Hearts Evergreen: A Cloud Mountain Christmas\A Match Made for Christmas (16 page)

Which, judging from all the answering machines she was getting, wouldn't be anytime soon.

God, I know you made the universe. Jump-starting this old bucket of bolts should be a piece of cake…

Mandi tapped on the window. “You could call my mom,” she suggested. “She said she'd be home this afternoon.”

Hope bloomed in Sarah, until she remembered Tina drove a compact. Half the size of the tree they needed to deliver.

“I'll try Pastor Phillips again. If we can't get in touch with him, we'll call your mom.”

“Look!” Jennifer began to jump up and down, sloshing hot chocolate all over her scarf.

A black SUV rumbled down the narrow road, the tires chewing up snow and gravel like a tasty afternoon snack.

Sarah groaned. “Girls, don't…”

A chorus of excited shrieks drowned her out and all four girls dashed into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

J
ust as the opening credits of Sarah's life began to pass in front of her eyes, the SUV ground to a stop. The window scrolled down.

“What's the trouble, ladies?” Connor's head poked out and the wind took advantage of the moment, playfully tousling his tawny hair.

I ask for a jump-start, Lord, and you send me Connor Lawe. Am I being punished for something?

“The van won't start.”

“And we have to deliver this tree.”

“Can you take it?”

“And us?”

Distracted by the girls' nonstop chatter, it took Sarah a few minutes to notice the Christmas tree tied to the roof of Connor's vehicle. A fragrant balsam smaller than the one they'd chosen but almost as round.

Connor jumped out and eyed the Fraser. Even though they'd run it through the baler, it still looked like the first cousin to a Sequoia. “I think there's room for both of them.”

His obvious reluctance was lost on his fan club, which performed an impromptu cheer and enveloped him in a group hug.

In less than ten minutes, Connor had the trees secured side by side on the roof. His shuttered expression as he and Sarah got into the car didn't invite questions about the destination of the stout little balsam. In fact, he seemed almost
embarrassed
at having been caught with it.

“It's a good thing you came along to rescue us, Mr. Lawe.” Jennifer chirped from the backseat.

“We would have been fine, Jen—” Sarah was cut off by the click of Mandi's chattering teeth.

“My feet were
freezing
. I probably would have gotten frostbite.”

“I don't think it's
that
cold.” Sarah frowned, wondering why the girls were gushing over a simple ride to town. Granted, they might have been stranded at the tree farm a little bit longer, but still…

“I heard you ask God to help us, Sarah.” Emma chimed in. “Isn't it nice that He sent Mr. Lawe?”

Sarah gulped.

Connor's knee jerked and the vehicle bucked as his boot landed an unexpected punch to the gas pedal. “I'll drop you off at the church.”

Sarah didn't have a chance to correct him. Not with eight darling little pierced ears tuned into their conversation.

“We're not going to the church,” Jennifer said.

“You're not?” Connor slanted a look at Sarah. “From the size of that tree, I figured it was going in the sanctuary at Lakeshore Community.”

“It's for the Carmichaels. We're going to surprise them with it and help them decorate it. When are you going to decorate your tree? Maybe we could help you, too.”

Sarah opened her mouth to squash Jennifer's suggestion but got distracted by the color that crept out from the collar of Connor's coat and lit up the five o'clock shadow on his chin.

“That's a great idea,” Alyssa said. “Mr. Lawe helped us, so we can help him.”

“It's not my tree.” Connor's shuttered expression warned Sarah not to press. The girls, however, would give any seasoned reporter a run for his money.

Emma leaned forward between the seats, her blond hair swishing back and forth like a curtain. A wide smile split her round face. “You bought it for them, didn't you?”

Sweet Emma, Sarah thought. Always believing the best of everyone…

Connor's shoulders rolled in time with the sigh that escaped his lips. But he didn't answer.

Sarah blinked. “It isn't for the Carmichaels?”

He shot her an impatient glare but the color in his face deepened.

“Is it?”

“It's just a tree,” he muttered.

A bubble of laughter burst inside Sarah. He might view it as just a tree, but Sarah saw something else.

A man who wasn't as tough as he pretended to be.

The Carmichael family ended up with Connor's balsam. It was either that or lop three feet off the bottom of the Fraser fir to get it to fit in the tiny living room.

The girls spent an hour making paper chains and snowflakes with Beth and Bryan, Francine's older children, while Francine chose the perfect spot on the tree for the glass ornaments she'd carefully unpacked from a cardboard box.

Connor had been planning to slink away the first chance he got, but Sarah's “angels” wouldn't let him. He was the only one tall enough to put the star on the top of the tree. And string lights around the upper casing of the windows.

Two hours later, he was still there, trying to force the children's delighted laughter to bounce off his heart instead of soaking into it.

He glanced at Sarah and then wished he hadn't. She sat in the rocking chair, cradling Francine's baby, Willa, as if she were posing for an artist's rendition of a Madonna and child.

She looked perfectly content. No fidgeting. No impatient glances at the clock like the ones he'd been guilty of as the minutes ticked away, engulfing his entire Saturday afternoon. She'd settled into the slow, rhythmic nod of the rocking chair as if nothing else existed but comforting Willa and giving her mother a chance to concentrate on her other children.

Sarah's hair had pulled free from the elastic band holding it in place and spilled over her slim shoulders. Hints of amber glinted in the russet curls, reminding him of the sunsets over Jackson Lake.

Don't be an idiot, Lawe. You're a journalist, not a poet.

“Mr. Lawe?” Francine sidled up to him, a spoon in her hand.

He smiled at her, grateful for the opportunity to focus his attention on something other than the woman in the corner. “Call me Connor.”

Since the girls' noisy arrival, the weary lines around Francine's eyes had softened a little. Funny. His had gotten deeper! “I'm making fudge. You were voted to be the official taste-tester.”

Connor didn't have to ask by whom.

He took the spoon and nibbled at the chocolate on the end of it. “It's great.”

“Really?” Francine looked pleased. “It's my mother's recipe. I'll send some home with you and Sarah.”

Connor sucked a hunk of chocolate into the wrong pipe and started to choke.

We're not…
together
, he wanted to say. And he would have. If his throat hadn't been burning. And if Jennifer hadn't appeared, with Bryan clinging to her back like a monkey.

“Sarah loooves chocolate,” Jennifer said as she breezed past.

Francine smiled. “She's a special person. You're lucky to have someone like her.”

“She's not—”

“Sarah is the
best
. Isn't she, Connor?” Now it was Mandi who stood beside him, nudging him with her elbow.

Connor risked another look at Sarah. Not realizing she was the topic of their conversation, her lips moved as she sang a song to Willa, whose blue eyes remained fixed on the woman who held her.

Silently, he mapped out Sarah Kendle's life. She'd spend the rest of her life in Jackson Lake. She'd make a living putting other people's photos in albums and never care if her own talent was recognized. She'd marry someone local and have a house with a picket fence and half a dozen red-haired babies.

Marry someone who had the same dreams she did.

Willa waved a chubby fist in the air and then her tiny fingers uncurled to pat Sarah's cheek. Sarah pursed her lips and gave them a noisy smack, rewarded by a happy gurgle of laughter.

Connor's breath snagged. He launched to his feet, almost tipping over the chair. Which caught Sarah's attention.

“Is it that time?” she asked.

What time? Time to leave before he put himself in that picture? Leather recliner. Fire crackling in the fireplace. A Labrador retriever bringing him his slippers. And Sarah…

“I have things to do.”
Like run for cover.

“We should leave, too. I promised the girls' parents I'd have them back by five and I know you have to get ready for work.” Sarah carefully eased Willa back into her mother's arms.

“Thanks,” Francine whispered. “I can't remember when my kids laughed this much.”

“I'll call you soon,” Sarah promised.

“Here, Francine.” Jennifer, always the spokesman, handed her a piece of paper. “All our phone numbers are on it. We happen to all be
great
babysitters. And we give discount rates to our friends.”

Tears brightened Francine's eyes. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Connor found himself caught in the stampede out the door. Parked behind the SUV was the church van, with Pastor Phillips at the wheel.

“Looks like you don't have to play chauffeur.”

Sarah looked relieved. “I'm glad he got it running again. I wasn't sure how to transport the girls without it.”

Pastor Phillips got out to greet them and ushered the girls inside the vehicle. “I think it's my turn to drive,” he told Sarah. “I just picked this bucket of bolts up from the mechanic and thought I'd see if you were still here.” He gave Connor an easy smile. “Connor. How's your dad?”

“Kind of like that van,” Connor said dryly. “Ornery. Temperamental. Refuses to retire.”

“Sometimes that's a good sign.” Pastor Phillips grinned and then turned his attention to Sarah. “Lydia mentioned you were willing to volunteer for the live nativity this weekend.”

“Only if I can bring my angels.” Sarah laughed.

“I think we can arrange that. I'll give you a call tomorrow.” He reached out his hand and grasped Connor's. “It was nice to see you again.”

“I almost believe he meant that,” Connor mused as the van rumbled down the street.

“He did.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “You are so suspicious of people. Did someone put a lump of coal in your Christmas stocking or something?”

Or something. Maybe it had come from seeing poverty so deep that the Carmichaels' house looked like a mansion. Or from watching mothers younger than Francine walk miles to get food and medical care only to be turned away because everything was gone. Maybe it was being haunted at night by the heart-wrenching images of children huddled together under a bridge, with no flicker of life in their eyes.

“Thank you.” Sarah touched his arm and even through the thick fabric of his coat, he felt a jolt of electricity.

“For fogging up your rose-colored glasses?”

“For driving us over here. For staying a while. For the tree.”

His nerve endings continued to dance after she withdrew her hand. “Speaking of trees, what am I supposed to do with that monster tied to the top of my car? Which, by the way, I can't believe you thought would actually fit inside that little house unless you cut a hole in the roof.”

“We did underestimate the size a little bit.”

“A little bit.”

Sarah grinned. “Wait a second. I think I know someone who needs a tree.”

“Who?”

“You'll find out. Just get in the car.”

“Y
ou've got to be kidding me.”

Connor killed the engine. He'd patiently followed Sarah's directions until they'd pulled up in front of the two-story brick house on one of the streets overlooking the lake. A very familiar house.

“I'll bet the ceilings are really high.” Sarah struggled to keep the laughter out of her voice.

“Not that high,” Connor muttered, twisting in his seat to look at her. “He's going to throw us back out into the cold if we try to haul that tree inside.”

“He's your father. And you're living there, too, aren't you? I doubt he'll throw you out.”

“It wouldn't be the first time.”

“You don't have a tree, do you?” Sarah unclipped her seat belt and opened the door a crack.

“That would be because we don't
want
one.”

At his frosty tone, Sarah almost lost her nerve. She'd followed God's nudge again. The same one that had led her to give Connor the Isle Royale photo.

“Maybe it will cheer your dad up.” Maybe saying the words out loud would convince her, too.

There was a moment of absolute silence. “Have you actually
met
my father?”

“Of course I have.” As Sarah jumped out of the car, Robert Lawe's face loomed in her mind. He would have been considered a handsome man if the combination of his formidable jaw and icy gaze hadn't worked in tandem to create a perpetual scowl, as if life was something to be tolerated, not enjoyed.

“Let's go, then.”

For some reason, the sudden amusement in Connor's voice unnerved Sarah more than his sarcasm.

“Is this the house you grew up in?” Sarah gasped as they dragged the tree up the shoveled cobblestone walkway to the front door.

“Yes.”

“It's listed on the historic register, isn't it?”

“I guess so. My great-grandfather built it in 1908. The year Jackson Lake officially became a town. And I use the term loosely.”

Sarah felt a twinge of envy. Generations of a family living in the same house for almost a hundred years.

“Five bedrooms. A formal dining room. Two living rooms. A music room.” Connor ticked off the house's attributes like a seasoned realtor. “Great-grandpa built it to impress his future bride and they proceeded to fill it with children. Seven of them. I'm surprised Dad hasn't sold it and bought into one of the new condos on the lake. This is way too much house for one person and he hasn't exactly kept the place up. Mom loved every crumbling brick—”

“That's probably why your dad hasn't sold it.”

They'd reached the front steps and Connor dropped the tree, peering at her over the branches. “What?”

“If your mom loved the house, that's probably why your dad can't sell it,” Sarah repeated.

“There's just one flaw in your theory. My father doesn't have a sentimental bone in his body.”

“So you admit it's a flaw.” Sarah grinned.

A reluctant smile tugged at Connor's lips. “I hate to burst your bubble, Pollyanna, but my dad hasn't sold the house because he knows no one in their right mind would buy it. It's hot in the summer. It's cold in the winter. It's—” Connor paused to shoulder open the door.

“Beautiful.” Sarah breathed.

Keeping in mind who owned the house, she'd expected something cold. Austere. A hundred-year-old piece of history stripped of its charm by vinyl tile, drywall and dropped ceilings.

Instead, a flagstone floor in muted shades of brown graced the wide foyer. The sunlight had faded the wallpaper—embossed with tiny ferns—to a comforting shade of green. Time had dimmed the luster of the original crown moldings but they hadn't lost their warm glow. Even in its quiet elegance, there was a friendly solidity to it. It was the type of house that could stand up to children and dogs. To spills and slammed doors. To music and laughter. The type of house that invited
living.

Not the kind of house she'd expected Robert Lawe to own. If she'd grown up here—had looked at the world from these windows—she never would have left Jackson Lake.

Sarah caught a glimpse of her reflection in the antique oval mirror above the umbrella stand and winced. The pine needles and twigs stuck in her hair made her look like a redheaded porcupine. “Maybe I should use the servant's entrance in the back?”

“Don't worry. By the time Dad gets through with us, we'll look a lot worse.” Even as he spoke, Connor reached out to pluck a pine needle from her hair.

Sarah sucked in a breath as he tugged on one of her curls and let it glide between his fingers. He stilled, his quicksilver eyes staring down at her. Searching for something.

“This is crazy,” he murmured.

He wasn't referring to the Christmas tree. Sarah agreed but it didn't stop her heart from performing a brief gymnastics routine inside her chest. She couldn't be attracted to Connor. That old cliché “opposites attract” was based on temperament. Not on dreams for the future. Or values.

“What's going on?” A voice bellowed, severing the fragile connection between them. “Close that door! I keep the doctors busy enough with my bad heart—I don't need pneumonia, too.”

Sarah and Connor stepped apart like two guilty teenagers caught in the porch light. Connor yanked the rest of the tree inside and pushed the door shut with the toe of his boot.

“What's that?” Robert glared at the Fraser, wedged between the walls of the foyer like a cork in a bottle.

“It's a tree, Dad.”

“I know it's a tree.” Robert gave Connor a withering look. “What is it doing here? In my house?”

Connor shoved his hands into his coat pockets and shrugged. “Ask her.”

Oh, thanks a lot,
Sarah thought. One more reason to blame that unexpected, lightheaded fizzy feeling on the sudden change in temperature from outside cold to inside warm.

Robert's gaze swung to her and his eyes narrowed. “Sarah Pendleton…Pendle.”

“Kendle.” Shocked by the change in Robert's appearance, Sarah forgot to be intimidated by the man. He'd lost a fair amount of weight since the last time she'd seen him. The hollows beneath his eyes were deeper than she remembered. His skin had a yellowish cast and hung in rumpled folds from his prominent cheekbones. Only his eyes hadn't changed—they still burned with life. And they happened to be the same shade of January gray as Connor's. “We had a leftover tree, so we thought we'd bring it here. Connor mentioned you didn't have one yet.”

Connor lifted his eyebrow at the emphasis she put on the word
yet.

“I don't want a Christmas tree. They're nothing but a hassle. Silly tradition if you ask me,” Robert ranted. “I hope you didn't have to pay by the
foot
for that monster. If you did, it's coming out of your inheritance, Connor. I suppose the only room it'll fit in is the music room. Don't just stand there gawking…” Robert pivoted and headed back down the hallway.

Connor's mouth opened but no sound came out.

Sarah grabbed a sturdy branch near the trunk and gave him a bright smile. “You heard your dad. Quit gawking and bring the tree to the music room.”

Connor hadn't set foot in the music room since he'd been home. Partitioned off from the more formal living room by French doors, it welcomed people like a friendly hug. The narrow-paned windows in the house were stingy about how much sunlight they let in, but not in this room. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up three of the walls, each framed by a patchwork border of stained glass. The furniture, as spotted from age and sun damage as an old woman's hands, was still covered in girlish pink damask. The ancient upright piano he'd pounded on as a child lived out its dignified retirement in the corner.

It had been his mother's favorite room.

Connor remembered Robert teasingly referring to it as her “sanctuary.” Without closing his eyes, he could see her teacup with its matching saucer on the coffee table. Her book of daily devotions stacked neatly on top of her Bible, always within reach. Funny how he'd never thought of his mother in terms of her faith before. He'd been without a permanent residence for so long he'd forgotten that in the ten years he'd lived under Natalie's guidance, she'd created a home for the three of them, overflowing with laughter and love.

A conversation he'd overheard between his parents returned as clearly as if had taken place the day before. On a rainy Saturday afternoon he'd entertained himself by playing James Bond and ended up hiding behind the old steamer trunk his mother stored blankets in.

“I don't know how you can call it a music room when you won't even let me put a radio in here,” Robert had complained.

“I like the quiet.” Natalie laughed softly. “Besides that, we don't need a radio, Robbie. We can make our own music.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Connor peeked around the trunk just in time to see Robert—known for his brooding reserve—playfully sweep Natalie into his arms and bend her over his arm in a low dip.

And even though he hadn't been included in their embrace, Connor felt as if he had. For some reason, witnessing that private moment between his parents made him feel secure. Loved. It had made it easier for him to reach out to his dad, a man who found it easier to give instruction than encouragement.

Natalie could coax things out of Robert that most people never saw. Laughter. Whimsy. An impromptu game of baseball in the backyard. A family outing to scout for the perfect tree. A tree they'd put in this very room…

“Connor! Wake up and give the young lady a hand. If she falls off that chair, she'll break a leg and probably sue us for every penny we've got.”

Sarah's gurgle of laughter shocked Connor to the core. He'd seen grown men run sobbing from the room after ten minutes in Robert's company when he was in one of his moods.

“I don't break very easily, Mr. Lawe. In fact, I'd probably
bounce
if I fell off the chair. Flannel-lined jeans and too many Christmas cookies.” She pushed her hands over the contours of her slim hips and Connor decided to check the thermostat to make sure it was working. The house felt a bit warm.

“It's going to scrape against the ceiling,” Connor predicted as he and Sarah fought to get the tree vertical.

“It's not that tall.” Sarah gasped as the top of the tree scraped a trail through the paint on the ceiling.

“You should have cut some of the trunk off first. And you need a tree stand. Unless you plan to leave it propped up in the corner.”

Connor glanced at his dad, who'd settled into one of the wingback chairs to play foreman. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Do you have ornaments, Mr. Lawe?” Sarah kept one hand braced against the trunk. Not that her weight would prevent it from falling over if it took a notion.

“If I never bother with a tree, why would I have ornaments?” Robert grumbled. “There might be some in the storage closet under the stairs. Call me Robert.”

Connor grabbed Sarah's hand and yanked her out the door. “Do you realize what you've gotten us into? Now we're going to have to decorate it.”

“You make it sound like I got us embroiled in a plot to overthrow a foreign government.”

“A little closer to my reality.”

“That's just sad.”

“There is a world beyond the utopia of Jackson Lake, you know,” Connor felt the need to point out.

“I've seen it.”

He kept forgetting that. It was easier to imagine Jackson Lake and Sarah as a matched set from the beginning.

What if she'd gone to high school with him? What if they'd met at Roscoe's after a football game and fallen in love over hot fudge sundaes? Would he have stayed?

The thought blindsided him and Connor fought back with his best argument. It was a moot point. After his mother's death, his dad had checked out as a parent.
The Jackson Lake News,
trapped in a lost episode of
Mayberry R.F.D.
, was destined to be swallowed up by one of the larger dailies. He couldn't change the past. He
had
left. And he had no intention of coming back. There was nothing to come back to.

Sarah's piercing shriek drilled a hole through Connor's eardrums.

He jerked, bumping his head on the low ceiling of the closet. His first thought was “spider.” He'd seen a few scuttling for cover when they'd started their search for the elusive box of Christmas ornaments.

“There's something…furry…in here.”

“Something alive?”

“Think about what you just said. It's furry. Whether it's alive or dead really isn't the issue here.” Sarah edged away from the box.

Connor sighed and crawled across the space separating them. The closet under the stairs was a dark, four-foot tall obstacle course made up of old rugs, towers of cardboard boxes and discarded furniture.