Chapter 27
“Please tell them Merry Christmas for me.” My raspy voice carries through the small chapel on the Holcombe property.
The quilt pulled over my shoulders soaks up my tears.
Maybe another day, I will take time to admire the simplicity of this one-room, eight-pew building.
But this Christmas morning is burdened with grief, and I stare at the stained-glass window behind the small stage.
Loss comes in countless forms. The initial deaths were a shotgun blast to my heart. But the pellets from the shell blast out, causing holes in every area of life. Christmas is just one of a thousand casualties from a terminal collision with an eighteen-wheeler.
The door to the chapel opens, and heavy footsteps draw closer to me.
Harlan.
He sits, puts an arm around my shoulders, and gathers me against his side. I cannot control the sobbing, and he kisses the top of my head as he wraps his other arm around me. “I’m so sorry, Meredith.”
Nodding, I grip his shirt and burrow deeper into his strong chest.
While he strokes my back, I concentrate on slowing my shuddering breaths. After a few moments, I pull back and focus on Harlan’s sympathetic eyes.
He cups my cheek and wipes moisture away with his thumb. He grasps my hand, his face full of concern. “You’re freezing. Where are your gloves?”
“I forgot them.” I ball my fist and shove it in my coat pocket. “How’d you know I was out here?”
He stands. “Hank came and got me.”
As I rise, I gather the quilt over one arm, and he takes my hand in his. Walking down the aisle, I glance around. “This is a lovely chapel.”
“My grandparents got married here.” He swipes at settled dust on the arm of the last pew as we pass. “It didn’t see a lot of use for a while, but Mom comes out here more now that Dad is gone.”
As Harlan opens the door and we step out into the cold, I catch sight of Hank standing against the building.
Arms crossed, toothpick in the corner of his mouth, he’s bundled in total ranch getup. Wranglers, shearling coat, leather gloves, jeans, and boots. He tips his hat.
Guardian angels come in many forms.
I curl a stray strand of hair around my ear. “Did you shovel the sidewalk for me this morning?” I ask him.
Hank shifts the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
Half of me expects him to misunderstand and ask me an inappropriate question. But the other half cannot ignore his keen, staring eyes. I release Harlan and take two steps to stand in front of Hank. “You did. You got up early and shoveled the sidewalk for me.”
Hank grinds his teeth on the small piece of wood. “I may not hear very well, but I still listen.”
Tears take over, and words get caught in my throat.
His strong hand squeezes my arm, and then he disappears around the corner of the building.
As I return to Harlan, I gaze out over the rest of the Holcombe property. On the other side of the fence is an oddly familiar house. Goose bumps run down my arms.
I yank on Harlan, pulling us to a stop. My fuzzy brain is missing a piece of a puzzle. “Who lives next door?”
Harlan looks across the field. “The Carsons.”
“The Carsons?” Studying the property, I notice a building behind the main house. I shove the quilt into Harlan’s arms and veer off the path toward the wooden fence, my heart racing. “The Carsons.”
“Meredith.” Harlan catches up to me. “What’s going on?”
Once we reach the fence, I grab the top rail. “I can’t believe it.” I point down the gravel road. “Twelve Bluebells Ranch. The property Prissy showed me.”
The frigid temperature awakens my senses, filling my mind with cool winds of hope and possibility.
He turns his gaze to the house and rubs his chin. “Old Man Carson is known for yanking everyone’s chain about selling this place. I didn’t realize this was the ranch you were considering. Prissy said he officially listed it for sale?”
“Yes.” My breath materializes in the cold.
He shifts behind me, cages me in with his hands on either side of mine, while we both stare at the neighboring land. He says into my ear, “Your loss is unfathomable. It will always be part of your story. But it’s not your whole story. So dream big, sweetheart.” He kisses my cheek. “Dream big.”
Stuck in the safe cocoon of all that is Harlan Holcombe, I breathe in his words. This is my hope. This is why I wade through the horrendous pain of grief. Because I have to believe that it won’t always be my whole story. “I think that’s why I came to Colorado.”
Harlan’s day-old stubble scratches my cheek when he nods.
I angle my face to his. “What about you? Do you dream big?”
He grunts. “I’m thinking about a job change.” Shaking his head, he pulls back. “Making movies used to be fun, but it just doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.”
I turn and wrap my arms around his waist. “What will you do?”
His eyes flash with intensity. “My stab at consulting went better than I expected. I’ve got a few more opportunities lined up. It feels good to help people.”
I study the man in front of me. “You’re going to help people figure out how to work their dreams into reality.”
He slides his gaze to me with a sheepish glint. “I don’t know about that.”
“But what do you need out of life, Harlan?” I suck in my bottom lip, holding it between my teeth, and wait for his answer.
Harlan’s gaze darts from my eyes to my mouth. He leans in and gives me a kiss so soft and sweet I think I’m going to melt. After a few seconds of bliss, he pulls back. “You know what I really need?”
I shake my head, trying to reenter our conversation through the fog of his kiss. “What’s that?”
His lips quirk. “I just need someone who can sit by me and hold my hand when I’m throwing up.”
Giggling, I push him away. “Then you need to find yourself another woman.”
“Come on.” He pulls me back into his arms.
“This is nonnegotiable for me.” I fail to wipe the smile off my face. “And if this thing between us goes any further, this issue will be in the prenup.”
His body stiffens. “You would get a prenup?”
As I wrap my arms around his neck, I push up to my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. “Not for money. Just for the vomit clause.”
He growls. “Fine. No vomit hand-holding required.”
“Mmm. I love it when you whisper sweet nothings to me.”
Holding hands, we return to the guesthouse.
I enter the living room, and the heaviness of the day returns.
“Are you sure it’s okay if we stay here?” I ask. “I’m fine if you want to spend time with your family.”
As I slide my coat off, Harlan takes over and hangs it on a hook. “Our big celebration was yesterday, so no one’s expecting us today. But if you need time alone, I can make myself scarce.”
“I just want to veg out on the couch, maybe take a nap.” My eyes are heavy, and I yawn. “Not sure if I have it in me to talk anymore. But if you keep me watered and fed, you can stay.”
“I can do that,” he says. After a quick kiss on the forehead, he bends down and begins to untie and wrangle the hiking boots off my feet.
“I think there’s a John Grisham movie marathon on TBS.” Almost losing my balance at his strong foot tug, I grab his shoulders.
I stand in a mumbling stupor while Harlan sheds his jacket and work boots, then guides me to the couch. He grabs the remote and flips through the satellite channels. Without speaking, he situates me cuddled up against him. My eyes droop as Tom Cruise frantically runs from someone.
The next time I glimpse at the television, the picture glows because the house is dark. But this time, Samuel L. Jackson is in jail. Did I really sleep all day? Shifting to a seated position, I blink and rub my hands over my face. In the glow of the TV, I see a note from Harlan.
Sleeping Beauty, you were out like a light. I left to take care of a few things. Call me when you wake up. H.
Stretching my arms above my head, I stand.
The monster nap cleared through the fog of this morning’s grief, and I’m ready to function.
I glance around. The open floor plan makes the small kitchen seem more prominent than it is.
A refrigerator, dishwasher, stove, and oven line one wall.
An island offering extra counter space separates the kitchen from the rest of the house.
My phone charges on a plug next to the stove, and the screen lights up with a text message.
Molly
Thinking of you today. Hope you’re tucked away somewhere safe at Harlan’s ranch.
Holding the phone in my hands, I sigh and stare at the screen.
An olive branch.
A few days ago, I would have broken the twig over my knee and thrown it in the trash. But today is Christmas. And I love my flawed sister.
I’m okay. Love you.
The kitchen is stocked with enough leftovers to feed an army, but I don’t want dinner yet. Just a snack. As I rummage, my thoughts float back to the earlier conversation with Harlan. Dream big.
I open the refrigerator and stare. A quiet alarm beeps, and it doesn’t stop until I close the door. The fridge doesn’t appreciate how long my musings take.
“You know what I need to dream big?” I walk over to the small pantry and peruse the shelves.
Bingo.
Five boxes of white chocolate–covered Oreos. Harlan remembered.
As I tear open a package, my gaze falls on a pad of Post-it notes located on the counter by a small canister of various writing utensils. I sink my teeth into the first cookie and moan my delight.
But as I chew, I can’t take my eyes off the office supplies.
“Meredith?”
No, that’s not the right category. I move a Post-it note over a few feet on the wall and step back.
“Meredith?”
Wrong again. I unstick the paper and place it back in its original position. There must be fifty Post-its on the wall. It has to fit somewhere.
Three loud knocks sound on the door, but I can’t pull my attention away from the plans in front of me.
“Meredith? Are you in there?”
Harlan’s stressed voice breaks through my deliberations. “Oh. Yes. Come on in.” Chewing on the end of a pencil, I continue staring at my creation.