Christmas In Snowflake Canyon (11 page)

“You know this doesn’t count toward your community service, right?” Spence asked from the table where he was apparently hard at work snapping beans. Pretty humble work for somebody who should have been in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, Pop. Happy birthday.”

He leaned in and gave his father an awkward, onearmed hug. Dermot threw his arms around Dylan’s waist and hugged him back. “My birthday is complete now that you’re here,” he said when he pulled away, his eyes a little damp.

“Yeah, forget about Jamie and Aidan. Who needs them?” he said.

“We’re calling Aidan on Skype later,” Charlotte said. “He’ll be here next week for Christmas anyway. And

Jamie was just here for several days. He took Pop to Le Passe Montagne for his birthday before he left.”

“I guess that counts. Smells great in here.” He mustered a smile for Erin and Carrie, his two sisters-inlaw—married to Drew and Patrick, respectively. Pop always did most of the work in the kitchen, even for his own birthday party, but Charlotte and the sisters-in-law all shared matriarch responsibilities.

He was grateful his brothers had married good women. The men in his family seemed to have inordinately good taste—and then worked hard to deserve their wives.

“How long before we eat?” he asked.

“As soon as you get over here and stir the gravy,” Pop growled.

“There are nearly twenty people crowded into this house. I just got here. Why do I have to stir the gravy?” “That’s why,” Dermot said briskly. “Because you just got here. Everybody else has been helping already. You know the rule in my kitchen.”
“If you want to eat, you have to work,” all the Caine siblings said in unison.
He sighed but moved obediently to the stove, picking up a wooden spoon from the drawer. Everything smelled delicious. His stomach growled. He probably hadn’t had a decent meal since that Thanksgiving dinner— not counting the leftovers Pop had sent home with him.

He had cooking skills. All of them did. Dermot wouldn’t have allowed his children to grow up without them. Their parents had taken that motto seriously— with seven children, they had to be organized and efficient in splitting the workload.

Pop had also made sure they all took a turn working at the café. He and Spence used to wash dishes together, back in the day.

His limited culinary skills had come in handy during a few meals when they only had MREs. He always kept a few extra spices in his ruck to dress things up.

He supposed he ought to start cooking more. TV dinners and a few doggie bags of food Dermot sent from the café just weren’t enough all the time. He didn’t really have a good excuse for why he didn’t, other than he didn’t feel like it most of the time.

When Pop judged the gravy to be ready—others might be in on the prep, but he always had the final vote—they all jostled to find spots to eat.

Even without Jamie and Aidan, the Caines overflowed the big twelve-place dining table. A second long folding banquet table had been set up in the sunroom for the kids.

He enjoyed the meal and even enjoyed the company. He was grateful to be seated between Erin and Carrie. Erin taught third grade at one of the two Hope’s Crossing elementary schools while Carrie was a pediatrician in Denver.

They talked over him mostly about their Christmas preparations, which presents were already wrapped, the gifts they were giving to neighbors. He was content to listen to them and also grateful not to have attention focused on him for once.

His luck ran out just as the meal was winding down.

Erin was the first to go in for the kill. “So, Dylan. How are things going with your service work at A Warrior’s Hope?”

He set down his fork, the last few bites of his lusciously juicy roast beef losing a little of its savor. “Fine, so far.”

“The real work will start tomorrow, when our new guests arrive,” Charlotte said from across the table.

He wasn’t looking forward to that, but he supposed he would survive.

“How are things with Miss Priss of the mighty right hook?” Brendan asked.

“You mean Gen Beaumont?” he asked, a little more testily than he should have.

“Yeah,” Brendan said. “You ready to strangle her yet?”

For a brief instant, his gaze connected with Charlotte’s, and he saw that shadow of worry there again. She hadn’t said anything to him since that moment the other day when she had walked into the cabin just as he was about to make the momentous mistake of kissing Gen. He had been waiting for a lecture, but for once his baby sister was minding her own business.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

“I would be. From what I understand, she is a holy terror. The other guys at the station house were talking the other day about a time when she crashed her car into the ladder truck when she was about sixteen, I guess. It was a brand-new convertible and the ink was hardly dry on her license. I guess she hit the truck while trying to back out of a parking space at the hardware store during the Fill the Boot fundraiser—and then she threw a fit. The guys shouldn’t have parked right there. It was all their fault. Blah blah blah. You would have thought the world had ended and the whole volunteer fire department had purposely set out to park in a spot they knew she would stupidly back into—like a big fluorescent green ladder truck was invisible. I guess her tantrum was pretty legendary.”

“Now, Brendan Thomas. That will be enough of that,” Dermot said firmly from the head of the table. “I’ll not have you speaking poorly about Miss Beaumont.”

He wasn’t sure why his father jumped to Gen’s defense but he wouldn’t complain about it. At least this way, he wouldn’t have to do it.

“Why can’t he talk about her?” Erin asked. “Dylan wouldn’t even be in trouble with the law if not for her. Isn’t that right?”

“Whatever happened to lawyer-client privilege?” he muttered to his brother, across the table.

“Drew didn’t say a word about what happened, as much as I nagged him. I heard the whole story out of Charlotte when we went to String Fever for their annual holiday bead fair—where I spent entirely too much money, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he muttered to Charlotte.

“You should probably know Genevieve is a frequent topic of conversation at String Fever, especially since her ill-fated but gorgeous wedding dress is still on display in the store.”

He didn’t want to ask—nor did he want to think about her engagement to some jackass who had probably been perfect for her. Except, maybe, for his little habit of impregnating teenagers.

“Everybody was talking about this latest escapade of hers,” Charlotte went on. “Word was already out that you had been involved, so people pressed me for details. You’ll be happy to know, I glossed over most of the finer points.”

“It wasn’t
entirely
her fault. I should have minded my own business. Like a few others I could mention in this family,” he said pointedly to Charlotte, though he could have been addressing the room as a whole, or at least all those over eighteen.

“I’m still blaming her,” Erin said. “I agree with Brendan. She’s bad news. She and her mother donated some books to the school library a few years ago and insisted on a full-fledged assembly so they could receive proper recognition from the school for their generosity.”

Something told him Laura Beaumont had been the driving force behind that one, though he supposed he could be completely wrong about the situation.

“She’s been a really good help so far at A Warrior’s Hope,” Charlotte said. “In fact, she and Dylan spent all day decorating Christmas trees in the new cabins. You should see them. They’re beautiful.”

The whole room seemed to descend into silence at that pronouncement and everybody stared at him. A few jaws might have even sagged.

Even Brendan looked amused, and it took a lot to make that happen these days.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. “Did you say…Christmas decorating?”

“Yes. They did a really good job, too,” Charlotte said.

“Do you even have a Christmas tree at your own cabin?” his thirteen-year-old niece Maggie—named for their mother—asked him with interest.

Dylan felt heat crawl up his cheeks and hoped to hell he wasn’t actually blushing.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Tucker and I put it up weeks ago. And then we held hands, er, paws and sang Christmas carols all night long.”

“Really?” Faith looked wide-eyed at him.

He shook his head at her, feeling kind of bad for being grumpy around her.

“That’s what you call sarcasm, honey,” Brendan said to his daughter. “Your uncle Dylan is something of an expert at it.”

True enough.

“I haven’t gotten around to putting a Christmas tree up this year,” he answered her more gently. “It’s just me and Tucker. There’s not much point, especially when I can always enjoy your grandpop’s tree when I need one.”

Faith seemed to find that a terrible tragedy. Her chin even quivered. “You could always put up a little one. I have one in my room you could borrow, if you want.”

He mustered a smile for her, touched to the depths of his hardened, sarcastic, miserable soul. “I appreciate that, honey. I do. I’ll tell you what. I’ll try to cut down a little one from the forest around my place.”

That seemed to satisfy her and he was grateful Brendan didn’t bring his kids up to Snowflake Canyon very often for her to check the veracity of that particular claim. He had no intention of cutting down a tree. Decorating six cabins for A Warrior’s Hope had rid him of absolutely any desire for a tree of his own. Not that he ever planned to put one up in the first place.

“Genevieve is a beautiful decorator,” Charlotte said. “I’m not sure how she pulled it off but she made each one of the cabins magical.”

“With Dylan’s help, of course.” Spencer made sure to emphasize this point, grinning broadly, until Dylan wanted to pound him. If the man didn’t seem to fit in so effortlessly with the family and wasn’t so obviously crazy about Charlotte, he might have tried, old friend or not.

“Genevieve Beaumont is a nice girl,” Dermot insisted. “She always has a kind word for me when she comes into the café. I’ll admit, I can’t always say the same about her mother, but they’re two different people.”

He didn’t want to talk about Genevieve. He bluntly changed the subject to one he knew would best distract his father. “So, Pop, I bumped into Katherine Thorne the other day.”

“Did you?” Dermot seemed inordinately interested in cutting his delicious roast beef with pinpoint precision. Dylan was sure he wasn’t the only one of his siblings amused by the color that rose on his father’s cheeks. Pop and the elegant city councilwoman must hold the record for world’s slowest courtship. It mostly consisted of a lot of hem-hawing around and Dermot pretending he didn’t blush every time she walked into the café.

“She and I seem to be on the same schedule for grocery shopping. I see her at the market just about every time I go. If you want me to, I can give you a call next time I’m heading that way and you can meet us there.”

Charlotte and Brendan, the only ones really paying attention to the conversation, both snickered, and color rose over Dermot’s weathered features. “You all think you’re so funny.”

“Yes. Yes, we do,” Dylan said. Teasing his father about his crush was one of the few things that made him happy these days.

“Well, you’re not. Katherine is a lovely woman and I’m happy to count her as a friend. That’s all there is to it.”

Dylan wanted to say the same about Genevieve but decided the circumstances weren’t at all comparable.

A
fter dInner, he helped clear the table and even managed to make polite conversation with just about everybody while they all worked together to clean the kitchen—all except Pop, who played a game with the grandkids in the great room.

As long as he could remember, the Caine family tradition had held that Pop—and Mom, before cancer took her when he was a teenager—would fix the meal and the kids would clean it up together. All these years later, they still fell into the same habits.

He had never minded much. They would tease and joke and sometimes taunt each other, but the work went fast with seven children.

Growing up in a big family had advantages; he couldn’t deny that. He had always known one of his brothers would have his back, whether with playground bullies or on the ball field.

There were also negatives. He couldn’t deny that, either. Everybody seemed to think he—or she—had a right to know his business and then offer an opinion on it. Since his injury, that had become more obvious.

As he might have expected, Charlotte managed to corner him just as everybody was wrapping up the dishes.

“I’m so happy you came for Pop’s birthday,” she said with one of her customary hugs. He loved all his siblings but had a special spot in his heart for her, not only because she was the only girl and they all looked out for her but also because the two of them had been the last Caine kids home while their mother was dying of cancer.

They all shared the grief over Margaret Caine’s passing but he and Charlotte had probably felt it most keenly. Unlike their older brothers, they hadn’t started moving on with their lives yet or had the distraction of new adventures or challenges.

They had been in this house, forced to try to comfort each other as best they could and to step in where needed to help Pop.

He still had memories of walking downstairs in the middle of the night on more than one occasion and finding Pop sobbing by himself in the dark.

The experience had bound them together as nothing else could.

“I’m not a complete hermit, contrary to popular belief,” he said to her now. “I do get out once in a while.” “I’ve seen you more this last week than I think I have since you’ve been back in Hope’s Crossing.”
He grunted and returned their mom’s beloved gravy tureen to the top shelf of the cupboard.
“I so wish Aidan could have come for Thanksgiving while Jamie was home on leave. It’s been forever since we’ve all been together.”

“Never satisfied, are you?” he teased.

She smiled a little as the group playing a game with Pop in the other room suddenly erupted in laughter.

“You haven’t been completely miserable so far working at A Warrior’s Hope, have you?”

“Not
completely.”

She rolled her eyes at the heavy emphasis he placed on the word, as if he had been mostly miserable but had somehow endured.

“I’m asking in all seriousness,” she said. “I don’t want you to hate it. If you don’t think you can stand it, I’m sure Spence could work with the court system to find somewhere else for you to fill your communityservice hours. The legal system probably doesn’t care where you do it, as long as you fill the requirements. You could maybe even do something else at the recreation center without us having to go through the system. Sign out basketballs or something.”

He gave her a long look. “I love you, sis. You know I do. But if I live to be two hundred years old, I will never understand you.”

She made a face. “Why do you say that?”

“From the minute you and Smoke came up with the crazy idea for A Warrior’s Hope, you’ve been nagging me to help. How many times did you come up to my place to bug me about it?”

“A few,” she muttered.

“More than a few, as I recall. I do believe it’s come up every time I’ve seen you in the past six months. You finally got what you wanted, with the help of a little blackmail and one night of stupidity, and now you’re trying to weasel out of the deal.”

“I am not weaseling out of anything! I want you there. I just…don’t want you to feel forced.”

Siblings could drive a guy crazy like no one else. He sighed. “I
was
forced. We both know it. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Not really. I can’t say I’m thrilled to be volunteering there, but now that I’m into it, I don’t want to switch canoes midstream. Change skis halfway down the hill. Whatever metaphor you want to use. I just want to finish my obligation and be done with it so I can go back to my mountain.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re sticking it out. I’m sorry you’ve been stuck with Genevieve the first two days. Once the session starts next week, I’ll make sure the two of you aren’t always assigned the same jobs.”

He wanted to tell her not to do that, that he didn’t really mind working with Gen, but he had a feeling Charlotte would be quick to misconstrue any such claim.

“Whatever,” he said, in what he hoped was a casual tone.

To his relief, one of the twins—Patrick’s teenage boys who were almost as tall as Dylan—came in to grab a soda out of the refrigerator and ended the conversation.

Dylan managed to stick it out for another hour, until Pop opened all his presents, before the noise and crowd started to press in on him. He found his coat in his parents’ old bedroom and shrugged into it, then went in search of Tucker. Last time he checked, the old dog had been blissfully getting the love from Maggie, Peyton Gregory and Eva, Drew and Erin’s daughter.

They were still there, unfortunately, which meant he couldn’t quietly slip away.

“Tuck, come on. Home. Sorry, girls.”

The dog gave him a disgruntled look but lumbered to his feet and padded over to him.

“You can’t be leaving already,” Dermot protested. “You haven’t had dessert. Erin made a cake and I baked a huckleberry pie just for you.”

Since his father didn’t even know he was coming,

He doubted that, but he didn’t want to argue with the man on his birthday.

“I’ll take some home, if you don’t mind, but I should really head up the canyon before the storm hits.”

He had a garage just off the main road where he stored a snowmobile for those times the snow was too deep for his pickup until he plowed, but he would rather not have to use it. Beyond that, the canyon road to his house was twisty and could be tough to navigate in bad conditions, especially when his night vision and nocturnal driving skills weren’t the greatest with only one working eyeball and one hand.

“I don’t know why you have to live clear up there by yourself, especially in the winter,” his father said. “I’ve all these empty bedrooms, you know. And what’s more, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss that rascal hound of yours.”

“I like it up there,” he answered quietly. “Even in the winter. When it snows, the silence is absolute.”

Dermot looked at him for a long moment then gave a smile tinged with sadness. “I told myself I wouldn’t badger you about it. I know you find peace up there and I understand it. But I’m your father. It’s my job to worry, especially with winter upon us.”

His father would worry in the middle of a blazing summer afternoon. That was just who he was.

“Don’t fret about me, Pop. I’m fine. Better every day. Thanks for dinner.”

“Stop a minute in the kitchen so I can ready your pie.”

He followed his father and leaned against the counter while Dermot set a large piece in one of the café’s to-go boxes he always kept at home for the family to package leftovers.

“Thanks,” he said when Pop finished, but to his surprise, Dermot slid another piece of the pie in a second box. “I’m sure you won’t mind doing a favor for your old man on his birthday.”

“What kind of favor?” he asked, wary at the sudden crafty look in his father’s eyes.

“Oh, not much. I’d like you to drop a piece of that huckleberry pie to your Christmas-tree-decorating friend Genevieve. Her grandmother’s house is right there at the mouth of the canyon, isn’t it? It’s on your way home. Won’t be any trouble at all.”

“Pop. Really?”

“I’ll have you know, Genevieve loves my pie. She stops into the diner for a slice whenever she’s in town from her travels. She even brought that troublemaking fiancé of hers in before she had the good sense to drop him. I never liked him, I can tell you that.”

Dermot closed the lid of the box and tucked in the tab closure. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you? I’ve a feeling she could use a bit of cheering up. From what I hear, she and her family are on the outs. That can’t be easy on a young lady during the holidays.”

Had Charlotte been talking to Pop? Or had Dermot picked up some kind of hint while the conversation had revolved around Genevieve that Dylan’s feelings for the woman were a big, tangled mess?

He should say no. That would be the wisest course. He could use the weather as an excuse, even though he knew he had a few hours before the storm was supposed to even start.

On the other hand, what would it hurt? He could stop by, say hello, drop off the pie and be on his way in only a few moments.

Besides, after listening to her ramble on about the horrors of her grandmother’s house, he was more than a little curious if the place was as bad as she said.

“Yeah. Sure. I can take her a slice of pie.”

“While you’re at it, you might as well take her some of the mashed potatoes and roast beef, as well. She can warm it for her dinner tomorrow.”

She had to say, she had spent more pleasant Sunday nights.

Removing layer after layer of hideous wallpaper from the dining-room walls was a much more arduous task than she’d expected. In her home-improvement naïveté, she had expected the steamer machine she had rented from the hardware store would make everything sheer away, ripple after ripple of ugliness, but the reality wasn’t nearly as cheerful.

After three hours of work, her arms ached, her hair was a frizzy mess and she had only finished one depressingly minuscule section of wall.

“Come…on…and…move!” she muttered, trying to budge the massive buffet where Grandma Pearl had kept her best china. She only needed to push it away from the wall a few feet but even that seemed an impossible undertaking.

She drew in a deep breath and shoved with all her energy. It moved about an inch at the same moment, ironically, that the “Hallelujah Chorus” doorbell rang out through the house.

She froze, muscles twitching. Oh, she hoped that wasn’t her parents, stopping in for a pleasant visit. In the mirrored top to the buffet, she caught her reflection. It wasn’t pretty. A fine sheen of moisture clung to her skin. The hothouse humidity in here from the steamer had contributed to most of it, along with a considerable amount of perspiration.

Her hair was coming out of the pony holder she had shoved it into and any makeup she had applied earlier that day had long ago dripped away.

Maybe it was the Angel of Hope, the mysterious benefactor in Hope’s Crossing who went around doing nice things for people. Paying utility bills, delivering bags of groceries, leaving envelopes of cash for needy families.

Maybe the Angel was dropping off some miraculous gift to help her finish de-wallpapering.

Not likely.

The doorbell rang again. She pushed a bedraggled strand of hair out of her eyes, fiercely tempted to ignore the summons. How could she possibly face anybody in her current situation? She could just imagine her parents’ reaction if they unexpectedly came calling on her.

She could hide out in here. On the other hand, every light in the house was on, music was blaring and the curtains were open. Whoever it was could probably hear her and see movement through the windows.

With a sigh, she found the remote to turn down the speakers, wiped her sticky hands off on a rag and headed to the door.

Grandma Pearl didn’t have anything as modern as a security peephole, though she did have a chain. Genevieve pulled the door open just wide enough to see who was sending Handel chiming through her house—and just about fell over.

A girl could use a little warning about these things. When she considered all the people she might have expected to see on the other side of the door, Dylan Caine wouldn’t have even made the list. Yet there he was, looking completely gorgeous in the light from her porch, dark and forbidding.

He had a couple of boxes of what looked like takeout from his dad’s café in his hand, she noticed through her shock as she fumbled with the chain and opened the door wider. For some reason, she thought he looked completely uncomfortable to find himself on her doorstep.

So why was he here?

Though his ranch coat hung on his frame as if he’d lost weight since he bought it, he still had rather delicious muscles. She had noticed that while they were working together at A Warrior’s Hope.

She glanced behind her at the dining room and then back at him, making an instant decision she had a feeling she would regret.

“What a coincidence. You’re just the guy I need right now.”

She grabbed his arm and dragged him across the threshold then closed the door behind him against the December cold that hung heavy with impending snow.

“Am I?” He blinked a little, though she didn’t know if he was trying to adjust to the light or her enthusiasm. Okay, maybe she had been too hasty. She suddenly remembered how awful she must look, bedraggled and damp.
She pushed it away. If she wanted to finish this project, she didn’t have room to let vanity stand in the way. “Yes. I desperately need a hand.”

He held up both arms, including the empty sleeve. “Yep. I’m your guy, then.”

She made a face. “You know I meant it as a figure of speech. What I really need is a strong back. I’m trying to move a piece of furniture that I swear feels like it’s bolted down. Can you help me?”

He looked back at the door and then at her. “I guess I can spare a minute.” He held out the boxes in his hand. “Where would you like this? I just came from Sunday dinner with my family and my pop wanted me to drop off some leftover roast beef and mashed potatoes for you. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea. And pie. Huckleberry. He says it’s your favorite.”