The Christmas Family. Линда Гуднайт
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conceded a truth he had to live with and really didn’t mind all that much. He was some kind of genetic throwback to his giant Celtic ancestors, both in looks and size. Even his rust-brown hair, which he clipped short, was out of sync with the rest of the family. Dawson, on the other hand, was so black-hair-and-blue-eyed pretty, he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Not that Brady would tell his manly little brother he thought he was pretty.
“Did you know she has a little girl with some kind of handicap?”
“Like I said, Abby Webster’s not much of a talker. Brings my food and skitters away.” From the backseat, the dog poked a cold nose in Dawson’s neck. Dawson gave him a gentle shove. “Stay in the back, fella.”
“Wait until you see this place, Dawson.” The enthusiasm Brady had for the Christmas project bubbled up inside him. “Abby and her little girl need this makeover badly. The house is run-down, shingles missing, windows cracked, no handicap accessibility. She’s going to be thrilled.”
“How do you find out this stuff?”
“I ask. I look.” Truth was, he drove all over town looking at houses. “People tell me.”
“That’s because they know you’re a soft touch like Mom.”
“To whom much is given, much is required.”
“That’s Mom’s favorite verse.”
“Yeah, well, she’s right. Giving back is the right thing to do, and it feels pretty good, too, especially at Christmas.” And nothing made him feel as worthwhile and as necessary to the planet, especially after a run-in with his critical father. “I’m not backing out no matter what Dad thinks.”
“What if he pulls the powerful Buchanon rug out from under the project? You need the company to make this happen.”
Brady hadn’t had time to think that far, but he couldn’t deny the possibility. When Dad was crossed, he could be a tough customer.
But Brady had made up his mind. One way or the other, Abby Webster was getting a home makeover. And he couldn’t wait to see how happy she was when she heard the news.
* * *
Gabriel’s Crossing, Texas, was the kind of place where few people crossed the railroad tracks into “that” part of town unless they lived there.
Abby Webster and her daughter lived there.
Legs aching from the twelve-hour shift at the Buttered Biscuit and delighted to be heading home, Abby encouraged her exhausted old CR-V to travel the distance from the Huckleberry Play School to the sagging house on Cedar Corner. Anyone could find her house without the number—something that had been missing far longer than Abby had lived there. Hers was the house with duct tape over a crack in the front window and the cheery crayon drawings of blue and red angels hanging next to the crack. Her four-year-old had a thing for colorful angels.
Abby parked in the driveway, a strip of blacktop with dead grass poking through the cracks. “Out you go, jelly fingers.”
Her daughter, the joy of her life, giggled from her car seat. “I’m hungry.”
“Imagine that, Lila Webster is hungry.” Abby hopped out of the car and went around to the other side. She opened the door and unbuckled her daughter’s seat belt. “How about a peanut butter and broccoli sandwich?”
“Ew, Mommy.”
Smiling into her child’s chocolate-colored eyes, Abby lifted the four-year-old into her arms, thankful Lila was still small. Hopefully, by the time Lila was too big to carry, they could afford a house with the space for her special equipment. Or just maybe Lila would be walking on her own without a walker or wheelchair. Such possibilities existed and Abby would never give up hope that the mild function in her child’s spinal cord would continue to develop.
“Okay, then, maybe macaroni and raisins?”
Lila cocked her head, a tiny frown between dark eyebrows as she considered the combination. Then, her face lit with enthusiasm, she said, “Okay!”
Marveling at the precious gift of her child, Abby juggled Lila and her keys to unlock the front door and bump it open with her hip. Raising a child with special needs wasn’t easy, but Lila’s undaunted spirit and joy in living made everything worthwhile. What other child would react with such pleasure to a meal of macaroni and raisins?
“Were you a good girl at school today?”
“Yeth.”
“Did Gerry say mean things to you?”
“He was nice.”
Abby breathed a sigh of relief. Some kids didn’t understand why Lila was different. While most didn’t seem to mind that Lila wore braces and didn’t walk normally, some were downright cruel at times.
Dropping her keys on the table, Abby set her daughter on the love seat with the ever-present crayons and paper and went to the kitchen to create another macaroni masterpiece.
The pasta was on to boil when Lila called, “Somebody’s here, Mom. In a big, big car.”
Abby heard the rumble of an engine and identified the big, big car as most likely a truck. Hmm. She hadn’t ordered anything through UPS.
“Not expecting guests.” She went to the side window and peeked out at the graying evening. A bright blue pickup had pulled into the driveway behind her Honda. “Who in the world is that?”
Lila, busy with another of her art projects, didn’t look up. “I don’t know. Maybe Santa Claus.”
Abby smiled, though the statement squeezed her chest. This year was the first time Lila was old enough to really get into the idea of Santa Claus, but Lila’s medical expenses kept their small budget strained to the breaking point. Lila wouldn’t notice the small size of the Christmas gifts under the tree, but her mother would.
“Too early for Santa, so I don’t know who...” Her voice dwindled away as two gorgeous males exited the gleaming blue truck and sauntered up her drive. They looked familiar and they had to be brothers. Though one was half a foot taller than the other, their strides matched and they swung their arms with identical confidence as though the world was their oyster. With looks like those, it probably was.
“Oh, my.” As they came closer, she recognized them. Buchanons, two of the four sear-your-eyeballs-gorgeous brothers.
Abby opened the front door as the men stepped upon her wooden porch. A weak board groaned and she held her breath, hoping they wouldn’t fall through.
“I don’t have home owners’ insurance,” she blurted.
The taller one with swimming-pool eyes tilted his head. She wished she could remember his name. “Ma’am?”
“The porch,” she managed, feeling stupider by the minute as her brain refused to work but her mouth kept going. “Some of the boards are weak. You’re big. Don’t fall through.”
Both men dipped their heads to stare at the porch and then exchanged glances. “Needs work.”
“Don’t I know it,” Abby said.
She stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance and wishing they’d state their business. Buchanons didn’t exactly hang out on this side of town and they were letting out expensive heat.
“That’s what we want to talk to you about.”
“My porch?” Abby poked a finger into her breastbone and then flung out her hand. “Sorry, I can’t afford to hire anyone right now.”
“Oh, no, that’s not why we’re here,” said Mr. Swimming-Pool Eyes. “I’m Brady Buchanon and this is my brother, Dawson. Buchanon Built Construction.”
Brady and Dawson. She could never remember one brother from the other, only that all four were heartthrobs. She did, however, remember their