Christmastime on Donner's Mountain Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Laura Strickland

  Christmastime on Donner’s Mountain

  Copyright

  Books by Laura Strickland

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Hi, Becca,” Jack said. His voice issued half muffled by the scarf, deep and slightly husky, and hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d always told him he should be a folk singer. He had the talent but didn’t want the hassle or the fame. “How’ve you been?”

  An interesting question. She’d been up and down, happy and sad, tied in knots and—a few precious times—had felt genuinely free. Looking back, she couldn’t say the moments of freedom had been worth the price.

  One of the biggest payments had been the loss of this man. But she said, “Good. You?”

  He shrugged. Snowflakes fell from his shoulders in a little flurry. “I was sorry to hear about your grandpa being sick.”

  “How did you know—” She didn’t bother to complete the thought. This town knew everything about everybody, one of the truths she’d fled.

  “Is he very sick?”

  Now she shrugged. “He’s dying. Be surprised if he makes New Year’s. We’re trying to give him a good last Christmas.” She indicated the packages in her arms.

  Jack smiled. And oh, she remembered that smile, the pure sweetness and mischief of it, as if someone turned on a light in a dark room. Even though she could barely see his face she felt that smile to her toes.

  Praise for Laura Strickland

  Laura Strickland’s novella FORGED BY LOVE won first place in the short historical category of the International Digital Awards.

  ~*~

  “The world building is phenomenal.”

  ~Daysie W. at My Book Addiction and More

  ~*~

  “Laura Strickland creates a world that not only draws you in, but she incorporates it…seamlessly. …the kind of book that keeps you awake well into the wee hours, and sighing with satisfaction when you’ve finished the very last page.”

  ~Nicole McCaffrey, author

  ~*~

  “As I read I became so involved with the story, I found it difficult to put down the book. …Definitely …an author to watch.”

  ~Dandelion at Long & Short Reviews

  Christmastime

  on

  Donner’s

  Mountain

  by

  Laura Strickland

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Christmastime on Donner’s Mountain

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Laura Strickland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2017

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1655-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Books by Laura Strickland

  available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Dead Handsome: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  Off Kilter: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  Sheer Madness: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  Steel Kisses: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  ~*~

  Devil Black

  His Wicked Highland Ways

  Honor Bound: A Highland Adventure

  The White Gull (part of the Lobster Cove Series)

  Forged by Love (sequel to The White Gull)

  Words and Dreams (sequel to Forged by Love)

  The Hiring Fair (part of the Help Wanted Series)

  Awake on Garland Street

  Stars in the Morning (part of the Landmarks Series)

  ~*~

  The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy:

  Daughter of Sherwood

  Champion of Sherwood

  Lord of Sherwood

  ~*~

  Christmas Short Stories:

  Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship

  The Tenth Suitor

  Christmastime on Donner’s Mountain

  ~*~

  Valentine Short Story:

  Ask Me (part of the Candy Hearts Series)

  Chapter One

  It looked just like a Christmas card, one of those sappy ones that depict the perfect New England holiday scene. From the doorway of the chocolate shop where Becca stood, she could see the whole town square and the quaint businesses that surrounded it on all sides. With evening falling, the radiance from their windows spilled out onto a dusting of white. Shoppers hurried past carrying packages, their cheeks red from the cold and their eyes merry.

  Becca had to admit Crawford, New Hampshire had done itself proud when it came to Christmas decorations. Hard-working citizens had strung the gazebo at the center of the square with lights and erected a tree—also lit—under the peaked roof. Somewhere in the distance she could hear people caroling, their voices floating like a delicate memory. And even as Becca stood hesitating with her packages clutched in her arms, it began to snow—perfect, isolated flakes drifting down like glitter scattered from a benevolent hand.

  It should make her feel warm and fuzzy. It should put her in the holiday mood, lift her spirits, and ease the persistent ache at her heart. Instead she wanted to run as fast and far as she could. Christmas brought the past back to her all too sharply. And remembering the past made her feet itch to run.

  The door of the shop rattled behind her as another shopper emerged from Chocolate Heaven with a cheery, “’Scuse me!” She had to move.

  Stepping down onto the sidewalk, she felt the snow crunch beneath her feet. It couldn’t be much above fifteen degrees, and the chilly air stung her nose.

  Where was Rob? If that garrulous brother of hers had gotten distracted somewhere, she’d have to injure him. Because the last thing she wanted was to linger here. They needed to climb into the ancient station wagon and drive back out to Gramp’s house—the other place she didn’t want to be.

  Better there than here with all the manifest joy and good will, and the misery crawling up from her belly, reminding her just what she’d given away five years ago.

  She sucked in a breath and scanned the square again. Rob wore a red hat that sported a ridiculous bobble on top. His height alone should make him visible. They’d split up to run their errands because Becca thought it would get them home sooner.

  That would teach her. Crawford would teach her not to try to come home again. Even a fool knew it couldn’t be done. But the old man was dying—dying at Christmas—and only she and Rob remained to care.

  There would be no healing in Gramp’s passing. But as Becca had learned long ago, self-inflicted wounds were the hardest to heal.

  She caught a glimpse of a red bobble on the far side of the square. Someone had set up a
lot there for selling Christmas trees, and even as she trotted in that direction her stomach clenched up hard. It couldn’t be. Not after all this time. Plenty of people sold Christmas trees, and anyway, life couldn’t be that cruel.

  Not even to her.

  The snow fell more heavily now, and she peered through a screen of dancing white as she paused in front of the tree lot. The scent of freshly cut pine assailed her nostrils and threw her back in time to another night, and a place not far away.

  Snow had been falling then too. They’d walked hand in hand—eager to touch each other no matter how casually—through the knee-high drifts that blanketed the Christmas tree plantation. That was the first time he told her he loved her, stopped walking and pulled her into his arms there among the trees with the scent of pine sharp in the air and the silent snow swirling down.

  And what had she said in return? It had haunted her a thousand nights since. Don’t cling to me, Jack. Don’t try to hold me down.

  Pain seared her chest, and she clutched her packages closer even as she scanned the small crowd at the tree lot. Where had the red hat gone?

  Two families loaded trees onto the roofs of cars that were nosed in from the street. Small children, bright as jewels in winter clothing, ran everywhere, laughing and squealing with excitement. A group with a sled headed deeper into the lot where a man in a plaid jacket directed them.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Becca stopped and stood as if rooted, the colored lights from the gazebo washing over her, agony in her heart.

  She wanted to flee as she had once before, but this time her feet wouldn’t obey. And then she lost the chance because Rob appeared from nowhere, red bobble in place, and called her name.

  “Becca, over here! You’ll never believe who I found.”

  No, she wouldn’t believe it. Life wouldn’t do that to her. But she knew it would, just as she knew people got what they deserved, and if the past made any predictions she deserved this.

  The lot attendant, having directed the family with the sled, turned around, but Becca couldn’t get a good look at him. Besides the heavy plaid jacket he, too, wore a knit cap pulled well down to his eyebrows and a scarf that covered his chin. Heavy leather gloves, well studded with pine needles, chunky boots, and scruffy jeans completed his ensemble.

  Yet Becca knew him. The fibers of her being did, the blood pumping through her heart. Her lips remembered the feel of his, her body knew his warmth.

  Gone, all gone. She’d thrown it away.

  “Hi, Jack.” She wanted it to come out cool and collected, careless even, as if seeing him again meant nothing. Instead the greeting emerged as a croak like those Gramps had been uttering back at the house. A sick thing.

  He froze where he stood, one hand still half-lifted, boots dusted with snow. White flakes dotted his shoulders—broad shoulders without bulk, one of which she knew bore a tattoo of a pine cone.

  Her wild mountain man, she used to call him. What a laugh—a mountain man in New Hampshire. Yet so he had been to her, up in the cabin on Donner’s Mountain.

  Becca slammed the door on memory, unwilling to permit its scourge. Happily, Rob bopped forward into the breach.

  “Becca, can you believe the coincidence? Of all the tree lots in all the state…”

  Becca glared at her brother. Idiot. Couldn’t he guess how this felt for her? Did he grasp she must be the last person Jack Donner wanted to see? But no. Rob had been wrapped up in his own interests that last winter and probably thought of this as little more than bumping into an old friend.

  “Hi, Becca,” Jack said. His voice issued half muffled by the scarf, deep and slightly husky, and hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d always told him he should be a folk singer. He had the talent but didn’t want the hassle or the fame. “How’ve you been?”

  An interesting question. She’d been up and down, happy and sad, tied in knots and—a few precious times—had felt genuinely free. Looking back, she couldn’t say the moments of freedom had been worth the price.

  One of the biggest payments had been the loss of this man. But she said, “Good. You?”

  He shrugged. Snowflakes fell from his shoulders in a little flurry. “I was sorry to hear about your grandpa being sick.”

  “How did you know—” She didn’t bother to complete the thought. This town knew everything about everybody, one of the truths she’d fled.

  “Is he very sick?”

  Now she shrugged. “He’s dying. Be surprised if he makes New Year’s. We’re trying to give him a good last Christmas.” She indicated the packages in her arms.

  Jack smiled. And oh, she remembered that smile, the pure sweetness and mischief of it, as if someone turned on a light in a dark room. Even though she could barely see his face she felt that smile to her toes.

  “You sure the one from Chocolate Heaven isn’t for you?”

  He remembered her addiction to chocolate. Well, sure he would—he used to go down to town from the wilderness and bring her back a few treats from the shop. Then they’d make love beside the fire, slow and luxurious, the taste of chocolate on her tongue.

  “Not this time. Do your parents still own the cabin?” She couldn’t keep the question back if her life depended on it. The memory of that rustic place halfway up the mountain, tucked among the trees, had traveled with her everywhere she went. If she looked back now, honestly, the only perfect moments she’d ever known had been there in Jack’s arms.

  But he shook his head.

  Her heart plummeted like a stone. For an instant, her world rocked so violently she had to struggle for balance. Ah, well, things changed in five years. What had she expected?

  His eyes met hers from beneath the hat—blue eyes, clear and intense. “Cabin’s mine now. I bought it from my folks three years ago when they moved away. I live there.” He gestured to the tree lot. “When I’m not in town making a living.”

  She nodded, words having become impossible. Relief flooded her—and regret and envy. He had the courage to stay there with all the memories. Didn’t they torment him?

  “Hey,” Rob blundered in, “why don’t we go over to Stanley’s, get something to eat, and catch up before we head back to Gramp’s?” He made a face. “The place is pretty grim. I’m in no hurry to rush back.”

  All trace of a smile fled Jack’s face. “Doesn’t he need you there?”

  “Mrs. Walter’s with him. She’s his—”

  “Neighbor, yeah.” Jack appeared to consider it for a moment, his gaze fixed on the snow at his feet. “I’m here till eight o’clock selling trees. Maybe some other time.”

  “Sure,” Becca said, hoping it would never happen. What she’d dreaded most, coming back to Crawford, were memories.

  Those, and the regret.

  Chapter Two

  “Here, Grandpa, take another spoonful of soup. It’s what you requested—chicken noodle.”

  The old man in the bed glared at Becca with considerable dislike out of eyes identical to hers. Uncanny, realizing she’d received a large dose of his DNA when so much animosity lay between them. But his hazel eyes, now squinted up under shaggy gray brows, held the same flecks of gold as hers and, she feared, the same uncompromising expression.

  “I don’t want it.”

  Becca stifled a sigh. “Twenty minutes ago you did.” It had required an aggravating search through his overcrowded cupboards—the man’s kitchen was like a rat’s nest—and a determined assault on the faulty kitchen stove to bring him the soup. He’d eaten exactly one spoonful before turning stubborn.

  His mouth formed a mutinous line. “I didn’t ask for that canned garbage. I want real soup like your grandma used to make.”

  “Impossible.” Not that she blamed him; Gran’s soup was the stuff of legend. But the woman had been in her grave two years. Becca wondered how soon after she passed Gramps had started downhill. Now his heart had become as fragile and funky as the detested kitchen stove.

  “You’re a rotten nursemaid
, do you know it?”

  “Yes.” Becca accepted the criticism with unwanted docility. She sucked at this role, had never been a nurturer. Too selfish and focused on her own needs.

  Just ask Jack.

  She hastily strove to thrust him from her mind, with little success. Since seeing him at the town square last night, she’d been haunted by thoughts of him. If she’d had two winks of sleep it was a miracle.

  “But you need to eat,” she told the old man. “Otherwise you’ll end up in the hospital on an IV. Do you want that?” The ultimate threat, she used it unashamedly.

  “No.” He plucked at the bedcover. “I want to die in this house.” His face twisted up unexpectedly. “Your grandmother’s waiting for me.”

  Becca felt her heart twist like a reflection of his expression. Feigning toughness she didn’t really feel, she said, “I’m sure she’d be kind enough to fetch you from the hospital.”

  “No. I need to die here where we spent fifty years together. Let me tell you something, girl.” His eyes met hers again. “Your grandma was a saint.”

  “I agree.”

  “I didn’t deserve her.”

  Becca didn’t want to comment on that. Her grandma had been a gentle woman who dealt with Gramps’ irascible moods and impatience with grace. From her slightly removed viewpoint, Becca had often wondered how.

  Gramps stretched a hand and touched Becca’s wrist, an occurrence so rare she had to steel herself from pulling away. Gramps, not a touchy-feely kind of guy, almost never reached out.

  Now his fingers felt rough and cold.

  “A word of warning, Rebecca. Life goes fast. Those fifty years? Poof! If there’s something you want, grab it and hold on. Don’t let anything get in the way.”

  An image of Jack Donner flashed across Becca’s mind—Jack as he’d been back when they were together, before she threw it all away. That loose-limbed body, all coiled strength. The golden hair that, back then, had brushed his shoulders and always seemed to tumble over his forehead. Those achingly clear blue eyes, honest as his nature, and the smile that could curl her toes at twenty yards.

  Did she still want him? No. No. Did she want to revisit what they’d shared? Maybe, but that was as impossible as reviving Gran’s chicken soup.