Be Mine at Christmas(50)
Author: Brenda Novak

Still, she mourned him. Maybe he was as perverted as some people—those who disapproved—claimed he was for wanting to marry someone so much younger. But he’d been kind to her and, with the money he’d sent, generous to the three younger sisters who were living on their own in a squalid flat back home, counting on her to provide for them. Too bad he’d had a stroke and died the day before the wedding. If he hadn’t encountered some complications with finishing up his divorce, they would’ve been married right after she arrived, and she wouldn’t be floating around America on an expired visa, hoping to find a way out of her desperate circumstances.

“Dundee ain’t what you expected?” the farmer said.

Hadn’t she already made that clear?

Remembering that she didn’t want to upset anyone, that she was living in this country only by the grace of God and would be sent back to utter hopelessness if anyone turned her in, she averted her eyes to hide her flare of temper. She might be as feisty as any Latina princess—at least, that was what her parents used to tell her before malaria took them to their graves. But she knew she had to appear somewhat docile if she wanted to get along as a foreigner in such a small community. “It will be fine.”

“But you don’t even have a suitcase.”

Because she’d had to leave it when she caught the man who’d given her a ride to Salt Lake City hiding behind the building the moment they stopped for gas, using his cell phone when he said he’d be in the restroom. Afraid he was calling to report her, she’d run off, abandoning her clothes, toiletries and extra money, which were still locked in his trunk.

“Someone waits for me,” she said, and desperately hoped that was true. Arlene, Charlie’s ex-wife, hadn’t been the nicest person in the world. She’d stepped in to handle the funeral arrangements and had eventually taken enough pity on Cierra to send her to work for some brother she hadn’t seen in years, a brother who lived near this town of Dundee. But Arlene had been the most vocal about her objections to Charlie’s plans—and the most unfriendly when Cierra first got to Las Vegas. Cierra had overheard her telling Charlie’s neighbor that it wasn’t fair he’d toss her out like an old shirt after she’d been with him for so long, just to indulge his pedophiliac fantasies. She said he was too old to father the baby he wanted, the baby she herself had never been able to give him, and that he didn’t need to bring in such a young girl to do that, anyway. She said he was marrying a baby.

“Good. I’m glad you have someplace to go because it’s awfully cold,” the farmer said. “You wouldn’t want to spend much time in the snow. Skinny little thing like you would freeze right quick. This area’s experiencing record lows, just in time for Christmas.”

Christmas… She’d been expecting a ring, a cake, a warm, dry place to live—for the next few years, at least. It was supposed to be her best Christmas ever. She’d believed that for once in her life she’d have the money to buy presents.

But maybe what had happened served her right for being so reluctant, in her heart, to marry an old man, even for the sake of her sisters.

“What day is it?” she asked. She no longer knew. The days were beginning to blur together. It was difficult to think when she was so hungry….

“December 16,” the farmer’s son supplied.

The sixteenth? Really? That meant it was Los Posadas, the first of the nine days of candlelight processions in her country, where children and adults alike carried the statues of saints through the streets to reenact the Holy Family’s quest for lodging in Bethlehem.

The farmer brought them to a shuddering stop in front of a drugstore. “This okay?”

Since she didn’t yet know how to find Arlene’s brother, one corner was as good as another, wasn’t it? “Fine. Gracias, señor.” Bracing for the cold, she offered them a polite smile and got out. But as she reached into her purse to retrieve the slip of paper Charlie’s ex-wife had passed along to her, she realized that what she was doing wasn’t so different from the reenactments going on at home. She had nothing but this address and a stranger’s promise that she’d be given shelter. What she found when she actually arrived was anyone’s guess.

“SOMEONE’S AT THE DOOR,” Brent said. “I’d get it, but…I’m a little tied up here.”

Ken Holbrook lifted his head. They were working in the area off the kitchen, which was next to the living room, but he hadn’t heard anything. “I don’t think so.”

“You might want to check. Maybe Mom and Gabe came up, even though we told them to let us get the cabin out of mothballs first.”

“No, they had other plans.” If anyone was at the door, it was more likely their real father. Since Ken had returned to Dundee, Russ had been dogging his every step, doing his damnedest to talk him into yet another loan, which he called “an infusion of working capital,” for whatever business he was starting next. “No one’s here,” Ken said, hoping it was true. “There’s a storm watch on.”

Scooting over to get to his toolbox, Brent dug around blind since he was lying on his back and still had his head partway inside the furnace. He retrieved his wrench, then froze at the sound of a light tap. “There it is again. I’m pretty sure that’s a knock.”

This time Ken heard it, too. Had Brent invited Russ to the cabin? It’d be like him. Brent didn’t feel the same resentment toward their father that Ken did. He’d been in elementary school when Russ was busy screwing up their lives, which had somehow imbued him with more forgiveness. But Ken didn’t ask Brent, didn’t want to talk about Russ, because he knew it would lead to an argument. Russ was the only thing they ever argued about.

With the wind kicking up, Ken still held out hope that it wasn’t a visitor, especially their father. “I’ll see what’s going on. Just get the damn furnace fixed.”

Leaving the cardboard box he’d been unpacking, Ken strode into the living room and peered through the peephole Gabe had drilled in the front door when their mother married him and they came to stay in this cabin that first summer. They didn’t have any heat, so Ken didn’t plan on opening it if he didn’t have to. It was already cold enough to see his breath. But the moment he saw a petite woman with long dark hair standing on the porch without a hat, boots or much of a coat, he yanked the door wide—and gaped at the zip-up sweatshirt she wore with blue jeans and snow-covered tennis shoes.