My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

25. Grace

TWENTY-FIVE

Grace

The car's tires crunched over the snow-packed road as Clay steered us farther into the mountains, back to his cabin. I glanced at him, his profile stoic against the backdrop of frosted pines and snow. The heater in the old pickup truck worked overtime, fighting off the chill that had settled inside the cab.

“Deputy Langley will keep an eye on Mariah, right? We can trust him?” I said.

“Yeah,” Clay replied, his eyes never leaving the road. “She'll be safe.”

I nodded, though a knot of worry remained lodged in my stomach. Safety felt far away, even after looping in the authorities.

“Still doesn't feel right, leaving her,” I added, tugging the sleeves of my coat over my hands.

“Sometimes the best move is the hardest one to make,” he said, his voice low but clear.

I watched the way his jaw tensed as he spoke, the muscles working beneath the skin.

“Clay, do you think they'll come after me?” I asked, needing to hear his thoughts. “Now that it’s with the cops…I don’t know. I think I felt some semblance of control before, and now it’s all chaos.”

“Don’t worry, Grace,” he answered, his hand gripping the steering wheel tighter. “If they come after you, I’ll be waiting.”

The sight of large snowbanks lining the roadside reminded me just how isolated we were up here. In any other circumstance, I might have found it beautiful—the untouched expanse of white, the way the trees held their heavy burdens of snow. But now, it felt like nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter the silence.

“Thanks for doing this. For helping me,” I said, turning away from the window to look at him again.

“Always,” he responded, and I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes before he quickly looked away, focusing back on the treacherous path ahead.

As the car pulled into the clearing where Clay's cabin stood, I cleared my throat. “Clay, am I doing the right thing here?”

He parked the car and turned off the ignition before he looked at me. “Yeah, you are,” he said. “But we'll keep our eyes open. Can't afford to get too comfortable.”

“Right.” I nodded.

We stepped out of the car, and the snow crunched under our boots as we made our way to the front door. Inside, the cabin's rustic interior was starting to feel homey. Bear greeted us, wagging his tail, his tongue lolling.

But…it was missing something.

I looked over at Clay. “You know what this place needs? A Christmas tree.”

He leaned back against the wall and raised an eyebrow at me. A faint smirk formed on his lips. “A Christmas tree, huh? And where do you propose we find one of those out here in the wilderness?”

I crossed my arms and snorted at Clay's question. “Um, outside, duh? Aren't you some big lumbersnack?”

Clay let out a bark of laughter. “Lumbersnack?” he echoed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yep. It's a thing.” I nudged him with my elbow. “Come on, I'm having a hell of a day. Do it for me.”

“Alright, alright,” Clay conceded with another chuckle. He turned to me, brushing his hands on his jeans. “You know, I think I've got some old Christmas decorations in the storage closet if you want to snoop around.”

“Sure,” I said, eager for any distraction.

Bear followed me as I made my way to the closet—my little helper. The dog's nose worked overtime, sniffing every inch as he helped—or more accurately, hindered—my search. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, dust motes hung in the air. It was mostly winter gear, some canned food, survival stuff that was essential out here.

Finally, my hand brushed against a box tucked away in the corner. I pulled it toward me and blew off a thick layer of dust, sending Bear into a sneezing fit. I laughed and apologized as he shook it off, then I lifted the lid and found a dusty old photo album set on top of a ton of sparkling Christmas decorations.

The ornaments were exactly what I wanted.

The album sparked my curiosity.

I mean…you can’t just turn off those journalist instincts.

I stepped back into the room just in time to see Clay wrestle through the front door with a small Christmas tree. Snow clung to his beard and hair, making him look like he'd walked straight out of a blizzard. He gave the tree a good shake, sending a flurry of white tumbling to the floor.

“Looks like you fought Mother Nature and won,” I said.

He shot me a half-exasperated, half-amused glance. “Nature's got nothing on me.”

“Sure,” I teased, then I set down the open box on the floor. “But what about this?”

Clay's eyes landed on the photo album and his posture stiffened.

“Clay?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“My dad gave that to me,” he said. “I never opened it.”

“Okay,” I replied. I set the album aside on the table. “Let's focus on the tree for now.”

“Right.” Clay nodded.

He brushed off the last remnants of snow from his shoulders as he positioned the tree in the corner. Bear bounded over, sniffing at the branches and wagging his tail, swept up in our activity. We rummaged through the box of decorations, unearthing tangled strings of lights and an assortment of baubles.

“Remember how to do this?” I asked, handing Clay a strand of lights.

“Like riding a bike,” he answered, taking the lights and starting to wrap them around the tree.

We worked together in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence shared by people who’d known each other a long, long time—and even after everything, he still felt like home.

It felt like a matter of minutes before the tree really started to look like something, covered in old ornaments and lights I was amazed still worked. We stepped back together, the final ornament in place. Clay's grin spread slow and genuine across his face as he looked at the tree, now adorned with a hodgepodge of memories.

“Looks good,” he said.

“It does,” I replied. I liked seeing him like this. This version of Clay, open and unguarded, was a rare sight.

And standing there beside him, I let myself bask in the simplicity of the moment.

I sank into the couch, letting the quiet wash over me. The Christmas lights cast a soft glow around the room, and I caught Clay's eye before reaching for the dusty photo album on the coffee table. It felt heavy in my hands as I opened it to the first page.

“Wow, look at this,” I said, pointing to a picture of a younger Clay grinning beside his parents.

Clay leaned closer, his fingers brushing the edge of the page. “Damn…the county fair. I had to be like…six years old?”

“Your mom always had that big smile,” I remarked, tracing the outline of her beaming face. I didn’t mention how happy his dad looked; Clay’s mother’s death had really broken him.

Clay nodded, silent for a moment. I turned the page to find a photo of Clay with his twin brother, both of them with fishing rods in hand. They were so alike it was jarring; I’d almost forgotten.

“Michael could out-fish me any day,” Clay said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.

“Those were good times,” I added, squeezing his arm gently.

The next few pages brought back more memories. Clay and I before a middle school dance, awkward and hopeful. Another of us, a bit older, leaning against his dad's truck, his arm slung around my shoulder.

“Remember when you tried to teach me to drive stick in that old thing?” I asked, chuckling.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack,” he replied with a short laugh.

“Sorry about that,” I said, meeting his eyes.

“Water under the bridge,” he answered, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

I turned another page. “Where did this even come from?” I asked, my voice low. “I didn’t take you for the photo album type.”

“Got it when I came back from the Middle East,” Clay replied. “Dad put it in with some other stuff. Never looked at it.”

“Must be hard,” I said, watching him closely. His eyes stayed on the album, not meeting mine.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

I scooted closer to him on the couch, the space between us shrinking. He didn't look at me, just kept turning the pages, each one a new chapter of a life he'd left behind.

“Wow,” he breathed out suddenly, stopping at what must have been the last photo. I peered down at it. It was Clay, standing tall in his Marine uniform, looking handsome as all hell.

It was a great photo, but something about it had rattled him.

“Clay?” I closed the album and glanced at him. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, his voice steady. “Yeah, but Dad and I were already on bad terms then. He never said a word when I joined up. Didn't think he cared.”

“Relationships are tricky,” I said. I squeezed his shoulder. “Your dad's reaction might not have been so simple. And hey, with everything that's happened between us, maybe there's a chance for you two as well.”

Clay didn't respond. He stared at the portrait, the dim light from the Christmas tree playing over his face. I watched the shadows flicker, making the lines on his forehead stand out more.

I took a breath and waited, watching Clay as he sat with the weight of years on his shoulders. He let out a deep exhale and finally turned to me, his blue eyes meeting mine. The hurt I saw there pulled at something in my chest.

“Maybe you're right,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it's time to try.”

My lips curved into a gentle smile, and I reached for his hand. His fingers were cold, but they wrapped around mine and sparked a kind of warmth that was more than skin-deep. The simple touch felt like a promise in the quiet of the cabin.

The Christmas lights cast a soft glow around us, and in it, I saw a glint of something new in Clay's eyes. Hope, fragile yet real, flickered between us.

I had to believe this was the beginning of something beautiful.

We just had to get through the hard part first.