Western Christmas Wishes. Brenda Minton
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she assured them.
But she wasn’t. The man who had left her mom to be a single mother, the man she’d spent her life resenting, was standing in front of her.
After all of these years of wondering, it had been this simple. The two of them on a sidewalk, instantly recognizing one another. That he was here brought up questions, but those questions weren’t for him. They were for her grandmother.
Cameron and Rose disappeared into the building. She stared at the man who had given her red hair and fair skin that burned too easily in the sun. She didn’t even know his name.
Her own father and she couldn’t call him by name. She didn’t know his age, where he lived, what he did for a living. A small voice inside her told her that her mother shared some of the blame for her lack of information regarding her father.
“What are you doing here?” She asked the first question that came to her mind.
He seemed surprised by it.
“I was visiting my mother,” he said simply, gently. “I guess I should introduce myself.”
“You’re about thirty years too late for that.” She shifted her gaze away from him, from the sympathy in his expression. A wreath hung on the door of the nursing home, a sign of the coming holidays. Thirty Christmases. Missed.
“Yes, I know.” He reached out to her but let his hand drop before touching her. “Your grandmother called me to let me know you’d be in town. She thought that perhaps this would be a good time for us to meet.”
“I doubt she meant like this, on the sidewalk, with no one to introduce us.”
“No, I’m sure this isn’t what she intended.” He looked around, as if trying to think of a better plan. It was too late. “We could sit down and talk.”
“I don’t think so.” For years she’d rehearsed what she would say and do if she ever met him. When she’d been younger, she’d dreamed of him walking through the front door and being everything a little girl wanted a daddy to be.
As a teenager those dreams had turned to anger and resentment.
Anger was easier to deal with than disappointment. Anger worked as a shield to keep her heart safe.
He studied her, as if he knew the direction her thoughts had taken.
“Maybe you could think about it and if you change your mind, you can call me. Gladys has my number.”
She shook her head. “I have to go inside. My grandmother is expecting me.”
He seemed to want to say more, but when she shook her head, he didn’t. “I’ll leave you for now, but I’ll be waiting. I’m praying for you, Laurel.”
The words stopped her. Her hand was on the door and she needed to go inside. Rather than saying something she couldn’t take back later, she hit the buzzer and waited for the door to unlock. She walked inside, aware that he was still there, watching her walk away.
Ten steps into the building, Cameron Hunt appeared in front of her. She looked up, focusing on the ceiling because she didn’t want to cry, not in front of this man, a virtual stranger. She didn’t want to cry period.
“You okay?”
She lowered her gaze from the ceiling to the man standing just feet away from her. His expression remained impassive. He didn’t want to be involved. And yet here he was.
“I’m good,” she assured him, although it didn’t feel like the truth. “Did we lose Rose?”
“She’s with Gladys.” He surprised her by grabbing a box of tissues from a nearby table. “Take a minute. They’ll be fine on their own. Hopefully.”
She started to object—to the tissues, to taking a moment—but she knew he was right. She took his offering and leaned against the wall as she pulled herself together.
He stood next to her, his back against the paneled wall. His nearness provided an odd sense of comfort, as if he was an ally. It didn’t make sense but she wasn’t questioning it, not right now when she desperately needed a calming influence.
His presence was the furthest thing from calming. He smelled like mountains and Oklahoma. His boots were dusty and worn. He’d placed himself so that the eye patch and scarred side of his face weren’t what she saw when she looked up at him.
The moment was cut short by raised voices and some sort of ruckus.
“Uh-oh,” she said as she pushed away from the wall. “That can’t be good.”
“Doesn’t sound that way,” he agreed. “Time to intervene. I should have known that the two of them couldn’t stay out of trouble.”
“It might be someone else.”
He turned his head to peer at her with that one startling blue eye. A flash of humor flickered for an instant. “That is wishful thinking.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She tossed the tissue in a wastebasket. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For insisting I take a minute to get it together.” She hesitated. “Do you know him?”
He pushed back his cowboy hat and gave her a thoughtful look. “You don’t know him?”
“I think I know who he is, but I don’t know his name.”
“Curt Jackson. Local rancher. He just moved back to the area six months ago. His father passed away and his mother couldn’t handle the ranch on her own.”
Curt Jackson. Thirty years of wondering had come down to this. Suddenly, the ruckus from down the hall grew louder.
“This way.” Cameron motioned her forward, his hand just barely skimming her back as he moved her in the right direction.
Seconds later they entered a large room where a variety of people had gathered: staff in scrubs, residents, some standing, some sitting, and a woman at the center who seemed to be in charge of the chaos. She was tall, dressed in a skirt and jacket, her hair pulled back in a tight bun.
The man facing her wore a jogging suit of light gray, the same color as his thinning hair. He was pointing at her with a gnarled finger.
“Are you telling me we can’t have a Christmas tree?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Clyburn, but the new owner said there will be no Christmas tree in the common area. It isn’t my rule, it’s the rule of the management.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks, Dora, you’ve been here long enough. You could fight for us.”
“I can’t fight this. No Christmas tree. Jeremy will take it back to storage.” She looked around at the group that had gathered. “I am sorry.”
The gentleman in the jogging suit shook his head. “Oh, Dora, what in the world are you thinking? There are folks here who have next to nothing and no family to bring them gifts.”
“My hands are tied.” She nodded at a man in gray coveralls who had a perplexed look on his face. “Jeremy, please take the tree and decorations back to storage.”
The gentleman in the gray jogging suit sat down at a nearby table. “It’s a tree. You put lights on it and shiny things.”
“Mr. Clyburn, you have to understand, this is not my rule. There will be no religious celebrations anymore, per the new owner.”
“There’s little enough cheer in this place without you taking it all away.” An older woman with curly gray hair and a determined look stepped forward, Rose at her side.
Laurel’s grandmother. Gladys Adams hadn’t seemed to age. Other than her arm in a sling, she was as spry as ever and obviously as willing to take on the administrator as she was the horse that had thrown her.
“You