The Wrangler’s Christmas Gift (The Malones of Grand, Montana #4)

Chapter Eleven

T he next day, Heather stood in front of the O’Sullivan family home, a small bungalow she guessed had been built in the sixties. An addition had been built onto one side, the roof had fresh shingles and the trim was neatly painted. Mature trees, their shoulders bent with the weight of snow, flanked it at the back. A lovely family home.

She opened the front gate and made herself walk toward the concrete steps leading to the front door. They had many more conversation ahead of them, but Diana was open to a relationship.

Butterflies tilted and whirled inside her. She’d been invited here for dinner, to meet Diana’s husband and children. To meet her grandchildren.

She was a grandmother.

Her breath hitched and she swallowed reflexively. Her throat was so dry. Maybe she was getting sick.

She reached inside her purse for her cell phone. She’d call Em, go back to the Yellowstone, send word that she’d visit another day. She couldn’t do it.

“Hey,” came a voice from the street.

She looked up, so startled that she nearly slipped on the icy concrete.

It was Brade.

“What…” She swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened. He was such a handsome man. “I invited myself over. I figured you might need a buffer. Plus, her kids adore me. If nothing else, I can keep them busy while you guys talk.”

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“It can’t be easy for her, learning that her mother has come back from the dead,” she said, her voice wavering.

“No easier than you discovering your triplets are back from the dead.” He looked at her steadily. “You both believed a lie.”

“Yes, but I participated in the lie Diana believed.” She swallowed hard. Weldon had initiated it, Heather herself had perpetuated it and Diana had bought it.

Her daughter had reason to hate her.

“Time to face your fears, Heather,” he said, cupping her elbow and propelling her to the door. “She’s a strong woman, which is exactly what you want in a daughter, isn’t it?”

Heather nodded, unable to speak.

“That strength feels rough when it’s wielded against you, but ultimately, you’ll be grateful that it’s there. The relationship you develop—and you will develop one, I promise—will be real, rather than built on some polite pretense. Now, come on.”

Heather’s hands were damp inside her gloves. Her heart was beating too fast, and her mouth was dry. But she walked up the steps to Diana Scott O’Sullivan’s front porch, hoping the bottle of wine she carried was to their taste.

Brade rang the doorbell.

From inside, Heather heard the pounding of little feet and then the door was wrenched open.

“Grandma?” said a little boy. He had a Santa hat on his head, too large, nearly falling over his eyes, and he kept whipping his head up to look at her under the brim.

She couldn’t speak.

Then the kid looked behind her. “Uncle Brade!” he squealed and pushed past her to launch himself into Brade’s arms.

“Uncle Brade, Uncle Brade, my grandma’s coming to visit and we never met her before and my mom made a cake and we’re going to eat it before I have to go to bed. Wanna see the Christmas tree? Come on, come on!”

Brade laughed and swooped the boy up into his arms and turned him around to face Heather. “Marcus, meet your grandmother. What do you want to be called, Heather?”

The child was beautiful. She could see in an instant the chubby, pink-cheeked cherub Diana must have been at the same age.

“Are you Grandma? Granny? Gigi? Meemaw?” Brade pressed. “Marcus, what do you think?”

“I have Grandma O’Sullivan already,” he said, and Heather’s heart broke a little. Of course, Randall’s mother would have been there from the beginning for the children. “But Mama says we can call you Granny Heather. Granny Heather! Granny Heather!”

He squirmed to get down and threw himself around Heather’s legs. “I love you, Granny Heather!”

Her heart broke all the rest of the way, but this time, it was mended up immediately by the sensation of this small child’s body around her. She bent down and put her face to his head. The baby smell wasn’t there, but he had his own scent, little boy clean, fresh from his bath, she guessed, mixed with a bit of chocolate.

“I love you too, Marcus,” she whispered. “I’m so happy to finally meet you!”

Above the child’s soft head, Brade met her eyes. “See?” he said quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Marcus,” called a woman’s voice from inside the house. “Let them come in and then close the door.”

Marcus jumped ahead of them and grabbed the doorknob. “No need to heat the great out drawers,” he said, obviously parroting a scolding he’d heard many times.

Heather and Brade stepped into the room. She was more grateful than she could express for Brade’s presence. A little girl who she knew to be Olivia ran into the room and behind her, came a toddler, her gangly, side-goggle gait warning that she was still figuring out how to use her feet.

“Livvie,” Marcus said, with solemn importance, “this is Granny Heather. I saw her first.”

Olivia’s face crumpled. “No fair! Mama made me wash my hands or I’d have seen her first, too!”

“We can’t both see her first,” Marcus said, logically, which made his sister cry.

Heather stooped down and held out a hand to the little girl. “Hey, you must be Olivia. Is that right? You’re so big! How old are you, sweetheart?”

Livvie fisted chubby hands into her eyes to clear the tears, then stuck out her palm, fingers splayed. “I’m five. I’m in kindergarten now.”

“That’s very exciting, isn’t it?” Heather said.

The child took her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen. “Watch out for Reese. She crashes into everything.”

Heather resisted the tug, stopping at the wide-eyed little one clinging to the side of a well-worn couch. “That must be a little scary for everyone,” she said.

Reese observed her solemnly. The resemblance to her siblings was obvious yet she had a cast to her features that was all her own. Something about her eyes, the width of her forehead. She was a thinker, this one.

The little one spoke then, a phrase of great importance that Heather could make neither heads nor tails of, except for the word Mama .

Brade, however, seemed to understand, and translated for her.

“Mama wants Granny Heather to come into the kitchen?” he guessed.

Reese nodded. “You Ganny Eddy?” she asked.

This one, Heather understood. “I am. And you’re Reese, aren’t you?”

Reese nodded again.

“I have an idea,” Heather said. “Some people call me Hetty. How would you kids like to call me Granny Hetty, instead of Granny Heather?”

“Granny Hetty, Granny Hetty,” sang Marcus. “Mama, Granny Hetty is here!”

His sisters took up the chant and thus heralded, Heather was escorted to the kitchen, where the daughter she’d agonized over for so many years, prepared to let her into their lives.

*

Heather would have vastly preferred to meet Rand and the children without the presence of her ex-husband, but this was Diana’s call and perhaps she too felt the need for support.

“Hi, Weldon,” she said, leaning forward to shake his hand. “You look well.”

“Heather,” he said.

He’d never been much for talking.

In the homey family room, a Christmas tree took pride of place in the front window. Heather chose a seat on the well-loved leather couch. Weldon ignored the love seat, sitting instead on the occasional chair farthest from her.

“Weldon is doing much better now that he’s watching his cholesterol,” Brade said.

“Isn’t that private information?” Weldon complained. “Yeah, I had a heart attack. I survived. It happens.”

“Brade saved his life,” Diana said as she came into the room. “Rand will be out soon with some wine. I hope white’s okay. We’re having chicken.”

“Of course. Is there anything I can do to help?” Heather offered.

Diana let a beat go by, lifted an eyebrow. “Soon. Um, make yourselves comfortable.”

She was nervous, too, Heather realized. This was a social event, she told herself. They’d gotten the first hard conversation out of the way. There would be many more, but the words they needed to share would find their way into the space between them organically, as they grew in comfort with one another.

If they found that comfort.

It would take time.

When they were called to dinner, Rand pulled the chair out for Heather, then his wife, and took his place at the head of the table. Theirs appeared to be a traditional marriage but Heather noticed that Rand got up to refill platters as often as Diana did, and he helped the children with their meals. He was a quiet man but his love for his family was evident and it warmed Heather’s heart.

She hazarded a quick glance at Weldon. Anything that had gone right in parenting Diana was down to him. Their marriage had been a mistake, but the child they’d created was a gift.

Rand bowed his head and offered a blessing for the meal. Heather had stopped praying years ago, but this simple grace touched her. Her daughter and son-in-law were kind people.

Grand was clearly a more progressive community than Heather’s hometown of Sweetheart, where girls were taught to be obedient and quiet so they could become submissive, faithful wives. Divorce was frowned upon. Unhappy wives learned to smile while tiptoeing around conflict in soft-soled shoes, always looking for the bright side.

That’s the kind of wife Weldon had expected and though gruff, he wasn’t mean. He’d been patient and tender with her, at least at first, but he was a taciturn man not given to the reciprocal sharing necessary for love to grow.

The letters Heather and JP had exchanged for so many months had created an intimacy that had allowed her to feel safe, treasured. Desire had been the natural result and their union had brought them both the kind of joy Weldon couldn’t hope to match.

“More chicken?” Rand said, holding the platter.

Her marriage had been doomed from the start. But Weldon had somehow managed to instill enough self-worth in their daughter that she’d chosen a compatible partner and made a good marriage.

“No, thank you,” Heather said, hoping she hadn’t missed an important comment. “Dinner is delicious.”

“You’re a famous artist now, I hear,” Weldon said.

Heather eyed him cautiously. He was thinner now than when they’d been married. A little bent. What changes did he see in her?

“I still paint, yes,” she said.

“I told you, Dad,” Diana said, popping a spoonful of mashed potatoes into Reese’s mouth, “she’s Mel Brezo. Surely even you’ve heard that name.”

He grunted. “Seems like a strange way to make a living.”

“Weldon,” Brade said. “Leila Lafferty, my sister, Diana’s half sister, is also an artist. You’re treading on thin ice here.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “Glad Diana didn’t inherit that, though. Need to be practical, when you’re supporting a family.”

Heather looked at the decorative baskets hanging on the kitchen wall, the ivy threaded through them, the way they were arranged for best composition. She noted the houseplants on the stand beside the window, how the terra-cotta and white pots complemented each other, adding a note that was both rustic and tropical. She’d seen the beautiful forest setting Diana had created in Reese’s room.

“Diana might not be a painter,” she said, “but she’s definitely an artist.”

Diana was busy wiping her daughter’s face, but she looked up and Heather saw a wary gratitude in her eyes.

“Kendall’s happy to have all of you helping decorate for the wedding,” Brade said. “Even Emmet is giving a hand.”

Diana set down the spoon. “Is Emmet artistic, too?”

Heather sensed a shift in the mood. “No, she’s more about putting ideas into language, rather than images. I expect she may write a book one day.”

“She teaches…feminism, is that right, Heather?” Rand asked, as he and Diana began distributing plates of apple pie and ice cream.

Heather hoped her wince wasn’t obvious. “The college calls it women’s studies. It involves a lot of history, gender politics, human rights issues.”

Weldon harrumphed. “Let me guess: no husband for that one.”

“Yikes.” Rand laughed, then abruptly shut it off when he saw Diana’s face.

“You think a woman can’t be married and smart at the same time, Dad?”

“I didn’t say that.” Weldon wiped his face with a napkin and tossed it onto his plate. “But what man will want to hitch himself to a bra-burning man hater?”

Heather opened her mouth, then caught Brade’s eye. He shook his head minutely, as if to say, don’t bother.

“What’s a bra-burning man eater?” Marcus asked around a mouthful of pie.

“Gross,” Olivia complained. “I can see his food!”

“Pie, pie, pie!” Reese chanted, banging her kiddie fork on the plastic dish of ice cream.

“You did me a favor when you left, didn’t you, girl?” Weldon said, crooking his mouth at Heather. “I couldn’t have watched you put thoughts like that into our girl’s head.”

“That’s enough!” Diana jumped to her feet. “You’re sitting in my house, insulting me and my mother. I shouldn’t have invited you. But I thought you’d changed, Dad. How many brushes with death will it take?”

“You’re overreacting,” Weldon said. “Is there more pie?”

“Weldon,” Rand said quietly. “It’s time you left.”

“What?!” Weldon looked up as if completely unaware of the turmoil he’d caused.

“I’ll walk you out.” Rand stood next to Weldon’s chair until the man got up.

“For the love of—” Weldon stomped out of the room.

Diana herded the children away from the table and Brade and Heather began clearing the remains of the meal.

Bending down to put plates in the dishwasher, Brade said, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Heather said. “That Weldon’s an ignorant chauvinist? That art’s an impractical career choice? That Diana’s jealous of Em? There was a lot going on.”

He stood up and touched her arm until she stood still and looked at him.

“Why are you smiling? This night was a disaster.”

“Heather.” He tipped his head. “She called you her mother.”

*

Heather leaned against the wall, a floating sensation running through her limbs, while her breath seemed temporarily stuck in her chest.

Mother. Yes, Brade was right. Even if it was accidental or subconscious, the word had come out for all to hear. She hugged her arms against her belly. Everything would be all right. Whether Diana knew it yet or not, they would be okay.

But now wasn’t the time to address it, she thought, as she watched her daughter hustle a wailing Olivia out of the dining room. Heather looked at Rand, who was bouncing Reese on one hip while negotiating something with Marcus.

“Anything I can do to help?” she said.

“Here.” He shoved Reese into her arms. “She’s exhausted. Can you take her upstairs and put her to bed?”

The little one had a patch of sweet potato casserole clinging to the collar of her lacy Christmas dress and a suspicious dampness to the seat of her velvet leggings.

“No!” Reese howled.

The noise was like an ice pick to her brain and triggered a return of the low-level anxiety she’d been keeping at bay since stepping into the house. There was no test for a grandmother like that of an unhappy child. Could she pass it? She hugged the child to her hip and made her way to the stairs, the warm, squirming weight dredging up a visceral memory of Diana at a similar age. How could a mere twenty, twenty-five pounds spark such unease?

Reese flung her head back, connecting to Heather’s chin, sending an arc of pain through her jaw. Reflexively, her hands tightened and she sucked in a breath as the spark burst into flame, recognizing the dark urge to grip hard, to do something, anything to halt the chaos. She flipped the child sideways to prevent a second attempt, and keep her from sliding, snakelike, through her arms and onto the hardwood steps.

Livvie’s cries sounded from the bathroom, and the toddler seemed to be taking her cues from her sister.

“No, no, no!” shrieked Reese. “No, bedtime! No, Ganny Eddy!”

“Sorry, baby.” Heather adjusted her grip yet again, seeking strength and gentleness. She could do this. She would do this. Her heart beat hard and fast against her eardrums and a trickle of sweat ran down her spine.

She got them inside the bedroom and toed the door shut behind her. To the backdrop of fresh screams, she held Reese down on the change table, got her out of the stained outfit and into a fresh diaper and sleeper, wiped the tears and snot and gravy from her red cheeks and then lifted her up in front of her.

Her arms were shaking. There was a reason she’d avoided fostering little ones. Weldon, for all his faults, had been better at this than her. Those nights when Diana wouldn’t sleep, hour after hour, and she had to leave her standing in the crib, wailing, had to walk away rather than risk shaking her or slapping her.

And here she was again.

If Diana knew how she felt…she’d never forgive her. She’d never let her within a mile of her beloved babies. She had to do better this time. She had to be better.

Her cheeks were wet and she swiped at them. She would be better.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Reese snuffled the hitching sob of a little one overwhelmed and overtired and desperately in need of a mature, calm adult.

“Ah, poor Reese,” she said softly. “All you’ve got right now is me. How about a story?”

She dimmed the lights, eased down into the rocking chair and handed Reese the sippy cup of water waiting on the table, next to the books. She could do this. They had a good collection of board books and she selected one about a rabbit that was looking for his hat. As she rocked and read, she felt the little body slowly soften against her, felt the breathing slow and grow deep and regular. When one arm slid slackly against her lap, she got to her feet, carried Reese to the crib and bent down.

Instantly, Reese stiffened. “No!” she cried.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she whispered, straightening up. “You’re okay.”

Please, please, please.

She adjusted the child against her shoulder and began walking across the room, back and forth, dipping her knees slightly every other step, willing the child to settle. Whatever was going on downstairs, she needed to see that Em was okay.

But she needed to be here, too. How did Diana do it? She and Rand were outnumbered. Getting one down meant two or at least one unattended. The walls were thin; when one woke in the night, the others likely heard.

The next time she bent over the crib, Reese went in bonelessly, slipping onto her tummy with a little sigh. For a moment, Heather stood there, breathing in the stillness of the sleeping child, her heart bursting with love and grief and relief.

She’d done it. She hadn’t hurt the baby.

She slipped out of the door, pressed her back against the wall and then suddenly her knees buckled and she slid down to the floor, her head in her hands. She pulled her legs up against her chest and held them, as if she might fly apart otherwise. Cold sweat dampened her hairline and she dabbed at it with a shaking hand.

“Not easy, is it?”

She jerked her head up.

Diana stood in the dim hallway lighting.

Awkwardly, Heather got to her feet, hoping the tears didn’t show.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she admitted. “With three of them? You must have the patience of a saint.”

Diana gave a little laugh. “Hardly. Some days, I just have to walk away.” Then her face grew solemn. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

Diana was quiet for a long time. Then, she said, “I had a tough time with Reese. It was a hard pregnancy, a scary birth and a tough recovery.”

“And you had two other kids at home,” Heather said.

Diana nodded. “I’ve had a few bad moments. But Rand is so great. And I have friends. And his parents help out when they can. Even Dad, believe it or not, is helpful sometimes.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Another long pause as Diana appeared to be choosing her words carefully. “I always knew I wanted to have children,” she said, finally. “That helps in the rough times. But you didn’t really have a chance to make that decision, did you?”

“My first pregnancy was a surprise,” Heather said, “but I wanted those babies. I always knew I wanted to be a mother. It’s just…”

In cautious, halting terms, she tried to explain what it had been like for her, how, when Weldon began pushing for them to start a family, she put him off as long as possible until he threw away her pills and decided for her. Again, the discovery of her pregnancy brought so much terror that any delight was buried.

“How could I trust that I wouldn’t have another baby stolen from me?” she whispered.

No matter how Weldon argued with her, reminded her that she had a husband now, that her baby had a father, that hospitals had security to prevent mix-ups and theft, she knew better. By the time she went into labor with Diana, she was beside herself. Of course, she had another Caesarean section; the obstetricians wouldn’t allow her scarred body to deliver naturally, though she longed for it.

Diana’s birth hadn’t helped, either. A difficult recovery with almost no support left her unable to breastfeed her baby, so she had that failure to contend with, too. As sleepless night followed sleepless night, besides the ongoing fear that Diana would be taken from them, she had the growing conviction that perhaps someone should.

“So many people had tried to convince me that I couldn’t possibly raise a child, and now, only a few short years later, I was supposed to believe I could?” She smiled through her tears. “Yet you were perfect. A pretty baby, unmarred by trauma from forceps or suction or simply the journey down the birth canal, you were plump and rosy, with dimpled hands, petal-soft skin and dark, downy hair.”

How Heather wished she’d been worthy of such a beautiful child.

“Mama!” called Marcus, interrupting the moment.

Diana jumped up, swiping at her own cheeks. A moment later, she reappeared in the hallway.

“Marcus is asking for you,” she said, nodding toward his room. “He likes to have someone lie with him while he falls asleep. Would you mind?”

Heather swallowed. “Really?”

She walked into the little boy’s room.

“Granny Hetty,” he said, lifting himself up on his elbow. He flapped the quilt. “Come cuddle with me.”

She crawled in next to him and he flopped onto his side. “Tickle my back?”

“Tickle your back?” she repeated.

“Yeah,” he said, tugging his pajama top up. “With your fingers, really lightly.”

In the dim light from beneath the door, she saw the small knobs of his spine, the pale indentation of muscle on either side. Such a small human, yet fully himself, fully Marcus, with all the potential and future ahead of him, being formed minute by minute, day by day, in front of their eyes.

As full of fury and out of control at times as Reese had been moments ago, she was soft and sweet at other moments, too. And Livvie, in another room, swinging across the pendulum of childhood emotions, that wild growth arc that only moderates with time, and not even then, in all humans, challenging their caregivers to rise above their own needs and embrace their own growth arc, becoming everything they must be, even when they can’t.

She traced the soft skin beneath her nails, felt the warmth, the slight rise and fall as his breathing slowed and, once more, tears streaked her cheeks. All this she’d missed, four times over. All this and so much more.

But she was getting another chance now.