In the Spirit of...Christmas and A Very Special Delivery: In the Spirit of...Christmas / A Very Special Delivery. Linda Goodnight

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СКАЧАТЬ and listened, hoping for an opportunity to casually probe for information. His attention strayed to the gregarious preacher.

      Pastor Cliff seemed to be everywhere, laughing, joking and making sure everyone had a great time. The teenagers flocked around him as though he was some football star, begging him to join their games, occasionally pelting him with a marshmallow to gain his attention. Punctuating the air with a few too many “praise the Lords” for Jesse’s comfort, the preacher nonetheless came across like a regular guy. He’d even overheard Cliff promise to help repair someone’s leaky roof next week. The big man sure wasn’t like any minister Jesse had ever encountered.

      “When are we taking that wagon ride, Lindsey?” Cliff bellowed, indicating a small boy perched on his shoulders. “Nathaniel says he’s ready when you are.”

      “Do you kids want the tractor or the horse to pull us?” Lindsey called back.

      “The horse. The horse,” came a chorus of replies from all but the preacher.

      Jesse knew the big, powerful horse stood nearby inside a fenced lot, his oversized head hanging over the rails, waiting his opportunity. The animal liked people and was gentle as a baby.

      “How about you, Cliff? What’s your preference?” A man called, his face wreathed in mischief.

      The oversized preacher waved his upraised hands in mock terror. “Now, Tom, you know I don’t mess with any creature that’s bigger than me.”

      “Which wouldn’t be too many, Cliff,” came the teasing answer.

      Everyone laughed, including Cliff, though the joke was on him. Grudgingly, Jesse admired that. The minister he’d known would have seen the joke as an offense to his lofty position.

      “You’re out-voted, preacher,” Lindsey called, starting toward the gate. “I’ll get Puddin’.”

      Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket, Jesse fell into step beside her. Though mingling with the church crowd provided opportunities to gather information, he needed some distance. He hadn’t expected their friendliness, the ease with which they accepted him, and most of all, he’d not expected them to be such everyday, normal people. Lindsey’s church family, as she called them, was fast destroying his long-held view of Christians as either stiff and distant or pushy and judgmental.

      “Need any help?” he asked.

      She withdrew a small flashlight from inside her jacket, aimed the beam toward the gate, and whistled softly. “I put his harness on earlier. All I need to do is hook the traces to the wagon.”

      Jesse stepped into the light and raised the latch. In seconds the big horse lumbered up to nuzzle at his owner while she snapped a lead rope onto his halter. Together they led him toward the waiting wagon.

      “He’s a nice animal.” Jesse ran a hand over the smooth, warm horseflesh, enjoying the feel again after too much time away from the rodeo. “What breed is he?”

      “Percheron mostly.” She smiled at the horse with affection. “Although I’m not sure he’s a full-blood since I have no papers on him, but he has the sweet temperament and muscular body the breed is known for. And he loves to work.”

      “Percheron.” Jesse rolled the word over in his head. He knew enough about horses to know the name, but that was about it. “Different from the quarter horses I’m used to.”

      “Certainly different from the wild broncs. Puddin’ doesn’t have a buck anywhere in him.” One on each side of the massive horse, they headed back toward the heat and light of the bonfire. “Every kid within a ten-mile radius has ridden him, walked under him, crawled over him, and he doesn’t mind at all.” She turned toward him, her face shadowed and pale in the bright moonlight. “What about you? Do you still have horses?”

      He shook his head. “No. After Erin died, I—” He stopped, not wanting to revisit the horrible devastation when he’d sold everything and hit the road, trying to run from the pain and guilt. He’d told Lindsey more about his past than he’d ever intended to, but talking about Erin was taboo. “I’d better find Jade.”

      He stalked off toward the circle of squealing children, aware that he’d been abrupt with Lindsey and trying not to let that bother him. He’d intentionally sought her company, and now he was walking away.

      Ruefully, he shook his head. What a guy.

      In the distance he spotted Jade, her long hair flying out behind her as she ran, laughing. With a hitch beneath his rib cage, he watched his daughter, grateful for the rare display of playful abandon. Letting the shadows absorb him, he stood along the perimeter of children, hoping this place would ultimately heal them both.

      “Hey, Jesse.” A hand bigger than Puddin’s hoof landed on his shoulder. The preacher. “Great party, huh?”

      “Yeah.” Though he didn’t belong here, he had to admit the party was a success. Just seeing Jade carefree was worth a few hours discomfort on his part.

      “Lindsey’s a great gal.”

      Jesse followed the minister’s gaze to where Lindsey, surrounded by too many youthful helpers, attached the patient horse to the wagon. Silently, he agreed with Cliff’s assertion. Lindsey was a good woman. Her decency was giving his conscience fits. “You known her long?”

      “A few years. Ever since coming here to minister.” Cliff nodded at the rowdy crowd around the fire. “Most of these folks have known her and each other much longer, but God really blessed me when he sent me to Winding Stair. I feel as if Lindsey and all the others out there are my family now.”

      Clarence approached, this time accompanied by a small, gray-haired woman with rosy cheeks who carried a plate of homemade cookies. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be, ain’t it, preacher?”

      Cliff reached for the cookies. “Yep.”

      “How about you, Jesse?” Clarence motioned toward the plate.

      Out of courtesy Jesse accepted the dessert, taking a bite. He liked the mildly sweet flavor of the old-fashioned cookie. “These are good.”

      “Course they are,” Clarence said. “Loraine makes the best oatmeal cookies in the county. And if you don’t believe me, just ask her.”

      “Oh, Clarence, you old goof.” The smiling little woman flapped a hand at him. “Jesse, don’t pay any mind to my husband. This isn’t my recipe and he knows it. Lindsey’s grandma gave it to me. Now that woman could cook.”

      Blood quickening, Jesse saw the opportunity and took it. “You knew Lindsey’s grandparents?”

      “Sure did. Better folks never walked the earth, as far as I’m concerned.” She paused long enough to dole out more cookies to passers-by. Jesse kept his mouth shut, waiting for her to go on, blood humming with the hope that he was about to learn something.

      “Betty Jean—that was her grandma—could do about anything domestic. A country version of Martha Stewart, I guess you’d say.” She chuckled softly at her own joke. “And she wasn’t stingy about it either. Would share a jar of pickles or a recipe without batting an eye. A fine neighbor, she was. A real fine neighbor.”

      She looked a little СКАЧАТЬ