My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

27. Grace

TWENTY-SEVEN

Grace

I took my time after Clay left and stretched out, my body still craving the warmth of the bed. But I had things to do. I swung my legs over the edge and stood up, padding down the hall and across the wooden floor to the kitchen.

“Morning, Bear,” I said as I passed by where Clay’s dog lay curled up by the fireplace. He lifted his head with a soft thump of his tail against the floorboards.

The coffee maker gurgled as I filled it with water and got it started. Next, I cracked some eggs into the pan, their sizzle filling the quiet space. Bear padded over, his nails clicking on the wood.

“Want some breakfast too?” I asked him, smiling down at his big, brown eyes. I reached out and ruffled the thick fur on his head. “Good boy.”

I set a bowl of scrambled eggs on the floor for him and watched as he ate with gusto. The simple pleasure of caring for Bear eased the tightness in my chest. This cabin was my sanctuary.

The place where I could breathe, even if each breath came with a whisper of sorrow.

I sat down at the table and opened up my laptop, ready to get back to my life. The screen glowed softly against the dimness of the morning cabin light, showing the document I had left up days ago. My story, written in stark black text on a white background, seemed to taunt me with its presence.

I read the headline again, and it sent a pang of sadness through me.

CITY COUNCILOR PAID OFF BY MOB; THE TELL-ALL STORY OF THE PEOPLE HE HURT ALONG THE WAY

“Should have been different,” I muttered as I scanned the words I knew by heart. The entire reason I became a journalist was staring back at me; the belief that truth needed a voice because sometimes law enforcement fell short—especially when the bad guys had power. I was safe, for now, but my informants weren't coming back.

They paid with their lives, and justice seemed like a distant dream.

I scrolled through the article, each paragraph a reminder of the stakes involved. Publishing it could change everything, ignite a firestorm I'd be right in the center of. Staying silent felt like a betrayal to the cause, to everything I stood for. I chewed my lip, considering the anonymous route. It was tempting—no names, no direct ties. Maybe then, I could still shield my loved ones from the fallout.

“Mariah would never forgive me,” I whispered to the empty room. And Clay, he'd be caught in the crossfire…and I knew he would die trying to save me. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to will the courage to make the right decision.

The truth was, I couldn't publish it—not without risking more than just my own safety. It wasn't just about me anymore.

I picked up my camera, the weight familiar and comforting in my hands. I scrolled through the photos I'd taken over the holidays. Silver Ridge looked like something out of a fairytale with its dusting of snow and twinkling lights. There was a shot of Clay chopping wood, his broad shoulders flexing with each swing. I smiled. Then came one of Bear, his tongue lolling out as he chased snowflakes.

“Good times, huh, boy?” I murmured, though Bear was outside, probably doing another patrol of the cabin's perimeter.

I flipped to the next photo, and there was Mariah, her pregnant belly round and jubilant, laughter etched into her features. Relief hit me. Soon she'd have her husband by her side again, and they'd be a family. All would be well for them, at least.

My phone rang.

I glanced over at it.

The screen read “Anonymous,” instantly making my heart pound. I reached for the phone, my fingers steady. It could be nothing—a wrong number, maybe a telemarketer.

Regardless, as a journalist, I always chased the unknown.

“Hello?” I said.

There was no tremor in my voice. Just a straight shot of clarity.

“Is this Grace Gibson?”

“Who wants to know?”

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my tone level. In the background, a sound caught my attention. A whimper, low and distressed. My breath hitched, my mind raced. Animal or human? It was hard to tell. But it sounded pained, scared.

“Who is this?” I demanded, my fingers curling into a fist. Fear clawed at me, but I shoved it down. Panic wouldn't help anyone now.

“We have your sister,” he said with a short laugh. “If you want her to live, you’ll come to us. Alone.”

“Grace, help!” The cry tore through the static—not an animal but Mariah. My hand clenched the phone so tight it hurt. Mariah was alive, but she and her baby were in deep trouble.

“Did you hurt her?” I demanded.

“Nah…but I’m pretty sure the poor girl’s in labor,” the man said. “Better come quick.”

I didn’t have a choice.

I had to get to her.

“Give me the address,” I said, my voice calm, my hand steady as I grabbed a legal pad from my bag.

He rattled off a string of numbers and a street name that sounded like it came from out in the mountains—somewhere in Whispering Pines Forest, I thought.

“Leave her alone,” I warned him. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Can't make any promises,” he sneered through the static.

Then he hung up.

I threw the phone down, its clatter loud in the sudden silence. I mapped the address on my laptop, barely glancing at the screen before shutting it with a snap.

Adrenaline flooded my body as I charged into the bedroom. Clothes flew as I grabbed whatever was necessary—jeans, boots, a jacket. Every second mattered.

Next, I headed straight for Clay's gun cabinet. My hands searched for the key that wasn't there. Locked. A growl escaped my throat as frustration bit at me. No time to search, no time for setbacks. I needed a weapon—any weapon.

My taser was still in my bag, its presence a small relief. I snatched it up and jammed it into the waistband of my pants, covering it with my shirt.

There was just one last thing I had to do before I left.

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, my hand steady as I wrote. Clay, the note began, emotions flooding each word. If you get this in time, please hurry. The address is below.

I paused, willing myself to stay strong. He needed more than this.

We had something special, repairing what was broken. I love you.

I didn't allow myself a second to hesitate or to let the tears brim. I placed the note on the kitchen table, where he couldn't miss it.

Then, I turned and walked out the door.

The cold air bit at my cheeks as I stepped onto the porch. I hurried down the steps, my boots crunching in the snow. When I reached the truck, I yanked the door open and slid into the driver's seat.

“Thank God for new tires,” I mumbled, glancing at the dashboard before inserting the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I felt a surge of gratitude for our preparedness. I looked up at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “You can do this, Grace. Mariah needs you.”

With one final, lingering look at what I was leaving behind, I put the truck in drive. My foot eased off the brake, and the truck rolled forward, taking me away from the cabin. Snowflakes danced wildly beyond the windshield as I navigated down the mountain road, each turn taking me further from safety, closer to danger.

I had a sister to save.

Even if it killed me.