Georgia was back outside in five minutes. After a flurry of rushing back and forth with packages—little Ashley excited about each one, Lexie more reserved, almost as if she were trying to hide her excitement—Jess waved her parents on their way, saying a quick prayer for their safety.
The second her father’s truck’s brake lights cleared the drive, Ashley suggested, “Let’s open all of Gramma and Grandpa’s presents!”
“N-nope,” Jess said, teeth chattering while she ushered the girls inside. “N-not until Christmas morning. But thanks for the idea. I think since I’m a grown-up, I’ll go ahead and open mine now.”
“That’s not fair!” Ashley bellowed.
Laughing, Jess ruffled her youngest daughter’s hair.
“Mom,” Lexie asked, “can we watch a movie?”
“D-do the dishes first,” Jess said.
“But—”
“Lexie…” Jess warned.
“She’s a handful,” Gage said after the girls had traipsed inside.
“T-tell me about it.”
He chuckled, then stuck his hand out from under the porch’s shelter, letting ice coat his palm. “This is bad. Probably the worst I’ve seen. Got any tire chains?”
“I d-don’t th-think so,” she said through teeth chattering so bad it was hard to speak. “I-if w-we do, they’re in th-the b-barn.”
“I’ll look, you get back in the house.”
“B-but…”
“Go,” he said, pointing to the front door. “The longer you stand out here arguing, the longer it’s going to take me to get on the road.”
Famous last words.
Fifteen minutes later, through the living room curtains, Jess watched Gage slide rusty steel chains around his tires. But about five seconds after having put his truck in gear and backing up to test the traction, even through the window, she heard a metallic snap.
After turning off his truck, Gage hopped out to inspect, only to promptly fall on his behind.
Jess snatched a quilt from the back of a rocker, wrapped it around her shoulders, then dashed outside. Into driving wind and ice, she shouted, “You okay?”
“Fine. Unless you count wounded pride.” Scrambling to his feet and gingerly rising to his full height, he brushed ice from the backside of his jeans. “Got any welding gear? It won’t be pretty, but I’m good enough to jury-rig these to hold ’til the state line.”
Freezing rain still fell, tinkling, tinkling, coating the world in sparkling wonder. The scene was beautiful, yet the lead in her stomach filled her with dread. Both tire chains had snapped. Gage could hardly stand. It would be downright suicidal expecting him to go anywhere until the storm cleared. “Stay.”
“Excuse me?” Using his boots as skates, he slid onto the porch. “A few hours ago, you wanted nothing more than for me to go.”
“I-I do. But not now. Stay—at least until the roads clear. Dad called to tell me they made it home okay, but it was rough going. If something happened to you…” Her throat tightened. “Gage, you strike me as a smart guy. You know driving in this would be foolhardy.”
Shivering, blowing on cupped hands, he nodded. “But so is sticking around where I’m not wanted.” A faint grin told her he was trying to lighten the moment. His hooded eyes told her he was still willing to go—no matter the weather.
“I’m sorry, all right? Earlier, I wasn’t thinking clearly, but n-now…” The cold was again becoming unbearable. “P-please, as a f-favor…Stay.”
He reached out to her, almost as if on the verge of setting his broad hands to her trembling shoulders. But then, having apparently thought better, he shoved them into his pockets. “This mess won’t last forever. Christmas will come and go. I’ll hole up in the bunkhouse for a few days, then be on my way.”
“Thanks,” she said with a nod. “That sounds good.”
“I do have one question for you,” he called over his shoulder while carefully stepping to his truck, using the bed’s rails for support while grabbing an ice-coated black duffel.
“Sh-shoot.”
After walking back on the porch, he asked, “Why, when from all I’ve seen, you could clearly use a helping hand, are you so hell-bent on running this place on your own?”
“It’s p-personal,” she answered, bristling, and turned toward the house’s softly glowing lights.
“It’s personal to me that there’s no way you can adequately handle this operation yourself. I hate seeing horses suffer, and with foaling season right around the corner, you—”
“M-my horses aren’t suffering.” Damn her chattering teeth. She hated having weaknesses, let alone showing them. Squaring her shoulders, despite driving freezing rain sounding as if it might bore holes through the tin roof, she added, “M-my animals are f-family. I would n-never—”
“Do you realize that if you weren’t so strapped for time, Honey wouldn’t have had the opportunity to escape?”
“You’re blaming what happened to Honey on me?” Anger burned through her, providing momentary relief from the cold.
“Not at all, I’m just—”
She didn’t hear the rest of what he’d said because as swiftly as she could manage with the long quilt flapping around her legs, she’d escaped his accusatory stare for her home’s welcoming warmth.
GAGE SHOVED OPEN the bunkhouse door only to be hit by a wall of heat. Bless Doc. Before leaving, he must’ve made a fire in the cast-iron stove.
Removing his hat, Gage hooked it over the foot-board of a white, wrought-iron bed. He pressed down on the quilt-covered mattress, testing the give. Not too hard or soft. Good. He could use a decent night’s rest.
Setting his bag on the worn wood floor, wincing at the handle’s bite on his roughed-up hands, he shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a row of brass hooks on the wall. He’d seen a lot of bunkhouses in his day, but this one beat all. Frilly, flowery curtains hung over three wide-paned windows that gazed out on a rolling pasture—currently a grayish-white instead of the customary green. Paintings dotted the walls with color. Mountains, flowers and horses were the predominant themes.
An older-model TV sat on a dresser, wearing a rabbit-ear antennae that looked like a hat. A bookshelf nestled alongside the dresser held a range of worn paperbacks and a few stacks of assorted magazines.
A narrow door to the left of the bed led to a small bathroom complete with thick, white towels and a claw-foot tub.
Gage looked around and groaned, running his hands through his hair.
Well…Here he was. Home sweet home—at least until the roads cleared.
He sat down in an oak rocker in front of the stove.
You’re blaming what happened to Honey on me?
Elbows on his knees, resting his chin on cold, fisted hands, Gage willed Jess’s question from his weary brain.
Honestly? Yeah, maybe a small part of him did blame her. Why was she—like his sister—so damned stubborn to ask for help? How many times could Marnie have turned to him? Leaned on him for support? Instead, she’d insisted on handling the mess he’d put her in all by herself.
Impossible. That’s what women were.
He’d headed up here with the express intention of making sense of his life, and here he was, more confused than ever.
Leaning forward, he grabbed the poker from