Jennifer Sander - A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PAINTED CHRISTMAS DREAMS

DEE AMBROSE-STAHL

CALIFORNIA CAMPER CHRISTMAS

CHERYL RIVENESS

CHRISTMAS LOVE

CANDY CHAND

UNFINISHED GIFTS

BJ HOLLACE

DICKENS IN THE DARK

JENNIFER ALDRICH

FINDING JOY IN THE WORLD

ELAINE AMBROSE

ASPEN’S LAST TRIP

KATHLEEN GALLAGHER

A SEARS CATALOG CHRISTMAS

LAURA MARTIN

CHRISTMAS WITHOUT SNOW

ROSI HOLLINBECK

CIRCLE OF LOVE

VALERIE REYNOSO PIOTROWSKI

MALL SANTA

DAVID SCOTT CHAMBERLAIN

THE BABY FLIGHT

PAUL KARRER

CHILDHOOD MAGIC

JO ANNE BOULGER

SILENT NIGHT

LIZA LONG

THE ONLY STAR

HARRY FREIERMUTH

VIRTUAL CHRISTMAS

PAT HANSON

HUNGRY REINDEER

CHERYL RIVENESS

MISTLETOE MEMORIES

JEANNE GILPATRICK

MR. CHRISTMAS

RUTH ANDREW

IS THIS A GOOD TIME?

RUTH CAMPBELL BREMER

FIRST FAMILY CHRISTMAS

JACK SKILLICORN

LIPSTICK CHRISTMAS

INGRID E. LUNDQUIST

ENOUGH TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

JULAINA KLEIST-CORWIN

FOGGY DAY

LOUISE REARDON

SANDPAPER CHRISTMAS

R. BOB MAGART

TO HOPE AND PRAY

CANDY CHAND

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

APRIL KUTGER

HOMELESS SANTA

JENNIFER BASYE SANDER

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

Deirdre woke early, just like every December 25. She tiptoed downstairs, hoping against hope that this would be the year her dream would come true. Her parents were already awake and seated at the kitchen table; that fact alone gave the young girl pause, as they were never downstairs on Christmas morning until much later.

“Morning, sleepy head,” Ben, Deirdre’s father said. “’Bout time you rolled outa the hay!” When Nancy, Deirdre’s mother, tried to hide her giggle behind her coffee cup, Deirdre knew something was up.

So began the short story—or some variation—that I wrote every year growing up. It was my dream to walk downstairs Christmas morning and find a paint horse tied outside the picture window. I, like most girls, was obsessed with horses. Usually that obsession passes like any other fad. Mine didn’t. In fact, it set down roots so firm that not even marriage to a “nonhorse” man could pull them up.

Every year I wrote a similar story, “Dreaming of My Paint Horse,” and gave it to my parents, hoping that they would get the hint. It seemed they never would. Every year I looked out the picture window to find an empty yard and disappointment, a vacant space where my horse ought to be.

We were never deprived as kids, far from it. But I’d have gladly relinquished every toy, every item of clothing, even every horse statue and book for that Dream Horse.

My childhood passed, as did many of my interests. Tennis? Too much work. Knitting? Knot! Horses? Now that was the constant passion in my life. I read about them, wrote about them and even joined a 4-H club that taught about them. Of course, I also dreamed about them. My own horse, though, was always out of reach.

My two older sisters each had a horse when they were younger, but in the words of my parents, “They lost interest in the horses as soon as boys came along.” How was that my fault? I didn’t care about boys. Boys were dumb. This was my mantra even through my teen years, until the unthinkable happened… I met Ron.

Ron and I came from similar working-class backgrounds and became best friends shortly after we met. Ron was perfect in every way, except that he barely knew the head from the tail of a horse. This, I thought, I could deal with. I might even teach him a thing or two. We were engaged within six weeks and married a year later. Some things you just know.

We marked our fifth anniversary, then our tenth, and then suddenly we were looking forward to our twentieth anniversary. Through all the years, my obsession with horses lived dormant—below the surface of other goings-on, but it was present nonetheless. Ron dealt with this quirk of mine the way he dealt with most things: with a quiet smile and an “oh, well” shrug of the shoulders, thinking I would get over it someday. But someday never came.

The Internet, however, did, and its information superhighway allowed me access to horses. A voyeuristic approach, I admit, but one which at least gave relief to some of my desire. I discovered a myriad of websites that listed horses for sale, and I haunted them all. I searched for paint horses, torturing myself looking at horses I knew I’d never own. Until one day in December when I found a website owned by Sealite Paint Horses in Ijamsville, Maryland. I immediately searched the Foals page. There, my pulse quickened from a minor trot of anticipation to a full-blown gallop at finding so many paint foals, from weanlings to long yearlings. I was drawn to three in particular: two yearlings and a weanling, all beautifully marked and all fillies. My heart dropped into my shoes.

On impulse, I phoned Kim Landes, the owner of Sealite, although I felt as if I were doing something illicit. We chatted for nearly an hour about horses in general and her paints in particular, and I was thrilled when she invited me to visit. I told her about the fillies that had caught my eye. She said that all three were still for sale. The news was both a blessing and a curse.

As much as I wanted to be horse shopping, Realist Ron made an excellent point when he asked, simply and softly, “How could we afford a horse?”

“So we’ll just go for a drive,” I said, “look at pretty horses and that’s all. We’ll come home right after. I promise.” I knew the truth, though.

A few days later, we loaded our two corgi dogs into the back of the Jeep and began the three-hour drive to Maryland, the home of my dream. Ron has a gift for keeping me leveled, so to speak. I am impulsive; Ron is pensive. It’s been this way between us since we first met. I can see how this difference may cause grief in some marriages, but for us, it created a balance.

While we drove, I chattered on about how beautiful these foals were, how much I couldn’t wait until I saw them in person, how exciting it would be to raise and train a baby and how sweet a paint’s disposition is. Ron nodded a lot and spoke little.

When we arrived, I was breathless, either from my incessant talking or overgrown excitement. We met Kim, her husband Chris and the Sealite gang. I felt like I’d found the Holy Grail, or like a sixteen-year-old who gets a brand new car for her birthday. All of my senses were on overload as I tried to absorb each of the dozen or more paints all at once. Then I saw her. “Oh my God, Ron! Look at her!”

Ron followed my gaze. Off beside the run-in shed stood Sky, one of the black-and-white overo fillies I had seen on Kim’s website. “Wow,” was all Ron could manage, and I had to agree.

Large, brown eyes looked at us from her blazed face. The side closest to us sported a white patch that nearly covered her ribs, and on her neck was what could only be described as a bleeding heart. Her four white socks were of varying lengths, but best of all, she seemed to be very well balanced in her conformation—her graceful neck tied perfectly into a powerful shoulder, and from her back came a strong hip and rear, giving her the perfect equine engine.

As we stood looking at Sky, some of the youngsters became curious about the newcomers and warily approached us. Among them was Lacy, who promptly decided that she could fit in my back pocket. I gave her a pat and told her how pretty she was, all the while keeping an eye on Sky.