a green colt, let him buck it out, put it to work right away, work the knots out as you go. It’s dumb. And dangerous. But you could never tell my dad anything. He knew it all. And then one day he met a horse who had more buck than he had stick.”

“It must be very hard on a man who lived like that to make the adjustment to being in a wheelchair,” Amy said.

Her voice begged him to show some sympathy.

Instead, he just shrugged.

“What’s wrong between you two, Ty?”

Her voice was so soft, her eyes so warm. Inviting him to lay it at her feet. Inviting him to share his burdens.

He had seen that word wish peeking out from the dark green of Beth’s wreath.

And he was aware, in a very short time, that’s what Amy had done to his world. Breathed life into a wish he thought he had managed to kill a long time ago.

With her Christmas tree and her filling his house with the smells of baking, with her enthusiasm to try new things, with her soft voice, and her wit and her intelligence, and her unguarded tenderness toward the baby, she was making him wish for a different life.

But he’d done that when he was a kid. Wished and wished and wished.

Around Christmas, he had wished even harder. There was magic in the air. And joy. Unexpected gifts. In these country communities, Christmas was a big deal. Community events, baking marathons, sleigh rides, home decorating contests, neighbors gathering, tables groaning under the weight of food.

He and his father had always been included in everything. They had so many invitations for Christmas dinner they were always left with a hard choice of where to go.

But instead of soothing him, being included in other people’s family Christmases had only made Ty more aware of his own lack, so aware of the warmth and good cheer that other people’s families brought them.

And so he had wished harder.

But his wishes had never come true. And then, the night his father had given him that pack of letters, when he was seventeen, that place in him that had fostered hope had died.

Or at least he thought it had.

Now he could clearly see that an ember of that hope had remained. He could clearly see that Amy could fan it back to life.

But he had no desire to have it live again, to be open to the world of pain and disappointment that empty wishes brought.

“Amy,” he said, his voice deliberately cold, “don’t go there.”

She flinched as if he had slapped her, and he wanted to take it back. He wanted to tell her everything.

But it felt like a weakness.

And there was no room for weakness in a world without hope. None at all. And yet he found the recrimination in her eyes hard to bear. Maybe if he showed her those letters and told her all of it, maybe then she would get it.

He hazarded a glance at her. Jamey was fast asleep, snuggled into her breast.

Amy was a picture of softness.

She was looking at the world, snow falling again, the steam coming from the horses’ nostrils in giant puffs, with a certain rapt attention, as if it was all miraculous.

“There’s absolutely no chance I’m going to get away before Christmas, is there?” she asked, worried.

Maybe she was getting it after all, figuring out she was going to be spending Christmas with him, and that he was hard-hearted and a Christmas grinch, and it wasn’t going to be much fun at all.

“It doesn’t look like it,” he said.

“Then I have a lot to do to get ready,” she said. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve!”

He saw he had misread her worry. It wasn’t about having Christmas with him. It was about making Christmas what she wanted it to be. She was determined to have Christmas wherever she was.

“Don’t get too uptight about it,” he said. “It’s just another day.”

“No, Ty,” she said firmly. “It isn’t.”

He dropped her off at the house, carrying the baby in for her. And then he took the horses down to the barn. It didn’t take him long to get them unharnessed, and to do his evening chores.

It didn’t take him long at all, and yet when he came back the transformation of his house had already started.

“Ty, before you take your coat off, could you go cut me some boughs? I’d love to bring the scent in here. I can make a simple centerpiece for the table with tree boughs and a candle.”

Tell her no, Ty ordered himself. But he found he couldn’t. It wasn’t as if it was her choice to be here. She was stuck here. She wanted to make the best of it. For her baby.

Heaving a big sigh, Ty went back outside and began cutting boughs.

“I didn’t need that many,” she said when he came back in.

Nonetheless, she looked delighted as she spread out the boughs on the kitchen counter and began to sort through them.

“Do you smell them, Ty?” she asked, smiling over her shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Take off your coat. Come help me. Darn this burned hand. I can’t do anything.”

Again, he knew he should say no. For his own self-preservation, it seemed imperative.

But he didn’t want to be the one to put out the light in her face. And it was true. She was going to need his help.

If she had enough time with him, he would eventually manage to snuff out her light, he was sure. But for right now, why not just be the better man? Reach deep inside and make it not about him, but about her and Jamey?

“Okay,” he said gruffly. “Show me what to do.”

And as she showed him, something in him relaxed. He allowed her enthusiasm to touch him. And then, he gave himself over to it.

They decorated the house with boughs until the scent filled every corner. Then they ate, bathed the baby, read bedtime stories together, the baby between them on the narrow bed in the guest room grabbing at pages.

When Jamey was finally in bed, she started ticking things off on her fingers. “So, Christmas Eve. I want to make a gingerbread house. I want that to be one of Jamey’s and my traditions. His grandmother, Cynthia, makes the most gorgeous gingerbread creations. Last year, we did a little village together. Maybe I should start the gingerbread tonight.” She glanced at the clock, worried that she was running out of time.

“I am pretty sure there is nothing in my kitchen to make a gingerbread house, never mind a gingerbread village.”

“Oh, I brought everything I need.”

“Where the heck did you hide the trailer you must have hauled behind that car to get all your stuff here?”

“I’m very organized. I have a talent for spatial relationships. I bet I could figure out how to get an elephant inside that car if I had to.”

“Let’s hope you never have to,” he said deadpan.

“We could be done in an hour. The cookie part. And then it will be cool enough to cut it and make the house tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to make gingerbread.” A man had to put his foot down, or he’d be swept up in her world before he quite knew what had hit him. The truth was, he didn’t want to make gingerbread tonight. Or tomorrow, either. A gingerbread village? No thanks to that much Christmas hokiness.

“I could probably do it myself,” she said, but doubtfully, glaring down at her wrapped hand with accusation. “I will do it myself.”

“Oh, never mind. I’ll give you a hand.” It was a surrender.

“You will?”

“One house. No village.” But not a complete surrender.

They were not done in an hour. His cranky oven burned the first batch of gingerbread black. Finally, the gingerbread, perfect and golden-brown, was cooling on his kitchen counter.

“There,” Amy said, satisfied. “I’m out of your hair. Do whatever you would normally do. Pretend I’m not here.”

Good idea. He went into the living room, settled in his chair and picked up his book.

His house smelled overpoweringly of pine boughs and gingerbread. There was a Christmas tree in his living room. And baby toys all over the floor.

And then there was Amy, sitting across from him, looking out the window. “Still snowing.”

“Uh-huh.” He scrunched lower in his chair, furrowed his brow. But try as he might, he could not pretend she wasn’t there. And who knew when he might have an opportunity like this again?

“What the heck is a dactylic hexameter?”

She looked thoughtful. “I have no idea.”

And then they were both laughing.

“I always read two books at once,” he told her. “One that’s really hard, and one for pure enjoyment.”

She came and sat beside him, and he read a few passages of the epic poem to her.

She wrinkled her nose. “Could we try the pure enjoyment one?”

“I’m so happy you asked,” he said, and then he went and got Lonesome Dove and read her his favorite part of that. And somehow they were talking and talking and talking, and they fell asleep on the couch with her head nestled against his chest.

He woke up to her stirring against him.

She opened her eyes, looked at him groggily, and then smiled the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she said, as round-eyed and full of wonder as a child.

“Technically, that would be tonight.”

She thumped him on his chest with her small fist, a good-natured reprimand.

“We have so much to do! We have to make the gingerbread house. Jamey will love helping with that.” Suddenly, she went very still. “Do you have a turkey? That should come out of the freezer today.”

“I don’t have a turkey. Sorry.”

“A chicken, then?”

“Sorry, my freezer is full of what I raise, which is beef.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine a big steak for Christmas dinner,” she said.

“I can.”

He got the thump again. Funny, the things that could make a man realize he was losing control.

He went out and did the chores. When he came back in, Jamey was awake and needing tending, and Amy was champing at the bit to get her gingerbread house made.

Then with her instructions, he was taking the sheets of gingerbread and cutting them.

“Now, we make a house.”

He did not want to think of making a house with Amy. It felt as if thoughts could make him weak instead of strong.

“We use this icing to glue it all together.”

Carefully, Ty cut the sheets of cookie into squares. Even being careful, a nice chunk broke off. It was a reminder that he could not be trusted to make any kind of a house with anyone.

He popped the broken piece into his mouth, passed some to the grasping baby.

“Hey, it’s not to eat,” she said, and he popped a piece into her open mouth to silence her.

Focused intently, he took the slabs of cookie and stood four of them up, leaning on each other to form rough walls. Then, pleased, he put another on top.

“Well?” He stood back and surveyed his house.

“It doesn’t look like a house, Ty.”

“What does it look like?”

“I don’t know. A box.”

“I’ll fix the roof.” He took another piece of gingerbread, took a bite out of it, and then made a slanted roof instead of a flat one.

“I told you, it’s not to eat! Did you have to take a bite out of the roof? It looks like—”

“Hansel and Gretel have been here,” he decided happily. It looked like the whole thing was leaning, ready to topple over. He slathered the joints liberally with the icing glue. It got all over the place, including his hands. He handed the wooden spoon to Jamey, who merrily chewed the end and then bashed the kitchen counter with it.

She eyed the house critically after he’d made the changes. “Now it looks like a shed.”

“Perfect. Just what I planned. A manger for Christmas.”

The thump again.

“Hey, I’m a cowboy, not a construction guy.”

And not anyone who could be trusted to make a house with her.

He made a few adjustments. “It will look fine once we add a few windows.”

But of course it didn’t look fine. Jamey had to “help” decorate, and the jelly beans and jujubes that didn’t make it into his mouth were rather mutilated by the time they made it onto the house.

She stepped back from it.

She surveyed the house: listing badly, part of the roof broken, misshapen candies on it, and then she looked at her baby, sticky with icing and gingerbread, and then she looked at Ty.

And it was as if that scent that filled his house and made it home was right inside of him when she looked at him like that.

She started to laugh. “It’s perfect,” she declared.

Amy stared at the house, and let the feeling it was giving her fill her up. Perfection.

It was not the kind of house Cynthia made—perfect miniatures from a Swiss village. In fact, it looked only remotely like a house.

It had a bite out of the roof. The candies were sliding in icing down the walls into a heap at the bottom. The whole thing was tilting quite badly to one side, and looked as if it might fall right over.

And for all that it looked wrong?

It had never felt so right. Christmas had never felt so right as it did in this moment, sharing a room with that big golden-haired cowboy, watching his eyes tilt with laughter as he used his finger to clean icing off Jamey’s nose.

Her other Christmas Eve activities were perfect, too. Ty dug an old sled out of the barn, so they went down the hill in front of his house, sinking in the deep snow, inching along, tumbling and laughing. The snow also was not quite right for making a snowman, not nearly sticky enough, and they ended up with a lumpy pile with an old cowboy hat sitting on top of it, two rocks for eyes and a carrot for a nose.

What the snow was perfect for was snow angels, and they soon covered that entire slope with the imprints of their bodies.

Her feeling of having the most perfect day ever solidified.

Darkness fell. The baby went to bed. She locked herself in her bedroom, door closed. She had not been able to find wrapping paper, but there had been a huge roll of butcher’s paper.

She had Christmas shopped a little for Jamey back in Calgary, so one-handed, she managed to get a chunky little train and some cars wrapped. Then she wrapped a few of his old toys, knowing full well he would not know the difference.

Now, what for Ty? She crept out of her room and retrieved his oven gloves. She cut her red toque, and a towel she had brought with her, and managed to patch the hole in the one. She wrapped it up. And then she went thought her suitcase, found the two books she had brought with her and wrapped those up for him.

Funny, humble little gifts.

That filled her with the Christmas spirit.

And when she came out, she had little brown paper wrapped packages, the wrapping lumpy and terrible, which she put under the tree with great and gleeful pride.

“Now,” she told Ty, who was stretched out on the living-room sofa, nearly asleep, “I’m going to make us some hot chocolate. And then we can sing Christmas carols.”

He snorted, but didn’t say no.

Amy was in the kitchen, stirring a vat of hot chocolate when the phone rang.

“Hey, can you get that?” he called from the living room.

She picked it up, was thrilled with the caller and the invitation.

“That was Beth,” Amy said, standing in the doorway. “She realized I was going to be here for Christmas Day. She invited us over for dinner. They have turkey.”

“We were just there,” he pointed out, something stubborn in the set of his jaw, a shield over his eyes.

“Surely you would have been joining them for Christmas dinner?” she asked.

He said nothing.

“You wouldn’t go and be with your own father on Christmas Day? You’d rather sit here by yourself?”

Again he said nothing.

“I want to go. I have Christmas presents for them.” She went and stood in front of him, folded her arms over her chest.

“How could you possibly have that?”

“I made them something. I already told her we would go.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. I’m not going there for Christmas.”

“But—”

“I’m not arguing with you. And it’s not open for discussion.”

“Oh! Now you sound just like Edwin!”

She could tell he didn’t like that one little bit.

“Look,” he said, his tone cool. “We are not husband and wife. We are not even a couple. So we don’t have to discuss decisions.”

Regardless of the truth in that, Amy was not going to be the woman she had been with Edwin. Never again. Just deferring to him, trying to make him happy, avoiding confrontation, even when the price of that avoidance had been the loss of her own identity and her own soul.

“You’re absolutely right. We don’t have to discuss decisions. I’ll go without you,” she decided.

His mouth formed a grim line. “And how are you going to do that?”

“I’ll take the little sled we used to toboggan with today. And I’ll follow the track we made with the horses.”

“With one hand?” he said with satisfied skepticism.

“That’s all I need to pull Jamey on the sleigh,” she said stubbornly.

His mouth fell open. “What happened to the girl who was afraid of her own shadow?”

Her eyes went to his lips.

He had happened to her. And she was a girl no more. She was a woman, and she was one who knew her own mind.

And this is what her own mind knew, standing there on Christmas Eve having her first fight with Ty Halliday.

The woman she had become was in love with him. Enough to believe, even given the stubborn cast of his features, that a Christmas miracle could still happen.

She went and sat beside him on the couch, covered his hand with her good one.

“Tell me what’s wrong between you and your dad,” she said, again.

She needed desperately to know that he felt he could trust her. She was aware that it was the only gift she wanted from him. And she wanted to give him the gift of not being so alone. That’s what she had wanted to give him from the moment she had set up that tree for him.

And her hopes hung between them, in the silence, waiting for his answer.