My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

5. Clay

FIVE

Clay

I looked up at the gray sky, then down at the porch pillar I had just set in place. It was a solid piece of work. Hank Garrison, owner of the General Store, needed some help and I wasn't one to turn my back on a neighbor.

I was knee-deep in sawdust, giving the old pillar a few solid taps to settle it into place. Bear was sprawled out on the general store steps. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth as he watched folks step around him, some scratching behind his ears as they passed. Good for morale, that dog, but a damn trip hazard.

“Need a hand with that, Clay?” Hank called from the doorway.

“Got it covered,” I grunted.

“Suit yourself,” Hank said. “Dog's making himself quite the roadblock.”

“I think he’s bringing in business, actually,” I chuckled.

Hank laughed with me, but I could tell there was something else on his mind. A moment later, he cleared his throat. “How's your old man doing, Clay?”

Ah…that.

“What did he do now?” I asked.

Hank shrugged. “Nothing—well, nothing out of the ordinary. Jake O’Hara was asking after him because he’s been parked at the Spur for a few nights in a row.”

“Can't say I've checked in recently,” I responded. My dad was the town drunk—everyone knew that. The subject was a splinter under my skin, always there, always irritating. “We don’t talk much.”

“Your dad should be proud of the man you’ve made yourself into,” he said.

“Maybe.” My voice was strangled, my throat tense. I didn’t want to talk about this. Never did. “We talking about religion or politics next? You know, since we’re on such a pleasant subject already.”

Hank chuckled. “Point taken,” he conceded, turning to gaze out over the quiet main street of Silver Ridge. A gust of wind picked up, sending a shiver through the few remaining leaves on the maple trees lining the sidewalk.

“Let's stick to pillars and planks,” I suggested, staring at a hole in the woodgrain.

“Right,” Hank muttered. “Pillars and planks.”

The rumble of an engine cut through the morning stillness just as I was lining up the new pillar with its base. Bear perked up from his spot on the steps, ears twitching toward the noise. The old truck pulled into view, coughing out a cloud of exhaust before it shuddered to a halt at the curb.

And none other than Grace Gibson hopped out, brown hair loose and framing her voice.

Fuck…even glaring at me like that, she was still a knockout.

“Morning, Hank,” she called out, her voice all sugar despite the scowl. Hank tipped his hat, but before he could get a word in, her gaze snapped my way, dark and sharp. “Got something to say, Clay?”

I rolled my eyes, letting the hammer dangle at my side. “Nope.”

She cocked a hip, arms folded. “Really? 'Cause you look like you're choking on words over there.”

“Me? I’m just at work.” I tapped the pillar lightly with the hammer, keeping my expression even. “You're the one looking like you have a lemon stuck in your mouth. Spit it out, or your face'll freeze that way.”

Her nostrils flared, the only sign she was biting back whatever smart comeback had sprung to mind. Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and marched into the store, the door jangling shut behind her.

“Clay, I better head in and see what she's after,” Hank said, jerking his thumb toward the store. “Thanks again for your help.”

I nodded, unable to shake the feeling that pulsed through me—a sign that I wasn't as dead inside as I'd thought. “No problem, Hank.”

The bell over the door jingled shut behind him, and I was left with the quiet hum of Silver Ridge waking up. People around here knew me—the guy who fixed things, no questions asked. What they didn't know was how little I let them see of the real Clay Hawthorne.

I glanced down at Bear, who seemed to sense my mood, his brown eyes meeting mine before he let out a soft whine. “Yeah, buddy,” I murmured, “it's just you and me.”

It wasn't that I hadn't tried to reconnect since coming home. But every conversation felt like walking through knee-deep mud, slow and exhausting. The locals were kind, yet their words never reached past the thick shell I'd built around myself. My primary source of socialization was my veterans’ group, and I only went rarely.

Everyone in town knew my dad. They all knew what had happened to my brother.

They all knew that I was the disappointment…the kid my dad wished had died instead.

Jesus. I hadn’t thought about any of this in a long, long time. Grace turning up sent all those bad memories racing back.

Drilling the last screw into the sturdy new pillar, I wiped the sweat from my brow and stood back to admire the work. The General Store porch now had a bit of the Hawthorne touch, something solid and reliable.

“Looking good, Clay,” I muttered to myself, not one for bragging but silently acknowledging a job well done.

My hands itched for more than just woodwork, though. Grace's image flickered in my mind—tough, no-nonsense Grace with those deep brown eyes that could probably see right through me. She’d always been tough as nails, but there was a softness in her too, one she hid like buried treasure.

I wanted to dig it up.

The thought of wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her close enough to feel every curve…I shook my head, trying to dislodge the fantasy. But damn, sometimes I wanted more than just talk.

Wanted to remind her who she used to turn to when the world got too heavy.

Wanted to feel her squirm under my grip as I?—

“Hey, watch it!” The sharp voice snapped me out of my daydream, and I realized I’d almost bumped right into Grace as she came back out. She didn't look at me as she passed, but I felt the heat of her presence all the same.

“Drive safe,” I called after her, not sure why.

Maybe I was a glutton for punishment.

She paused, half-turning, her dark eyes narrowing as if measuring me. “I can take care of myself, thanks,” she tossed back.

“Never doubted it for a second,” I replied, leaning against the pillar.

She growled and slammed the door shut, then she was pulling out, glaring at me the whole time. As she drove off, I found myself wondering what kind of help Grace might need. What kind of danger could have followed her home to Silver Ridge? And despite everything, why was I so ready to step into the fray?

Hank came back out after her, watching us both with a bemused smile before he turned to me. “Looks great, Clay. Can't tell you how much it means to me, you helping out like this,” he said, pulling a wallet from his back pocket. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” I cut him off before he could start counting bills. Didn't feel right taking money from folks who barely had any to spare.

“Least I can do is—” he tried again, but I shook my head.

“Keep it, Hank.”

He sighed, tucking away his wallet, and then his face shifted to something more serious. “So, Grace Gibson's back in town, huh?” he ventured.

“Seems like it.”

“Didn't think we'd see her around these parts again. Tough as nails, that one.” His eyes searched mine—looking for what, I didn't know.

“Guess so.” I turned away, picking up my tools. I wasn't about to dive into that topic.

“Hey, thanks again, Clay.”

“Anytime,” I nodded.

I loaded up my truck, Bear already waiting inside, his tail thumping against the seat. The screen on my phone lit up with a new message, and I read Gabe's text asking for help with the storm prep. Silver Ridge weather turned on a dime, and we looked out for each other when it did.

“Hey Bear, wanna go see Bandit?”

His ears perked up at the mention of Gabe's dog, and he let out a soft bark.

“Guess that's a yes.”

I climbed in and got the truck started, the engine roaring to life under my hands. As I pulled away from the store, I couldn't shake the image of Grace's retreating form, the way she moved like she was marching into battle.

And damn it if that didn't stir something deep inside me—something dark, possessive, and wild.

The wheels of my truck crunched on the gravel as I pulled up to Gabe and Kat's ranch. Bear was hanging his head out the window, nostrils flaring at the familiar scents of the countryside. I killed the engine and pushed open the door, stepping out into the cool air that heralded the coming storm.

“Clay!” Gabe's voice carried over from the open barn doors, no need for pleasantries between us. “About time you showed up!”

“Got here as fast as I could without breaking any laws,” I called back. He grunted something that sounded like approval, and I smirked despite myself.

Bear bounded ahead, charging towards Bandit. They greeted each other with excited barks and nips, Bear rolling over on his back to let the smaller dog take charge.

“Let's get this done,” I said, rolling up my sleeves.

Gabe nodded, and we got to work in silence, the only sounds our boots shuffling and the occasional grunt of effort.

“Thanks for coming out to help,” Gabe said after a while, his tone casual. It wasn't like him to offer thanks; it was understood that we looked out for each other, an unspoken code forged from our days in the Marines. We hadn’t served together, but we were bound by brotherhood all the same—and nights spent reminiscing at the VFW helped make that bond stronger.

“Don't mention it,” I replied, hefting a sack onto the higher stack. My muscles protested, reminding me of the day's earlier labor, but I ignored them. This was what I did—I helped people, fixed things. It kept me sane, gave me a purpose.

Kat's boots thudded against the wooden planks as she entered, tipping her hat back with a thumb. “Boys,” she greeted. “Thanks for coming by, Clay. Didn’t know if Gabe could handle this by himself.”

I snorted. “Wow.”

“Been wondering when you'd grace us with your presence,” Gabe teased, earning a playful swat from Kat.

“Someone's gotta keep those horses from revolting,” she replied. “What have you been up to today, Clay?”

I shrugged. “Was fixing some stuff over at Hank’s place in town,” I said. “Ran into Grace again.”

Gabe laughed. “And how did that go…?”

“About as well as could be expected,” I said. “She hates me, and I’m not one to forgive. We’ll probably keep sparring through Christmas, then I’ll steer clear of her.”

“I’m surprised she’s even back this long,” Kat said. “Mariah and I know each other from school and she’s always said Grace ran away and never looked back.”

“She promised she would,” I said. “You know what she’s been up to?”

“Just what Mariah has told me,” Kat said. “She loves bragging about her sister. Said Grace did some time reporting from the Middle East, then she came back to Boston to start working a crime beat. Won a big award photographing soldiers and their dogs…she’s impressive. But cold. I’ve never really had a conversation with her.”

“Crime beat, huh?” I murmured, picturing Grace with her camera and notepad, diving headfirst into whatever story came her way. It was so like her to chase after the truth, no matter how dangerous.

“Yep. But she's been tight-lipped about the details,” Kat added, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Hasn’t been home in ages. Mariah says she keeps to herself mostly.”

“Kinda odd seeing Grace like this,” Gabe mused, scratching at his stubble. “She used to light up a room, now she looks like she's ready to bolt at any noise. I was a bit behind you two, but she was a real crowd pleaser, right?”

“Missing her family, maybe?” Kat suggested, dropping into a crouch to retie her boot. “Just Mariah and her now since…”

“Since her mom and dad passed, yeah.” Gabe nodded solemnly. “That'd shake anyone.”

“Maybe,” I grunted, not buying it. The Grace I knew wasn't one to get rattled easily, even by grief.

No, something else was eating at her.

“I might know what that’s about,” I started, hesitating before continuing. “She ran into me while I was out for a run in Whispering Pines the other day, losing her shit, saying someone was following her. She brushed it off and said she was just being paranoid, but I found some tracks on the path later. Not your usual hiker's treads, heavier. Thought nothing of it at first, but…”

Gabe straightened up. “You think that's got something to do with Grace being jumpy?”

“Could be nothing,” I admitted, though my gut said different. “But my spidey senses are buzzing.”

“Then you might want to talk to her,” Gabe said, crossing his arms. “If there's trouble, better to face it head-on.”

“He’s right,” Kat said. “We know better than most that Silver Ridge has its demons.”

“But am I really the one to help her?” I said. “Grace doesn’t want to talk to me. Hell, she wouldn’t even spit on me if I was on fire.”

“Clay,” Kat started, and I knew that tone. It was the 'big sister' voice she used when she thought I was being pig-headed—ironic, given I was the oldest one here. “You two have history, sure. But doesn't mean you can't help her out if she's in a bind.”

“Help her?” My laugh was a bark, sharp and cynical. “After what she did?”

“Maybe it's not about that,” she pressed, her gaze steady. “Maybe it's about doing the right thing, despite all that.”

I scoffed, shaking my head while the image of Grace, fierce and fiery as always, flashed across my mind. The right thing had a funny way of looking like a one-way ticket to more heartache.

“Fine,” I snapped, more at myself than at Kat. “I'll talk to her.”

“Good.” She clapped my shoulder, and I felt the weight of whatever this 'good deed' would cost me. “Just…don't go starting World War Three, alright?”

“Promises, promises,” I muttered, already plotting my approach. Talking to Grace wouldn't be easy—not by a long shot. But if she needed help, I couldn’t just stand by.

I needed to save her.

Even after all these years.