Authors: Janet Dailey
In the silence that followed, Kylie’s gaze met Shane’s. She shook her head. There were no words.
“Hey, I think it’s time to meet the puppies,” Shane said, boosting her down from the box. “They’re in that first stall with their mom. Come on!”
Brightening, Amy scampered after him.
The puppies were tumbling in their spacious box. One of the little females had been taken home that morning by her new family. Of the three that were left, two would be gone before the holidays were over, leaving only little Mickey and his mother.
“Oh!” Amy dropped to her knees beside the box. “They’re so cute! Can’t I have one, Mom? Please? Aunt Muriel said a dog would be all right.”
“You know what Hunter told us,” Kylie reminded her daughter. “These pups are all spoken for.”
“That’s right,” Shane said. “A rancher friend of mine has bought both these little girls. And I’m keeping the boy for myself. His name’s Mickey.”
Mickey had made a beeline for Amy. When she scooped him up in her arms, he wagged his tail and licked her face. “Oh, he’s the cutest one of all!” she crooned.
“He’s a special dog,” Shane said. “His father used to ride on the motorcycle with me. He died this past fall. Mickey’s his very last son.”
“Is Mickey going to ride on your motorcycle, too?”
“That’s the plan,” Shane said.
“But he’s too little.” Amy’s eyes would have melted a heart of granite.
“He’ll grow. And I can already tell he’s smart enough to learn.”
“What if he falls off and gets hurt?”
“I can fix a special place on the bike so that won’t happen.”
Kylie reached past them to pet the mother dog. “She’s beautiful. What are your plans for her? Will she have more pups?”
“These are her last,” Shane said. “After I make sure of that, she’s going to a boy who’s worked for me the past few summers. Her name’s Sheila, by the way.”
“Hi, Sheila.” Still holding the pup, Amy scratched the dog’s silky ears with her free hand. “I love your babies.”
“It sounds like you’ve got everything figured out,” Kylie said. “What about the horses?”
“They’re great cow ponies. They’ll stay here if the new owner wants them. If not, I’ll sell them to other ranchers or even give them away to good homes.”
“Mom!” Amy tugged at Kylie’s coat. “We could take Daisy! Hunter and I could learn to ride her!”
Kylie sighed. “That’s enough, Amy. Nobody’s giving us a horse.”
Shane glanced at his watch. “What do you say we get back? Henry will be waiting to help me with the bike.”
“Okay. As soon as I kiss Mickey good-bye.” Amy planted a smack on the pup’s dark head and put him down by his mother.
They returned the easier way, by the road. Kylie kept a secure grip on her daughter, but her thoughts were on the tall, dark-haired man driving the snowmobile. Shane’s talk about leaving wasn’t just talk. He was making solid plans to go. She’d tried to tell herself she didn’t care, but she knew better.
The truth was, more and more, she found herself wanting the long, tall Texan to stay.
By the time the snowmobile pulled up to the house, they’d been gone more than an hour. Shane switched off the engine and helped his passengers off the machine.
“Thanks for the ride, Shane,” Amy said. “It was neat.”
“Yes, thank you.” Kylie tried to catch his eye with a smile, but he seemed preoccupied. He held the back door open for her and Amy; then he followed them inside, where Muriel was just taking a sheet of oatmeal raisin cookies out of the oven. The spicy, fresh-baked aroma filled the kitchen.
Muriel set the cookie sheet on the counter. “As soon as they’re cool, you can help yourselves. But while we’re waiting, I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes, Amy. No peeking till I say so.”
Moving behind Amy, Muriel put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and guided her toward the parlor. Looking past them, Kylie could see the waiting surprise. Her heart sank. Standing in a corner of the room was Muriel’s old flocked-foil Christmas tree, decorated with tinsel, lights, and the precious ornaments they’d brought from California. Dear Muriel had acted with the kindest of intentions. But the tree . . . Kylie shuddered.
“Open your eyes, Amy,” Muriel said. “Surprise!”
Amy opened her eyes, took one look at the silver tree, and burst into tears.
Chapter Ten
S
hane opened the door to the machine shed and stepped inside. Warmed by a small electric space heater, the air was chilly but tolerable. He slid the door closed behind him. Pulling off his sheepskin coat, he laid it over a handy sawhorse.
Henry and Hunter were inspecting the scattered motorcycle parts. The old man was sitting on a low wooden stool; the boy was kneeling on the cement floor. They both looked up as Shane walked toward them.
“So, what did my sister do when she saw Aunt Muriel’s tree?” Hunter asked.
“I’m afraid she cried.”
“I told Aunt Muriel that Amy wouldn’t like it. But she said it’d be better than no tree at all. When she asked me to get the box out of the attic and help set it up, I did what she wanted. But I knew what was going to happen and I didn’t want to stick around. Amy can be such a baby when she doesn’t get her own way.”
“Was Muriel upset?” Henry asked. “She’s such a gentle soul. I hope her feelings weren’t hurt.”
“Muriel took it like the lady she is.” Shane frowned at the array of bike pieces. “So, what do you think, Henry? Can we fix it?”
“Dunno.” Henry shook his head. “There are some pretty mangled parts here. If we can’t weld them back into shape, we’ll need to find replacements. And for a bike this old . . .”
Shane understood what he’d left unsaid. The chances weren’t good. “Well, we can at least try. What do you say we start with a triage—usable parts, fixable parts, and parts that’ll need replacing. You can help us sort them, Hunter.”
The boy’s face lit up. “You said something about welding. Could I learn to do that?”
This wasn’t Shane’s call to make. He glanced at Henry.
“I could show you a few things,” the old man said. “But welding can be dangerous work. You’d need to clear it with your mother.”
Hunter scowled. “Not much chance of that. Not with my mom. She treats me like I’m the same age as Amy.”
Just then, the shed door slid partway open. As if conjured by the mention of her name, Amy slipped inside. Her new pink coat was unzipped; her face was streaked with salty-tear lines.
“Close the door,” Hunter said. “Is Mom mad at you?”
“A little bit.” Amy pulled the door shut behind her. “I told Aunt Muriel I was sorry. I didn’t mean to make her feel bad. She was only trying to do something nice. But I was wishing so hard for us to have a real Christmas tree. And all we got was an ugly old silver one that doesn’t have a smell. It doesn’t even have any presents under it.”
“So, what did you come out here for?” Hunter asked.
“I came to watch. Mom said it was okay. I think she needed a break.”
Shane found her a box to sit on. “You can watch from here, Amy,” he said. “If you have any good ideas or any questions, just speak up.”
“Okay.” Amy managed a smile.
“Was your Aunt Muriel all right, Amy?” Henry asked her. “You said she felt bad.”
“She did,” Amy said. “But I think she felt better after I said I was sorry. She hugged me and said it was fine.”
Amy sat in silence for a few minutes, watching while Hunter and the two men sorted the broken, scattered motorcycle parts.
“What’s this?” Hunter picked up a short, sturdy metal rod with fastenings at each end.
“That’s the front-wheel axle,” Shane said. “We’re lucky it wasn’t bent. It anchors the center of the wheel and lets it turn. Put it over there with the parts that are still good.”
Amy had begun to squirm. At last, as if she couldn’t hold the words back any longer, she spoke. “I have a good idea.”
“Great. Tell us what it is,” Shane said.
“I think Henry and Aunt Muriel should get married.”
The crushed headlamp Henry was holding clattered to the cement. His face went beet red. “What in blazes put that cockeyed notion into your head?” he muttered.
“I know you and Aunt Muriel like each other,” Amy said. “You’re always taking care of each other. And you must be about the same age, so that part would be okay. If you got married, you could live in the house and not in that old trailer. So, what do you say?”
“I say your brain’s full of soap bubbles, girl. A fine lady like your aunt Muriel would never want to marry a grubby old wrench jockey like me.”
“Have you ever asked her?”
“No, and I don’t plan to. So put that idea out of your silly head.”
The old man was clearly uncomfortable. Shane broke in to change the subject. “So, what do you think of this mechanical mess now that we’re into it, Henry?”
Henry exhaled, welcoming the rescue. “You know I’m happy to help you, Shane. And I know how much this old motorcycle means to you. But you need to think about what you’ll do if it’s busted for good.”
“Guess I could always buy a new bike,” Shane said. “But it wouldn’t be the same. That’s why I want to fix this one if there’s any way.”
“I hear you,” Henry said. “And I know you’ve got plans. But just because you’ve always wanted to go gallivantin’ around the country doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Ever think about that?”
Startled by the question, Shane gazed down at the scattered parts—the crushed windscreen, the broken gauges, the nuts, bolts, and wires that were vital to the bike’s operation. “Nothing more to think about. I’ve waited half my lifetime for this break. It’s something I’ve dreamed of doing since I was in high school. If I hadn’t needed to take care of the ranch and my father, I’d be long gone by now.”
Henry tossed a mangled side mirror onto the replace pile. “Shane, I reckon you’re the closest thing to a son I ever had. But you’re not in high school anymore. You’re thirty-three years old. The country’s changed a lot since you first read Jack Kerouac and got it into your young fool head to hit the road. It’s crowded and dirty and mean out there, and most of the people you meet won’t give a damn about you.”
“I read and I watch the news.” Shane rose to his own defense. “It’s not like I don’t know what’s going on in the world. And it’s not like I can’t handle bad situations. I’ve been doing that since I was a kid.”
Shane glanced down at Hunter. The boy was wide-eyed, taking it all in. What was he learning from this conversation? And what about Amy, sitting on her box like a quiet little cat? Kylie’s children wanted him to stay—that much he already knew. So did Henry, and so would Muriel.
But what about Kylie?
Kylie had never argued against his leaving. She’d accepted the idea as if it didn’t matter.
“Sometimes people leave.”
That was what she’d told her daughter. If she cared—cared about him—would he be more inclined to stay? But why bother to ask that question when Kylie was still searching for her ring and mourning her war hero husband?
“I don’t doubt you can handle yourself,” Henry said. “You’ve been punching bullies since you were in kindergarten. But look ahead, to the end of the road. Where will you go when you’ve seen it all? What will you do when you’re burned out and getting old—when you can’t come home because you sold your land, spent all the money, and cut your ties to the people who used to need you? I’ve seen men like that, Shane. So have you. I hate to think of you ending up one of them.”
“That’s a low blow, Henry.” Shane tossed a broken gear mount onto the replace pile, which was growing faster and higher than the others.
“Maybe so.” Henry’s eyes narrowed. “But whatever it is you’re looking for, I can almost guarantee you’re not going to find it on the road. All that really matters is what’s right here.”
Shane countered with a question of his own. “You stayed when you could’ve left, Henry. If you’d gone someplace else, you could’ve traveled, had your own business, a nice home, a wife, and a family. But you chose to stay right here and work as a hired man on this farm. Don’t you have any regrets?”
A faraway smile lit Henry’s pale eyes. “No,” he said. “Not a single one.”
From the house, the brief hush that followed Henry’s answer was broken by the jangle of the bell that hung outside the back door.
“Lunch!” Hunter scrambled to his feet. “I hope it’s Mom’s pizza! I’m starved!” He raced out the door, sprinting ahead of Shane and Henry, who took their coats and followed him. They were halfway to the house when Shane noticed Amy wasn’t with them.
“Amy?” He paused, glancing around. “Amy, are you coming?”
When she didn’t answer, he started back. Kylie wouldn’t want her daughter left alone in a place with as many potential dangers as the machine shed.
He’d taken a few steps back toward the shed when she popped out the door. Her face wore an odd little grin. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sure. Just slow. I’m coming.” Sliding the door shut, she skipped toward him, bouncing along the shoveled path. “Let’s get some lunch!”
As Shane washed up in the half bath off the kitchen, the smell of homemade pizza made his mouth water. He couldn’t recall ever having eaten pizza that didn’t come across a counter or out of a delivery car.
Kylie was wearing one of Muriel’s old-fashioned calico aprons over her jeans and sweater. She’d taken the pizzas out of the oven and was cutting them into slices. Her blond hair curled softly over cheeks that were flushed from the heat. He remembered how she’d looked that morning, romping in the snow with her children, her face glowing, her laughter sweet on the winter air. He’d always thought she was the prettiest girl in his class. Now she’d matured into a stunningly beautiful woman.
Looking past the kitchen into the parlor, he could see the silver-foil Christmas tree, the kind that had been popular back in the 1950s and ’60s. In its day, the tree might have been called elegant. Looking at it now, hung with traditional-looking ceramic ornaments, Shane could sympathize with Amy’s tears. The tree was a sorry substitute for the real thing. But at least Muriel had made the effort.
Shane remembered his own family Christmases, the ones before his mother’s illness. The branches of the big, fresh pine tree, so tall it would barely fit beneath the ceiling, would be sagging with a glory of lights and ornaments. After her death, his father had boxed everything and taken it up to the attic, never to see another holiday.