Marisa Carroll - Keeping Christmas

“Sure you will,” the old man agreed, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. He peered at her sharply over the top of dark-rimmed, half glasses. “Sure you will.”

Katie felt another painful cough working its way up from deep in her chest. She struggled to hold it back. Kyle squirmed restlessly in the canvas carrier that held him strapped against her chest. His weight, comforting as it was, made it harder than ever to breathe.

“We really appreciate you giving us a lift,” she said again as the old man’s equally venerable pickup eased to a halt at the edge of a tiny hamlet he named as Owenburg.

“No problem. I still think you should have waited for an ambulance to check you and the little one out, though.”

“No.” Katie bit her lip and tried to smile. “I mean, we weren’t hurt at all. The bus just slid off the road. It happened so quickly I didn’t even have time to be afraid. It was all the police cars and flashing lights that upset Kyle. That’s why I wanted to move on.” She stopped talking before she got herself into more trouble. She was certain her explanation of why she was in such a hurry to leave the scene of the accident did not sound very convincing.

“Sure, sure.” The old farmer had been one of the first to stop and assist the dazed and disgruntled passengers of the cross-country coach. He’d helped Katie and Kyle off the bus and he’d helped find her purse, which had slid down the aisle when the bus tilted over in a small depression. Every cent she had in the world was in that purse. She’d be forever grateful to him for finding it, even if he hadn’t also agreed to give her a ride away from the wreck. “Now, if you want, I can help you carry your stuff up the hill to the motel.”

“No, thanks,” Katie said, remembering the old man’s painful limping gait. “I appreciate the offer but we can get there on our own.”

“You’re still welcome to come to my place.”

“You’re very kind but no, thanks,” Katie said again, opening the truck door before she could weaken and change her mind, take the kind old man up on his generous offer, be warm and well fed and taken care of, instead of setting off into the night with her child in the middle of a winter storm. Despair welled up inside her and threatened to choke off even more of her breath. She pushed it away, pulled Kyle’s blanket over his head and prepared to step down out of the truck. “Good night,” she said, smiling at the old farmer. She’d forgotten to ask his name but it was too late now. Besides, if she asked his name she would be obliged to give hers in return. She couldn’t risk that.

“God bless,” he replied, sliding the big cloth tote that held everything they owned, including her purse, across the seat. “The Fuller’s Motel is halfway up the hill, to the left. You can’t miss it. The only other house up there is Holly Ridge. That’s the Owens sisters’ place. If you end up there, you went too far.”

“I think I can manage that,” Katie said, ignoring the pounding pain in her head that began again the moment she stepped out into the swirling snow.

“Like I said, you can’t miss it.”

Katie waved and closed the truck door. She turned her back on the helpful old man and surveyed the narrow road winding up the hill. Behind her the lights of the little sleeping town glowed faintly through the storm.

She started off through the snow with the wind blowing her hair in her eyes. The tote pulled heavily on her shoulder, while Kyle squirmed beneath his blanket. His diaper needed changing and he was hungry. It was madness heading off into the storm like this but the memory of all those highway patrol cruisers, six of them at least, back where the bus had slid off the interstate, kept her moving forward. It seemed as if the sharp-eyed patrolmen had all been watching her and Kyle.

Katie had begged a ride from the old farmer when he’d decided there was no further need for his help and had prepared to resume his journey. He’d agreed without even asking why she wanted to go. She didn’t think that would ever happen in the city. But here in the hill country of Tennessee, people not only helped their fellow man; they respected their privacy while they were about it.

Katie trudged on uphill, through a thin layer of snow that hid the treacherous patches of ice beneath it. She kept walking, head down, crooning to Kyle, who was crying now from discomfort and fatigue. How much farther could it be? she wondered, keeping an eye on the side of the road, looking for the turnoff to Fuller’s Motel. She’d given up looking for a sign. If there was one, it was hidden in the feathery pines along the side of the road. She shifted the tote to her left shoulder, folded back the blanket a little from Kyle’s face and kissed the tip of his nose, slipped and nearly fell in an icy puddle of half-frozen water. When she regained her balance she realized she’d walked all the way to the top of the hill.

In front of her there was an iron gate, lacy with grillwork. On either side a white picket fence stretched away into the snowy darkness. Ahead was the dark bulk of a big old Victorian house, two stories high, with dormered attic windows and a cupola tower from which warm yellow light shone through lacy curtains.

There was also a light in the foyer behind a door with a center oval of leaded glass. “I don’t think this is Fuller’s Motel,” Katie said, spots of bright light dancing in front of her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to dispel the dizzying sensation. She shifted Kyle to her shoulder, having taken him out of his carrier after nearly falling in the icy puddle. It had frightened her to think she might slip again and fall hard, landing on top of him. His little head kept bobbing up and down. He wanted out from under the sheltering blanket. Now. Katie tried to hush him and decide what to do. If only her head didn’t hurt so badly, and she could take a long steadying breath, it might be easier to think.

Her first thought was to turn around and head back down the hill, but she’d already missed the turnoff to Fuller’s Motel once. She’d probably do so again. The smart thing to do was ask more specific directions from the women in the house, because this had to be the house—the Owens sisters’ place—that the old farmer had spoken of. After all, she thought wryly, you couldn’t miss it.

Making up her mind, Katie fumbled for the latch to open the gate. The iron was icy slick and fiery cold beneath her fingers. She’d bought heavy jackets and hats for both of them before leaving Florida, but not gloves for herself or mittens for Kyle. When she’d asked about them, the saleswoman had looked at her as if she were crazy. Maybe she was, a little bit, for running away like this. Then she thought of Andrew Moran, his cold eyes, hard mouth and ruthless character and knew she’d done the right thing.

The gate opened with a screech of icy hinges. Katie started up the laid-brick walkway, shushing Kyle, trying to balance the slipping tote and not fall flat on her face on the icy path. She was halfway to the house before the commotion going on out of sight along the side of the building registered in her tired brain. She could hear curses, a man’s low gravelly voice and what sounded like squawks and honks from an angry goose. Or at least what she imagined an angry goose might sound like. She’d never seen one close up before. But that was about to change.

Around the corner of the house, wings outspread, neck thrust belligerently forward, came a huge white goose, heading straight for them, standing thigh-high and looking as if she meant business. Katie thrust Kyle higher onto her shoulder and turned sideways to put the big cloth tote between herself and the hissing bird.

“Shoo,” she said, backing away as quickly as possible. “Shoo, go away. Scram.” She couldn’t free her hands to swing the tote or lift her foot to kick out at the goose for fear of losing her balance. “Nice goose, go away,” she said in a hiss that was a fair imitation of the irate fowl’s.