Read Home for Christmas for Free Online Page A

my,” Mrs. Johnson said on a rush of air. “This is one of Nance’s, I know it.”
    “We’ve never bought a goose from him.” Johnson didn’t sound pleased. “How can you be certain?”
    “I saw them for sale at Murphy’s.”
    “This is too much. We can’t accept it.” Pride echoed in his words. “Nances need the coats and meat as much as we do.”
    “For all we know, someone bought the goose from Nances, and it’s not the Nances at all that we owe our thanks to.”
    “We’ll just have to do something in return. I still think it was Celia Nance. The woman is generous to a fault. You and the boys ride over there and take them the two apple pies I made for our supper. Let them see the boys in their new coats. Let them see the happiness on your faces. That should be a good start at showing them our gratitude.”
    “Let’s go,” Hunter whispered in Miranda’s ear. He took her hand and led her back to the woods where they’d left the sleigh. “We’ll be out of sight before Johnson gets his boys loaded up.”
     
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    Certain the slim leather-bound volume of poetry he’d purchased in Denver had fallen onto the floor, Hunter lifted the quilts to peer beneath his bed. It wasn’t there. He was certain he’d left the book on the bedside table when he’d unpacked. He’d read a poem or two and skimmed the others before bed last night. He pulled the little table away from the wall, but it hadn’t fallen behind.
    He leaned back on his heels and scanned the room. The book wasn’t anywhere obvious. The dresser top was free of clutter, the chair empty, his satchel already put away. He remembered hiding the other gifts he’d purchased in Denver in the bottom drawer of his dresser.
    He pulled open the drawer and pawed through the neatly folded clothing and found the new tablecloth for his mother at the bottom, but no book. Beneath the tablecloth, the soft cotton yarn he’d bought for Viv lined up in a neat row.
    Frustrated, he opened another drawer and dug through the pajamas he never wore. He dumped handfuls of clothes onto the floor in a hurry to reach the bottom of the drawer.
    His mom knocked on the open door. “Will you deliver Christmas cookies to--” She took in the clothing littering the usually tidy floor. “Are you ill?”
    “I think I’m going to be.”
    She scooped up an armload of pajamas and folded them on the bed. “What’s the matter?”
    “Have you seen a book of poetry? I thought I left it on the bedside table.”
    She made a fuss over checking the heat of his brow with the back of her hand. “Poetry? You must be ill.”
    Irritated, Hunter brushed her hand away. “I’ve got to find it.”
    “What’s wrong? Why do you need the book?”
    “I bought it for Miranda.”
    He recalled, with vivid detail, the day she’d recited Sainsbury’s Soliloquy of Spring in school. Her passion for the words and the story they told had awakened an attraction in him that he’d never managed to douse. She loved the poem. That much was obvious.
    The moment he found the rare volume of Sainsbury’s poetry, he knew he wanted to give it to Miranda for Christmas. And somehow, he’d managed to lose it just hours before he had planned to give it to her.
    His mother slowly folded a pajama shirt and added it to the tidy stack on the foot of his bed. “Miranda’s not the kind to need things . Although she’d probably enjoy a holiday visit, I don’t think she expects either of us to give her anything.”
    “I want to.”
    Indecision flickered through her eyes.
    “What?” He watched his mother hesitate, as if she had something to say, but thought it wiser to keep it to herself. “Don’t you think I should give her a present?”
    “Just be careful, won’t you? She’s finally home, and I’m sure we’re poor reminders at best.”
    Hunter didn’t want to be a reminder. A flash of emotion, dangerously close to anger seared through him. He didn’t want to be second best, a mere substitute