Holiday Homecoming. Mary Wilson Anne
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got in the car, started the motor, closed the door as he spoke in her ear. “Don’t make this—” his words began to break up “—discuss this and we—” Another break.
“It’s a bad connection,” she said, flipping the heater onto High.
“Mrs. Winston?” he said, louder now. “Are you—”
“I’ll call you later,” she said and didn’t wait to hear if he answered or not. She shut the phone and tossed it on the seat beside her. “But the answer is still no,” she said to the emptiness around her.
She turned in her seat to back down the road, and when she got to the main road, she headed south to Silver Creek. Her phone rang again. She checked the LED readout, saw it was Jack Prescott and let the call go to her message box. A moment later she got the beep that said she had a new voice mail. She ignored that, too.
She passed the entrance to the resort, glanced at the gates that were open to let a huge, silver SUV out. Cain Stone was behind the wheel, she noted. She hit the gas, heard her tires squeal slightly, and knew he’d probably glanced up at the sound. But she didn’t wait to find out. She headed for town, looking neither right nor left at the skiing community, or at the Christmas decorations stretched high over the street lined with old brick and stone buildings.
By the time she’d pulled into the side parking area of the three-story Silver Creek Hotel, she was shaking. She sat in the car and stared at the building, the original hotel in Silver Creek, built during the silver strikes in the mid-1800s. Annie and her husband had bought it a few years earlier and restored it, saving it from becoming a boutique or a specialty coffee shop. Holly took several deep breaths, then made herself get out of her car and go inside.
She went into the warm air of the lobby, into a world of the past, with rich woods and brass everywhere. The old-fashioned check-in desk, with an antique pigeonhole letter sorter hung behind it, filled the far wall. The fragrance of gingerbread touched the air, and Christmas carols played softly in the background. “Annie?” she called at the same moment her half sister came through a curtained opening behind the desk.
Annie had Sierra in her arms, and once the two-year-old saw her mother, she wiggled out of Annie’s arms and darted across the polished plank floors right for Holly. “Mommy!” she squealed as she threw herself into her mother’s arms.
Holly swept her daughter up and hugged her, not realizing how tightly she was holding onto Sierra until the little girl squirmed and pushed back. Her daughter had the same hair as hers, a coppery red, done in braids that Annie had taken time fashioning. Her chubby face was sprinkled with freckles and her eyes were as blue as the overalls she was wearing. Holly found herself hoping that eye color was all Sierra had gotten from her father.
Holly let Sierra down, watched her run back behind the desk, then go into the room beyond the curtain. Annie stayed behind the desk. “Don’t worry,” she said, “Uncle Rick’s in there to watch her.” Then she asked, “So, was Jack mad, or did he up the offer?”
Holly moved closer to Annie. Her half sister was taller than her, with nondescript brown hair, gray eyes and a face wreathed in smiles. Holly was always amazed at how upbeat Annie was almost all the time. Maybe it was the fact they had two different fathers. Annie’s father, Norman Day, had died when Annie was four, so she barely remembered him. But the people around town still said what a wonderful man he’d been.
A year after Norman’s death, their mother had married Scott Jennings, Holly’s dad. The people around town hadn’t liked him then, and still didn’t speak well of him. She’d never figured out why her mother had married him, or why they’d only been married long enough for her to be born before her dad had gone to live at his cabin and her mother had stayed in town to work at the diner. “He never showed for the meeting.”
Annie heard laughter from Sierra behind the curtains and called without looking back, “Rick, make sure she doesn’t kill the gingerbread men.”
“One down, eleven to go,” her husband called back.
Annie laughed but didn’t take her eyes off Holly. “If he didn’t show, then you have more time to think this through and make sure you know what you’re doing.”
Holly skimmed her yellow knit hat off and pushed it in her pocket, then undid her jacket. “I’m not selling,” she said.
“Why not?” Annie asked. “Just tell me why you’re not going to take all that money and laugh all the way to the bank?”
Holly shrugged. “The cabin’s mine,” she said. “It’s…” She bit off the rest of her words—It’s all I have left of Dad. Annie wouldn’t understand that at all. She was one of the people who had hated Scott Jennings. “It’s what I have for Sierra, for her future. It’s really all I have.”
Annie exhaled. “I know, but if you think about it—”
“Annie, no, I’ve made up my mind.”
“Okay, okay, fine.” She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s yours. You can do what you want with it, and I understand it’s all that your dad left you. Mom didn’t have anything.” Annie’s smile was fading now, and Holly never doubted that Annie blamed Scott Jennings for a lot. Then she flicked her eyes over Holly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Holly shook her head. “You didn’t. It’s not you,” she admitted.
Annie watched Holly. “Then what’s wrong?”
“Who.”
“Oh, not Travis again,” she said, with absolutely no smile now. “That crummy son-of-a—”
“It’s nothing to do with Travis.” Her ex-husband had actually left her alone since she’d returned to Silver Creek. “He’s doing his thing somewhere, and he doesn’t have time to worry about me or Sierra.”
“Then what is it?”
“Cain Stone. I just saw him.”
Annie’s eyes widened and her lips formed a perfect circle of surprise. “Where?”
“At the Inn.” Memory flashed of the moment she’d spotted him, that second when she’d realized who he was and when she’d felt all the anger she’d had for so long, about so many things. “I think he was going up to see Jack Prescott.”
Annie eyed her. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I left.” She ran. “What good would it do to say anything to him? He wouldn’t care. They don’t call him ‘Stone Cold’ for nothing.”
Annie shrugged. “We never called him that, but I’m sure we called him ‘Raising Cain’ more than once.”
Holly reflected on the blue eyes—hard, cold blue eyes—of the man she’d seen today. A man who, she’d bet, never lost any sleep over the chaos he left in his wake. “I’m sure that fits, too,” she murmured.
Chapter Two
When Cain stepped into one of the most exclusive cabins at the Inn, one that was usually kept available for some of Jack’s high-profile celebrities who used the Inn to “disappear” from their hectic lives for a while, he was already wondering when he could go back to Las Vegas. The multilevel cabin, nestled in the rugged land near the ski slopes, had more than a thousand square feet but only three rooms. The bedroom took up the whole top level, with views of the ski runs and, in the distance, the resort and the town. The living area was a rambling space, with two fireplaces, three levels and supple leather everywhere. The kitchen took up almost a third of the lower level.
But he barely glanced at it. Instead, he found the phone nearest the entrance, made a few quick calls to check on business, then crossed to the windows and looked out at the late afternoon. If he had to stay, skiing seemed particularly inviting. Yet it was too late. The light was still okay, but here when