Sleigh Bells for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

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СКАЧАТЬ They were fine for other people but not for him. “Maybe I did like it back then, but you’ve got to remember that was a long time ago.”

      The argument with his father made Wade feel guilty every year when he heard the carols on the radio. Disagreements about Christmas had ruined what family he had. So now he never paused to admire a tree in a mall or a hotel. He sent no cards and got none in return. He wanted to forget all about December 25.

      “You wanted to drive the sleigh. Remember?” his mother asked.

      “I was just a boy.”

      He no more got the words out of his mouth than the memories came flooding back, whether he wanted them to or not. He could still see that red sleigh in his mind—the one that Charley Nelson used when he hauled hay to his range cattle during the big snowstorms that came up almost every winter in the eastern part of the state. Each Christmas, the man transformed that farm sleigh into a fairy tale worthy of the most fanciful child’s dream. He painted holly sprigs on it one year and dancing elves another. And he always tacked the same string of sturdy iron bells along the sides, so people could hear it coming for miles around.

      “You used to love that sleigh,” his mother persisted.

      Wade could only nod. He guessed he had, at that.

      He had disobeyed his father every single year to go see it. Charley used a team of horses to pull the sleigh to the church around dusk on Christmas Eve. When he rang the bells, people came from all directions to fill it with presents for the annual children’s gift drive. Then the sleigh sat there waiting while everyone walked over to the old barn at the edge of town to watch the nativity pageant. After that, Charley drove the sleigh around to deliver all the gifts.

      Back then, the presents had been simple, handmade things, often wrapped in a brown grocery bag and tied with a single strip of red ribbon. No one had money for store-bought toys or fancy paper.

      Wade and his brothers usually received a pair of warm mittens that Mrs. Hargrove, one of the church ladies, had knit. As hard as it was to believe now, those mittens had been enough to make Wade feel like he was a regular kid celebrating Christmas right along with all the other children in the world. On that one night, he wasn’t one of the poor Stone boys; he was the same as everyone else. Someone had given him a Christmas gift.

      All those years as a boy, Wade had willingly faced his father’s wrath just to sneak into town and get the presents for him and his brothers. Charley always left the Stone family presents clearly marked on the seat of the sleigh so Wade could get them if he came early, before the pageant was finished.

      Wade heard his mother sigh, and he looked over at her. He’d long since known he had been a fool to put so much stock in a day on the calendar.

      “What happened to all of us?” she asked, looking at him with discouragement on her face. “Just because I went to prison, that was no reason for you and your brothers to stop believing a good life is possible.”

      “We haven’t stopped—”

      “Not a one of you got married while I was gone,” his mother interrupted him as though she knew what he was going to say and didn’t want to even hear the rest of it. “I always thought you’d stay in touch with Amy, at least.”

      “She was just a kid back then,” Wade protested and looked away, gripping the steering wheel as he did so. He might have liked Christmas, but his biggest weakness growing up had always been Amy. Even before he’d become aware of her as a girl, he’d known she was special in some way he couldn’t define.

      At first, she’d merely been underfoot, tagging along behind him, no matter whether he was helping his brothers move cattle or turning hay bales in the north pasture. His boyish pride made him complain about her being there, but his words were halfhearted. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was always more content when she was around. She soothed something deep inside of him.

      He felt bad about not saying a proper goodbye to her before he left, but none of his friends had known what his life had been like until the trial began. Before that, he had explained away his bruises and made light of his father’s drunkenness. He had pretended his family was normal. But there was no hiding anything on the witness stand, and the Stone family problems were told and retold throughout the whole eastern part of the state. When the trial was over, it had been easier for him to climb into the family pickup and drive away, rather than face anyone with his shame.

      His mother smiled. “I’m sure Amy’s all grown up by now.”

      Before Wade could say anything more, another pickup eased past and stopped directly in front of the café. He recognized the old, red Ford seconds before the driver’s door opened and a woman stepped out. He wasn’t more than ten feet behind her, but he still couldn’t seem to make sense of the flash of shiny blond hair, twisted into some kind of a knot at the back of her head. A black work hat hung from her neck by a leather cord. Shapely, long legs filled out worn jeans. A heavy farm jacket swung free from her shoulders as she marched up to the café, determination in her every stride.

      “It’s Amy,” his mother said, her voice blossoming with some kind of hope that made Wade want to slouch down in the seat so no one would be able to see him, even if the sun came out enough to clearly show him sitting inside his cab. Could it be? Was she still here?

      He focused on the red-and-white bumper sticker on the back of the pickup. It urged everyone to vote for Garrett for the state legislature. Amy had just been learning to drive in that pickup when he’d left. He doubted she would have turned political. But then nine years had passed since he’d seen her. She could have turned into almost anything in that time.

      “That’s got to be Amy Mitchell,” his mother repeated as she turned to look at him. “You can’t tell me now that God doesn’t want us in Dry Creek.”

      He didn’t know how God felt about his presence here, but he was almost certain Amy wouldn’t be too much in favor of it.

      “You can’t be sure that’s her,” he said, trying to hide the desperate lump in his throat.

      Without warning, the picture of Amy’s face came to him. He could still remember how her eyes had looked when he’d kissed her. She’d been fifteen and he’d been seventeen. Even now, just thinking about it, he could almost smell the spearmint gum she’d been chewing.

      “We need to leave,” he said to his mother.

      His mouth was as dry as it had been that night. Reluctant to go anywhere after wrapping presents for the gift drive, he and Amy had been leaning against the closed back door of the church. It was one of the few times he’d been inside the church; no one in his family was a member, and he normally felt uneasy just being near the building. But on Christmas Eve, the church belonged to everyone. Or so he told himself, standing there on the porch.

      Snow had started to fall. There was a light for the front door of the building, but none for the back one. Inside, people were practicing carols for the pageant. The moon was shining bright enough that he could see a single flake as it fell on Amy’s nose. She giggled as he wiped it off. And then he kissed her. He hadn’t planned it, but for a moment, he was glad he’d finally done it. He knew he’d never forget the feel of her lips on his and her soft hair falling across his hand.

      Then he noticed her eyes had changed to a dark blue, almost like midnight. Her pupils were large and filled with some emotion he didn’t recognize. Probably shock. She was not the kind of girl a guy kissed on the back steps of the church. He supposed it was СКАЧАТЬ