Roz Fox - Her Mistletoe Miracle

They’d reached the house and Mick was saved from commenting. He was a volunteer flyer. Why gussy up his role? The coordinators of Angel Fleet raised funds to keep flights free or nearly so for needy sick and injured people living in remote locations. The staff were the real knights.

The kids had dumped their boxes on the kitchen table, and were in the living room ripping open their new toys. Both dogs had flopped in front of a fireplace that had been laid with kindling and firewood, but not lit.

Mick hadn’t bought only the black knight and Polly Pocket sets for the children; he’d piled on a board game he knew they’d like, and books and music CDs. Wylie didn’t have TV reception, although Mick knew he was considering installing a satellite dish.

He handed his sister her maternity clothes, and shooed her off to the bedroom. “Wait, take this, too. I noticed Wylie’s belt was wearing thin. I picked him up a new one. Bison leather. It’ll last a long time.”

“Mick, you aren’t blowing all of Pappy Jack’s insurance money on us, are you? Because he’d want most of it plowed back into Cloud Chasers.”

“The business made a fair profit this year. Thanks to the way you straightened out my lackadaisical billing with that computer program. Stella’s done a bang-up job collecting old accounts, too. Dunning friends wasn’t something Pap or I were good at. Anyway, quit giving me flak. Who else do I have to spend my money on?”

She took the belt he held out and stared into his eyes for a time, plainly itching to say something.

He assumed she was debating whether or not to deliver her usual lecture suggesting he find a wife and start his own family. Shaking his head, Mick chucked her under the chin. “Go make yourself presentable before Wylie comes in for lunch. I’ll put on a pot of coffee and set the table. Your supplies will be okay stacked in the corner. We can sort out Halloween candy and baby gifts later.” Mick ducked out of the room, confident Marlee wouldn’t resort to yelling what was on her mind. And he was right.

MARLEE’S HUSBAND, Wylie Ames, tall, dark and usually not very talkative, arrived home after the others finished lunch. The dogs bounded to the back door to greet him, and the kids abandoned their toys to collect hugs as they regaled their dad with news of Uncle Mick’s generosity.

Marlee had saved Wylie some soup and a sandwich. While Mick relaxed over a second cup of coffee, she warmed the soup in the microwave. Wylie finally pulled free of the kids and filled the arch with his broad shoulders. He was wider of chest than his brother-in-law, but not as tall. Mick had never lost the lanky body typical of a born pilot.

The men had always gotten along. They’d forged an easy camaraderie long before Marlee moved back to Montana.

Wylie clapped Mick’s back in greeting before shrugging off his Park Ranger jacket. He’d left his boots in the mudroom and now padded over slick vinyl in his sock feet to kiss his wife.

“Hey, Mick, I was happy to see the Huey parked on my airstrip. There’s a smell of snow in the air. We may need to use the chopper instead of the Merlin to fly up to the potluck tomorrow.”

“You look windblown, Wylie. Will this storm be serious, you think, or will we only see intermittent snow flurries like one weather report predicted?” Marlee unconsciously rubbed her swollen belly.

Wylie filled a mug with black coffee, murmuring thanks to his wife when she pointed him to a chair at the table where she’d set his steaming soup.

“Don’t know how bad it’ll get. All I know is that this north wind has a bite we haven’t seen yet this year. I wasn’t sorry to find my campsites empty, just in case it snows a foot.” He picked up a spoon and dipped it in the thick pea soup. Marlee and Mick chatted while Wylie finished eating.

Done, Wylie carried his plate and bowl to the sink, and noticed Marlee concocting something at the counter. “More lasagna?”

“If either of you laugh, you’ll be wearing the batch I ruined,” she said, shaking a wicked-looking meat fork at him. “I’d filled a big pan to the brim with beautiful layers I’d assembled before you left this morning. Then I noticed the unopened container of cottage cheese on the counter. I tried lifting noodles and putting it in, but that was a disaster. This time I’m checking off each ingredient as I add it. I can’t have your friends thinking I’m a terrible cook.”

Mick gulped a mouthful of coffee to hide a smile. It was only lately his sister had learned to cook. She still wasn’t the best in the west.

To Wylie’s credit, he assumed the proper air of concern and kissed her again. “Mick and I will go out to the addition. That way we won’t distract you.”

Reaching around Marlee’s belly, Wylie topped up his coffee.

Mick rose and set his cup in the sink. “Sis, that new outfit you’re wearing is a big improvement over what you had on when I landed.”

“Wylie didn’t even notice I’m wearing real maternity clothes,” she said, wrinkling her nose at her unobservant husband.

Guilt brought a flush to her husband’s tanned cheeks. “You always look great to me.”

“You are so full of it!” said Mick, laughing. “When I got here she had on a stretched-out pair of too-big sweats, and one of your faded flannel shirts that had a button missing right over her watermelon stomach.”

The waterworks Mick had been treated to earlier erupted again.

Wylie gathered Marlee into his arms and with a hand behind her back motioned Mick out. As he clomped toward the mudroom, Mick stored this exchange for future reference. Don’t joke with pregnant women .

He shouldn’t have teased her. He knew Marlee wanted to make a good impression on Wylie’s coworkers. Mick vowed he wouldn’t be the cause of any more tears on this visit.

He dragged his jacket from one of several hooks lining the mudroom wall. Last time he’d toured the addition, Wylie hadn’t yet installed heat. That was in September. Not half as cold as it was now. The wind whistled around the house.

Mick was pleasantly surprised when he stepped into the two new bedrooms separated by a full bath. Baseboard water heaters sizzled softly. He shed his jacket and dropped it over the doorknob.

“Whaddya think?” Wylie walked in behind Mick and gestured around at his handiwork. “The electricity in this entire section runs off a freestanding generator. I may convert the main house to another one next spring. Regular power is so iffy out here, especially if we get a bad winter, and starting the booster generator sometimes takes an hour.”

He sipped from his mug. “I remember how I struggled to keep Dean warm during power outages when he was a baby. I don’t want Marlee to have to go through that….” His words trailed off.

Mick knew that Wylie’s first wife, Dean’s mother, had walked out, leaving him with an infant. Even though he’d heard the woman was a flake, Mick had been floored when Marlee told him that Dean wasn’t Wylie’s biological child. Mick had never met anyone prouder of his son than Wylie Ames. At first Mick had doubted the story. Although, he’d had to admit the two looked nothing alike. Wylie had visible Native American roots; Dean was a classic blue-eyed, freckled carrot-top.

Mick pondered what he would’ve done in Wylie’s place. Ultimately, he gave up. He couldn’t imagine. Dean’s mother had led Wylie to believe he’d gotten her pregnant, and Wylie must have had cause to consider it possible. Mick was glad that the navy had taught him never to have sex without protection. Not that that lesson had come into play lately. He’d had a longer dry spell than he cared to admit.

“Wylie, are you worried about Marlee’s decision to have the baby at home? I mean, forecasters and the almanac are predicting a helluva winter.”